It doesn’t take long to reach Coldharbour. It’s good to leave the bog behind and all its chilly emptiness, to drive through lighted streets, past the petrol pumps and the cheerful windows of Barry’s General Store.
Marcus turns in at Kinvara House, between the tall stone pillars. The drive is narrow: azalea bushes drag against the car windows, the touch of their flowers and foliage as soft as the touch of a hand. The color is leached from the flowers by the headlights, so they all look palest amber. I glimpse the garden through the gaps between the bushes—everything beautifully tended, but just a little casual around the edges—wide, sleek lawns and drifted narcissi that glimmer in the moonlight. The drive sweeps around and we see the facade of the house, its elegant windows and colonnade and the stone steps up to the door.
Sylvie has her face pressed to the car window, with both hands cupped around her eyes, as you do when you’re in a lighted place and you’re looking out into the dark.
When I open the car door, the scent of azalea brushes against us, a clingy, voluptuous scent, so different from the thick, earthy smells of the untended countryside.
Sylvie has Big Ted with her. But as we reach the threshold and Marcus puts his key in the lock, she grabs at my handbag and forces Big Ted inside. Perhaps she’s worried that it’s babyish to have a cuddly toy. She pushes hard, keeps pushing at him, then wrenches the zipper shut, so my bag is bulging but he’s completely hidden.
The door swings open; inside, the lights are on already. The hall is spacious and lovely, all decorated in tranquil colors, white and palest gray. The stair has an elegant curve and is made of some pale mottled stone, with a banister of black metal. On a side table there are white orchids, their complex blooms like gaping mouths. An imposing gun is mounted on the wall, beneath a pair of oars, perhaps from his university rowing team. There are alcoves along one side of the room, illuminated with amber light, displaying an ivory chess set, a jade Tang horse, a dancer sculpted in bronze.
Sylvie stops on the threshold.
“Sweetheart, what’s the matter?”
She has one hand in mine and the other hand over her eyes.
“I don’t like guns,” she says.
“No, of course not, sweetheart. But no one’s using that one. It’s just for decoration, that’s why it’s up on the wall.”
She presses against me. “Bad people have guns,” she says.
It’s what I’ve always taught her, but I wish she wouldn’t say it now.
“But it’s only meant to be looked at,” I tell her. “There’s nothing to be frightened of.”
I feel the conflict in her—that she doesn’t want to come inside, yet she won’t let go of my hand. I pull at her, follow Marcus.
The room he ushers us into is wonderfully proportioned—high-ceilinged, with tall arched windows looking out over the sea. There are floor-length curtains of some sheer white fabric, pulled back so you can see out into the night; I glimpse the black water, the track of the moon, the lamps along the seafront. In the center of the pale oak floor there’s an antique Turkish carpet that has an intricate pattern of tangled leaves and flowers. The fireplace is made of white marble, and logs are blazing in the grate.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him.
“Yes,” he says simply, accepting this. “I’m very lucky to live here. I fell in love with the place—it’s twenty years ago now. I drove past and I knew I had to have it. I’ve made a few changes, of course. I put in a new staircase and built a music room on the side. But I hope I’ve respected the feel of the place.”
I sit with Sylvie on the sofa, which is covered in soft white woolen fabric. She has a smell of chocolate, and her hair is greasy and limp. She presses up against me and grabs my arm and wraps it all around her. Adam takes one of the chairs. He sits back and stretches out his legs, and the frown lines ease from his face. I wonder if he was more alarmed when the brakes failed than I realized.
“There’s quite a view from these windows,” says Marcus. “You must come in the daytime sometime so you can see it properly. It’s quite spectacular.”
I like the way he assumes that we’ll be friends.
There are bottles of spirits on a side table, and tumblers of Waterford glass. He pours us Irish whiskey. He offers Sylvie lemonade. She doesn’t look at him, but she nods. He gives her the lemonade in one of his opulent glasses. She cradles the glass very carefully in her hands, but as she wriggles back in her seat, a little lemonade slops on the immaculate sofa.
I’m intensely embarrassed.
“Oh no. I’m so sorry.” I reach in my bag for a tissue.
“Really—don’t give it a thought,” says Marcus. “Houses are meant to be lived in.”
I like him so much for saying that.
“I’m afraid Sylvie’s rather tired,” I tell him. “We’ve had a tiring day.”
“Sea air can take you like that,” he says.
He gives me my glass, and his hand brushes mine, so I feel the cool touch of his skin. The whiskey has a rich color, like a peaty stream. I drink, and the whiskey slides into me, warming me through.
“Brigid told me a bit about you,” says Marcus then.
He’s leaning on the mantelpiece, gazing benignly down at us. He’s tall, imposing; next to him, Adam looks somehow insubstantial. I remember what Brian said. Marcus knows how the world works—he wears his life like it’s tailored just for him . . . I think how we’re so young still, me and Adam.
“She tells me you’re researching family history,” he says. “That you’ve got a family connection to this place?”
“Yes. Kind of,” I say.
“So which one of you is it?” he says.
He’s looking with interest from me to Adam and back again.
I tell him that it’s me. I wonder if he can read the discomfort in my face.
“You must let me know if I can be of any help,” he says. “Though of course I’m just a newcomer here. Well, relatively speaking. So—let’s drink to your quest.”
We raise our glasses and drink. I feel a shiver of unease. I think how crazy our purpose is, how irrational. In this exquisitely ordered room, I feel distanced, detached from it all—from the things I half believed in. I think how Marcus might react if he knew, how he’d give a disbelieving smile or maybe raise one eyebrow in a charmingly quizzical way.
I look around me, wanting to move the conversation onward, and my eye is drawn to a painting hanging on the wall. It’s a portrait of a woman, done with photographic precision. She’s thin but lovely, unsmiling, all blue shadows and beautiful bones, staring coolly out of the picture.
“I love the painting,” I tell him.
He smiles. “The artist is a good friend of mine. Geoffrey Falke. He’s a portrait painter in Dublin.”
“He’s a wonderful artist,” I say.
“He’s particular about his subjects,” says Marcus. “The women he paints all have to have some special quality about them.” His eyes rest on me a moment, and I feel the warmth in his gaze. “If he met you, Grace, I know he’d want to paint you.”
“Well,” I say, shrugging, at once flattered and self-conscious. “I doubt it.”
He shakes his head a little. “You’re so self-deprecating.” He turns to Adam. “Isn’t she?”
Adam murmurs something.
I flush. I glance at Adam and try to smile, but the smile comes out wrong. I feel Marcus noticing this moment of awkwardness between us, perhaps seeing now that we aren’t a couple and sensing my embarrassment. I’m grateful when he moves the conversation on.
“So tell me what you think of our beautiful village,” he says. “As long as it’s complimentary, of course.”
“It’s such a peaceful place,” I say.
He nods. “Nothing much happens here, and I have to say I like that. It makes a real break from the city—that dog-eat-dog kind of world.”
I lean back on the sofa. I hear the luxurious soft shuffle of the wood fire, and feel a surge of pleasure.
I can’t believe our luck, in meeting Marcus, in coming here.
He takes a casual sip of whiskey.
“Though we’ve had our share of tragedies even here,” he says. “You’ll probably have heard about Alice and Jessica Murphy?”
I feel his warm gaze on me. I don’t know what to say.
“Yes,” says Adam. His voice sounds sharper. I can tell he’s suddenly alert. “Brigid told us.”
“It was a terrible thing,” says Marcus. “Alice worked for me, of course. Did Brigid tell you that?”
“Yes, she told us,” I say.
“I blame myself for not seeing how depressed she was. I knew she’d been ill, but I really thought she was recovering. Sometimes we can’t see what’s right in front of our eyes . . . Well, you’re a psychologist, Adam, I know. You’d have some thoughts on that . . .”
“It can be hard, certainly,” says Adam. “Depression is often covert.”
“The thing is, Alice was a very private person.” Marcus’s face is pensive, concerned. “And maybe no one could have seen it. But of course I blame myself . . . At least we know that the gardai did everything they could. The investigation was really quite meticulous. And now I guess that everyone just wants to let it lie. It’s good to let the past go, to put it behind you. Wouldn’t you say so?”
He’s waiting for some response from us.
“I know what you mean,” I say vaguely.
“Well, there you go,” says Marcus. “Sadly, I guess these things happen everywhere. Now, tell me, have you been to Foley’s? We always say they serve the very best oysters in Ireland.”
“Yes, I’d heard they have quite a reputation,” says Adam.
They talk about Irish seafood.
I notice an antique desk that’s pulled up to one of the windows. It has an inlay of gilt and looks very light and feminine, like something you might find in a French château. I wonder if this was where Alice worked. I think what it must have been like for her—living at Flag Cottage with a husband who sometimes hit her, then coming here to see Marcus, to work in this beautiful high-ceilinged room, at this desk with its view of the sea. It must have seemed like Paradise. How could she not have fallen in love?
I need to go to the loo, and Marcus directs me to an upstairs bathroom. Sylvie insists on coming; she clings to my hand. We cross the hall, keeping well away from the gun.
I’m about to go upstairs when Sylvie tugs at me.
“It’s that way, Grace,” she says.
To our left, where she’s pointing, there’s a narrow passageway. At the end, you can see a downstairs cloakroom through an open door. I think, How did she know that? Did it seem familiar to her? Or did she just happen to spot it? But I can’t answer these questions.
We go in. There’s a washbasin, a toilet, a Chinese vase with a crack in it. It’s where they’ve left the forgotten things, the things that don’t belong. On a shelf is a bust of Beethoven; someone has put a trilby hat on his head. The window is open at the top because the catch is broken. Cool air that’s sweet with azalea comes in. Outside, the pane is almost entirely covered by creeper. I peer out, hoping for another enticing glimpse of the garden, but the creeper is dense and tangled, and I can’t see through. The branches creak as they rub against the window, as though something is moving the creeper, although the air is almost still.
“I want to go,” says Sylvie. “I want to go back to St. Vincent’s.”
There are smudges of blue in the frail skin under her eyes. I feel bad about keeping her up so late.
We go back to the drawing room.
“I guess we should head off,” I say. “It’s long past Sylvie’s bedtime.”
“Yes, of course,” says Marcus.
He sees us to the door.
“Thanks so much for rescuing us,” I tell him.
“A pleasure.” He shakes my hand. His musky scent is all around me. “I hope you’ll come and have a drink with me again. And the very best of luck with your researches. You must absolutely let me know if I can help at all.”
He says goodbye to Sylvie. She puts her hand over her eyes.
I’m about to apologize to him, but he preempts me, as though he knows what I feel.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It can all be a bit much, can’t it, when you’re four? Being away from home and so on . . .”
I’m grateful to him for being so understanding.
We walk along the seafront to St. Vincent’s. You can just make out the phosphorescence where the waves break, so faint you think you’re imagining it, like the frail blue-white dazzle a sparkler leaves on the dark.
“What did you think of Marcus? Did you like him?” I say.
“Well, I certainly liked his single malt,” says Adam.
But I sense a slight reserve in him. I wonder if he’s jealous of the attention Marcus paid me, and there’s a greedy, yearning part of me that’s glad.
We say good night outside my room.
“I’ll go to the garage first thing,” says Adam. “You two could have a lie-in.”
I take Sylvie into our bedroom. It seemed so pleasant before, but it looks a little drab now, with its embossed wallpaper and battered chest of drawers, after all the glamour of Kinvara House.
46
WE’RE ALREADY UP when Adam leaves, and Sylvie says she will go with him. She wants to ride in the tow truck.
I walk down to Barry’s to buy a postcard for Lavinia, and linger for a moment by the window admiring one of Erin’s cakes that has just been put on display. It’s covered in glossy dark chocolate, with a border of marzipan trumpets. A scrawl of scarlet piping says MANY HAPPY RETURNS.
Erin is there, with her copy of Galway Now spread out on the counter in front of her.
“That’s a fabulous cake,” I tell her.
“Well, what a coincidence,” she says. “You know how you asked about Alice? That cake is for Alice’s daughter.”
I stare at her. Her words hang there between us, but they don’t seem to make any sense.
“Alice’s daughter? Alice Murphy, you mean?”
Erin nods. Her dark eyes glitter through the lenses of her glasses.
“She’s seventeen on Sunday. She’s a genius on her clarinet—so I thought a musical theme.”
Everything shifts around me.
“Well, it’s beautiful. She’ll love it,” I say lamely.
Brigid is in the entrance hall at St. Vincent’s, arranging pots of hyacinths along the windowsill. Their smell spills everywhere.
“Brigid. I want to ask you something.”
“Of course, Grace.”
“I was talking to Erin at Barry’s. And there was this cake that she said she’d made for Alice Murphy’s daughter . . .”
Brigid nods. “Of course, it’ll be her birthday. She’s quite a little woman now.”
“But—I thought that Alice’s daughter disappeared . . .”
“Didn’t anyone tell you? Didn’t Brian explain?”
I stare at her blankly.
“Jessica was a twin,” she says. “She had a twin sister, Gemma.”
“Nobody said . . .”
“Well, Brian should have told you,” she says in a reproving voice. “They were close as anything, those girls, you couldn’t prize them apart. Well, Alice did try, of course. She wanted to put them in different things, but they always wanted the same. They were sweet together, Jessica and Gemma.”
“I didn’t know,” I tell her.
“They were often down here in the village,” Brigid tells me. “I used to see them playing at Kinvara House when Alice was working there and the girls were off school. She used to take them with her. Marcus was easy like that. As long as she got the work done, he didn’t mind what she did.”
“They used to play at Kinvara House?”
“That garden is heaven for children,” she says.
“Yes, it would be.”
I remember the garden glimpsed from the windows of Marcus’s car—the velvet lawns, the g
limmering drifts of narcissi.
“Alice said it was magic for them,” Brigid tells me. “I could sometimes hear them laughing, when the sea was still. If you walked past the house, you could hear their shouting and laughter . . . Of course, after her mother and sister went—to be honest, I don’t think Gemma ever laughed like that anymore.”
The sadness of this tugs at me. The hyacinth scent is all around me, clingy and drenching and a little claustrophobic. I’m never sure if I like the smell of hyacinths.
“So where was Gemma?” I ask her. “On the day it happened?”
“She had a clarinet lesson.”
This shocks me—it seems so random, and somehow so banal. Gemma didn’t die, because she had a clarinet lesson.
I remember something Brian told us.
“But—nobody seems to have raised the alarm till the Wednesday afternoon. Why didn’t Gemma ring the gardai?”
“She didn’t go home that day,” says Brigid. “I had this from Polly O’Connor—she was Alice’s closest friend. After the clarinet lesson, Gemma went to a sleepover party at a friend’s house. You know the kind of thing—they’d paint each other’s nails and stay up sharing secrets. Alice hated sleepovers, I remember. She said the girls never slept and came home horribly grouchy. She said her heart always sank when they got invited to a sleepover.”
“Just Gemma? Why not the two of them?”
“Jessica had a cold; her mother wouldn’t let her go.”
It’s that terrible randomness again—that it could so easily have been different. The hyacinth scent is so thick it’s hard to breathe.
“And afterwards?” I ask her. “What happened to Gemma?”
“She lives in Barrowmore now. Gordon travels a lot, and he couldn’t always be there for her, and Deirdre Walker said she’d give her a home. Deirdre is Gordon’s sister.” She lowers her voice; she has a conspiratorial look. “To be honest, Gemma’s probably better off with that arrangement. You remember what I told you about Gordon?”
“Yes, I remember.” I don’t say that we’ve met him, though maybe she knows already.
“She’s a good-hearted woman, Deirdre Walker,” says Brigid. “A bit of a worrier, but I guess that’s not surprising, after everything that’s happened.”
Yes, My Darling Daughter Page 25