Snow is forecast, Killian. It’s drifting towards us on a northeasterly. But not yet. I’ve a trip to make before it falls.
* * *
Snow fall. Snorting snow. Coke-head Marianne. Wired to the moon. Marianne Lorcan me. Mammy Daddy Terence. Three blind mice. Three coins in the fountain. Maggie has three biscuits. Arrowroot Custard Cream Gingernut.
Forty-eight
Ice on the runway delayed take-off for over two hours. At last the plane glided into the air. Stress fell from Virginia as effortlessly as the slanting patchwork of snow-covered fields dropping below her. She sipped a gin and tonic and flicked through the latest edition of Prestige. Andrea Sheraton smiled from the glossy pages. Her husband grunted when Virginia showed him the colour spread and returned to his lap-top. Although she knew little about the island, except that her mother always enjoyed a glass of Madeira sherry before her Christmas dinner, it would be easy to explore, especially with a guide and car at her disposal. Darkness had descended when they reached their destination. The volcanic slopes rose around them in invisible rocky layers and the lights of Madeira were woven like golden needlework into the fabric of the night.
From the hotel balcony Virginia heard the faint strains of dance music floating upwards through the open doors of the bar. She sat at the dressing table and applied her make-up, lining her lips then softening the inner curves with lipstick, stroking the tube back and forth.
“Beauty is only skin deep, young lady,” Josephine had warned the young Virginia whenever her daughter stared overlong at her reflection in the mirror. “It’s the mote in the eye of the begrudger.”
Whether people begrudged or beheld her loveliness remained a matter of indifference to Virginia. What was the sense in possessing a beautiful inner self when no one could see it – and the mirror reassured her that her beauty remained skin deep and unblemished. The restaurant Bill had chosen for their evening meal gave them a bird’s eye view of the island. He was only staying for one night and planned to fly from there to Portugal. They discussed the new campaign, their manner remaining business-like despite their relaxed surroundings. Virginia never mixed business and pleasure, despite the regular propositions she received from clients.
“Avoid complications,” an experienced public-relations executive had advised her when she first became involved in the business. “If you want to play away from home make sure you don’t do it on office time.”
The band was still playing when they returned to the hotel bar for a nightcap. Bill cupped a goblet of brandy in his hands while she sipped a cocktail. They watched couples dancing around the small circular floor in vigorous quicksteps or gliding into a waltz. Some of the younger guests, defeated by the old-fashioned dance rhythms, settled around the bar. A young man sitting on a high stool gazed speculatively across at her. She ignored him yet his scrutiny ignited her conversation, sparked her laughter.
“You’re good, Virginia.” The businessman watched her carefully from behind a wreath of smoke. “Sharp as a tack when it comes to publicity and promotion. But I’m beginning to have my doubts about Adrian. He needs to understand I don’t carry dead soldiers. Is it possible he’s too stressed out with his family situation to cope with the demands of the job?”
“That is an outrageous assumption, Bill! It’s most unprofessional –”
He held up his hand, unperturbed by her outburst. “Your personal life is your own business as long as it doesn’t interfere with my profit margins.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “You’ve made your position perfectly clear. I’m sorry you feel it necessary to have this conversation with me”
He nodded curtly. “I also regret it. You and I have always had a sound working relationship. But perception is important in the advertising industry. If word gets about that an agency is losing its punch the inevitable starts to happen.”
“What has Lorcan been saying?”
“Lorcan has nothing to do with this conversation. But while we’re on the subject of my son, his efforts are still not being appreciated.”
“On the contrary, Bill –”
“He’s come up with some excellent ideas which Adrian hasn’t even looked at.”
“I assure you –”
“Don’t assure me. Assure him. I’m anxious that Lorcan makes a success of this job. As you know, he was running with a wild bunch for a while.” He puffed vigorously on his cigarillo. The foul smell seeped into her clothes, stung her eyes. “At one time we honestly didn’t believe he’d make it back.”
Virginia stirred her cocktail and glanced casually across the bar. The young man stared boldly back. He was sallow-skinned, obviously local, dressed in white slacks and a casual polo shirt. He lifted his glass in a discreet salute. A smile flickered meaningfully at the corners of his lips.
“That explains Lorcan’s prayer meeting.” She turned her attention back to Bill. “I overheard him discussing it on the phone. I did wonder at the time. He never struck me as particularly religious young man.”
“Lorcan religious? I think not.” He drained his brandy glass and set it back on the table with a decisive clink. “That’s me finished for the night. No, Lorcan’s definitely not religious. At this stage, I’m happy to settle for sensible. The prayer meeting was arranged by friends of ours. I’m not a great man for the church myself but if prayers can move mountains then Jean Devine-O’Malley has said enough to shift the Alps.”
Virginia lifted an olive from the dish beside her and bit hard into the acrid flesh. The taste was bitter, sickeningly so. She swallowed, forced herself to smile. She wanted to be a child again, her fingers stuffed in her ears, but Bill Sheraton kept talking about basket cases and how the police who were so good on speed checks had done fuck all to find who was responsible for the hit and run. On the circular dance floor two elderly women tangoed together. The smaller of the two wore a short kilt with pleats that kicked out as she danced. She held her shoulders stiffly, her expression never changing, even when her companion bent her backwards or spun her around. Her sturdy barrel figure reminded Virginia of her mother. “Eyes to the front, Virginia. Best foot forward.”
“How very sad,” she murmured. “I hope Lorcan’s friend recovers.”
“I don’t think there’s much chance of that.” He stubbed out his cigarillo. The barman came and removed the ashtray, left a clean one in its place. “It’s hard to get your head around it. Our kids have everything yet they dice with death and come up again for a second round. Are you heading up to bed or can I get you another drink?”
“I’ll nurse this one for a few minutes longer, Bill. See you in the morning before you leave.”
She watched him walk from the bar. He had a confident stride, almost a strut. As soon as he disappeared the young man glided towards her. His name was Rafael. In heavily accented English he told Virginia he lived in Funchal. He owned a vineyard and a winery. He knew her official guide, his mother’s second cousin, easily deposed. Tomorrow morning Rafael would take personal charge of her. He held her closely as they danced. His fingers pressed lightly but insistently against the thin material of her dress. Later, in her bedroom, she watched it slide from his fingers to the floor.
The relief of not having to justify, defend, comfort, console, pacify, pretend. Virginia had forgotten what it was like simply to be herself. Madeira’s height and corkscrew roads, the terraced farms and vineyards hacked from volcanic rock, were easy to explore. She walked in shaded parks blazing with Bird of Paradise flowers and trekked through the levadas. In bed, Rafael was a demanding lover, leaving her exhausted but satisfied when he slipped quietly from her side in the early hours. She suspected a wife or, considering his age, possibly a fiancée, but she had no interest in his personal life. Nor did he ask questions about the life awaiting her at home.
On the day before she was due to leave, he parked the car in a small mountain village. The shops were closed, siesta time. They sat on a stone bench beneath an overhanging tree and picnicked
on cheese and wine. Lizards darted under the shade of stones; leaves rustled above them. She stretched out and rested her head on his knees. The spill of purple bougainvillea was a wafting scent, reminding her of the sweet-smelling pot-pourri in Sonya’s cushions, and she drifted deeper into childhood – hearing the canary singing and the glass hearts tinkling as they danced from the ceiling. She forced herself awake, the sun hot on her face, her mouth dry. As they gathered the remains of the picnic and returned to the car the beginnings of a headache throbbed against her temples.
Rafael continued his drive along the mountain, climbing higher and higher until they were travelling through a labyrinth of tunnels. Streams of water cascaded from the cliff face and played a dull rumbling tune against the side of the car. He assured her that a restaurant with a magnificent view over the coast awaited them at the end of their journey. It was owned by his friend who would be delighted to entertain a group of Irish journalists. She must definitely add it to her planned itinerary. He entered another tunnel. The car’s headlights cast a frail light into the pitch black interior. Each time they emerged into sunshine, Virginia thought they had reached the summit. Yet the road continued to narrow and rise. The view became even more spectacular. Scaling volcanic rock loomed on one side and, on their side, a narrow ledge separated them from the long drop to the ocean below. Tour buses increased in numbers. The bravado of the coach drivers had ceased to fascinate Virginia. They thundered towards the car, arrogant daredevils who signalled impatiently at Rafael to make more space and he, shouting insults back at them, casually manoeuvred the car closer to the edge. She huddled against the seat, eyes closed, her stomach churning. When she screamed the sound was detached, as if another entity had entered the car and was careering downwards with her towards the glittering ocean.
Rafael steered the car into a lay-by and tried to calm her down. Perspiration soaked her skin. He ordered her to breathe deeply, everything would be OK … OK … they were nearly there. He sounded bewildered, helpless in the face of her terror.
“Calm down. We’re safe … we’re safe. I know these roads like my own hand.”
This realisation made no difference. She wrenched open the door and was violently sick, her stomach shuddering, the bilious taste of wine making her eyes water. A bus thundered past, swerving treacherously around a bend, breaks squealing, exhaust fumes belching. She breathed deeply. Ten deep breaths would do the trick. Concentrate on the future. The future was all that mattered.
Forty-nine
“It will snow before nightfall.” Noeleen called to the house on her way to the village and cast an experienced gaze towards the sky. “It’s waiting to happen. Stock up on anything you need. We won’t be going anywhere in a hurry over the next few days.”
Brendan arrived shortly afterwards to make sure the central heating was in order. He was followed by his father with a trailer of logs, which his sons helped stack against the outside kitchen wall. In the afternoon Lorraine drove to the supermarket. Snow dashed lightly against the windscreen as she entered the car-park. Sophie was at the check-out, swaddled in a brown padded coat, her vibrant colours hidden. In the art class she painted sunshine. Golden orbs high in the sky, black upturned faces.
“This weather is destroying my life blood,” she moaned. “Each winter I say, no more, no more, but what can I do?”
The initial flurry of snow stopped as suddenly as it had started. Clouds were whisked aside and on the journey home the sun shone with sparkling clarity on the snow-covered hills. The branches, caught in the flash of sunlight, reminded Lorraine of supplicating arms reaching upwards into the wintry sky. She was relieved to see the school bus pulling away from the top of the lane. Emily was walking fast, her hands plunged deep into the pockets of her school coat, her scarf flapping wildly behind her.
“I’m freezing to death,” she whined, climbing into the car. “Everyone says we’re going to be marooned. I’d better make sure Antoinette and Janine are comfy.” She leaned forward to peer through the windscreen. “There’s a car outside our house. Were you expecting someone?”
“Not as far as I know.”
His car was parked against the hedgerow, already blanketed with a light dusting of snow, empty. She recognised it instantly and felt the wheels of her own car glide dangerously towards it. She had not expected him to arrive so soon. He had left the car doors unlocked. The Irish Times was folded on the passenger seat beside his mobile phone. A manuscript lay on top with pencil notes scribbled in the margins.
Emily was stacking groceries into presses when she entered the kitchen.
“Who owns the car?” she asked
“Michael Carmody.”
“My God! What’s he doing here? You said he wasn’t coming back again.”
Lorraine reached upwards to place the last of the groceries out of sight. “I can’t always be right, Emily.”
“Where’s he gone?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he went to the farm to see when I’d be back.”
“I’ll check it out for you.” Emily grabbed her parka jacket and left.
Silence settled over the countryside. Even Hobbs was affected by the hush. Only the rooster, determined to outwit nature, crowed triumphantly into the muffled evening. Emily rang to report that Noeleen had earlier seen him crossing the stile and heading towards the beach. The snow was falling again, heavier now, and beginning to swirl on the wind. Lorraine hesitated no longer. Lights were already shining from the windows of the Donaldsons’ house. The beach was deserted. If he had left footprints they were already obscured. A cormorant was tossed like parchment against the pewter sky and the kittiwakes huddled on ledges, were silent for once. She called his name, forcing the sound forward into the rising storm. Again and again she shouted, cupping her hands to her mouth, her fear growing as the moments passed.
She heard something. It could have been an echo or the screeching of the cormorant. The old boathouse, barely visible, hulked above the rocky ledge on the half-moon turn. Boats had once slid effortlessly down the jetty when she was a child but over the years much of its wooden structure had collapsed into the sea. Only the shell of the building and its corrugated iron roof were still intact. She climbed from the sand into a tangle of dead fern and heather, searching for the trail that would lead her upwards. Again, she shouted his name. This time his reply was stronger, nearer. The mildewed smell of rotting seaweed reached her as soon as she approached the entrance. She gave a startled shriek when a rat scurried into a rocky crevice.
“Thank God.” He ground the words through clenched teeth, his back slumped against the wall. In the gathering gloom his face was a pain-stricken blur, his brown eyes shadowed with exhaustion. “I thought you might have been on the beach. It started to snow and I tried to find a short cut back to the lane. I hauled myself in here and hoped to Christ you’d find me before the waves did.” He rocked forward in agony. “I think I’ve gone and broken my bloody leg. Stupid … stupid thing to do.”
She removed her coat and put it over him, pulled her cap over his head, held his face between her hands. “Michael, listen to me. You’re safe here. The sea seldom rises to this height. I’m going for help.”
When he tried to move the pain jerked his head back with such force that she heard the thud of flesh on rock. He gripped her hand tightly. “Lorraine, I wanted to see you so desperately.”
“We’ll talk later. Everything’s going to be all right.”
She emerged from the shelter and heard, all around her, the fury of the sea as it struck the rocks, and the high screech of the wind, carrying its burden of snow. Unhindered by hills or walls, it almost tossed her off her feet. The Donaldsons responded immediately. Noeleen rang for an ambulance while Frank grabbed blankets and ran with his sons to the boathouse.
“Put this coat on you, for the love of the Lord Jesus.” Noeleen rushed after her and flung a coat over Lorraine’s shoulders. Michael fainted when they lifted him and laid him carefully on a plank covered with blan
kets. It formed a make-shift stretcher with Lorraine carrying the fourth corner. The journey back to the lane was hazardous and completed in darkness. Emily led the way, holding aloft a storm lantern. Lorraine felt the cold sinking into her bones. She imagined him dragging his body towards the boathouse. He must have screamed many times before he reached it. Perhaps he lost consciousness on the journey.
“The hospital can’t guarantee an ambulance for at least an hour.” Noeleen, dwarfed under a bright yellow oilskin jacket, met them at the stile. “I’m just hoping it’ll be able to make it down the lane.”
“I’ll bring him in the jeep.” Frank spoke with authority. “Even if the ambulance comes within the next hour it won’t get through to us. The man’s in deep shock. There’s no time to waste.”
“Better be on your way then.” Noeleen stared nervously into the night. “I’ll phone ahead and tell them to expect you.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Lorraine and held Michael’s hand as he was moved into the back seat of the jeep.
Accident and emergency was crowded. After an initial examination Michael was moved on a trolley into a cubicle. A young nurse apologised. Hopefully, tomorrow morning, a bed would be available. The woman in the next cubicle coughed persistently. An elderly man, injured when his car skidded into a ditch, loudly demanded attention.
“We’d better be starting back.” The drive to the hospital had been slow and Frank was becoming increasingly worried. “I’ll let you say your goodbyes. See you in the car-park, Lorraine.”
She lifted her coat from the chair. It felt damp and heavy, a wet-wool smell seeping from the fibres. Michael gripped her hand, pulled her closer to the trolley.
“I owe you my life, Lorraine.” He spoke quietly, his eyes half-closed, already drifting on the medication he had received.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
Fragile Lies Page 27
