At first Patricia paid no heed to the knocking. She assumed it must have been Edward with a hammer or Mrs Foley working on something, but then she heard voices. A man’s voice! That wasn’t Edward. It must have been the door knocker. There was a visitor in the house! She knelt on the floor and pressed herself against the door. Yes, that was Mrs Foley and the voice of a stranger. One of the doors at the front of the house was opened and closed. Patricia stood up. This was her chance to raise the alarm. Somebody from the outside world could tell people she was here. She looked around the room for something to make noise, but then decided to simply begin stamping on the floor. They might be sitting in the room below. After stamping loudly, she paused and listened, waiting for some reaction – feet on the stairs, a voice calling – but the house remained in silence. Had they left the house? Surely she would have heard them moving around the hallway? She stamped again, but still there was no response. Patricia moved to the door and began to hammer on it, but again there was no reaction.
‘Help!’ she called and knocked on the door as hard as she could. Silence. How could it be that she couldn’t be heard? She banged again and yelled out for help. Nothing. Had she been mistaken? Had she imagined the voices? She went and lay on her bed.
A short while later she heard a door and the man’s voice in the hall again. She hadn’t dreamt it! Rushing to the door she began to drum hard against the wood with her fists. ‘Help! Please help me!’ She waited, but the only sound she heard was the front door being swung shut.
She crossed the room to the window and saw a priest cycling unsteadily down the thin gravel path towards the lane. She knocked on the window but she knew it was futile. Her rescuer had gone. She braced herself for the arrival of Mrs Foley. Doubtless, she would storm up the stairs to berate her for daring to make such a racket, but no visit came.
It was hours later when the door opened slowly and Mrs Foley placed a cup of tea delicately on her bedside locker.
‘I thought you might have worked up a thirst.’
Patricia couldn’t look at her.
‘I had a nice visit there from Father Manning. He called out to meet Edward’s new bride.’
Despite herself, Patricia looked at Mrs Foley aghast. This was so completely insane, she thought she might faint.
The old woman was leaning against the door frame, with a studied air of nonchalance.
‘I explained to him that you suffer something terrible with your nerves. He was most sympathetic. Very understanding. We said a little prayer together for you. Do you feel any better, Patricia?’ Mrs Foley’s voice was cloying with mock concern.
Patricia wanted to get as far away from this woman as she could. She ran to the corner of the room and pushed her face against the wall, grinding her teeth with fury and frustration.
A small voice from across the room said, ‘Ah, the power of prayer.’ And the door closed with a click.
Downstairs a door was opened and then shut and she heard a little snatch of the theme to The Late Late Show. Saturday. It must be Saturday, she thought. How many nights had she lain in her own bedroom in Buncarragh while her mother watched the television in the living room beneath? In her mind she saw the faces of people she knew back home lit up by the flickering screen as they sat in front of their televisions. Not one of them thinking of her lying alone and helpless in the dark.
She must have fallen asleep again because the next thing she was aware of was someone gently tapping her shoulder. Opening her eyes with a start she could immediately make out Edward’s large frame against the light spilling into her room from the landing.
‘Edward?’
‘Shush, she’ll hear you,’ he whispered urgently. Then getting his face so close to hers that she could feel his breath against her cheek, he spoke slowly and quietly. ‘Tomorrow night. Be ready. And eat. The food is safe now.’ He stood up straight and turned to the door. Just before he closed it he put his head back into the room and repeated in a whisper, ‘Tomorrow night.’
Patricia stared into the darkness. What was going to happen tomorrow night? Was it something to look forward to or dread? Could she trust Edward? She felt more awake than she had in many days.
‘Aren’t you a good girl?’ Mrs Foley cooed when she came to collect Patricia’s tray. ‘That’s more like it. You’ll be up and around in no time.’
Patricia smiled, before she remembered that she wasn’t an invalid and Mrs Foley was her gaoler, not some selfless Florence Nightingale. She twisted her body to the wall and the old woman left her room.
The hours seemed to pass even more slowly when she was anticipating … what? What had Edward meant? The sunlight left the sky and still she waited. Would there be a sign? Might she miss it? She wouldn’t go to sleep. Edward had told her to be ready.
Dinner came and went but nothing happened. Maybe Edward was wrong, or had something changed? She sat on her bed and listened for something out of the ordinary.
Despite her best intentions, she fell asleep. When she woke up someone had switched off her light. She turned it back on. The curtains were drawn. Sitting up, Patricia thought she could hear voices. They sounded excited or distressed and seemed to be some distance from the house. She leapt from her bed and hurried to peer out of the window. She just caught a glimpse of Mrs Foley, bent against the wind, with a coat pulled over her nightdress. She seemed to be shouting at someone. Feeling braver, Patricia pressed herself against the glass. She could hear Edward’s voice coming from further away and there was something strange about the way the light played against the side of the house. An uneven orange glow. Mrs Foley appeared again, this time carrying a couple of heavy-looking buckets. A fire! There must be a fire somewhere. Was this what Edward had meant? Was this the moment, her opportunity to escape? She rushed to the door and tried the handle. It opened! On the floor in front of her was a brown tweed coat and an old pair of shoes in worn black leather. Edward! He must have left them for her. Patricia put her feet into the shoes – a little big but they’d do – and then slipped on the heavy coat. She paused at the top of the stairs and listened. The voices were still coming from outside. Holding on to the banister to steady herself, she made her way downstairs as quickly as she could. Mrs Foley had been at the front of the house so Patricia headed through the kitchen. Still unsure of her balance she leaned on the chairs by the table and slowly made her way towards the back door. Reaching it she suddenly worried that it would be locked. Her heart felt tight and frantic. She lifted the latch and the old door fell towards her with the force of the wind.
Patricia stepped outside into the blast of chill night air. She found she was gulping it in like a drowning man who has just made his way to the surface. She felt giddy, elated even, to be outside.
Keeping close to the wall, she made her way across the yard back towards the lane. She felt the heat of the fire before she saw it. Turning the corner she could see the blaze was in the orchard. Banners of orange flames were furling against the night sky. Suddenly Edward and his mother appeared struggling with a hose. Patricia threw herself back into the shadows. She realised it would be too risky to head straight for the lane that led down to the road. She would have to cut through the fields behind the orchard and get back to the road that way. Keeping her head low, she darted towards the milking parlour and using it for cover made her way towards the field. It was much harder to see anything now but she knew that if she kept the glow of the flames to her right then she was heading in the correct direction. She seemed to be on some sort of narrow path and decided to follow it rather than risk cutting directly across the wet grass of the field. Putting one foot in front of the other, she kept trying to find the firmer ground. Already she felt a little breathless and tired, as the adrenaline wore off, and the reality of making her way through the rough unchartered territory began to take its toll on her. The path seemed to be taking her slightly downhill and all she could see of the fire were tiny sparks bobbing high above her.
The path became muddier. Co
ld water seeped into her shoes. She didn’t care. The only option was to keep going. The sharp grass whipped painfully at her bare legs, but the road couldn’t be that much further. She stopped to try and get her bearings. The glow from the orchard was still to her right but seemed further away than she thought it should be. If only a car would drive by so she could see some headlights and make her way towards them. When she started to walk again she was surprised by the way she had sunk into the mud. It took some effort to pull her feet out and she nearly lost one of her shoes. It didn’t help that the cold air had found its way beneath her coat and her body had begun to shiver violently. Her feet were numb.
She smelled it first. The tang of salt mixed with something much darker, almost rotten. It reminded her of something and then it struck her; the marsh that they had driven over. She realised that she was no longer wading through a muddy field. The path must have led her down to the sea. She could hear the lapping of water. She turned to try and go back the way she had come but her left foot suddenly plunged her up to her thigh in the cold muddy sand. She gasped and fell backwards. When she righted herself she wasn’t sure which direction she had been facing in. A fluttering panic took hold of her and she began to whimper. Reaching forward she found a clump of reeds to hold on to. Pulling herself with whatever strength she still possessed, she managed to free her left foot which was now shoeless. She held on to the grass and tried to catch her breath. Looking around, she could just make out some shadowy shapes in the distance but nothing that looked familiar or could help her decide in what direction she should be heading. Summoning all her energy she stood up and took a couple of unsteady steps away from the sound of the sea, but then with a horrible jolt she found herself submerged up to her waist in the icy cold mud. She let out an involuntary scream. Immediately she worried that someone might have heard her but then realised that was what she needed to happen. She stretched her arms as far as she could but could feel no grass or reeds to get hold of. The cold circle of mud around her body seemed to be creeping higher. She twisted to her left and then the right, but there was nothing but a blanket of blackness surrounding her.
She called out: ‘Help!’ Even to her own ears it sounded feeble. ‘Help me!’ She tried to call louder but it was hopeless. Her violent shivering meant it was almost impossible for her to catch a breath. She could no longer feel her legs. Her flailing hands seemed to be finding more and more water. The tide must be coming in, she thought, and a crescendo of panic was followed by a deep sense of calm. This was to be her end. She let her body go limp and sink a little further. She remembered the story of the man coming home from the pub. They had found his bike. There would be no trace of her. A great tiredness settled upon her and she wondered if she might just fall asleep and never wake up. Warm, why did she feel so warm? She struggled with the buttons at the collar of her coat like a drunk trying to get undressed. The water was lapping around her armpits now. She couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed. The darkness was everywhere.
At first she thought it was a noise in her head. A low growl. Maybe it was the wind. A car? A boat? But then long beams of light were thrust out across the water and Patricia stared at the hollow grey runway of illuminated waves. She half-expected to see something emerge from the surf. Then the beams of light shifted slightly towards her. They were wider and the engine sound was much louder. Finally, the beams hit her full in the face. She closed her eyes and did her best to wave her arms above her head. She tried to yell but couldn’t.
The diesel and smoke of the tractor filled the air and then Edward’s voice.
‘Don’t move. I’m going to get you out. Stay still.’
She saw the outline of him as he walked in front of the tractor’s headlights but then he disappeared. The sound of splashing came from behind her and then she felt a tugging on her coat. Slowly, so slowly, her body shifted up through the mud. Her breasts were free and Edward had his arms around her now, heaving her towards him.
‘I’ve got you. That’s it. I’ve got you. You’re safe now. Gently.’
Eventually her whole body had been freed and she found that she was lying on top of Edward. His chest was rising and falling with the effort of his exertions. He eased himself from beneath her and putting his arms under her, he cradled her like a bride before the threshold. Slowly, taking one careful step at a time, he headed towards the tractor, its engine still running. Patricia pressed her marble-cold face into the heat of his body. She could just make out his voice above the sound of the engine and the wind slapping the sea.
‘Why? Why did you have to come this way? If only you had gone through the paddock. She’ll never let you go now. Never.’
Patricia wasn’t sure, but it sounded as if he was crying.
NOW
It was a long, low building with unpainted grey plaster walls and a short gravel driveway. It looked more like a large bungalow than whatever Elizabeth had imagined a nursing home might be. A chain made of white plastic protected the edges of the square of lawn that ran down to the road where a discreet sign announced that this was Abbey Court Care Home. It seemed so sad to Elizabeth that a man who had spent his life in the rugged splendour she had found at Muirinish should end his days in this bland suburban setting.
Brian pulled the car right up to the door and switched off the engine.
‘So, I’ve got a few bits to do in town. I’ll be back for you in, say, an hour and a half? That sound about right?’
‘Perfect!’
After her initial shock at the news that her father was still alive, Brian had explained that he had just bought the land at Muirinish but that as far as he knew for the last four or five years Edward had been in full-time care. Before she’d had an opportunity to think about it, Brian had offered her a lift to the care home and rung his aunt, who normally only took in visitors during the summer months, but after a brief conversation had agreed to accommodate Elizabeth. It made a refreshing change to have someone else take charge.
The care home was about an hour’s drive inland just outside Clonteer, the nearest town. Elizabeth had been nervous about spending that much time in a car with a total stranger but in fact the conversation flowed easily. At times she felt he was flirting and occasionally she was fairly certain that she was flirting back. Brian was one of those men who seemed very comfortable in their own skin and Elizabeth liked that. He had a confidence and seemed to take pleasure in making her laugh. It was fun to spend time with an unattached man with zero expectations.
After Elliot she had been on a few dates. She’d felt she should, not just to help her get over the humiliation of the divorce but also to reassert herself as a woman who could be attractive to men. It was the end of a relationship, not her life, she reasoned. The love of her life might still be waiting for her.
Well-meaning friends from Hunter had set her up on dates. A professor old enough to be her father, followed by a middle-aged man from Admissions who got so drunk he had been sick on her shoes. She had tried the various apps but after a few dates with men either still obsessed by an ex-wife, not divorced or an extremely noisy eater – other tables had turned to look! – she had decided to just be single for a while. It didn’t help matters that none of her dud dates had bothered to get in touch hoping for a second chance. She appeared to be off the market whether she wanted to be or not. She had her work and her friends and then as Zach got older she found that she had begun to rely on him for company. Now she worried that doing so might have had something to do with the whole Michelle Giardino situation.
‘Are you travelling by yourself?’ Brian had asked.
‘Yes. I have family up the country. My mother died. I’m back to sort things out.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. It’s hard. I lost my mother three years ago.’
‘She’d been ill.’
Elizabeth felt Brian stealing glances at her as they drove along.
‘And have you family waiting for you back in New York?’
‘No. W
ell, a son but he’s visiting his father. I’m divorced.’
‘Snap!’ Brian said with a laugh. ‘Two years. How about you?’
‘Nearly eight for me,’ she replied cheerfully.
‘Turns out living on a farm isn’t that much fun. She … sorry, do you mind me talking about this?’
‘No, not at all. I love hearing about other people’s unhappy relationships.’ They both laughed. ‘Where did you meet?’ Elizabeth asked quickly, to confirm that her interest was genuine.
‘A wedding. Where love stories begin. She was down from Dublin. My friend Kevin was marrying a friend of hers. We hit it off and then we dated long distance for nearly a year before I popped the question.’
‘Had she … what’s her name?’
‘Sara without an “H”.’
‘Had Sara never been to the farm?’
‘She had. I’m not really being fair. It was the winters more than the farm itself. She enjoyed it when she could get out and do things, we had a little boat, but the winters are long.’
‘Any kids?’
‘No kids. We tried but no joy. Now of course I’m so glad. Able to make a clean break of it. What about yourself?’
‘A son.’
‘Yes, you said. I suppose I meant, what went wrong?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Jesus. That bad.’
They turned to each other and grinned.
As Brian drove away, Elizabeth found herself standing in silence outside the glass and pine front door of Abbey Court. She wondered why there were no other cars. Perhaps there was a car park she hadn’t noticed. She crunched across the gravel and tentatively opened the door. Inside was a generous hallway covered in a shiny cream lino. A series of closed doors each had black plastic signs on them. ‘Office’, ‘Staff’, ‘Day Room’. A corridor led in either direction across the back of the space. Elizabeth was just about to knock on the door marked ‘Office’ when a tall, thin man with a shock of ginger hair came around the corner of the corridor. He was carrying a dark blue rucksack, and his tight skinny jeans were punctuated by the sort of heavily padded trainers some of her cooler students wore in New York, but certainly weren’t what she had expected to find in Clonteer.
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