The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them?

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘And are you? Still? Desperate?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I have to be honest and confess that I don’t feel quite as twangy in the womb department as I did a few weeks ago. Although it could just be that I’d been reading the stats again before Gavin came and thinking how hopeless it all was. And also thinking that if it really mattered to me, I wouldn’t care about the hopelessness of it all, I’d do it anyway. It felt right to say no to him, and yet part of me is afraid I’ll regret it.’

  ‘We all have regrets,’ said Tillie. ‘The thing is not to let ourselves be taken over by them.’

  Deira said nothing.

  ‘And who knows, it might still happen,’ Tillie added.

  ‘I’m not holding my breath,’ Deira said. ‘I’ll . . . Actually, no, I don’t even want to think about it. Not now. Maybe not ever again.’

  ‘OK,’ said Tillie. ‘Let’s talk about something else. Tell me all the details of your trip.’

  Even though she was closer to Tillie than anyone, Deira wasn’t prepared to tell her everything. She left out her middle-of-the-night encounter with Charlie Mulholland – in fact she mentioned him only briefly and in passing. Instead she concentrated on Grace and her treasure hunt, which intrigued her friend.

  ‘The poor woman,’ said Tillie. ‘Losing her husband like that must have been devastating, and then for him to have left her this to do . . .’

  ‘Grace is so . . . so accepting as a person,’ Deira said. ‘She’s always calm and relaxed about things, as though nothing can shake her out of herself. Even when she was telling me the worst of it, she had herself totally under control.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean she actually was,’ Tillie pointed out.

  ‘I know. But sometimes her self-control made me feel completely inadequate. Like I wasn’t up to the task because I was far too emotional myself. I guess we just came at our problems a different way. Truth is, she’s been really supportive, and I hope I helped her too.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. Women can be so self-critical,’ added Tillie. ‘We judge ourselves for not being up to the task, even though we usually are. You especially.’

  ‘I guess it depends on the task.’ Deira looked thoughtful. ‘I mean, I’m a hopeless case personally right now, but I’m really confident I can do a great job for Arc Tech if the offer they put together is a good one.’

  ‘You’ll definitely move if it’s right?’

  She nodded. ‘Originally I thought it would be like running away from Gavin and Solas, but it’s a potentially great move for me. And I’m better off in a new environment.’

  ‘I think so too. At least you won’t have to keep bumping into him every day and remembering that he offered to shag you and get you pregnant so that you’d piss off and leave him alone with his new girlfriend.’

  ‘Tillie!’

  But suddenly, Deira smiled.

  Because Tillie, as always, was right.

  Chapter 37

  Dundrum, Dublin, Ireland: 53.2932°N 6.2462°W

  Two days later, Grace and Deira stood in the storage warehouse and looked at the small locker unit that Ken had hired to stash the treasure.

  ‘You finally made it,’ said Deira.

  ‘End of the line,’ agreed Grace. ‘When I think about it, he was nuts. Sending me all around France and Spain simply to bring me to the other side of Dublin. He could’ve left me the code for the locker from the start.’

  ‘Was there a clue for it?’ asked Deira.

  ‘Not really,’ replied Grace. ‘It’s the children’s birthdays. Which . . .’ she began pressing the keypad on the locker door, ‘is 3 for Aline, 9 for Fionn and 21 for Regan.’ As she finished speaking, the door swung open and the two women looked inside.

  Facing them was a stack of old hardback books. Behind them was another stack of equally old paperbacks. On top of the hardback pile were four envelopes, propped up against a small plum-coloured jewellery box. Three were addressed to each of the children. One was addressed to Grace herself. She put the children’s envelopes in her bag and then opened the one addressed to her. There was a card inside. She took it out.

  The image on the card was of a woman sitting in a garden, reading. Her long blonde hair hid her face, and she was totally absorbed in the book in front of her. The writing inside was shaky, but Grace recognised it as Ken’s. She read the message aloud.

  ‘I know I never converted you to the authors I liked,’ he’d written. ‘But I hope you’ll enjoy this hardback collection of the authors you do. Maybe one day they’ll be as lauded as the rest of the editions in this locker. Either way, I bought them for you to keep and enjoy. Oh, and there’s a little something in the box too. Love always, Ken.’

  ‘Books.’ Grace laughed. ‘I might have guessed he’d think of books as treasure.’

  ‘And a little something in the jewellery box,’ Deira reminded her. ‘Open it.’

  Grace put the card in her bag, then opened the box. A ruby ring nestled against the purple velvet.

  ‘Oh my goodness, it’s an Adele Dahlia,’ gasped Deira as Grace slid it out of the box. ‘That’s a classic ruby ring. We showed it in one of our displays at Solas. We had a number of Irish jewellery-makers and I didn’t think we’d get anything from Warren’s because they’re so upmarket, but their owner loaned us pieces from their Dahlia, Snowdrop and Ice Dragon collections for the opening night. We had to have extra security and everything.’

  Grace nodded slowly as she slipped it onto her finger. It fitted perfectly.

  ‘I remember walking past Warren’s with him one Christmas and seeing it in the window,’ she told Deira. ‘I said it was the most beautiful ring I’d ever seen and that if I ever had the money, I’d love to buy it. But that was years ago!’

  ‘Obviously he remembered.’

  ‘Oh Deira.’ Grace’s eyes glittered with tears. ‘I’ve misjudged him in so many ways. I always thought he didn’t listen to me, but he did. I thought he looked down on me, but he didn’t . . . Well, maybe he did a bit, but . . . I wish he’d been as lovely to me when he was alive as he’s been since he died. I wish he hadn’t left it too late.’

  Deira hugged her. ‘You’ll always remember him with love, Grace. That’s important.’

  Grace sniffed a couple of times and smiled wanly before taking a tissue from her bag and blowing her nose.

  Deira allowed her a moment before picking up one of the books. ‘It’s an early Maeve Binchy,’ she said. ‘And Grace – it’s signed by her.’

  ‘Really?’ Grace took it from her. The book, Light a Penny Candle, which had been published in 1982, was indeed signed by the author.

  ‘And this one is too. It’s Rosamunde Pilcher,’ said Deira. ‘The Shell Seekers. I’ve heard of that, never read it, though.’

  ‘It’s one of my all-time favourite books,’ said Grace. ‘And the others – what are they?’

  There were two more Maeve Binchys and another Rosamunde Pilcher, all signed, as well as signed editions of Edna O’Brien’s Country Girls trilogy and Joanna Trollope’s The Rector’s Wife.

  ‘I loved The Rector’s Wife when it first came out,’ said Grace. ‘When I insisted he read it, Ken dismissed it as sentimental.’

  ‘Hard to see anyone being more sentimental than him right now.’

  ‘How did he manage to get all these signed copies?’ wondered Grace. ‘How long did it take him to find them?’

  ‘I don’t want to burst your bubble, but eBay is pretty good for everything,’ said Deira. ‘All the same, he went to a lot of trouble. Which shows how much he loved you, Grace. You know, when he went out in the car that night, I can’t help thinking it was because he wanted to save you from the worst of his illness. That maybe he thought he was doing the right thing by you.’

  Grace took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘And perhaps he didn’t mean to do it at all, though that’s unlikely.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ asked Deira.

  ‘Something he said in th
e video,’ replied Grace. ‘He talked about the fact that he didn’t want to do the trip because we both knew it would be for the last time, and he didn’t want to do something knowing it was for the last time. But then he said that part of him still wanted to go. That he thought he could drive part of the way so he wouldn’t be a burden. He said he might practise. What if that night he’d gone out to practise but it all went horribly wrong?’

  Deira hesitated before speaking. She thought that perhaps Grace was trying to rewrite history because of Ken’s actions in sourcing the books and buying her a fabulous piece of jewellery. But if that was what she wanted to believe, who was Deira to stop her? So she said it was always possible.

  ‘You should look at the video he left me,’ said Grace.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly,’ Deira said. ‘I’m sure it’s way too personal.’

  ‘You’ve been part of my personal life for the last few weeks,’ Grace said. ‘I’d like you to see it.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Deira herself wasn’t. But she reckoned that despite Grace’s inner strength, the older woman had been shaken by Ken’s last message and by his gift to her. ‘What about these other books?’ she asked. ‘The paperbacks.’

  ‘Gosh, yes.’ Grace reached into the locker and took one out. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Hemingway again. Another early edition. Actually,’ she added, ‘I think it’s a first edition and – oh, wow – it’s signed too.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Deira leaned over her shoulder.

  ‘I didn’t know he even had these,’ said Grace as she took out another book. ‘Steinbeck. The Grapes of Wrath. Also signed.’

  ‘Grace! This is a real treasure trove.’

  ‘I guess he picked them up when he was in the States,’ said Grace. ‘There’s an F. Scott Fitzgerald too. Oh my God, here’s a Salinger – and an early Norman Mailer!’

  ‘I’m sure a book collector would love them,’ said Deira.

  Grace laughed. ‘Ken was a book collector,’ she said. ‘His study is overflowing with books. Maybe he wanted to keep the best of them safe here.’

  ‘Will you keep them yourself, in that case?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Grace. ‘I have to think about it. Talk to the children. See what they’d like to do.’

  ‘You can’t leave them here, though.’

  ‘It’s as safe a place as anywhere for the moment,’ said Grace. ‘I’ll go through the stuff in his office and give away as much as makes sense, then maybe have these at home. After all, they meant a lot to him. They should be on shelves, not locked away in storage.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Deira. ‘Oh!’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘If you were willing, they could be part of my first exhibition with Arc,’ she said, excitement bubbling at her sudden idea. ‘Always provided I get the job, of course. I could do something about the evolution of sharing stories. Old books and modern technology. I could . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she visualised how it might work out. It could be brilliant. And interactive. They could include readings . . .

  ‘Earth to Deira.’ Grace poked her in the side.

  ‘Sorry.’ Deira smiled. ‘I was getting carried away.’

  ‘Come back to the house with me,’ said Grace. ‘Have a look at the books in Ken’s study. See what you could do.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Deira.

  ‘In that case, let’s lock up here and go.’

  Grace stretched her hand out in front of her and looked at the deep-red ruby on her finger. Then she picked up one of the signed Maeve Binchys to take with her and shut the door of the storage unit.

  Back at Grace’s house, Deira stared at the mountain of books in her late husband’s study.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Less of a collector, more of a hoarder.’

  ‘I know.’ Grace edged her way past his desk. ‘It’ll take time to go through them all and see what might be worth keeping and what’s not.’

  ‘You need an expert to help you,’ said Deira. ‘Unfortunately, that’s not me. D’you know anyone?’

  ‘I suppose Pat Rice could help,’ said Grace slowly.

  ‘Maybe that’s what the professor had in mind all along,’ said Deira. ‘That after you met him to get the USB stick, you’d realise that something had to be done about the books. And that you’d ask him. And one thing would lead to another.’

  ‘Actually Ken did say in his video that he’d be OK with me getting close to Pat,’ Grace admitted. ‘It’s odd that on the one hand he realised I was an individual person with my own likes and dislikes, and on the other he was so terrified at the idea of me managing on my own that he wanted to choose the man to replace him.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll manage perfectly well,’ said Deira. ‘And although the Professor seems to have been a bit of a control freak, I honestly think it was coming from a place of caring about you.’

  ‘He did like to be in control,’ agreed Grace. ‘Maybe I allowed it too much.’ She looked enquiringly at Deira. ‘Would you like to see his video now?’

  ‘If you’re certain . . .’

  Grace took the USB from where she’d left it in the drawer of Ken’s desk and inserted it into the laptop. The two women watched in silence as once again, Ken began to speak to his wife.

  Afterwards, Deira wiped the tears from her eyes.

  ‘He loved you so much,’ she said.

  ‘And yet that was the first time he ever told me,’ said Grace.

  ‘Surely he must have said it from time to time.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘Not often,’ she said. ‘On our anniversary and on my birthday – he was good at dates; he always remembered. But day to day . . . hardly ever. Usually only as a reply if I said I loved him. And even then not always.’

  ‘But he’s even quoted poetry to you. I’ve never gone out with anyone who quoted poetry. Gavin certainly didn’t; he wasn’t a poetry fan.’ Even though he’d green-lighted one of her exhibitions, which had showcased Irish poets.

  ‘Did he tell you he loved you, though?’

  I love you, Dee. He always called her Dee when he told her he loved her. He said it lots of times. Until he stopped. She should have realised something was wrong when he stopped. But she was too busy to even notice.

  ‘Words don’t matter if there isn’t meaning behind them,’ she said. ‘I’d rather someone who never said it but who really loved me than someone who was always saying it but didn’t.’

  ‘Thing is,’ said Grace, ‘it’s part of showing someone you care. He didn’t say it and he didn’t show it and I spent most of my life thinking I wasn’t good enough for him because of that. And I sort of stopped saying it to him too. I regret that, Deira. Because if we’d talked a bit more, if we’d said how much we cared about each other, I’d never have felt the less important person in the relationship. And maybe he wouldn’t have felt the way he did when he got ill.’

  ‘It’s bloody hard to get it right, isn’t it,’ Deira said. ‘Telling someone they love them, not telling them. Doing the right thing, not doing it. How do we know?’

  ‘We don’t.’ Grace gave her a wry smile. ‘That’s why the shelves of bookstores are groaning under the weight of self-help books. We never really know what we’re doing. We’re all faking it. Even the best of us.’

  ‘Ken gave you more than the books and the ring,’ said Deira. ‘He gave you the chance to make new friendships. I hope we’ll always be friends, Grace, because I love the fact that we met and we did the journey together and that we shared our problems and that even if everything hasn’t turned out exactly how we wanted, we’ve ended up in . . . well, in my case a better place. In yours . . .’

  ‘I’m definitely better than I was before we took the trip,’ Grace told her. ‘I know my husband better, and even if I regret that we never had this conversation when he was alive, I’m glad to know how much he cared. I’m also glad that you were around, because without you, I mightn’t have got any further than Nantes!’

  ‘Frien
ds forever.’ Deira grinned.

  ‘I sure hope so,’ said Grace. ‘Now, how about a cup of tea? Or,’ she added, ‘champagne. There’s a bottle in the fridge that’s been there for nearly a year. This seems like a good time to open it.’

  ‘Champagne all the way,’ said Deira, and followed her into the kitchen.

  Chapter 38

  Quay, Dublin, Ireland: 53.2038°N 6.1408°W

  Deira stood in the new visitor space of the Arc Tech building and breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Her first project, the exhibition of old books inspired by Professor Kenneth Harrington’s collection, would shortly be opened by the newly appointed Minister for Arts and Heritage, and the guest list of attendees for the night was impressive. Apart from representatives from arts and culture organisations, it also included Grace Garvey and her three children, as well as Pat Rice, Gill, Bex and Tillie. Deira had also invited people who’d been involved in previous exhibitions with her, like Thelma Roache’s niece, Jennifer. She’d contacted Jennifer to congratulate her on showing her work in Amaya’s gallery, and Jennifer had come back to say how excited she was that six of her paintings had been sold. Deira was pleased for her, and pleased to keep the link with her very first successful project.

  But now, in the moments before the exhibition was opened to the public for the first time, Deira was looking at it as a visitor and not someone who’d been intimately involved in designing the layout and selecting the books. She’d been almost overwhelmed by the professor’s collection, but more than that, by the content, which included many first editions of famous works, especially by iconic Irish writers. She’d divided the project into different eras, drawing a route from the past to the present. She’d read many of the books herself in her student years, but there were others that had passed her by, and she was grateful for the opportunity to learn about them and to add them to her own reading list.