OUT OF THE BLUE a gripping novel of love lost and found (20 page)

‘Now, you remember the secret to delicious tomato soup?’

She shakes her head, digging the knife into the butter so that it screeches on the dish.

‘Never let it boil, just heat very slowly to good and warm.’

They sit in the living-room with their trays, sipping in silence. She dips her toast in her soup, spattering some.

‘I hope Boris has been behaving. He looks perky.’

She shrugs. ‘I think so.’

‘Is it just today you’ve been off school?’ he asks.

‘Yes. Mummy said it would be best to stay here because you were coming. I’m missing my French test. I’d learned all the tenses of
Manger and
Avoir.’

‘I’m sorry about that. The learning won’t be wasted, though. I got your text messages, Carmel.’

‘I thought you’d send me one but you didn’t.’

‘No, I wanted to see you.’

She raises her large, limpid eyes to him, spoon hovering mid-air. ‘Don’t you want to live with us anymore?’

At that moment, he can’t take a breath, thinks that his heart might have stopped. Her eyes were the first thing he noticed the moment she was born. The midwife had raised her up and she had looked straight at him as if to say
, I know you
. He gives up the pretence of eating, puts his tray down.

‘It’s not that, Carmelita. I love someone. Her name is Liv, she’s the lady you’ve met a couple of times, the one who helped you that night with your homework.’

‘Don’t you love Mummy?’

‘Yes, I do. But I want to be with Liv. It’s complicated, but I’ll sort it out, I promise. You can come and stay with us, when the time is right. I’m not far away, you know, only about ten miles.’

She scuffs her heel on the carpet, rocking the tray. ‘But I want you to live here. I don’t like it without you. Mummy cries and she’s cross with me.’

He leans forward in his chair. ‘Mummy’s not cross with you, she’s just upset. It’s me she’s cross with. It will be OK, I promise.’

Her face crumples. ‘I want you to come home.’

‘Carmelita . . .’ He gets up to cuddle her, take her on his knee, tell her she’s his best girl but she lets out a wail and jerks the tray in the air. A red waterfall sprays to the carpet, the bowl flying across the room and shattering against the fireplace. He ignores the mess, grabs his sobbing daughter in a tight hug as Eileen and Maeve run into the room. Eileen’s skirt and the soup are the same colour and he thinks that it’s a handy coincidence as she stoops to pick up the smashed china, her hem dipping in the liquid. He looks at Maeve over his daughter’s head and is alarmed by the blank, fixed desolation in her usually serene eyes.

Chapter 11

They lie in the bath in front of the fire. It is filled almost to the brim, the steaming water pine scented with salts to ease their grumbling muscles, exercised by an afternoon’s digging. They have prepared beds for early spring sowing and cut back straggling bushes, removed stones, set up a compost stack, working easily around each other, talking only occasionally, stopping now and then to consult, exchange kisses or a touch. Now and again one would glance at the other, checking, confirming, reassuring. They like to keep in each other’s sights. They worked until the sun was fading and the mauve evening hastening towards them on a gathering breeze that worried at their bare arms.

‘That’s the dying of the year now, you can feel it in the wind and see the tired dimness in the sky. The sun is growing shy.’

Aidan had put his arm around her as he spoke and she was glad of his body heat. A shiver of melancholy ran along her spine when she sniffed the sourness that came from the earth as it cooled, thought of the long winter nights stacking before them. It was the end of October when her mother died and that same tart tang had clung to the clods in the rain-blown cemetery. Since that afternoon, she has felt a falling in her heart, like an ominous minor chord, when the evenings draw in. For the first time, she wonders what her father will say when he hears the news from the glen but she pushes the thought away; she hasn’t the wit or inclination to deal with that just now.

They have not spoken about the solicitor’s letter delivered that morning. The postman is unseen now, he has started bringing the mail early, leaving it on the front doorstep and vanishing, no word spoken, no merry quips. They just fit in the tub, as long as she tucks her legs around his waist and he props his feet behind her shoulders. The evenings are cooling rapidly, brisk draughts nagging under the front and back doors and through the windows; they have built the fire up and the lamps are lit. A stew thickened with carrots and shallots is simmering slowly at the back of the fireplace. They link fingers on his knees.

‘It’ll be lovely to have a proper bathroom but I’ll miss this tub. There’s a curious harmony to watching your dinner cook while you bathe.’ he says.

‘That’s if we ever have a bathroom. Marty hasn’t returned any of my calls. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; he knows Eileen.’

He rubs his thumbs over her knuckles. ‘Probably best to forget about him. We’ll contact some builders in Cork.’

‘People who don’t know that our social standing is rather low?’

‘Exactly. People beyond the west Cork Cosa Nostra. There’s plenty out there. We’ll make a list.’

‘It’s a shame, though; Marty knows this place, was in sympathy with my ideas.’

Aidan shrugs with a nonchalance he doesn’t feel. ‘I know. Never mind, we’ll find someone else who can translate what we want. We did well today, didn’t we?’

‘We did, we shifted loads.’

‘We’ll be well prepared for early planting next year. Once we’ve a greenhouse we can start our own stuff from seed. I was thinking that we should look for one in January, we can get the standing organised by then.’

‘It’s a pity Maeve won’t let you have any produce from the garden there. It seems so petty, she can’t use it all.’

He agrees but he doesn’t want to criticize Maeve to Liv. That would seem like a double betrayal. He busies himself with the sponge and soap.

‘Do you think some of this business will be settled soon?’ She gestures at Riordan’s letter, lying on the table. It states in that officious, pedantic style that solicitors always employ that there can be no divorce for four years but that an interim settlement will be sought. Property, pension and lump payments are mentioned in separate paragraphs but it is the last section that caused Aidan to slump over his breakfast, pushing his plate aside. Access to his daughter, it warns him, will be allowed for one afternoon each weekend but only in her own home and with her mother or grandmother present. He had handed the letter to Liv without speaking and gone outside, returning with bleary eyes.

‘I hardly think so. I’ll see a solicitor this week myself, find out where I stand. Carmel’s the main issue.’

She leans forward, cradles his head, massaging his temples. ‘I’m sure that weekend business can’t be allowed, they’re just trying it on. Maeve’s angry, I know, she’s out to punish you but that’s not fair on Carmel. You have rights as a father.’

‘Well, we’ll see. Like I said, I need some legal advice. I’m not sure fairness will come into it just yet.’

‘Would you like me to come with you to a solicitor?’

‘No, that’s OK. Eventually, yes, but I think it’s best if I handle this bit on my own.’

‘But you will say that you want Carmel to be able to come here, to visit us in our home?’

‘I will, yes, but I have to think about her, first and foremost. If it’s too much for her now, I’ll have to play along. I don’t want her to feel tom between myself and Maeve.’

There’s a silence; they both know that she will be tom whatever is arranged.

‘It’s just,’ Liv says carefully, ‘that I want to be able to get to know her. And I don’t want to feel like the wicked witch, murmuring my spells in the glen while you see your daughter. There’s an implication in that letter that our home is somehow unfit.’

‘I know, I know. You have to give this time though, Liv. Up till recently, that was my home. It just needs time.’

He sees the concern in her face and can’t stand talking about it anymore, he’s worried that he’ll blurt out to her that he gets several text messages from Carmel every day, saying over and over,
Daddy, come
home
and he wants to spare her that knowledge. If he loads that on to her, there’s a danger that he might tell her about the market and how some of the traders, the locals who are part of Eileen’s network, are ignoring him or giving him the chill cabinet treatment, shoulders turning. He doesn’t want to burden her with these things that she can do nothing about; she has her own heartache, anxiously awaiting a reply from her husband. He has to do his best to ride the troubles and balance this precarious seesaw they’re all perched on. ‘You’ve got to roll with the punches,’ his boss used to say when things went pear-shaped.

Liv closes her eyes, sees her parents dancing in this room to the hissing gramophone, her mother winking at her over her father’s shoulder, singing in her surprisingly powerful, tuneful voice,
a little nest that’s nestled where the roses bloom
. . . She sits forward, inching towards him so that the water won’t overflow.

‘Aren’t we cosy,’ she says, ‘tucked away here with the fire and the lamps and a bottle of good red wine uncorked and warming? Could two people ask for anything more in the whole wide world?’

He encircles her with his arms. ‘We’re as snug as bugs in a rug,’ he confirms. ‘Now let’s get dried; I’m a starving man and that stew smells wonderful.’

* * *

It’s pouring with rain as Liv drives into Cork and there is a strong westerly blowing, buffeting the car. She opens the window to welcome the wind in, hoping it might clear the mist in her head, sucking in the deep gusts. Her phone rings and she pulls over, tears of relief in her eyes that it’s Aidan at last.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ she asks. ‘I left three messages. I was worried something had happened to you.’ She tries to control the panic in her voice, sits up straight.

‘I know, I’m sorry, I had a puncture and while I was sorting it out my bloody phone slipped behind some boxes. I’ve only just found it. What’s up?’

‘Douglas rang me this morning, he’s in Cork, asking to meet me.’

‘What, so fast, with no warning?’

She stares at the trees bending and dripping in the wind. ‘He had a letter before mine, from Eileen, informing him of my activities.’

‘What?’

‘She must have remembered his address from the things I posted to him, or copied it. The postal service and its officers have featured significantly in our lives recently, haven’t they?’

‘Oh, Liv, Liv. I’ll come back straightaway, we’ll . . .’

‘No, no, I’m in Cork now. I’m on my way to see him.’

There’s a pause. ‘Oh. Are you OK, I mean, how did he sound?’

‘I’m better now I’ve heard your voice. I didn’t want to see him without you knowing. He sounded all right, quite calm in fact.’

‘I just can’t believe that Eileen did that.’

‘Can’t you? It seems in keeping with everything else. She wants to protect her family.’

‘But you must have had a terrible shock. Oh God, I’m so sorry you couldn’t get me.’

‘Yes. I thought he was ringing from England, obviously. No worse than the shock he’s had, I suppose. I’d better go, I said I’d be there at three. I’ll be home later.’

‘I’ll be there. This is the worst part, remember. It will be OK, I promise you. I love you, Liv.’

‘And I love you. Wish me luck.’ She shivers and closes the window. Her hair is damp from spray. Wasn’t that what Douglas had said to her when he told her about Hyde House? Wish me luck
.

During those hours after she’d heard from Douglas and couldn’t contact Aidan, she had felt a terrible desperation, a sense of being trapped in some barren, gloomy landscape. She’d paced the kitchen and garden, convincing herself that Aidan was being worked on by Eileen, playing the good cop after the bad, that he was never going to return to her. She could hear Eileen’s voice;
for sure, you’ve been a fool but you know Maeve will have you back and think of poor Carmel, what’s she going to do without her Daddy? Come on back now and no one will say another word about it.

After she had left the third message she ran down to the well just as the rain was starting, drifting mistily, dimpling the surface. There she had kicked her sandals off and done the circumambulation in her bare feet so that she would be known by every pebble, every crumb of earth and patch of moss, treading over and over around the rim. She had whispered without knowing who she might be sending her pleas to. ‘Let him come back to me, let this work out.’

The chill of the rain has entered her bones and her breath has misted the windscreen. Braver now that she has heard from him, bolstered by his voice, she turns the heater to the blower and drives on. The hotel, Douglas said, is by the river, the Dromore. He’d added very little, just asked if she would meet him, have a cup of tea. Yes, she’d replied, of course dazed, amazed at Eileen’s canny outflanking. Afterwards, puzzling, she’d realised that the call had bewildered her too because his voice was quiet and distinct; no fumbling for words, no stuttering.

There’s a gravel car park at the side of the hotel, a handsome Edwardian building with palm trees in wide tubs. The wind has abated or maybe this avenue by the river is sheltered; certainly the water is calm. At reception, she asks for him and the young woman rings his room.

‘Dr Hood says would you like to go up or meet in the lounge?’ she asks.

‘In the lounge, please.’ How odd, how formal, she thinks.

The woman confirms and smiles at her. ‘If you’d like to go through, so, Dr Hood says he’ll be down in a minute. The lounge is in there, to the right. Would you like refreshments?’

‘Yes, please, a pot of tea. Dr Hood usually likes black coffee, with sugar.’

In the empty lounge she sits in a dark leather armchair with velvet armrests, glad that the nearby chunky radiator is warm, drawing the chair closer to it. It’s a pleasant, old-fashioned hotel, unpretentious, the pictures and paintings all a little skewed on walls of panelled wood. There are books and magazines on the coffee tables and a massive grandfather clock between the sash windows. It’s the kind of place they’ve both always liked, the kind of hotel they would have chosen together. She wonders if he has selected it deliberately with this in mind but dismisses the thought, acknowledging that Eileen’s activities have left her paranoid. She places her hands on the radiator. The skin on her palms is roughened from digging and she’s glad of that, proud that she shares this evidence of her hard work with Aidan. She has removed her wedding ring, it’s in the dresser drawer at Glenkeen. Her left hand looks bare without it, a ring of pale skin on the third finger. If he is sober, and he seems to be, he will notice but it would have been the worst kind of pretence to have put it back on.

He comes in swiftly, a newspaper rolled under his arm and sits opposite her, his back to the window. He’s wearing clothes she’s never seen before, jeans and striped shirt, crisp and pressed with newness. She can smell soap, the muskiness of sandalwood. Her feet are still gritty from the ground by the well, her sandals darkened from the drenched grasses. The push and pull of the day is sitting tight behind her eyes. She puts her hand up to her temple to shield them from the grey, insistent light.

‘Hallo, Liv. You found it OK, then?’

‘Yes, no trouble. Cork’s pretty easy to navigate.’

‘I can see that. It took no time from the airport. Seems a handsome place.’

‘I don’t know it that well, it’s really always been an arrival and departure point.’ A waiter approaches with a tray, china rattling. ‘I ordered drinks, coffee for you if that’s OK.’

‘Lovely.’

She looks at him covertly as the waiter bends, setting out cups and jugs. She is used to checking him out, taking in the important features in one assessing glance. He has lost weight, his face no longer puffy and more defined, the high colour toned to a mere hint of rosiness. His hair has been cut short and has a spiky look; she thinks he must have some kind of gel on it. He looks more adult. But it’s his eyes that impress her most; the bags have reduced and his pupils are brighter. They busy themselves with their drinks. She notes that he pushes the sugar away, foregoing his usual three spoons. He still has a slight tremor in his fingers but his nails are unbitten and smooth.