Time Out

by Emma Murray

‘It’s gone, Saoirse! The latest Marital Miracle box is gone to bidder “Engorged2013”. I’ve just made eighty-five euro and I only put it on for ninety-nine cents. Would you credit that? “Engorged” swooping in, in the last five seconds. Good man,’ she says, thrilled with herself.

  Quietly appalled, I congratulate her on her ‘big win’, as she likes to call it. Given her mood, I decide that this is probably a good time to break the news that I’m considering a trip to Ireland by myself to work, and staying two hours’ drive from my family home.

  There is a bit of silence and I can picture her doing that narrow-eyed head-cocking thing that she always does when she’s faced with something she doesn’t want to hear.

  Then the questions begin. Minutes go by as she quizzes me on everything from Anna’s childcare (‘Are you sure you can trust Anna with that wan Maria?) to David (‘And what’s David going to do without you?’) to my accommodation in Wexford.

  ‘Now what did you say the house was called again?’ she says officiously. I can hear the busy click of her mouse.

  ‘The Cube,’ I say. ‘I don’t know much about it, but—’

  ‘“The Cube is an all-glass architectural miracle perched on the cliffs of Wexford, about a two-hour drive from Dublin,”’ she reads in a higher pitch than normal. ‘I’ve just looked it up on the Google!’

  I don’t bother to comment. Of course, the house is fabulous. Nothing surprises me when it comes to Bea.

  ‘Saoirse, it’s been featured in Property Dreams,’ Ireland’s answer to property show Grand Designs, ‘and has won architectural awards and everything. It’s fantastic!’

  My mood lifts. Suddenly this trip is becoming more real and, despite my trepidation, I’m starting to feel excited about it.

  ‘You can join me for a couple of days towards the end of the first week,’ I say.

  ‘You’re feckin’ right I will,’ she responds.

  I spend the next few minutes trying to extricate myself from my mother’s incessant questions about The Cube, but before I sign off I ask her one question.

  ‘Mum, what did the haiku say in that Marital Miracle box you just sold on eBay?’ Despite my scepticism, I am curious to see my mother’s perspective on relationships.

  She clears her throat, and in her best staged voice, says solemnly:

  Love keeps us going

  We will always be as one

  Never fall apart

  ‘Not bad,’ I tell her. I feel an unexpected lump in my throat. It makes me wonder if David and I will go the distance. I swallow hard as I say goodbye.

  It is 6.30 p.m. when I hear the key in the door. Anna and I are on the tiny kitchen sofa, chuckling away at Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom, the one with the town mayor who is clearly modelled on Boris Johnson. I hear the clatter of David’s shoes as they hit the ground, and I brace myself for The Big Sulk. This means no verbal communication or eye contact until a resolution has been made. Our longest record of silence has been three days, and quite frankly, I look back on that episode with a certain degree of fondness. Sometimes it’s nice to have a bit of peace and quiet; freedom from all David’s nitpicking and toe-clenching habits.

  Based on past history, I presume he will go and hide in our bedroom to sulk for a bit longer. Well, let him. So, imagine my surprise when he strides straight into the kitchen and presents me with a stunning bunch of yellow roses.

  David never buys me flowers. He thinks they are ‘utterly useless and a total waste of money’. Such is his strength of feeling that he actually included it in his wedding vows.

  But here I am, in total shock, holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers, and my eyes start to fill up.

  As if sensing a lovely emotional moment to ruin, Anna immediately grabs the bouquet and starts pulling off the heads of the flowers.

  Well used to Anna’s senseless delinquent behaviour, David and I immediately spring into action. He goes to take the flowers from her, while I wave the iPad in a threatening way just above the bin. Defeated, Anna retires sulkily to the couch, grabs the iPad off me and starts punching the code in with unnecessary force.

  David and I exchange smiles. Nothing better than a good bit of teamwork when it comes to taming Anna.

  He comes closer and kisses me on the lips. ‘I’m sorry, Saoirse. I shouldn’t have said all those things last night. And I shouldn’t have moved all your stuff. I’m tired and stressed and sometimes I don’t even know what I’m doing…’

  And suddenly all the fight goes out of me. I see his face lined with exhaustion, and I think about how much pressure he is under at work, and although it isn’t easy, I try to see things his way. We hug briefly and I do my best not to think of the next time we fall out, and the time after that. I suppose we could actually sit down and talk through everything, like we used to, but it’s been so long since we communicated properly that it all just seems like too much hard work. A wave of sadness rushes over me. It’s not the way I wanted us to end up, bickering and point-scoring all the bloody time. Maybe a break will give me the space I need to reflect on everything. I take a deep breath and tell him I have taken Anna out of nursery – for good – and then about Bea’s offer to me to spend a couple of weeks by myself to work out of her holiday home in Ireland. To my surprise, he is totally fine with it – all of it. In fact, almost suspiciously fine with it.

  ‘It’s a good idea! You need the break. Anna and I will be fine. Won’t we, Anna?’ he says, loudly enough to get her attention.

  Anna gives him her best death stare.

  I try and fight the anxiety I feel about leaving Anna alone with David, but deep down I know I need to try to let go. He’s her father and he needs to spend time with her.

  ‘I’m glad you got her out of Rocking Horses,’ he says. ‘It was a total shithole.’

  I laugh and the sound takes me by surprise. Then David does something else that hasn’t happened in a very long time: he wraps his arms around me, and gives me a lingering warm kiss. I can’t remember the last time we kissed outside the bedroom, and it gives me a tingly feeling I haven’t felt in months. Eventually, we break away and David tells me he’s going upstairs to change out of his suit.

  Bathing in an unexpected warm glow, I set about getting a vase for the flowers. As I am cutting the ends off the stalks with a scissors, I hear the sound of David’s phone buzzing. A text flashes up and catches my eye.

  David – Call me. I have what you need. J.

  It is followed by three lipstick kiss emojis.

  Somewhere in the distance, I feel the scissors leave my right hand and clatter onto the kitchen floor.

  David is having an affair.

  Part II

  Ireland, Present Day

  Value Your Freedom

  Careful not to cross the line

  Live without regret

  10

  The plane touches down in Dublin. As I walk to baggage reclaim, my left hand feels a little empty without Anna holding it. Without her, everything moves faster, and before I know it I’m in a cheap rental car driving through the misty rain down the M11 from Dublin to Wexford.

  Two hours later, my GPS has shat itself about fifteen mins from Wexford city centre trying to find The Cube, which has no postcode and real address apart from being known locally as ‘that glass thing on the hill’. Thankfully, Bea has provided me with wonderfully specific instructions (‘Do NOT turn left at the sign that says, “The Cube” – turn right first and THEN left,’ etc.) so, I am not completely at sea.

  Eventually, I find myself driving slowly up a gravel dirt road inches from a large cliff before rounding a corner. And there in front of me, set about fifty metres from the wild cliff grasses, looms The Cube. I switch off the engine and just sit there for a moment. It’s a building that deserves to be stared at. Of course I’ve seen it online but the photos don’t do it justice. It is mostly made up of glass with gigantic floor-to-ceiling windows, supported by bricks that look as though they have been carved from the cliff itself. Its roof
is perfectly flat, and it is indeed cube-shaped. I had thought that such a modern structure might have looked out of place against such a rustic background, but the glass has made it delicate, unimposing, and unobtrusive. It is a building comfortable in its surroundings and it gives me a sense of comfort and indescribable peace that I haven’t felt in a long time.

  I step out onto the gravel, wrestle my suitcase from the tiny boot and make my way towards the large front door, which looks like it has been carved out of the nearest tree trunk. Using the keys that Bea has given me, I open the door and step into a cool, airy open-plan L-shaped space covered in creamy-white marble slabs. I close the door, drop my case, and start to explore.

  I walk by snuggly couches swathed with soft, furry blankets and throws with gorgeously colourful cushions, before reaching a state-of-the-art kitchen gleaming with stainless steel, offset by a sparkly black kitchen island and three brightly coloured high stools. The mix of the soft furnishings and the modern touches gives the whole place a lovely, warm, comforting feel. I stroll back towards the front door, intent on exploring the two bedrooms, and I am not disappointed. The master bedroom is a cheery sky-blue with a soft fluffy white carpet and a king-sized bed covered in fancy cushions. Bea’s mum certainly has impeccable taste. I walk into the spacious en suite bathroom, with its sparkling white tiles and beribboned wicker baskets, and immediately lift the toilet lid. A ripple of pleasure passes over me as I admire the impeccably clean toilet bowl. Between David’s forty-minute dumps (me to David: ‘Why the hell don’t you look behind you after you flush?’) and Anna’s speedy-but-messy affairs (‘But I did flush, Mummy, I pwomise!’), I can’t remember the last time I went to the toilet without using a toilet brush first. I sit down on the gleaming seat and allow myself a smile. It’s the happiest wee I’ve had in ages.

  As I come back into the bedroom, I realise that the master bedroom, just like the rest of the rooms, is all-glass. I spend several minutes trying to find cleverly hidden curtains or blinds, and just as I start getting a bit nervous about being entirely on view to passers-by, I spot a small remote control on one of the bedside tables. I click it with a degree of apprehension, wondering if this is the moment I trigger an alarm, but I’m relieved to see blinds made of dark blue fabric fall effortlessly from an innocuous-looking bar just below the ceiling. I throw myself on the bed and rest my head on the soft cushions.

  Peace.

  Broken moments later by the sound of my phone ringing in my pocket. Sighing, I fish it out and reluctantly tap the answer button.

  ‘I see you’ve arrived,’ my mother says officiously.

  I open my mouth to ask her how she knows I’ve just got here and then, knowing the answer already, I promptly close it again.

  ‘Yes. The Cube is fabulous!’ I tell her, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  Although my mother has already memorised every detail from viewing the house online, she is still keen to hear from me, so I go to great lengths to tell her all about it.

  But of course in her world nothing is perfect so she has to find fault. She starts with the marble floors.

  ‘Marble floors – they’re awful cold in the winter. Must cost a fortune to heat the place.’ And then moves on to the automated blinds.

  ‘Sure, those things break all the time – very gimmicky and impractical.’

  And finally, the location itself. ‘That house is very close to the edge of the cliff – sure, it’s that flimsy it might be blown into the sea!’

  Feeling a little deflated, I say to her churlishly that given her views on the house she probably won’t want to visit a freezing cold, gimmicky, unstable house after all.

  She pauses a moment and says breezily, ‘Ah, no, I’ll definitely come and stay. Sure, what else would I be doing now I’m almost finished teaching for the summer?’

  Then she tells me she’ll be down towards the end of the week, which gives me a few days to get started on my writing.

  After the call, I stare at my phone for a bit. I know I need to check in with David to let him know I have arrived safely and to see how Anna has survived her first full day with Bea’s nanny, Maria. I know I should, but I need a moment.

  David.

  Since I found out about the affair a few days ago, I have managed to imprison all thoughts of David and his slut-boss, Jordan, to one tiny corner of my mind. My mother once told me that when she broke the news to me about my father’s death, my first reaction was to take a photo of him from the mantelpiece and put it in a shoe box, which apparently I reserved for ‘secret things’. As my mother had said, ‘It’s almost as if you were tucking the trauma away in a safe place so you wouldn’t have to deal with it.’

  Maybe I’m doing the same thing with David, but I am too numb to make any real sense of anything at the moment or maybe I just don’t care enough.

  Between throwing myself into packing for this trip, dealing with Anna full time, rounding off lots of domestic chores and admin, and providing endless instructions to Bea’s nanny, Maria (‘One of Anna’s biggest fears is stew’), I haven’t given myself a moment to dwell on it. I even managed to get through a visit to Rose’s place in Oxfordshire (‘In my day we didn’t have iPads to stare at. We were just as happy with Poohsticks and conkers’) without taking it out on David on the drive home.

  Between more of David’s late nights ‘at work’ and my strategically early bedtimes, I have barely seen him. It’s like we’ve gone back to the baby days: the times where we barely saw each other and had gone from married couple to flatmates. But at least back then my flatmate hadn’t been shagging someone else. He would have been too exhausted, for a start.

  And then there’s Anna. My stomach gives a lurch and suddenly I want to hold her as tightly as she’ll let me and stroke her soft downy cheeks. I start to feel claustrophobic and jump off the bed, trying to shake off the beginnings of waves of emotion. I am determined not to let the fog engulf me. With a half-run, I fling open the sliding glass doors in the kitchen and trudge through the slanted wiry grass and spongey earth towards the cliff edge. Dusk is falling and I watch high up as the waves crash together in violent symphony against the jagged rocks below.

  Standing a couple of feet from the edge I take the deepest breaths I am able.

  I start to feel calmer as the pure, cold air fills my lungs and then the relief as I release it slowly. The air is so good here. I breathe deeply some more and focus on flooding all negative thoughts out of my mind.

  When I feel calm again, I turn to go back to the house when I slam straight into someone else. The bump is so violent that I ricochet backwards and only for a hand pulling me to safety, I would have been part of the angry sea below.

  Shaking, I look at the short, stout woman in front of me, who is still holding my hand. Although the light is poor, I see that she is in her mid-sixties with the type of uneven cropped red hair that looks as though she might cut it herself. She is wearing cropped pink trousers, white trainers, and a zip-up white hoodie. Her dark-green eyes are full of concern.

  ‘Jesus, love! You nearly went over the cliff there,’ she exclaims in a broad Irish country accent. She still hasn’t let go of my hand and I realise I don’t want her to. Her hand feels soft, maternal and reassuring.

  ‘Thanks for saving me. I didn’t see you behind me at all!’ I reply, feeling less shaky now I am back on solid ground.

  We stand there for a moment looking at each other, and then I remember that I am in Bea’s back garden, and I wonder why she is there too.

  I introduce myself and explain that I’ll be staying for a couple of weeks.

  ‘May I ask who you are?’ I say.

  I do a quick list of possible names in my head. What with her age and her rural accent, I’m guessing she is bound to be called one of the following: Brid, Brigid, Breda, Kitty, Nan, Nell, Nora, or Margaret.

  ‘I’m Catherine,’ she says, and adjusts her grip on my hand to a formal handshake before finally dropping it.

 
I feel an embarrassing sense of abandonment when she lets go of my hand.

  Her name is Catherine. That’ll teach me to generalise, I think.

  ‘But everyone calls me Kitty,’ she adds.

  Ha! I allow myself an inwardly smug grin.

  Not wanting to accuse her of trespassing, I ask her if she looks after the house and grounds when it’s unoccupied. She gives me a hard look, narrows her eyes and says, defensively, ‘I don’t need permission to come up here. This isn’t The Field, you know!’

  Christ.

  The last thing I need is to get into a tense discussion about Irish boundary laws with a woman who is most certainly eligible for a free bus pass.

  ‘So, what takes you to this field?’ I try again.

  She breathes through her nose and looks away towards the moody sky. Moments go by and I’m beginning to regret asking her the question. When she finally looks back to me, her eyes are full of tears and I have no idea what to do. Do I give her a hug? Ask her what’s wrong? Or do I go all ‘English’ (Agggh! Emotion from strangers!) and pretend I haven’t noticed?

  I choose the latter.

  ‘It’s a great view, isn’t it?’ I say, waving my hand vaguely. I hope that this tactic will give her a chance to recover, and I am relieved to see her discreetly dabbing her eyes with the sleeves of her hoodie.

  ‘That it is,’ she says, wistfully.

  She takes a deep breath and gives her head a little shake, and then surprises me by asking about Bea. Of course, apart from giving me directions and the code for the Wi-Fi, Bea has followed her usual ‘need to know basis’ approach when it comes to useful information. In other words, she hasn’t said a thing to me about Kitty.

  ‘Bea’s on great form,’ I say.

  ‘Poor Bea,’ Kitty says, shaking her head. ‘I haven’t seen her or her mother in The Cube for a long time.’

  Now I’ve heard Bea described in many ways over the last four years, but ‘poor’ isn’t one of them.