The Secret Wound

by Deirdre Quiery

  “I got too close to the razor.”

  Gurtha patted his hand, “You’re all spruced up. We’ll have to find somewhere to go. How about a little tour of the island? Then tomorrow it’s back to work. You can help me in the gallery.”

  Paddy dipped his wheaten bread into his runny fried egg.

  “When’s your mother coming?”

  “Paddy, where do you think Nuala is?”

  Paddy shook his head, “I don’t think she died.”

  “What do you suppose happened to her, then?”

  “It was a funny business. I didn’t like what I saw.”

  Gurtha watched the egg run down the side of Paddy’s chin. Paddy fumbled in his pocket for a rolled up white tissue.

  “I don’t know why I was sent out. If I had stayed with her, she might still have been alive.” There was wateriness in his eyes. His nose began to run. He wiped his mouth several times with the tissue which was now shrinking into a small circular ball which he rolled across his upper lip.

  Gurtha searched for a new tissue in the kitchen drawer. He sat down beside him, lifted his box of Hamlet, pulled one out, lit it for him and passed it to Paddy who whispered.

  “It wasn’t an accident.”

  Gurtha listened carefully. He asked, “What happened, Paddy? Do you remember?”

  Paddy shook his head.

  “She had no reason to go up those stairs. She was dressed to go out. There was the downstairs toilet. With her bad heart, why would she have gone upstairs? She only went up to bed at night. Once she was dressed for the day that was it – downstairs.”

  Gurtha wiped his eyes with the tissue, got to his feet, lifted the two empty plates and took them to the sink.

  “What made her go upstairs Paddy?”

  Paddy carried the cups to the sink, “She would want the truth to be known. She was an awful one for the truth. She never listened to a word I’d say, you know. She thought I was a liar.”

  Gurtha rinsed the plates and placed them in the wooded slotted shelf above the sink for drying.

  “Were you?”

  Paddy took the drying cloth and started to dry the plates.

  “Was I what?”

  “A liar.”

  “Show me someone who says they aren’t and I’ll show you a liar.”

  Gurtha laughed.

  “There’s no arguing with that now, is there? But tell me what made her go up the stairs and why did you go out?”

  “She told me to go out. She wanted me to buy bread and milk.”

  “Why would she have gone upstairs?”

  “There was something funny about that. But then, she liked her secrets.”

  Paddy lit another cigar.

  “You know, I loved Nuala but I never told her. When she comes home, I’ll tell her. I don’t know what she will say, mind you. It will be a shock for her. But I have to tell her anyway, even if she doesn’t like it.”

  DAY 13

  FRIDAY 23RD AUGUST 2013

  “LET YOURSELF BE DRAWN BY THE STRONGER PULL OF THAT WHICH YOU TRULY LOVE.”

  J RUMI

  GURTHA DECIDED to take Paddy back to Belfast earlier than planned. It was clear that he was suffering from dementia. He needed to be properly assessed and Gurtha had to decide what was the best care that could be provided for him in Belfast.

  He texted Cornelia to explain that he wouldn’t be able to attend dinner on the Feast of St Bartholomew, asked her to confirm that Angelina was happy to manage the exhibition and that he would let them both know when he planned to return.

  Outside, Paddy agitatedly waved a rolled up newspaper to scare a hawk moth which was hovering beside a bush of delicate blue flowers. Its wings whirred and hummed. Paddy was wearing only a white vest on top of his khaki shorts. He threw the newspaper on the ground as Gurtha approached with a cup of coffee.

  The hawk moth lay dead on the gravel.

  “I didn’t touch it.” He shook his head. “Never touched it.”

  Gurtha sat the mug of coffee on the table set for breakfast and picked up the dead hawk moth.

  “It had to be an accident then, didn’t it? Shame. It’s beautiful and it wouldn’t hurt you.”

  Paddy slid onto the wooden chair beside the table.

  “These tiny black flies bite you.”

  Gurtha shook his head,

  “I don’t think they do. They’re like the flies in Belfast. They don’t bite you, do they?”

  Paddy shook his head.

  “We’re flying back to Belfast this evening. You’ll be glad to get home – won’t you?

  Gurtha buttered some toast for Paddy and placed a large teaspoonful of orange marmalade on top.

  Paddy lifted the toast slowly to his mouth, mumbling as he chewed on it, “Can I not stay with you?”

  “Well I am going back with you. We will be together.”

  Paddy smiled and nodded, “That’s good. We will be on holiday together, like the old times with Nuala.” He rested his swollen arthritic hand on the table cloth. He stared straight ahead of him, peering into the distance, down the track which led to the front gate. The donkey in the field to the left brayed loudly three times. Paddy turned to look at Gurtha,

  “That donkey has got some lungs on it. Who’s that man at the gate? Does he own the donkey?”

  Gurtha jumped to his feet. There was a man at the front gate, opening it. It was Barry. He threw the gates wide open jumped into his Range Rover, and skidded along the path to the front door. He jumped out, his leather sandals crunching on the gravel and sending small clouds of dust into the air.

  Although it was early morning, Barry was sweating, his face blotchy red, his eyes staring wide open and the skin above his upper lip solid and white.

  “What’s the matter, Barry? Has something happened? Where’s Cornelia?”

  Barry wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief which he then stuffed in his trouser pocket.

  “She’s gone for a walk with Angelina to Ramon Llull’s cave.”

  Gurtha pulled out a chair for Barry to sit down. He asked, “Off the road to Valledemosa?”

  “No on the Puig de Randa, near the Sanctuary of Cura. Cornelia’s obsessed by sacred sites.”

  Paddy watched with his mouth open. He crossed his two arms over his chest.

  Gurtha got to his feet, “Let me get you a coffee.”

  He left Barry sitting beside Paddy and walked slowly towards the kitchen. Paddy picked up the rolled up newspaper which Gurtha had left on an empty chair. He held onto it tightly looking at Barry in silent curiosity.

  Over coffee, Barry explained, “She is very jealous, you see. Jealous and angry. Her anger is frightening. But you must know that. Vitriolic. You know her longer than I do. You’ll have seen that side to her?”

  Gurtha listened intently with his head to one side. He nodded at Barry although it was a lie. He had never seen Cornelia seethe with caustic anger the like of which Barry described.

  Barry continued, sipping his coffee quickly so that it dripped down his chin.

  “She frightens me. She accused me of not loving her. But she’s the one who has never loved me.”

  Gurtha folded his hands on his lap, asking in a soft voice, “Why does she frighten you?”

  “I know what she did to Henry. If she could do that to someone she was married to for such a long time, what could she do to me?”

  “What did she do to Henry?”

  “She was heartless in the way she treated him.” He hesitated as though about to say more, but coughed, pulling a cotton handkerchief out from his trouser pocket.

  “In what way?”

  “He found us in his bed two weeks before he died. It might have been the shock of that that killed him. Why did she make it so easy for him to see us?”

  He blew his nose again and asked Gurtha.

  “Did you have sex with her?”

  Gurtha looked at Paddy who was dozing and then back at Barry, “Of course not.” He whispered, “Who do you take me
for? I was a friend to both of them – Cornelia and Henry.”

  Barry’s face flushed even redder. He rubbed it with the palms of both hands; he sniffed at the air like a rabbit, his nostrils quivering quickly in and out. His ears twitched as he whispered, “Have you ever regretted getting yourself into a bad place?”

  He shook his head, catching sight of Gurtha’s eyes, “No. I didn’t think you would have. Once you go there – it’s downhill all the way – you can’t escape. You’re either the lucky one or you’re telling lies. I find it hard to tell the difference these days with people.”

  Gurtha glanced again at Paddy, now snoring, his mouth open, in the chair beside him. Without taking his eyes away from Paddy’s stubbly chin, he asked Barry, “I don’t understand why you are telling me this. What do you want from me?”

  Barry laughed harshly.

  “I want you to work it out. You know her better than I do. When you work it out, for God’s sake help me know what to do.”

  Gurtha straightened up in the chair and sipped on his coffee.

  “You said that she accused you of not loving her – is that true?”

  Barry held his head in his hands.

  “Maybe is. She entrapped me. She fell in love with my money not with me. I was a fool not to see it.”

  “But Henry had money. He was one of most generous people I have ever met.”

  Barry shook his head.

  “No, he didn’t. His pension fund was badly hit by the economic crisis. He only received a quarter of what he anticipated. Cornelia was angry with him for that. You would have thought to hear her talk that he was personally responsible for the global economic recession. She called him incompetent and selfish for expecting her to live on a pittance of a pension.”

  Gurtha poured Barry another coffee.

  “She never spoke badly of him to me or complained about money.”

  Barry spooned three teaspoons of sugar into his coffee and stirred it thoughtfully.

  “She didn’t want you to know who she really is. Apart from wanting my money, I think she enjoyed not hiding her dark side from me. She had kept it hidden for years – since childhood – from what I’ve heard. She is a complex woman. Dangerous I would say. You have experienced one side of her. I another. I don’t think that either of us really knows her or what she is capable of doing.”

  ♥

  Cornelia parked the car at the bottom of the hill in Randa. It was eleven in the morning. The houses were shuttered with green persianas firmly closed to exclude the fierce summer sun. A small bar spilt over onto the street where two cyclists sat in slinky cycling gear having a glass of orange juice, recovering from their heat acclimatisation training. The rays from the sun seared Cornelia’s shoulders as she stepped from the car. She brushed at her shoulders with her hand as though she was flicking away a fly, as thyme and rosemary scents filled the air.

  Inside the car, Angelina pulled down the mirror in the passenger seat and adjusted her lipstick before pulling a wide brimmed straw hat into place. She stepped delicately out, looking around her as though waiting for cameras to flash before walking to the back to help Cornelia with the rucksack.

  Cornelia replaced her high heels with sturdy walking sandals. She pulled a loose long sleeved linen shirt over her brightly coloured t-shirt and linen skirt.

  “Isn’t it amazing to think that he would have walked up this road” She glanced at Angelina from under her hat. “I like to imagine that I am him. Once we leave the town behind, the views, sights and sounds will be almost exactly the same as he would have experienced over 700 years ago. I could be him. I’m smelling what he smelt, seeing what he saw, hearing bird noises like he heard, feeling the heat against my face as he could have felt it. I love this kind of pilgrimage. We can become one with Ramon Llull. He’s alive again. He’s walking the earth. The only thing to bear in mind is not to let your own thoughts intrude. Then you’ve given birth to him again.”

  Angelina laughed as she lifted a pineapple from the boot of the car and placed it in Cornelia’s rucksack, “He did have a wonderful mind.”

  “The spaces between his thoughts allowed wisdom to emerge. We can see, touch, smell, taste and hear in the way that he did. So let’s do it.”

  With the pineapple safely inside the bag, Cornelia added four oranges, a coconut and a tall red candle. She swung the rucksack onto her back, and began the slow walk uphill. Angelina followed a few steps behind. Cornelia stopped, looked around, “You go first. You set the pace. I’ll follow.”

  Wearing denim shorts, a white t-shirt and trainers, Angelina ran a few steps ahead. Cornelia shouted after her, “Take the rucksack then if you have so much energy.”

  Angelina stood with her hands on her hips breathing in the perfumed air, one hand stretched out for the rucksack.

  “It’s OK. I’m training for the Iron Man. This is easy peasy.”

  They walked at first in silence, one behind the other, on the left hand side of the road, crossing over to the right each time the bend swung sharply to the left. The valley floor quickly lay below. They passed the Sanctuary of la Gracia without stopping and ten minutes later arrived at a sign for La Ermita de Sant Honorat.

  “Turn right. I’ve been here before. I’d like you to see it. Angelina turned right up a small path which led into the courtyard of the Hermitage. Angelina was about to walk into the doorway of the small Church when Cornelia caught her by the arm.

  “First, over here. You have to read this.” She pointed to a noticeboard, very similar to a noticeboard you would see in an old English Church. It had a poem written in several languages. “This changed my life. I came here on a school trip when I was eighteen.”

  Angelina wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, removed the rucksack and sat it on the ground. Her t-shirt was sticking to her back.

  “I can’t read it without my glasses.”

  Cornelia placed a hand on her shoulder, “I’ve never seen you wear glasses.”

  Angelina rubbed her eyes, “No, I don’t, except when driving. I quite like the outside world being a blur. It can be an advantage, you know. Nothing looks really ugly as it’s never properly seen.” She laughed, “I will grow old without worrying.”

  Keeping her hand on Angelina’s shoulder, Cornelia began to read in loud measured tones:

  To the Pilgrim

  Set Out!

  You were born for the road.

  Set Out!

  You have a meeting to keep.

  Where? With whom?

  You don’t yet know

  Perhaps with yourself?

  Set Out!

  Your steps will be your words

  the road your song.

  The weariness your prayer

  And at the end

  your silence will speak to you

  Set Out!

  Alone, or with others,

  but get out of yourself.

  You have created rivals –

  you will find companions

  You envisaged enemies –

  you will find brothers and sisters.

  Set Out!

  You were born for the road,

  the pilgrim’s road

  Someone is coming to meet you

  is seeking you,

  so that you can find Him.

  In the shrine at the end of the road,

  in the shrine at the depths of your heart.

  He is your peace,

  He is your joy.

  Go!

  God already walks with you.

  “Is that why you came to Mallorca?” said Angelina, wriggling her shoulder free from Cornelia’s hand.

  “Yes. I suppose so. Henry and I bought the house in the Port over twenty years ago. We would come out three or four times a year. When he died it seemed the logical choice to move here permanently.”

  Angelina hoisted the rucksack onto her back.

  “Did you know Barry before Henry died?”

  “No. I met him shortly a
fter Henry died.” Cornelia swatted at a fly which settled on her lower lip.

  “How did you meet him?” Angelina pulled her hat over her eyes.

  “In a restaurant with friends. It was a coincidence that his father was a client of Henry’s before Henry retired.”

  Cornelia took Angelina by the hand.

  “Don’t leave the path. There are crevasses in the ground into which people have been known to fall and disappear forever. Two years ago there was a woman walking near Valledemosa. They think that is what happened to her. She was never found. People say that the ground opens up, swallows you up and closes over again. They don’t know where all the crevasses are. I think what really happens is that the crevasses are covered with ferns and other plants. It is easy to step on what seems to be safe ground.”

  Angelina quickened her pace behind Cornelia, “So nobody knows what happened to that poor women?”

  Cornelia shook her head, “Nobody knows. What is horrific is that she must have been lying at the bottom of the crevasse and not have been able to find a way out. How long do you think it would have taken her to die?”

  Angelina walked side by side with Cornelia, “Please don’t talk about it. It’s upsetting.”

  “Don’t be so squeamish.” Cornelia put her arm around Angelina’ shoulder as they entered the courtyard. On their right was a wrought iron gate covered on the inside with fine bamboo cane.

  “Through there.” Cornelia pointed right.

  Angelina rattled the handle, “It’s locked.”

  Cornelia whispered, “I know the secret.”

  She reached her hand through a space in the cane fencing which looked as though it had been cut only to allow the handle to be grasped. She twiddled with something below the handle.

  “It will open now.”

  She swung the gate open into the cloistered quadrangle.

  Angelina took a deep breath.

  “How beautiful.”

  The valley lay directly below them, falling from a steep cliff edge. To the right, the glass windows of houses in the town of Llucmajor twinkled. To the left, the steely stillness of the Mediterranean sea lay, its grey sheen broken only by the island of Cabrera stretching out like a slumbering, elongated seal. Further left again could be seen the outline of a sweeping sketch of a majestic wave of mountains made by a flamboyant impressionist artist.