* * *
Liv hears the van pull away and starts a letter to Douglas. They have agreed that he will see his daughter and she will tell her husband. She feels bereft and anxious with Aidan gone away from the fastness of the glen, back into that other hostile territory. There is so much to do and yet they’ve only had just over a week together. At the same time, it seems as if all the years in between have fallen away, insignificant now.
‘Douglas, I have to tell you . . .’ she writes. The clock ticks loudly on the dresser and the measure of time passing seems menacing. She gets up and put the clock in a drawer, face down. Now she can hear her own breathing, feel the pumping of her surging heart. What if the sight of Maeve and Carmel, the tears and sadness make him change his mind? She couldn’t blame him if his mind was changed; he is, in the end, making the bigger sacrifice. She dries the breakfast dishes and sweeps the floor, scrubs the table. She throws the dust out; the day is hot and bright outside, beckoning.
She is digging the garden fast, turning the soil on the bed they have marked for carrots, wanting to speed the morning along, when Owen calls a greeting.
‘I’ve been trying to ring,’ he says, ‘but your phone goes to message.’
‘Sorry, I’ve been a bit preoccupied.’
He takes his hat off, dusts it against his forearm, like a cowboy. ‘So I hear, so I hear.’
She pushes the fork in, rests her foot on the top. ‘You know, then?’
‘I imagine there aren’t many people who don’t know, except maybe the natives of the upper Amazon. Once Eileen has information, you might as well broadcast it on the news.’ He bends a knee and rests his forearm across his thigh, scans the horizon.
She rubs her hands together slowly, feeling the ridges of the fork handle imprinted on her palms. He touches her arm. She puts a hand over his, patting it, as if it’s he who needs reassurance.
‘It’s all been very sudden, Owen. I knew Aidan a long time ago. What we had has been rekindled, unexpectedly, amazingly. I didn’t mean any of this to happen.’
‘No. And is he moving in here now?’
‘Yes. We were found out and that pre-empted everything. His wife told him to leave. He’s gone to see Carmel.’
He nods, takes his tobacco tin out, extracts a roll-up. ‘Your peace that you had here is vanished so.’
‘For now. We’ll rebuild it.’
He looks at her, a kind, knowing glance, then into the flare of his lighter. ‘As with all stories, there are different versions around the place. One is the predator account, that you came here on purpose to seek him out.’
‘That’s rubbish. I had no idea that Aidan lived here. Who’s saying that?’
‘I had it from the butcher who had it third-hand from someone unnamed. It doesn’t matter, it’s being said and you might as well try and stop the tide coming in as attempt to stem the talk. Worse will be said, you can be sure of that. You’re an outsider and you’ve thrown pebbles in the pond.’
He draws deep on his cigarette. A robin hops nearby, grabbing one of the worms she’s turned up. There’s still a haze in the day that will join the cooling mists of the afternoon. The sun is slowly losing its strength and the evenings are falling faster. She remembers her mother wandering the garden, avoiding the nettles and cowpats from the odd heifer that strayed through, saying ‘Sometimes this place feels like the edge of the universe.’
‘I love him, Owen. He’s all I want in life.’
‘I’m sure. He’s a good man. Look after yourself, Liv, that’s all. The world’s a cold place when you’re an outsider.’
‘We know it won’t be easy. Nothing worth having is, is it?’
‘True enough. But explaining that to Carmel; there’s the rub. Have you told your husband?’
‘I’ve just written to him. He’s staying somewhere at the moment where I can’t ring him.’
‘Ah, well, at least that’ll give him time to absorb the shock.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Bridget must be spinning beyond in her grave. That robin there’s a bold fellow, this must be his territory.’
They watch the bird hopping and pausing for juicy snacks. She looks at Owen’s creased face, the slight drop of his shoulders. She takes his hat from his hand and neatens the brim.
‘At least you don’t disapprove of me?’ She tilts her face to him, jaw up.
He laughs, coughing, rolling his eyes back. ‘If I did, it would be a definite case of pots and kettles! I have no moral high ground, Liv, I’m like the robin; I just patrol my own bit of ground and watch the world go by.’
She reaches up and places his hat on his head, taps it down. ‘You’ll have a cup of tea with me then, even though I’m a Jezebel?’
‘Lead the way, scarlet woman, I’ve a thirst on me that would drink an oasis dry.’
She wedges the fork into the earth, dusts her hands off. As she brews up she tells him of the wallpaper they’re going to start putting up later in the afternoon, the design they’ve done for the garden, the new, more extensive plans for the cottage, the message she’s left for Marty. Bent over the fire, her back to him, she doesn’t see the anxious flickering of his eyes, the twitch of tension around his mouth.
* * *
Aidan takes his key out of his pocket but then thinks better of it, rings the doorbell to his own house. The street is hushed and he can’t help feeling that there are eyes at windows. Cooking smells float on the air — frying onions and the darker whiff of meat. This is still a country where there are some women at home making a hot midday meal. Eileen opens the door after a long pause, looks him up and down, then turns abruptly and goes back into the living-room, leaving him to shut the door and follow her. He might have known she’d be here, should have expected it but his head was too full of seeing his daughter, rehearsing what he’d say.
Maeve is sitting in the same chair he last saw her in. She’s wearing an old T-shirt and jeans, the clothes she wears for doing housework. She’s ashen, no make-up, her hair drawn tightly back into a ponytail. She hasn’t washed it, he can see, it’s lank and lustreless. Without cosmetics, the blue veins are apparent beneath her fine skin. Eileen looks robust, dressed in a red skirt with a wide leather belt, the light of battle in her eyes. She has pulled a chair up to sit beside her daughter and he stands before them. It reminds him of being called to the headmaster’s study.
‘Where’s Carmel?’ he asks.
‘She’s at a friend’s,’ Eileen replies.
He looks at Maeve. ‘I thought we’d agreed I could see her this morning, take her for a walk, and get a bite to eat.’
Eileen reaches out and takes one of Maeve’s hands between her own, patting it. ‘Maeve has talked it over with me. There’s no question of you taking Carmel out anywhere. You can see her here or not at all. I’d say Maeve is being very kind, letting you see her anyway. But I suppose at the end of the day you are her father, even if you’re not much of one.’
‘Is that what you want, Maeve?’
She looks through him. ‘Yes.’
‘And Mr Riordan is going to act for Maeve,’ Eileen continues, as if neither of them had spoken. ‘For sure, you’re going to be held to account for all of this — and you’ll pay your whack, too. There’ll be sleepless nights for you ahead, me bucko, and for that one over in her little love nest. Here, pet.’ She hands Maeve a tissue.
He rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, tries to moisten his lips. ‘Maeve, you can have the house, there’s no question of that.’
She looks down, flinches. Her mother snorts, folding her arms. Her stony eyes and mouth flash disgust.
‘That’s very generous of you, very big of you. The house is just the start of it, there’s maintenance for your family too, and other expenses. Riordan will be in touch, you’ll be getting a letter.’
He tries again. ‘Maeve, do we have to start this solicitor stuff so soon? We can talk to each other first, can’t we?’
‘Oh for sure, you’d like that,’ Eileen laughs
. ‘You think you can get Maeve to agree to things being your way, work on her while she’s half out of her mind? Well, you can think again so put that in your pipe and smoke it.’ She nods and slaps her knee.
‘All right, Eileen,’ he says. ‘I get the message.’
‘Oh do you, indeed. A lovely situation you’ve created here; Maeve and myself off work, Carmel not at school. It’s well for you of course, with your woman and her inheritance, I suppose you’re planning to be a gentleman of leisure.’
He makes a hopeless gesture with his hands, goes and props himself against the wall, runs his fingers through his hair. He has been written into a story now and he doesn’t know where the plot is going; all he knows is that he’s the villain. He is reminded of one of those books Carmel has, where you are offered several options at the end of each chapter and you can choose how the narrative will proceed.
Maeve stirs, folds her hands in her lap. She is wearing slippers with no socks and her feet look naked, bony and chilled. She always has cold feet; his job has been to warm them at night, tucked between his calves. He can’t bear to look at them, they speak to him of misery more than her face or her puffy eyes or the box of tissues at her elbow.
‘Can you fetch Carmel, Mummy?’ Her voice is dull, barely audible.
Eileen rises. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’ She walks in front of Aidan, shoves her face close to his so that he can smell her milky breath. ‘You might find your woman in the cottage has bitten off more than she can chew. There’s more ways than one to skin a cat.’
He recoils, seeing the two red spots in her cheeks; her blood is up.
‘Oh yes, mister, you should be worried.’ She holds a finger up to him. ‘Don’t you be upsetting my daughter while I’m gone.’
He registers that as she goes out, Eileen leaves the front door ajar, as if he’s some kind of thief or desperado, not to be trusted. Maybe, he thinks, she’ll put Wanted posters up in the town. He walks over to the hamster cage, softly taps the side. Boris emerges sleepily from under a pile of sawdust and looks at him, nose twitching. He’s glad of what seems a friendly glance. He angles the water nozzle lower, for something to do. Maeve blows her nose, sighs. He suddenly recalls the day they moved into the house and ate fish and chips sitting on the carpet, before the removal lorry arrived. They’d all been ravenous; it was the best meal they’d ever had, he and Maeve had agreed later.
‘Maeve, I’m sorry.’
She rises, picks up the tissues. ‘I’m going upstairs. You can have one hour with Carmel, down here. Don’t say anything to cause her any more distress. It would help if you could get her to eat something, she’s off her food. My mother will see you out.’
‘We will need to talk at some point, sort out when I’ll see Carmel. I’ve had four text messages from her. She needs me; whatever fights or recriminations we’re going to have, she needs me.’
Maeve hugs the tissue box, rocks it like a baby. When she speaks it’s in a faraway voice, as if she’s preoccupied. ‘Carmel does need you, that’s certainly true. She’s needed you since the day she was born. You’ve always been able to make her smile. I can’t do that, I haven’t got that talent. But none of that seems to be your priority now.’
‘Carmel will always be a priority, I think you know that. I’m talking about the arrangements we’ll need to make based on the future, on my living at Glenkeen.’ He hears his voice rushing out roughly, swallows to moderate it.
‘Glenkeen; beautiful glen. Isn’t it funny how places can be completely misnamed? What would I call it? I think, I think it would be . . . Greasan Breag.’
‘And that means?’
‘That means web of deceit. It would be more suitable, I’d say.’
‘Maeve, please — it doesn’t help, being like this.’
‘No?’ She glances his way then, her eyes sliding across him. ‘Well, any more talking can be done through Mr Riordan. I understand that’s the best way. He’ll draw up a plan about Carmel, too. Now I’m so tired, I must lie down for a bit.’
She leaves the room silently, feeling her way through the door like a blind person. He bears down on the back of the nearest chair for support, squeezing his hands against the wooden frame, closing his eyes tight and seeing a conflagration of leaping colours. Then he hears the clatter of speeding feet and his daughter flies into the room, throws her arms around his waist, nearly knocking him off balance. They clutch each other, the only sound her ragged breathing.
Eileen has gone upstairs, her tread heavy and warning: I’ve got my eye on you, it says. He’s persuaded Carmel to share a tin of tomato soup with him and for her to make toast while he stirs the comforting red liquid.
‘I don’t know what it is about canned tomato soup,’ he says, ‘but it always hits the spot when you’re under the weather. I’d recommend it to the clientele in my restaurant any time, when they’re looking a bit peaky. I call it the Back on Your Feet menu.’
She’s playing along with him, pretending things are normal. She keeps looking towards the door.
‘Do you want your toast light, mid or very brown, sir?’
‘Oh, very, I think. It goes better with the colour of the soup and I do feel it enhances the flavour. Shall we be really naughty and have trays on our laps?’
‘OK.’ Her movements are listless and she has her hair in tangled bunches. One of her socks is cream, the other white.
‘Now, you remember the secret to delicious tomato soup?’
She shakes her head, digging the knife into the butter so that it screeches on the dish.
‘Never let it boil, just heat very slowly to good and warm.’
They sit in the living-room with their trays, sipping in silence. She dips her toast in her soup, spattering some.
‘I hope Boris has been behaving. He looks perky.’
She shrugs. ‘I think so.’
‘Is it just today you’ve been off school?’ he asks.
‘Yes. Mummy said it would be best to stay here because you were coming. I’m missing my French test. I’d learned all the tenses of Manger and Avoir.’
‘I’m sorry about that. The learning won’t be wasted, though. I got your text messages, Carmel.’
‘I thought you’d send me one but you didn’t.’
‘No, I wanted to see you.’
She raises her large, limpid eyes to him, spoon hovering mid-air. ‘Don’t you want to live with us anymore?’
At that moment, he can’t take a breath, thinks that his heart might have stopped. Her eyes were the first thing he noticed the moment she was born. The midwife had raised her up and she had looked straight at him as if to say, I know you. He gives up the pretence of eating, puts his tray down.
‘It’s not that, Carmelita. I love someone. Her name is Liv, she’s the lady you’ve met a couple of times, the one who helped you that night with your homework.’
‘Don’t you love Mummy?’
‘Yes, I do. But I want to be with Liv. It’s complicated, but I’ll sort it out, I promise. You can come and stay with us, when the time is right. I’m not far away, you know, only about ten miles.’
She scuffs her heel on the carpet, rocking the tray. ‘But I want you to live here. I don’t like it without you. Mummy cries and she’s cross with me.’
He leans forward in his chair. ‘Mummy’s not cross with you, she’s just upset. It’s me she’s cross with. It will be OK, I promise.’
Her face crumples. ‘I want you to come home.’
‘Carmelita . . .’ He gets up to cuddle her, take her on his knee, tell her she’s his best girl but she lets out a wail and jerks the tray in the air. A red waterfall sprays to the carpet, the bowl flying across the room and shattering against the fireplace. He ignores the mess, grabs his sobbing daughter in a tight hug as Eileen and Maeve run into the room. Eileen’s skirt and the soup are the same colour and he thinks that it’s a handy coincidence as she stoops to pick up the smashed china, her hem dipping in the liquid. He looks at Maeve over
his daughter’s head and is alarmed by the blank, fixed desolation in her usually serene eyes.
Chapter 11
They lie in the bath in front of the fire. It is filled almost to the brim, the steaming water pine scented with salts to ease their grumbling muscles, exercised by an afternoon’s digging. They have prepared beds for early spring sowing and cut back straggling bushes, removed stones, set up a compost stack, working easily around each other, talking only occasionally, stopping now and then to consult, exchange kisses or a touch. Now and again one would glance at the other, checking, confirming, reassuring. They like to keep in each other’s sights. They worked until the sun was fading and the mauve evening hastening towards them on a gathering breeze that worried at their bare arms.
‘That’s the dying of the year now, you can feel it in the wind and see the tired dimness in the sky. The sun is growing shy.’
Aidan had put his arm around her as he spoke and she was glad of his body heat. A shiver of melancholy ran along her spine when she sniffed the sourness that came from the earth as it cooled, thought of the long winter nights stacking before them. It was the end of October when her mother died and that same tart tang had clung to the clods in the rain-blown cemetery. Since that afternoon, she has felt a falling in her heart, like an ominous minor chord, when the evenings draw in. For the first time, she wonders what her father will say when he hears the news from the glen but she pushes the thought away; she hasn’t the wit or inclination to deal with that just now.
OUT OF THE BLUE a gripping novel of love lost and found Page 18