Heartstones (29 page)

Phoebe put her face in her hands; all happiness had crumbled inside her, replaced by an avalanche of humiliation. Phoebe forced herself to look up again and saw that the microphone stand was beginning to bend as Nola leaned on it. ‘But now, after what that bitch Sandra and that bastard Steve did to me I can see how naïve and stupid Phoebe was, and I’d like everyone to know that I’ve forgiven her,’ Nola’s slur was now almost undecipherable, ‘and even though we shouldn’t be mean about dead people I think she’s better off without him, like I’m better off without my snake of a husband.’

Nola hiccupped again. ‘Now the song I’d like to sing is an old favourite of mine from when I was very, very,
very
young in the 1980s, it’s “Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves”.’ Nola pointed at Fibber who was in charge of the Karaoke machine. ‘Hit it, Mr Flannigan.’ Fibber didn’t move. Phoebe risked a glance behind her, in an instant she took in Katrina standing with one hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide, Rory’s mortified grimace, Ben’s highly entertained grin and at the very back of the bar, Theo. His face like stone he stared straight at her with an expression that she could only interpret as revulsion, before turning and walking out of the door.

There was an almighty bang and when Phoebe looked back to the stage Nola was sprawled on the floor, the broken microphone stand beneath her. Fibber sprang up beside her. ‘She’s all right, everyone,’ he announced. ‘She’s actually trying to sing, not quite the correct words for the first verse, but she’s giving it a good try. Katrina, would you help us get her into my mother’s sitting room, she can sleep it off on the sofa tonight.’ He briefly looked at Phoebe and then looked away.

People began to murmur all around her; Phoebe heard odd snatches of conversation:

‘And to think she told us she’d been married to him.’

‘I thought she was a widow.’

‘Is there a word for someone who pretends to be a dead man’s wife?’

‘Isn’t she the dark horse?’

‘She had us all deceived.’

She couldn’t bear it, the door was only feet away from her and blindly she pushed through the small group that separated her from it. She heard Sally O’Connell call out her name as she passed her, but she kept going and in seconds was standing outside on the pavement, oblivious to the driving rain and the wind.

A car screeched away from the kerb beside her, she recognised the number plate: Theo’s Land Rover. She longed to cry, but her tears were buried beneath a wave of misery that seemed to drench her to her very core.

She began to run. She didn’t care that she’d left her jacket in the pub, she didn’t care that her thin cotton blouse was soaked in seconds, or that her wet hair slapped her face with every step she took. The lights of the Land Rover grew dimmer as it disappeared down the high street. By the time she reached the lane they’d vanished and everything was thick and black and full of rain. Phoebe stumbled on; she saw no lights in the Castle as she passed. Hope sprang inside her, maybe Theo had gone to the boathouse, maybe he’d be waiting to tell her that it didn’t matter what Nola had said, it didn’t matter that she’d deceived him, it didn’t matter that she’d just been a mistress, the sort of woman who would think nothing of breaking up a marital home.

Phoebe tripped against the root of a tree and landed on all fours in mud and grit; for a few seconds she stayed put, motionless, her head hanging low, her hair trailing in the dirt, oblivious to the physical pain she knew she should be feeling. After a few minutes she managed to stand up and ran on again until she saw the boathouse shrouded in darkness and realised that Theo wouldn’t be waiting for her with forgiveness after all.

The sound of the sea was almost deafening as she reached the door. For a few seconds she contemplated turning around and walking down onto the beach – maybe everything would be so much easier if she just kept walking across the sand into those wildly crashing waves, to let the sea swallow her up and drag her down into oblivion; let the storm-enraged Atlantic ocean put an end to her miserable life.

But something stopped her, some thin thread of determination to go on living no matter what. She turned the key in the lock, the door opened, and Phoebe turned on the light. She saw the pots immediately; they were lined up along the workbench the way Theo must have wanted her to see them when he had arranged them earlier on. Phoebe could hardly bear to look; her reluctant glance took in the deep cobalt blues and the strength of her own brush strokes and designs. They were beautiful. She looked away and started to climb the stairs.

A strong gust of wind buffeted at the window with a thud and Phoebe realised she’d been sitting on the edge of the bed for ages. She’d tried to lie down but the smell of Theo on the rumpled pillow was too painful. She reached for her phone to see the time and then remembered it was in the pocket of the jacket that she’d left at the pub.

Suddenly she sprang up and rummaging under the bed found her rucksack. Imbued with a frantic energy, she began stuffing it with the few clothes she had brought with her. She left her grandmother’s clothes in the drawers, apart from the daisy dress which she used to wrap the little pot her grandmother had given her so long ago. Theo’s moon jar looked lonely on its own but Phoebe didn’t want reminders of what she could have had.

Her packing was over within minutes; she picked up her car keys and surveyed the chaos she was leaving behind: the untidy bed, two half-drunk mugs of tea, a plate of toast crumbs discarded by Phoebe and Theo that morning, the glasses from which they’d drunk the night before. Phoebe couldn’t bring herself to tidy up, to clean it all away as though last night had never happened.

Nola was welcome to it, Phoebe thought, mess and all, let her sell the boathouse and keep the money; Phoebe never wanted to lay eyes on her sister again. She remembered that the diaries were still under the floorboards, Phoebe hesitated, wondering if she ought to take them, but decided they should stay where Anna had hidden them – it was up to Nola to find them if she was interested in their grandmother’s past – which Phoebe doubted.

She stopped at the top of the stairs and looked around her one more time.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her bedraggled hair hung limp on her shoulders, her white shirt was mud-splattered and crumpled, blood from the cuts on her hands and knees was smeared down its front; she looked like an extra from a horror film. She shivered and realised she was freezing cold. She put on Anna’s scarlet coat, and wrapped it round herself. As Phoebe passed the bedside table an impulse made her open the drawer. She took out the heart stone and, slipping it into the coat pocket, turned out the light and started to descend the stairs.

The door slammed behind her. Phoebe pushed the key back through the letterbox; it was final now, no going back. Getting into the Morris Minor she turned on the ignition and her heart sank as the engine choked and spluttered and then died. She tried again, and this time it coughed grudgingly into life. She started to drive slowly upwards, the little windscreen wipers trying to cope with the vast quantities of rain that cascaded down the glass.

Ahead of her she could see the light glowing through the banks of rhododendron bushes. Theo must be at home. Phoebe tried to increase her speed, to make it to the top of the lane, but some inner force compelled her to stop the car at the Castle gates. She pushed open the car door, battling against the strong wind and started to walk down the drive towards the point of light. Her head low against the gale, the red coat flapping out behind her, failing to protect her from the sheets of rain, she didn’t know what she was doing, didn’t know what she was going to do. The light grew increasingly nearer and brighter. Phoebe knew it was coming from the kitchen.

Phoebe could see Theo through the window in the kitchen door. He sat at the kitchen table, hunched over, head in hands, looking down at a large book. Phoebeʼs fingers rested on the door handle, she pushed down on the handle gently then stopped. As Theo turned the pages there was no mistaking what he was looking at with such a desolate face – an album of photographs. Phoebe was too far away to see but she was certain that the album must have been of his wedding, his wedding to Maeve – sweet, wholesome, beautiful Maeve.

A sudden movement beside her made her jump, something wet brushed against her. Phoebe put out her hand and Poncho’s nose nuzzled into it. She bent down and hugged him; though his coat was drenched his warmth gave her brief comfort. He licked her face.

‘Goodbye Poncho,’ she whispered and stood up. With a final look at the scene through the window, Phoebe turned and retraced her steps, letting the pitch-black of the night swallow her up. Behind her Poncho barked but he didn’t follow. Phoebe kept on walking even when she heard Theo calling to the dog; the sound of his voice was carried to her on the wind as she ran down the drive.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Phoebe drove towards the pale band of dawn. The rain had stopped and the wind had died down. Cork was now behind her, Kerry long gone – a hundred miles of road lay between her and Theo. Phoebe tried to concentrate on the immediate future and the practicalities of her hastily thought-up plan.

1. Get to a ferry port.

2. Buy a ticket to France.

3. Get to France.

4. Keep driving.

Keep driving
had become her mantra, alternating with
Don’t turn back
.

Initially she had headed for Cork, where she hoped to find a ferry for France. But arriving at the dark and rain-washed terminal she had found that the ferry was long gone and the next crossing wasn’t for a week. Frantically she turned the Morris Minor around and headed for Rosslare.

Somewhere around Midleton she had added
Don’t cry
to her mantra, but by Dungarvan so many tears were streaming down her face that it was harder to drive than when the windscreen had been awash with rain.

A lay-by sign loomed up ahead. Phoebe took the turn and stopped the car, grateful that a bank of high beech hedge obscured her from passing cars. Her head slumped against the steering wheel and a wave of misery washed over her as she thought of all the things she’d left behind. Not just Theo, but the village and all the people in it too. She hadn’t realised how much Carraigmore had worked its way into her heart; its pretty shops and houses, its beach, and all the people that she’d grown so fond of. She wondered what Fibber and Katrina must think of her now, and then remembered that they would probably be much too busy getting ready for Mrs Flannigan’s return from hospital to care. Rory would care, Phoebe knew that he would be disappointed in her – as would Sally and Molly and Swedish Jan and Young John and the members of Na Buachaillí Trá and all the other locals that she had duped. If buying too many packets of biscuits in the shop had once been big news then what kind of gossip would Nola’s revelations be causing now?

And Honey. Phoebe pressed her fingers against her eyes. What would Honey make of her sudden disappearance? Phoebe’s heart ached at the thought of never seeing the little girl’s lovely face again. Who would help her with her reading and writing? Briefly she thought of turning back, if only to say goodbye to Honey, but she doubted that Theo would let her even see his daughter now. The memory of Theo’s words the night before came back to her, like a knife tearing through her body:
I trust you
 – within half an hour of showing that he had no trust in her at all.

With a sigh Phoebe wiped her eyes and straightened herself up in the seat. Her future lay somewhere else now, she didn’t have any ideas beyond the straight poplar-lined roads of France, but she’d done it many times in the past – upped and left and made a new life for herself. She told herself that this would be just the same as before, even though it felt much harder to see the way ahead.

Long after the sun had risen she turned the key in the ignition and prepared to drive away. Nothing happened. No purr of engine, no choke, slight splutter, not even a whimper.

‘Damn!’ Phoebe wondered what had possessed her to want to own a vintage car. She tried the ignition again. Still nothing.
Damn, damn, damn and
(as Fibber would have said)
fecking double damn with bloody bells on!
She hit the steering wheel; it hurt her hand. For a while she stayed in the car turning the key every thirty seconds or so, willing the car to miraculously return to life. When it became apparent that all vital signs were gone she looked around her; it seemed she had managed to break down in the bleakest, most uninhabited spot in the whole of Ireland. Tears pricked her eyes again but Phoebe squeezed them away. There was only one thing to be done.

Getting out of the car she started to walk.

It was already late in the afternoon by the time Phoebe pulled into the ferry terminal car park at Rosslare. She parked the car and got out. Her legs ached; she’d walked for miles before she’d found a cottage to stop at and ask for help. The young couple at whose door she’d knocked had stared at her muddy hands, tangled hair, and tear-stained face and held their two small children close to them as though she were a mad woman. Phoebe wanted to explain she didn’t always look so deranged, but she was afraid she’d only start to cry again and they’d end up having her locked up. Instead she managed to stay calm while she explained about the broken-down Morris Minor, and not having a phone, and having a ferry to catch to France. The woman shook her head and told her she’d never get a mechanic on a Sunday, but the man offered to phone his friend Sean (‘he’s a wonder with old bangers’). Two hours and three cups of tea later Sean had worked miracles with a lump hammer and a pair of old tights and pronounced the car as good as new. Tentatively Phoebe had set off on the road again and had been amazed to find the car still working by the time she reached the ferry port.

As she walked across the car park a huge ship loomed up above her. This was it, nearly on her way; she was sure she’d feel much better if she was in a different country.

‘One way to Cherbourg,’ she said to the granite-faced man behind the ticket counter.

‘That will be sailing on Wednesday,’ said the man.

‘I mean a ticket for today.’

‘No sailings to Cherbourg today. The day after tomorrow is the next crossing.’

‘Tuesday! I can’t wait till Tuesday. Do you have any sailings before then?’

‘Roscoff at eleven thirty tonight.’

Phoebe couldn’t bear the thought of hanging around waiting till the evening. ‘What about that ferry?’ She pointed at the ship outside the terminal building.

‘That’s going to Fishguard, sailing in two hours.’

Phoebe sat down in a nearby chair to think. She hadn’t wanted to go back to Britain, but if she took the Fishguard ferry and then drove down to the south coast she could get to France that night.

‘OK,’ she said, going back to the counter and opening her purse. ‘I’ll have a ticket for the ferry to Fishguard.’

‘Sold out,’ replied the man, his previously grim mouth twitched into a smirk.

‘A later ferry to Fishguard?’

‘Sold out.’

‘All right then, Roscoff tonight?’

‘Sold out.’

Phoebe was sure he was enjoying watching her mounting frustration. She tried not to scream. ‘Do you have any places on any ferries this side of Christmas?’

‘One left for Cherbourg the day after tomorrow.’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘Sorry, Madam, you’ll have to come back to buy your ticket tomorrow, this ticket office has just closed.’

Still seething from her encounter with the man in the ticket office, Phoebe found a low, red-brick motel. A faded sign in the car park proclaimed it to be
Star of the East
. After checking in she closed the door of her room and sat down on the bed, trying to reconcile herself to a full day of waiting around, trying not to dwell on her unhappiness. She turned on the television. It burst into an overly orange image of a group of elderly woman doing aerobics, and then the picture suddenly contracted into a tiny dot before disappearing completely and leaving the screen blank. Phoebe tried to turn it on a few more times before picking up the ancient bedside phone and telling the girl on reception that the television didn’t work.

‘I’ll get someone to look at it.’ The girl sounded bored and Phoebe doubted that she’d bother. With a sigh of exasperation Phoebe lay down, certain that she’d never be able to sleep on the rock-hard bed, only to wake up and find that she’d slept, still fully clothed, right through the night.

The only positive thing Phoebe could think of about the day ahead was the chance to take a shower. With great relief she stepped into the shower cubicle, anticipating that the torrent of warm water might bring some comfort as well as cleanliness. As she turned the taps a thin stream of water trickled weakly from the showerhead and almost immediately turned cold. Wrapped in all the towels in the room and shivering she phoned reception to ask when the television would be mended, and added a complaint about the shower. After she had put down the phone, Phoebe sat on the edge of the bed for a long time staring at the last few chips of Honey’s nail varnish on her toes. Honey would be in school by now, she thought; Phoebe hoped she wouldn’t be too upset. She wondered what Theo was doing, probably finalising things with the developers, booking plane tickets, avoiding Mrs Flannigan.

Phoebe lay back and tried to convince herself that she’d had a lucky escape. What did she want with a temperamental potter with a child, a drink problem, and a dead-wife complex? With a groan she turned over and buried her face in the pillows – she simply couldn’t imagine ever wanting anything else.

Later Phoebe got dressed and headed back to the port to buy her ferry ticket. After that she wandered around the harbour, but when a fine drizzle began to fall she went back to her room and made herself a cup of tea. She picked up the remote control and tried the television again. Still broken.

The drizzle stopped and Phoebe went out for another walk, stopping at a supermarket to buy three packets of Kimberley biscuits. Back at the motel she asked the receptionist for more tea bags and milk. In the room she made another cup of tea and ate two packets of the biscuits. She lay down on the bed feeling sick.

After spending a long time staring at a brown stain on the polystyrene ceiling tiles, she got up, and searching through her rucksack found her unread copy of
Jane Eyre
. Getting under the covers this time, she started to read. Much of it made her cry. Halfway through she opened the remaining packet of biscuits. When she finished the book she realised it was getting dark outside. She put the bedside light on, stared at the brown stain some more and contemplated the relationship between Jane and Mr Rochester; what would she have done if she had been Jane Eyre? Lived in sin or run away to save her soul? She had a feeling she’d have readily agreed to the former.

The next morning a loud banging woke her from a night of terrible dreams. She’d been lost on the heather moors, cold and hungry, her long dress and petticoats billowing around her in the wind. Initially the banging had been horses’ hooves thundering across the moorland road, but as Phoebe opened her eyes she remembered where she was and realised that someone was at the door.

‘I’ve come to mend the television,’ a man’s voice shouted. ‘Kylie on reception says that you’ve been having trouble.’

Phoebe got up and opened the door.

‘You’re a bit early, or should I say late! I have to go and catch my ferry soon. Where were you yesterday when I needed a distraction?’

‘I don’t work Mondays,’ said a rotund man; a boiler suit threatened to pop open as it strained over his stomach. He waddled into the room and started fiddling around with a panel at the side of the television set. After a few seconds a luminous orange picture of a newsreader burst on to the screen. The man fiddled some more and the colour changed to a slightly paler apricot.

‘There you are,’ the man took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead, as though he’d just finished some kind of arduous physical exercise. ‘Job done.’

Phoebe shut the door behind him and started to pack her rucksack. She slid the copy of
Jane Eyre
into the drawer alongside the Gideon Bible; something for the next customer to read when the television broke down again. Phoebe looked at the screen. The newsreader was describing scenes in the Dáil the previous afternoon, arguments over the economic future of Ireland, which had ended in a stand up shouting match; resignations were now being sought. Phoebe went into the tiny bathroom and tried the shower; the water was still cold. She splashed her face at the sink and brushed her teeth. Back in the bedroom the newsreader was reporting that fifty jobs were to be lost in a Limerick biscuit factory. Phoebe pulled on her jeans and, noticing it was still drizzling outside, put on a jumper; it would be cold standing up on the deck of the ferry as she said her goodbyes to Ireland. She looked around the room and felt pretty sure she had everything. She checked under the bed and once more in the bathroom, then heaved her rucksack on to her back. The television news reporter said it was ‘Eight O Five A. M.’ – less than half an hour until the final time for checking in. She reached for the remote control to turn the television off, and stopped. The whole screen had suddenly filled with a picture of a little girl; Phoebe’s hand flew up to her mouth as she realised that the little girl was Honey.

‘Concerns are growing over the whereabouts of the granddaughter of the Oscar-winning film director Joseph Casson,’ the picture changed back to the newsreader, the picture of Honey relegated to the wall behind him. ‘The eight-year-old girl has been missing since Sunday afternoon in the village of Carraigmore in County Kerry. Honey Casson failed to arrive back at the home she lives in with her father
(a brief picture of the Castle filmed from the gate)
and Gardai teams and local volunteers have been scouring the surrounding countryside looking for her.’ The picture changed again to a line of policemen and dogs walking across the headland, heads down, long sticks prodding at the gorse. Phoebe couldn’t move. Then there was Rory, saying words about Honey being a wonderful pupil at his school. She rubbed her eyes and tried to work out if she could still be having nightmares. When she looked up at the screen the picture was back with the newsreader; Honey’s picture had been replaced with one of a large black pig. ‘On a lighter note,’ the newsreader said. ‘A farmer in Donegal has broken the record for breeding the world’s largest sow.’

Phoebe still stared at the television as though Honey’s picture had been permanently burned on to the screen. How could Honey have disappeared? Where could she be? A string of possibilities raced through Phoebe’s mind, each one more awful than the last. Phoebe thought of Theo and imagined how frantic he must be. She knew she had to get back to Carraigmore.