We present an extract from the new novel from Louise Nealon, acclaimed author of Snowflake.
For Niamh Ryan, the Foleys are family. Her childhood flew by on their farm, playing with her best friend Peter and his sister Kate - all the while being doted on by their mother Helen and coached by their father Liam, a legendary former hurling player. Now, following a distressing series of events, the family ties are strained. Told through the perspectives of three very different women, Everything That Is Beautiful unfolds a tale of love and family, heartbreak and hope - and who we might become after we pick up the pieces.
The Hurley
Niamh
It happened, along with the rest of her childhood, on the Foleys' farm. Ten years old, trying to impress Peter, who had two years and four inches on her. They were both running for a ball and Niamh knew that they were going to swing at the same time, the way she saw the men do on the telly. She heard her father’s voice in her head telling her not to hold back. As her feet left the ground, it felt like flying, even as her temple collided with Peter’s shoulder and everything went black.
It was the kiss of Tayto, the border collie, that brought her back to life. She batted the dog away and got up from the ground, cradling her hand and moaning in pain. Peter shushed her. They weren’t supposed to be pucking around together. Peter’s mother, Helen, tended to turn a blind eye to their antics as long as they were careful, but they’d sent a sliotar through the window of her downstairs toilet the week before and she was still raging with them.
Niamh got up from the ground and reached for her hurley. It seemed a lot lighter until she realised the stick had snapped in two during the clash. She turned around to see where the bottom half had landed on the other side of the lawn, then took a wild swing at Peter. 'You b-broke my good hurley!’
She dropped to her knees and started crying. He looked over his shoulder to see if one of his sisters was around. Maria was studying in her room and the other two, Kate and Bláithín, were where they were supposed to be, doing their homework at the kitchen table.
‘It was going to break eventually,’ he offered. He wiped bits of muck off his runners in the grass while he waited for her to get over it.
‘D-do you think your dad could fix it?’ she asked.
They were able to hear Liam before they saw him – the gnaw of the bandsaw against the wood got louder when they opened the door of the workshop. Niamh watched as Peter made tentative attempts to approach his father. Liam Foley was a kind and charismatic man who sometimes seemed to forget that he had children. He was cutting the outline of a hurley from a plank of timber. It was a long couple of minutes before he eventually looked up from his work and turned off the bandsaw.
‘Dad, Niamh broke her hurley,’ Peter said.
‘P-p-p-peter broke my hurley,’ Niamh corrected him.
Liam straightened himself and put his hands on his hips. ‘You’re in the market for a new one so?’
‘M-maybe you could fix it?’
‘Let me have a look at it, Niamh.’
She liked the way Liam pronounced her name – nee-av – as opposed to the nasally, monosyllabic neev that most people used, including her. One syllable was less risky than the two: nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-neev.
The hurley had snapped in the middle where she had written her name in black marker. She presented the stick to him in two pieces.
Liam shook his head and let out a low whistle. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do with that now, pet.’
She concentrated on the wood shavings on the floor as her eyes filled up. Liam hunkered down beside her, his hand leaning on the new hurley he was working on. ‘It’s hard to let go of a good one, isn’t it?’
The tears tripped out of her eyes as she nodded.
‘I can glue it together all right, but you won’t be able to play with it. How about we stick it up there?’ He pointed up at the slanted roof of the shed and the display of hurleys nailed to it – hurleys that Liam and her dad had won county championships with.
‘Hey!’ Peter cried. ‘That’s not fair! She didn’t even win anything!’
Liam winked at her and spoke so quietly that Niamh had to lean in to hear him. ‘How about you promise me that the next time you come to me with a broken hurley, it’s one that belongs to that lad over there. We could do with putting some manners on him.’
Niamh beamed at him.
Liam turned to his son. ‘Well, are you going to help me make a new hurley for Niamh or are you too busy sulking? You might even get a new one of your own out of it.’
Peter’s face brightened. Liam Foley was famous for making hurleys. Only a select few were invited into the inner sanctum of the workshop. Part of the reason why Peter and Niamh played in the back garden was for a chance to run into their heroes – men who played on the county team walked through on their way to pick up hurleys from Liam and sometimes joined in on their puck arounds. When no one else was there, the two of them spent hours sneaking into the workshop and sifting through hurleys, trying to find the right weight and balance to suit their game. They scarpered whenever they heard anyone coming, only taking one hurley at a time so that it wouldn’t be missed.
One of the nicknames Liam picked up throughout his years on the hurling pitch was Father Foley because everyone thought he would make a good priest. There was something monastic about the way he moved through the world. The workshop was his sanctuary, so even the thought of sneaking in to rob hurleys was sacrilegious. It felt like stealing from God.
Niamh was sure Liam knew what they were doing, but it was more fun to pretend to be thieves – the rush of adrenaline they got as they made their getaway fired them up for another round of tearing into each other on the lawn with their new weapons.
‘You’re about to have your first lesson in where hurleys come from,’ Liam said, rolling out the base of tree he used for when the television people came to film him for a documentary.
‘This,’ he said, leaning it into the crook of his arm, ‘is the bottom of an ash tree. Not all ash trees are made equal, and so not all of them are suitable for making hurleys. Only the chosen few that have a bit about them make the cut: they have to have these lovely toes.’ He twirled the stump around to display the knobbly bits protruding from the trunk. ‘These fellas are what give you the natural curve of the hurley when we saw into them . . .’
Niamh and Peter knew that they had to suffer through the sermon in order to get to the action. ‘It’s important to keep track of the mammy and daddy trees,’ Liam continued. ‘You can even take the shoots of an ash tree from Tipperary and breed it with one from Clare, like an arranged marriage. And from those good roots, you can make even better ones.’
Everything That Is Beautiful is published by Manilla Press
