As they stood there, a heavy shower descended out of nowhere, forcing them to retreat to the car. She watched the water streaming down the windscreen, blurring everything beyond it. ‘I hope it won’t be like this all the time.’
‘The past few days have been fine,’ he replied. ‘I think the forecast is good for the next while.’
‘Laura said that too. Some farmer in Donegal.’
‘Yeah. Sounds mad, but he’s usually spot on.’
She regarded his profile as he fiddled with the radio. The short brown hair, the pale skin, the blue dark-lashed eye. The nose slightly bigger than it needed to be, tiny freckles scattered across its bridge. Pinpricks of dark stubble on his chin and jaw. The white scar, thin as a pen line, that zigzagged down from beneath his eye – a legacy, he’d told her, from a car accident on Roone, sometime before they’d met.
She looked at the whorls of his ear, the fair hairs and faint network of veins on the back of the hand that turned the radio dial, the bitten nails, the thin silver ring she’d brought him from Australia last summer. Oh, she loved him. She loved every bit of him.
He looked up. ‘Radio’s on the blink. Could be the ferry.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said, although she loved the informality, the chattiness of Irish radio talk shows. It didn’t matter – nothing mattered now that she was finally here.
It would be alright. Everything would turn out right. It had to.
Eve
EVEN AT THIS EARLY HOUR, THE SUN WAS TOO BRIGHT. It irritated her, made her skin prickle. She’d slept badly, Derek Garvey pushing into her dreams like he often did, telling her he wasn’t finished with her, promising he’d find her. She knew this couldn’t happen in reality: he’d been sent to jail, was still in jail for what he’d done to her.
Ironic, given his constant threat, his way of keeping her silent for so long. If you tell, they won’t believe you, he’d said. I’ll say you’re making it up, and they’ll take you out of here and put you into a loony bin for the rest of your life. So she’d held her tongue and endured his abuse until Roone had given her the courage to speak.
She’d told the police everything she could remember. She’d emptied it all out of her while a machine had recorded it silently, and she’d signed the transcript when they’d typed it up and handed it to her.
The trial in Dublin had lasted just a week, with Hugh and Imelda accompanying Eve on the day she was called on to give evidence. There’s no need for you to come, the social worker had told them. I’ll be with her all the time, but Hugh had stood his ground. We’d like to be there too, he’d said, in a voice that didn’t encourage contradiction. Eve had loved how quietly stubborn he could be, how he would brook no argument when he’d set his mind on something.
In the courtroom Eve had sat behind a screen, flanked by Hugh and Imelda, with the social worker relegated politely to a more distant seat. Visible to the jury but to nobody else, Eve had nonetheless felt horribly exposed, her stomach twisted into a tight knot as she’d imagined Derek in the dock, maybe only a few feet from her, and his family sitting close by.
She’d pictured each of them in her mind’s eye: Mr Garvey, who hadn’t once, in all the years she’d lived in his house, addressed her by name; Mrs Garvey, who’d fed her and clothed her and left it at that; and Valerie Garvey, who’d told Eve not to talk to her at school, who’d sniggered with her friends whenever Eve was within earshot.
She’d visualised the faces of his family as she described what their precious son and brother had done to her, with Imelda never letting go of her hand the whole time. She was sure Mrs Garvey would want to kill her: she’d probably convinced herself that it was all lies. But Eve had kept going, like the social worker had told her she must do – and with each word, with every disclosure, she could feel a small loosening inside her.
The jury had needed only a day of deliberation for the twelve of them to decide that Derek Garvey was guilty, although he’d sworn he wasn’t. He’d been given six years, with the last two suspended, which meant he’d be set free in the next few months. Eve was certain he wouldn’t come looking for her, even if he knew where she was, which she doubted. If he did, if he set foot on Roone, he’d be in danger of being locked up again.
But that didn’t stop him invading her dreams every so often. She’d wake up sweating, heart pounding, sure he was there in the dark bedroom with her. They’d wanted her to have counselling, Hugh and Imelda. They’d pleaded with her to talk to someone, so to keep them happy she’d gone along with it, but it hadn’t helped. The woman they’d brought her to in Tralee kept asking her about Mam, and the men she’d brought back to the house while Eve and Keith had still been living with her. What was the point in going back to all that? What did any of it have to do with Derek Garvey?
Eve had endured two sessions, just so Hugh and Imelda would see she’d tried, and then she’d told them she didn’t want to go back any more, and they hadn’t pushed her. She was perfectly fine, she said; she was over all that. She made no mention of the continuing dreams: they’d stop eventually.
And Mam – well, it was sad about Mam, but there was nothing to be done. Mam had chosen a path and it had destroyed her, and Eve just had to come to terms with it.
And now she was to be a mam herself. Now she was moving on, putting the past well and truly behind her. Oh, she was still missing Hugh like mad, still anxious and apprehensive about what was ahead. None of that had changed. The simmering was still there, just under her surface – she suspected it would remain with her for several months, until her life returned to something resembling normality. Nothing to be done but to live with it, and to deal with her changing circumstances as best she could.
She’d made a few decisions too, since confiding in Laura. She’d resolved to leave Roone before her pregnancy became apparent. It would never work, she’d realised, staying on the island and raising Andy’s baby – because it would inevitably come out, the identity of the father. People would do the sums; people would remember the party, and Eve having too much to drink, and Andy Baker walking her home.
And even if he wanted to be a part of it, which she doubted, his family would never accept it. Nell, and probably his father too, would hate her for what they would see as the trap Eve had set for him. Laura would hate her as well, for coming between him and Tilly. The entire island of Roone, or most of it, might well shun her.
And Imelda – well, Imelda.
Eve couldn’t tell her. She couldn’t stand in front of the woman who’d saved her, and tell her what she’d done, and watch her face crumble. It would be unfair to expect her to be OK with it, knowing how she felt about that kind of thing, so Eve would go away.
Nine weeks today since Frog’s party, which meant that the baby was due in the second half of February. She figured she might be able to remain on the island until the end of October, so that she could continue to earn her salary. The committee who’d appointed her as manager of the crèche in January wouldn’t be pleased when she left them in the middle of the school year, but they’d get over it.
She’d tell Imelda that she wanted to live in Galway with Keith. That would make sense. She’d promise to come back and see her often. And then, when she’d sorted a place in Galway, when she’d fixed herself up with a job there, she’d write Imelda a letter, and tell her the truth.
She’d say she hadn’t meant for it to happen. She’d say she was sorry for letting her down. She’d tell her she didn’t expect Imelda to have anything to do with her from that point on, unless she wanted to. She’d leave it up to Imelda.
She wouldn’t name the father, but she’d tell Andy at some stage too. It was his baby, and he had a right to know. She’d ring him when he was back in college in Limerick and ask if she could meet him somewhere, and then she’d tell him. She’d say he didn’t have to be involved if he didn’t want to, but she’d appreciate some financial support. It was the least he could do.
She’d look for house-cleaning jobs, once she got to Galway. S
he remembered her foster mother Mrs Garvey looking for a cleaner once, and having awful trouble getting one. Her plan was to put an ad up on a few noticeboards, or make out leaflets and post them through the letterboxes of the houses in well-off parts of the city. It would be good to have a job where she could decide her hours, especially when she got bigger, and wasn’t able to do as much.
In the meantime she’d found herself a summer job at Manning’s Hotel. It hadn’t occurred to her to look for work while the crèche was closed, but she’d got a call from Maria Fennessy a few nights earlier. He’s looking for someone, Maria had said. I thought you might be at a loose end. Maria worked behind the reception desk at the hotel. Her daughter Claire had been one of Eve’s little charges for the past year.
Doing what? Eve had asked.
Mostly chambermaid stuff, cleaning the rooms, but he might want you to help out with the food and drink orders too, room service and lobby service and that.
It didn’t sound strenuous. It would give her something to do – she was finding the days long, with her two closest friends gone to Greece for a fortnight – and the extra income would be handy. She’d called to the hotel the following day and the owner had taken her on, just like that.
Are you coping alright? he’d asked, and for one awful second Eve had thought he must have heard about the baby, but then she’d realised he meant Hugh, and she’d said she was. Nine to two, he’d told her, five days a week. That sound OK? It did. He’d mentioned a salary that sounded fair enough, and then he’d sent her to the housekeeper, Lilian, who’d asked her size and promised to find her a uniform. She was due to start tomorrow – and whatever the job was like, she’d stick it out until the crèche reopened in September, and put by the extra cash.
So she had it all sorted, more or less.
Not that pregnancy was a barrel of laughs. She felt horribly queasy a lot of the time, not just in the mornings. Why was it called morning sickness when it went on all day? She’d eaten so little over the past few weeks: dry bread or crackers – butter, for some reason, had become a no-no – a bowl of custard now and again, a mug of soup or a few spoons of yogurt when she could stomach it. The only food she actually looked forward to was bananas, which she’d never really gone for up to this. Now she was eating two a day, sometimes three. Weird.
She knew she should be building herself up, nourishing the baby with healthy food, but the thought of eating anything more substantial made her want to retch. She hadn’t weighed herself since she’d moved out of Hugh and Imelda’s, but she was pretty sure she was losing weight instead of gaining it. She’d just have to hope her appetite came back soon.
Her nipples had become really tender too: she could hardly bear anything, any garment, rubbing up against them. She didn’t think her breasts had got any fuller, not yet anyway. She should read up about pregnancy: she knew so little about what to expect, but she was willing to learn. She wanted to do it right. She’d go online, check out websites for pregnant women: there had to be loads of them.
How are things? Laura had texted the other morning, and Eve’s reply had been a brief I’m doing OK.
Glad to hear it, Laura had returned, and thankfully that had been it. The less contact they had from now on, the better. Hopefully Laura wasn’t planning on doing anything more than sending the occasional text.
They’d have to meet though, the day after tomorrow. Laura’s twin girls were turning four, and as Evie’s godmother, Eve always bought gifts for both. There’d be a party, of course, but Eve had opted out of that after she and Andy had split up, telling Laura quite truthfully that she’d feel awkward with Nell there. Now she just dropped her gifts and left.
And of course Tilly would be at the party, which was another reason to give it a wide berth. Standing in a queue at the supermarket the previous afternoon, Eve had spotted her strolling past the window with Marian and Evie. The yellow dress she wore made her skin look even pastier than it was. You’d think living in Australia she’d have a bit of a tan, but she looked as Irish as the rest of them.
Eve would have liked to say hello to the girls, who’d attended the crèche for the past year. They were giddy and bubbly and scatterbrained, and she was fond of them. She could have caught up with them when she’d left the supermarket – there they were in the distance, it would have taken only a minute to go after them – but she hadn’t.
She rounded a bend and Imelda’s house appeared, scattering her thoughts. It could do with a fresh coat of paint: a patch was peeling under the left window, another at the edge of the gable wall. She remembered the last time it had been painted, a few months after her arrival on Roone. Hugh up on a ladder, Imelda fretting that he’d fall. You won’t get rid of me that easily, he’d said – but in the end he hadn’t needed a ladder to fall from, just a heart that had let him down.
Eve halted at the gate. She was here to apologise for her outburst, here to make her peace with Imelda. These might be the last few months they had together, if Imelda decided, on hearing the news of Eve’s pregnancy, that she wanted nothing more to do with her. Eve was determined to make amends for yelling at her. She’d spend time with her: she’d come and visit every afternoon when she’d finished at the hotel.
She went around the back and let herself in by the kitchen door, which was never locked during the day. She stepped in – and stopped dead.
There was a man sitting at the table.
There was a strange man eating breakfast in Imelda’s kitchen. Hugh’s kitchen.
At the sight of her he rose hastily to his feet, dropping his cutlery with a clatter onto the plate before him. ‘Good morning, signorina,’ he said, dabbing at his mouth with a yellow paper serviette, giving an idiotic little bow.
Scrambled egg, it looked like, on his plate, little green flecks in it. And there, look, a second cup on the table. Eve stood where she was, her hand still on the door handle, completely unable to speak. What the hell was happening?
‘You look for Eemelda,’ he said – and the casual, the familiar way he said her name made Eve want to hit him.
The hall door opened just then and there she was, a sheaf of leaflets in her hand. ‘Eve – what a lovely surprise. I never heard you coming, dear.’ A lilac top, a grey skirt. A narrow grey scarf with multicoloured dots on it around her neck. No sign of discomfiture, no indication that she even remembered their row.
‘Eve, this is Mr Conti,’ she went on. ‘He’s staying here for a little while,’ and the man beamed at Eve and gave another bow. ‘Gualtiero, this is Eve. I’ve told you about her.’
They were on first name terms. She’d told him about Eve.
‘Please to meet you,’ he said, but Eve ignored him and went on glaring at Imelda, who appeared impervious.
‘Please sit, Gualtiero, finish your food. Isn’t this weather nice, Eve? Lovely to see a bit of sunshine.’
Eve remained dumbstruck. How was she acting as if nothing was wrong? Everything was wrong. Who was he? What was he doing here? How dare he be here, making himself at home in Hugh’s house? The smell of coffee, allied with her spinning thoughts, was making her stomach turn over. Serve them right if she threw up.
‘Will you have a cuppa with us, dear?’ Imelda went on, crossing to where the mugs lived.
Us. She called them us.
‘I was just getting a few leaflets about Roone for Mr Conti,’ she went on, pouring coffee. Could she honestly not see that Eve was struggling here? ‘He was asking me where was the Statue of Liberty sign – you know, the one on the cliffs. His nephew, who was here last year, told him about it, so Mr Conti wants to go and see it for himself. He might paint it, you never know. Did I mention he was a painter? An artist, I mean.’
She was uncomfortable, Eve realised then. Talking for the sake of it. She had noticed Eve’s displeasure – how could she not?
His half-finished breakfast must be getting cold: despite Imelda’s instruction he hadn’t resumed eating, was still standing there with a half-smile on his rou
nd face.
‘You look tired, Eve,’ Imelda said then. ‘Have a seat, won’t you?’ Indicating the coffee that had been poured.
Eve found her tongue at last. ‘Why is he here?’ she demanded, still not looking in his direction, all her hostility directed at Imelda. ‘What’s he doing here?’
There was a moment of silence. Imelda’s wary smile disappeared. ‘Eve,’ she began – but Eve wasn’t listening.
‘How could you? How could you?’ She could hardly speak, so enraged was she. ‘I can’t believe it!’ She turned and fled, almost falling over Scooter, who’d materialised directly behind her, tail wagging.
She stormed back to the road, leaving the gate swinging wide in her wake. A man, installed in the house, looking perfectly at home. Where had he come from, what business did he have staying there?
And then, as she marched down the road, blood boiling, it came back to her. She recalled Hugh a few months ago telling her they’d decided to give a room to some foreigner – yes, artist had been mentioned – for a month in the summer. We’ll make a few bob out of it, he’d said. We’ll just have to hope he’s house-trained. They’d laughed about it, she remembered. Imelda might sit for him, Eve had said, make a bit of extra cash.
And now Hugh was gone, and the artist was here. Clearly, Imelda hadn’t thought to cancel his booking – but why had he stayed, once he’d been told about Hugh, which he must have been? How could he be so insensitive, expecting Imelda to wait hand and foot on him while she was grieving?
Not that she’d looked particularly put out. On the contrary, she’d seemed to have no problem at all with him being there. It was as if she’d never been widowed, as if Hugh had never even existed. How could she?
What was more, he was probably sleeping in Eve’s room. Oh, she knew it wasn’t really hers any more, but it was still maddening to think of him in there, blithely hanging his clothes in the wardrobe, arranging his things on the dressing table, getting into the bed at night.
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