Now and Then

by Mary O'Sullivan

  He walked into the back of the cave and found his rock. He sat and wrapped his arms around himself. Made no difference. He was already deathly cold. He began to feel drowsy and knew he must be hypothermic, that he should try moving to warm himself. He did not.

  Ben Parrish closed his eyes and allowed the sounds of the wind and sea fill his head. Somewhere in the confused noise he thought he heard his mother call, reminding him that she had bought an air ticket to California for him and that she would ensure Zach Milburg offered him a job. Charity. Pity. Mum had not yet realised that successful entrepreneurs, especially of the billionaire variety, don’t do pity.

  He was too cold, too wet, too weary, too sad.

  Too broken to fix.

  Another wave lashed into the cave mouth.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The children’s clothes were washed and hanging on the airer, salon towels in the dryer, dishwasher unloaded and the table set for breakfast in the morning. Next I had to make Rob’s school lunch and mine for tomorrow. All the time I was working, I cursed Ben Parrish for his selfishness, his lack of character. The depth of my anger against him shook me. Yes, Ben had frightened me tonight but I could cope. Rob could not. I would not forgive him for terrifying our child.

  School lunch made, I took the towels from the dryer and rolled them, ready for the salon in the morning. That brought my attention back to the problem with Minnie Curran and her allergic reaction. I had no doubt her spotted scalp and forehead were the talk of the village by now. I had intended asking Ben to contact his college friend, Joe, a solicitor, for some legal advice. All I could hope was that the evidence of the skin test being done would save me if Minnie brought a case against me. If not, I might as well close the doors of the salon immediately.

  That thought made me ashamed. I was not a quitter. My children needed me to be strong for them. I went to their rooms and watched them as they slept: Rob curled up, still clutching his security blanket, Anna limbs sprawled outside her duvet, restless, Josh lying still on his sturdy little back. I was as bowed down by my responsibility to guide them into adulthood, as I was buoyed by my love for them. I gently closed their doors and left them to their dreams.

  Going back to the now orderly kitchen, I put a mug of milk in the microwave to heat. My usual bedtime drink. Ben always had tea. Ben. He didn’t seem to need as much sleep as I did. He always stayed up longer than I did. Doing work on his computer, he said. So what was the relationship between him and Ellen Riggs? Was this disgraceful tantrum because Ellen was leaving? Had he been having an affair with her? I shrugged off the idea. Logistics wouldn’t allow for clandestine meetings and romantic trysts. Ben’s day was totally taken up with minding the children. Other than a very occasional trip to see his mother in Dublin, he didn’t go out in the evenings. How telling that I believed Ben was not having an affair, simply because he could not fit it into his schedule.

  I took my hot milk to the counter and sat on a stool. First chance to relax since I got home. I was bone weary, my back aching even more than usual. Not good. Nor was the slight swelling in my ankles and hands. I should see the doctor. And talk to Ben, whether I wanted to or not. It was past time.

  My phone was on the counter. I glanced at it and was startled to see that it was already after ten o’clock. I hadn’t noticed how late it was getting. It must have been around eight when Ben left. Where in the hell was he for that length of time? He couldn’t be with friends because he didn’t have any. The bald fact was that he had made no effort to integrate. Admittedly, trying to gain acceptance in Paircmoor was not easy. The indigenous population cherished their history, their generations-long links with the area. Their inalienable right to belong on the inside of the invisible wall they built, while blow-ins were consigned to the outside. I understood that. I also understood that he must be missing his old life. Like golf and theatre nights and dining out. But tough! I missed many things too because we could no longer afford them. The so-called friendships we had in the city had been shallow. No doubt about that. Even when we had still been in Dublin, the invitations to events had fallen off dramatically after Ben had been made redundant. Maybe people were being considerate, knowing we could no longer afford a social life. Or else they could not face the whiff of desperation surrounding both me and Ben as the national economic crisis deepened, hope of Ben getting another job faded, and finally the possibility of losing our Dublin home became reality. To her credit, his mother stepped in and paid the mortgage until we had sold our home and paid off the bank debt. Our house had been bought by an investor friend of hers. Putting us even more in her debt. And yes, much to my shame, I should be more grateful to Della.

  I checked my phone again. I had no missed call from Ben. No text. So why was I sitting here, my thoughts getting more and more bitter, when I should be trying to find out where he had flounced off to. I went to the front door and opened it. It was a pitch-black night. I flicked on the outside light and saw that it was teeming with rain and the trees tossed in a strong gale. I hadn’t realised how stormy it had become.

  The car and jeep were both parked where we had left them. I grabbed my coat and ran to the jeep. It was empty. No Ben sulking in the driver’s seat or sprawled out asleep in the back between the baby seats. He was not in my car either.

  I ran back in and checked his jackets in the hall closet. They were all there. Was he sheltering somewhere from the rain? Unlikely that he had gone for a walk or a run on a night like this. He didn’t exercise much anymore. But then what did I know? The man who had thrown the exquisite vase with such violence, and shouted so aggressively at me, was not the Ben I knew. Unless. Unless I was completely wrong about his relationship with Ellen. Maybe he was going to London with her. Only one way to find out.

  I pressed Ben’s quick-dial number. His phone rang in the lounge. How stupid of me! I had assumed he was not in the house. Of course he was here, probably snoring on the couch. I hurried to the lounge. It was in darkness. I turned on the lamp. His phone was on the coffee table, the missed call message glowing on-screen, his house keys sitting beside it. But Ben was not there. I ran then from room to room, getting increasingly more panicky. It did not take long to realise that he was not in Cowslip Cottage.

  In the kitchen I scrolled through my contact list. Who in the name of God could I ring? I hesitated at Della’s number. His mother would know where he was. She was probably directing his every move. Except that she was most likely landed in California by now. I moved on to Ellen’s number. It was in my phone because of the friendship between Rob and Finn. We had swapped numbers just in case either child needed their mom in a hurry. Ironic that I wanted to contact her now because my husband might have needed Ellen too. The thought of the affair that I had dismissed so glibly gained traction by the second. I had been wrong in thinking Ben had no friends here. He had Ellen Riggs in all her blasted perfection. I was the friendless one. Mags Hoey would come closest but, if she was not an employee, we probably would not have any contact.

  I pressed the phone icon and suddenly realised I didn’t know what to say to Ellen. I could hardly ask if my husband was in bed with her or if he was about to run away with her. Her voicemail came on, with a ‘Sorry, I am busy but please leave a message’ greeting. I ended the call. I was pretty sure in that moment that she was busy with my husband. Then I immediately rang again. And again. Still nothing but that generic voicemail.

  I stood there, paralysed with guilt. Every working day I allotted myself play time with the children, laundry time, food prep for next day and a precious thirty minutes with a mug of hot milk and some TV before bed. I had never thought of Ben time. Or Ben and Leah time. Sundays and Mondays, my days off, were set aside for family outings and house-cleaning. On my orders. Ben was right. I put him in the same category as the children. Organising his time, telling him what to do and how to do it. Never asking how he was coping. Having no interest in his scale-model scheme which I assumed to be a ridiculous waste of time. Not caring as long as i
t was not costing too much money. No wonder his head was turned by Ellen Riggs. My milk sat on the counter untouched, slowly developing a crinkly skin on top as it cooled.

  If I had tried harder to understand Ben’s frustrations, we might not be in this situation. I shook with fear at maybe having to face the future on my own, but also with an all-consuming anger at his selfishness for putting me through yet more worry. I wanted to sit down and cry but where would that get me? And what if I was wrong and Ben was not with Ellen? He could be in trouble, lying injured on the road, the rain pouring down on top of his broken body. Should I ring the gardaí? I could imagine how that conversation would go when I told them he had been missing just over two hours. How pathetic would I look when they found him with his girlfriend, arms around each other, all ready for a shining new life together?

  Ben had been right about one thing. Cowslip Cottage was in a bleak and isolated area. No neighbours nearby to hop over and mind the children while I searched for him. No one to offer advice and support.

  I turned to Mam then and cursed her roundly for dying. I needed her more than ever but she was off doing her afterlife thing in heaven or in nothingness. Like a possessed woman, I begged her out loud to give me a sign, anything, a feather floating through the air, a whisper of a breeze across my face. Anything just to let me know that she was still looking after me.

  My phone rang. Ellen’s name flashed on the screen. Mam had given me my sign. I stood and stared, wanting so much to grab the phone but terrified to hear what she had to say.

  At least I would know.

  One way or another.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Vera Sanquest opened the front door of Cliff House when she saw the lights of her husband’s car approach. She waited impatiently in the hall for him to park and lock the car. No point in trying to get him to hurry. Walter Sanquest was not for rushing. She pulled her cardigan more tightly around her as she waited. It was a vicious night with cold rain, swept by swirling winds. Typical for November.

  “What kept you so long?” she demanded as Walter walked to the door. “You said you were going into Paircmoor just for milk. Did you have to milk a cow yourself?”

  “I met John Sweeney and went for a pint with him. So what? And don’t bother with your drink-driving lecture. It was only one pint.”

  “Never mind that now. There’s a man. A young man. He went away and came back again and I haven’t seen him come up the path. I was just about to ring the Coast Guard.”

  He stood looking at her in puzzlement.

  “I haven’t a notion what you’re talking about, Vera. Come in out of the cold and shut the door. All the heat will be going out and the price of oil is gone up. Again.”

  She blocked his way as he made to step inside.

  “Listen to me, Walter. I met this man when I was walking the dog. He looked troubled. He had no coat. I asked him to come in for a cup of tea but he refused.”

  “Jesus! You invited him in, not knowing who he was! That’s dangerous, Vera!”

  “Will you stop interrupting? He pretended to walk towards Paircmoor Road but when I came into the house, I saw him come back and head down the cliff path to the strand. He hasn’t come back up. Now, do you understand?”

  “Oh! How long ago was this?”

  “I’d say maybe an hour and a half. And before you ask, I’ve been on the lookout all the time and there’s been no sign of him since.”

  “How do you know? It’s a pitch-dark night. How could you see him from here?”

  “He was wearing a white T-shirt. I was just about able to see him going down to the cliff path. I would have gone and called him but you know I’m nervous when the tide is in. Especially in a storm.”

  Walter wasn’t listening to her. He was remembering the young man he had met on the Paircmoor road. Wearing a white T-shirt in the lashing rain, breathless and slightly manic. He had stopped to ask if he was alright but had pegged him as one of those fitness fanatics who thought it healthy to push your body to its limits and beyond.

  Walter nodded. Yes, that must be the man he met. He cocked his head, with his good ear, the left one, turned in the direction of the sea.

  “Tide’s turned,” he said. “It’s on the way out now. I’ll get a torch and boots and go have a look below on the strand.”

  Vera sighed. She had been afraid this would happen. Many years ago, when they had both been young and strong and the children had filled Cliff House with their energy and love of life, Walter had rescued a family trapped by high tide in the infamous pirate cave on the strand. He had lived in hope since of a repeat performance.

  “Walter Sanquest, you silly old man! Don’t even think of being a have-a-go-hero! That day is gone. I’ll ring the Coast Guard now.”

  She was talking to his back. He was already heading for the shed where he kept his boots and waterproof coat. She went back into the house and tucked Pilot into his basket by the kitchen stove. In the utility room she put on her coat and boots. They were still wet from her walk with Pilot but that didn’t matter once they were dry on the inside. She pulled on her woolly hat, put her phone into her pocket, got her torch, then went out and closed the front door behind her.

  Outside the gate, she stood for a moment. A beam of light wavering below her told her Walter was almost at the cliff path. She said a silent prayer to her angel to keep them both safe and to the disturbed young man’s angel to bring him peace. Wherever he was.

  Then she switched on her torch and followed her husband.

  I was shaking as I picked up my phone to answer Ellen Riggs’ call. I had planned on exactly what to say. How to ask questions without sounding desperate. Or angry. Now, as I heard Ellen’s cultured tones, words failed me.

  “Leah? This is Ellen. How may I help you?”

  How about sending my husband home, you patronising bitch? How about you just feic off to London and never come near my family again?

  I had to breathe deeply in order to bury my angry thoughts.

  “This is Leah, isn’t it? Speak to me or I will cut the call now.”

  Shit! She thought I was a heavy breather. And I was, because I was smothered with panic. Words began to escape me. I tried in vain to make them sound sensible.

  “Sorry for ringing you so late at night, Ellen. It’s just that I was wondering if . . . Could you tell me . . . Have you . . .”

  “Leah! Whatever is the matter? Just calm down.”

  “Sorry. Sorry. It’s Ben.”

  “Ben? What’s happened? Has he had an accident?”

  I hesitated again, wondering if Ellen was playing a clever game of bluff or if she was as genuinely puzzled as she sounded. The thought entered my mind that I should be grateful if he was safely with Ellen rather than involved in an accident. I pushed the silly idea away. I was nowhere near being so kind-spirited. Only one way to find out.

  “Is he with you, Ellen?”

  There was silence. It spoke volumes to me. I imagined them in bed, Ellen propped up by pillows, wearing a silk negligee, her phone on speaker so that Ben, lying beside her, could listen in. She would look at him, an eyebrow arched, a smile on her lips. They would both supress a laugh as they listened to the dreary old wife. The abandoned one. The one who had never been good enough.

  “I don’t understand, Leah. Why would your husband be with me?”

  “Because I don’t know where else he would be. He doesn’t know many people here and I think he’s upset about you leaving. You didn’t answer my question. Is he with you now?”

  There was no silence this time. Her words came strong and clear.

  “He most certainly is not.”

  The disdain in her voice told me that Ben had never stood a chance with her. He was not in her league any more than I was in his.

  “I’m sorry you and Ben seem to be having some difficulties, Leah, but I must be up early in the morning to catch a flight. I hope you find your husband soon. Goodnight.”

  I held my phone in my hand for
several minutes after she had cut off my call. I could hear rain lash against the window panes and the high-pitched whirr of the gale down the chimney. The possibility that Ben was out in the storm, with no coat or hat, was fast becoming a probability. I thought again about ringing the gardaí. The call would have to be transferred to the barracks in our nearest town, twenty kilometres away. The local station in Paircmoor had been closed long before we moved here. They would probably tell me ring back in the morning. I would not expect them to send a patrol car all that way to search for someone who could not yet be officially listed as missing.

  I put the kettle on to make coffee. I would not sleep tonight anyway and my brain needed the caffeine boost. I heaped two spoons of instant into my mug and took a sip of the dark brew, feeling energy surging through me. Now I could make a plan. I wanted to jump in my car, go out and search the village, the woods, the highways and byways for Ben. To find him huddled underneath a hedge, or maybe in one of the ruined cottages which peppered the Paircmoor landscape. I would put my arms around him and tell him I loved him. A good plan except that I could not follow it through because of the children.

  I paced the kitchen, trying to impose some logic on my thinking. Ben had left here with no coat, no phone, no key. That meant he intended being gone just a short time. Or it could mean he had somewhere to go for the night. Or that he had no intention of coming back and did not want to be contacted. He was not with Ellen Riggs. She had made that clear. He could not be sheltering in the salon because his key was here. Anyway he avoided the place like the plague. As far as I was aware, he was not on visiting terms with anybody in the area.

  I stood still, realising that I knew lots of people here. Clients at the salon, parents of the children’s peers, staff in the supermarket, garage and post office. Yet, now, when I desperately needed help, I had nobody to turn to. Mags Hoey was the nearest I had to a friend. But not quite. I never saw her outside of work hours.