As for Mary, well, she suffered the loss of her first love, showing great strength, and her shock pregnancy was proclaimed a miracle. Even the parish priest agreed that the child was meant to be, despite her youth and the lack of a wedding ring. Then again, less than six years later when her son was so cruelly taken, that same priest would have probably thought of her baby’s death as some sort of moral lesson. Not that any priests dared to call upon her with their views after she had punched the Archbishop in the face less than a month after her child had died.
Mary settled Penny back into bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin. Penny was out of it. “It’ll be OK,” she whispered. “Whatever’s going on, you’ll get over it.”
“I won’t,” Penny slurred – she was in fact still half awake.
“You will,” Mary told her drunken friend.
“I shouldn’t have come back!”
“Don’t be silly!”
“I don’t want to end up like you,” Penny mumbled clearly, despite her encroaching stupor.
Mary stood up. Hurt, she backed away. “No. I suppose you don’t,” she said, and closed the door. Penny would never have set out to hurt her, and if she remembered the conversation the following morning she would apologize.
Mary went to her room, upset, but Penny had a point. Mary hadn’t had a proper relationship with a man since her son had died. Before that there had been a few men but none had lasted longer than a few months. She undressed, pulled on a T-shirt and crawled into bed. Mr Monkels resented having to move over to his side of the bed and Mary knew it was ridiculous that her dog had a side of her bed, but he did.
For hours Mary lay anxious and awake. What the hell is wrong with me? Mr Monkels was wheezing, but the rain had stopped, which was good. No need for sandbags. When she looked out of her window the water seemed calm – the boat was no longer slapping against the pier wall. Still her eyes refused to close.
Despite another night with little sleep, Mary was the first to wake. She showered and dressed while Penny and Mr Monkels slept on. She laid out the dog’s breakfast and started to cook something for Penny. She broke some eggs and the bell rang. She left them to sizzle in the pan while she opened the door. Jerry Letter grinned at her. “Soft day,” he said, handing her two bills from his postbag.
“Coffee?”
“No. I’m running a bit late and I promised Maura I’d take her to Killarney to get her ingrown toenail sorted out.”
“Too much information, Jerry!”
“You think that’s bad, you should see her arse!” He winked at her, and gave his familiar gummy smile. “I hear Lucy was in next door last night?”
Mary grinned. “You don’t miss a trick.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“So you’re getting a new neighbour?”
“You tell me.”
“I hear it’s soon,” he said, winking.
Ivan walked up behind him. “Jerry!” He clapped the postman on the back.
“Ivan,” Jerry said. “That was a fair old game on Saturday. Damn near close to losing.”
Ivan laughed. “Ah, sure, almost losing is better than almost winning.”
Mary waved at Jerry, who was already halfway down the road, then followed her cousin in and closed the door.
“Just in time for breakfast. Jesus, I’m a mighty man for timing!” He handed her his newspaper and sat down.
“I watched the film,” she said, while she broke some more eggs.
“Did you cry?” he inquired, making coffee.
“No.” She chuckled. Ivan knew her better than anyone, including Penny.
“Liar! You cried when a Fraggle stole the Gorg’s tomato in Fraggle Rock.” He laughed at the memory.
“OK, Ivan, we both know that the tomato was Junior Gorg’s only friend. Not to mention the fact that I was a child.”
“You were sixteen,” he said, sitting down.
“All right, I might have squeezed out a tear or two over DiCaprio last night but Penny did most of the crying.”
“Penny was here?” he asked.
“Still is. Why?”
“It’s over with Adam.”
“I guessed,” she said. “How is he?”
“Devastated but it’s for the best. How’s Penn?”
“Not really talking. She got drunk and went to bed.”
Ivan nodded. “It’s for the best,” he repeated.
“Yeah, I know.”
Penny appeared in the door, hung-over, with her head in her hands. “And just when you think things can’t get any worse you succumb to the hangover from a place they call hell.”
Mary went to her medicine press and handed her friend two painkillers, while Ivan poured her a glass of water.
“You know?” Penny asked Ivan.
“I do.”
She looked at Mary. “Did I tell you?” she asked, embarrassed by the gap in her memory.
“Not in so many words. I’m sorry, Penn.” She served the eggs.
“Thanks,” Penny said, welling up.
Ivan hugged her. “It’s for the best,” he reiterated.
They sat down together, Mary and Ivan eating eggs and Penny chasing hers around the plate.
“What’s the situation with next door?” Ivan asked his cousin.
“New neighbours?” Penny asked, attempting to perk up.
“Yes,” Mary said. “Three days and counting.”
Ivan knew she hated to be bothered and secretly hoped that whoever moved in next door would do just that.
“Stop grinning!” She shook her fork at him.
“Let’s hope they’re interesting.” Penny sighed.
“Well, just as long as they can speak English,” Ivan said.
“Jesus, there’s nothing worse than having to deal with people through sign language and a shagging phrase book,” she said.
“Oh, sweet God!” Mary moaned, while Ivan and Penny grinned at one another.
3. The new neighbour
Four days had passed since Sam Sullivan had emerged from rehab and made a call that would hopefully change the course of his life. It had been a long flight, New York to Dublin, followed by another shorter and more uncomfortable flight, Dublin to Kerry, followed by a thirty-mile drive to Kenmare.
The man at Avis had given him a map, which would take him onto the Cork road rather than over the mountain pass. “Safer,” he’d advised. “The mountain on a night like this is a killer, especially for you tourists. Sure you’re not able for it at all!” He chuckled.
Sam thanked him and left. He should have asked some questions because a mixture of confusion, exhaustion and a bad map meant he ended up on the mountain. The rain continued and the road was turning into a stream. He crawled along but the water was rising and the large potholes and dips in the road were becoming more and more water-logged and dangerous. The locals were obviously using the Cork road because he was alone.
Despite the weather, though, he couldn’t help but stop to absorb the surrounding bleak beauty. He had never been a picture-postcard kind of person, and couldn’t remember having been touched by a beautiful beach or a field of flowers but now, on this cold and miserable evening, he looked out onto the jagged grey rock above the winding road, which wove through drenched and dripping woods, and it captivated him.
Even so, after two hours’ jolting through potholes the scenery was getting old.
When he arrived into the town it was after seven and the rain kept coming down. A small black-and-white signpost revealed that he had reached his destination and he sighed with relief. The cliff-top twists and turns had been an unexpected challenge and he felt he’d run and survived Nature’s gauntlet. The town opened up before him, and even through the endless drizzle he found its quaint charm, coloured walls and jagged stone alluring. Despite his exhaustion, and because he had no idea where he was going, he circled the town twice, driving slowly so as to soak it all in. Large windows revealed warm rooms with candles placed on table
s, the flicker of log fires in open bars, restaurants with low lighting, a chef and waitress sitting opposite one another, a bottle of wine between them.
He reached the top of the town for the second time and flagged down the only man on the street, handed him the address on a page printed from the Internet and asked for directions. The other grinned widely, showing his gums, and before Sam knew it, he was sitting in the car beside him. “You’re nearly there now – I’ll take a ride with you. I’ve a boat to check on,” he said, and put out his hand. “Jerry Letter.”
“Sam Sullivan,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand.
“Then we’re both Sullivans!”
“I thought you said your name was Letter?” Sam was confused.
“I did, and it is and it isn’t,” he answered.
“OK,” Sam agreed, and drove in the direction that Jerry was pointing.
Jerry laughed to himself. He liked Americans. They were a lot better to banter with than the Germans. Germans never seemed to have much time for Jerry. “I’m the postman,” he said, after a moment or two.
“Excuse me?”
“Jerry Letter – I’m the postman.”
“Oh. OK. That should make sense.”
“Ah, but it does. You see, you and me, we’re not the only Sullivans in this town. There’s plenty more. In fact, the place is full of us, and as for first names you couldn’t throw a pint in any direction without hitting a Jerry, a John, a Jimmy, a Robert, a Peter, a Frank or a Francie. So, you see, to tell one Jerry Sullivan from another, we just call each other by what we do or what we wear or what we’re into.”
Sam laughed.
“Take the right.” Jerry nodded.
Sam took the right and looked to his left at the boats wrestling with the high tide. Hills rose behind the dark blue water, the heather casting a purple hue on the sky, and to his right he saw a line of little cottages built of rock, standing firm against the battering wind. “That’s you.” Jerry gestured.
Sam stopped the car directly in front of the cottage. “Looks good,” he said, supremely glad to have arrived.
“It may look good but the place has been empty for a year. I hope to Christ she’s not damp.”
Before Sam could respond Jerry was helping him remove his bags from the boot and waiting for him to produce the house keys.
Once inside, Jerry took a good look around. “She seems fine. Lucy’s been taking good care of her.”
Sam just shook his head – as entertaining as Jerry Letter was, he wanted him gone.
Jerry was no fool, and once his American friend was settled and he’d ascertained the man was a New Yorker, unmarried, some sort of executive, and had travelled alone, he took his leave. “Well, we’ll see each other around so, Uncle Sam.” He tipped his hat and walked out into the rain, as relaxed as though it was a fine day.
Sam scratched his head. Holy shit, that guy should work for the CIA!
Without stopping to assimilate the ground floor of his new home he went straight upstairs, stripped off and got into the large brass bed that was waiting to envelop him. His head hit the pillow and he was asleep. Even the rain beating against the window couldn’t wake him.
He didn’t wake in the morning either, even though the sun broke through the clouds and glinted on his window-pane. He slept on as the chirping birds taunted Mr Monkels, barked as he attempted to run up and down the back garden, while they perched on their feeding table, snacking comfortably, savvy enough to know that unless the mutt grew wings he was no threat. Sam would spend his first full day in a foreign country asleep – as a lifelong insomniac, he’d have thought it impossible. During the next day he woke once or twice, but for just long enough to remember where he was and that he was free.
While he was asleep, Sam didn’t have to think or worry about the commotion he’d left behind. The past four days since his release had been eventful. On day one he had planned his escape hastily from the back of a limo. He had spent day two in the office with Leland, who had been shouting, waving his finger and actually spitting, as he roared about his protégé’s ingratitude, disloyalty and betrayal. “What the hell are we supposed to do with those goddamn British pretty-boys?” he had screamed, referring to their latest signing, his neck reddening and a vein pulsing in his temple.
“You do what you do best, Leland, you promote them,” Sam said, as calmly as he could.
“You’re not leaving!” Leland had threatened.
“Yes, Leland, I am,” Sam had responded, steadfast despite his mentor’s menacing demeanour.
“If I’d known you were just going to disappear, I’d have left you to rot!” Leland ground out, once he’d realized that Sam was not to be intimidated.
“I’m glad you didn’t. By the way, did I thank you for picking up the bill?”
Leland glowered.
Sam turned to leave.
“You’ll never work in the record business again!” Leland said predictably.
“I hope not.” Sam smiled. “See you around, Leland.” He closed the door behind him and a part of his spirit soared.
Walking through the office, he felt like Jerry Maguire without the embarrassing fall, the stolen fish or a girl called Dorothy – but his head was held as high and his dream of a different kind of future was just as real. Those around him had said hasty goodbyes, caring no more about him than he did about them. He took the lift to the lobby, saluted the latest doorman and promised he’d never enter the building again.
The saliva shower aside, his second day out of rehab had been a good one.
On day three he had visited his mother, despite his reservations and the barring order. She had cried when she saw him, pulling him in from the street quickly so the neighbours wouldn’t see. His dad was out, as Sam had known he would be. She’d brushed the hair from his face and sighed. “You look good for a corpse,” she said, attempting to smile.
“I’m OK now, Mom,” he said.
“It’s over?” she said.
“I promise.” He begged himself silently not to mess up.
His mother sobbed while she made coffee, and he looked around the kitchen he hadn’t seen since he was last caught shooting up in his brother’s bedroom on Christmas Day last year. That day he had punched his dad, breaking his nose, called his mother a whore and refused to leave until his brother threatened him with the police.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, biting back the emotion that, as a man, he’d learned to conceal.
She held on to his hand across the counter. “I’m just glad you’re back,” she said, tears tumbling.
“I won’t let you down again,” he promised.
“You said that before.”
“This time is different. I’ve left work.”
“You have?” She was comforted by that although she knew his job was only one of his problems. Long ago she had let him down when he’d needed her most.
“I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“Ireland.”
His mother was taken aback. “Ireland?” she’d repeated, shocked.
“I always promised Gran I’d go. So I’m going.”
“Wow!” was all she could say. Still, she was beaming. She’d never been to her mother’s homeland but she was happy that her son was to visit the country her mother had loved. “When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“And your dad?”
“Tell him I’m sorry about his nose. Tell him I’m well and it’s going to be OK.”
“You’re sure?” she asked.
“I am,” he lied.
“You were always your grandmother’s favourite,” said his mother. “She’d be proud.”
Sam had no doubt that, if she had been alive, she would have kicked his ass. Still, he was glad he’d seen his mother and, as hard as it was when she hugged him, he hugged her back. Perhaps his shrink had been right when he had simply advised: “Whatever it is, just let it go, man!” He desperately wanted to.
> Later that night he had dinner with Mia in her favourite restaurant.
As soon as he had extended the invitation she’d known he was ending their relationship, yet she’d agreed that he could pick her up at eight. There had been technical problems with the video shoot and it had run on so she had just spent the fourth day in a row dancing on set for seven hours. Her ankle needed to be strapped and she’d have to take painkillers for her back. She’d left the studio with the set beautician, who would ensure that her hair and makeup were perfect. If she was going to be dumped by the love of her life, at least she’d look good while he was doing it.
Sam arrived outside her building at eight sharp. Building security escorted her to the limo. Sam kissed her cheek and they sat in silence until they reached the restaurant. Outside, paparazzi bulbs flashed as she made her exit from the car, careful that they didn’t get a shot between her legs. Sam walked in ahead, knowing they were only interested in a name. She felt like a lamb being led to slaughter, not that she showed it. She was used to facing the flashes alone, so what was different about tonight? She turned it on. She smiled and paraded, winked and waved, and when they’d got what they were looking for she joined Sam, who was ready to order. They discussed the problems with the shoot, the recording of her third album and the inevitable tour but he waited until they had ordered coffee instead of dessert to talk properly.
“I have to leave,” he said simply.
She nodded and asked him to pass the milk.
“Did you hear what I said?” he asked.
“You’re leaving.”
“You’re not surprised.”
“Well, if you’re going to break up with Leland the day before you break up with me, what do you expect?” she asked, even-toned.
“I didn’t think,” he admitted.
“You never do.” She forced a smile and waved at a fellow limelighter who was passing and reeked of Dior – they’d be forced to smell her long after she had left.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, for the umpteenth time that day.
“You are,” she agreed. She was playing it tough but the façade was crumbling. “So are we really over?”
No Way to Say Goodbye Page 3