But he is angry. He’s hurt and dejected and miserable, and thoroughly fed up with everything. ‘I’ll see,’ he says, and leaves it at that. It’s not until later, when he’s pulling the lawnmower from the shed after his dinner of bangers and mash, that her comment about her phone being mislaid comes back to him.
Mislaid.
He walks behind the mower as it slices through the grass, and thinks of Christine taking money from his wallet while he slept, after what had turned out to be her last night under the same roof as him. Could she have stolen from Astrid? Wouldn’t a mobile phone be easy to hock for a few euro, even one as uncomplicated as Astrid’s?
Let it not have been her. Let the damn phone have fallen from Astrid’s bag in a taxi, or wherever. Let it not have been pocketed by Christine.
He finishes the lawn and empties the cuttings into his compost bin. As he closes the shed door, Mrs Twomey emerges from her house. ‘Bill, isn’t it a lovely evening?’
It is. He hadn’t noticed. The sky is slashed with red and pink and orange, the late summer air redolent with the scent of newly mown lawn. The birds have retired for the night, leaving peace behind them.
‘I’ve just put the kettle on,’ she says, ‘if you fancied a cuppa. We could have it out here in the garden.’
A hundred excuses rise up in his head. He tamps them all down. ‘Sure. Let me wash my hands and I’ll be over.’
As good a way as any to distract his head for half an hour.
Astrid
‘MY WIFE,’ MARKUS SAYS, PASSING HER HIS PHONE. ‘Her name Amelia’ – and Astrid sees a smiling fair-haired woman holding a small baby. ‘Our boy,’ Markus says, and follows with a word that seems entirely made up of consonants, presumably the child’s name, so Astrid smiles and pours more coffee – he likes it so strong – and makes no attempt to repeat it.
Markus is working a slow miracle in the garden, plant by plant, flower by flower. On his first visit he repaired the hedge with his own electric trimmer. Because of Christine’s hacking he was obliged to lower the entire thing by about a foot, which somehow makes the whole place seem bigger. He borrowed his brother-in-law’s trailer and loaded up every bit of what he’d removed, and took it to the recycling centre.
On his subsequent weekly visits he treated the lawn, and raked up the moss when it died and went black, and planted new grass seed in the bare patches – and already, just a couple of weeks later, Astrid can see tiny green pins popping up. He reclaimed what he could of the shrubs and dug out the rest, and replaced them with fuchsia and lavender and broom, all her favourites. And then he fed and watered and fed.
He put in new clematis and a climbing rose against the wall at the end. They’re small and unassuming, but she can visualise them ascending and spreading. She can see them in her mind’s eye, blooming and magnificent.
He emptied the flowerbed of weeds and debris. He rejuvenated the earth with fertiliser. He took Astrid to the garden centre where she invested in trays of cheerful cyclamen, and violas and pansies that were a little past their best, but she needed something instant, and the reduced price made up for their lesser glory. They’re planning an array of mixed bulbs – snowdrops, tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, crocuses – to bring fresh colour to the bed in the spring, and after the threat of frost is past she’ll get him to plant out the seedlings that she’s going to coax into being indoors, like she used to do every year.
Everything is coming back, it’s all coming back, and it thrills and delights her to see it. Now that the bulk of the work has been done, Markus will come every two weeks for a couple of hours to keep it on course, to steer it safely to full glory.
But Bill. Bill is on her mind, in her thoughts. She wishes she could have convinced him that no harm was done – except to the hedge, and that was fixable, and had been fixed. No harm has been done to their friendship, no harm to the trust she placed in him, the esteem she holds him in. But she could see that her reassurances weren’t reassuring him.
And of course she knows how he feels about Emily. She’d have to be blind not to notice how he lit up whenever Emily appeared, the way his eyes followed her around the oval table. His voice when he spoke to her; his face when she addressed him, when she said his name. Anyone could see how he felt, if they thought to look for it.
And they would be so perfect together, Bill and Emily. He would be so good to her; she would be so good for him. What a cruel streak Fate must have, ordaining that A fall in love with B, who has eyes only for C.
‘I’ve been to an estate agent,’ Emily tells her. ‘He’s going to come around next week and have a look. You’re the only one I can say it to, the only one who’s not cross with me for leaving. Mike is devastated to be losing his job, Heather clams up if I mention it, and Bill, well …’
She shrugs as if it’s nothing, but Astrid knows it’s not nothing. ‘Bill is going through a difficult time,’ she says. ‘Don’t be hard on him.’
‘Have you been talking to him?’
‘I have, about Christine.’ She doesn’t elaborate. ‘I feel so sorry for the poor man.’
Emily makes no response. It’s not like her to be unsympathetic.
‘And of course I’m not cross with you, but I am sad. This place will be a big loss to a lot of people.’
‘I know. I know.’
‘Have you begun looking in Dublin yet? For a possible premises, I mean.’
‘Not yet, no rush with that. Time enough when I move there.’
Astrid doesn’t ask when that might be. She wonders who would be interested in this small space. Would anyone care to keep it on as a going concern? Doubtful. She doesn’t imagine there’s a whole lot of income from one table, however large. Not for the first time, she marvels at the way Emily can sustain it, and pay Mike a wage. She must live very cheaply.
‘I can’t talk to her about it,’ Heather says, cleaning Astrid’s windows. ‘I just can’t imagine the restaurant not being there any more.’
‘Yes, it will be strange. Perhaps you could buy it,’ she suggests. A joke, of course – where would Heather get the money? – but her friend doesn’t laugh.
‘You know she had a row with Bill, don’t you?’
Astrid frowns. ‘Who – Emily?’
‘Yes. She won’t mind my saying it to you. She called to the nursing home to ask him why he’d stopped coming to the restaurant, and they ended up rowing.’
‘Oh no.’ She recalls Emily’s shrug, her apparent lack of empathy with Bill’s predicament. Astrid should have known there was more to it.
So there is feeling on both sides, on Bill’s and on Emily’s, with Emily being compelled to seek him out, and their exchange somehow becoming heated. Is she sure of what she’s doing? Has she chosen wisely? Is she giving up too much for this man in Dublin?
‘Looks like my folks are coming for Christmas,’ Heather goes on. ‘They were threatening to, and I didn’t think they’d follow through, but now they’re asking me to recommend a place for them to stay, so it looks like it’s going to happen. I’m thinking about Park Lodge, which is the only possible place in town I can imagine them being happy.’
Park Lodge, located not in the town but on the edge of it, is more a country house than a hotel. Stone façade, ivy, sash windows and balustrades. Astrid was there once with Cathal, a few months before he died, for the golden wedding anniversary celebrations of a couple they’d known for years. Won’t feel it till it’s our turn, Cathal said, but they’d never got there.
Old grandeur was Astrid’s impression of the place. Proper china and good glasses for the meal, wallpaper and sideboards, a drawing room with a piano and a large fireplace. Little black and white tiles on the floor in the entrance hall, cobbles in the courtyard to the rear, where old stables had been converted into bedrooms. Yes, the Americans will find it charming.
‘It will be lovely for Lottie to have them around,’ Astrid says. Pause. ‘And for you too.’
‘Yes, we’ll see how it goes. Will you be s
pending Christmas with your nephew and his family again?’
‘Oh, I expect so.’
She won’t, of course. She has a standing invitation to his house, located in a town fifteen miles from Dublin, but each year she assures him that she has local plans. She has no problem being alone on the twenty-fifth of December. To tell the truth, a quiet Christmas is a relief, after all the years she had to endure the company of her in-laws on the day.
She recalls with a shudder the false jollity as presents were exchanged and opened before the dinner. A cookery book once for Astrid, inside whose cover she read Merry Christmas Mary from Judith, a passed-on gift that her mother-in-law hadn’t bothered to open – or maybe she had.
A glass of sweet sherry she didn’t want, and carols playing in the background that always struck Astrid as a dig at the Jewess. The turkey that her father-in-law made such a performance of carving, always too thickly. The crackers with their cheap, childish trinkets, their silly paper hats. The overcooked Brussels sprouts, Astrid’s least favourite vegetable; the stodginess of the plum pudding. The hour or so in front of a television turned up too loud before she and Cathal could decently take their leave.
Kind souls like Heather would be bothered, of course, if they knew Astrid was spending Christmas Day alone, so she simply pretends otherwise, and everyone is happy.
She wonders about Christine. Where will she spend the day that traditionally brings families together? Any thought of her is accompanied by a sense of disappointment, a feeling of failure on Astrid’s part – but what could she have done for the girl, if her own father can’t help her?
And Bill. Will he be alone at Christmas, or does he have other family to take him in? She thinks he made mention of a sister once. Perhaps Astrid could get in touch with him closer to the time, now that she has his number again. She could sound him out, see what his plans are. If it transpired that he had none, she could ask if he’d like to come to her for dinner – because whatever about her being happy to spend the day on her own, she doesn’t like to think of Bill in a similar situation.
The following day is Wednesday, her library day. After lunch she calls a taxi and gathers her books. The sky is uneasy, rain on the way – and sure enough, she’s barely in the car before a shower starts.
‘You’re a great reader,’ Judy at the library says. ‘I’m looking forward to the time when I can sit and read all day,’ and Astrid thinks, but does not say, that she would happily trade places with the librarian in return for the energy to do more than turn the pages of a book, or work a few rows of knitting. Much as she appreciates her content life, there was so much more that she loved to do, so much that is denied to her now in old age.
She tells Judy of the improvements to her garden, and Judy asks for photos, which Astrid doesn’t have. ‘Take a few with your phone,’ Judy suggests, and a promise is given, although Astrid will ask Markus to take them. Once she’s chosen her new books, she makes her way to the pretty little café two doors down for a pot of herbal tea, her usual practice on library days. As long as she’s out, she may as well make the most of it.
The rain continues to fall: she watches it drizzle and roll down the window, blurring the passing pedestrians into moving blots of colour. She lingers longer than she normally would as she waits for it to pass, but when it shows no sign of letting up she calls a taxi, instead of walking a small part of the way home and hailing one en route.
‘Going to be a wet night,’ the driver remarks, and Astrid thinks of the ones who live on the street, the rough sleepers as they’re called now. No bed, no comfort, no heat – and again her thoughts turn to Christine, who may have nowhere to hide from the elements tonight.
‘Mind how you go,’ the driver says, and she thanks him and gets out, and turns to see her gate open. She always closes it when she leaves: someone must have slipped a leaflet through her letterbox, and neglected to close the gate.
But there is no leaflet on the hall floor. No note, no money-off coupons or laundry detergent samples. Nothing but a series of pale brownish marks on the off-white tiles that she mopped earlier.
She bends to peer at them. They’re smudged, but they look very much to her like the marks that wet shoes would leave behind. Not hers: the rain didn’t start until she was on the way to the library.
She feels a prickle of uneasiness. She stands in the hall and listens intently, and hears nothing but the whisper of the continuing rain as it falls on the path outside.
‘Hello?’ she calls, and again, more loudly, ‘Hello? Who’s there?’
Someone was here, in her house. Someone might still be here. What if he or she appears? What if the kitchen door or the sitting-room door is flung open and a person marches out? Should she leave right now, before that has a chance to happen? Should she ring Will Flannery’s bell next door and ask him to come in and have a look? No – it’s too early: he’ll still be at work. What then? Should she knock at other doors on the road? Should she keep trying until someone answers?
She looks about the small hall, checking for any sign of disturbance other than the footprints, and finding none. The walking stick she bought on the advice of a friend three years ago, and has used precisely once since then, stands propped in its usual corner behind the door – reminding her, each time she sees it, of Papa’s umbrella that always stood just so, in just such a spot.
Her coat rail with its six metal hooks, lowered by her nephew a few years ago to accommodate her diminished reach, looks as it always does. There are her blue scarf and grey winter coat, and the navy poncho she never wears, hanging precisely where they were this morning. The Turner print she treated herself to when she moved into the house is still on the wall by the sitting-room door.
She looks down once more at the footprints and tries to make sense of them. They imply that the intruder came in through the front door, but it shows no sign of damage, no indication of forced entry.
The only one with a front-door key, apart from Astrid herself, is Heather. Just in case you lock yourself out some day, she said. All you need to do is give me a call, and I’ll be right with you. There’s a third key, hanging on a hook just inside the patio door: Astrid keeps meaning to find a secure place for it outside, in case Heather isn’t nearby if and when she’s needed. Keeps meaning to, and keeps forgetting.
She should call the police. That’s what she should do. She should call them and wait right here until they arrive, instead of going out in the rain to find neighbours who may or may not be there.
And then she thinks: No. I will not call the police. I will face unafraid whatever there is to face.
She leaves the front door ajar and advances slowly, every sense alert for rogue sounds. She moves along the hall, avoiding the footprints, her steps barely disturbing the silence. Feeling, it must be said, a little afraid, or a little more than that. She reaches the kitchen door and puts a palm to it, and pushes it in.
Her hands press to her cheeks. Oh, my.
Disorder. Mayhem. Drawers pulled out, contents scattered. The cutlery tray upended, forks and spoons everywhere. The sugar bowl toppled, a fan of white on the table. Fridge and freezer doors thrown open, yogurt spilt, a puddle of milk. Pat’s ready meals tossed about the floor, their foil lids ripped off. The saucepans she no longer uses scattered across the tiles. Plates, cups, all smashed.
She lowers her hands, which have begun to tremble. She advances carefully into the room, picking her way through the destruction. She has never experienced burglary, never had her home, her refuge, violated like this. She looks at the hook where her spare key hangs – and sees, with a new lurch of dismay, that it has disappeared.
Who? Who could have taken it? Who has been in the house? Pat, bringing in the meals each Monday morning. Eoin the paper boy, whom she brings into the kitchen on Fridays while she gets his payment. Markus. Heather. Christine.
Christine.
Going in and out a few times through the patio door, the day she attempted to cut the hedge. Left alo
ne in the kitchen when Astrid went to get slippers for her bare feet, and again when Astrid got the first-aid box to treat her blister. Christine, the only possible culprit.
But could the key really have been missing since then? Astrid tries to gather her scattered wits, to recollect when the girl was here. She rewinds through the days, the weeks, to Markus’s first visit, her call to him prior to that, Christine’s second and final appearance at the house a handful of days before that. Four weeks ago, around then. Could she really not have missed the key in all that time?
Yes, she could. Unless she’d gone looking for it, there was no reason for her to have noticed its absence. Something so familiar, so invisible in its familiarity, could have been taken at any time. But if Christine was indeed responsible for its disappearance, why would she have waited so long to use it?
And then Astrid remembers the two weeks that passed between Christine’s first and second times to show up at the house, after she’d promised to return the following day. Maybe time loses its meaning when addiction moves in; or maybe it is reconfigured, elongating or condensing in response to whatever chemical changes are taking place in the mind. Christine may have slipped the key into her pocket and then forgotten about it, and only come across it again by chance.
But what of this calamitous scene? Why cause so much damage? Could it have been prompted by resentment at Astrid’s sending her away – or was it a search, a frenzied hunt for money, or anything that could be sold to feed a hunger that food can’t satisfy?
And then, with a fall of her heart, she thinks of her most treasured possession. More precious, far more, than the emergency cash in her bedroom. Dearer to her even than the letters her saviour Herr Dasler wrote in the dozen years that passed between her leaving Austria and his death. She thinks of the one thing she would most hate to lose in the world.
She must look for it. She must go to her room and see if it’s still there.
She can’t.
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