A Gift to You (22 page)

‘Fine, George, that’s fine. I’m going now.’ Cora clicked off and flung her phone into her bag. Her husband wouldn’t be happy until they were penniless and in the
gutter. She felt a headache begin to throb in her temple and a knot of anxiety twist her insides. This was crazy stuff. George was unable and unwilling to face their financial predicament. He would
not accept responsibility for his part in their situation. She had had enough. She’d given him thirty-five years of her life. She would be sixty next year. She wanted a life without turmoil.
She placed her book in her bag and reluctantly stood up to return home. She was too agitated to try and relax again. What was the point? It was like this every day now. One thing after another. No
one wrote articles in the papers back home about the ulcer-inducing stress many of the wives of the once high-flying businessmen were under. She had tried her best to rein her husband in, to no
avail. She should have left him years ago, but she had been too loyal. This was where her loyalty had got her. A nervous wreck, who had nothing to look forward to.

What the hell was wrong with Cora? She was driving him around the bend. George scowled. It was a different kettle of fish when money had been no object and she was the queen of
the castle, throwing parties here and there. Decorating houses with the most expensive art and furniture. And he hadn’t said a word. He’d
encouraged
her. She’d been the
envy of women up and down the country. Now all she could do was nag! Some wife she was.

He was glad she was going home and then on to Spain. He could do with a break from her. He had a nice little filly who still thought he was a player. A little Russian blonde a friend of his had
introduced him to. Olga! She’d be more than impressed when she saw the apartment, George mused, cheering up at the thought. The sooner Cora was out of his hair for a while, the better.

‘And so, Brian, I want you to go ahead with the sale to your Chinese client. I want you to get your fine arts people to sell the paintings and the furniture, discretely.
I want it all to be done very quickly, and you are to deal with me and me alone. George is under so much stress I’m afraid he’ll have a heart attack,’ she instructed
authoritatively.

‘No problem, Mrs Hume. That’s fine. Any problems and I’ll come to you.’

‘There shouldn’t be any; it’s a straightforward sale,’ Cora said calmly. These are my new solicitors; they’ll be looking after the conveyancing. She slid a typed
sheet over the desk to him and stood up. ‘I’m going to Spain the day after tomorrow, but you have my mobile number.’ She shook hands with the estate agent and walked out of his
office, feeling an enormous boulder had lifted from her shoulders.

She dialled her husband’s mobile on her Bluetooth as she drove along the Grand Canal, sparkling and undulating under the dappled light of the trees. It was lovely to be back in her native
city even for a few days. ‘The house is fine, I’ll forward on the post. The gardens look good, but I got papped,’ she fibbed, driving towards Baggott St Bridge. ‘You better
stay well away; I’ll deal with things here. I’ll fly back from Malaga to Dublin and check the place out again.’

‘Right,’ George said grumpily. He had no desire to set foot in that benighted isle that had ruined him. His son and daughter were working in Australia; there was nothing for him in
Ireland, only begrudgery and hassle.

‘Stay in Spain for a while, don’t rush back here on my account; there’s no point in the two of us having a miserable summer, and I’ll be very busy,’ he added
magnanimously, remembering his plans for an entertaining evening with Olga.

‘I might do that. We’ll see. Bye,’ Cora said non-commitally, and hung up.

‘Bye yourself,’ George muttered, scrolling down his mobile for the Russian’s number.

Some new little tart on the scene, Cora guessed, swinging the car into the circular drive of the big redbrick mansion that she no longer considered home. Let him have his fun while he could, it
just made it all the easier for her to do what she was doing.

That little cow Valentina had only booked economy for her, Cora saw in disgust while sitting in the taxi to Dublin airport. Well, the day was coming when she’d have
nothing to do with her and that couldn’t come soon enough. Cora upgraded to first class and relaxed in the Gold Circle Lounge until it was time to board. She sat back in the leather
first-class seat, yawning. She’d been up at four and she was tired but exhilarated. For the first time in years she felt in control of her life and her future. All she had to do was get the
villa sold and then she could sit back and decide what her next step was. The Air Lingus airbus soared high out over Dublin Bay, and she caught a glimpse of the iconic twin ESB chimneys and knew
the next time she landed in Dublin she would be mistress of her own fate.

‘What do you mean, you’re not coming back to London?’ George roared. ‘You’ve been away the whole summer.’

‘Stop shouting, George, or I’ll hang up,’ Cora said coldly. ‘I’m not coming back to live with you in London or anywhere else for that matter. I’ve paid my
dues; I’ve done my best for you; now it’s time for me. I’ve sold the house; I’ve a sale agreed on the villa. They’re both in my name. It’s all legal and above
board. No one can come after me. Your debts are your own from now on—’

‘You can’t do that!’ George exploded.

‘I can and I have. And this is the last time I’ll be phoning you. You can tell Valentina I’m changing my mobile number so there’s no point in trying to contact me.
I’ve put all your personal possessions’ in storage in Dublin. I’ll send you the details; you can take over the payment next month if you want to. I’ll make sure the kids
have a home if they want to come back to Ireland, although I doubt they would—’

‘Cora! Now Cora listen to me.’ There was a note of panic in his voice. ‘There’s no need to overreact. You’ve sold the house, fine, we’ll get somewhere else,
it was too big for us any—’

‘George, there
is
no “we” any more. I’m only taking what I put into the marriage. You’re getting away lightly, believe me,’ Cora said grimly.
‘Good luck with that new legal team.’

‘Cor—’ But it was too late; she’d hung up and turned off her phone.

Cora stretched out on the lounger on her hotel balcony and raised her face to the sun. The yachts in Puerto Banus across the harbour gleamed in the silver-hued water. George could fly out to
Spain if he wanted. The locks on the villa were changed, the estate agent had the keys. She was flying back to Ireland tomorrow to view a detached house near the seafront in Clontarf. It looked
bright and airy on the internet photos, and had three large ensuite bedrooms, perfect if the children ever wanted to stay. She wanted to live near the sea. She would still have a very healthy nest
egg when she had bought it. She had secured her future and that of her children. When she died, her estate would go to them alone.

George could tilt at windmills as long as he wanted. He could have as many little foreign tartlets as he wanted. She didn’t care. He had used her to try and fiddle the banks and the
taxman, never thinking that she would take advantage of the situation to secure her future. Big mistake, George, Cora thought coldly. The banks couldn’t come after her, the taxman
couldn’t come after her; unlike her husband she was tax compliant. She was free.

Cora sipped her gin and tonic and looked forward to the back massage and facial she had booked for later. It was time to start afresh. She would captain her own ship from now on.

Sitting in the sweltering heat in his office in London, George Hume put his head in his hands and wept; while in the outer office, Valentina tried repeatedly to ring her boss’s wife with
every phone number she had on file for her . . . to no avail.

‘I bought a magnificent new house for us at a bargain price,’ the Chinese businessman told his delighted wife on the phone as he stood in the leafy-green garden of
the red-bricked double-fronted mansion in Dublin 4 – a most sought-after address – that he could now call home.

He sits, tombstone straight. His back does not touch the chair. His feet, surprisingly neat and dainty for such a portly man, are positioned at twelve o’ clock precisely.
This is the way he has sat in his court for the last thirty years.

How he wishes he were sitting in his court now, with his wig on his head. His black gown immaculate and uncreased, enhancing his girth. An imposing figure. A judge that engenders respect,
apprehension, dismay – even fear – among the myriad flocks of legal and criminal fraternities alike that are his subjects.

His maroon silk dressing gown will not stay closed over the Buddha dome of his stomach. It is a constant, niggling irritation and he tuts while tightening the belt for the umpteenth time. His
new carpet slippers are too tight. Swollen, gouty fluid-filled flesh strains again their cruel restraint. His feet are the colour of bruised plums.

A preemptory knock alerts him to the arrival of the mid-morning tea and biscuits, which were signalled ten minutes earlier by the cacophony of the clatters of trollies arriving from the kitchen
at the end of the corridor.

‘Mornin’, luv, here ya go, enjoy it!’ A thin, careworn woman in a yellow uniform and matching yellow hat plonks his tea tray on the grey trolley that stretches across his
bed.

‘Thank you,’ he clips coldly, affronted at her casual, disrespectful salutation. ‘
I am not your
“
luv
”.
I am
“
Your
Lordship
”,
one of the most senior judges in the country
,’ is what he would have said if anyone in his court had ever had the temerity to address him thus.

‘Yer welcome,’ she reciprocates over her shoulder and then she is gone, the door closed none too gently behind her, shutting out the never-ending sounds of the hospital, in which he
feels incarcerated.

The Judge eases himself up out of his chair. Sharp, pointed needles of pain pierce his joints. His arthritis is giving him hell. He pours the tea from the small aluminum teapot into the thick
white cup. The amber liquid leaks from the spout, soaking into the white doily dressing the plate, on which three ginger biscuits lie.

Ginger biscuits are his favourite. He milks and sugars his tea and reaches for a biscuit. Unthinkingly, he eats it in two mouthfuls, takes a gulp of the tea and swallows. He takes another
biscuit. Halfway between plate and mouth, he pauses. His surgeon has told him he must lose weight for his bladder surgery to be successful. He has also told him to cut back on his caffeine
intake.

Just this last one
, the Judge promises himself, as he greedily devours the sweet tidbit. He pours himself another cup of tea. In his latter years on the bench, mid-morning tea has not
been a luxury he has allowed himself. Interrupting a case he is hearing to void his bladder is not conducive to the smooth running of his court. He sets the bar high, he tells his wife, amused at
his clever legal pun. ‘You’re still entitled to go to the restroom,’ she sniffs, unimpressed at his ‘martyrdom’ as she calls it.

He finishes the last biscuit. He has always loved his food and drink. It is the only weakness the Judge permits himself. That, and staying at expensive hostelries when he is on the circuit. He
has no qualms at all about ordering chateaubriand and the finest wines to entertain whomever he choses to dine with. He is Judge Harney, after all. One of the best, if not
the
best, known
judges in the country. He dispenses justice on behalf of the citizens. It is only right and proper that they, in return, pay out of their many taxes for the lifestyle to which he has become
accustomed over thirty years in his position. No cheap inns and B&B’s for him. Standards have to be maintained, recessions or no, he believes, despite his wife’s dire warnings that
taxpayers will take umbrage at his sense of entitlement and unwarranted expense account. She is afraid it will cause a scandal.

‘No one will question me. I am a member of the judiciary, a man of the highest integrity. I have nothing to answer for,’ is his response. But she worries that some troublemaking
journalist will draw attention to what she perceives as a lack of moral rectitude. Her attitude annoys him. He feels he is being judged and he does not like it.

The door swings open, and a young redheaded nurse pushing a machine breezes in. ‘Time for your TPR, Frederick,’ she says cheerily, ‘And I’ll take your blood pressure
too.’

Frederick!
His lips thin. ‘You may call me “Judge”, or “Mister Harney”,’ he snaps.

‘Oh! No problem, Mr Harney,’ the nurse responds, clearly taken aback at his stern rebuke. She sticks a thermometer in his ear and waits for it to ping. He sits, fuming, while she
checks his pulse before uncoiling the black blood pressure cuff to wrap around his upper arm.

The urge to urinate becomes overwhelming. He should never have had that damn second cup of tea. He sits, clenching, legs crossed tightly as the cuff puffs and expands, tightening around his arm.
The numbers on the monitor rise inexorably, taunting him.

‘Are you all right there, Mr Harney?’ The nurse notices his agitation.

‘I have to go to the toilet,’ he says abruptly, struggling to get out of his seat.

‘Fine, fine.’ The nurse says, calmly taking the cuff off his arm.

‘Out of my way, out of my way.’ He pushes past, bumping into the machine in his haste to get to the bathroom. It hits the side of the bed and almost topples over but he manages to
straighten it up. ‘Sorry!’ he mutters. He has just rounded the corner of the bed, and has a clear run to the bathroom when the tea lady arrives to collect her tray.

‘Out of the way,’ he says frantically, trying to brush her aside as she inadvertently blocks his path.

‘All right, luv, keep yer hair on,’ she responds good humouredly, stepping aside. He steps in the same direction and they do an awkward shuffle.

‘For God’s sake!’ he exclaims irritably, circling around her. But it is too late. He feels the hot, wet trickle of urine down his leg, darkening his pajama bottoms. He is
mortified as the now familiar smell of incontinence assails his nostrils before he finally reaches the sanctuary of the small, tiled ensuite bathroom.