Oliver sat up now, his hands rubbing at his tousled hair. “You were asleep when I came in,” he said defensively, “ and I didn’t want to wake you up. I thought I’d sleep down here and give you peace.”
“It’s a heart attack you nearly gave me! What time did you get back?” she asked, wondering if he had been in the house when she was crying earlier.
He looked vague for a few moments. “I suppose it must have been around two o’clock . . . or thereabouts.”
So he was in the house. He must have been fast asleep, because there was nothing in his manner to suggest that he had heard her.
“How is she?” Aisling asked. “The girl from your drama group.”
“She’s not too good,” he said, lying back down on the sofa with his arms behind his head, “but they reckon she’s over the worst.”
“So – what was wrong with her?” Aisling queried.
There was a pause. “I think they said some kind of allergy . . .”
“An allergy?” Aisling repeated. “An allergy to what?”
“Medication or some such thing,” Oliver replied, in the same vague way.
Aisling looked at her husband with narrowed eyes. “That’s very unusual,” she said quietly. “To be so ill with an allergy that you have to be hospitalised. Was it penicillin?”
“To tell you the truth,” Oliver said, sounding weary, “I haven’t a clue.” He yawned. “You’d never know what people could have wrong with them these days.” He looked towards the kitchen. “Were you making tea?”
“Yes, do you want some?”
He thought for a moment. “No . . . I won’t bother.”
“Maybe you should go to bed and have a few more hours’ sleep, Oliver,” Aisling suggested. “You look washed out.”
He got to his feet, checking his appearance in the mirror above the fireplace. Then he ran his fingers through his hair to flatten it, and patted his cheeks to put some colour in them. “Yeah,” he said, turning to the side to check how he looked from a different angle. “A couple of hours mightn’t do me any harm.”
After an hour or so of pottering about in the rooms downstairs, Aisling threw a jacket on and went outside into the garden. She walked slowly around it, stopping here and there to pick a dead head off a rose, or to check for any signs of greenfly. But every bush she looked at and every flower she stopped to admire only took her back to another, bigger and brighter garden in America. Jameson Carroll’s beautiful, rambling garden at Lake Savannah. The garden where she had left her heart behind.
What am I going to do, she asked herself as she distractedly picked off the dead leaves and flowers. What am I going to do?
She had been determined to come back to Ireland to sort things out. She had been determined against all her heart’s true feelings and totally against Jameson’s feelings of what was the right thing to do. She had persisted in doing things her own way. The way she had always done things. The way that pleased everyone else back home.
But what about all the things she said she was going to do? All this sorting out of her parents and family, and all this sorting out of the business of school? Now she was back in Ireland – what was she actually going to sort out? And more importantly – when was she going to do it?
An awful feeling swept over her, and as soon as she recognised it she was ashamed of herself, for she knew instantly that it was fear that was holding her back. Fear of hurting her mother and father. Fear of walking away from her home and her sad – but familiar – marriage. Fear of leaving everything that was familiar to her.
And the biggest fear of all – that she wouldn’t live up to the expectations that Jameson Carroll had of her.
Deep down she knew she wasn’t the wonderful, beautiful woman he thought she was – and how was she going to deal with that? What could a small-town Irish teacher offer a wealthy, talented man like him?
She moved away now from the flowers and shrubs and walked down the little path towards the gate. She stood leaning over the gate for a while, and was surprised to see a number of bicycles and the few cars that were in the area, all heading down towards the town. God! she suddenly thought. It’s Sunday! Aisling shook her head, unable to believe that she’s forgotten about nine o’clock Mass. America was different – she was on holiday then. But this was Ireland, and she had never forgotten about Sunday Mass. It was what Sundays were centred around as far back as she could remember.
She ran back up the path and into the house, and up into the spare bedroom where she kept some of her school clothes in a big, old wardrobe. After rummaging through the racks, Aisling quickly fastened on suspenders and thirty-denier stockings that were too thick for summer, and put on an autumn suit and a blouse that didn’t quite match. The outfit looked a bit odd, but it was the best she could do without going into the wardrobe in her own bedroom. Thankfully, she kept her mantilla with her scarves in the spare bedroom too, so she grabbed it and stuffed it in her jacket pocket.
She ran downstairs and out of the house to the shed where she kept her bicycle, and within minutes she was cycling down the road towards the church. She pedalled as quickly as she could, feeling the muscles pulling on her thighs – unused to the exertion after a month away from her bicycle.
Five minutes or so later, Aisling arrived at the church, much too late to take her usual seat up near the front. She stood outside for a moment to catch her breath and cool down, then she walked quietly into the church and squeezed into a space in a pew three rows from the back. The pew was full of men, and it was unlikely that they would pay any attention to what she was wearing.
She knelt down and blessed herself, still catching her breath. At least she would be nearer the door for sneaking out quickly, and hopefully would make it home without having to stop and chat to anyone.
The priest appeared on the altar – Father O’Neill, the popular, understanding curate – and Mass began. The service went through its usual routine, with Aisling standing up and kneeling down with the rest of the congregation, her mind a million miles away from the rituals that she had taken part in every Sunday for many years.
Then, she was startled back to consciousness, suddenly aware of the silence that had descended upon the crowd of worshippers. The priest had started off on his Sunday sermon, and the theme of it had obviously caught everyone’s attention. Most weeks, people left the church unable to remember a word of the monotonously delivered sermon.
“Ignore what is happening at your peril,” was the priest’s dire warning, “and we could become as bad as the English and the Americans.”
Aisling felt a tightness creeping into her throat and chest.
“If we don’t cherish our family life above everything else, Irish Catholic values could be lost. Marital separation and divorce is a disease,” he warned, “and it spreads – tainting all whose lives it touches. Not just the husband and wife and children – but the whole of the extended families.”
Aisling suddenly felt her face flush and her breathing shallow and uncomfortable. This was the last thing she wanted to hear – and church was the last place she wanted to be sitting listening to it. Even worse, that it should be the youngish priest she really liked, the one she might have considered approaching if she ever needed any personal kind of advice.
“It is far, far better,” the priest went on, “for a child to have two parents who are at least trying to make things work – than to have a single parent struggling on his or her own.” He paused, looking around the congregation. “You mightn’t think it appropriate to be talking about these matters in our church – but times are changing, and we have to be on our guard.”
A picture of Thomas and Jameson, and then one of Pauline and little Bernadette crept into her mind, as she listened to the priest going on for another ten minutes, every word he was saying cutting deeper into her heart.
Her feet seemed as though they had blocks of lead on them as she cycled slowly back to the house. She let herself in quietly so as not to disturb Oliv
er, and went into the sitting-room to sink into the big, soft armchair beside the fire.
For some time, she sat there, staring down at the fading, flowery rug. Then, for the second time that morning, an awful feeling of loss engulfed her. She stood up, determined not to give in to it. She went over and switched on the radio to distract her thoughts, only to hear the presenter enthusiastically introduce a track he was going to play from the ‘The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylanalbum’. Seconds later the room was flooded with the familiar voice singing, ‘Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right’.
As if she needed reminding about the distance between herself and Jameson Carroll
* * *
Maggie and Declan arrived for a visit that evening. “Well,” Declan said, greeting her with a big smile, “have you recovered yet? Glad to be back to normal again?”
Her mother’s smile was more pinched and didn’t reach her eyes.
Aisling led them into the sitting-room.
“Is Oliver not at home?” Maggie asked, loosening the flowery, silk scarf from around her chin.
“No,” Aisling replied, “he’s gone to visit someone in the hospital.”
“Oh?” Maggie said, her brows raised in question. “Anybody we know?”
“One of the drama group . . . I don’t know her myself.”
“Her?” Maggie said. “A woman, is it?”
Aisling nodded. “So he said.” Then she automatically added, “He’s not the only one – there’s a crowd of them gone into the hospital.”
They sat chatting over tea and toast, Aisling gritting her teeth every time her mother commented how nice it was to have a decent cup of tea again.
“Has Charles or Pauline said anything to you, at all?” Maggie asked at one point during the conversation.
“What about?” Aisling said.
“Well,” Maggie gestured with her hands, “nothing in particular as such. Just how things went on while we were away.”
Aisling shrugged. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to them . . . and you know Charles isn’t one for chatting much anyway.”
“It’s his eye and ear,” Declan said. “We’re just a bit worried that he’s had a run-in with somebody and doesn’t want to say. Maybe an awkward or a drunken customer – or some such thing.”
Maggie nodded her head. “Pauline says she knows nothing about it either. She said he just appeared with the sticking-plaster and said he’d hit his head carrying a sack in from the door. And when she asked about the ear, he said he didn’t remember what happened, and that maybe it was a bite from a horsefly or something like that.”
Aisling frowned. God, all this going on and I haven’t even noticed. “It sounds strange, right enough,” she said. “If I get the chance, I’ll mention it to him quietly.”
“And Pauline,” Maggie said, “thankfully, she seems to have brightened up a lot. The little bit of responsibility running the shop might have given her a bit of a lift.”
“All in all,” Declan said, “they managed the running of the shop well. I’ve no complaints there – just so long as Charles is all grand in himself.”
By the time they made moves to leave, there was still no sign of Oliver.
“Is everything all right?” Maggie asked in a low voice, while Declan revved up the car. “You know . . . between yourself and Oliver.”
Aisling took a deep breath. “Everything’s fine, Mammy – everything is the same as normal.”
Maggie nodded her head, like a bird pecking at a piece of bread. “It’s just that you’re not looking too bright . . . and I thought that maybe yourself and Oliver might have had words.”
Aisling folded her arms, waiting.
“It’s just with him being out tonight . . . and you being just back home from America.”
“Honestly, Mammy,” Aisling said snappily, “there’s nothing wrong.” Then, the car horn sounded impatiently. “Daddy’s waiting for you – you’d better go.”
Maggie went to the door and gestured to Declan to have patience. “Aisling,” she said, coming back to her, “you didn’t say anything to Oliver about America , did you?”
There was silence for a few moments. Then, Aisling said in a low, weary voice, “No, I didn’t say anything about America.”
“If you take my advice,” her mother warned, “you never will say anything.”
* * *
Aisling was in bed for the second night in a row when Oliver returned from the hospital. He tiptoed into the bedroom, undressed in the dark, and then slipped into bed beside her. He lay still for a few moments, then he turned towards her, gathering her into his arms.
“Aisling?” he murmured into her hair. “Are you awake, darling?”
“Mmm,” she answered sleepily, hoping he would turn away to his own side of the bed.
There was a short pause. “Are you annoyed with me for being late again?”
Aisling gave a short sigh. “No, Oliver. You told me you were going to the hospital.” She wriggled out of his arms and moved further away from him. Anyway,” she said, looking at the bedside clock, “you’re earlier than last night.”
“Well,” he said, “I think we’ve all done our bit. She’s a lot better – they’re letting her out tomorrow.”
“Did they find out what was wrong?” Aisling said.
“Oh,” he said, “you were right – it seems it was the penicillin.”
There was a longer silence, while Aisling wondered how she could muster up the interest to ask him any more questions – and she knew by his awkward manner that Oliver felt the same.
Then, he reached across the bed for the second time. His hands gripping her shoulder and turning her towards him. “Aisling,” he said in a low voice, “is there something wrong?”
Her body became rigid at his touch, and she was grateful she was wearing cotton pyjamas rather than a lighter nightdress. “No, Oliver . . . there’s nothing wrong. I’m just tired . . . very tired.”
“I can understand you being tired,” he said, “the travelling and everything. But you still don’t seem yourself . . . and we’ve not had a chance to have a good chat about America and everything.” He rubbed his hand over her shoulder and back. “As long as you’re OK in yourself . . . I wouldn’t like to think there was something wrong – making us distant with each other like.”
She sighed. “We’ve been distant before, Oliver,” she said, “and it never bothered you to any great extent.” She moved away again.
Oliver sat up and switched on his bedside lamp. “I’m sorry, Aisling . . . but I really wanted to talk to you tonight . . . it’s important.”
Aisling suddenly felt wide-awake, and worried. Did Oliver know something about what happened in America? No – he couldn’t possibly. She hadn’t talked to anyone. She hadn’t made up her mind if she would even broach the subject with Pauline or Carmel. She hadn’t seen Pauline on her own yet since coming back, and she hadn’t seen Carmel at all. Whatever Oliver had to say, it had nothing to do with America.
She desperately hoped it wasn’t anything to do with America – for she wasn’t prepared for that yet. She knew she would have to be soon – but not just yet.
She turned back towards him now and sat up, shielding her eyes against the sudden light. “Well,” she said, “you might as well go on then, since I’m now well and truly awake.”
“I got these today,” he said, lifting an envelope from the bedside table. “I thought they might be worth taking a look at.” He placed it in her lap.
Aisling looked down at the large, brown envelope. “What is it?” she said quietly – all sorts of things running through her mind.
“Open it,” he said in a warm tone, “open it and see.”
Aisling suddenly felt uneasy as she slid the folded papers out from the envelope. She had no idea what to expect, and although Oliver liked to surprise her now and again with presents, the way he was acting now was not his usual style. He had never wakened her late at night before to give her a present.
/> Then, as she scanned the documents – page by page – she realised that nothing could have prepared her for this. Of all the possibilities that had flitted through her mind, this was the last thing she expected.
“Well?” Oliver had a smile from ear to ear. “What do you think?” There was not the smiling, excited reaction from Aisling that he had hoped for.
“I don’t know what to think,” she said in a low voice. “To be honest, I’m totally confused. What’s it all about?”
“Application forms for us to adopt a child,” he said. “I thought you’d be delighted.”
“But we’ve never discussed adopting a child before, Oliver.”
“Not as such,” he said, “but maybe we should have. Maybe things would have been different between us if we’d had a child.” He looked at her now. “You’ve always wanted a child. The first few years when we were married you talked about nothing else.”
Aisling looked down at the papers, and then she took a deep breath. “Perhaps things would have been different if we’d adopted a child then.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not too late now, Aisling . . . we’re still young. We could adopt two or three if we were accepted.”
“No, Oliver.” She shook her head slowly. “It’s much too late . . . the way things are – and have been – between us for a long time, make it a silly thing to even consider.”
He leaned across the bed, and put his arm around her shoulders. “Aisling . . . I’m the first to admit that I haven’t been a perfect husband – but I want to change all that.” His hand came under her chin, and he looked into her dark, troubled eyes. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about all the nonsense I got up to before. But I promise you solemnly, that it’s all over. We have a whole future ahead of us, if only you want it.”
Aisling looked at him, wordlessly. Then, the tears fell. Gently first – building up into torrents. She sobbed and sobbed, still in his arms and rocking backwards and forwards. And he held her, giving her time to get all the sadness out of her system. And for once it was Oliver who waited.
After a while, the crying and the tears gradually eased. And it was only then, in a quiet and fearful tone, that Oliver asked: “Has something happened that I don’t know about, Aisling?”
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