‘It won’t let me . . . The passcode doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘How odd,’ Henry said, turning it over and peering at the screen. ‘Did you change the code?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Are you sure? You were home late last night, and you were rather tight. God knows I’ve done some stupid things in my time after a few drinks.’
‘I only had two glasses of wine. Surely I would remember if—’
‘I don’t know, darling. I’m not an expert.’ He dropped the phone back on the table. ‘But you can use mine for the time being, if you’d like. Just ask when you need it.’
‘Thank you.’ She paused. ‘And I’m sorry for being late last night. We were chatting, and I lost track of the time.’
‘These things happen, don’t they?’ He switched the music back on, a roar of a violin solo swooping through the room.
‘And I—’ she tried to say over the music. ‘Henry, I can’t hear you with that racket.’
‘I’d hardly call Saint-Saëns a “racket”,’ he said, but he turned the volume down. ‘What is it now?’
‘I just . . .’ She watched him carefully. ‘Maybe it’s not a good idea for me to speak to them by myself any more – the Australians. What do you think?’
‘Goodness,’ he said. ‘That’s not really for me to say, is it? You should do whatever you think is best for you, darling.’ He closed his eyes again, tapping his fingers against the desk in time to the orchestra. Keelin stood there, watching him, wondering if she should leave the phone or take it with her.
In the end, she left it there.
‘Dinner time,’ Henry said later that day, as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven times. They had been sitting in the sunroom, he and Keelin, neither of them speaking. Keelin was kneeling by the glass wall, resting her palm against its weight, staring at the restless sea before her. She counted the waves crashing against the cliffs, one by one. It was best to keep her mind busy; she had learned that trick years ago. She could never be sure of what she might start thinking about otherwise, what she might remember.
‘Excellent,’ she said, getting to her feet and following him into the dining room. The table was beautifully set, thin ivory candles in Waterford Crystal holders, freshly laundered linen napkins, a vase of lilies in the centre. She sat in her usual place, at Henry’s right side, smiling at the housekeeper as she presented their dishes with a flourish, telling Keelin that she’d left a plate for Alex in the oven, as always, despite her son’s refusal to ever eat it. ‘Thank you, Gosia,’ she said, unfolding a napkin onto her lap. Keelin had always enjoyed cooking, and baking especially; it reminded her of her mother, how Cáit had allowed Keelin to weigh and sift the flour, teaching her how to make soda bread and apple sponge, a pavlova that was as light as air. But Henry was such a fussy eater – the potatoes wouldn’t be creamy enough for his liking one day, the beef too tough the next – and Keelin began to dread putting the food in front of him, waiting for the inevitable criticism. She would sulk then, like a petulant child, and her husband became defensive. Would you rather I lie to you, Keelin? he’d say, and she wasn’t sure how to tell him that maybe she would. It had been a relief when Henry suggested they hire a full-time housekeeper. I hate it when we fight, he said, especially over something as silly as this. Won’t it be easier this way? My mother always had a chef, as well as a cleaner. Why shouldn’t my wife have the same?
‘It looks delicious, Gosia,’ Henry said, checking his watch. ‘But you’d better hurry or you’ll miss the last ferry. See you tomorrow.’
‘This is quite a small portion,’ Keelin said when the housekeeper left the room, poking at the tiny piece of salmon and rocket leaves with her fork.
‘I thought you might still be full after your blowout last night,’ Henry said, cutting a slab of butter and letting it melt on top of his baked potato. ‘I met Jake walking the cliffs this afternoon and he told me all about the Vietnamese broth he made for you. You were even looking for second helpings, he said.’
‘I already said I wouldn’t go down to the cottage again.’
‘There’s no need to snap at me. I was just worried about you; you know your IBS plays up if you eat spicy foods. I’m surprised you didn’t tell Jake that.’
‘I didn’t want to be rude. I thought you wanted me to make a good impression.’
‘And you’re doing a wonderful job, clearly; they seem rather charmed by you, don’t they? Oh, I meant to tell you . . .’ He picked up his phone and scanned through the photo roll, turning it around so that Keelin could see. It was a picture of a model, raven-haired and fragile, her clavicle jutting out of pale flesh. ‘I bought this dress online for you, it’s the latest Simone Rocha. The website only had one size left, I’m afraid, so it’s going to be a snug fit, but we can always send it back if it doesn’t suit.’
Keelin eyed the plate before her, the knife and fork in her hands. Her skin was nearly translucent, spider blue veins and delicate bones, her blood pulsing through her, so close to the surface she could almost smell it. ‘It’s a stunning dress,’ she said, cutting the fish into smaller and smaller pieces. ‘Thank you.’
‘Alex! Well, this is a treat,’ Henry said as the young man walked into the room. Keelin turned around to stare at him in disbelief, stuttering her hello. Her son never ate dinner with them; he could barely get out of bed most days but here he was, plate in hand, and his portion was the same size as Henry’s, she noticed, two baked potatoes, green beans, a large fillet of salmon drowning in a creamy white sauce. She couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten that much food. ‘Sit with me, a stór,’ she said, patting the chair next to her. Henry raised an eyebrow at her behind Alex’s back, clearly as surprised as she was to see her son at dinner time.
‘You look good,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he look good, Henry?’
‘He does, rather,’ her husband replied. ‘There’s colour in your cheeks – you caught some sun, Alex.’
Keelin’s eyes drifted across her son’s face, noticing the fresh freckles on his nose. ‘Have you been outside?’ she asked. ‘Did you meet the Australians? You haven’t talked to them, have you, Alex? We agreed you were to come straight to us if they asked for an interview.’ She looked at Henry for support.
‘Please do tell us if those men contact you,’ her husband said. ‘It’s important we—’
‘I know,’ Alex cut across him, shaking out his napkin. ‘I was just WhatsApping Evie there. She said you promised you’d ring her this morning, Mam, and you didn’t. She’s raging, you know how girls can get.’ He speared a green bean with his fork. ‘Did you forget?’
‘There was an issue with your mother’s phone,’ Henry explained.
‘What issue?’ Alex asked, but Keelin said she didn’t know. ‘Well, you can use mine, if you want,’ he said.
‘I’ve already offered your mother the use of my mobile, if required,’ Henry said. ‘We have it under control.’
‘My two boys, taking care of me,’ she said. ‘How lucky am I?’
The room fell silent, save for the scrape of a fork against a china plate, the chewing of food, a slurp of water. The salmon tasted strange, as if it wasn’t quite fresh enough, and Keelin could feel her throat close in revulsion. For distraction, she pictured herself in that new dress, Henry’s eyes on her, dark, dark. Undressing her slowly and calling her beautiful. He would want her then. That was all Keelin had ever needed, she thought, Henry’s desire for her. That would keep her satisfied.
‘Is that what you’re having for dinner?’ Alex asked as she pushed the food away from her. ‘There isn’t a pick on you, Mam. You should be eating more.’
‘You’re one to talk,’ she tried to joke, but her son’s face was tight with concern. ‘I’m fine, honestly. Just not very hungry today.’ He nodded, but he kept sneaking glances at her plate while he finished his meal. W
hen he was done, Alex stood up, the legs of the chair scuffing against the wooden floor. ‘Do you want to go out for a walk, Mam?’ he asked. A walk? She didn’t dare look at Henry, to see her own shock reflected on her husband’s face. ‘It looks like a gorgeous day out there,’ Alex said. ‘Summer has finally arrived.’
‘I . . .’ A gorgeous day in July meant people. It meant stares and heads tilted in her direction, and Keelin pretending she didn’t see them, talking louder and louder in an effort to distract Alex, until her voice would fall hoarse and she would be exhausted, yearning to be back in Hawthorn House, where she was safe. ‘Not today, pet,’ she said. ‘Do you mind?’
A ripple of something across her son’s face. Hurt, maybe, or disappointment, but it was gone before she could catch it. There had been a time when she had known all of Alex’s faces, when she could read his expression instinctively, like a blind woman moving her fingers across a Braille plaque. But things were different now. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But I think I’ll head out anyway. I might call into the pub for one on my way home.’
‘I’m sorry, Alex. You’re going to the pub now? What are you going to do there?’ Keelin asked, giving up any pretence of nonchalance. She was certain Alex had never gone to the island pub in his entire life. He hadn’t been like Keelin, in and out of O’Shea’s with Seán and Johanna since they were fifteen, the adults pretending not to notice because they had done the same in their time, and what else did young people have to do on the island? But that had not been Alex’s way. They had never even caught him siphoning vodka from Henry’s liquor cabinet, smuggling it over to the annual Good Friday bonfire in the dunes to be shared among his classmates. What was her son doing, going to the pub now, after all this time?
‘Yeah,’ Alex said, shrugging. ‘I thought I should start making more of an effort.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Henry said, his hand on Keelin’s knee under the table. ‘We’ve been terribly worried about you these last few years. It’s good to see you getting out and about.’
‘Thanks.’ Alex shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I’m sorry to ask, but would you mind, eh . . . would you mind giving me some money, Mam?’
‘I don’t have any,’ Keelin said automatically. What did she need money for? She remembered that day, the last one she had spent on the mainland. It had been a year after Nessa’s death and she was standing in line at the department store, two winter coats and a dress in her hands, but when she got to the till, she couldn’t remember what to do next. Lady, the shop assistant said. Lady, I’m going to need you to give me some cash for this. Or your card? Which will it be? And Keelin had just stood there, staring blankly at the girl. She had come home to the island that evening, and begged Henry to help her. It was easier to let him take care of the money, she had decided. It all belonged to him anyway. ‘But you can help him out, can’t you?’ she said, turning to her husband.
‘No problem,’ he replied, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a fifty-euro note. ‘Here you go, Alex. Have fun.’
‘Thanks,’ Alex said, taking the money. He kissed his mother on the cheek, his breath warm against her skin. ‘Go raibh maith agat, Mam.’
When he was gone, Keelin turned to Henry in a panic and said, ‘The pub? A month ago, I had to check to make sure he had brushed his teeth in the morning, and now all of a sudden he’s going to the pub?’
‘It’s surprising, I’ll grant you that, but this is what we wanted, isn’t it? For Alex to heal, to move on. I thought you’d be happy to see him leaving the house of his own volition.’
‘But we don’t want him talking to people. Jesus Christ, I don’t want him—’
‘Stop. We have to trust him.’
But what if he did something stupid? What if he had a beer too many and his tongue became loose, regaling the other patrons with the secrets of Hawthorn House? She didn’t want her son to do something he would later regret. Of all people, she knew how hard it could be to recover from some mistakes, how deep the wounds could run.
The day she’d decided to leave her first husband had been a cold one, a January morning dawning grey and still. Her father wasn’t dead a week then, and Keelin was weary from the shaking hands and saying yes, it was so sudden, yes, a terrible loss, cups of scalding tea pressed into her hands, mouthing the words of the rosary when the priest came to the house for the wake, the smell of incense clinging to her hair for days afterwards. Her mother had asked her to stay on the island for a bit longer, had begged, in fact. Please, a stór, Cáit said. I don’t want to be alone in this house, not now. Not with your father gone. But Keelin couldn’t stay. The fear was beginning to rise within her, like a fever. A sickness. Creeping up each bone of her spine, one by one. I have to get home to Mark, she said, hugging her mother goodbye.
He was waiting for her when she got back to Carlow, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her into the house. She tripped over the door frame, falling to the ground, crying out as she hit the hard tiles, skinning flakes of flesh from her knees like she was a child in the playground.
Where were you? He leaned down and spoke softly into her ear but she didn’t dare to get up. She didn’t want to provoke him further.
The weather was bad, Mark, there were no ferries. I couldn’t get home.
You said you’d be back straight after the funeral. That was two days ago.
There were no ferries! No one could get off the island, I swear to you, Mark. Please—
Why are you smiling?
I’m not, I’m not, I—
I’ll teach you to laugh at me, you fucking cunt.
He kicked her in the ribs then, and it wasn’t like before, when Keelin could convince herself that Mark hadn’t meant to hurt her, he’d just been drinking too much or his foot had slipped, it had been an accident. He didn’t know any better, it was the way he was raised; his behaviour was simply poor learning, copying his own father. It was Keelin’s job to help him to heal. For better or for worse; she had taken sacred vows and she wasn’t one to give up on those she loved. Cunt, he said again and then he spat at her. He kicked her again and again and something broke inside her, bones splintering, snapping. Get up, Mark said, you’re grand. Stop faking it, for fuck’s sake.
Alex was strapped into his buggy outside the front door; Keelin could hear him bawling and she wanted to bring her son in from the cold, but she couldn’t move. She lay on those tiles until Mark was finished with her. He left eventually, the sound of a car ignition, and tyres screeching against tarmac as he drove away. She clawed her way up to standing, gasping, her foot slipping in a small pool of blood, and she limped outside to a hysterical Alex. Shush, baby, she said, holding him close until he settled. Mammy’s here. Mark returned home that night, his breath scorched with whiskey, telling her it wasn’t his fault, what he had done, he hadn’t meant it. He fell to his knees, nestling his head in her lap. I’m just like my da, he cried. I’m just like him. This time Keelin didn’t deny it. She didn’t tell Mark that he wasn’t the same as his father, like she had so many times before; she didn’t swear he was a good man, that she believed in him and they would get through this together. Instead, she limped upstairs to bed, Mark following, as he promised it would never happen again. It’ll be different this time, he said. They should go back to therapy, to the woman whose office smelled of air freshener; lemon verbena, Keelin thought it was. The woman who had listened carefully and said, ‘Please continue, this is a safe space,’ whenever either of them hesitated. And so Keelin had talked. She had talked and talked and talked in those sessions while Mark stayed silent. But he listened to every word she said, she would soon discover. He had taken notes.
Six weeks later, the doctor confirmed her ribs were healing nicely – How did this happen, Keelin? he asked, raising an eyebrow for she had been into his surgery before, and always she had laughed, claiming to be clumsy, strangely accident prone. Now, for the first time, she told the tr
uth, humiliation coursing through her at how easily the doctor believed her, how obvious it must have been to him all along. That night, she waited until Mark fell asleep and she crept out of bed. She didn’t dare put on her shoes in case the noise would wake her husband. She had given Alex an extra dose of Calpol before bedtime, and he didn’t stir as she picked him up from his cot and stole out of the bungalow, wincing at the bite of the gravel beneath her bare feet. Keelin let the handbrake release so it rolled quietly down the hill, only turning the key in the ignition when the tyres hit the country road outside the front gates. She kept looking in the rear-view mirror, expecting to see Mark running after her, screaming, but there was nothing. She drove to Baltimore, and she waited in the dark for the morning ferry to Inisrún.
What made you leave in the end? people would ask in the years to come. And there was only one answer she could give them. It was for Alex, she said. Keelin had to break the cycle. She loved her son too much to stand by and watch him become his father in turn.
Chapter Thirteen
Henry Kinsella
Henry: She wasn’t what people expected of me, Keelin. She wasn’t quite what I was expecting for myself either – I’d always gone for the same kind of girl, girls who were part of our set in London, sisters of school friends, that sort of thing. Keelin was . . . well, she was not that.
Jake: Did you know each other as children? As teenagers?
Henry: Her mother ran the small shop on the island, so I’d see her occasionally but we weren’t what you’d call friends. She barely looked at me, nor my brother, Charlie. She didn’t shriek with laughter like the other island girls did when they saw ‘the Kinsella brothers’. She looked bored by us. It was rather amusing, I must say.
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