That was the last summer her mother had enjoyed in Carniskey. Although they came again the following year, her illness had only allowed her short visits to the patio and garden of the terraced house. Their father had hardly left her side. They had both slept in the small downstairs sitting room and Alison and Claire would hear them, talk and laugh, cry and lie in silence into the small hours. When death finally called that following November, Alison found her father’s deep peace and acceptance harder to bear than her sister’s angry rebellion. She wondered now had her mother known that Sean had come to Dublin for the funeral. Did she know how he’d loved her then and how he’d carried her heart to healing with his letters and visits?
She opened her eyes as the first star winked from the darkening sky. Maybe Hannah and Claire were right. Maybe it was time to put Sean to rest. To move on, move out of this place and start to live again. Make a proper life for Hannah – and for herself. But how could she? With Maryanne, how could she ever be free of the past, of Sean, of this place? She pulled her cardigan tight around her, shivering now from the bite of the evening air, the grip of the cold water around her ankles. She stepped from the rising water and hurried up the beach.
William Hayden watched from the tall grass in the dunes, his pencil moving furiously over the page. Pain and loneliness haunted every stroke.
Three
Alison kicked off her wet sandals and stepped barefoot into the kitchen. Lighting a cigarette, she picked up the note from the table:
‘Gone to Aoife’s to study – H.’
Alison sighed, dropped the piece of paper back on the table and flopped down into the chair. At least Hannah had somewhere to run. Head bent, she pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger – she hoped her sinuses weren’t starting up again. God, her head felt like it could burst. And no wonder, she thought, wishing that she had somewhere she could offload all the tangled thoughts that swarmed and buzzed constantly, round and round, right behind her eyes; wishing that she could somehow break down the wall she had built around herself and let someone in to share her world. Sure, she had a good friend in Kathleen but Alison knew that she was tired of her jaded repertoire, her endless talk of Sean – knew by the way Kathleen always managed to change the subject lately, to almost physically back away. The other week when Kathleen had suggested that maybe she should see a therapist – that maybe, since Maryanne’s break-in, her grief had become ‘complicated’ and needed a professional ear – Alison had heard her loud and clear. Heard that Kathleen had had enough. And who could blame her? She had listened long and hard enough, and besides, she had Rob now and a whole new life to look forward to – who would want to be dragged away from that to listen to someone else’s misery?
Closing her eyes, she clasped a hand at the nape of her neck, arched her head backwards. Had she really turned into one of those energy-sapping, life-sucking people she detested? She was almost thirty-six, life was moving on, everyone it seemed was moving on and yet here she was, stuck in the past and letting it eat away at her. Rolling the worry and resentment – resentment, yes, that’s what it was and it was time she admitted it – of one day into the next until it had grown so big it blocked out everything else. But what other choice did she have? How the hell could she change this, all this? Where would she even start? Any time she tried to be positive and look to the future all she saw was Hannah and her increasingly sour moods, the worry of Maryanne’s health – and money, always money, or the lack of it! When was her life ever going to be about her again? About her dreams, her future? She needed something to jolt her, something to make her feel again. But what?
She plucked the clips from her hair, shook out her curls. They tumbled in a red flame over her shoulders. She pressed her palms to her face, the tips of her fingers massaging her temples. She knew she should get back to the article she’d started for Eugene. Knew too that any attempt at writing would only result in a blank page and even more frustration. God, she felt cold. She’d give herself the night off, she decided, standing, make a fresh start at the article, at life, in the morning. She flicked the oil burner to life, its urgent kick a comfort in the silence. Lifting a bottle of red from the wine rack, she grabbed a glass and her cigarettes. ‘C’mon then.’ The two still-wary dogs trotted into the sitting room behind her. She pulled the curtains and switched the two lamps to life. Selecting a CD, Alison settled into the armchair by the window, the dogs on the rug at her feet. The warm red liquid caressing her throat, she lay back her head and drank in the lyrics.
* * *
The nurse’s soft footfall faded down the night-lit corridor. Maryanne lay back on her pillow in the almost-silence. Her favourite hour of the day, she closed her eyes, the better to savour her memories.
The whole picture was as clear to her as if it had been only yesterday: the infant cot beside her hospital bed, its cream bars flaked a rusty brown where the paint had chipped; the curve and promise of her newborn under the blue blanket, the sweet scent of heaven still clinging to the folds in his flaccid neck. She remembered how the morning sun would slant through the window opposite, lighting a path to his cot, as if heaven was reluctant to abandon his care to this world. Frank’s first visit – the bunch of flowers clasped awkwardly to his chest – carrying the ocean in with him on his hair and clothes; the black spot on his thumbnail, his hand dwarfing his infant son’s face as it traced his sleeping cheek: ‘Sean? Will we name him Sean?’
* * *
Alison poured the last of the bottle into her glass. Almost ten o’clock and still no sign of Hannah. And on a school night. This was so much more than the usual teenage stuff that Kathleen was putting it down to. Herself and Hannah were practically strangers at this stage, most attempts at conversation ending in one or other of them storming from the room. How had she – the adult, the mother – let it come to this? They had been so close before Sean’s accident. With him away at sea so often they’d been alone quite a bit, were rarely apart from each other. She smiled now, remembering the jokes they would share and the stories they’d conjure as they lay, late at night, curled up in bed awaiting his return. It was almost as if, when he died, Sean had cheated them of that relationship too. Fire rising in her chest, she drained her glass. She was damned if she was going to let him take her daughter from her too! She stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a fresh bottle from the rack.
Eleven thirty and still no Hannah. She tried her mobile phone again. Then Aoife’s. No answer. Damn! She couldn’t risk driving now. She’d give her another ten minutes and then she was calling Aoife’s mum. This was ridiculous. She set her glass down on the bureau and, using both hands, yanked open its stubborn top drawer. Cards and photographs spilled to her feet. Sean, face tanned and smile wide, stared up at her, his eyes daring hers to meet them as she knelt to the floor.
‘Jeez, Mum.’
Alison hadn’t heard the key in the front door.
‘Hannah? What have you done to your . . . ’
Hannah stood defiant in the doorway, her former black curls a mass of bright purple streaks.
‘I needed a change.’ Her voice was low, her eyes taking in the two wine bottles, the sea of photographs scattered on the rug at her mother’s knees: photographs of her, from baby to present, and the face of her father, grinning and weathered deep brown, looking up at her from his boat.
Hauling herself to her feet, Alison moved with an exaggerated erectness towards her. ‘You needed a change? Jesus, Hannah, how far will you go? Don’t you think I have enough on my plate already?’
‘This is not about you, Mum. It’s about me. I’m here too, remember?’
‘Remember?’ She fought to still the tremble in her voice, in her whole being. ‘I’ve spent the last fourteen years of my life caring for you. Going without, scraping by, trying to keep this roof over our heads!’
‘No one asked you to stay here. We could have left. We could have gone to London, to Claire.’ Anger drenched her eyes.
‘Is that you
r answer to everything? Claire? Claire and London?’
‘At least she listens to me, she tries to understand . . . ’ Hannah bit back the tears.
‘Oh, it’s all me, me, me, isn’t it, Hannah? No one else matters as long as you’re understood.’ She shook her head in exasperation, cursing the words that she knew would follow, even before they had left her mouth. ‘Your father will never be dead as long as you’re here!’
‘Yeah, go on, Mum, blame him.’ Hannah could no longer hold back her tears. ‘Blame him. I know you do! I know you think he did it on purpose!’
‘No, Hannah, please, I didn’t mean, I never . . . ’ She stretched her arms towards her.
Hannah held up her hands to ward off her mother’s approach. Her eyes fixed, her young mouth fighting to bite down her emotion, she turned for her bedroom.
Alison sunk to her knees on the photo-littered rug. If there was one thing she’d always promised herself, it was that she would never put Sean down in Hannah’s eyes. Growing up without her father was bad enough, the least she deserved were good memories of him. Her tears warped the image of the carefree, adoring mother smiling up at her from the photo of herself and a newborn Hannah. The dogs edged closer, licking her hands and face.
* * *
The shrill of the telephone hauled Alison from sleep. Her head throbbed as she lifted it from the pillow.
‘Hello?’
‘Alison?’
‘Claire? Oh, hi, how . . . ’ She placed a hand over the mouthpiece, cleared her throat. ‘How are you?’
‘The best. I tried you last night – were you out?’
‘Umm, yeah, just a few drinks with Kathleen – anything wrong? How’s Dad?’ Her eyes fought to stay closed.
‘Dad’s wonderful, getting younger by the day. He’s even got himself a new friend,’ Claire added conspiratorially, her Notting Hill accent causing Alison to hold the phone away from her ear. God, couldn’t she dampen it down a notch so early in the morning? ‘Her name’s Betty Rodgers. A feisty Canadian widow – he met her at the gallery. They are so good together. So tell, did Hannah get my letter?’
‘Yeah, it arrived yesterday – and the money, thanks, but you know I told you, you shouldn’t.’ Hannah hadn’t told her there was any money enclosed but Alison knew what it meant when a letter arrived in place of the usual email. She threw back the bedcovers, risked swinging her feet onto the floor.
‘Nonsense. So, say you two are coming over, please?’
‘Not this summer, Claire, I can’t. Work and all, I’m far too busy.’
‘Hey, everyone deserves a holiday.’
Alison bristled, she could see where Hannah got it from. She eyed the bedside clock. Shit, past midday! Half the day already wasted! She didn’t have time for this. ‘That’s okay for you, Claire – you’re not on your own, raising a teenager. If I don’t work, there’s no money.’ God, her head hurt.
‘You all right, Alison?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.’ She rubbed a hand over her eyes. None of this was Claire’s fault. None of it was anyone’s fault but her own. ‘It’s just that, well, with freelance work, if I’m not around the work goes to someone else, you understand. And then there’s the worry of Maryanne.’
‘How’s she doing – any change?’
‘Still the same, but the doctors are hopeful. She’ll get there.’ Alison forced a smile in an effort to lighten her tone. ‘So, how’s the new gallery going?’
‘Fantastic! It’s already got some glowing reviews. Hey, but that’s not the best news. I sold two of my own works this month – what about that?’
‘Oh, well done, you! I told you it was only a matter of time. Dad must be so proud.’ Alison was genuinely chuffed for her, for anyone who strived to make their dream happen. Moving to London had been a masterstroke; two small galleries under her belt and now an artist in her own right, her wild-child sister had truly amazed Alison with her focus and determination.
‘Yeah, Dad’s thrilled. So, how’s my best girl?’
‘Hannah’s fine. Busy with school, the usual stuff, dyeing her hair.’ Alison rolled her eyes, predicting the reaction at the other end.
‘Cool! Oh Alison, she’d love it here. And Dad would love to spend some time with his only grandchild. If you can’t come, why not send Hannah for the summer break? Give you some time on your own and we’d take really good care of her.’
Alison was silent. Maybe this was just what she and Hannah needed. A little time apart, a bit of space from each other.
‘Alison?’
‘I’ll think about it. I’m not sure she’d want to travel on her own.’ She’d be off like a bullet – especially without you in tow, a tiny voice reminded her.
‘Dad’s birthday’s on the 28th. Maybe she could make it for that – it’d be such a surprise for him.’
‘But her school term doesn’t finish till the 31st.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a bore, Alison. She’ll be in school for the next four years – one week’s hardly going to make a difference. Please say you’ll send her. I can give her a part-time job at the gallery – better education than she’ll ever get in a convent!’
‘Claire, I said I’ll think about it, all right?’ Her grip tightened on the receiver.
‘I’ll foot the airfare, if that’s a problem.’
‘No. That’s not the . . . ’ Deep breath, she instructed herself. ‘Look, like I said, I’ll think about it, okay?’ Jesus, could Claire ever finish a conversation without waving her wallet in Alison’s face? She was sick to the back teeth of her sister’s charity.
‘Think of what it would mean to Dad. He’s not going to be around forever.’
‘Look, I’ll buzz you over the weekend when I’ve had time to think it over. Now I really do have to go, I’ve an article to finish that’s late already. Thanks for calling – oh, and say hello to Dad for me.’
Alison punched off the receiver and tossed it on the bed. She stretched her back and stood. Avoiding the mirror, she padded around the bed to the door, a tight, hot fist squeezing her heart at the memory of last night’s drinking, of her fight with Hannah. Stepping gingerly into the hall, she peeped into Hannah’s room. She was up and gone. She pictured her, waiting for the school bus, her mother lost in a drunken sleep. She glanced into the sitting room, cringed at the smell of smoke, the piled ashtray and the two empty wine bottles on the hearth. What had possessed her? A glass or two, that was her usual, not this, not two bottles. The photographs were tidied and stacked in a neat bundle on the side table. Poor Hannah! Jesus, what kind of a mother had she turned into? Covering her face with both hands, she closed her eyes and slid down the wall onto the wooden floor, her whole body shaking, releasing her tears.
* * *
Alison dropped two Solpadeine into a glass of water. The keening of the dogs in the back kitchen shot through her head like a hot needle. She crossed the floor to let them out. ‘Tim, you little fucker!’ The shredded remains of her sandal littered the young dog’s bed. Tails tucked, the dogs scarpered through the open door into the garden. Drinking a tumbler of orange juice, she eyed the kitchen clock. Ten to one. Jesus, Eugene’s article! She’d have to have it done by this evening if she was to drop it off tomorrow as promised. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ She ripped off her night shirt and stepped under the shower.
Alison slipped into a fresh T-shirt and Sean’s favourite soft Levi’s, belting them tightly at the hips. She flung open the sitting-room windows, emptied the ashtray and put the empty wine bottles in the box out the back. Tried to ignore their clink of accusation.
‘C’mon Tilly, Tim!’ The shout reverberated in her skull. The two dogs bounded across the lawn and into the back of the jeep. Closing the boot, Alison glanced up at the gable. The earthy brown house martins’ nest, neat and new, clung to the eave like a sleeping bat, its tiny opening like a squinting eye at one side. Their arrival each year had always been one of her favourite sights, announcing the summer and Sean’s best season. All that wo
rk done already and she hadn’t even noticed they had come.
She swung away from the main beach and negotiated the steep dirt track to the right. She’d have a bit of peace to write up there. The dogs whined their impatience as she edged the jeep carefully through the water and mud. At ten years old, it didn’t take well to rough treatment and if it gave up the ghost she didn’t have a bob to replace it.
She parked at the top of Tra na Leon, savouring the heat on her arms and face as she followed the tiny path along the cliff top and out towards the small headland. An old yellow camper van was just visible among the gorse bushes. Is nowhere sacred any more, she sighed. This was her space, the one place she was always guaranteed to be undisturbed. Well, except maybe for Joe O’Sullivan. She’d sometimes see him sitting on the cliff opposite, thinking he couldn’t be seen if he kept his head down, taking the odd sneaky look across at her. Poor old Joe. Although wary of her after their few little spats, it was as if he had been keeping an eye on her ever since Sean went, watching out for her in his own sweet way. But Joe never approached her or disturbed her up there, and she’d almost forget he was there as she lost herself in the peace and the solitude that this place alone offered her. When she’d sit on the brink of the headland, her feet hanging over the edge of the high cliff and the tide full in below, she would sometimes imagine she was in a boat and sail away in her own thoughts.
Finding Alison Page 5