The Closet of Savage Mementos by Nuala Ní Chonchúir Page A

narrow streets that were still cold and early-morning empty. Pedestrians dodged the delivery trucks that hulked everywhere, while shopkeepers sluiced the dirt and vomit from their entryways with buckets of water that stank of Jeyes Fluid. The train had left me at the bottom of Eyre Square and I strolled down to Quay Street to meet Anthony for breakfast. Verity had suggested I go to Galway to visit my father after I had spent night after night at her house, lolling in bed, missing Dónal and feeling sorry for myself.
    It was India who greeted me, from her flumped position inside the doorway of the Café du Journal; she stood when she saw me and stretched out her hand.
    ‘Anthony had to meet with one of his students – some minor emergency. You’ll have to make do with me for now.’ India gave a small smile; her teeth were luminous inside the lilac slick of her lips.
    ‘That’s OK,’ I said, gripping India’s hand and kissing her ripe cheek, ‘it’s lovely to see you.’ India smelt sweet and musky, like cedar or something else old and precious. ‘How are you? And the kids?’
    India shook her wrists, making her silver bangles rattle. ‘I am fine, they are fine. Tim is in big school now, he’s very proud of himself.’
    ‘Aw, sweet, I bet he looks cute in his uniform. Tiny Tim. How’s my father?’
    ‘Oh, you know Anthony, working too hard as always, but he is well. His department may have made an important discovery, something to do with seaweed. I’ll let him tell you himself.’ India drained her coffee. ‘How is your mother?’
    ‘Oh, she’s annoying everyone around her, as usual. Herself most of all.’
    ‘Poor Verity.’
    I ordered toast and two cappuccinos. The air was silent between us while we stirred our coffee; I let tan nuggets of sugar melt on my teaspoon before dunking it low and stirring it through.
    ‘Did you know that cappuccinos are called after the Capuchin friars, because the coffee is the same colour as their habits?’ I said.
    India laughed. ‘That’s the sort of thing Anthony would say; he is full of titbits of trivia. No, I didn’t know that, but I will remember it from now on.’ She placed her hand on my knee. ‘I was sorry to hear that your friend passed away. He was so young. How have you been?’
    I looked away. ‘OK. Sort of.’
    ‘It is devastating for his family. To lose a son. My goodness.’ She wrung her hands.
    We talked about work: India’s with underprivileged children and her dealings with social workers; my bored frustration with the camera shop. The café warmed up; customers belched in and out through the door, delivering wafts of bleachy air and the screeking of gulls as they did. Anthony bustled through eventually, mouthing a sorry and holding out his palms in mock attrition; he leaned over the table.
    ‘My two best girls, all cosy.’ He stooped forward, kissed India on the mouth, then me on the top of my head. ‘How are you, darling?’
    ‘I’m all right,’ I said, frowning then smiling. I was determined not to be low while I was in their house; my father could never cope with bad humour.
    ‘You look tired. Come on, let’s get you home.’
    Anthony carried my backpack and linked us both for the short stroll to the Long Walk. Their house overlooks the Claddagh Basin where the River Corrib empties itself with force into the sea. Once indoors, I curled into the window seat in the sitting room to watch the huge cast of swans that bounced on the water, like players in a wet and windy theatre. I thought of the legend of the Children of Lir – the four swan children – Fionnuala and her three brothers, tossing on cold seas for hundreds of years. The girl acted as surrogate mother to her brothers, protecting them from all kinds of evil. I’m like Fionnuala, I thought, with my three brothers. Though I couldn’t say that I knew Tim and Alex at all; they were so young, so far away. In truth, I barely registered them as family.
    ‘I might take the boys