by Mary Malone
She disconnected the vacuum cleaner and stored it in the closet on the landing, glad to see the back of it for another while.
Downstairs she popped a few ice cubes in a glass, turned on the tap and let the cold water flow over them. Filling it to the brim, she brought it to her lips and took a long refreshing drink. Her gaze strayed to the back garden, the bright sunshine inviting as she took her drink outside. She sat on the wooden seat her father had made, a wave of loneliness sweeping over her as she remembered him calling it a loveseat. How she wished he hadn’t left, walked out of her life abruptly, unable to take his wife’s browbeating any longer. What a difference it would make to her son’s life, how he’d enjoy living with a loving and fun grandfather! She ran a hand over the seat, the wood rough in parts after a severe winter.
“You’ll bring your boyfriends here,” her father had teased, laughing when the young Jess had swatted his suggestion away in embarrassment.
She’d never been sure who he’d had in mind as he’d nailed and glued the pieces of wood together – not once had she seen her parents sit alongside one another in the house, never mind in the garden! Getting older and more aware of her parents’ relationship, she’d seldom witnessed displays of affection, animosity being in regular supply instead.
Gazing at the array of blooming shrubs and flowering plants, she admired the legacy her father had left behind. The endless hours and patience he’d invested had resulted in lavish blooms and magnificent colour. She tried her best to keep it neat and weed-free, but her best efforts fell short of the masterpiece it had been when he’d still lived there. He’d spoken about the plants as though they were real-life people who would respond to his nurturing. And with little exception, they thrived under his expert care.
He’d taught her a certain amount and left her hungry for more, encouraging her budding interest in nature and sowing the seeds for whatever lay in store for her future. She accepted his nuggets of advice, seeing them as words of wisdom, treasuring his gentle manner and often wishing that her overbearing mother would disappear and then it would only be the two of them.
She sipped her water and pondered on her parents’ relationship, one she’d never understand, but it taught her not to settle for anything less than a loving relationship. Anything else could be worked at but without love there could be nothing.
Kieran’s voice drifted over the hedge, his words lost in the breeze, a flutter travelling the length of her body as she imagined his tanned arms and legs. She wished she could stop fantasising about meeting his lips with hers, her mouth drying as she imagined his tongue gently exploring her mouth. She hugged her arms around her body, the glass cold between her fingertips.
Had her parents started out with that form of lustful excitement, she wondered, pulling her feet up under her as she remembered her mother’s cruel jibes at her father’s love of nature, berating him with snide remarks. Jess’s tolerance of her mother’s nastiness had reduced with the onset of her teens. Invariably, she’d jumped to her father’s defence, suffering the wrath of her mother’s sharp tongue for her trouble.
“She doesn’t mean it,” her dad had said to Jess on numerous occasions, after she’d been severely scolded for back-answering her mother.
“Why do you defend her? She treats you like crap! Why put up with it?”
“Jess, why don’t we go and have a walk on the beach? Your mother’s tired, needs a rest.” He’d eased the blow of his wife’s cruelty time after time, doing his utmost to excuse her behaviour – and, as soon as she was out of view and earshot, winking at his daughter and restoring her confidence with his words of sincerity. As a young child she’d accepted his explanation and let go her anger and frustration towards her mother. But in her teens, particularly in the year before she’d left for college, Jess had argued more and more with her mother, refusing to accept her father’s feeble attempt to excuse her time after time.
“Dad, don’t even bother any more,” she said to him one day as he worked in the garden. “You might be prepared to put up with her appalling put-downs, but I’m having nothing else to do with her.”
“Henry’s able to overlook things, why can’t you?”
“She doesn’t give him grief, Dad! And he has never once stood up to her.”
Her father only sighed, weary from the continuous arguing between his wife and daughter.
“Soon I’ll be in college, so until then I’m ignoring her. And if you have any sense you’ll do the same. I pity you being stuck with her for the rest of your life. At least I can get away. What on earth possessed you to marry her in the first place?”
She’d known as soon as the words had left her mouth that she’d overstepped acceptable boundaries. Her father was old-fashioned in his thinking. This time there were no platitudes from her dad.
“Jessica, stop it! That is not how family should behave toward one another. I won’t have you speak about your mother like that!”
She approached him and crouched next to him where he knelt. “I’m sorry,” she said, putting her arm around him in an awkward hug. “Take a break. I’ll get you something to drink. Come sit on the bench, Dad. It’s such a nice day and you’ve worked for ages.”
And there, as on so many previous occasions, they had spent treasured hours together, away from the watchful and envious eye of Jess’s mother.
Inheriting her father’s grave attention to detail and despite her difficulty with complex mathematics, Jess had come top of her Leaving Certificate year, gaining a coveted archaeology place in Cambridge and excited about the prospect of escaping her mother’s clutches.
She remembered her joy as she’d opened her college acceptance letter. While she was excited about leaving the homestead to branch out on her own, he was suffering the grief of a parent watching his adored daughter take an important step without him at her side.
Her years in Cambridge resembled those of secondary school, with her performance each year surpassing the one that came before, her achievements acknowledged by every one of her lecturers, their interest in her academic prowess proven over and over by the number of times her name was put forward for some prime opportunities in her field. Their encouragement boosted her confidence. Her results were amazing, a deserved testament to her dedication and hard work, as well as the sacrifices she’d made to her social life. Offers came her way even before her results were officially announced, her grades guaranteed as far as her lecturers were concerned, seeing her as a credit to their college’s reputation.
Clutching her coveted degree, she was on the cusp of change, her life opening like the petals of one of her father’s roses, delving into pastures new (or old in her archaeological world) and exploring what she’d spent four years training and studying for at Cambridge University.
Securing several job offers – mostly in the UK, she thought long and hard before making her final choice. Opting for the archaeological route rather than anthropology, she was excited at the prospect of holding down a real job, deciding to take a trip home to Pier Road before immersing herself into her new job. The time had come to join the real world.
But she couldn’t have anticipated the amount of change and challenge awaiting her, eventually witnessing her father’s sudden departure from the family home the most heartbreaking of all. She’d cried bitter tears after he’d hurried from the house with little more than a change of clothes and a toothbrush in his small holdall. He’d reached breaking point, his wife’s incessant insults no longer bearable.
Chapter 22
Kieran picked his way through the mess in the shed, cursing aloud as he ripped his T-shirt on a protruding nail. The place was a health hazard! He’d made several attempts to clear it out, distracted on every occasion and shutting the door again, finding the mammoth task overwhelming. Already into May, the days were long and he’d reacquainted himself with the beach, spending hours surfing the waves and chatting on the beach with some of the locals. Greg had become a regular visitor, slipping through the
hedge that separated their back gardens. The little guy was inquisitive, bombarding him with questions on every subject as they passed a football to each other, using their sweatshirts as goal posts and taking turns as they lined up for a shot on scoring.
“Ouch, jeez, what the hell was that?” He cursed aloud when he stubbed his toe against the metal frame of an ancient wheelbarrow. Wearing sandals isn’t very clever, he thought, bending down to rub his big toe.
He dragged the barrow through the pile of rubble. Kieran continued clearing out, disappointed when he didn’t come across anything of great interest or value. Sweat pumped through him, his T-shirt and knee-length shorts clinging to his skin as he traipsed in and out of the garden with armfuls of junk. It was so tempting to abandon the job and change into his surfing gear. The sun was making an appearance, a slight breeze in the air.
Sneezing, he moved back inside the dusty shed, determined to get through the rest of the stuff as quickly as he could. He grabbed four paint tins, a bucket of roller-sleeves and outdoor paintbrushes and, turning the barrow up once more, he threw them into it. It would make it easier to shift them when the time came. He’d contact the skip hire company and have them deliver a skip. He’d have everything ready in advance so it shouldn’t be there long enough to cause too much inconvenience or raise objection by the neighbours if it attracted unwanted attention.
The mess in the garden was another day’s work. Staring at it now it was impossible not to remember the hours Polly spent on her hands and knees tending to flower beds. His job had been to push the mower around, receiving a little cash from her for his trouble. It must have been tough on her seeing it like this, he thought, supposing it had been quite some time since she’d tended it herself. He’d been surviving on the money he’d collected from the Post Office, very little left of it now. Too busy lazing around he’d put minimal effort into sorting through the house, failing so far to find the cash that was supposedly lying around.
He leaned against the shed and took a proper look around, comparing the dishevelled garden to Jess’s next door. Hers was one to be proud of, one that could be enjoyed. She’d already had him over for an impromptu barbeque, teasing him that eating outdoors would be a nice reminder of his time in Australia. He smiled as he remembered the evening, Greg almost ruining the meal with a bad football pass, his aim toppling over the barbeque. Luckily Kieran had managed to grab it before any damage was done. But aside from that, they’d shared a laugh, her infectious giggles on the increase after a few beers, her eyes dancing giddily as they rekindled old memories. And if Greg hadn’t monopolised his company for the evening and refused to go to bed until the party was truly over and Kieran had left, who knows how it would have ended?
Looking around him, he toyed with the idea of returning the invitation. Although it’d be difficult to relax with a beer in the mess he was looking at right now – not that he considered himself exceptionally fussy – but the prospect of inviting Jess over altered his level of interest and pride. And cooking outside wasn’t the only entertainment he had in mind, the stir of desire he felt in her presence becoming more prevalent with each meeting. So far he’d held back, had kept his male instincts firmly under wraps, alien behaviour for Kieran. But Jess was different. The trusting look in her eyes and her underlying sense of vulnerability made him crave her all the more, but also instilled a fierce sense of protectiveness inside him. He unscrewed the top of his water bottle and took a long slug, spluttering and choking at the unexpected boom of a man’s voice in his ear.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“And what gives you the right to creep around here?” a red-faced Kieran retorted, his voice breaking between bouts of coughing as he tried to get his breath back. He struggled to get his heart rate back to normal, eyeing the stranger closely.
“You’re trespassing on property that doesn’t belong to you!” the man said.
Kieran stared at the tall sandy-haired stranger, rage building inside him.
“And you’re telling me this back garden belongs to you?” he replied, replacing the lid on the water bottle and tossing it on to the grass.
“No, but I am a friend of the owner.”
Kieran calmed a little. A friend. What friend, he couldn’t help wondering, eyeing the stranger and finding it difficult to put an age on him. Older than me for sure but probably not much over forty.
“Look, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. I thought you were a burglar when I saw you clearing out the shed.” The visitor ran a hand through his hair and fiddled with his glasses, hazel eyes curious as he waited for Kieran’s response to his explanation.
“Why don’t we start this conversation again,” said Kieran, “with you telling me exactly who you are and why you’re snooping around?”
The other man eyed him warily, nodding his head and making to extend his right hand but obviously thinking better of it. “I’m John Kilmichael, a close acquaintance of Polly’s.” He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets.
Kieran stared in shock, trying to absorb his uninvited guest’s announcement. John Kilmichael – the name went around in his head, Polly’s son, his cousin. The tall handsome man standing in front of him bore no resemblance to either his aunt or the ogre his father had described. ‘He’s bad news . . . get rid of him . . .’ – he remembered Frank’s words clearly. I should have pushed him for more detail, he thought, curiosity building inside him.
“Kieran Dulhooly, Polly’s nephew,” he offered after a short pause.
“She’s mentioned you,” the man said, nodding his head slowly.
Kieran noticed the muscles on his tanned arms, a man in very good shape, someone who took pride in his appearance, confident too if his stance was anything to go by and definitely attractive to the female sex.
“I can’t say she’s ever mentioned you to me though,” Kieran threw back at him, hoping to glean some more information about his uninvited guest.
“Are you the guy who was travelling?”
“That’s me.”
“You’re Frank’s son?”
“Sure am. Have you met Dad?”
John nodded. “Once or twice. We’ve had a few brief conversations. Polly speaks very highly of him, has him on a pedestal so to speak.”
His tone says it all, Kieran thought. It’s very obvious he’s not sharing that opinion! “Have you travelled far?” he asked.
John brought his gaze to the items Kieran had dumped on the grass, studying them as though they were items of great value. “I’m a sales rep, living in Dublin. Pass through now and again and always give herself a call.” He jerked his head towards the house. “Hard to visit at all without getting an appetite for her home baking.”
What’s that supposed to mean, Kieran wondered, the response adding to his unease, his senses on high alert. How comfortable was he with Polly? Had he got his feet firmly under the table? John’s familiarity irked. Why, without the truth, would a man like him want the company of a woman over twenty years his senior? It still made little sense to Kieran. A picture of his aunt’s corpse came to mind. Although a good-looking woman in her day, the years had been unkind. She’d aged a lot even since his last visit home.
“How long since you’ve been to see her?” he asked.
“Rang the doorbell last time I was down here but no reply. Tried calling too but she wasn’t answering her phone. I was hoping she’d be around today?”
Kieran shook his head. “You’ve missed her again, I’m afraid. But maybe I can help? I’m staying here at the moment.” His last sentence was deliberate, letting John know the house wasn’t vacant. No harm in sending out that message.
“Nothing in particular. I’d like to catch up with her, see how she is. I’ll wait if you don’t mind.” He looked at Kieran expectantly. “Or I can call back in an hour or two if that’s better?”
Kieran reached to the ground and picked up the water bottle, unscrewing the cap again and taking another slug, his brain whirring
. If his father’s warning wasn’t spinning around his head, John Kilmichael would probably have been somebody he’d have chatted normally with and explained about Polly’s demise. He was polite, friendly and had started out with Polly’s interests at heart when he’d thought she was being burgled. He searched for a response, torn between following his gut instinct and heeding his father.
“She’s away for a few days with a local group of seniors,” he said, fiddling with the top of the bottle to avoid meeting John’s eye, his lie prompted by the memory of a group of senior citizens he’d noticed getting on a minibus that morning.
“Really?” John shook his head, a grin on his face. “That’s a bit of a turnaround. She always said she’d hate to be stuck with a gang of old fogies, mocking them in a kindly fashion, and swearing she’d be on her death bed before she’d be caught playing bingo and whist in the afternoons!”