Hush Hush

by Mullarkey, Gabrielle

  ‘That’s a tweet,’ she sighed. ‘Look, I get it. All this modern technology at our disposal and we still couldn’t communicate properly. What does that say about each other?’

  ‘That we’re technically inept when it comes to affairs of the heart,’ he insisted. ‘We’re old-fashioned, face to face merchants.’ He swept his hand round the taverna. ‘Which is what I’m doing here.’

  ‘Bully for you.’ She knew she was being childish. Couldn’t seem to stop.

  ‘Then I thought, sod it, and phoned you one Saturday night ‒ only to find you weren’t in.’

  ‘Well, excuse me for having the temerity to get on with my life.’

  ‘So I sent flowers,’ he continued doggedly. ‘I told you on the card that I’d be back within the next few weeks. I thought that would put your mind at rest.’

  Angela could think of no logical reason for him to assume otherwise. ‘Huh! The fact is, I didn’t believe you’d be back for good. Especially when I found out you were selling up. Remember Rosie?’

  Her name had an instant effect. He drew back from his earnest position of elbows on the table, eyes locked with hers. She distinctly heard his armoured shell click into place. A small arrow of panic pierced her superior coolness.

  ‘I bumped into her at a party in Loxton. She was the one who told me you were selling up. You never mentioned it in your phone calls or floral tribute.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d read between the lines of a few words scribbled on a card, and come up with a load of negative nonsense. I had to explain it all, face to face. I’ve sold up to give Kate her half and discharge my final responsibility towards her as my ex-wife. You could’ve trusted me for once, Angela.’

  The tragedy in his voice upped her panic. She’d committed some irreversible faux pas, like the princess who has everything but still can’t resist peeking in the forbidden room at the top of the tower. ‘I don’t understand,’ she began crossly.

  ‘I don’t love Kate! I told you that in Ireland. For a while there, I thought I’d have to shelve my own needs and look after her, because she’s too unhappy to look after herself. I knew she was manipulating me, but I thought ‒ wrongly ‒ I could rise above it and care for her anyway. Only trouble is, I’m not St Francis of Assisi.’

  Angela snapped a bread stick between shaking fingers. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Every time I showed some independence, I knew she’d do some kooky, attention-seeking thing to pull me back into line. So I called her bluff. I told her I’d flog my precious house and give her half the money from the sale, and she could settle in Loxton or wherever she fancied. But I didn’t love her, and I didn’t want to live with her, in any capacity. And furthermore, Shane knows I don’t love her. That was my trump card. She couldn’t use Shane as her hold over me, because he knows the score. And anyway, by selling 23 Pacelli Road, I was giving her something she’d always wanted. The proof I care more about her than my silly house. I care what happens to her in the long-run. I’ll do all I can for her. If nothing else, she needs the money for future medical bills, if she stays on the booze and in the States.’

  Angela’s prickly heat swelled. ‘But Rosie said ‒ she said you were fixated.’

  ‘That’s rich, coming from another prize head-case. I really do pick them.’

  Angela traced her finger round a stain on the chequered oilcloth. Desperate to reclaim his good opinion, to pierce that armoured shell, she babbled her account of meeting Rosie at Pauline’s ‒ and hearing about the bedroom shrine, the lock of hair under his pillow.

  ‘And you believed her?’ Conor shook with hollow laughter. ‘Didn’t you stop to wonder how Rosie had such an intimate knowledge of my bedroom, when she’d never spent a night in it? Shane caught her in there one morning, going through Kate’s stuff. She must’ve spun you her fantastic yarn as some sort of revenge. The woman’s off-balance.’

  ‘I see that now,’ muttered Angela, deciding to keep quiet about her night in Rosie’s flat. Off-balance or not, she’d been kind in her own way. Oh, why the hell were people so complicated? Compared to her, anyway.

  ‘Did you try to get Kate back when she walked out on you?’

  ‘Yes ‒ once she let me know where she was. Rosie was right about one thing. I was still infatuated with Kate, long after the love died a natural death. I didn’t want to give up on my marriage, after promising in public that I’d make it work for life. The sense of failure was driving me mad! Every time we spoke on the phone for about three months after she left, I’d drop “When are you coming back?” abruptly into the conversation, hoping to catch her off-guard. At first she got angry, then she started ignoring the question, and I gradually stopped asking it. I was getting used to life without her. And even liking it. There are compensations to losing your wife when your wife’s an alcoholic whose drink dependency makes you feel so ruddy inadequate in the first place.’ He looked at Angela. ‘As far as I’m concerned, the ball’s in your court now, Ange. I told you in Ireland that I loved you.’

  Her heart soared, but she was still too unsure of herself to get carried away. ‘That you thought you loved me. The hedge-betting of a sensible man, not a fool. And besides ‒’ She hesitated, loath to mention Rosie again, but needing to get things off her chest, ‘Rosie knew … things. In Curracloe, you told me you’d never articulated your past to a third party.’

  ‘And I hadn’t! Did she know Kate was a drinker?’

  ‘Well, no, she never said …’

  ‘All Rosie got were the bare bones of my marriage, which she fleshed out with her imagination. If I’d told her the whole story, she’d have realised that Kate and I were finished for good. But I didn’t give Rosie the whole story. We never got that far in our relationship. And it would’ve raised her expectations, unfairly.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘So come on, Angela. The boat leaves again in an hour or so, heading back up the coast. Say the word and I’ll stay. Or tell me it’s a waste of time and there’s too much baggage between us, and I’ll shove off forever.’

  ‘Wait!’ she croaked in panic. ‘That’s not fair, delivering ultimatums.’

  ‘I think it’s perfectly fair. I came all the way out here to tell you how I feel about you. Affirmative action ‒ which isn’t easy for me to take. Now put yourself on the line. Tell me you love me too.’

  Angela’s panic mounted and with it, a dizzying sense of speaking now or for ever holding her peace. She didn’t want him to get back on that steamer, simple as that. The waiter plonked their meals in front of them. Conor picked up his fork.

  ‘Think about it over the meal.’

  ‘I love you!’ shouted Angela, startling the waiter and the cats under the table. ‘I love you and I don’t want you to get on the steamer. Is that enough?’

  Conor McGinlay’s nut-brown face split into a slow, steady grin. ‘It’s a start.’

  ‘Fancy Dad telling a whopper like that!’ crowed Shane, slathering honey over a wedge of fluffy white bread. ‘Didn’t know the old man had it in him. Getting back on the steamer in an hour, indeed!’

  Angela stared at the buttery knife left in the honey-pot. Like Sadie, Shane had blossomed in the ripening heat. His muddy hair looked thicker and glinted with gold highlights. His scrawny frame was browning nicely. They were having breakfast as a foursome in Angela’s and Sadie’s apartment.

  Conor and Shane had pre-booked an apartment in a nearby street for the week. Conor had never had any intention of clearing off on the steamer. He’d used the threat of his departure to put teeth in his ultimatum. As he’d teased her over dessert in the Fig-Leaf: ‘You didn’t really think I’d shell out for a holiday and then book into a place at the other end of the island, without getting my money’s worth here?’

  ‘Shane,’ said Conor now through a mouthful of grapes. ‘Tell Ange and Mrs F about the new house.’

  ‘Oh yeah, like, it’s a dump,’ said Shane enthusiastically. ‘Coming down with mildew, earwigs in the woodwork … Loa
ds of potential, though,’ he ended in a mumble, under the heat of Conor’s glare. ‘So Dad says anyway.’

  ‘It’s closer to Wilmesbury,’ explained Conor, turning to include Sadie. ‘Needs a lot doing to it, but that’s right up my street. I was thinking, Mrs F, of converting the downstairs level for easy mobility, in case, you know, you ever wanted to visit and stay on for a bit.’

  Sadie tried not to look too thrilled. ‘It’s very kind of you to think of me, Conor.’

  ‘You two getting married and living with me in this show house, then?’ demanded Shane. ‘What?’ he asked of his father’s despairing expression. ‘It wouldn’t exactly be a shock, would it? And I’m only asking what everyone else is thinking.’ He flung down his half-chewed bread. ‘I’m honest, me.’

  ‘Too honest for your own good,’ concluded Conor, using paternal fierceness to avoid looking at Angela. She’d been strangely quiet since their arrival for breakfast. He hoped to God she wasn’t going cool on her declaration of love.

  She stood up abruptly, her gaze straying to the balcony where another perfect blue day beckoned. ‘I think I’ll go and finish my postcards out on the balcony. I’ll be home before anyone receives them at this rate.’

  Conor’s wondering look strayed after her. Sadie stood up with almost sprightly ease and nodded at Shane. ‘Conor, why don’t you take your son off to the supermarket? I bet you haven’t stocked up your apartment yet.’

  While Sadie piled crockery, Conor’s look stayed stubbornly fixed on Angela, who now leant on the balcony rail, apparently oblivious to the domestic bustle behind her.

  ‘I thought we’d be eating out all the time,’ Conor muttered belatedly to Sadie, with a mulish dislike of being humoured that made him look, suddenly, like Shane.

  ‘You’ll still need the basics. Be off with you now, the pair of you!’ She looked steadily at Conor until his mouth quirked and his instinct told him that Sadie was trying to help ‒ again.

  ‘All right, you win. Come on, Shane.’

  Shane’s interest was guarded. ‘Can I get Pop Tarts?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when I see them.’

  They clattered out, Conor determined to make an exit that signalled his grasp of the subtleties of a mother-daughter hotline. Whatever was bugging Angela, maybe Sadie’s instinct was right, and it was best left to maternal probing.

  Sadie dragged a chair onto the balcony. Angela was slumped on a white iron garden chair that dwarfed the wobbly Formica table beside her. She’d spread her postcards into a peacock’s fantail of rainbow colours on the table-top. She’d already told Sadie who she was sending them to. One for the girls at work, one for Magdalena at Hartley’s and a couple of others she’d probably keep as souvenirs. Sadie looked down at the postcards. They were still blank. Angela stared out over the pepperpot chimneys, chewing her pen. For once, reflected Sadie, she seemed genuinely preoccupied rather than ignoring her over-solicitous mother in the hope she’d go away.

  ‘What’s got into you, lovey? Conor’s worried sick that you’re having second thoughts.’

  ‘Huh!’ Angela looked round. ‘No way. I’ll have to talk to him about his fragile male ego. To be honest, I was wondering whether or not to send Rachel a postcard.’

  ‘Oh,’ sniffed Sadie. ‘Well, of course, forgiving Rachel would be an act of Christian charity.’

  ‘I’ve already forgiven her,’ said Angela, to Sadie’s amazement. ‘The truth is, since I found out, I feel kind of at peace. I find, after thinking a lot about it, I don’t hate her or Robert. She liberated me from torturous suspicion. And I can see she’s an unhappy woman.’

  ‘As far as I can see, the best thing is to cut her out of your life.’

  Angela said slowly, ‘No, I’ve turned my back on people who need me once too often. Maybe ‒ maybe if I can rediscover the Rachel I knew and liked at school, before she got all hard about life, I can make up for ‒ neglecting someone else. A stranger, someone I can’t stop thinking about this morning.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Sadie, intrigued.

  So, shutting her eyes briefly, Angela decided to go for confessional broke. She prepared to tell Sadie the ultimate thing, the thing she kept buried under all the other guilt, in a lead-lined box. She began to tell her about the girl on the Underground.

  ‘She was the real reason I gave up working in London on Women Today. It had nothing to do with being tired of London per se, or anything to do with Robert, just in case you thought he was a factor.’

  ‘I never did,’ put in Sadie defensively.

  ‘Well, anyway, I was travelling home after working late one night. It had gone nine o’clock. There was no one else in the Tube compartment apart from this girl ‒ well, girl hovering on being a woman. Pretty but plastered in make-up. She had a small suitcase. The man got on at Tufnell Park. He made straight for her, screaming, “You’re coming with me, you bitch!” I could smell the drink off him from a foot away. I’ll never forget the naked terror on her face. Or when she looked across at me and mouthed two words, “Help me!”’ Angela paused and avoided Sadie’s eye, and her depth of attention. ‘He held her by the hair until the next Tube stop,’ she resumed. ‘I caught his eye by chance and he yelled, “What’re you looking at?” and I feared for my miserable, cowardly life. The Tube stopped and he grabbed her case and dragged her off by her roots while she screamed with the pain. I sat there, frozen, full of relief. Hurrah! Saved by the next stop! There were a few people on the platform, but they did nothing either; just another couple of crazies to side-step on the Underground. He dragged her off by her hair, and I just sat there.’

  Sadie waited, but this was the end of a sparsely told story, minus the gorier details imprinted on memory. ‘It wasn’t just you,’ she said gently. ‘There must have been a few strapping blokes who could’ve gone to her aid.’

  ‘But she spoke to me. And I looked away. I scuttled home to Robert and we rang the police to report an assault. A policeman with bum fluff came round and took a statement, said they’d pass it on to the Met. But it was too late by then. He’d probably done her in, or she’d taken an overdose. I know I’d have topped myself if I’d been in her shoes, and another woman looked the other way, left some brute to batter me into submission.’

  ‘How could you have confronted him? He’d probably have attacked you, too.’

  ‘I could’ve pulled the emergency cord! I could’ve ‒ oh, I dunno. Anything but look the other way. What’s that saying? All it needs for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. I had to give up my job,’ she hurried on, forestalling her mother’s next soothing platitude. ‘The journey forced me to relive it every day, see her haunted face pleading with me every day. I couldn’t cope.’

  And then some. The Tube journey from work to Victoria had become unbearable, peppered with sweats, cramps, panic attacks. Her self-disgust was laced with different kinds of fear that she’d come face to face with either the man or girl-woman again. Her GP had told her she’d crack up if she didn’t get counselling and change work locations. Afraid of being labelled an eggshell personality and, much worse, a bad Samaritan, she’d given in her notice, hinting only to Lazlo of a mini-breakdown caused by a personal nemesis.

  ‘I meant to get a job locally,’ she resumed. ‘But it became easier and easier to hide away at home, and more and more difficult to face the world, which meant that counselling didn’t get a look-in either. Because you’re right, Ma, it wasn’t just me. I kept asking myself, what sort of people are we all? Collective scum? The world looks such an ordinary place, but its very ordinariness is full of shadows. It’s always the harmless-looking bloke who turns out to be the rapist or serial killer. The outwardly doting parent who shuts the garage door, turns on the car engine ‒ and takes the kids along for the ride. The house was my refuge from all that tainted horridness.’

  ‘Look, lovey. You acted ‒ or failed to act ‒ on the spur of the moment and lived to regret it. Then you sat at home, brooding over naturally depressing things, le
tting them swell out of all proportion to reality.’

  ‘Robert said I’d used all my luxurious brooding time to build a case of adultery against him.’

  Sadie looked uncomfortable. ‘Well now, you said yourself, you’ve moved on from that. Rachel’s confession means you don’t have to wonder any more. One day soon, you’ll be able to look back on the good times of your marriage, without a ‒ a one-night stand getting in the way. My point is, there are as many examples of the kindness of strangers as there are of man’s inhumanity to man.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked Angela thoughtfully. She’d already resolved to tell Conor ‒ one day soon ‒ about Robert and Rachel and, eventually, about the Underground girl. She’d suspected for a long time that Conor saw Robert as a husband beyond reproach, simply by virtue of having died young, and been retrospectively canonised by her. But she couldn’t start her new life clinging to a lie about the old. And putting Conor right didn’t mean assassinating Robert’s character. It had been one lapse in a lifetime.

  Sadie bent forward suddenly and wrapped her old, gnarled hands around her daughter’s. Angela recoiled out of sheer habit, but in the next instant, relaxed and returned the pressure. Her mother’s hands had a sure grip and resonated with the heat that they’d lapped up from the sun, lying in her lap as she sat on the balcony. The intensity of her touch, strong and yet almost impersonal, was a marvellous thing. Only a short time ago, before she was sure of Conor’s love and had found the courage to declare her own, Angela couldn’t have imagined sharing such an intimacy with her mother. She felt the pebbly little scree in her heart, marking the spot where her last secret had lain buried, skitter away and let in the sun.

  ‘You and Conor can have a marvellous life together,’ said Sadie. ‘Ultimately, what happened to that poor woman was her own responsibility. Maybe someone did help her, outside the Tube station. We just don’t know.’