Grace follows her father’s lead for the entire service, standing, sitting, kneeling whenever he does. She’s surprised by how much of the actual prayer she remembers, though. She doesn’t join in because she doesn’t believe in it. Until they get to the Our Father – which she has always instinctively loved. She says the words aloud but stops when they reach the section about forgiving our trespasses. She just can’t say those words.
She doesn’t go up to the altar to receive Holy Communion. But watches those that do. It would be hard not to; they’re passing right in front of her. This is the last time she’ll sit at the front. If she comes again. Which she probably will. For Holly. And because it’s expected of her. In fairness, the singing is lovely.
And here is Holly now, hands joined in prayer, approaching the priest. Grace’s heart expands with love and pride. Why, though, is it still so hard to believe that this is real? That they are here. That they got away.
When the service ends, Grace and Des wait outside for Holly. There’s a lovely, friendly atmosphere as people mingle, reminding Grace that Mass in Killrowan is so much more than a religious service. It’s a gathering of people, a way of keeping in touch for so many, a lifeline for some. From miles around they come, older, single farming men who probably haven’t seen a soul all week, island people, families who live out of town. There is a special energy, like a village fair. Humans are sociable; we’re meant to mix, Grace thinks. Isolating a person is going against human nature. It really is.
Her gaze is drawn to a couple leaving the church grounds before anyone else. In their thirties, they’re dressed as though going to a funeral or business meeting. She is beautiful, blonde and delicate, like Princess Grace of Monaco. He, on the other hand, has a head like a potato with small eyes and a mean mouth.
Yvonne, arriving beside Grace, follows her gaze.
“Jack O’Driscoll, the bank manager, and his wife Mia,” she says with distaste. “Always leave immediately. A cut above the rest of us it seems.”
But Grace is watching the careful way Mia O’Driscoll holds herself, the brittleness of the air around her, the grip her husband has on her elbow as she smiles encouragingly down at their little girl of around six. Grace sees a different story here. But then she can’t let her past colour everything.
“Come on woman,” Pat says to Yvonne. “You want to see Ginge play, don’t you?”
“I do. I do.” Yvonne gives Grace a hug. “I’ll call you.”
Watching them go, Grace reminds herself that Jack has always hated spectators. Suddenly, she beams. Because Myra and Fred Cronin are coming her way – arms linked! Myra looks so cheery and vibrant. Fred, all dressed up in wax coat, chinos and loafers, looks like he’s walking an inch from the ground.
“I see you got the front row, after all!” Fred grins. “Would I doubt you?”
Grace laughs. “I had to fight a few people off but I got there in the end!”
“I’d say it was brutal.”
“Oh yeah. Blood everywhere. We managed to clean it up, though, before Mass, luckily enough.”
There’s a pause of uncertainty.
Then Myra and Fred break into laughter together.
Grace feels like she’s coming out of a fog as she is reintroduced to a quirkiness she used to have – before it was reigned in, eroded away and then forgotten. Could it be making a comeback? And is this actually a good thing?!
“I suppose we better get going,” Fred says.
Myra looks up into his eyes and smiles like he’s the only man in the world. If Grace had come to Mass solely to witness this, she would have been more than happy.
Looks and nudges spread like ripples through the crowd as Myra and Fred make their way out of the church grounds. This must have been Myra’s plan – get the news out of the way quickly rather than have people wondering and guessing.
“Still no sign of Holly?” Grace asks Des, conscious that he’s been standing around for long enough. “Will I go inside and see where she is?”
Before he can answer, a giant of a man approaches. He takes off his cap and holds it in giant hands. He bows his head.
“Young Dr. Sullivan, Tom Creedon. You saved my son’s life this week. We’ll be forever grateful. Jacinta is over at the hospital with Matthew. He’ll be coming home this week, thanks to you.”
“Oh, I’m so glad. Please tell them I said hello.”
“I will, surely,” he says then replaces his cap, bows again and hurries away.
“Those are the most words I’ve ever heard out of Tom Creedon’s mouth,” Des says. “Be prepared for a lot of free meat.”
Grace remembers that he’s the butcher. And smiles. It may not be perfect but there is something very special about Killrowan.
Then Holly is out!
Before Grace can even tell her how great she was, her daughter is asking, “Can I go to Aoife’s? We’ll study.”
Grace doesn’t care that this is an exam year for Holly. Study is not a priority over friendship. Happiness comes before everything.
Sunday afternoon, Grace manages to get the children to agree to a walk – not the long, wild and beautiful trek that is Sheep’s Head but the shorter beach stroll that is Barleycove. Benji, and his amazing retrieving skills, get them over the line.
On the beach, there’s no actual walking, just standing at the water’s edge, throwing. Competitive throwing. With Jack and Holly each trying to outdo the other in getting Benji to swim out furthest.
Grace perches on the rug she’s brought, arms around her knees, watching them, her heart expanding with love and hope.
Eventually Benji tires. Then all four of them sit, looking out to sea, Jack dusting sand from his feet in vain. Grace laughs. He has always hated the feeling of sand on his skin.
This is not a moment Grace wants to ruin. But she’ll have to ruin some moment and the sooner she brings up the self-defence course, the better. It’s only five days away.
“These will be really good skills to have – in general,” she concludes.
Holly and Jack look at her like they know – exactly – what she means by “in general” i.e. the opposite.
“You think he’ll come here, don’t you?” Holly asks.
Grace takes a deep breath. “I don’t think he’d break the barring order, hon. But we should be prepared for anything, right? We’ve taken the biggest step. From now on, it’s just little steps.”
Holly nods. “I’ll go.”
Jack looks wary. “Is it for girls?”
“No,” Grace says adamantly. “Look at the website. Military units all over the world use Krav Maga. And the police.”
Jack takes out his phone and starts Googling. “Looks good,” is the conclusion he finally reaches.
“So, you’ll do it?” asks Grace hopefully.
He frowns. “As long as I don’t get selected for the club team and miss a match.”
“You are officially becoming a culchie,” Holly says, like she’s welcoming him to an exclusive club.
Grace puts an arm around each of them and pulls them to her.
39
Des leafs through the estate agent brochures. None of the properties is anything like the home they have left. Most, however, are better than his place. How did he ever let it get so dated, so jaded? The house in Dublin would lift your soul. The ceilings were high, windows enormous, everything modern, open plan. Well, there’s nothing Des can do about his ceilings. The same goes for the windows. No room can be made bigger. But he’ll work on what he can. Grace’s walls were white, her floors wooden. She had cream blinds instead of curtains. There were paintings, everywhere. Des knows nothing about art. The bathrooms were pure luxury with those fancy power shower things. Well, he can get a new bathroom, white, of course. The wallpaper can be painted over, he’s sure. Wooden floors can be put down, blinds put up.
Des looks around his modest little home, glad of the money he put into pensions (plural) when the government introduced tax incentives to encourage peo
ple to save for retirement. He takes out his phone and calls Alan.
Fifteen minutes later, the very man is having a look around.
“No problem,” he says. As expected. “I’ll get some of the lads in and we’ll turn the place around. We’ll give it a complete makeover. You won’t know the place. All that’ll be missing is the TV cameras.”
Des laughs at the thought.
Alan glances around the kitchen like something’s bothering him.
“If you don’t mind a suggestion, Des?”
“Fire ahead.”
“Would you think of giving the kitchen cupboards a lick of paint and changing the handles? It’d make all the difference. I’m thinking of a lovely warm cream colour that would tie in with the white walls and wooden floors.”
Anything has got to be better than the way the kitchen is now. “Sounds good.”
Alan smiles like Michelangelo getting the go-ahead for the Sistine chapel. “Ah, great. Honestly, you won’t know the place.”
“There’s one thing I don’t want touched,” Des says. He walks Alan to the kitchen doorframe where tiny pen marks of various colours and lengths record Grace’s journey from child to adult.
“Ah, Lord,” Alan says. “Of course.”
“You know yourself,” Des says then realises that Alan doesn’t know himself. “I mean–” he says, flustered.
Alan smiles calmly. “So, when were you thinking of getting started?”
Des grimaces. “That’s the catch. I need it all done over a weekend. Next weekend.”
“The whole lot?” For once, Alan looks like he may have a problem.
“Or as much as you can. Definitely the bathroom. And the floors. And the walls….”
Alan tilts his head. “I don’t know, Des. It’d be very tight. But you know I’ll do my very best. I’ll get as many of the boys in as I can. They’ll be delighted with the work. What time would we be able to kick off?”
“Well, this is a surprise for Grace and the children. They’re leaving for Dublin on Friday when Grace finishes at the clinic. And they’ll be back no earlier than midnight Sunday.”
Alan starts to think aloud. “Well, if we order everything right away, get them delivered to my place by Friday and have the boys ready to go, maybe….”
Alan takes off his cap and scratches his head. “Give me a call the minute they leave on Friday and we’ll come straight over and get cracking on the bathroom. We’ll work flat out. Through the night if we have to. First thing Saturday, we’ll start on the floors. Then we’ll paint like mad, walls upstairs and down, kitchen cupboards. Then we’ll get the blinds up. We could do it. If we’re lucky.”
“Sorry for the short notice.”
“Not at all. Sure, this is right up my street. I love a good makeover. Honestly, Des. You won’t know yourself. It’ll feel a lot bigger and brighter with all the walls white and the floorboards down,” he says like he can see it all. “Right so, have you got time now to pick everything out – floors, blinds, bathroom, fittings, paint colour?”
“Well, the paint is white. So that’s that.”
Alan laughs like he’s hilarious. “D’you know how many shades of white there are?”
“Then I’ll leave the paint to you. Knock yourself out.”
“Ah, sure I know the one I want already. It’s a beautiful shade. The bathroom and the floors are the big things. Let’s start with them.” He pulls out his iPad.
Des wonders if he has bitten off more than he can chew. “Let me put on the kettle.”
As soon as Alan has gone, Des tackles his next challenge – to find a B&B owner who’ll take a dog. He does know one dog lover but he hasn’t seen MaryAnn Randall for a very long time. And, given their history, he can’t just pick up the phone.
He hasn’t driven for two weeks. And is hesitant now. He knows that, at some point, the Parkinson’s will stop him driving altogether. Well, that point hasn’t come yet. He can’t let his confidence slip.
He reaches for his stick, then changes his mind and leaves it behind. He sets the house alarm and locks up.
The minute he sits into the car, he wonders what he was worried about. He indicates, checks his rear-view mirror and pulls out. So glad to be back in the driving seat. Out along the coast road he goes, past the graveyard and almost to the next pier along. Seeing the B&B sign, he slows. He doesn’t want to be presumptuous and park in MaryAnn’s drive but there is only one other car there and plenty of room – as opposed to the narrow road outside. Slowly, he turns in.
For a moment, he sits in the car, admiring the pretty and manicured garden. In the porch, windchimes and stained-glass art sway gently in the sea breeze, chiming every so often.
Getting out of the car, Des reminds himself to straighten up and stride.
Maybe this is too much, he thinks, calling to her door out of the blue. Maybe he should have phoned, after all. But, then, what if she has seen him pull in? He can’t back out now like some kind of fool.
He’s raising his hand to ring the bell when the door opens. Des smiles automatically. She always did go mad with the hair. This time, she has a streak of bright blue at the front. He feels a fondness for her and her unique way of looking at the world.
“How are you, MaryAnn?”
“I’m well, Des, thanks,” she says, like she’s wondering what he’s doing on her doorstep.
“I was just wondering if you might have a room available, next weekend? I’m doing some renovations on the house.”
“Come on in out of the cold.” She stands back and opens the door wide.
The smell of baking wafts out on warm air like a welcome.
Des holds the doorframe as he steps up. All he needs now is to fall.
MaryAnn closes the door, then leads the way down the hall, moving like the girl he knew and loved at seventeen. Des remembers how it felt to hold her hand – like he was floating. The strength of the memory hijacks him. He reminds himself that was a lifetime ago.
The house is warm and cosy. In so many ways. Des wonders if he’s making a mistake, getting rid of the carpets. Maybe he should just get new beige ones like these. And her wallpaper is lovely. He never thought of that – wallpaper with modern designs. But then that would probably take ages to put up. He imagines Alan ordering everything right now. He’ll leave well enough alone. It’ll be tight enough, as it is, to get it all done.
MaryAnn shows him into her sitting room. The view! How peaceful it would be to sit and look out at the sea every day. MaryAnn always did seek out calm. Well, good for her.
They sit opposite each other and she smiles.
The years have been kind to her, Des thinks. But then they are always kind to fun-loving people, he has noticed. MaryAnn was always quick to laugh. And even quicker to laugh things off. She was his first love. Is that why she is etched, clear as a fingerprint, on his mind?
“You’ll have a cup of tea?” she asks. “I’ve just taken scones out of the oven.”
“I’d never turn down a scone, MaryAnn.”
She smiles. “Back in a sec.”
There she goes again, flying around like a teenager, Des thinks. He’s glad he didn’t bring the stick.
Des glances at the photos of MaryAnn’s family on the mantlepiece, like a record of time passing. He wonders vaguely about the alternative life he might have had if they’d stayed together. Not that he has any regrets. He’s just mildly curious. Her hair was pink when he went off to college – when no one in Ireland was dyeing their hair – any colour. They kept in touch by letter. And there were some gorgeous letters that first year. But Des found it harder and harder to write back. College was like a different world. A different universe. It seemed like he had left village life far behind. There was no toing and froing to home all those years ago. He was up in Cork on scholarship and he had to knuckle down or he’d be out. And there were the girls, the smart, funny, witty girls that he let himself get distracted by. By the time he got home to set up in practice, he was already e
ngaged. MaryAnn was married.
She returns, now, with a tray of tea and scones.
“Where did life go?” Des thinks aloud. “How are we here, already?”
MaryAnn just smiles and sets down the tray and starts to unload it.
Why did he say that? He sounded so old. So washed up. He’ll stick to business. “So, d’you think you can fit me in next weekend?” he asks, awkwardly.
She bites her lip and tilts her head. “I’ll have to check, Des. I have a group of stamp collectors coming down from Kinnegad.”
“Stamp collectors!” He’s also fascinated. “What would be bringing stamp collectors to Killrowan?”
Her laugh is as loud and carefree as ever. “Nothing at all. I was just pulling your leg. I won’t have a sinner here, next weekend. After September, apart from the odd fluke, things get very quiet. I’d be delighted to have you, Des. You know that.”
“I don’t suppose you still love dogs?” He grimaces. “I was hoping to bring a companion.”
“What breed?”
“Border collie,” Des says, unable to read her expression.
“Ah, lovely.”
“Benji’s his name. Couldn’t be better behaved.”
“Not Sheila Crowley’s Benji who never left her side?”
Des nods. “Followed my granddaughter, Holly, home one day.”
MaryAnn looks confused. Des remembers how she was never one for gossip – and has never attended his practice.
“My daughter, Grace, has moved to Killrowan with her kids,” he explains. “They’re staying with me at the moment.”
“Oh, so will they need rooms too, this weekend?”
“No, thanks, MaryAnn. They’ll be away.”
MaryAnn nods. “Well, I’ll be delighted to have you and Benji. We’re old pals, Benji and I. I was very fond of Sheila. You didn’t bring him along to see me?”
“He’s over in Barleycove with Grace and the kids.”
“They’ll never get him out of the water!” MaryAnn smiles. “Well, he’s welcome, here, anytime.”
Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over Page 20
