Olivia: But we fell in love with it all the same. How could you not? Look at that view! Have you ever seen anything quite so spectacular in your life?
Interviewer: It’s breathtaking.
Olivia: Thank you. We came for day visits for the first few years, usually without the children, just to get a feel for the place. Jonathan lobbied a friend of his, a man who had the ear of the Irish Prime Minister, and he suggested that perhaps Inisrún could benefit from a little more attention. We waited until the place had electricity before we built the house on the far side of the island, and we came here every summer after that.
Jonathan: It was in the early nineties that I could sense things were changing for Ireland. It was like how London felt in the sixties. Like . . . youth. Or excitement, or something. I can’t explain it. Livvy is the smart one, not me. But whatever it was, I knew I wanted in. I bought a building in Dublin and a castle in Laois – it was the first luxury Kinsella Hotel and I brought American investors in on that one, the Yanks love a good castle – but Inisrún had our hearts. We wanted to do something to help the people here; we didn’t think it was right that all this new money should stay in Dublin. The islanders deserved to have a piece of the pie as well.
Interviewer: That being said, the decision to buy up the houses on the island to build the Misty Hill retreat hasn’t been welcomed by all, has it? Initially some locals referred to the area where you rehomed them as a ‘ghetto’.
Olivia: That’s ridiculous. Those old houses were decaying, and the damp, my God, I’m surprised a child survived a night there, they were like tenements. And we still paid well over market price for them. The new homes are warm and have double glazing and central heating and—
Jonathan: It’s OK, Livvy. Listen, I’m not going to lie to you. Naturally it upsets me to hear some of the islanders were dissatisfied with their new homes. But we saw what life was like here in the seventies and eighties – those people were living hand to mouth. They’d nothing, and I know what it’s like to have nothing. I think if you asked them today, their answers would be different. Things have changed here because of Misty Hill, and for the better.
Olivia: They most certainly have. Misty Hill put Inisrún on the map. Because of the centre, emigration has been almost halved; young people don’t have to go to Liverpool or Boston or wherever to find work. Families are able to stay, bring up their children here. Misty Hill has been a rebirth for the entire island.
Note: Jonathan and Olivia Kinsella declined to be interviewed for The Crowley Girl documentary.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘I’d just moved back to the island when Misty Hill was being built,’ Keelin said, leaning over to look at what Jake was adding to the pot of cold water. ‘What are you getting up to here, now?’
‘You have your pineapple,’ he said, throwing large chunks of the fruit into the mix. ‘Your onion, your lemongrass, your ginger, your chicken bouillon.’ He stirred the ingredients together. ‘And a dash of this smoked sea salt – in you go, you beauty – and some sugar. Perfect food for a cold November night.’
‘It smells incredible,’ she said. They were in the kitchen of Marigold Cottage. Jake was wearing loose tracksuit pants in a grey marl, his feet bare on the slate tiles warmed by underfloor heating. His MacBook was open on the counter, playing some sort of easy jazz, both of them ignoring the exaggerated sighs coming from Noah’s bedroom as he packed his suitcase. Call to the cottage for dinner, Jake had texted earlier. Noah is heading to the mainland for a couple of days so we should have the place to ourselves. I’ll teach you how to make Bún bò Huế, my ma’s recipe. Henry had picked up her phone when it beeped, reading the message silently. Happy cooking, darling, he’d said, and he left the room without another word.
‘I think that’s the smell of the pork blood,’ Jake teased, pointing his knife at the other pot on the stove.
‘Don’t mention it.’ She pretended to gag, Jake laughing, nudging her over to the counter and instructing her on how to prepare the meatballs.
‘You were telling me about when Misty Hill was set up,’ Jake said, turning the heat down once the water started to boil. He checked his phone. ‘We have approximately two and a half hours until that’s ready so you can take your time.’
‘Lord above,’ Keelin said, handing him the mixing bowl. Jake covered it and put in the fridge while she washed her hands. ‘Vietnamese cuisine is intense.’
He lightly whipped at her knees with the tea towel. ‘Stop avoiding the subject.’
‘I’m not,’ she said, grabbing the towel from him to dry her hands. ‘It was ’94, and Daddy had just died. Mam and I barely knew whether we were coming or going – we were in such a state. There’d been a letter from the Kinsella Group, informing us the family wanted to buy our house. All the islanders were given the same offer, and it was the sort of money that seemed impossible in those days, more than any of us had ever seen on Rún. Not that it lasted long, unfortunately. Between taxes and paying the solicitor to sort out the custody agreements with Mark and my college fees, and then Mam got some bad financial advice I only found out about after she died – sure, the money was as good as gone before we even had it.’ Keelin took a bottle of white wine from the fridge and poured herself a glass, offering some to Jake but he refused. ‘Jonathan Kinsella – that’s Henry’s father – he had the idea that he wanted Inisrún to look deserted when you approached by ferry or helicopter, like it was a private island belonging to the artists alone. He hated the old houses and, to be fair to him, there was neither rhyme nor reason to the way they were built. Thrown up, they were.’
‘How did the islanders react to this plan?’
‘Ah, a few of the older ones refused to go, as you can imagine. They’d been born in those houses and they planned to die in them too. But some were only delighted to move. The new houses were given to us for free, on top of the money we got, and it all happened so fast. We didn’t have time to think.’ She took a sip of her wine, remembering the excitement as Misty Hill was being built, the rumours flying around the island about what was going to be there – swimming pools and tennis courts and maybe even a cinema, the local kids whispered, delirious with joy at the very thought. In the end, it had been a circle of cottages that had been created, like a ring fort, a village within a village. The Kinsellas knew they would have to provide the sort of services the artists were accustomed to in their lives in New York and LA; they hired a yoga instructor, an on-site psychoanalyst, an energy healer who was proficient in aura readings and past-life regressions, but they wanted Misty Hill to have a distinctly Celtic feel as well. There was a craft shop selling pottery and hand-knitted woollen jumpers, and a communal space in the centre, a round cottage with glass walls and a thatched roof, where the artists would come together to eat their evening meal. A chef had been hired from London, one who was used to dealing with nutritional requirements from veganism to a macrobiotic diet, and after dinner the staff would clear the tables and prepare the room for the entertainment: sean-nós dancing, fiddles and harps, the oldest man on the island introduced as the local seanchaí with hushed reverence. Ireland was the land of saints and scholars, the prospectus said, the homeplace of Oscar Wilde and James Joyce. Come to Misty Hill and be inspired.
‘The state of the place,’ Keelin said, shaking her head. ‘It was like a Disney version of an island. The Kinsellas even built a pretend ruin, over by the fulacht fiadh, and they hired some of us to give tours and talk about its “ancient provenance”, when the thing wasn’t up a wet week.’ She froze, putting the glass down. ‘But Misty Hill brought money to the area, we were –’
‘It’s fine,’ Jake said. ‘He’s not here. He can’t hear you.’ The younger man didn’t look at her, staring at Spotify on his laptop, and she let out a long breath. She hopped up onto the counter, taking the MacBook from him and cradling it in her lap, scanning through the other playlists. All Out 80s, she decided
, shimmying her shoulders as Tiffany started to sing ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’, ignoring Jake’s groan.
‘Do we have to listen to this?’
‘Yes, we do,’ she said, ruffling his hair. ‘You will listen to Tiffany and you will enjoy it.’
‘Well, well,’ a voice said from behind them. ‘Isn’t this cosy?’ It was Noah, wearing a Barbour rain jacket and carrying a canvas backpack. ‘Keelin,’ he said, ‘I’m beginning to feel like you’ve moved in with us these days, you’re here so often.’
‘All right, mate,’ Jake said warily. ‘Take it easy. I’m cooking my ma’s Bún bò Huế, if you’re interested. It won’t be ready for a while but there’s plenty to go around.’
‘Yeah nah, mate,’ Noah replied. ‘Nan will have something for me. I’ll see you in Cork on Monday to go over next week’s schedule. Not that there’s much point in any of it any more, is there?’ He slammed the half-door behind him, causing the tea lights on the windowsill to tremor. One fell to the ground, the flame dying immediately. Neither she nor Jake said anything, George Michael’s ‘Faith’ floating from the laptop.
‘Well,’ Jake said, rubbing the patch of skin between his eyes. He had a tendency to do that when he was anxious, she had noticed, the flesh there was often pink, tender. ‘That was awkward.’ He glanced at her, then down at the floor. ‘I’m sorry about that, Keelin. He’s annoyed because . . .’ He trailed off. He didn’t need to explain. They both knew the reason Noah was annoyed. She slid off the counter, walking over to the sink and stood next to him. She looked at his reflection in the glass of the window.
‘I’ll talk to Henry,’ she said.
‘I can’t ask you to do that.’
‘I’ll talk to him,’ she said again, and this time he didn’t refuse. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly, and the way he looked at her, Keelin felt a steady warmth spreading across her chest, licking at her ribs. Jake thought she was capable. He didn’t view her as broken, or damaged, the way everyone else seemed to do. It was a long time since anyone had seen her the way this man did and she found that she liked it.
‘Anything for a friend.’ She touched the tattoo on his left arm. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you about this. What does it signify?’
‘I remember the first day we arrived on the island,’ Jake said. ‘In the kitchen in Hawthorn House. You were staring at it, and you looked so embarrassed when I caught you. Isn’t it funny to think of that day now? We didn’t even know each other.’ He sounded amazed, like he couldn’t imagine a time in which he did not know Keelin Kinsella. ‘Would you ever get one?’
‘Get what?’ she said, moving her hand away, the warmth of his skin still on her fingertips.
‘A tattoo.’
‘No,’ she replied, leaning against the countertop, light-headed. ‘Jake, I need some . . . some water. Please.’
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, grabbing a pint glass from the cupboard.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, taking it after he’d filled it from the tap. ‘Sorry.’ She waited until her breathing had settled, smiling at him. ‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘Low blood pressure. It looks more dramatic than what it is.’ He didn’t seem convinced but Keelin pushed on. ‘Now, tell me. What does your tattoo mean?’
‘It’s just something my ma used to sketch for me when I was a kid. She said it was the Nguyen family design. It’s probably not true, but . . .’
‘Wait, I just thought of something. Why are you Jake Nguyen?’ she asked, taking another sip of the water. ‘Why not Jake Taylor? It’s funny, I never put that together until now.’
‘My father wouldn’t give me and my sisters his name.’
‘What? How do you mean?’
‘He refused to allow Ma to take his surname when they got married. And he said we couldn’t have it either, we would have to work for the “honour” of being called a Taylor. Charming man, my father.’ He held out his arm, inspecting the tattoo. His face softened, and Keelin wondered if her son looked this gentle when he talked about her. She doubted it, somehow. Maybe she would have to die too. Maybe then he would forgive her for what she had done.
‘Every time I see it, I think of my mother,’ Jake said, his fingers tracing the swirls of ink. ‘I like to think of her.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Crowley Girl
When Henry and Keelin were first married, she had been relieved to discover that, unlike her first husband, Henry wasn’t the jealous type. He didn’t look at her text messages or demand access to her emails, he didn’t expect her to hand over the password to her Facebook account for the sake of ‘transparency’. There was a level of respect there from the very beginning, a mutual understanding that they were both entitled to some privacy.
So, when Keelin went into Henry’s study that day, she hadn’t intended to look at his computer. She was searching for a book on transcendental meditation her father-in-law had given Henry the previous Christmas. Jonathan had been meditating for years; everyone was doing it in the seventies, he said, everyone cool anyway. Keelin loved it when Jonathan told stories about London at that time, the parties he and Olivia had thrown in their Kensington townhouse. Mick Jagger would come with Bianca, he said, Edna O’Brien was a staple and even Princess Margaret would sometimes arrive, accompanied by her sullen protection officer, who would eye the inebriated guests with suspicion. It had been one of the Beatles who’d turned Jonathan on to TM – Ringo, or maybe Paul, he couldn’t remember, but he promised Keelin the practice would transform her life. My life could do with some transforming, she joked, hugging Jonathan and Olivia goodbye. What’s wrong with your life, exactly? Henry asked in the car as they drove away, both of them still waving at his parents through the windscreen. I’m trying so hard here, Keelin, to make things perfect for you and the kids. What more do you want from me? She apologised. It was a flippant remark, she hadn’t meant anything by it, she said, but he refused to talk to her for the rest of the journey to Inverness airport, Evie dozing in the back seat.
She couldn’t see the book on the shelves or in Henry’s desk drawers. Maybe her husband had thrown it away. It wasn’t his thing, too ‘woo-woo’, he had said when he’d unwrapped it. She sat on the cushy leather seat, twirling it around once, twice, before coming to a standstill. His desk was perfectly neat, as always; it was just the PC, a leather-bound jotter and a Montblanc fountain pen, engraved with his full name in a cursive print, Henry Thomas Kinsella. Her eyes began to follow the movement of the computer’s screensaver, hypnotised by the cosmos of writhing stars. For some reason – she couldn’t explain it to herself, although later she would wonder if she’d been led by instinct, a sixth sense which had compelled her to do it – she put her hand out and shook the mouse, pausing when the computer asked for Henry’s password. She typed in Evie’s date of birth, putting a hand on her heart with an ‘awww’ when it worked on the first try. Henry could be so sweet sometimes. She scanned the folders on the desktop, boring, boring, boring. It was all work related, Misty Hill accounts, nothing of any great interest. Then she saw one called ‘Birdwatching’. When had Henry developed an interest in birdwatching? Oh, this was too good – she was already planning how best to mercilessly tease him for his new hobby as she clicked on the folder, finding a thumbnail of a photo inside. She clicked on that to enlarge it and—
‘What are you doing, darling?’ Henry’s hands on the chair, spinning it around, smiling at her. He looked over her shoulder, his face paling at what he saw there. He reached around her and shut the computer down as quickly as he could.
‘What was that?’ she said, trying to see past him but the screen was blank. What had she just seen – long legs and fair skin and a delicate tattoo dancing across the ribs? It was the shape of a bird, the tattoo. A swallow, or a swift perhaps? ‘Why do you have a photo of a naked girl on your computer, Henry?’
‘Oh, please. It’s rather rich you trying to take the m
oral high ground here, Keelin. This isn’t the kind of relationship I presumed we had; we don’t snoop around like this. I thought we trusted each other. I’m so disappointed.’
‘Excuse me? You have porn on y—’
‘For God’s sake, lower your voice,’ he said, pointing at the open door. ‘Evie is in her playroom and I don’t think she’s quite old enough for us to explain pornography to her, do you?’
‘You have a photo of a naked teenager on your computer. Jesus Christ, that girl looked barely legal,’ Keelin whispered angrily. ‘You can stop acting like the injured party, Henry.’
‘I didn’t realise you had such an issue with porn. You don’t seem to mind when we watch it together, do you, darling?’ he said with a half-smile. He knelt down, one hand on each of her knees, pulling them apart. ‘You rather enjoy it then, I’ve always found.’
‘That’s different, that’s for the two of us and not . . .’ Keelin closed her eyes, her breath drawing shallow. She should tell him to stop, now. She should, she should . . . ‘Evie . . .’ she said weakly as Henry snaked his hand under her skirt, inching her knickers down her legs.
‘She’s playing with her new Crayola set,’ he said. ‘Barring an earthquake, we’re not going to see her for at least half an hour.’ Keelin pictured their daughter upstairs, sitting at the multicoloured table with legs that resembled sticks of crayon, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth as she folded over the page, scribbling reds and blues and pinks within the lines of the colouring book. ‘What about Alex?’ she asked.
‘He’s gone for a walk with Nessa Crowley.’
Keelin tried to sit up, to push Henry away from her. They had to have a conversation about Alex’s relationship with Nessa, it couldn’t continue, they had to – ‘Shh, darling,’ her husband said, kissing his way up her inner thighs, and she gasped as he touched her clitoris with the tip of his tongue. ‘Just relax.’
After the Silence Page 14