They All Fall Down

  THEY ALL

  FALL DOWN

  CAT HOGAN

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2016

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  www.poolbeg.com

  © Cat Hogan 2016

  Copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  1

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-78199-885-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Lines from “A Rainy Night in Soho” used by kind permission of Shane McGowan

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the Author

  Cat Hogan was born into a home of bookworms and within spitting distance of the sea. Her father, Pat, a lightship man, instilled in her a love of the sea and the stars. Her mother, Mag, taught her how to read before she could walk. Writing, storytelling and a wild imagination is part of her DNA.

  The beautiful County Wexford is home to Cat, her musician partner Dave, two beautiful sons Joey and Arthur, and her tomcat Jim Hawkins. There they live a life of storytelling, song and adventure.

  When she is not bringing imaginary friends to life, she runs a professional writing service for businesses. She can also be found in an Order of Malta Ambulance Corps uniform, volunteering in the local community.

  The other love of Cat’s life is food. A self-professed foodie, there is nothing she loves more than feeding a houseful of friends round her kitchen table.

  They All Fall Down is Cat’s debut novel.

  Acknowledgements

  ‘Letus be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom’– Marcel Proust

  For me, getting the elusive book deal was the stuff that dreams are made of and it’s something I don’t take for granted – not for a second. ‘No man is an island’ as they say and I certainly didn’t get here on my own.

  So many people, knowingly or otherwise, have helped me. I would go so far as to say a few bent over backwards for me. I’ll never forget that, and it’s a thought that gladdens my heart every day.

  Wexford is a magic little place indeed, a little pocket in the south-east corner of Ireland where dreams and creativity are embraced. Not every newbie author can claim to be made of the same stuff as the literary giants Colm Tóibín, Billy Roche, and Peter Murphy. We are all Yellow Bellies and that’s good enough for me.

  My own writing dreams would have remained just that if it was not for three amazing women taking a chance and believing in me. They are: my beautiful agent Tracy Brennan, my formidable publisher Paula Campbell and my genius editor Gaye Shortland. In the short time I have known these wonderful professionals, I have learned so much. Thanks for believing in me, ladies.

  Back to Wexford and amazing author friends, of which there are also three. I am blessed to be able to call Eoin Colfer a friend. He was the one who threw me up on the horse a few years ago and has been a constant friend and mentor since.

  Then there is the absolute legend that is Paul O’Brien: playwright, author, film-maker and hustler. He is keeping a seat at the table for me.

  Carmel Harrington. I could write a book of thanks to this author. I had the good fortune of signing up to her creative writing course a couple of years ago. From day one we clicked and she is now a dear friend. Without Carmel’s gentle encouragement and sometimes stern words, this book would still be under my bed.

  I have met some wonderful writers and authors in the last year who are so generous with their time and encouragement: Louise Phillips, Joan Brady, Lorna Sixsmith, Tara Sparling and Carolann Copland to name but a few. Thanks so much, ladies, for your kindness and advice.

  Thanks to my lovely friend Caroline Busher, a wonderful author, and to Paul O’Reilly, author and playwright. Paul and Caroline assured me it is totally normal to have conversations with the voices in your head – preferably out loud!

  To Brian Byrne – my pal and fellow scone-lover. Thanks for all the chats, your good taste, and for being an all-round decent human.

  A word of thanks to the stunning Victoria Mary Clarke who taught me miracles can be manifested, and to her wonderful partner Shane McGowan who so generously allowed me to quote his beautiful lyrics.

  Thanks to all the beautiful women in #WIN – Women’s Inspire Network – the women who build each other up and support each other always on the good days, but especially on the bad days. I won’t name all of you for fear of forgetting one – you know who you are.

  Thanks to Susan Murphy for her legal advice, and to Diarmuid Sinnott for his medical advice. Massive thanks to Brian ‘Molly’ Molloy for being my reader and to Tony Parle for being my fisherman’s friend. Thanks to all in the Jukebox Gypsy family for gently teaching me I am a much better writer than singer/piano player. To all my pals on Facebook – your words of praise and encouragement are always appreciated – some days they’re the only thing that keeps me going. Kenny Ruttledge, magician photographer, thanks for making me look like a purdy human.

  Sabia Barron – my constant friend, the most inspirational and the strongest woman I know. Thanks for always being my sounding board, thanks for the Maltesers and thanks for letting me use your four-legged baby in the book. I can report, the real Butch is even more full of life and mischief than his namesake.

  Sharon Messitt – thanks for being the friend I go to when I need the absolute truth, for always being there and for making me buckets of tea in The Little Cotton Shack. One day we will ramble around that mansion together. And, thanks for letting me name a character after you.

  Melrona Doyle – thanks for just being fabulous and keeping me up to date in the world of glitz, glamour and travel. You are my go-to girl in all things fabliss, darhling.

  My family – without you, I would be nothing. I love you all so very much. Dave, Joey and Arthur, you are the reason I get up in the morning and have a smile on my face every day. Mam, Fidelma, Paraic, Sas and Leslie Ann – thanks for always loving me anyway, even if I was always the dreamer. To my extended family in Newcastle – thanks for making me one of your own. Howay the Toon!

  Dad – you will always be my lighthouse.

  For Dad x

  He that will not sail till all dangers are over must never put to sea.

  Thomas Fuller

  prelude

  At that exact moment she knew she was going to die. It was the same moment she stopped feeling terror. Nothing mattered any more – her time had come.

  The wind battered her bare arms and whipped the hair back from her face. The sound of the waves crashing below drummed a beat in time with her retiring heart. Time slowed as her feet reluctantly shuffled towards the edge of the high cliff. Despair hung heavy in the air like fog and even the comforting glow of the lighthouse beam couldn’t compete with the darkness surrounding her. Death had been invited, and now it had arrived.<
br />
  For the briefest moment she was suspended in mid-air – like a dancer. Then, resembling a puppet whose strings have been cut, she fell free . . . limbs pirouetting on the wind. Her thoughts were of those she loved, wrapping her in a comforting hug as she sailed down through the abyss.

  She could hear music but couldn’t tell if it was in her head or rolling in on the sea. It was the tune to a childhood rhyme – she remembered it from her playground days. The words formed in her head.

  Ring-a-ring o’ Roses,

  A pocket full of posies,

  A-tishoo! A-tishoo!

  We all fall down!

  She hit the surface and her last breath hurtled from her lungs. Her broken body sank down into the icy black water. Time stopped, just like her – it had no relevance here any more.

  Chapter 1

  ‘Why are ya crying, Mam?’

  ‘Ah, I’m just a little bit sad, Danny. I miss her today.’ Jen bent over and planted a big kiss on her son’s head.

  There they stood, hand in hand, in front of the home Pat had lived in for most of her seventy years. The house that Jen now owned.

  Today was the day. They were moving in. As per Aunty Pat’s explicit instructions, they had been down several times in the preceding weeks to clear bits and pieces from the house.

  ‘Good old Aunty Pat,’ Jen murmured.

  Pat had been like a second mother to Jen. She had passed away from cancer in January and had left the house and a sum of money to them.

  ‘Right, Dan. Let’s get on with it. No point in standing here, staring at the door. Your dad and Sal will be here soon with the last of the boxes. Bring Butch in as well – he could probably do with a drink.’

  She didn’t have to ask him to bring the Jack Russell in – they went everywhere together anyway.

  Danny unlocked his hand from hers, and scampered in through the front door, his four-legged friend at his heels. Jen followed.

  Danny grabbed a bowl and filled it with water for Butch. ‘Mam, I’m thirsty too.’

  ‘OK, I’m coming – gimme a second, will you? We’ll have some tea and a sambo before your dad arrives.’

  Jen dumped the shopping bags on the table and filled the kettle.

  ‘Dammit!’ She shook her head as she looked into the fridge. ‘I forgot about the bad weather, and him. He must be down in the harbour – they won’t have taken the boat out.’

  There was a snag with the inheritance. Jen had also inherited a lodger. A fisherman named Andy McCleane, Pat’s best friend’s son. He had lodged with Pat since she had a break-in last year. Jen knew him from growing up around here but, as he was a few years older, she had never hung out with him. The arrangement was only until the end of the year, but it was a real inconvenience to her.

  ‘It’ll be grand, Mam. I think he’s cool anyway. And the last time he was here he gave me chewing gum and let me help him fix the puncture on his car. And he likes X-Men.’

  Wise words from an eight-year-old, she thought.

  ‘Danny, you’re right. I’m sure he’s cool.’ She turned from cobbling together ingredients for a snack and faced Danny. ‘He’ll be around at some stage today. Just be polite, and stay out of his room.’

  Despite the sadness in her heart, she was beginning to feel excited. The little house was beautiful, and now they had the security she had craved for so long.

  The kitchen was Jen’s favourite room. The French doors opened out onto decking which led down to a large sloping garden, behind that the orchard. Farther on from that, a little lane led down to Stony Strand.

  The phone rang as Danny raced out to the garden with Butch.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Hello, my love! How’s it all going down there?’

  ‘Ah, we’re good now, thanks. Will is on the way down, and your boy is in the garden. I’m just about to make some lunch.’

  ‘Good, good. I just rang to tell you we won’t be over tonight. Get yourself settled, love, and we’ll come over on Sunday instead. Also, dear, I was speaking to Andy. He’s having awful trouble with the trawler. Engine is giving him hell. But he told me he’ll stay with his parents for a few nights, just to give you and Danny a bit of a chance to find your feet.’

  ‘Oh, thank feck for that!’ she sighed in relief.

  ‘He’s a good lad, Jen, and he’s been through the mill. He was very good to your Aunty Pat. Be nice to him.’

  ‘I know, Dad, I will,’ she said. ‘Oh! I can hear the cars pulling up now – I’ll let you go. See ya, Dad. Love to Mam.’

  ‘Bye, bye, bye, bye, love.’

  Jen laughed as she threw the mobile back in her handbag. Her dad always finished a phone conversation with about ten byes.

  Will appeared, laden with boxes – Sal behind him, boxless. According to his earlier phone call, their mutual pal had declared she was only coming over to drink tea and watch them do all the hard work.

  Danny raced down the hall and straight into his daddy’s arms.

  ‘Come up to my room, Dad! Mam got me new Lego! Come up and see it, will you?’

  ‘Slow down there, boyo. Let me get the boxes in, and then I will, OK?’

  Will was a good man and a great dad, and Jen often wished she could fancy him but it just wasn’t there. They had tried of course, but it was never on the cards. Lifelong friends who have drunken flings don’t make marriage material.

  Jen was relieved that she and Sal had spent so much time boxing and labelling her belongings the previous week. It made the task of getting them from the cars to the right rooms much easier.

  The house had come alive with a flurry of excitement and activity, Jen the conductor sending boxes with humans attached in one direction or another. Butch had come back in to see what all the excitement was about and it wasn’t too long before he nearly tripped Will up as he was bringing in a box.

  Twenty minutes later, Jen’s whole life was now in neat boxes under her roof and they needed a cuppa. Sal had come armed with Maltesers and shortbread biscuits as usual.

  The girls went outside with a tray. Will and Danny had disappeared somewhere, probably down to the strand.

  The weather was warm for April, still windy but pleasant in the sheltered garden. There were lavender and tea-rose plants everywhere, along with all sorts of bushes and other plants Jen would eventually learn the names of.

  She smiled to herself as she poured the tea. ‘I feel happy and sad at the same time, if you get me, Sal.’ She was quiet for a moment, collecting her thoughts. ‘I want this to be the start of something a bit more positive, you know? Not that there is anything wrong. My life is just a bit bland. I’m a bit bland. Look at you and Tess, everything going for you, and here I am, plain old Jen. I hate that poxy job in the restaurant, and I’ve wasted that bloody degree. This is the year, Sal. I’m going to get my act together.’

  ‘You go, girl! That’s the spirit. It’s about fecking time. You’re a great mam but you’re stuck in a big fat rut, and let’s face it – you are a little bit boring. We need to get you out there. You need a life!’ Sal whooped and did a chair dance.

  ‘Thanks a lot, Sal! That’s great to hear from my best friend.’ Jen laughed and bit into a Malteser.

  Danny and Will finally emerged from the orchard and Danny handed his mam a little selection of shells he had picked up on the beach for her.

  ‘Danny, my little champ, I have to go,’ Will said, lifting him up into the air. ‘Mam wants you at home this weekend to get settled into the house, but you can come over before the holidays are finished, OK?’

  ‘That’s OK, Dad. I want to stay here with Mam until she’s not sad any more,’ he whispered into Will’s ear.

  Will just hugged him.

  ‘Oh Jen, it’s half six! I’d better get going.’ Sal stood up and flung on her scarf. ‘Don’t tell Mam I was here – I haven’t time to drop down to them.’

  She hugged all of them and scarpered.

  The rest of Jen’s evening was spent with Danny unpacking boxe
s and finding new homes for all of their possessions. Eventually, exhausted from the excitement, he passed out in the front room on the couch in front of the television. He was wrapped up in his favourite little blanket and Butch was snoring at his feet.

  Jen gently roused him – long gone were the days where she could carry him up the stairs. She navigated him through a sea of Lego and, as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was fast asleep again. Butch snuck up behind her. He knew that he wasn’t allowed in the bedrooms.

  ‘Oh, go on, you little mutt – hop up there with him! Just for tonight.’

  If Butch were human, she would have sworn he had smiled at her. In moments, he was asleep too.

  As she lay in her own bed, her thoughts turned again to the lodger. How would she cope living with a man under her roof? Would he be a nightmare? Would Danny be OK with him in the house? It was going to be a massive adjustment for both of them. What kind of mental state was the poor man in?

  Then, as the beams of the lighthouse bathed the curtain in the soft familiar glow, she thought no more of Andy McCleane and fell asleep.

  Andy woke with a fright, confused and disorientated. The sight of the large Lord of the Rings poster reminded him where he was. Home, in his own childhood bed. He had fallen asleep with the lamp on and had suddenly woken up, the old familiar feeling of fear hanging heavy over him. It was just a dream, he told himself, as he reached out for the pint of water on the nightstand. 3:30 the clock told him. Seven bells. Middle watch. Safe navigation.