Colette wiped her eyes and picked up the latest Vanity Fair she had flicked through on the plane. There was an article she wanted to read about Veronica de Gruyter Beracasa de Uribe, who had swept publishing mogul Randolph Hearst off his feet – and to the top of New York and Palm Beach society, and how after his death she had ended up forty-five million dollars in the red.
She and Des had never penetrated that rarefied strata of High Society, nor had she aspired to, but she had seen the Hearsts in the Met occasionally, and was aware that the hapless Veronica had hosted an intimate lunch for the late Princess of Wales, in the mid-nineties, which had truly cemented her social standing. For all the good it had done her, Colette mused, studying the glossy pictures intently. The high-flying Widow Hearst’s circumstances appeared far more dire than her own, which was a vague comfort. She read the gossipy article with interest and flipped over the pages to read about Kate Winslet, before her eyelids began to droop and she fell into another jet-lagged sleep.
She was sipping Earl Grey and nibbling on a piece of toast around midnight when the landline rang. Her New York apartment number flashed up on the screen. She stared at it. It had to be Des. Colette frowned. She could ignore it, or take the call. She was going to have to speak to her husband eventually; she might as well get it over with.
‘Hello,’ she said in a clipped, cool voice.
‘Nice one, Colette. I didn’t see that coming, for sure! Or you maxing out my Platinum card, or talking half of what was in our joint account, or selling the car. Or helping yourself to the gold. How did you get it through Customs and Excise, just as a matter of interest?’ Des was admirably calm, she thought.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out, Des,’ she retorted. If her husband knew that it was sitting in a container being shipped across the Atlantic he’d freak. She was trying not to freak about it herself.
‘Well I guess I can’t do anything about what you’ve done, but just to let you know that when I liquidate the rest of our assets I’ll be deducting what you’ve taken from your share,’ he said grimly.
‘I did what I had to do, Des. You would have mortgaged my apartment—’
‘I was going to borrow that money to buy gold and flip it. Gold will go sky high – look how high it’s gone since we bought in the spring. I’d have made a profit that would have negated much of our losses,’ he said furiously. ‘You overreacted!’
‘You’d have gambled my apartment, like you gambled our money with Madoff, you mean,’ Colette snapped. ‘You treated me appallingly, Des. You should have had the decency to at least ask me to consider the loan option, instead of trying to sneak it through behind my back. I only took what I was entitled to, and I’m entitled to a lot more, so don’t think this is the end of it. And guess what? That woman, whoever she is, is welcome to you because I don’t want to have anything to do with you ever again.’ She slammed down the phone, incandescent. How dare he claim she had overreacted? Had he no conception of how badly he had behaved?
By the time she was finished with him, he’d understand . . . and more. You did not mess with Colette O’Mahony and get away with it, as Des would eventually find, to his cost.
CHAPTER FORTY
The Bon Secours was an attractive hospital, Jonathan thought, admiring the red-brick façade and long sash windows of the three-storey building atop Washerwoman’s Hill in Glasnevin. He drove past the long, sweeping, verdant lawn edged with conifers, and swung into the car park. He rooted in his coin tray for two euros. Jonathan resented paying parking fees in hospital car parks, on principle, feeling that life was hard enough for people who had sick relatives in hospital. He’d been caught for fifteen euros in Beaumont the previous week, visiting his old friend and ex-flatmate Orla who was having her gall bladder removed. An elderly woman he’d shared a lift with had told him she was spending more than fifty euros a week in parking fees, visiting a seriously ill relative who had been in hospital for many months. She’d even had to pay on Christmas Day, she’d said, disgusted. It was scandalous: greed, pure greed, and bad scran to Euro Car Parks, she’d declared crossly and Jonathan had laughed, remembering how his mother would say bad scran about someone when she was annoyed with them. It was a real country saying.
Night was drawing in already, he noticed, crossing the car park and seeing the fading smudges of pink-gold sky behind the serrated rims of the trees in the Botanic Gardens. The Christmas tree lights in the houses on Griffith Avenue had twinkled brighter in the gloaming and he’d felt a fierce swell of loneliness to think that another year was almost over and he was still alone. He had given up on his hopes of ever finding a partner. The hurt he’d experienced at Leon’s callous rejection of him, even though it was eight years ago, had brought his barriers up and he had never let himself get close to anyone since. Mostly he lived a reasonably happy life, but Christmas and New Year always accentuated his loneliness, bringing him to a dark place he would struggle not to linger in. Although he was surrounded by family and dear friends he still felt lonely at Christmas, especially when he would come home to his cottage and open the door and walk in to silence.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re very lucky to have what you have, he chastised himself irritably, hurrying up the steps to the entrance to the hospital. A large, illuminated crib graced the foyer and he stood for a moment admiring it with his decorator’s eye. So simple yet evocative. The scene stirred up long dormant childhood memories. Jonathan grinned, remembering a school Nativity play he’d had a starring role in: King Herod. The play had taken place in the school hall and when he had looked down from the stage and seen the audience looking at him as he waved his whip – made out of a tin-foil roll and strips of coloured paper – he had burst into tears and howled, ‘I’m only pretending to be bad, I really do love Baby Jesus,’ much to the consternation of his mother and teacher, but to the delight of the audience who had collectively gone, ‘Awwww!’ That seemed like a lifetime ago, he thought ruefully, sprinting two floors up the wide staircase to St Mary’s.
He knocked on room 222 and heard an invite to come in. ‘Ah Jonathan!’ exclaimed Father McDaid, who was resting against the pristine white pillows, chatting to another man who was sitting in the armchair beside the bed. ‘How very kind of you to visit.’
‘How are you feeling?’ Jonathan asked kindly, handing the elderly man a carrier bag containing After Eight Mints and an anthology of Irish poetry.
‘Not too bad, not too bad at all. Well . . . well this is most kind,’ Father McDaid said in flustered pleasure at the gifts. ‘Er, Jonathan, I’d like you to meet Murray Corry, a friend of mine.’ He introduced the tall, lean, fair-haired man at the other side of his bed. ‘Murray, this is Jonathan Harpur. I spoke to you about him. He very kindly gave me Mrs Harrison’s number. You remember, the counsellor I spoke to you about?’ He glanced at his friend.
‘Indeed I do, Father D. Nice to meet you, Jonathan.’ Murray stood up and gave Jonathan a firm handshake across the bed.
‘I won’t impose, I just wanted to drop in and see how you were doing,’ Jonathan said.
‘Arrah you’re not imposing at all. T’was very kind of you to bother coming in to see me. And it’s been very kind of you to even be in touch with me, considering that I upset you so terribly,’ he added remorsefully. ‘I told Murray about our encounter, I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Er . . . no . . .’ said Jonathan, taken aback.
‘I was Father Derek’s curate for about five years before I was laicized,’ the other man explained, seeing Jonathan’s surprise.
‘And a very good curate he was,’ the priest smiled. ‘Everyone loved him in St John’s. I was sorry when he left the parish and sorrier still when he told me he was leaving the priesthood. We lost a good one.’
‘Oh, did you leave to get married?’ Jonathan asked politely.
‘No, that wasn’t my reason for leaving, and, even if I did want to get married, our church and our state don’t allow gay marriage, unfortunately
,’ the other man said humorously.
‘Oh . . . right!’ Jonathan, whose gay radar was usually pretty spot on, hadn’t picked up on that.
‘Your Hannah is some woman to argue the toss with,’ Father McDaid said mischievously. ‘Now she has me thinking: What’s all the fuss about? Love is love and that’s all that matters.’
Jonathan laughed, delighted. ‘She certainly makes you look at things differently, I’ll grant you that.’
‘You can say that again. I’m reading all sorts of books I would never have picked up if it hadn’t been for her.’ He pointed to a book on his locker. ‘The Nine Faces of Christ is a fascinating book about the Essenes and their initiations. And, having read it, I’m beginning to think that it’s very feasible indeed that Jesus and Mary Magdalene could have been married. Very thought-provoking reading. There’s so much out there that has been kept hidden and now it’s all being revealed. It’s actually quite invigorating,’ Father McDaid enthused.
‘I must read that one,’ Jonathan said.
‘So must I,’ Murray smiled.
‘And of course Hannah would say that I had my fall and landed up here getting a new hip for a reason. I’m sure she says things like that to you,’ Father McDaid twinkled.
‘Indeed she does,’ Jonathan grimaced.
‘Yes, well, I’m being given time to “rest, think, read and be minded, as well as be renewed in body”, she told me. She rings me every few days to see how I’m getting on. Could you credit that?’
‘I could,’ said Jonathan. ‘Hannah is a very special person.’
‘And if I hadn’t met you in the graveyard in Rosslara, I’d never have known about her, or never have come to have peace of mind. Thank you, Jonathan.’ The old man held out his hand and Jonathan grasped it and was surprised to feel a lump in his throat.
‘I’m glad we met. It was meant to be,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you took that huge step of going to see Hannah. As she would say, it’s all about moving on, and I can see it in you that you’ve changed and are more at peace than the man I met a few months ago.’
‘Indeed I am, my son, indeed I am. I feel I’ve been given a new lease of life. And when I get out of here on Christmas Eve, I’m going to enjoy what’s left of my life now that my burdens have been lifted from me, all thanks to you.’
‘That’s wonderful news, Father McDaid. I couldn’t be happier for you,’ Jonathan said warmly. It was true that the priest was in a far different space from the one the tormented person had been in at their first encounter. Jonathan could see for himself how the elderly man’s eyes were bright, his energy was invigorated and he was rested and at peace. Hannah had worked her magic for sure. Sometimes it only needed someone to point out a very obvious truth, which you’d been blind to, to set you free from a mindset that had imprisoned you, Jonathan reflected, very glad indeed that he hadn’t had to wait until he was an elderly man like Father McDaid to be gifted with someone of Hannah’s calibre and wisdom.
‘We should send your counsellor to the Vatican,’ Murray joked. ‘She might sort them out.’
‘She’d certainly set the cat among the pigeons. And the thing is, none of the theological arguments about being “the One True Church” would stand up to her basic premise that love is all there is, and we are all One! So simple when you think about it.’ Father McDaid opened the After Eights and passed them round.
‘I love these,’ Murray approved and Jonathan was struck by how kind he was to his former parish priest, unobtrusively straightening up his pillow, and filling his glass with water for him to take the tablet that was in a little container on his meal trolley.
‘You’ve a terrific view, haven’t you?’ Jonathan remarked as the last rays of the sunset faded and Daniel O’Connell’s iconic Round Tower, fringed by dark feathery foliage, was silhouetted starkly against the indigo sky.
‘Superb,’ agreed the priest. ‘It’s a grand hospital. Wonderful care, lovely staff and spotlessly clean. But then of course the nuns still have an input and it shows.’
‘It’s a pity we couldn’t put a few nuns in government, and in the banks, and we wouldn’t be in the state we’re in,’ Murray observed as a knock came to the door.
‘Ah it’s the torment herself,’ Father McDaid teased when he saw the physiotherapist appear. ‘She has me wearing stockings, you know.’ He threw his eyes up to heaven.
‘For that now I’ll make you do two laps of the corridor,’ the physio riposted, handing him his dressing gown.
‘Keep well.’ Jonathan shook hands with him, glad he’d made the effort to visit.
‘I will and keep in touch. And Happy Christmas.’ Their eyes met and they smiled at each other. And Jonathan knew that their encounter in the graveyard had been divinely ordained.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he said to Murray who was pulling on his overcoat.
‘And you,’ said the older man. Lovely eyes, thought Jonathan, noting how green, and flecked with hazel, they were. ‘Take care, Father D. I’ll be in touch,’ Murray said, patting him on the shoulder.
‘Thank you, Murray, you’re a good friend,’ the priest said gratefully as the physio helped him out of the bed.
‘He looks marvellous. I’ve never actually seen him look as good. He’s a changed man,’ Murray remarked as they walked along the corridor to the stairs.
‘I honestly didn’t think he’d go to Hannah. You could have knocked me down with a feather when she told me he’d been to see her, and then when he rang me out of the blue. What a shame it took this long for him to get some sort of closure on his past.’ Jonathan shook his head.
‘Dreadful! I suppose I fared somewhat better, I was in my late forties.’ Murray clattered down the stairs beside him.
‘Were you abused too?’ Jonathan asked.
‘Yeah, at school by a teacher.’
‘That’s terrible. Mine was a neighbour!’
‘Imagine that’s the common denominator in our three lives. Dreadful, isn’t it? And there are so many more out there. At least we’ve been helped.’ Murray shook his head. ‘It’s so good to see Derek embracing all these fresh philosophies and new ideas, compliments of your counsellor who seems to be a very unusual person.’
‘Indeed she is and more. If it wasn’t for Hannah I think I would have topped myself long ago,’ Jonathan confided.
‘That bad. Sorry to hear that,’ Murray said sympathetically as they walked down the steps into the chilly night air. ‘It was the Church’s inexcusable and atrocious attitude and response to clerical child abuse that made me leave the priesthood,’ the other man explained. ‘I just couldn’t hack it any more. I was in turmoil, full of anger and frustration. And I also found it hard to accept the way women were treated. I firmly believe there were women apostles. I believe priests should be allowed to get married. I was very out of step with Church teachings.’ He laughed, showing even white teeth. ‘Very,’ he said with added emphasis, jiggling his car keys. ‘This is mine.’ He stopped at a dark blue Passat. ‘So, Jonathan, it was a pleasure to meet you.’ He held out his hand.
‘Likewise,’ said Jonathan, shaking hands. ‘I hope you’re happy in your life now.’
‘Happy enough now that I’m true to myself, but lonely sometimes. Especially around this time of the year.’ He shrugged.
‘Me too! I always find it . . . difficult . . . especially New Year’s Eve.’
‘Are you with someone?’ Murray looked surprised.
‘No! Long story! Are you?’
‘No! No story,’ laughed Murray. ‘I think you need to be a young man to play the dating game.’
‘Fancy a coffee?’ Jonathan heard himself say spontaneously.
‘Ahh! Yeah! Why not? You can tell me your long story and a bit more about this amazing Hannah,’ Murray agreed.
‘Will we go across the road to the Tolka?’
‘Perfect. And there’s a car park behind it. I’m damned if I’m giving this lot another red cent today.’ Murray indicated the parking hut.
<
br /> ‘Something else in common,’ Jonathan remarked lightly, hardly able to believe he had been so proactive. But there was a kindness and maturity about Murray Corry that he knew would not lead to callous, calculating behaviour. It might just be a one-off coffee. It might end up as a friendship, which would be a wonderful bonus. Who knew? But all in all today had been a very good day, Jonathan decided, and the irony was, if he had not stopped at Gus Higgins’s grave none of it would have happened. A divine synchronicity, Hannah would call it, and who was he to argue with that?
‘You look tired, dear.’ Jacqueline O’Mahony kissed her daughter and studied her under the light of the crystal chandelier that hung in the hall of the Holland Park flat.
‘And skinny,’ her father said, frowning. ‘Scrawny even, I’d go so far as to say.’
‘Frank!’ hissed his wife.
‘Well it’s true! What’s wrong with you, girl? And why aren’t Jazzy and Des here for Christmas? And why haven’t you decorated yet?’ Frank was leaning on a cane, his face showing the pain of his arthritis.
‘Come in and sit down and I’ll get us some tea,’ Colette said, pretending not to have heard his questions.
‘Where’s your housekeeper?’ Jacqueline asked, removing her elegant black-woollen coat and burgundy-silk scarf.
‘I have to get a new one. It’s been so long since I’ve been here and the agency didn’t have anyone to send so near to Christmas,’ she fibbed. Housekeepers were a luxury of the past. She would employ a cleaner twice a week, in the new year, who would do housekeeping duties for three hours, but for the last week Colette had been cooking for herself and she hadn’t bothered eating much. She had ordered a prepared dinner for Christmas Day from Fine Dining caterers, and she had stocked up her freezer with ready-made meals for the duration of her parents’ visit.
A Time for Friends Page 45
