by Ber Carroll
She had just started to read her emails when her secretary, Linda, popped her head around the door.
‘The usual?’ she enquired.
‘Yes, please.’
A black coffee was exactly what Sarah needed to warm up on this chilly December morning where gardens, rooftops and windscreens had been coated with a sparkling layer of frost, leaving the city as pretty as a picture, until the sparkle melted away and revealed the greyness beneath.
Sarah quickly scanned through the messages in her inbox. They were all flagged urgent, but then what wasn’t urgent in a business where the market could drop five per cent in as many seconds? Every message had to be read and resolved, or delegated. Quickly.
Sarah had a recurring nightmare in which she couldn’t get to the end of her inbox. She’d read a message but five more would replace it. While she read the next, the new ones multiplied to twenty. She’d wake in a sweat, realise it was just a nightmare, but fail to go back to sleep because it was so damn close to the truth.
A new message highlighted on her screen.
Tim Brennan.
The sight of Tim’s name always brought a funny feeling, a twinge. She saw him very rarely these days. They would meet up whenever she visited EquiBank’s New York headquarters. They’d go for dinner or a drink. Catch up on what was happening in their respective lives and careers. Give each other a chaste kiss goodbye till next time. Walk away with a nagging sense of regret. Or at least Sarah did. She couldn’t tell if Tim felt the same.
She clicked on the message to open it.
Hi Sarah, hope all’s well with you. Big news here. I’m moving back to Ireland to take over the running of the farm. Obviously, I’ve resigned from EquiBank. Will give you a call when I get back.
Tim
Sarah’s mouth dropped open as she read the message. Tim had resigned! He sounded so blasé about it. As if it was no big deal to go from being a vice-president to a farmer. As if it was an everyday thing to trade in a penthouse in Manhattan for an old farmhouse in Cork. Sarah had last seen him at his father’s funeral in March. He had been shocked and sad, but had given no indication of stepping into his father’s shoes.
Sarah hardly noticed that Linda was back with her coffee. Her secretary cleared her throat and began to run through Sarah’s commitments for the day.
‘You have a management meeting at nine . . . Lunch is at Gardenia’s . . . I’ve allowed thirty minutes’ travel time . . .’
Linda was under the false impression that Sarah was incapable of remembering what was scheduled for the day. Each meeting or lunch or dinner entailed such meticulous preparation that Sarah was very unlikely to forget. But she kept mum; she quite liked Linda telling her what she already knew. It was the only constant of her day.
‘You have back-to-back meetings for the entire afternoon, then you’re meeting Eric MacDonald for dinner – 8 pm sharp. I’ve allowed fifteen minutes’ travel time.’
Sarah’s phone began to ring. She answered it and Linda, who had finished her recital, closed the door softly on her way out. The bedlam had begun.
Twelve hours later, Sarah finished her last phone call of the day and began to shut down her computer. She had a clanging headache and was in no mood for the dinner ahead. She briefly considered cancelling but dismissed the idea almost straight away. She couldn’t let Eric down like that. The dinner was in honour of his sixty-eighth birthday. All the family would be there and her presence would be missed.
There were still people at their desks when Sarah walked through the floor on her way out. She saluted them as she passed but didn’t feel guilty. She had done her time in the trenches, where working till 10 pm was quite the norm. If you didn’t like it or couldn’t stand the pace, then a career in investment banking wasn’t for you. Simple.
A cruel wind lifted wisps of her hair as she scanned the street for a taxi. She stared to her right, where the flow of traffic was heaviest, and willed a taxi to come around the corner. Nothing! She wished she hadn’t left her car at home. She was going to be late. Very late. The knot of tension in her chest tightened another notch. Cursing under her breath, she started to walk.
‘Ah, we thought you’d got lost,’ Eric called to her when she finally arrived at the restaurant, forty minutes late.
‘Sorry.’ She came round the large circular table to kiss his cheek. ‘There must be a taxi strike that I don’t know of – didn’t see one the whole way in. I’m glad you didn’t wait to order.’
Patsy stood up to give her a hug. ‘God, girl, you’re skin and bones.’ She looked down at Sarah’s high-heeled shoes. ‘Not exactly walking shoes, are they?’
Sarah grimaced, her feet aching. ‘Tell me about it.’
Laura, who was busy trying to coax spoonfuls of food past two-year-old Jessica’s pursed lips, said hello, as did Mark, who was dabbing up something that looked liked spilt juice. Jessica stretched her lips to smile at Sarah but was crafty enough not to leave enough space for her mother to get the spoon through.
Laura and Mark’s second child, a tiny four-week-old baby girl called Lucy, was asleep in her pram. Sarah peeked in and allowed the baby’s fingers to curl around hers. She always felt a little sad around Laura and Mark’s babies. It had been the same when Nuala’s kids were young, but they were five and three now, no longer babies, and Sarah found it easier.
‘Sit down,’ instructed Eric and patted the seat next to him. ‘Have a glass of wine. I’ll ask the waiter to bring out some starters for you.’
Would my baby have been this tiny? Would it have had this much hair? Would it have been a girl or a boy?
Sarah extracted her finger from the baby’s clasp. ‘I’ll just wait for the main course – won’t say no to the wine, though.’
She sat next to Eric and slipped off her shoes. The carpet felt lush under the burning soles of her feet.
‘You look tired,’ he said accusingly as he poured the wine.
‘Well, you should know better than anyone how busy I am,’ she replied.
‘Being tired and uptight are not necessarily part and parcel of being busy,’ he retorted.
It sounded like the birthday boy had a bee in his bonnet.
‘Excuse me!’ She regarded him with mock outrage. ‘I am not uptight.’
‘Yes, you are,’ Patsy chimed in. ‘You look like the slightest thing would push you over the edge.’
Sarah looked from wife to husband bemusedly. ‘What’s this? Some kind of flog Sarah convention? And I thought I was coming to a birthday party!’
Her quip didn’t get as much as a smile from either of them.
‘You need to find a way to wind down, Sarah,’ Eric told her in a deadly serious voice. ‘I used to relax by playing a few rounds of golf. You need to do something too – yoga, pilates, whatever’s necessary – otherwise the stress will kill you.’
Sarah glanced across the table to see that Laura and Mark, even Jessica, were listening intently.
‘Oh, stop ganging up on me, would you?’ she said crossly and took a gulp of wine.
Later, when it was time to go home, it became apparent that it wasn’t her day for taxis. Having no luck outside the restaurant, Sarah set off down the street. A car slowed and beeped. Mark’s head stuck out the passenger window.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’
The sedan was full to capacity, Eric and Patsy squashed in the back with the two children.
‘Yeah,’ Sarah waved him on, ‘I’m grand. Goodnight.’
She walked on to a taxi rank that had a formidable queue. She sighed at the thought of a long wait. She’d be lucky to get home before midnight at this rate. If only it wasn’t such a busy day tomorrow.
Feeling herself growing panicky at the thought of not having enough sleep, she started to do her breathing exercises. One, two, three, in. Hold. One, two, three, out.
Her turn came round quite quickly in the end.
The taxi driver was one of the ones who liked the sound of his own voice.
‘Had a good night out, luv?’
‘Work early tomorrow?’
‘And what do you do to earn a bob?’
Sarah mumbled something about working in a bank. He seemed satisfied and began to talk about himself.
‘I do this taxi driving at night only. I work as a mechanic during the day. I don’t do it for the money, you know. I like meeting people, talking to them – beats having your head stuck under a car all day.’
He was very approving as he drove through her neighbourhood.
‘Nice area, this.’
She asked him to pull in outside her house. She saw his lips blow a soundless whistle as he sized it up.
‘Renting?’
‘No,’ she replied abruptly and handed him a ten pound note.
She got out of the taxi before he had the gall to ask how much she’d paid for it. What if she told him she owned six such houses in Dublin? That whenever she felt unsettled or unfulfilled, she would go out and buy another? Some she renovated and sold on, others she retained for investment purposes. She could live quite comfortably off the rental income if she so desired. She laughed to herself at what the nosey taxi driver might make of all that.
Swinging the wrought-iron gate inwards, she walked up the short path to the house. It had a pretty little garden that she never took time to appreciate. A man came round every fortnight to cut the grass and weed the flowerbeds. She left his money under the mat. When she came home from work, the money was gone, trimmed edges and the sweet smell of fresh grass in its place.
She turned the key in the lock and pushed the heavy door inwards. In the darkness of the hallway she saw the red flashing from her answering machine. She flicked on the lights and walked over to play her messages.
Hi, Sarah. Nuala’s chirpy voice filled the silent hallway. I’ll be in Dublin on Friday. Just wondering if you’re free for lunch. I have some news to tell you. Give me a ring as soon as you get this.
Sarah’s ears perked up. What news? Surely Nuala wasn’t pregnant again. Pity it was too late to phone her back.
The machine went on to a second message.
Hi. It’s me, Emma. Just wanted a chat. Jason’s away on business. Maybe you could pop over? That’s if you get the message, of course.
Jason, Emma’s boyfriend, travelled a lot and she hated being alone in the house. Sarah often slept over in her spare room. She made a mental note to call Emma in the morning to arrange something.
Sarah went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. She drank it back and filled the glass again. Then she trawled up the stairs, yawning on the way. In the bathroom, she removed her make-up with a soft cotton pad and brushed her teeth. The mirror above the basin was harsh. It showed one or two grey hairs along her parting and tension lines around her eyes. Patsy’s words of warning rang in her head.
‘You look like the slightest thing would push you over the edge ...’
Slowly, thoughtfully, Sarah moved away from the telltale mirror. She undressed and slipped into her most comfortable cotton pyjamas.
The sheets of her bed felt cold and unwelcoming. She began her breathing exercises. One, two, three . . .
Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Her body had all the physical signs of tiredness: compulsive yawns, aching feet and leaden arms. But her mind was despairingly alert.
Is there anywhere close by that does yoga classes?
I wonder what Nuala’s news is about!
How do I feel about Tim coming back to live in Ireland?
The new year was rung in, winter gave way to spring, and then spring to early summer. Sarah’s sleeping worsened. She was too cold, too hot, too anxious, or simply too sad to sleep. She was always tired, though. Bone tired. So tired that she could barely get out of bed in the mornings.
‘You need a holiday,’ Eric urged.
Fine for him to offer advice in that fatherly tone of his, but how? When? Who with? The logistics of organising time off were overwhelming. So Sarah continued on. She worked hard. She ran hard. She tried to control her thoughts. But her mind and her body did not respond; her coping strategies were simply not working.
One day, when Tim had been back in Ireland for five months and Sarah was at an all-time low, he phoned and offered a lifeline.
‘You don’t sound yourself,’ he commented when he heard her voice.
‘I’m not feeling very well,’ she admitted. ‘I’m tired. Everyone tells me I need a holiday.’
She didn’t tell him that the blackness, which she had kept at bay for so long, had crept back into her life. Sapping her energy, gnawing at her confidence, making happiness seem like a privilege only others could enjoy – like Nuala, who was expecting another baby, and Emma, who had got engaged to Jason.
‘Come down to the farm,’ Tim suggested. ‘I haven’t seen you since I got back.’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘Come on! It would do you the world of good. The fresh air, the smell of shite –’ He laughed. ‘The ridiculous sight of me in overalls and wellies . . .’
It wasn’t easy but it made sense. A lot of sense.
The next day Sarah announced that she was taking a week off. She handed over the reins to one of the managing directors. His name was Leo Carmichael. He was experienced, reliable and terribly ambitious.
‘Where are you going on your break?’ he asked.
‘To a farm down in Cork.’
‘Oh.’
He was perplexed. Why Cork when you had the means to go to Tahiti or Mauritius or somewhere else similarly exotic?
Sarah didn’t try to explain it; she simply focused on telling him what he needed to do to hold the fort while she was away.
She set off straight from work on Friday. It was a slow run out of Dublin. There seemed to be no accident or any other good reason for the hold-up, just too many cars on the road.
Sarah changed the channel on her radio. She knew some of the words of the song, ‘Don’t Speak’, but didn’t know the name of the singer.
You’re so out of touch, she sneered at herself.
She was ridiculously nervous about seeing Tim. It was one thing catching up in New York, with both of them dressed in business attire and using work talk to gloss over any awkward moments. This was an entirely different prospect: jeans and baggy jumpers, real conversation, in fact very like their college years.
Tim will never equate you to the girl he knew in college.
Sarah wound down the window and a warm breeze floated through the car. People were saying that it was shaping up to be a good summer; she had been indoors so much that she hadn’t noticed until now.
Finally, she got through the set of lights that were causing all the trouble and she was able to make some progress. As the speed of the car picked up, so did her spirits.
Stop expecting the worst of Tim – of everything. Think positive!
Three hours later, as night was closing in, she passed the sign that read, Welcome to Cork. Just another couple of small towns to pass through and she’d be there. She was looking forward to getting out of the car. She hadn’t stopped along the way and now her lower back was aching from sitting in the one spot for too long.
Tim’s family farm was in a country area a short drive from the end of the motorway. Sarah had been there a few times before, many years ago. She drove along the spindly road and kept her eyes peeled for the white-walled entrance to the property. She reached an unfamiliar T-junction.
Damn! I must have gone too far.
She turned around and drove slowly back along the road. Perhaps the outside wall had been painted. She re-examined every entrance. None of them, even accounting for the possibility of a different shade of paint, looked vaguely familiar.
She gave herself a stern lecture on staying calm.
It can’t be far. No need to panic.
Easier said than done! Panic seemed only a hair’s breadth away these days.
She pulled into the gateway of a field to give herself time to think.
>
I wish I’d brought my mobile phone with me . . . But if I had, I wouldn’t be able to get away from work . . . I guess I can knock on someone’s door and ask to use the phone . . . Embarrassing – but not the end of the world – no need to panic!
She was preparing to pull back out of the gateway when a tractor trundled round the corner. Its headlights shone straight through her car before it passed by. It came to a stop a few metres down the road. The driver switched on the hazard lights and his shadowy figure hopped down from the cabin.
The face that appeared at her window was weather-beaten and concerned.
‘Are ya all right there?’ he shouted through the glass, spittle on his cracked lips.
Sarah wound down the window. ‘Just a little lost,’ she said meekly.
‘Where are ya going?’
‘The Brennans’ place.’
The farmer straightened. She noticed a length of twine tied around his waist like a belt.
‘Ah, sure, you’re on the wrong road altogether.’
‘Oh.’
‘You should have turned right off the Old Glanmire Road.’
‘Oh.’
He scratched his head as he pondered the problem. ‘Sure, I’m in no rush. Drive along behind me and I’ll show you the way.’
‘Thanks.’
Sheepishly, she put the car into gear and swung it around so it was tailing the tractor. Off they set, going no more than twenty kilometres an hour.
At this rate, Tim will have a search party out for me.
A number of kilometres and turn-offs later, the tractor slowed and flashed his hazard lights to indicate they’d reached their destination. Sarah would have never found it on her own and, to thank the farmer, she flashed her hazards in return.
Her wheels crunched along the gravel of the driveway. She felt her heart begin to hammer. God, she was so nervous! And still panicky after getting lost. Not a good combination.
The front door of the house opened as she pulled up outside. Tim’s silhouette appeared, an arm raised in welcome. Sarah turned off the ignition, took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and opened the car door.