The Secret Hours

by Santa Montefiore

  I’m pleased I’m going away. I don’t like Logan’s attitude and I’m ashamed, because, as much as I hate to admit it, I feel something of his outrage.

  Unlike Wyatt, the children are not surprised that I am going to search for my mother’s roots. They support my decision and are curious to know where their grandmother came from. Rose was the first to tell me that two weeks is the right amount of time, considering the distance I’m travelling. She laughed and said it was hardly worth going if I was only intending to stay a week. It is only Wyatt who thinks it’s too long, and inappropriate for a wife to travel alone, without her husband. He is old-fashioned and loathes not being in control. But I am tired of toeing his line; it’s time I toed a line of my own.

  At one point I worried that Wyatt might decide to come with me, but I should not have wasted my energy. Wyatt is much too preoccupied with work, and with himself. He works hard, I’m sure, but he seems to spend most of his time playing golf. I joke with my girlfriends that he is married to Noble Price Golf Club, but really it is not very funny, because it’s true. He’s on the course at every opportunity and, knowing little about the game, I find his conversation, and the conversation of his fellow golfing buddies, very dull. I have played the gracious wife and hostess for over thirty years so why am I only tiring of it now?

  A part of me would like to go back to the way I was before Mom died. At least I knew who I was then. I’m not sure who I am now, only that I don’t like myself very much. I want to be someone else, but I don’t even know who that is either. If Wyatt had the slightest idea of what is going through my head he would send me to see a therapist. But I know I don’t need therapy, I just need to go away and find some peace, by myself. I need to work out what it is exactly that my mother’s death has unleashed.

  I say goodbye to Wyatt, who is sulking now. He’s like a child who has not got his way. He accompanies me out into the street where a cab is waiting to take me to the airport and helps me with my suitcase, but he is quiet. Usually he talks about himself, confident that I’m going to listen and agree with everything he says; now he’s not even talking. He’s answering my questions in monosyllables and doesn’t return my smile as I kiss his cheek. He flinches and I feel awkward. It doesn’t feel natural to touch him. We are like strangers. I can’t even remember the last time we were intimate. I suppose that part of a marriage dies eventually, corroded by familiarity and domesticity. We are like siblings – yes, Wyatt is very like Logan. They could be siblings too.

  I feel sad when I climb into the cab. Wyatt doesn’t wait or wave, as most husbands would. He goes back inside and I sigh and turn my attention to the wet tarmac, because it rained in the night. The glistening new leaves are just beginning to unfurl on the trees that line the street. They are delicate and the prettiest shade of lime green, almost phosphorescent. Purple and yellow tulips open their petals in the sunshine and the blossom looks like snow. Spring is exploding with colour and scent and yet I yearn to leave, as soon as possible. I am confused to find that I am crying. I wipe my tears and hide behind the back of the driver’s seat so that he can’t see me in the rear-view mirror. I’m heading to Ireland and I’m afraid. I’m wondering now whether I’m doing the right thing. Perhaps I do need to see a therapist, after all.

  I am nervous travelling on my own. I’ve never thought about it before because I’ve always travelled with Wyatt. Wyatt arranges everything, the flights, the hotels, the car, the restaurants, the tours, he even looks after my ticket. We’ve been all over the world, to Italy and Spain, France, England and Africa, but here I am, at Boston Airport, nervously standing in line with my ticket and passport, anxious that I won’t find my way to the departure lounge. I tell myself to calm down, that any idiot can find his way around an airport, but still my anxiety builds.

  Once I am on the plane, in the window seat, I begin to relax. I have a glass of wine and feel better, even a little excited. I read, I sleep and I think, and I feel I have left all my worries on that landscape which is now far behind me. Below is only sea, the vast blue Atlantic Ocean, and on the other side is Ireland. In a way, I’m coming home. I’ve always considered myself American, but I’m Irish in my blood. Mom was Irish and grew up there and Dad’s family originated there even though they have been in America for generations. I like to think of myself as Irish, even though I don’t know what that means. It feels good, like I’m taking on a different personality or finding a new part of myself that I never appreciated was there.

  We land in the early morning at Shannon Airport and I easily spot the taxi driver in arrivals, holding up a large piece of card with my name on it. He is a big man with broad shoulders and a slight stoop. He is wearing a grey cap, which matches the greying hair curling beneath it and the thick stubble on his unshaven face. His blue eyes shine brightly as he acknowledges me with a look of surprise. He stares at me as if he has seen me before. I notice the colour of his eyes at once. They are not ice blue like Wyatt’s, but indigo. A rich, deep blue like lapis lazuli, and they dominate his face and twinkle beneath thick black eyebrows set low on a wide forehead. I smile and as I approach he smiles back and there is charm and a hint of mischief in the way one side of his mouth curls more than the other. Then, as if remembering his manners, he takes off his cap and nods. ‘Céad míle fáilte. Cormac O’Farrell at your service. Welcome to the Emerald Isle.’ His Irish brogue is like whiskey. It is full-bodied and warm and instantly revives me after my long flight.

  ‘It’s lovely to be here,’ I reply, and it really is lovely. Lovely to be away from home, away from the grim residue of Mother’s death and away from Wyatt.

  ‘Is it your first time in Ireland?’ he asks.

  ‘It is,’ I answer.

  There is knowing in his smile, as if he is withholding a secret, and mirth in those twinkly eyes. He appraises me. He’s about to say something else. I frown. There’s an awkward pause. Then he replaces his cap and takes my suitcase, thinking better of it. I presume it is my red hair that has aroused his curiosity. A woman of my age shouldn’t really have long hair like I do. But Mother used to call it my crowning glory and said that, like Samson, my power lay in it and without it I would lose my allure. I’m not sure I have allure, but my hair is indeed lustrous and thick and even though I usually wear it up, I am used to people commenting on it. Now I am wearing it down. Is that a metaphor for my sudden sense of freedom?

  ‘The car’s just outside,’ he says. ‘It’s a good three hours to Ballinakelly, but you’ll see a fair bit of the countryside on the way, so the time should pass quickly.’

  The car is not a taxi. It is a green Jeep and not a comfortable one either. It smells of damp dog and there are black dog hairs on the seats and in the well beneath the dashboard. I wipe them off, sit in the front and we set off. After a little small talk we settle into an easy silence. I’m immediately engrossed in the intensely green countryside as it opens into smooth hills, damp villages and patchwork fields of sheep and cows grazing on the wild grasses that grow among the bright yellow gorse. Heavy grey clouds scud across a watery blue sky, but it does not rain. Every now and then the sun comes out and chases the shadows across the hills. It is a constant game that mesmerizes me, a battle between light and dark played out on an intensely green canvas. Ireland feels small, intimate, isolated. Why I should think this, I don’t know. Perhaps because the lanes are narrow and the fields small, encompassed by grey-stone walls and woolly hedges speckled with budding fuchsias, which give it a quaint and old-fashioned feel. There is something about it that instantly appeals to me. I like to think it’s because I have Irish blood running through my veins, but I suspect I am just happy to be here at last.

  I see farmhouses and other small dwellings and wonder if my mother lived in a place like them. I consider how very different her life must have been, growing up here, compared to the life she made in America. I wonder how she must have felt leaving it, and whether she ever regretted not coming back. I’ll never know the answers, but it doesn’t
matter. Perhaps I can ask around and see if anyone remembers her or knows where she lived. It would be interesting to find the house where she was raised. I might even find the odd relative, who knows? But I don’t want to ask my driver. I want to spend some time on my own first before I talk to people. I’m going to be in Ballinakelly for two weeks; I’m wary of opening up to people too quickly and then being unable to shake them off. I’ve come here for some peace, so I’ll keep myself to myself for the first half of my stay, at least.

  We stop for gas. Cormac buys some Club Milks and offers me one. I don’t really like biscuits but I take one because I’m hungry. When we get back into the Jeep he has decided it is time for a chat. He proceeds to give me a history lesson as we drive into what he calls ‘Michael Collins country’. As the Jeep makes its way slowly along the narrow lanes that meander through the gentle folds in the land he tells me about the War of Independence and the Civil War that followed, when rebels fighting for an Ireland free from British rule plotted their strikes and staged their ambushes in these very hills. He tells me about the Easter Rising, the Kilmichael Ambush and Michael Collins’ assassination by his fellow Irishmen at Béal na Bláth, which he translates as the mouth of flowers. At first I am irritated. I’m tired and I don’t want to be talked to, but then I find my interest growing, and the way he’s telling it, in his sonorous voice with its soft Irish lilt, is alluring. I gaze out over the wild and rugged slopes and imagine the rebels hiding out among the rocks. I ask questions and Cormac knows the answers, and he clearly enjoys showing off his knowledge. ‘Where were you when all this was taking place?’ I ask.

  He grins. ‘Up there,’ he replies, giving a nod to the hills.

  ‘Honestly?’ I say, my curiosity suddenly spiked.

  ‘As true as I’m sitting here,’ he answers.

  ‘How old were you, if that’s not a rude question?’

  ‘I was a lad of twenty-five in 1921.’

  ‘Are you seriously telling me that you were a rebel?’ He holds up his left hand then and I notice he is missing his little finger. ‘My God!’ I exclaim in horror. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘The Tans took it when they tried to extract information.’

  I am astonished that he is talking about something so terrible to someone he has never met, and so casually. ‘How horrific,’ I say, embarrassed because I don’t have the right words. I have never met anyone who has lost a finger before.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Many fared worse than I did. At least I’m alive.’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s definitely a bonus,’ I reply drily.

  We continue in silence for a while as I’m trying to digest what he has just told me. When I look out of the window I don’t imagine faceless rebels among the rocks, but Cormac O’Farrell. I can’t help but imagine him as a dashing young man; he is handsome even now and he is sixty-five, if my math is correct. I have never been very good with numbers. He’s the same age as Logan and two years younger than Wyatt yet he looks considerably older than both. He’s clearly not a man who preens himself like my husband and brother do.

  At last the sea comes into view, sparkling beneath a big blue sky, and he breaks the silence by announcing that we are coming into Ballinakelly.

  This is where my mother grew up. This town of shabby-looking houses, mostly painted white or not painted at all and left an austere grey, with sloping slate roofs and rows of chimney stacks, from where rooks gather and keep watch with suspicious black eyes. I wonder how much it has changed since she was here. Besides the telephone wires that criss-cross the street I don’t imagine a great deal. Everything looks old-fashioned, from another age, and poor. The houses are small, many of them could do with a fresh coat of paint. I peer into the store windows and wonder at how little everything is in comparison to America. We pass a pub with the name O’Donovan’s written in big gold letters above the door. A group of rough-looking men loiter outside smoking, in caps and jackets and heavy boots, and I imagine they must be farmers. They break off their conversation to stare warily at the Jeep as we motor on. Cormac raises a hand and they acknowledge him with a nod and peer into where I am sitting. They are very curious. Clearly no one has told them it is rude to stare. We pass the Catholic church and I know, without a shadow of doubt, that Mom would have spent much of her time in there. She was a devout Catholic. I envisage her as a girl, walking up the path and through the big doors. I decide to attend Mass as soon as I can. I know I will get a sense of her in there. I will also get a sense of peace.

  We are obstructed by a dozen brown-and-white cows being herded up the street by a woolly-haired farmer with a stick. Cormac thinks nothing of it. He rolls down the window, rests his elbow on the frame and shares a joke, as if he has all the time in the world. They both laugh, something about the night before at Ma Murphy’s, but I’m not really listening. I’m watching the cows as they wander nonchalantly up the high street. There are a few cars parked on the kerb, locals browsing the shops, life going on in its usual way and no one seems in the least surprised to see cows there, in the middle of the road. Even dogs don’t bother to chase them but trot alongside their owners, snouts to the ground in pursuit of more important business.

  At last Cormac draws up outside the hotel. It is a white building with large sash windows and a wide porch, which gives it a stately air. I imagine it must have been a private house once, perhaps the mayor’s or some other local grandee’s. Cormac lifts my bag out of the trunk and escorts me inside. The lady at the reception desk takes her eyes off her fingernails. As she registers the new guest she looks surprised. Her mouth opens. But she then checks herself and smiles in the way women like that are trained to do, with false charm. I’m puzzled, Cormac gave me the same look at the airport. Surely they’ve seen women with red hair before?

  ‘Good morning,’ she says, blinking at me through her spectacles with magnified eyes. She is middle-aged with curly brown hair, a freckly face and crooked teeth. A badge bearing the name Nora Maloney is pinned to her chest.

  Cormac puts the suitcase on the shiny wooden floorboards and answers for me. ‘This here is Mrs Langton, from America,’ he says.

  ‘Of course. Welcome to Vickery’s Inn,’ says Nora Maloney.

  ‘It was grand meeting you,’ Cormac says to me, touching his cap. ‘I’ll leave you in Nora’s capable hands. I hope you have a good stay.’

  ‘Thank you for picking me up and for giving me a brief history on the way.’ I unclasp my handbag, expecting to pay him.

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs Langton,’ he says. ‘You can pay me when you leave. I assume you’ll be needing to be driven back at some point?’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ I reply, not wanting to think of leaving, having only just arrived. ‘Are you the only cab driver in Ballinakelly?’

  He laughs and his skin creases at his temples and around his mouth. ‘I’m not a cab driver, Mrs Langton,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I assumed ...’

  His indigo eyes twinkle at me. ‘Enjoy Ballinakelly, it’s a grand town,’ he says and he saunters out, hands in his jacket pockets, a whistle upon his lips.

  I turn to Nora Maloney. ‘Oh dear, I hope I haven’t offended him.’

  ‘Now why would you be thinking that? I don’t imagine it’s easy to offend Cormac O’Farrell.’

  ‘If he’s not a cab driver, what is he?’

  She smiles and I notice the affection in it at once. I realize that Cormac must be one of those local characters who is beloved by everyone. ‘He’s a bit of an everything man,’ she says, wrinkling her small nose. ‘Now, let me show you to your room. Leave the suitcase here, Séamus will bring it. Séamus!’ she shouts.

  I follow her to the stairs and we climb to the second floor. My room is at the end of the corridor. She puts the key in the lock and I notice her bright red nails. She turns it and the door opens into a modest-sized room with pale floral wallpaper, a double bed draped in a light green quilt, a sash window looking out onto the street and an adjoining bath
room, which is just big enough for a small bath and a sink. ‘Ah, Séamus, there you are.’ I step aside as Séamus, a burly young man with tousled black hair to his shoulders and moody green eyes, puts the suitcase on the bed. ‘You must be tired after your journey,’ says Nora Maloney. ‘If you’d like something to eat, we’ll be serving lunch downstairs until three and then high tea from five to seven. If you need anything, just shout.’ Séamus gives me a strange look, his watery eyes lingering on me longer than is polite.

  ‘Thank you, but I think I have everything I need.’

  Nora Maloney nods. She too hovers in the doorway as if she wants to say something else and regards me quizzically. But I thank them again and close the door, shutting them out. I wonder at their ill-concealed curiosity, as if they have never had a guest before or, at least, one who looks like me. In America my hair is my greatest asset, envied by women and admired by men, but here it seems to be considered exotic.

  I unpack what little I have brought, pleased that I have included sweaters and a coat, for although it is spring, it is cold and there is a dampness in the air that makes it feel colder. I guess it rains a lot here, that’s why it’s so green.

  In the dining room I eat at a small table on my own. There are other guests, tourists like me, I imagine, but I take no notice of them. I’m content, sitting there by myself. I’m surprised how content I am with no one to talk to. I’m happy to be here, happy that I have two weeks ahead of me – two weeks with nothing to do but be.