Aisling Gayle (32 page)

But she didn’t.

Instead, she sat and had a hot cocoa with her aunt and uncle, and then headed upstairs to bed around half-past twelve. She lay for a while, staring at the same page in a magazine, and eventually dropped it on the floor unread. Then she turned out the light and closed her eyes, and finally drifted off into sleep.

At some early hour in the morning she awoke with a start, her heart pounding, her mouth dry and the palms of her hands damp with perspiration. She sat bolt upright in bed, wondering what on earth had brought this awful bout of anxiety on. And then a picture flashed in her mind – and she knew exactly what had caused it.

It was the thought of losing the American artist from across the lake. The thought of never seeing him again.

Whilst she had successfully managed to block him out of her mind for some of the time earlier on, at night her mind had refused to ignore it. She now knew, beyond all shadow of a doubt, that nothing was going to stop her from seeing Jameson Carroll.

The decision made, the panicky feelings immediately started to subside, and were replaced with a feeling of energy. She threw back the bedcovers and quietly made her way downstairs and into the kitchen. She gulped down a glass of cold water, and then went over to the window to look out into the darkness.

It would be several hours until it was daylight, and there was no point in staring out at the shadowy trees until then.

She forced herself to go back upstairs to bed, and to close her eyes. To convince herself – like a child who is waiting for Christmas to come – that sleep is the quickest way to pass the time.

Chapter 24

Tullamore, County Offaly

The shop doorbell tinkled and Pauline looked up from the bacon slicer which she had just washed and was now putting back together. Her face stiffened as she saw the blonde head of Rose Quinn appear through the door. She put the last piece of the machine back in its place, then she turned to her co-worker.

“Are you all right there, until it’s time to close the shop up, Peenie?” she asked, her arms folded over defensively. She glanced back at Rose then gestured for her to go on through to the house. “You can make a start on lifting in the potato sacks,” she told the assistant, “and the vegetable boxes from the front door. And Peenie – would you keep an eye on Bernadette? Two of the Murphy girls are playing with her outside.”

“Sound as a pound, Pauline!” Peenie said, straightenin
g himself up and holding an illicit cigarette behind his back. “Sound as a pound!” Pauline was nearly as easy-going as Charles in the shop, but she was still a Kearney none the less. He tipped his cap now and gave the sullen Rose an ingratiating smile as she passed him by without a glance. He only vaguely knew her as one of the uppity Quinns from somewhere off out beyond Ballycommon – but he knew by the well-dyed head on her that she wouldn’t be too uppity when it came to a bit of sport with the men. Although by the look of her – only certain kinds of men.

As soon as both girls had their backs to him, Peenie moved forward, craning his neck over the counter to get a look at their legs. It was almost a wasted exercise as both girls were clad in trousers – but at least he had the pleasure of watching their neat, firm backsides disappear through to the back.

He clapped his hands and then rubbed them together, thinking how the sight of a good-looking girl fairly lifted a
man’s heart. Then, he took a last few drags on the cigarette, and crushed it under his heel on the wooden shop floor. That, and any other signs of laxity would be well swept out of the shop by the time Declan and Maggie Kearney returned. Then, Peenie headed out to lift in the sacks and boxes he had put out there at ten o’clock that
morning.

* * *

“I wasn’t expecting to see you around here in a hurry,” Pauline said, going over to lift the steaming kettle from the top of the cooker.

Rose’s head and shoulders drooped. “I meant to come over earlier in the week,” she said, fiddling with her double strand of pearls, “but I haven’t been too grand.”

“Well,” Pauline said, now busying herself with the tea-making paraphernalia, “things weren’t too grand here when I got back home that Sunday night.” She came over to the table and landed a small plate of digestives on it with a bit of a thud – just to leave Rose in no doubt as to her mood.

“Oh?” Rose said, not sure which way to go. She folded her arms and crossed her legs now. “What happened?”

There was a painful, protracted silence.

“I thought we had nearly lost Bernadette,” Pauline stated, highly exaggerating the situation.

Rose’s hand came to her mouth, and Pauline noticed that her nail-polish was very chipped and neglected-looking altogether. Most unusual and careless for the up-to-date Rose who liked to have everything just right.

“There was nearly an ambulance on its way out from the General Hospital,” Pauline continued, “and poor Charles was practically gone out of his mind with worry. He had to get poor Oliver Gayle out of his bed to come over and see what he thought. If I hadn’t landed home
when I did – God alone knows what might have happened.”

“What happened to her?” said Rose, her voice low with dread.

“She was almost poisoned,” Pauline said, pouring out two cups of tea. She was enjoying Rose’s discomfiture greatly, and wasn’t going to ease off until she had made her pay.

“
Poisoned?
” Rose said in a high, nervous voice, twisting the pearls around her fingers.

“Yes,” Pauline said, nodding her head and raising her eyebrows dramatically, “poisoned.” She poured milk into the two cups, and then pushed the sugar bowl across to Rose. “She got hold of some kind of plaster – the kind that a statue or an ornament would be made of.”

Pauline had no intentions of telling Rose the story of the Virgin Mary’s nose – it was much too light-hearted and comical for the serious point she was trying to hammer home. And she certainly wasn’t going to mention the two plates of lumpy custard that Charles had concocted – and that surely was the real cause of Bernadette’s sickness. To start laughing about it would only be letting Rose off the hook, and it was far too early for that.

“And what did it do to her?” Rose asked, putting two large spoonfuls of sugar into her cup.

“It made her violently sick,” Pauline said, “and gave her a raging temperature.” She took a sip of her tea, surprised that Rose didn’t quiz her further as to where Bernadette would have got hold of plaster in the first place. She was usually quicker off the mark about things, wanting to know all the details. “We were up the whole night with her,” Pauline elaborated, “damping her down with wet cloths and everything. And then I had to take her into Doctor Morrell first thing the next morning, just to be sure.” Then for a finish-up, she added. “She was on this horrible medicine for the rest of the week – the poor little thing.”

Rose looked dolefully into her cup of tea. “And has she been all right since?” she asked in a low voice.

“Grand,” Pauline said in a kind of snappy tone. “Thanks be to God and his Blessed Mother.” A fleeting picture of the nose-less statue came into her mind, which she immediately banished lest she should give an inappropriate grin.

There was another silence.

“I had a bit of an awkward predicament myself,” Rose suddenly said.

Pauline looked over the rim of her teacup and waited. She wasn’t going to coax it out of her fair-weather friend.

“That fella,” Rose said, “the McCarthy lad . . . he turned real strange on me.”

“How do you mean
strange?
” Pauline asked, interested in spite of herself.

“The drink must have got the better of him,” Rose said, trying to sound flippant and failing due a watery quiver in her voice, “because he came from a decent enough family. He turned very nasty altogether . . .”

“In what way?” Pauline asked, her tone less icy. “Did he do something?”

Rose shrugg
ed and lifted a digestive that she didn’t really want. “He had a fair go,” she said, breaking the biscuit
in two, “but he didn’t get as far as he would’ve liked.”

Pauline looked closer at Rose now, suddenly realising that this was not just an ordinary social call. “What exactly did he do, Rose?” Her voice was softer, all anger about last Sunday now being pushed to the side.

Rose’s head drooped again.

“You’ll have to tell me,” Pauline said. “I can’t just guess . . .”

Rose put the cup and the biscuit on the table, and without any preamble lifted up her pink jumper to reveal several bluish-red bruises around her waist, and one very nasty weal.

“Oh, my God!” Pauline said, putting her own cup down now.

“Those bruises are from his hands gripping me,” Rose said dully, “and the scratch from the buckle of his belt when he got up on top of me. He had his mickey out and everything – he was determined to have a good go at me.”

“The filthy pig! Oh, I’m so sorry, Rose!” Pauline came over to put her hand on her friend’s shoulder.

Rose then proceeded to pull one trouser-leg up – which again had bruises – and there was also a large sticking-plaster on her shin bone. “That was when I tried to get out of the car,” she explained. “I hit my legs on the car door when he was trying to drag me back in.” Then she rolled her trouser leg back down. “I had a close call – if he hadn’t been so drunk, I wouldn’t have been able to fight him off . . .”

“What did your mother and father say when you got home?” Pauline whispered, aghast at her friend’s news.

“Nothing,” Rose said, “because they don’t know about it. They were in bed, and they only called out from their bedroom.” She shrugged. “I’ve been wearing trousers since, so they haven’t seen the state of my legs.”

Pauline’s eyes were wide with shock. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “He looked so young and harmless. He looked a bit of a drunken eejit all right – but I would definitely have said he was real harmless.”

“Ah, well,” Rose said, taking a drink from the tea, “I’ve learned a hard lesson – no mistake about it.”

“I’m so sorry you did,” Pauline said, rubbing her friend’s arm. “Are you going to take it any further? Go to the Gardai or anything? You should, you know. What he did was against the law.”

Rose shook her head. “No . . . I just want to forget all about it. Apart from the few bruises I’m none the worse.” She pursed her mouth tightly now, and looked down at the table. “Thanks for being so nice, Pauline,” she whispered. “I wasn’t so nice to you last Sunday night.”

“Forget it,” Pauline said. “It’s all behind us.”

Rose gave a weak smile that didn’t reach her watery eyes. “As I say – I’ve learned a fierce hard lesson. If I’d travelled home the same way I’d gone in – none of this would have happened.”

Pauline squeezed Rose’s hand and decided to say nothing else about the matter. It was all water under the bridge. And anyway – who was she to throw stones where making mistakes with men was concerned?

* * *

“So you never looked in on Mrs Lynch this afternoon at all?” Peenie said in surprise, as he handed the keys over to Charles outside the shop.

Charles slid one sleeve of his loose jumper up to the elbow, and then did the same with the other. “Well,” he said, folding his arms and leaning up against the side of his father’s car, “it wasn’t just as straightforward as that.”

Peenie – looking unfamiliar out of his brown shop overalls – came to lean on the car beside him and light the butt of a cigarette he’d saved from earlier. “So, what’s the story?”

“I passed her in the town,” Charles explained. “Her and the son were heading up the High Street. So I said to myself that I might as well head on in to the library, and then take a wander around to the house later on.” He took his glasses off now, rubbed his eyes, and then chewed thoughtfully on the end of one of the legs of the glasses.

“And what happened then?” Peenie prompted, suddenly thinking of the sausages and eggs his mother would be frying up for him at any minute.

“Well,
nothing
really . . .” Charles said. “As it turned out, she wasn’t at home later on either.” He put his glasses on. “I might take another run out there later on this evening – maybe around eight or so.”

Peenie’s eyebrows shot up. “Ye’d want to be careful calling out to womens’s houses late in the evening. Especially when they’re on their own.”

Charles shrugged. “What harm? Hasn’t she got a good blazer of mine out there?” He straightened up his shoulders, as his mother was always reminding him to do. “I’m only calling on a business matter. Surely, there’s nobody could find anything strange about that?”

Peenie shook his head. “Ye’d want to be fierce careful goin’ around a widow wumman late in the evening . . .” He clenched the inch-long butt in his teeth, and hoisted up the waistband of his brown corduroy trousers. “I had a bit of trouble meself, when I was over the water in England – I nearly had a woman go high-sterical on me for calling out to the house late at night. And I wasn’t even terrible jarred or anything – only a few oul’ pints on me.”

Charles nodded his head knowingly. “English women are a different kettle of fish now, Peenie. Indeed they are. England has a terrible effect on their nerves. Even the Irish women who go over there for a while seem to be affected. You can tell that from my own sister.” He shook his head sadly. “Poor Pauline’s never been the same since she came back. She wasn’t half as cross and suspicious as she is now before she went.” His face brightened. “Now, Mrs Lynch wouldn’t be a bit like that.”