The small snap next to this was taken many years later. It showed Catherine and Alice sitting on the terrace at Morne, with Duncan in riding clothes leaning rakishly against a wall, and Lizzie standing with a tea tray she had just picked up from the table. Catherine was just eighteen then. Typically, both she and her mother were laughing.
The tea had begun awkwardly, he remembered. It had soon become clear
that the invitation had been Lizzie’s alone, that
Duncan regarded it as a familiarity too far. For Duncan, Terry Devlin was still the ungrateful odd-job man who, at considerable inconvenience to the family, had stopped turning up with any regularity some four years before. Even in the days when Terry had managed to get back every month or so to do the light repairs, Duncan had failed to grasp the fact that he was busy running two pizza restaurants and fitting out three more and could no longer drop everything to fix a loose slate.
Fragments of that day had stayed with Terry. From old habit, and perhaps a sense of irony, he had walked round to the side of the house and presented himself at the back door. He had an image of Lizzie welcoming him into the kitchen with a small cry of delight, of the two of them exchanging news secretively before they could be interrupted.
The weather had been fine enough for them to sit on the terrace, which neatly avoided the awkwardness of choosing drawing room versus kitchen. He remembered Catherine appearing from the garden, a figure grown taller and fuller and astonishingly self-possessed. Humming some pop tune, she strode past him into the house with a sidelong glance, a lift of one eyebrow and a brief careless hello, the effect of which would have been splendidly sophisticated if she hadn’t pulled a larky schoolgirl grimace at the last moment. Alice’s arrival was a more muted affair involving a silent approach, a flop into the remotest chair, downcast eyes and a series of monosyllabic responses. When Catherine reappeared, it was to take centre stage, with the recital of a series of extravagant tales, unashamedly featuring herself and her escapades, told amid excessive laughter and much twisting of her head and arching of her neck and other postures intended to beguile. Some might have judged her rather too full of herself, and there was no doubting that she enjoyed an audience, but Terry put her exuberance down to an understandable excitement at being young and pretty and fancy-free, and the discovery that in a troubled and gloomy world vivacity set you apart.
When they had finally exhausted the subject of Catherine,
she fixed him with a challenging look. “So, Mr. Devlin,” it had always been Terry before, and now she put a droll stress on the Mr. ‘everyone says you’re going very well, raking it in with all these restaurants. How nice to be rich!”
“Ah. It’s the bank that’s rich. I just keep them in profit.”
“You’re going to be rich, then!”
He laughed. “Well, I’m going to avoid being poor, that’s for sure.”
“So, how will you spend it all? Cars? Houses? Planes?”
“I hadn’t thought that far.”
She gave a cry of mock horror. “Of course you have! Don’t be so ridiculous! You’ve planned a Ferrari, a mansion in the country, a string of horses, enormous parties. Oh, please say you’ve got it all planned!”
Lizzie was eyeing her daughter tolerantly but also a little wearily.
Alice, staring fiercely into the garden, muttered in a tone of disgust, “Oh, for God’s sake.”
“I think I’ve got everything I want for the time being.”
“But that’s hopeless!” Catherine groaned. “I expected bigger and better things from you!”
Terry pretended to search his mind. “I do have a new car on order.”
Catherine shot forward in her seat. “A Porsche? No, no She flapped a delaying hand. “A Merc convertible?”
“An Alfa. And not even the top model, I’m afraid.”
Alice murmured, “He’s already got an Alfa.”
“Have you? Have you?” Enjoying this flurry of her own making, not wanting it to end, Catherine wrinkled up her nose in disappointment. “And you’re getting another”} Oh, how boring!”
It was then that Terry became aware of Duncan. For most of the meal Duncan had worn a distant inattentive expression, overlaid by the slightly glazed smile that was so characteristic of him. Now he was watching Terry with a glimmer of interest.
Later, while Lizzie and the girls were carrying the tea things into the house, Duncan launched into a monologue about European Community grants and interest rates and business conditions. “Things are going pretty well already, of course, and are undoubtedly going to get better, but I’ve decided we’d be wise to tie up with an outfit in Britain, spread the risk, if you like.”
Failing to see the logic of this, Terry murmured noncommittally “Aha.”
“People are getting far more confident about wine, you know. Bulk buying’s going to be the big thing, no doubt about that, and we’ve got a real chance of cornering the market. This tie-in’s going to let us negotiate the best possible terms.”
“What sort of volume are you handling, Duncan?”
“Oh .. . pretty large, pretty large.”
Terry found himself having doubts about this. In the same instant, he had a good idea of where the conversation was leading.
“You offer wine in your pizza places?” Duncan asked.
“Most certainly. We try to cover a reasonable price range. Not just plonk.”
“And who does your buying?”
He described their arrangement with a major wine importer.
“Well!” Duncan tapped the arm of his chair. “We might be able to do something for you, you know. At least as good as they can, and probably a lot better. Why don’t we talk? Never know, could be something in it for both of us.”
“Delighted.” As Terry handed him a card, he couldn’t help wondering if his diplomatic skills were going to be up to the situation.
Duncan smiled magnanimously. “Glad you’re doing so well, Terry. Always nice to see a local chap getting on.” He stood up and surveyed the view. “Well, must go and deal with the horses. Oh, yes!” He held up a forefinger, as if the matter had just come back to him. “Terrible trouble finding anyone to repair the boiler. You wouldn’t know of a good plumber by any chance? The chaps round here can’t seem to handle it.”
When Terry phoned around he discovered that, in company with most other tradespeople in the area, the local plumbers were not prepared to call at Morne because of a long-standing problem with unpaid bills. In the end he sent one of his contract plumbers down from Dublin at his own expense.
It was a year later, when Lizzie had her first brush with cancer, that Duncan touched him for a personal loan.
So, he asked himself again, what is to be salvaged?
With a troubled heart, he drew out some paper, picked up his pen and began to draft a letter.
He began Dear Cathy, only to cross this out and replace it with Dear Catherine. Formality seemed more appropriate in the circumstances.
I trust you will not feel I have overstepped the bounds of our acquaintance and what I hope, despite everything, to be our friendship, but I should tell you that I have phoned the hospital several times to ask how you were, and trust that you will not take this interest in your wellbeing amiss, but accept it as an expression of my continuing concern and affection .. .
No, no! He’d started from entirely the wrong angle! No, this sounded terrible! Crass! He ran a line through the words and, crushing the page into a ball, threw it into the bin.
Taking another sheet, he stared at it for some time before starting again.
Dear Catherine, I trust you continue to make progress. I hope you will
not mind if I phone the nurses now and again to ask how you are (I have in fact called once or twice already). I realise that I may be overstepping the bounds of what you may regard as .. .
With a sigh, he dropped the pen and slowly tore the page into small pieces. Never had he felt the cost of his misspent schooldays more keen
ly. Over the years he had taught himself to write business letters in a reasonably proficient manner, he could argue contracts and figures any day, but this how to strike the right note, how to communicate one thing without letting slip another, to convey regret without guilt, concern without anger it was beyond him.
Abandoning the letter, at least for today, he called Bridget and asked her to arrange for another posy to be made from the final flush of May flowers at Morne, put on ice and flown to London as soon as possible.
“Will there be a note?”
He hesitated. “Not this time. Just a card, saying it’s from Terry.”
“With best wishes?”
At first he said no, thinking that it sounded too impersonal, then changed his mind: detachment was more appropriate. “Yes, best wishes.”
Before ringing off he asked for the messages. He noted there was nothing from London, no delay to the evening meeting.
On impulse, he said, “Tell Pat seven thirty for the car, would you?”
He would be fifteen minutes late because he could not bear the idea of having to sit and wait for Ben Galitza for so much as a single second, certainly not in the hotel that was probably the most public place to meet in all Dublin, and certainly not in a hotel that wasn’t one of his own and where he wouldn’t be able to busy himself talking to the staff. The Shelbourne had been Galitza’s choice, and while Terry was in favour of neutral ground, he would have preferred somewhere more discreet.
The call had come through to Bridget first thing that morning. Thoroughly startled, heart in mouth, he had taken it immediately expecting what, for God’s sake? News of Catherine? News of the police investigation? Fury? Accusations? Apologies? If the call hadn’t taken him so completely by surprise he would have remembered that this was not Galitza’s style at all, that Galitza had a breathtaking capacity for insensitivity. The voice had wrenched Terry back three years, to the joint venture on the west-coast hotel that had gathered so much speed so quickly that it seemed nothing could stop it. The voice was the same: cool, clipped, succinct. Catherine was ‘recovering’, Galitza had replied to Terry’s enquiry, before going straight on to the matter in hand. He would like a meeting. As soon as possible. He would fly over. Terry had agreed immediately, which came as a surprise to neither of them. Whatever else, Galitza knew his man.
He hadn’t said why he was coming of course; but then he hadn’t needed to. Terry had never had the slightest doubt as to his purpose. The question was, how much would he have the nerve to ask for?
At ten to six Terry checked the battery and signal strength on his mobile and replaced it on the desk before him. Fergal was now almost an hour late with his report. In his general anxiety, he wondered if something had gone wrong, if Fergal had been caught or warned off. But he knew that this was to fall victim to paranoia, to overlook Fergal’s experience and his infinite capacity for caution.
As if on cue a phone rang, but it wasn’t the mobile, it was the house line. He answered it all the same.
“It’s Dinah.” Her voice was smooth and warm as ever.
“Well now, how are you?” he asked, with as much affection as he could muster.
“Oh fine, but what about you?” This was her way, always to turn the subject round to him, to ask after his welfare.
“Not a great day, I have to say.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “And how’s Maeve?”
“Oh, so-so.”
“And the food? Is she managing a bit more?”
“A little more, you know.”
“I got the phone number of that doctor everyone recommends so highly, the one in Howth. Would you like it? He’s meant to be a marvel.”
“Perhaps .. . would you hang on to it? Maybe in a week or so.”
Dinah left it there. She never pushed her ideas, never tried to impose on him. In this, as in so many other ways, he could not fault her. Terry knew that if he had more sense he would persuade himself that he loved her, in so far as he understood what he meant by that nowadays; he would tell himself that she would be a good thing for him, that in her calm and accomplished way she would make him comfortable and content. Yet he retreated from the idea, some deep and stubborn part of him could not accept it, and this knowledge brought a weight of guilt. Sometimes when he stopped to think about it, it seemed to him that guilt had become the overriding emotion in his relationship with Dinah. He felt it now, corroding his thoughts.
She said, “You’ll be busy then, with Maeve.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Perhaps next week.”
“Of course.” Her tone, as always, was light and without reproach. “Now tell me, do you like the curtains? You must say if you don’t, because if you don’t I can alter them, change the trimmings or whatever.”
His mind was a blank. “The curtains?”
She laughed softly. “You obviously haven’t been into the drawing room.”
“Give me a moment.” He picked up the portable extension and, almost tripping over Conn who dashed past him to the door, took it across the hall to the room that she called the drawing room but which he’d always been happy to call the lounge. He stared in astonishment at the mass of drapery bunched around the bay window and adjacent french windows. The curtains were huge and richly shaded in deep red and cream, with ornate curved pelmets and long tassels and great loops of fabric caught back from the windows.
“My goodness.”
“Do you like them?”
He had no idea what he liked or might be persuaded to like; no idea what was appropriate for a house such as this. In truth, he’d been quite happy with the way the room had looked before. It was only when Mrs. Ellis pointed out the need for some new chair covers and a lick of paint, that he’d realised it’d been nine years since anything had been done, since two years before his wife’s death. Friends had recommended Dinah for the work, and the next moment, or so it seemed, he’d found himself dining with her and signing up for a total refurbishment.
“Well, have a think about it,” she said.
“I’m sure they’re fine,” he declared, though even as he said this he knew the decor was too rich and heavy for his taste and that if he had any courage at all he should tell her. Following on from this came the knowledge that he owed her other far more important truths, and that here too he was a terrible coward. He should tell her what a poor prospect he was for her, how through no fault of her own he was not husband material, but the time never seemed right, in these troubled times least of all.
“You sound rather down,” she said.
“I am a little.”
“You don’t want me to come over for half an hour?”
This offer was made in a spirit of generosity, he knew, but he refused it none the less.
“Terry,” she said with uncharacteristic hesitation, “I hate to mention it when you’ve so much on your mind, but the holiday, it’s getting late to book. Are we still on?”
He had forgotten, or had chosen to forget, that in three weeks they were meant to be going to Royal Ascot for a couple of days, then on to the South of France for a short break. “Oh heavens, Dinah, I don’t know .. .” She made no sound, but he knew she would have been planning for it, would have bought a hat, an outfit. Steeling himself to take the sensible option, he said, “Look, perhaps it would be safer to count me out for the summer, until things get clearer.”
She said evenly, “Of course.” Then: “We could always keep it to Ascot, couldn’t we? Just a couple of days.”
“Best not. Too chancy He heard a distant ringing and realised it was his mobile, back in the study. “Speak later!” Cutting Dinah off without chance of reply, he hurried to answer the call before the message service picked up.
“Sorry I was a bit delayed,” said Fergal in his unhurried tones.
“Nothing wrong?” asked Terry, clambering breathlessly into his chair.
“No. Fine.”
“So?”
“So she’s regained consciousness.”
It
was on the tip of Terry’s tongue to admit that he already knew this, but he checked himself. He didn’t want to confess to having made the call.
“And she’s lucid,” Fergal continued, ‘which is a good indication for
brain damage, by which, of course, I mean lack of brain damage ‘
“She’s talking?”
“And seeing. There’s a question mark over the hearing -may be damage to one ear. But the other’s fine.”
Terry shuddered with relief and anguish.
Fergal went on in his soft educated voice, “They operated yesterday afternoon, as planned, and they’re pleased with the way it went.
They’ve also done a further round of X-rays and CT scans, so they’ve
got as clear a picture as they’re going to get for the moment ‘
“What is the picture?”
A moment while Fergal phrased his answer. “It’s as they first thought the spinal cord is damaged.”
“For certain?”
“For certain.”
“The operation they couldn’t fix it?”
“Spinal cord damage can’t be fixed, Terry.”
Fergal never referred to him as Terry never called him by any name at all in fact and the unexpectedness of this only served to drive home the dread finality of his words. Terry heard an escape of breath and realised it was his own. “Oh dear Lord,” he murmured.
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