Aisling Gayle (54 page)

Mrs Lynch shook her head. “No, I was coming back from a removal at the church, and I saw Johnny Mulligan and all his carry-on at your car.”

“Well,” said Charles, pleased that his deduction about the church had been correct, “in actual fact it’s not my car. It’s my father’s.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Lynch, “your
father’
s car.” She paused for a moment, her hands tightly clutching her gloves. “They’re terrible people, those Mulligans. The husband is a heavy drinker and fierce jealous . . . and he’d noticed your car parked out in the street a few times, and got the wrong idea.”

“Oh?” said Charles. “And what idea did he have?”

“Well,” said Mrs Lynch, “he thought you were . . . he thought you were a fancy-man of his wife’s. All in his drunken imagination, of course – she’s a poor soul who’s terrified of him.”

“Indeed!” said Charles, his brows moving in agitation. “So that explains the mystery.”

Mrs Lynch’s head bobbed up and down. “And I’m so, so sorry about it all. What a terrible thing to happen to one of my customers. I couldn’t think where I could see you to explain . . . and I didn’t like to phone the house. Then I remembered you saying that Mr Gayle was your brother-in-law. So I looked in at his shop this morning, and he offered to bring me out here himself. It was very decent of him.” She looked at the plaster on his cheek. “Did he hurt you very bad?”

“Not at all,” Charles said, his hand now moving to his swollen ear, “not at all.”

“Well, I can tell you,” the seamstress said in a high, indignant voice, “that I let Johnny Mulligan know just how wrong he’d got his facts. He was pulling his wife into the house by the hair of the head when I reached the gate.”

“Dreadful,” Charles muttered, “dreadful business altogether.”

“I threatened him with the guards,” she said. “I told him that he’d attacked an innocent man. A highly regarded businessman, who’d only come to see me about a harmless bit of sewing.”

“Indeed,” said Charles, quite flattered by the description
of him being a
highly regarded businessman.

Oliver appeared at the shop door now, with young Dominic sporting an orange-drink-coloured moustache and a bar of chocolate, which had left brown dribbles down the front of his hand-knitted jersey, clutched in his hand. The sight of it made Charles’s stomach heave a little. He had a strong distaste for messy children, and had enough to contend with at home with Bernadette. Oliver took the child by the hand, and walked up the road out of the couple’s earshot.

“Anyway,” Mrs Lynch continued, “Johnny Mulligan has been back to the house to apologise to me on several occasions, and I told him he was a lucky man. If my friend, Mr Flynn, had been around when it happened, the guards would have been called on the spot –”

“Mr Flynn?” Charles said. “And would that be another of your customers?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” Mrs Lynch said, “he’s just become my fiancé. He’s the man I look after – the man I get the library books for. He’s a great reader . . . I don’t know how we get on, because I’m not much of a reader myself. He has books piled everywhere in the house, and I’m forever trying to tidy the blessed things up. If you ask me, they’re only dust-gatherers.”

Charles stared at her, his mind trying to digest this latest information.

“He’s a good bit older than me,” the seamstress went on quickly, “and a small bit of an invalid . . . but he’s a fine man, and will look after me and Dominic well. It’s not been easy being on our own.”

Charles nodded his head. “Well,” he said, “I’m delighted for you, Mrs Lynch – and I hope all three of you will be very happy.”

“You are?” she said, sounding slightly disappointed. There was a little pause. “It’s just that I thought you . . . “ She took a deep breath. “With you calling round so much, I thought you might have thought there could be something between you and – and me.”

Charles’s eyebrows shot up. “Not at all,” he said, catching sight of Dominic rubbing his chocolaty hands down the front of his jumper now. “As you say, it was only a bit of business. I was just getting my house in order, as they say. Sorting out my clothes, what needed mending and suchlike. Getting things in order for the winter coming in.”

Mrs Lynch’s head moved up and down slowly. “I see,” she said quietly. “It was just with you calling so late in the evening . . . I thought it might have been personal, because, I have to say, Mr Kearney – I think you’re a very fine man.”

Charles put his hands behind his back now and smiled. “Well, thank you, Mrs Lynch,” he said. “That’s kind of you to say so.”

They both stood for a few moments in silence. Then, when the silence became awkward, Mrs Lynch put her gloves back on. “I’ll thank you for being so understanding, Mr Kearney,” she said, moving back towards the car. Oliver and the boy were now coming back down the street.

“Think nothing of it,” Charles said, rocking back on his heels and smiling. “All water under the bridge as they say, Mrs Lynch. All water under the bridge.”

Then, another familiar car engine sounded as it came up towards the shop, and Charles unwittingly gave a loud groan. It was his mother and father. Why on earth could they not have waited a few more minutes, and avoided bumping into the seamstress?

Maggie was first out of the car. “We’ve just left your house,” she told Oliver brightly. “We thought we might have seen you.” She turned expectantly to Mrs Lynch, and Oliver quickly introduced them.

Mrs Lynch blushed red now, unsure of whether Charles had explained how he got his wounds, and wary of saying the wrong thing. “I called over with Mr Kearney’s blazer,” she said in a high tone. She gestured now to the car. “I’ve left it in the back seat . . .”

Maggie looked from Mrs Lynch to Charles, knowing instinctively that there was more to the situation. But both remained tight-lipped.

A few moments later, Charles waved Oliver’s car off with Mrs Lynch and the dribbly Dominic safely in the back seat. What a narrow escape he’d just had, he thought. Almost betrothing himself to a woman who didn’t read, and a child who dribbled all down himself.

Charles shuddered at the thought.

Wasn’t it far, far better to be on his own, than tied for life to an unsuitable partner? A partner who had no time for books – and had referred to them as
dust-gatherers
in much the same manner as his mother would have done. A dire warning if ever there was one.

And anyway, what harm was there in going to the theatre on his own? If Mrs Lynch didn’t read, it was highly unlikely she’d ever heard of William Shakespeare or
Othello
. Or Charles Dickens or Oscar Wilde. It would be a completely wasted exercise.

And then Charles suddenly remembered
Nostradamus,
and grinned to himself. He would take that cup of tea upstairs to his bedroom now, and continue where he left off.

Back to his own safe, solitary little world.

Chapter 42

For the next week, Aisling and Oliver lived like strangers in the same house, maintaining only a polite silence between them. The only real conversation they had was when Aisling moved into the spare bedroom.

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” she told him, “but I need to be on my own. I’ve not slept properly since I came back . . . and I don’t feel very bright in myself. If I wake up, I can put the light on without disturbing you.”

“Is that the real reason?” he asked in an injured tone.

“I honestly don’t feel too good,” she said, “and if it doesn’t improve, I’m going to have to go to the doctor. I might need a tonic or something to give me the energy for going back to school next week.”

Oliver’s eyes suddenly brightened. “Maybe going back to school will do you a power of good,” he said now. “Getting back into a routine and everything.”

“Maybe it will,” Aisling said quietly, turning towards the spare-room door.

“Aisling?” Oliver suddenly said, catching her gently by the arm. “What would you say . . . to us attending Catholic Marriage Guidance?” He waited, and when there was no reaction said: “We could go up to Dublin where nobody would know us. I could ring for an appointment tomorrow . . . if you’re agreeable.”

Aisling stared at him with hollow-looking eyes. “I asked you to do that last year . . . and you refused.”

“I know, I know,” he admitted, “but I was too pig-headed to listen then.” He took her hands in his. “Aisling, please – give me a chance. If I could turn the clock back, I would.”

Then, as she noticed tears glistening at the corner of his eyes, something rose up inside her. She didn’t know if it was guilt, pity or the vestiges of the feelings she once had for him. Whatever it was, she suddenly said: “Give me a bit of time, Oliver – I need to think.”

“Take all the time you need,” he said gently. He squeezed her hands. “I’ll be there waiting for you.”

Aisling eased her hands out of his grip. Then, she went in one bedroom door, and Oliver went in the other.

* * *

Aisling visited the doctor the following Friday morning. There was a fair-sized queue in the waiting-room. Not in the mood for polite conversation, or to be interrogated about her family by nosey neighbours, Aisling kept her head buried in a book until it was her turn.

“Well, Aisling,” the kindly doctor enquired over his little spectacles, “what brings you here?”

“To be honest, doctor,” she started, “I don’t really know. Basically, I’ve been feeling run-down for the last few weeks. I’m not sleeping great, and I’m absolutely exhausted. I wondered if maybe I’d picked up something while I was in America?”

“A possibility, I suppose,” he said, his head tilted to the side in thought. “On the other hand, it could be a touch of anaemia or anything.” He turned back to his desk and opened her file, then after a few seconds he made a small noise as though clearing his throat. “Are you still having the same trouble with your monthly – ”

“Yes,” Aisling answered quickly. “It’s over eight months since the last one.”

The doctor stood up and went over to his instrument trolley. “We’ll take a drop of blood from you,” he told her, “and see if anything shows up. I’ll give you a prescription to start you on some iron tables in the meantime.” He gave her a beaming smile. “I can’t tell whether you’re pale or not, with that lovely tan you got in America.”

Standing outside the surgery, Aisling pondered whether to cycle down to the shop or go straight home. She had been avoiding her mother as much as possible, and the last time she had spoken to her briefly Maggie had come up with the suggestion of the Catholic Marriage Advisory. It had crossed Aisling’s mind that Oliver had been discussing things with her mother again. But maybe, she thought, she was being too touchy. Maybe it was the obvious thing for someone to suggest.

She mounted the bicycle and headed for home, deciding that she wasn’t in the mood for a heavy discussion with her mother. What she needed was a rest, because apart from being tired, she now felt slightly queasy since she’d given the sample of blood.

Back at the house, she dozed fitfully for almost two hours, curled up in the armchair in the sitting-room. She woke when the sound of the postman’s bicycle crunching on the stones outside startled her. She sat still for a few moments, her head still fuzzy with sleep. In normal circumstances she would have gone to the door and invited the cheery Kevin O’Reilly in for a cup of tea and a slice of cake, but this afternoon she was in no mood to make small-talk with the postman.

Instead, she just waited until she heard the bicycle heading off down the drive, and then she moved into the kitchen to fill the range up with wood and some small pieces of turf. When she got it going well enough, she put the kettle on top to boil for tea, and then started to make herself a ham sandwich.

While she waited for the kettle to boil, she sat back down in the armchair just gazing into space.
What,
she asked herself, over and over again,
has happened to my life? What have I done?
And then, eventually,
What am I going to do? Should I have been brave enough – or selfish enough – to stay in America with Jameson Carroll? Would it have been any harder in the long run than all of this?

The kettle was whistling long before any answers seemed to be appearing, so Aisling got up and made the tea. She brought her ham sandwich and mug of tea on a tray, and sat back down in the chair. She ate and drank mechanically, a
sking herself the same questions, over and over again.

Later, as she moved to wash up, she suddenly remembered the postman. There was one long airmail letter lying on the mat, and the nearer she got to it, the quicker her heart started to beat. She could see American stamps on it and unfamiliar handwriting. And as she picked it up, she racked her brains to remember if she had ever seen Jameson write anything in her presence.

She almost ran back into the sitting-room, clutching the letter to her breast. And then, she pored over every inch of the front of the envelope, before turning it over to check for a sender’s name on the back.

And there – just as she hoped – was the Lake Savannah address. Printed neatly, but with no name on it. It didn’t matter. The address was enough. It had to be from Jameson.

Aisling reached up to the mantelpiece and lifted down a small paper-knife – a present from one of her uncles when she graduated from teacher-training college. It had a gold-coloured blade and a creamy-coloured porcelain handle, decorated with small pink flowers. She could hardly stop her hand from shaking as she carefully sliced the top of the envelope open, and then slid the single, flimsy sheet of airmail paper out.