OUT OF THE BLUE a gripping novel of love lost and found

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  Oh, she thinks, if only you knew! Eileen and Maeve wouldn’t give me any credit for how I’ve behaved. Honest-to-goodness love; was such a thing possible once there were splintered marriages and desolate children to consider? Sitting in this pleasant hotel with the radiators humming and the rainy sun on the windows, the comforting echo of pans from an unseen kitchen, preparing the evening menu, she hears the nagging whisper in her ear, honestto-goodness love is what you and Aidan had all those years ago, just the two of you when it was simple and straightforward but not now, not now when there are people who will be damaged in the storm you’ve created.

  ‘You’re being too kind, Douglas,’ is all she says.

  He looks at his hands, examines them as if wondering that they can be his and she thinks of the enormous change he has undergone and if it has left him feeling as shaky and astonished as she has been in these last weeks. His world has turned too, like one of those globes you played with at school, spinning it on its axis to see where it would stop.

  He takes the sugar bowl and tinkers with it, heaping drifts of brown crystals with the tiny spoon. ‘I thought I’d lost you when you decided to come to your cottage. Had I already lost you then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably. I felt lost, you know, abandoned by you. I wasn’t looking for anyone — at least I don’t think I was. I’ve gone through my own changes while you’ve been undergoing your renaissance. That must always be a danger for a couple, mustn’t it, when they have simultaneous but completely different experiences? I think that maybe a relationship can only take one person changing at a time.’

  ‘Well. Perhaps you’re right.’

  He yawns, his eyes watering, clears his throat and squints up at the window behind him. ‘The downpour seems to have stopped. I haven’t had much air today. Fancy a bit of a walk by the river?’ He jerks his chair back and she can see that he’s struggling to keep this mask of restraint that he’s managed to present.

  She looks at her watch. ‘OK, just a stroll. I don’t want to leave it too late before I head back.’

  They walk a little way in silence on the damp pavement, skirting puddles and then stop, resting elbows on the river wall. Lights are switching on in houses as people return from work and they refract on the shifting water. Nearer to him, in the air, she can smell a sharp scent of fear from him. She steels herself not to be moved by it. He whistles a few bars of a tune, ‘Waltzing Matilda’ and she knows from experience that he’s searching for control.

  ‘Aidan is living in the cottage with you, is he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re planning to stay here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What will you do for money?’

  ‘There’s my savings and he has a business. We want to make it a joint venture.’

  ‘I can see his attractions; a sober man who wants to share his days with you.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Have you resigned from your job?’

  ‘I have. We’ll have to sort out the house but there’s no great rush. I’ll come back to see my father and pack stuff up once things are more settled here.’

  ‘Liv.’ He hasn’t spoken her name up to now. It comes as a shock. She’s grown used to hearing Aidan say it in his lighter, softer tone. He isn’t looking at her but at the river. ‘I don’t want you to leave me, but I know it’s probably all too late. I want to be your husband again, your proper, full-time, fully present partner in life. But I’ll understand if that can’t be.’

  She’s filled with a sharp spurt of angry remorse, turning suddenly towards him. ‘Stop this, Douglas.’ She smacks the wall with her hand, hurting the already tender skin. ‘When I think of all the times I’ve pleaded with you, begged you, talked for hours to you, rescued you, covered up for you, dragged you home. And now, after so many years, when I’ve found a smattering of happiness, you tell me a long tale of sobriety and massages and pampering and Joe Stalin, of brand new reserve-tank Douglas, new clothes and I’m all you ever wanted! I admire the timing, the mistiming. Oh, and of course you mix in the usual haven’t-I-been-terrible-but-I-can-change blackmail. My God, what you’ve put me through!’ She’s shouting, reckless, nothing left to lose.

  He props himself against the wall, hugs his jacket together. ‘I can only tell you how sorry I am. It’s not much but it can be a start. It has to be the start.’

  She walks away from him to calm herself, rubs at her furious heart and the rigid anger in her face, paces slowly back. In the lighted window of a house behind them, a man stands holding a cup, his hand raised to draw the curtains. To his side is a woman flicking through letters and a little boy kneeling, watching television, a brightly coloured cartoon. Enough now, she decides.

  ‘I wanted a child,’ she says, speaking intently, urgently to his lowered head, ‘but I never had one because you frittered away my opportunities. I wanted a marriage and a husband who was there but I never could have that either. You’re a selfish, self-absorbed man. Like all addicts, you can’t think beyond your own needs. You weren’t the only one Joe exiled to the tundra, you know, he had me confined in my own private salt mine. Give me one reason, one, why I should believe a word you say, all your fine, lavish, deluded promises about never again and this is it.’

  He buttons his jacket, stands up. ‘I can’t. There’s no reason why you should for one moment believe me. All I can tell you is that I love you and that what I’ve gone through recently has changed me; no, I’ve changed myself. And even if you stay here I’ll still stay changed. No blackmail, you see.’

  A misting rain starts again. She thinks of Aidan back in the cottage, raking the fire, looking anxiously at the clock. He’ll have brought home the details of some builders around the city, they’ve planned to discuss them after supper. She’s so tired of the past that’s standing next to her with all the old stories and spoiled intentions.

  She pulls up the hood of her coat. ‘For the first time in years, there’s someone I’m longing to get home to and who will see me when I walk through the door. I wish you well. I have to go.’

  ‘I’ll walk you to your car.’

  They tread silently, the rising hum of evening traffic masking their steps. She walks fast, keeping her eyes forward. As she unlocks the car he moves back.

  ‘I regret the wasted years, Liv, I regret the waste of you.’

  She can’t speak any more, shakes her head. As she drives away he stands, watching. He doesn’t wave.

  Chapter 12

  Aidan has set a lamp in the window, inside the curtains, a steady yellow beacon to guide her home. She stands by the car for a moment, looking at the single flame and then up at the sky and the dark moon in the hanging stars. Her life is full of such unsought riches. She is almost reluctant to go in and break this magic, this sense of belonging.

  The door opens and he hurries out, wearing his old fleece jacket that smells of mulched forest leaves. He opens his arms and they stand, pressed close. The rain has stopped and the air is drowned and soft with moisture. She feels it on her skin like a balm.

  ‘How was it?’ he asks finally, tentatively.

  She takes folds of his jacket into her hands, squeezes them, and buries her nose in his weft and weave. She would like to climb inside his skin with him. ‘Not so bad. Douglas seems to have kicked the booze. He was looking much better.’

  ‘Was he angry?’

  ‘No. He’s been having a fling with a therapist so he was also feeling guilty. I was the one who got angry. I thought of all the years gone and the squandered time made me livid.’

  ‘I suppose he wants you back.’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Were you tempted?’

  ‘No. Were you worried I might not come back?’

  ‘For one panicky moment. I was thinking of the night I came here to you and you were dancing by yourself, carefree. I’ve brought trouble to you, made you careworn.’

  ‘Are you tempted, when you read the solicitor’s let
ters and think of the rocks ahead?’

  ‘No. I’m thinking of the long, content future with you. Has Douglas gone back?’

  ‘He said he was on a late flight.’

  ‘Well, that’s another difficult bit done.’

  She can feel him trembling with relief. ‘Aidan, can we go down to the well, just for five minutes?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve a big fire going so we can dry off inside.’

  He fetches a torch and they pick their way down through the moist dripping of ferns and bushes. He pulls his fleece around them, settling the torch so that it shines on the water. The hazel tree is a sturdy, consoling presence.

  ‘Nobody would ever know we were in here, tucked away,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t get much better than this little sanctuary. Even the shadows are friendly in here.’

  He feels for her hand. ‘I rang a solicitor today, a specialist in family law. I gave her a brief outline and she said she’d take me on. I’ve an appointment tomorrow. So, we’re on our way.’

  She rests back against him. ‘Why is the moon so dark? You know, sometimes you suddenly realize how little you know. There’s the moon, suspended in the sky and I don’t understand why it has different shapes and colours. I know that it controls the tides and that poets are inspired by it.’

  ‘That’s a new moon. The sun and moon are in conjunction, which is why it’s so dark. In folklore, it’s supposed to mean a time of renewal and hope.’

  ‘Are you inventing that last bit, to make me feel better?’ She looks up at him, kisses his chin.

  ‘No, not at all.’ He pulls her closer, tucks the fleece more firmly around her. ‘I was helping Carmel with her homework a while ago, a project on the night sky. I learned all kinds of fascinating things. It’s also a symbol of female strength, the new moon, and it affects the movement of fluids in plants, because it influences the water table. And it’s a good time to sow seeds, under this moon. There are books about planting gardens in conjunction with the moon’s phases. According to lunar planting lore, root plants should be put in the ground during a waning moon, because that’s when moisture content in the soil is low.’

  ‘Maybe we should try it, lunar planting. We could have a test area and compare it with our other crops.’

  ‘Good idea, then we could sell moon vegetables; loony leeks.’

  ‘Potty parsnips.’

  ‘Crazy carrots.’

  ‘What a life we’re going to have.’

  ‘What a life.’

  She throws a stone into the well, watches the ripples in the torchlight. ‘Did you hear from anyone in Castlegray today, from Maeve or Carmel?’ She crosses her fingers as she asks.

  He hesitates for a moment, spinning the torch beam across the water. ‘No,’ he lies. Why spoil this?

  ‘I wonder, does the new moon signal an urgent need for lovemaking?’ She kneels up on the damp earth, eases back the fleece, and tastes the chill dew on his warm lips.

  * * *

  Aidan is the lighter sleeper and he wakes first, just after midnight, aware of a different and familiar scent in the room. Apples, he registers, shoving the eiderdown away from his face, glancing at his mobile phone to see the time. The new moon casts no light through the thin curtains but the blue glow from his phone picks out her shadow. He sits up slowly, peering upwards.

  Maeve is there, standing at the end of the mattress. He can just make out her hair, fanning over her shoulders, recently washed. She’s wearing a light belted cream jacket with wide sleeves that adds to her ghost-like appearance.

  ‘Hallo, Aidan. I was wondering how long it would be before you woke up. You always heard a pin drop. You sleep more soundly here. That surprises me.’

  ‘What are you doing here? How did you get in?’

  ‘You left your back door open. I walked in.’

  Liv is waking, turning on to one elbow. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Maeve,’ he says. ‘It’s Maeve.’

  ‘What?’ She looks at him, then turns her head, sits up.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ Maeve says. She switches on the tiny but powerful pencil torch she’s carrying, flashes it around the room. ‘It’s a bit basic,’ she says, tapping the torch against her knee so that the beam plays back and forth across the end of the mattress and Aidan’s bare feet.

  Aidan stretches for his jumper and jeans, pulls them on. Liv’s clothes aren’t within reach. She hoists the sheet around her shoulders. Aidan switches their torch on, lays it on the floor so that it’s pointing at the wall, back lighting.

  ‘What are you doing here, Maeve? Who’s with Carmel?’ He kneels on the bed, finding his glasses, focusing.

  Maeve has that tight, fixed look. ‘Oh, nice of you to be worried about Carmel. You didn’t reply to her phone calls today, though.’

  Liv glances at him. He keeps his gaze on Maeve. ‘Why are you here?’ he asks again.

  ‘I just wanted to see. I wanted to see what’s better than us. I was in bed, our bed, what used to be our bed, and I had a hankering to see your new home. It’s hard sleeping when you keep thinking of your husband with another woman. It tends to stop you sleeping, actually. Has that ever happened to you?’ she asks Liv, swiftly pointing the torch at her.

  Liv blinks, shades her eyes. ‘No, that hasn’t happened to me.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ She shifts her bag on her shoulder. ‘Yes, lucky old you.’

  ‘Where is Carmel?’ Aidan asks again.

  ‘What do you care? She was in tears this evening, wanted her daddy. She has a gum infection from the brace so we had to go back to the dentist today. She’s on antibiotics. The poor little girl’s feeling lousy. She wanted her daddy but he wasn’t there. Daddy had switched his phone off, or wasn’t answering.’

  Maeve sways a little, side to side. Liv shivers. She wonders if Maeve has been drinking but there’s no smell of booze, just a soapy scent. She’s speaking in a matter of fact monotone, almost as if she’s talking about other people, another family entirely. The torch is hurting Liv’s eyes as the beam swings across the room.

  ‘I think it would be best if we all went downstairs,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, do you?’ Maeve asks and it’s as if she’s revved up, changed gear suddenly. Her voice surges with power. ‘Who asked your opinion? I was talking to my husband. I suppose you’ll allow that?’

  ‘Look . . .’

  ‘No, you look. I’ve looked, I’ve seen enough, standing here waiting for you two to wake up. It’s foolish to leave a door unlocked, even around here, you could be murdered in your bed.’

  ‘Maeve, Maeve,’ says Aidan. ‘Don’t do this, this isn’t like you, saying such things, acting this way.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Maybe not. Maybe you don’t really know yourself or what you can do until the chips are down, the fat’s in the fire.’ She claws her bag from her shoulder, snatches at the clasp and takes out a long, thin knife, a vegetable knife, points it at Liv. ‘Why do you want to take my husband? Haven’t you one of your own back in England or are you greedy, do you need two? Look at you, you never expected this, did you? It’s not so easy having to face the person you’ve stolen from.’

  Aidan stands, holds his hands out, palms downwards. ‘Maeve, stop this. This is no way to go on, it solves nothing.’

  She looks at him, head on one side. ‘Doesn’t it? It’d solve a lot if I shoved this into your woman there. That’s what I’d like to do, all right. Then she could feel some pain. At least I’d be stabbing her in the front, not the back.’

  He takes a step towards her. ‘If you’re going to stick it anyone, stick it in me. I’m the one who chose to leave. I’m the one who has run out on you, taken advantage of your kind nature, left you in an empty, lonely bed. I’m the one, Maeve, aren’t I?’

  She waves the knife at him and makes a noise in her throat, her mouth working, distorting, shaking her head. Her whole body starts trembling. Bending, falling to her knees, she holds the knife in her two hands, stabbing again and again into the mattress. And
as she stabs she starts moaning, an awful enraged noise. You would never have thought that such a howling could come from such a petite, softly spoken woman.

  Liv feels the pounding of the mattress jar through her bones, as if the blade has indeed sliced into her. As Maeve finally collapses over the knife she comes to her senses, finds and fumbles on her dressing gown. Aidan kneels by his wife, extricates the knife and throws it behind him. It clatters against the skirting and comes to rest in the shadows. He takes the sobbing Maeve in his arms and rocks her. ‘Shhshhshh,’ he says, ‘no harm done, shh.’

  Liv watches, leaning against the washstand. She recollects the first time she saw Maeve in the market, busy with her shopping, linking with her husband, smiling, leaning into him. She has never before seen someone’s face collapse, crumple in misery. There is a kind of heat in the room, the fever of despair. Liv tastes it in her throat, a thick, rancid coating. She can’t look any more. It feels as if she’s been standing there for hours. Turning away, she lights a lamp, finds their torch and switches it off. Maeve’s has shattered from where she let it fall. She stands, the lamp in her hand as Maeve’s sobbing slows. Aidan looks at her over his wife’s head, his eyes blank, lost.

  ‘I don’t know how Maeve got here,’ Liv says quietly, ‘but you’d better take her home, Aidan and see to her and Carmel. You should probably call a doctor.’

  He swallows, nods. ‘Maeve, how did you get here?’

  ‘Taxi,’ she whispers.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he says. ‘Come on now. Time to go home.’

  Liv follows them down the stairs, fetches him a coat. Maeve opens the front door and drifts outside, as if they’re not there, a spectre against the dark green bushes, like one of the spirits that Nanna believed roamed in the glen.