The Doll's House

‘Ask a teenager now while they still know everything. That’s what they say, isn’t it, darling?’ Martin laughs.

I wish he’d quit the ‘darling’ crap. We all know each other too well for that. ‘I’m not sure, darling. You seem to be the expert here.’

Martin smirks. ‘Clodagh was the same, wasn’t she, Dominic? Always headstrong.’

‘We were all headstrong, Martin. It comes from being young and foolish.’ My brother isn’t ready to give Martin free rein.

Val smiles at the waiter as he delivers our starters, maintaining a civilised overture to our family meal out. That is, until the young man is out of earshot. ‘Don’t start bringing up the good-old bad-old days. Lavinia’s death is still raw. And I’m sure Ruby misses her as much as we all do.’

‘You’re right, Val.’ Martin’s speaking again like he’s the one in charge. ‘Considering everything Ruby’s been through, a little rebellion is understandable.’

That last dig is meant for me. Throw the guilt at the alcoholic mother. I swallow some water. ‘Four months today,’ I say, swirling the ice cubes in the glass. There’s that sarcastic tone again.

Martin ignores me. ‘How are things at work, Dominic?’

‘Busy.’

Val moves uncomfortably in her chair. ‘He’s pushing himself too hard.’

‘Life has to get back to normal, Val.’ Martin sticks a fork into his wild mushroom starter. ‘Lavinia would want Dominic to fire himself into things.’

I could almost scream at Martin. Ever since Mum’s death, he’s talked about her as if they were close, when neither of them could stand the other. ‘Let’s change the subject, shall we?’ Suddenly I feel weary.

Martin fills Val’s glass this time. As an alcoholic, I notice every movement involving booze. How much everyone is drinking, how much wine is left in the bottle. I stare at the candles, remembering how Mum used to light them in the evening. Not when we were small, but later, when Dominic and I had moved out. Four months since her death. It feels like a lifetime. Four months since that awful row between Dominic and me.

‘There’s no point in walking on eggshells,’ says Martin. ‘Death will happen to us all.’

‘I need some air,’ says Val, ‘and a cigarette.’ She stands up. The waiter hands her her coat with the fur-lined collar. She looks like an escapee rushing out.

It’s just the three of us at the table now, Dominic looking after Val as if she’s abandoned him. And, for the first time since we arrived, I realise my brother looks like a man who could do with a good night’s sleep. ‘Dominic, are you okay?’ I ask, not allowing Martin to dominate the conversation.

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Sisterly love, what?’ That stupid grin is back on Martin’s face, and I wonder if any of us has moved on one iota from where we left off as children.





Neary’s Pub, Mount Street


Neary’s had one of those throwback-to-the-olden-days front bars with framed images of men carrying Guinness barrels on their backs, and toucans with protruding yellow beaks, each object, picture or oddity giving punters the sense of stepping back into another time. A large mahogany mirror stretched the full length of the black wooden counter, multiplying the crowd, creating the impression that everyone was somehow at the centre of something exciting.

By the time Stevie McDaid arrived, the buzz had already started rising, and the only thing missing was a lighted match to ignite the mix of alcohol and bodies moving closer together. He made his way past the front bar, the throng of regulars looking disgruntled that their hideaway was being taken over on a Friday night – the nightclub at the back was getting into full swing.

Pushing open the double doors into the club, Stevie could hear the music of the Black Eyed Peas, bellowing, and, like the old pro he was, he moved instinctively to the beat as he walked in past the two oversized bouncers. To his left, a group of yummy mummies he had chatted up the previous week waved at him. Proper eager for it, they were. But Stevie was already getting off on the buzz of someone new or exciting coming along.