‘Yes. I’ve just got off the phone—’
‘Mum, I don’t have much credit left – what did he say?’
Lynda felt a prickle of irritation. No please, no thank you. ‘He said that he has no objection – as long as there is no extra work involved for me.’ She could hear his voice, excited, relaying this to Jon.
‘That’s brilliant! I’ll talk to you tonight! Is it okay if—’ His credit ran out.
Lynda shook her head. There was no point in ringing back. This would need to be done face to face, later. For a moment, she had a surge of apprehension. She hoped she wasn’t getting herself into something she might regret.
She glanced at the clock and pushed her chair back. She’d almost forgotten it was Friday. Time to get a move on. Her students would be waiting. Another long morning’s teaching, when she’d much rather be painting.
‘Mrs Graham – Lynda, I mean. I really want to thank you for this.’
‘Yeah, Mum, me too.’
Lynda looked at the two young faces in front of her. Jon seemed to have a light shining under his skin; Ciarán couldn’t stop grinning.
‘Sit down, both of you,’ she said.
They sat at the kitchen table. Lynda filled the kettle and sat beside them. Jon was expectant. What an open expression he has, Lynda thought. Far less guarded than Ciarán.
‘We all want this to work.’
The two boys nodded, looking at each other. ‘Particularly me,’ said Jon. ‘And I’m very grateful. I need to know what your house rules are.’
‘First of all, we’ll have a trial period of a month. If things aren’t working out, we’ll reconsider. One way or the other, Jon, I’m taking it on trust that your parents don’t object to your moving in here.’
He leaned towards her. ‘To be honest, I haven’t seen either of them in three weeks. I spoke to my mother today and she was fine with it.’ He paused.
Lynda could almost see him search for the right words.
‘She was relieved, I think,’ he said, finally. ‘Now she doesn’t need to bother about me. That came across loud and clear in the five minutes she had to spare.’
Lynda said nothing. His expression spoke volumes.
‘I wrote my father off a long time ago,’ he added. ‘Besides, I’ll be twenty-one soon. I make my own decisions.’
Lynda could hear the distinct burr of bitterness just below the surface of his words. She stood up to make tea. ‘I’m not arguing with you; I’m just stating my position. It’s your business to clear this with your family, not mine.’ She turned to Ciarán. ‘Just as you’ve got to square it with Katie. I told you that this morning. That’s not my responsibility, either.’
For the first time, Lynda regretted the lack of a proper spare room. Five years ago, when they’d extended the house to build her studio, she’d insisted on one of the bedrooms being renovated as a luxury bathroom.
‘Jacuzzi an’ all, I suppose?’ Robert had been mocking, but indulgent.
‘Why not?’ she’d agreed. ‘Might as well take advantage of you being in the business.’ She’d then redesigned the original bathroom as walk-in wardrobes. If Katie objected to her room being used by Jon, then she supposed that Robert’s office downstairs might do, although it wasn’t ideal. Besides, there were bad memories of the last time that that sofa bed had been occupied. Danny had seen to that.
‘I texted Katie this morning,’ Ciarán said quickly, looking over at Jon. ‘We’re both going to talk to her tonight, at nine. She’s working until eight, she said.’
Lynda nodded. ‘Okay, then.’
‘Rule Number Two?’ asked Jon. He was smiling at her.
‘No smoking in the house,’ she said promptly, ‘and no butts left lying around in my garden if you smoke outside. Take an ashtray.’
They both nodded. ‘Deal,’ said Ciarán. ‘What’s Number Three?’
‘You pick up after yourselves,’ said Lynda. ‘I don’t see that as my job and, even if I did, I don’t have the time to do it.’
‘I’ll cook a few times a week,’ said Jon, at once. ‘I love cooking. Ciarán and I will work it out between us. We can draw up a roster.’
Ciarán looked as though he was about to protest and then changed his mind.
‘That’s it, then,’ said Lynda. ‘Those are the rules.’
Jon looked puzzled. ‘Is that everything?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Well – what about rent? I’ve been handing my mother fifty euro a week, ever since I decided to go to college,’ Jon said.
Lynda felt embarrassed. She hadn’t even thought about money. But maybe he should be asked to contribute; maybe it would hurt his dignity to have a home for free.
‘Perhaps you’d like to think about it?’ said Jon. He lifted his head. ‘I’ve always paid my own way. It’s kind of a principle with me. Obviously,’ he said, looking around him, ‘I can’t . . . I mean . . .’
‘Fifty is more than enough,’ Lynda said, quickly. She poured tea for the three of them. She could feel Ciarán’s eyes on her. She wouldn’t even begin to explain.
‘That’s very generous.’ Jon’s voice was quiet. ‘I know that that is a token payment. Thank you.’
‘No need,’ said Lynda. She paused. ‘And we’ll review everything in a month.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I need to leave shortly. There’s lasagne in the oven. Just leave enough for Robert, in case he wants something when he gets home.’ She turned to Jon. ‘What about your stuff? Do you need a lift to bring your things here?’
Jon pointed to his rucksack. ‘They’re here.’
Linda made no comment. She hoped her surprise didn’t show. Even a bulging rucksack couldn’t contain clothes, books, college materials, all the bits and pieces of daily existence.
‘I’ve things in my locker at UCD,’ he said. ‘And I can always nip home to pick up more stuff, if I need it.’ He smiled. ‘I travel light.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, then,’ Lynda said. ‘I’ll be off. I’ll see you both later.’
‘Where are you going, Mum?’
‘Art exhibition,’ she said. She picked up her handbag. ‘I probably won’t be late. But if I am,’ she added, slipping on her jacket, ‘I’ll see you both in the morning for breakfast.’
‘Make that lunch,’ said Ciarán, grinning at her. ‘It’s Saturday.’
‘Have a nice time,’ said Jon.
‘Yeah. Enjoy yourself.’
‘Don’t forget to ring Katie,’ she called, as she made her way down the hallway. ‘Or your ass is grass.’
‘Promise!’ Ciarán called.
‘Thanks again.’ Jon’s voice.
He sounded amused, she thought. ‘See you both later.’
And she was gone.
When Lynda got home, just before midnight, the house was quiet. There was no sign of Ciarán, or of Jon and Robert’s Jeep wasn’t in the driveway. She’d made her decision on the journey home and now Robert’s absence confirmed it. It was time to act. She couldn’t wait any longer.
She hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything since Tuesday. Somehow, routine had felt hollow, insubstantial. And Robert’s evasions were making her jumpy. She’d rather know whatever it was that Danny might be threatening. Imagining made things so much worse.
She moved around downstairs, tidying up, switching off lights. She decided to take a last look around the garden before she went to bed, aware that she was delaying what she now knew to be inevitable. But she unlocked the double doors anyway and stepped onto the deck. Light spilled everywhere.
Outside, nothing was amiss. Her garden always made Lynda feel more tranquil. She picked up some stray leaves and the inevitable burger wrappings. The stone tortoise was solid and still, its presence a comforting one. It was a stillness she loved, a calm that radiated energy.
She missed Robert. The thought came suddenly, formed out of all the past days’ misgivings. She could feel the distances opening up between them again, just like before. It frigh
tened her: the possibility that they might have to go through all of that again. Living like uneasy strangers; passing like ships in the night.
She glanced over to her right. Ken and Iris’s lights had just been switched off. Out of nowhere, memories began to crowd around Lynda, memories she thought she’d dealt with a long time ago. Someone switching off their lights shouldn’t have such an impact. But that’s the way it was, from time to time. Sometimes a glance, a half-remembered conversation, even the way sunlight fell on her garden: each was enough to remind her of the times she and Ken had spent together. After it was finished between them, she had tried hard over the years – they both had – to keep the neighbourly patina from cracking.
It hadn’t been easy. Lynda still found it strange: to move freely around another woman’s home, picking up her post, drawing her curtains. Seeing all the careless intimacies of another couple’s life. After what had happened between herself and Ken, it felt like an unwelcome intrusion on her part; another breach of trust. But she and Ken had both agreed that it would look odd, even suspicious, to stop the easy traffic between their two houses, and so she’d continued as normal.
But he hadn’t. Ken had suddenly acquired an office space away from home, once he and Lynda had parted. She’d felt bereft, had grieved the loss of him, and in some ways still did. She’d missed the companionship, the tenderness of Ken’s friendship above everything. She and Robert had been living as strangers back then, their lives shadowed by the ghostly presence of Danny. Lynda shook off the memory. Things were different now. And there was no harm done. No one hurt except herself and Ken.
Sometimes, Lynda wondered how much Katie had known. She’d always been an acute observer, even as a child. Especially as a teenager. Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. Lynda stepped inside the kitchen again and made sure the doors were securely closed behind her. Then she turned off the lights and made her way upstairs.
Once inside the walk-in wardrobes, Lynda locked the door behind her. Robert’s jackets were hanging there in orderly rows along the top rail, with several pairs of trousers on the bottom. It felt wrong, this subterfuge. She seemed to be making a habit of it. Searching behind closed doors. But right now, she needed to know whatever Robert knew. Danny was looming large between the two of them, all over again. Hovering, dangerous.
Lynda’s mouth was dry now, her palms sticky as she fumbled at the pockets of her husband’s jackets. For a moment, she felt a bubble of hysteria gather. What an irony this might be. What if she were to find evidence of a mistress, nights in a fancy hotel, unexplained credit card transactions? She shook her head at herself. That only happened in fiction. This was real life. Get on with it.
She remembered the brown suede jacket that Robert had been wearing on the morning of the broken mug. She’d try that first. She pushed her way through the rail now until she came to it and searched all the pockets. She pulled out a neatly folded wad of paper. Receipts for stationery, business cards, web design consultations. Lynda frowned. Surely he wasn’t thinking of expanding the business? People were going under every day. She replaced the papers in the inside pocket. Nothing to help her there.
She began to feel almost glad: perhaps there was nothing to be found, after all. If Robert had destroyed Danny’s letters, then she couldn’t do anything about it. She’d have to leave it to him. And in many ways, that would be a relief.
And then she spotted it. At the bottom of the wardrobe, slipped in between shoes that Robert hadn’t worn in some time. It looked as though it had fallen. An accident: it was not hidden enough to have been deliberately concealed. A folded white envelope.
There was a charge of elation, sudden electricity at her fingertips, as she stooped to pick up the letter. She smoothed out the envelope and then, fingers shaking, pulled it gently apart. But there was nothing inside. Something like a sob escaped her, a sob of disappointment and frustration.
She turned the envelope over, looking for something: a return address, a clue as to where it had come from, anything. As she read the familiar, sloping handwriting, she began to understand. Robert’s name was there, plain and legible. But there was no address. She stared at the name, Robert J. Graham. Comprehension crept towards her at first, then suffocated her.
There was no stamp. So he was here. Danny was here.
Danny, standing at her front door, slipping his bombshell through her letterbox while she, innocent, uncaring, made coffee and emptied a dishwasher. Danny, at their cars, creating havoc. Laughing at them again. She could still see Robert’s face, remembered his clumsiness as he and she had collided that day, shattering china all over their kitchen floor. And then the other morning, his hunched shoulders. The look of desperation on his face.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she whispered. ‘God Almighty. It’s happening again. I knew it.’
Just at that moment, there was a knock on the door.
She jumped, suddenly filled with terror.
‘Lynda?’ Robert’s voice. ‘You in there?’
‘Yeah – with you now.’ Lynda’s hands were trembling; she could feel her heartbeat speeding. Quickly, she replaced the envelope where she’d found it and closed the wardrobe doors. She tried to breathe deeply before stepping out onto the landing.
Robert was standing at the top of the stairs. He looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t know where you were,’ he said. ‘Are you okay? You look a bit pale.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m going to have a drink. Join me?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’d be nice.’ She followed him downstairs and into the kitchen. He poured a brandy for both of them.
‘You look tired, yourself,’ she said, as soon as they were both sitting down. ‘You were talking in your sleep again last night.’
‘Was I?’ he said. ‘I’ve no memory of that. I thought I’d slept well. Didn’t wake until nearly eight.’ He raised his glass to her. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘Cheers.’ Lynda sipped at the brandy. But her hand felt unsteady and she placed the glass carefully on the table in front of her. It was now or never. ‘I know you don’t want to talk about it, Robert, but I can’t wait any longer.’
He uncrossed his legs and placed both feet on the floor. ‘Lynda,’ he began.
‘No, Robert. Listen to me.’
He sipped his drink, not looking at her. His smile had vanished. Instead, he glanced at his watch. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile, checking the screen for messages.
Lynda watched him. These were techniques she knew of old: distractions, busy things to postpone whatever it was that he didn’t want to tell her.
She began carefully. ‘I know that Danny has been in touch with you again. You wouldn’t show me the first letter. And another one came on Tuesday, the day of the flat tyres.’ She kept her gaze level.
Robert looked over at her. ‘Okay, right,’ he said, lifting his hands in resignation. ‘So now you know. But I told you before – it’s just the usual bullshit.’
‘What does that mean?’ she said.
‘You know what it means.’ Robert looked down at his glass. ‘It’s poor Danny. Look what I took from him. Nobody understands how hard his life is. If only I’d helped him, things would be different.’ He shrugged and drained his glass. ‘It never changes.’
‘He’s here again, isn’t he?’
Robert poured more brandy. ‘I don’t know. And that’s the truth. I don’t know if he’s delivering the letters himself, or if somebody else is doing it for him. He knows not to come near me. Not after the last time.’ His tone was flat, blunted with an edge of anger.
‘And you think he’ll obey? You think he’ll stay away because you told him to?’ Lynda was incredulous.
Robert sighed. ‘Look, he’s not here, under our roof this time. Last time, he was in our home. He took us unawares. The tyres were an irritation, I agree. But no real harm was done. Just let it go, will you?’
‘Unawares? Is that what you call it? Robert, why are
you denying what’s happening?’ Lynda hated the shrillness she could hear in her own questions.
‘I’m not denying anything,’ he said, exasperated. ‘Look, I just don’t want us getting things out of proportion.’
What proportion would that be, she wondered. She tried to calm herself. This conversation was about to run away with her. ‘Is he in debt again?’ She kept her voice quiet. ‘Why don’t you just show me the letters?’
Robert looked at her, his face closed. ‘I can’t show them to you because I tore them up, okay? I don’t want any reminders. And I didn’t think you would, either.’
Lynda didn’t believe that he had torn up anything. Robert was far too meticulous a man for that. He’d have kept them safely somewhere, held onto them in case he might need to produce them at some future date.
She could feel the air around them becoming charged again. She was angry; he was defensive. If she fought him now, she’d never get an answer.
Suddenly, the front door slammed. There were voices, loud in the hallway. Robert stood and opened the kitchen door. Ciarán and Jon stood there, laughing at something.
‘Keep it down, you two,’ snapped Robert. ‘It’s late.’
‘Sorry,’ said Jon, looking from one to the other. ‘We didn’t realize.’
Ciarán looked unsteady. He went to speak and then seemed to change his mind.
‘Go to bed, Ciarán,’ said Robert, bluntly. ‘Sleep it off.’
Lynda saw her son glance at Jon, who tugged at his sleeve. ‘Goodnight, then,’ Jon said. ‘We’re sorry for disturbing you. Come on, Ciarán.’
‘Night,’ mumbled Ciarán. They made their way towards the stairs.
Lynda frowned. How come he looked so unsteady, while Jon seemed to be in such perfect control? She could see Robert looking at her.
‘Don’t go there, Lynda,’ he said. He raised his hand, warding her off. ‘He’s just had a few beers. Stop mollycoddling him. I’m going to bed.’
‘Robert,’ she said, feeling suddenly helpless. ‘Please. Let’s not be like this. We’re pulling against each other again. I hate it when we’re like this.’
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