The Marble Collector

28

I wait in my car for Lea as she gets ready for the party. I blare the heating, trying to dry my jeans, which stick to my legs. I take the inventory out of my bag again and flick through it. Scanning his lifetime of memories, all catalogued in a neat script. I look through the photographs I took of the newspaper article on the Marble Cat wall. It’s grainy and Dad is hiding in the back row, but it’s him all right. For the first time I notice the date on the newspaper.

I call Mam, who answers quickly for so late at night.

‘Mam, hi, I hope I didn’t wake you.’

‘Not at all, we’re still up drinking wine – Robert is drunk-tweeting NASA,’ she giggles as I hear Robert in the background shouting about aliens waving at him from the moon. ‘We’re out on the balcony watching the moon, isn’t it marvellous? I should have known you’d be awake, you know you could never sleep as a little girl when there was a full moon? You used to sneak into our bed. I remember Fergus brought you downstairs for a hot chocolate one night, I found you both sitting in the dark at the kitchen table, him asleep, you looking outside.’

The moon made us do it.

I smile at the image. ‘I haven’t changed much.’

‘Did the boys have a great day?’ she asks.

‘The best.’

She laughs. ‘And I’m sure you have too. Nice to have the day to yourself. You don’t get that much.’

Silence.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Do you remember my thirteenth birthday party? We had a marquee in the back garden, didn’t we?’

‘Yes, about thirty people, catering, the works.’

‘Was Dad there? I can’t really remember.’

‘Yes, he was.’

‘So he wasn’t away that day?’ The newspaper report is dated the day of my birthday, though it refers to the championships being held the day before.

She sighs. ‘It was a long time ago, Sabrina.’

‘I know, but can you remember?’

‘Of course he was there, he was there in all the photographs, remember?’

I remember now. Me in my short skirt and high heels, looking like a tart. I can’t believe Mum let me dress like that, though I know I didn’t give her much choice.

‘And what about the day before?’

‘What did you find out, Sabrina? Just spit it out,’ she snaps.

I’m taken aback by her coldness.

‘I suspected,’ she fills my silence, ‘which is probably what you’re about to tell me, that he was having an affair, away with somebody. He said he was in London for a conference, but when I called the hotel they had no record of him. I suspected something, he’d been doing his usual secretive thing leading up to that, heading off to places I knew he wasn’t going to. He did that a lot. He came home the day of your birthday. I confronted him, I can’t remember now, but he managed to weasel his way out of it as usual. Made me feel like I was going crazy, as usual. Why? What did you find out? Who was she? Was it that Regina woman? God knows there were many others, but he never admitted to her. I always thought they were together before we split.’

‘I don’t think he was with another woman, Mum. He was having a love affair all right, but not the one you think.’ I take a deep breath. ‘He was at the World Marble Championships in England. His team of six men, the Electric Slags, won. A newspaper published a photograph and an article about it on the day of my birthday. He’s hiding in the back, but I know that it’s him.’

‘What! Marble championships? What on earth are you talking about?’ She slurs as she talks and I don’t think this is the best time to discuss it with her. I was wrong, I should have waited, but I couldn’t.

‘I told you about them, Mum, he’s been playing marbles all his life, competitively. Secretly. He’s been collecting them too.’

She’s silent. So much to take in, I’m sure.

‘It’s him in the photograph, but he used a different name. Hamish O’Neill.’

I can hear her intake of breath. ‘Sweet Jesus! Hamish was his brother, his older brother who died when Fergus was young. He wouldn’t talk much about him, but I learned a few things about him over the years. Fergus thought the world of him. O’Neill was his mother’s maiden name.’

So Mattie was right. This was all about Hamish. Hamish died using Dad’s name, Dad in turn took Hamish’s name. I don’t know if I’ll ever truly know why. I don’t know if I need to.

‘There was a best individual player trophy for a Hamish O’Neill. I met with his team, they say that Dad is Hamish.’

Mum is quiet. Food for thought, I can’t even imagine the memories she is accessing as she tries to understand it and piece it all together.

‘Mum?’

‘And he won this the day before your thirteenth birthday?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why didn’t he tell me?’

‘He didn’t tell anyone,’ I say. ‘Not his family, not his friends.’

‘But why?’

‘I think he was trying to breathe life back into his brother. Honour him in some way. I think he didn’t think anybody else would understand. That they’d think it was weird.’

‘It is weird,’ she snaps, then sighs and goes quiet. Then, as if she’s feeling guilty, she adds, ‘Nice though. To honour him.’ Silence. ‘Who on earth was I married to?’ she asks quietly.

I don’t know how to answer that, but I do know that I no longer want my husband asking the same thing of me.

Lea slowly lowers herself into the front seat wearing a neutral-coloured bandage dress, black leather jacket, smelling of perfume, caked in make-up and almost unrecognisable as the girl-next-door nurse I see most days.

‘Too much?’ she says anxiously.

The colour of the dress makes her look naked. ‘No,’ I say, starting up the engine. ‘So tell me about where we’re going.’

‘You know just about as much as I do.’

I throw her a warning look. ‘Lea.’

‘What?’ she giggles. ‘I met him online. His name is Dara. He’s delicious. We haven’t met in person, but you know…’ She shrugs.

‘No, I don’t know, tell me.’

‘Well we met on an online dating site. We’ve Skyped a few times. You know,’ she repeats, like I should know something.

‘No, I don’t know. What?’

She keeps on staring at me, jerking her head at me as if it will spark the answer, which it in fact does.

‘Oh!’ I say suddenly.

‘Yes, now you’ve got it.’ She faces front again. ‘So we’re pretty much well acquainted, but we haven’t actually met yet.’

‘You’ve had Skype sex and you’re nervous about meeting him?’ I laugh.

‘My camera had a filter,’ she explains. ‘I don’t.’

‘And what does this mysterious Dara do that he knows where we can find marbles at eleven o’clock at night?’

‘He does wood carvings. For chairs, tables, furniture. The party is at his office. I remember him saying there is a glass artist.’

I’m dubious.

We find the address of the full moon party that Dara gave her. We stare at it from across the river in silence, both deep in thought, probably thinking the same thing. We’ve been duped.

The address is a multistorey car park. It is on the graveyard site of a ripped-down old shopping centre which was to make way for a new €70 million state-of-the-art shopping centre and cinema yet never was and so the multistorey car park stands alone in the wilderness far from any businesses which can utilise its parking. The moon sits above it, big and full, guiding us to it like the North Star, keeping a watchful maternal eye over our progress. But I can’t help but think she’s laughing at us now.

It’s an enormous concrete monstrosity, but it’s old school, ugly and red brick, tight and low ceilings, unlike the spacious light-filled car parks of today. It climbs eight levels high, not a car in sight on any floor. Halfway up, on the fourth floor, a glow appears from the mesh-gridded openings.

‘Looks like he’s home,’ Lea says, trying to make light of it.

‘Do you smell smoke?’ I ask.

She sniffs and nods.

‘Do you hear music?’

It is faint but it drifts from the fourth floor, a calm rhythmic bass.

Neither of us make a move.

‘So maybe this is a party,’ I say. ‘Do you think this is dangerous?’ We’re in a neglected part of town that should have been developed but wasn’t and then was left for dead, invited by a man who’s good with tools, who Lea met on the Internet. I wonder if goodwill has run out for the day.

The site is completely surrounded by fencing, the wooden construction kind, and it is too high to climb with no gaps to pass through. We circle the entire thing and find that it has been opened at one section, inviting us in. We slowly walk through the fence, pass the barrier where ghost cars collect their parking tickets, and into the darkness of the multistorey. The ground level has been completely covered by graffiti, every single inch of the concrete walls and supporting pillars have been sprayed. I don’t concentrate too much on the darkened corners, I don’t want to linger, I need to keep moving. We follow the signs for the stairs, choose to ignore the lifts, which I guess aren’t working anyway, and even if they are, I’m not interested.

Every scary movie I’ve ever seen has told me to be wary of car parks on my own late at night or even during the day, and yet here I am, going against every single instinct in my body. The sound of music and laughter gets increasingly loud as we tread lightly up the steps, not wanting to make a sound to alert them. There is a hum of conversation and that relaxing bass keeps us going, there is some kind of civilisation up there, one which doesn’t sound like murderous screaming, gunshots and violent gang dance-offs. I expect to happen upon a homeless community, with laptops on Skype; I have prepared myself to run, to give them my money, my phone, whatever, just in case they get angry at my intrusion.

Lea readies herself, checks her reflection in her pocket mirror and reapplies her thick lipstick that makes her look like she’s had collagen injections, then with a flick of her hair, she pushes open the door. I am stunned when we peek around at the inside. Everywhere I look I see trees, beautiful large greenery covering the grey concrete. They sit in stunning pots, Spanish and Mexican in style with beautiful mosaic tiles. Fairy lights run from tree to tree and candles light the meandering pathway through the trees. It feels like we’re in this wonderland in the middle of a concrete car park. Grey and green, dark and light, man-made and natural.

‘Hi, guys,’ a young man says beside us and we turn to him in surprise. ‘Can I see your invitation please?’

Our mouths open and shut, we are visibly shocked.

‘She’s a guest of Dara’s,’ I finally say, when Lea doesn’t say a word.

‘Oh, cool!’ He stands up. ‘Follow me. Sorry about the invitation thing, it’s Evelyn, she’s pretty insistent after last year. Apparently the party got crashed and it all got a little crazy.’

We follow him through the winding path, through the trees, and I feel like I’m in a dream.

‘You guys did all this?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. Cool isn’t it? Evelyn just got back from Thailand where she had full moon parties all the time. Doesn’t exactly feel like Thailand, but concrete jungle was the theme.’

The path ends as it opens up to what looks like a living room. An enormous chandelier of beautiful twisted glass hangs low from the concrete ceiling, large pillar candles sit in the chandelier, the wax dripping down over the sides. Below it is a large Oriental rug and copious brown battered leather couches where a dozen or more guests gather and chat like they’re at a house party. Music plays, not too loud chill-out music that we could hear from across the river, and a nymph-like girl in a sequined cat suit dances on her own with her eyes closed, fingers running through invisible harp strings in the air. Some look up to see us, most don’t, they’re a friendly bunch just checking us out and smiling their welcomes. A bunch of all ages, the artsy kind, very cool, very edgy, not at all like me and Lea, the mother of three and Nurse Kardashian.

‘There he is,’ she says, pointing quickly. Lea skitters over to Dara and they embrace. A moment later, out of their scrum, she shouts, ‘Marlow,’ to me.

I nod. Marlow. I’m here to see Marlow.

‘Marlow,’ Dara calls, then whistles and nods at me. A stunning man looks up from the group on the sofas. He’s dressed in tight black jeans, a charcoal T-shirt, workman’s boots, perfect physique, toned arms, long black hair, one side behind one ear, the other falling down over his face. Johnny Depp twenty years ago. He has one eye squinted as he inhales on a cigarette, and he holds a bottle of beer in the other hand. He looks at me, his eyes running over me. I shiver under his intense stare, don’t know where to look. Lea laughs.

‘Good luck!’ She throws me a thumbs up and heads towards the barrel of beer in ice.

I swallow hard. Marlow smiles and leaves the company of a cool butterfly girl with body jewellery wrapped around her toned abs. He stops right in front of me, standing quite close for an absolute stranger.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’ He smiles and sits down on the back of the couch so we’re at the same eye level. He looks like I amuse him, but not in a teasing way.

‘My name is Sabrina.’

I look around and see Lea settling down on a couch with a group of people, beer in hand, relaxed as anything. I try to relax too.

‘I’ve lost my marbles,’ I say with a smile.

‘Well you’ve come to the right place,’ he grins. ‘Why don’t we go into my studio.’ He stands.

I laugh at that and he seems confused by my reaction, but walks away anyway. I look at Lea, who motions at me to follow Marlow. I follow him through the trees on the other side of the gathering and discover he hasn’t been lying. Hugging the walls of the car park are offices and art studios.

‘What is this place?’

‘The art council let us work here. They came up with a great idea to utilise the space. The plan was to put something new on each floor, exhibitions on the third level, theatrical performances on the fifth floor… We’ve been here a year.’

He unlocks the door and steps inside.

There is glass everywhere, it glistens as the moonlight hits it.

‘Wow, this is beautiful!’ I look around, unable to stop as everywhere I turn is a glass masterpiece, either a jug, glasses, vases, panes, chandeliers – a myriad of gorgeous colours, some smashed and put back together again to make stunning creations.

He’s sitting up on a counter, legs hanging, watching me.

‘You make marbles,’ I say, spotting a cabinet in the corner, little globes winking in the light, my heart suddenly pounding.

I remove my bag from my shoulder and take the inventory out, feeling on fire. I walk towards him, offering the folder. ‘My dad was a marble collector. I found this inventory in his things, including the marbles, but there were two collections missing.’ I try to rush to the exact pages that list the missing marbles but he stops me, a hand on my hand, which he keeps a hold of while reading at his own pace.

‘This is incredible,’ he says, after a while.

‘I know,’ I say proudly, and uncertainly, looking at his hand wrapped around mine like he doesn’t notice it’s happening, as though it’s the most natural, normal thing in the world. He turns page after page, fingers running over my knuckles, which makes me nervous and thrilled at the same time. I’m a married woman, I shouldn’t be standing here close to midnight holding hands with a handsome cool dude, but I am and I don’t want to let go. He takes his time reading through the inventory, his fingers still slowly moving over mine.

The moon made me do it.

‘This is quite the collection,’ he says, finally looking up. ‘So he was only a fan of glass.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Marbles were also made from clay, steel, plastic. But he only collects glass.’

‘Oh yes. I didn’t realise.’

‘Apart from steelies – he’s got a few of them. But the most beautiful ones are handmade glass,’ he says with a smile, ‘then again, I’m biased. Which ones are missing?’

Tragically, I must let go of his hand to leaf through the pages and point them out. ‘This. And this.’

He whistles when he sees the price. ‘I can try to replicate them, but it’s impossible for me to make them look exactly the same, and he’ll notice the difference,’ he says. ‘A collector like him will know straight away.’

‘He won’t,’ I swallow. ‘He hasn’t been well recently. Actually, I was hoping to find something new. I want him to make some new memories.’ Don’t go back, Sabrina, move forward. Make new.

‘With pleasure.’ He smiles, eyes playful, and I have to look away. ‘So, Sabrina, I see here that the thing your dad was beginning to collect was contemporary marbles. He only has one, which is damaged – a heart, which is rather ironic, isn’t it? This is where I feel I can come in. I can make you a contemporary art marble. See over there.’

He points to the display cabinet and I’m entranced by the variety he has. It’s like a treasure trove of precious gems. So many intricate swirls and designs, colours and reflections bounce from the glass.

‘You can touch them,’ he says.

Opening the case, I’m drawn to a chocolate brown marble, like a snooker ball, and I’m surprised by the weight. They’re larger than Dad’s collection, not your usual playing marbles, but their colours and design are far more intense and intricate. Swirls and bubbles, they are hypnotising to look at and when I hold them up to the moonlight it seems they have even more depth, glowing from the inside.

‘Interesting you picked that one,’ he says. ‘Is that your favourite?’

I nod, wrapping my fingers around it. It’s almost as if I can feel the heat of the fire inside. ‘But it’s not for me.’ I examine the collection again. ‘He’d love any of these, I’m sure.’

It’s not what I began the day searching for, but it feels right, like a better solution to driving myself insane looking for lost marbles that I probably will never find.

‘No, no,’ he takes the brown marble from me gently, and he places a hand on my waist as he examines it from behind me. ‘I’ll make you a new one now.’

‘Now?’

‘Sure. Have you somewhere else to be?’

I look out at Lea; she’s lost in Dara’s eyes, Dara running his fingers through her hair. It’s almost midnight, I’m going home to an empty house anyway. I need to end my night with some kind of conclusion. Learning about Dad was satisfying, exhausting, draining, but I need to find a solution. I’ve opened a wound and I need to find something to help heal it. If I can’t complete Dad’s collection, then I must complete my own personal mission.

‘How long will it take to make?’

He shrugs, coolly. ‘Let’s see.’

He doesn’t walk around, he kind of glides, drags his feet but not noisily, like he’s too relaxed to lift them. He turns on a gas canister, leaves me momentarily, disappearing behind the trees in the car park and returns with a six-pack of beer, a joint and a mischievous look in his eye.

I hear Aidan’s voice in my head. I just don’t know if you’re happy, Sabrina. You’re distant. I love you. Do you hear me? Do you love me?

Maybe I should leave, but if I haven’t learned anything else from today, I’ve learned that I’m my father’s daughter. I stay.