“It’s a hurl, Mum,” he corrects her.
Holly laughs. “I thought hurling – and hurls – were for culchies.”
For once, her brother doesn’t have a comeback. Getting up to relieve the fridge of what’s left of the Gubeen cheese, Jack spies the brochures. Cheese instantly forgotten he brings them back to the table. While he scours through one, Holly reaches for another. They flick through all five with growing concern. Jack looks up from the last one like his mother has lost her mind.
“We’re not staying there!”
“No. We’re not,” she says calmly. “The estate agent handed me the brochures and I didn’t want to be rude.”
Jack gives her a look.
She feels like telling him she’ll get more assertive. Eventually. “Who’s coming to the library with me? Holly?”
Holly pulls a reluctant face. “I think I might try camogie. Aoife and Jenn said it’s great craic.”
“Now who’s the culchie?” springs the comeback king.
“Isn’t it great that ye’ll be playing the sports of your ancestors?” Des muses, taking a bite of his scone.
Simon would have a fit. Though he married a “culchie,” his view of all things rural is derisory at best. It would never occur to him that people in Dublin play Gaelic sports too.
Light filters in through the sashed library windows in shafts, dust motes rising. Old-world bookshelves and herringbone wooden floors remind Grace of happy days she spent here with Yvonne and their beloved stories, words, imaginings. If blindfolded, Grace would know where she was by smell alone.
“Hello stranger,” comes a familiar voice.
She turns and smiles at Yvonne. “I should have known one of us would end up working here.”
An austere-looking woman sitting at a reading table shushes them with a frown.
“There’s one everywhere,” Yvonne whispers to Grace.
“I’ll have a look around,” Grace whispers back. “You free for coffee at any stage?”
“I’ll make myself free.”
“Brill,” the eighteen-year-old Grace says.
She wanders around, pulling out books, browsing, sliding them back, looking for something she can nod off to. She finds herself in the H section. Wayne Hill has three other books!
She takes them all from the shelf and brings them to a table. The last thing she needs is someone to come along and help themselves to one before she can choose.
They all look good. Maybe she’ll take all three. She might overdose on Wayne Hill though. It has happened to her with other authors. And she doesn’t want to go off him. Hmm. Which one?
Yvonne sits down beside her.
“Ooh! You’re reading our local celebrity?” she whispers.
Grace prickles at “celebrity.” Annoyed for him. Which is ridiculous. “I read his other one, For Charlie. It was amazing, Yvonne.” She can hear the emotion in her voice.
“It was good alright.”
Good? Good? “It was based on his life.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Didn’t it move you?” Is she a robot?
“It did, yeah. Clearly it moved you too,” she says with meaning.
Grace rolls her eyes, annoyed again.
“Why are you so defensive?” Yvonne asks like she’s enjoying herself. “You’d swear you’d written it.”
What? “He’s a good guy. He’s been through hell. That book is better than good, Yvonne.”
“Sooooo, when you say he’s a good guy, are you telling me you’ve actually met him?” Her eyebrows pop up.
“You mean you hadn’t heard?” Grace asks with an edge to her voice.
“News hadn’t reached me yet, no.” She winks and stands up. “I better go do some work. Come and find me when you’re ready and we’ll go for that coffee.”
The Coffee Cove is packed. Yvonne dives for the only free table.
“Survival of the fittest,” she says triumphantly.
“What are you having?” Grace asks.
“A latte and a Rocky Road.”
Grace will be remaining loyal to the chocolate chip cookies.
At the counter, she smiles at the pretty dark-haired girl who produced the emergency straws for Matthew. She smiles back like they’ve connected now. And when Grace pays, she tips her well.
Back at the table, Yvonne looks annoyed. “I heard you and Alan went for drinks without me.”
“What?”
Yvonne grins. “Just teasing. How is he?”
“Great.” And for the record: “He was working on the house for Dad. We went for one then got swamped by people buying me drinks because of what happened with Matthew. I presume that news got to you?” She looks at her sideways.
“Oh, it did. And all the gory details.” She puts a hand up. “Please don’t expand. Just tell me how you met The Celebrity.”
“You do realise that he would hate you calling him that.”
“Really?” she asks, like she’s fascinated. “You know him so well.”
Grace shakes her head like she’s dealing with a hopeless case. Which she is. “He’s a patient.”
Yvonne stirs her latte, scoops some white from the top and slips it into her mouth. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what’s wrong with him?”
Grace laughs. “I took an oath, Yvonne.”
Yvonne cuts her Rocky Road into bite-sized pieces. “So touchy.” She pops a cube of confectionary into her mouth. “I suppose you’ll be going to his book launch, so?”
Grace puts down her coffee. “He’s having a book launch?”
“Next week.”
He said nothing about a book launch – and they were talking about books. Doesn’t he want her to go? Why should he invite her, though? She’s just his doctor. She doesn’t know why she’s so… irritated? Hurt, even? She’s being ridiculous. Worry and self-doubt creep up her spine, where they love to hang out. Has she been isolated for so long she’s forgotten how to deal with people? Is she blowing everything up, taking things too seriously? Is she in fact a little unhinged?
“Did you get an invite?” she can’t help herself.
“Oh everyone’s invited. There are posters going up. I’ve a stack of them back at the library. Got lumped with the job of putting them up. Wanna help?”
“No.” If he didn’t invite her, she’s not sticking up his bloody posters.
She’s not annoyed. She is so not annoyed.
“What’s wrong?” Yvonne asks.
“Nothing!”
“You look miffed or something.”
“Why would I be miffed?” And who uses the word “miffed” anymore?
“You tell me.”
“Yvonne Barry, you haven’t changed one bit.”
Yvonne sucks her teaspoon and points it at her friend. “Sure, isn’t that just as well? I wouldn’t want to lose my fabulousness, now, would I?” She grins, renegade chocolate on the corners of her mouth.
Grace gives in to a smile. “Or your self-confidence.”
“That’d be a tragedy altogether.”
Grace, knowing just how true that statement is, puts a fingertip to the corner of her own mouth and raises her eyebrows.
Her old pal knows what to do. “Thanks, bud.”
“You’re welcome, bud. Gotta stay classy.”
37
The children are still out when Grace gets back. Des is standing over Benji, who is lying on the floor looking up at him with total focus.
“Roll over,” Des commands.
Benji flips over then looks at Des as if to say, “What else have you got?”
Des tosses him a treat and turns to Grace in amazement. “He knows them all: sit, paw, lie down, heel. Where did she get him, the circus?”
“We’ll have to keep him stimulated so he doesn’t get bored.” She takes off her coat and puts her bag on the table. Then she frowns. “Why is the phone off the hook?”
“What? No reason,” Des says – too innocently.
Staring at it, every muscle in Gr
ace’s body tenses. “He called, didn’t he? Of course, he did!” She should have thought of that, prepared for it. Her mind starts to rewind. “That was him last night, wasn’t it? When the phone rang once. Then again.” Her arms cross her chest. It’s as if he has entered the room and the temperature has dropped.
“Okay, he called. But I hung up. That was it.”
“What did he say? What did he want?”
“He didn’t get to say anything. I cut him off. I’ll change the number first thing Monday.”
“So, he said nothing? Nothing at all? Tell me, Dad, I need to know exactly what he said.”
Des sighs and wearily takes a seat at the table. “He said, ‘Hello Des. How are you?’”
“That’s it?”
Des nods.
She joins him at the table, her eyes searching his. “How did he sound?” She hears the craziness in her own voice.
Des’s jaw tenses. “Like the snake he is.”
She runs her hands through her hair. “D’you think he’ll come down? What if he comes down?”
“That chapter of your life is closed, Grace,” he says firmly.
She’s back pacing. “What if it’s not? What if he shows up here?”
“I had an idea. You’ll probably think I’m mad.” Des tells Grace about the self-defence course. “I just thought it would be good for you all to do – in general – you know, for life. And that.”
She bursts into tears.
“I’m sorry; I’ll cancel it. I shouldn’t have–”
“No, no! I want to do it. And I want the kids to. I just, I just… It’s just… I’m not used to people…. I’m not used to… this kind of support.” Any kind of support. “That’s all.” She can’t stop crying.
Des goes to her. He places his arms around her shoulders and rests his head on the top of hers. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around more.”
“No! I should have come down more. I should have stood up to him. Stopped this sooner.” She’s growing hysterical. Benji comes over to lick her hand. She hardly notices. “I was trying to appease him, prevent the boat from rocking.” She bows her head. “I was trying to do the impossible.”
“But now you’ve left. You’ve made a stand. It’s over and I’m so proud of you. Now, let’s get you feeling stronger, being stronger, and being able for anything. Invincible.”
She nods and takes the pressed and folded handkerchief her father is offering her like he used to do, a very long time ago.
She wipes her face and blows her nose.
“Will you be alright going back up to Dublin?”
Grace looks at him for the longest moment, then the cogs in her mind start to spin, the same cogs that got her out of there, that planned everything, got them free. “What part of Dublin is it?”
“Dublin 8.”
“He wouldn’t be seen dead there. We’ll stay in some cheap hotel nearby, park underground and leave the car there all weekend.” She nods, deciding. “It’ll be fine.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Thanks Dad. For everything. I know why you put in the alarm by the way and I appreciate it so much,” she says, her voice rising as tears threaten again. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
“You’d have found a way. You were determined. And when you get determined, nothing stops you, Grace Sullivan.”
She smiles sadly. That is how she used to be. Maybe, someday, she’ll be that way again. For now, this is a start. They are Dublin-bound.
By the time the children get home, Grace has had a shower and removed all evidence of tears. All four of them travel to Drimaleen to buy hurling and camogie gear. On the way home, Grace is restless, Simon on her mind. If he shows up, they can’t be at home.
“Who’s coming for a walk with me out to Sheep’s Head?” she asks cheerfully.
“I’m bate after the hurling,” Jack says.
Grace’s eyes dart to the rear-view mirror. “You’re what?”
Jack drops his gaze to his phone.
“He’s tired,” explains his sister, like the local language expert. “That’s what everyone says down here.”
Grace knows what bate means; she just never thought she’d hear it from her son.
Holly looks at Jack in glee. “The culchies I mean.”
“Holly, what about you?” Grace persists.
She rests her head back. “Bate too. And anyway, Aoife asked me over.”
“Is Jenn going too?” Grace asks, not wanting her to be forgotten.
“Of course!” she says with disdain. “You don’t think we’d leave her out, do you?”
“Good girl.” She shouldn’t have doubted Holly – who knows more than most what being left out is like.
Grace cancels the idea of a walk. She needs to be home with Des and Jack in case they have a visitor. She glances at her hands on the steering wheel, at the indent left by her wedding ring. She has to stop letting Simon dominate her every thought, her every action. If she lets him, it’ll be like she never got away. That’s why she got rid of the SIM cards. She should go for a walk herself if she wants to. But when she actually considers it, she admits to herself that she’s a bit “bate” too after the early start, the tearing around all day, and the week that she’s had. He won’t risk breaking the barring order. He won’t risk prison. She’ll stay home because she wants to stay home. It would be nice to sit in front of the fire with a good book. And she has three Wayne Hills in her possession. She must remember that she has time, now, time to do things for pleasure.
38
Half-ten, Sunday, and Grace looks at Holly in surprise. She wants to leave for the church thirty minutes early. Hair straightened, she’s wearing her favourite outfit and is heading for the door.
“Mass isn’t till eleven,” Des points out.
“I need to be there now!” she stresses. “It’s okay. I’ll go myself.”
“No, no. Let’s all go,” Grace says. This enthusiasm is new and precious. In Dublin, Holly was reluctant to do anything, go anywhere. Not rebelliously so. It was more that she had just accepted that life wasn’t going to get any better.
Now, she makes for the door.
“Holly, your coat!”
“Don’t need one.”
Grace lets it go. They’ll be driving right up to the church anyway.
Des, looking smart in his tweed jacket, grabs his blackthorn stick.
Jack was up and out before anyone.
They arrive at the church twenty-five minutes early. The choir is assembling, everyone in their Sunday finest.
Holly shoots off with a quick, “See ye later.”
Standing at the back of the church, Grace takes in the scene. It’s just as she remembers it, though everything seems smaller: the simple no-frills altar, the stained-glass windows, the mahogany confessional boxes and matching mahogany pews and the army of candles flickering under statues of St Anthony and The Little Flower. She remembers the superficial things she prayed for when she was little and smiles inside at the innocence of them.
She had forgotten just how peaceful churches are, how still and silent and restful. Well, unless there’s a choir setting up.
“Let’s sit down,” Des says.
“The front row’s free!” Grace says almost as a joke to herself.
“Surely, you don’t want to sit right up there?”
Actually…. “Why not?”
He looks bemused. “All right, so.”
No sooner have they seated than the choirmaster shoots over to them, beaming.
“Des, how are you?” she asks.
“Grand, Barbara, thanks.”
But she has already switched her attention to Grace. “Great to see you at Mass, Young Dr. Sullivan! I’m Barbara Kelly, the choirmaster.” She extends a hand.
Grace shakes it. “Grace.”
“Your Holly has a magnificent voice.”
“Really? Wow. That’s great to hear.” Automatically, Grace glances over at the choir. Holly is chatt
ing to a round-faced girl with freckles to her right and a timid-looking girl on her left who could be from Scandinavia with her colouring. It’s the first time that Grace has seen Holly with her friends and her heart lifts.
“She and my daughter, Aoife, are great pals.” Barbara gives the girls a little wave.
“Oh, you’re Aoife’s mum?” Glancing over again, Grace sees a resemblance to the girl on Holly’s right. Proof though is when she is the only one of the three to roll her eyes instead of waving back.
Des absently taps his walking stick repeatedly against the kneeler.
“Right! I better get back to it,” Barbara says as if she is urgently needed.
“Lovely to meet you,” Grace says.
“Likewise.” Barbara hurries away.
“She seemed nice,” Grace whispers.
“Stay well away. And by that, I mean avoid her like the plague. Biggest gossip in Killrowan,” Des whispers back.
Grace thought she had met the biggest gossip in Killrowan. She wonders what he thinks of Jacinta Creedon. But, then, asking would make Grace just like her.
The church begins to fill with the sounds of shuffling, mumbling, coughs and whispers as people steadily filter inside. As eleven approaches, there’s a hush. Everyone stands when the priest arrives at the altar in all his robes. The sight of Fr Desmond, so old now, jolts Grace back to a time when she would sit at the back of the church with her parents, revelling in the bird’s eye view this gave her of everyone, including whatever boy she fancied at the time. How simple life was then. How hopeful.
Behind her, she hears the congregation move. She doesn’t know whether they’ve sat or kneeled and has to glance at Des to see what he’s doing. She can’t believe she never thought of that when choosing the front. Not only can she not see what everyone else is doing, they are seeing her hesitation. It’s eighteen years since Grace was at Mass. She married a man who was above religion. Dismissing it elevated him. Grace’s lack of belief stems from something entirely different. What God would allow such terrible things to happen? She still has no answer for that. She bows her head. But lifts it again, in case people think she’s praying. It’s one thing going to Mass to be part of a community. It’s another pretending to be religious.
Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over Page 19
