OUT OF THE BLUE a gripping novel of love lost and found (15 page)

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Liv has two letters in the morning post. The postman is coming up the path as she makes her way from the well with a bucket of water. He’s a hefty man with a high complexion and brilliantly shiny shoes that squeak as he climbs, panting.

‘We meet at last,’ he says. ‘I’m Pat; Pat Noonan.’

She shakes her head. ‘No; you can’t really be — not postman Pat!’

‘God strike me dead if I lie. Isn’t life cruel to some of us?’

She puts the bucket down and takes the letters from him. ‘You’ll have great muscles soon,’ he says, tipping his hat back.

‘Either that or a hernia.’

He finds this hilarious. ‘Ah, you have your grandmother’s sense of humour. I hear you’ve been swimming.’

‘How did you know that?’

He winks. ‘A little bird told me. Don’t be getting sunburned, the wind off the strand there is deceptive. Oh, and the jellyfish that get swept in on the tides can give you a nasty old sting.’

‘Thanks, I know, from when I was a child.’

‘Ah, of course, Eileen was telling me you used to be over from London. One of your letters is from England.’ He tilts his head, nodding down at the postmark.

‘So it is.’ She puts the letters in her pocket, noting his disappointment. ‘I’d better get on with my chores, I’ve had no breakfast yet.’

He squeaks away, his bag flapping against his hip. In the kitchen she makes tea and refills the kettle, then sits by the window and opens the first letter, postmarked Castlegray. It’s from Owen. There is what looks like a faint trace of egg yolk at the bottom and she imagines him writing it over a fry-up, sitting at the big round oak table with Toby snoring in the corner.

Dear Liv

I wanted to mull something over with you and it helps sometimes to write things down; makes the grey matter sift and shake. I’ve been wanting for some time to go and see Edith, try and find out if we could make a go of things again or a least have a friendship. The older I get the more the stand-off between us seems ridiculous and too much like the plot of a play. We’re always passing each other or nodding at a distance and we only live a few miles apart. I always regretted that I lost her. I lie awake at night, thinking about it; you know, the wee small hours. I suppose I’d like to make my peace with her as I’m heading for my three score and ten. Bridget used to say that the man who made time made plenty of it but the other hand, Tempus Fugit. And Bridget dying suddenly has made me think about that time flying by.

I’ve no idea how she would respond. Maybe I’m just a cracked old grey beard with foolish notions. What’s your woman’s take on this? You have a level head on your shoulders and steady eyes and you’re from a different generation, one that doesn’t seem so keen on feuds and silences. There’s no one else I could ask about this without feeling a right eejit.

Any response gratefully accepted, even if you tell me I’m daft as a brush and I need to see a man in a white coat.

Love to yourself and a lick from Toby.

Owen

P.S. When you were a baby you used to swing on my ears and call me Nownie.

She puts the letter to one side and opens the second, from Douglas.

Dearest Liv,

Thanks for the water from the well. The Glenkeen surgery prescription; at first I wasn’t sure should I rub it in, drink it or sprinkle it round the room? No, just joking; send more. It should be on the NHS. It certainly tastes better than the spinach and quinoa juice I’m getting five times a day. I have a sip every night as I go to bed and think of you. I’m sure I can feel it doing me good, working its magic. There’s an extensive library here and I found a book on Irish wells so I’m becoming versed in their significance. Did you know that there are societies in Ireland devoted to their renovation and upkeep and many have been ‘lost’ with emigration and land development?

It’s tough just now; probably the worst bit. The initial adrenalin has worn off so it’s a hard slog. Won’t go into it, you’ll know.

There are at least half a dozen people here whose marriages have already failed. Listening to them, I do understand how much I’m in your debt for sticking with me for so long. I have pathetic moments of feeling sorry for myself and then I recall how bloody lucky I am.

Hope you’re having a wonderful rest and some craic. Does the cottage need much doing to it? Once I’m back on my feet, with my limbs calm and my brain in place, I’d love to come and see it, give you a hand. You may remember, from the early days, that I’m quite good at DIY — before I got into Drink It Yourself. Seem to recall that I did a good job on the loft and the cupboards. I know, self-praise is no praise!

Liv, I’d like to get to know you again.

She places her hands on the solid, scarred surface of the table. His efforts to keep in touch, stay in her life, keep himself in her line of vision arouse her pity. He had done wonderful things in their house when they’d first bought it, sanding, repairing, loving to fix doors and skirting. He was a good carpenter, a fast worker. They had varnished the floors together, homemaking. Then, the beer or wine in the evening had been a reward for hard graft.

Her thoughts drift to Aidan. She has woken frequently during the night, conscious of him, imagining she can hear his breathing, remembering the rough nubs of skin around his nails, the scab on the index finger of his left hand. Nearly twenty years have passed but now it feels like only yesterday when she last held him, was infused with his taste, his scent. She had buried the memory because it was unbearable after he left; now it’s reborn. She thinks of a bulb that’s lain under the earth, storing nutrients and energy, stirring itself, pushing up green shoots.

She looks at the bleak grey ashes of the fire and the faded, empty rug. The daylight striking the dresser is too revealing; she wants the subtle lamplight and the flickering turf flames, the secret warmth of their breath in the dusk. And she wants him, his skin, and the weight of him in her arms. She presses her hands down to ease the longing.

When her phone rings she starts. ‘I was just thinking of you,’ she says. ‘How are you?’

‘Tired, I didn’t sleep much and I had to be up at six. Carmel’s brace was hurting her so I was reading her a story at 3 a.m. Then I was thinking about you so sleep was evasive.’

‘I had broken sleep too. I miss you. Where are you?’

‘In Cork, at a suppliers. An organic wholesaler. Are you busy this afternoon? I could come by about 2.30.’

‘That would be great.’

‘I hope I don’t just fall asleep.’

‘Well, that makes two of us.’

He laughs. ‘Do you remember, on Sundays we used to sleep late and then while I made breakfast you used to run over to the Catholic Church to get the papers from the woman in the foyer.’

‘Holy Harriet! She used to look at me as if she knew I was a lapsed Catholic who’d just fallen out of bed and a man’s arms. I’d look at the pious faces of the congregation filing out and feel so wanton and carefree.’ She stops, suddenly near tears. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘those were blissful times.’

‘Weren’t they?’

‘So, half past two it is then.’

‘I’ll be there.’

She rakes the fire, producing a glow and washes up her breakfast dishes. Those Sunday mornings; they had always spent Saturday night in his flat in Stoke Newington because he worked in a bar on the high street during the evening. She sat, eating peanuts and eking out a glass of wine, talking to him between customers. Those Sundays had been languid, love filled, easy. She had pulled clothes on without showering, running across to the church at the end of midday Mass, conscious of the scent of their lovemaking while handing Holy Harriet the money. They had read the papers over French toast and bacon, calling out snippets to each other, making a second and third pot of coffee. She liked to dip her spoon filled with demerara sugar into black coffee and hold it for him to sip and crunch. In the afternoons they had walked in St James’s, Regents or Hyde Park, heading for an early evening film followed by curry; they agreed that for some reason, a robust curry was a natural full stop to a Sunday, a fitting tribute to the week lived and the week to come. In a cheap Indian restaurant near Warren Street they had eaten from a round platter holding separate dishes of lentils, okra, lamb, cauliflower and potato with huge Nan breads and a cooling yogurt dip.

Sunday had been the hardest day after he left, long and loveless and arid and pointless and tasteless, a day of tears and sighs and beans on toast and lying in bed but not sleeping. Oh Aidan, what did you do? Think of what and who we could have been now.

She takes the bowl of washing-up water out and throws it over the hedge, wondering if her grandmother had also jettisoned her resentments with the sudsy foam. It’s years since she has cooked properly. Douglas has little interest in meals and she often eats alone, rustling up quick bowls of pasta, grilled meat with vegetables, the kinds of recipes to be found in books called Ten Minute Suppers
.
There is something about Glenkeen that inspires her to bake; certainly, since she’s arrived her appetite has been insatiable. Is it the air or the water, she wonders, or maybe just the slow tranquillity of life in the glen that makes her want simple, comfort foods? There is, too, the memory of her grandmother standing over the mixing bowl, her floury hands shaping wheaten breads, scones and barm brack which was best eaten warm with butter. As she sifted the fine flour through her fingers she’d be singing, ‘If I’d known you were coming I’d have baked a cake, baked a cake, baked a cake . . .’ She had a special red cotton pinafore for cooking, with a design featuring tiny salt and pepper pots that wrapped around and tied at the side. It is still hanging on a hook by the dresser, worn, with fraying seams.

Liv ties it around herself. It smells of wheat and meat gravy. She stands at the table with the same bowl and in the same posture, her back to the light so that it falls full on the creamy butter and snowy flour. She rubs them together to fine crumbs, adding sultanas, dark crumbling sugar and milk, enjoying the magic of the mix binding together into a golden ball. She can’t find a pastry cutter so she uses a glass to cut rounds from the rolled mixture and lays them on a greased baking tray. She isn’t sure how she knows the recipe for scones, as far as she can remember, she’s never made them before; she can only assume that she absorbed the knowledge while she was watching her grandmother. That’s also how she must know that you need cool hands to make good pastry, even though she’s never tried to.

While she is waiting for them to bake she rings Owen. There is a message on his answerphone instructing callers to ring his mobile.

‘I got your letter,’ she says when he answers. ‘Where are you? There’s lots of noise.’

‘I’m in Dublin. Got a bit of work doing a voiceover in an insurance ad. They wanted a mature, reassuring man.’ He lowers his voice and adopts a steady, comforting tone: “Whatever unexpected turns life takes, we’re here to see you through.” What do you think, would you take out a policy?’

‘Certainly, probably more than one.’

‘And what are you up to? You sound chipper.’

Reeling with love, refreshed with kisses, dizzy with anticipation. ‘I’m making fruit scones, they’re nearly done so I can’t talk for long.’

‘I didn’t think young women went in for that kind of activity these days.’

‘I don’t, usually. This place is inspiring me. I’m working from memory, from watching Nanna.’

‘Oh, she was a great cook, Bridget. Her Christmas cake was to die for and she made the best lamb stew I’ve ever tasted, loaded with onions and pearl barley. So, what did you think to the letter?’

‘I think you should go and see Edith.’

‘You do?’ He sounds pleased and tentative.

‘Absolutely. What’s the worst that can happen? If she tells you to go away, you’re no worse off than you are now, just a bit of fresh bruising. She might be waiting for you to make a move.’

‘She’s never given any sign.’

‘Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you can’t try. And she’s never asked you for a divorce, has she?’

‘No, that’s true. How did you know that?’

‘Lucinda told me.’

‘Ah, nothing’s a secret west along there; the walls don’t just have ears, they have tongues and memories.’

She laughs with him. She wants some of this love that has come flowing to the glen to surge outwards, lap abundantly around other lives. ‘It was all a long time ago, whatever happened. People get snarled in old animosities; sometimes they’d give anything to be freed. I think it’s worth a go, if you care about her.’

‘Well then, I think I will. I’m back tomorrow and I’ll screw my courage to the sticking post.’

‘Good man.’ She opens the oven door and peers in. ‘I’ve got to get my scones out now, let me know how it goes.’

‘I will, so. I’ll make a real effort, smarten up with a new bib and tucker, trim my eyebrows and smooth them with water. And you; you’re not lonely up there in the wild glen, with the ghoulies and the ghosties and things that go bump in the night?’

‘No, not at all lonely. I have plenty to
occupy me, keep me busy. I’ll save you a scone.’

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