The Healing Place

by Clare Nonhebel

CHAPTER 17

  They were amazed how quickly and easily the arrangements for the trip fell into place.

  Maz was spontaneously happy for Ella to be taking a holiday, and her niece was happy to be Ella’s stand-in and earn enough to buy the red boots she had been coveting. Alison was delighted to be entrusted with Franz’s office keys at The Healing Place. Sharma accepted Phil and Jan’s invitation to stay with them, as respite from his landlady and from the trawl of the streets and the hours spent focusing on the missing boys.

  ‘I can’t believe it was that easy!’ Ella told Franz. They were standing, hand in hand, looking over the rails at the trail of white spray behind the Ireland-bound ferry, with seagulls dipping and wheeling in its wake. ‘It must have been meant to be.’

  He nodded, only half-listening. He had been preoccupied since leaving London early this morning. Ella had dozed on the train, leaning against him. The morning nausea rolled over her in waves but the farther they travelled from London, the better she felt. Now, in the fresh blue air and white seaspray, she felt more alive than for a long while.

  The tentacles of The Healing Place still clung to Franz, she could tell. He would need more time to unwind.

  ‘We should have done this months ago,’ she said. Her long hair, whipping in the wind, flew into his face and caught his attention.

  ‘Mm?’ he said absently. Then, responding to what he thought she had said, as he often did, he added, ‘Never mind. Three days is better than nothing, isn’t it? We’ll have a proper holiday soon.’

  ‘Before the baby arrives?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Oh. Yes, it had better be.’

  ‘Where would you like to go?’ she asked him. She was aware suddenly that much of her conversation with Franz consisted of questions. The terms of this trip were that she would not ask questions – though surely that meant simply no questions about personal circumstances or the reasons behind the journey? She had better start practising not questioning, she thought with an involuntary sigh.

  He noticed the sigh. ‘We will go somewhere,’ he promised. ‘I mean it. I know I’ve been spending too much time at work. Where would you like to go?’

  ‘Anywhere! Everywhere – Uzbekistan, Turkey, Italy. Ireland!’

  ‘Ireland’s only the start. We might get the bug for travelling and go round the world – what d’you think?’

  She laughed, catching his lighter mood and welcoming it. ‘Why not?’

  He put an arm round her shoulders and hugged her. ‘Why Uzbekistan?’

  ‘I like the sound of the name and I’ve never been anywhere near it.’

  ‘That’s not sufficient reason!’ he said, mock-severely.

  ‘Going to a country you described as dismal at any time of year is sufficient reason for going to Ireland then, is it?’ she teased in return, then bit her tongue.

  His face clouded over immediately and his preoccupation returned. ‘I’m going inside to sit down,’ he said, after a while. ‘Aren’t you cold out here?’

  ‘No – well, yes, but the fresh air is nice. I feel sick when I’m inside.’

  ‘Seasick or morning sick?’

  ‘It’s the vibration of the engines, I think.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, I’ll just stay out here for a while.’

  He went and she stayed but half an hour later she saw him pacing up and down the deck, then the higher deck. He was always restless, Ella told herself; it was nothing to worry about – just that he didn’t have his relentless schedule of work to use up his excess energy.

  He rejoined her halfway through the journey, with drinks and sandwiches that they ate on deck. The boat was not too crowded, being school term-time. In the holidays, Ella imagined, it would be full of families going ‘back home’ for the annual visit to relatives, starting with nostalgia and ending with recriminations and probably relief, on the return journey, at living far from the oppression of close family life.

  As if reading her thoughts about families, Franz asked her, ‘Did you call your mother?’

  ‘I left a message a few days ago, telling her about the baby.’

  ‘She didn’t ring back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does that upset you?’

  The ‘not asking questions’ deal was one-way, then. Not that she minded answering them.

  ‘Not really. I’ve stopped expecting her to be maternal. Not every woman is, automatically.’

  ‘Will you be, do you think?’ He was smiling again, not doubting her reply.

  ‘In my own way.’ She patted her stomach involuntarily. ‘I’ll make just as many mistakes, I expect; just not the same ones.’

  ‘Like leaving the baby in a tent at a rock festival then not remembering where the tent was?’

  She grimaced. ‘Did I tell you about that?’

  ‘No, your mother did, the one time I met her.’

  ‘Did she? How bizarre. She obviously wasn’t trying to make a good impression on you.’

  ‘She told it as a joke. Seemed surprised when I didn’t laugh. Do you remember it or were you too young?’

  ‘I wasn’t a baby, actually. She might have remembered it that way. I was five. I fell asleep in the tent and when I woke up it was dark and there was all this incredible noise – music and drumbeats and people shouting the words of songs and then shouting at each other above the singing. I tried to get out of the tent and this couple was on the ground, blocking the entrance, having really loud sex, screaming and yelling. I thought they were killing each other. I was terrified.’

  ‘That’s appalling! How long were you left there?’

  ‘I crawled out under the back of the tent and went looking for someone I recognized. I saw a couple of Ma’s friends but they were stoned out of their minds. They kept waving at me and smiling as I stood there crying.’

  ‘Poor little shrimp. What happened in the end?’

  ‘I walked round for a couple of hours. Everyone was jumping up and down and waving their arms to the music, except the ones who were lying on the ground. Eventually some guy picked me up and put me on his shoulders and after he’d danced around for a while with his friends they got bored with me crying and somebody handed me over to one of the stewards, who put out a message on the tannoy in between acts.’

  ‘And your mother came and found you?’

  ‘Not for a while. I was put in the first aid tent with the St John’s Ambulance staff and they were really nice, bought me ice-cream and told me stories, so I was all right.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be a better mother than that, for sure!’ said Franz.

  ‘I hope so,’ Ella said. ‘It’s not a hard act to follow - that’s one consolation, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear: think positive!’

  She laughed. ‘Shall we go for a walk round?’ she suggested, wanting at least to accompany him if he was going to resume his solitary pacing.

  ‘We could go on the upper deck,’ he said. ‘We should be able to see the Irish coastline soon.’

  He knew the journey then, Ella concluded. And when they arrived he seemed to find his way around the port very easily too. They collected the hire car and the courtesy map.

  ‘Shall I drive?’ said Franz, juggling the car keys.

  ‘Do, if you can live with my navigating. Map reading isn’t my strongest skill and there's no satnav. Have we any idea where we’re going?’

  ‘Wicklow.’

  The finality of his tone reminded her. No questions. He barely glanced at the map before setting out on the southern road from the port. They drove in silence, staring out through the windscreen in the gathering gloom.

  ‘Does it get dark earlier than in England or is it the weather conditions?’

  No questions. Literally no questions? Either way, he didn’t answer.

  Ella tried to stay awake but with only grey shapes to see in the thickening mist, she found it hard to concentrate. She awoke with a start when the car drew up out
side a small Bed & Breakfast hotel.

  ‘This is where we’re staying. All right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  It was an old house covered in ivy, with the door propped open and no one around inside. Franz left Ella sitting in a huge plush chair with regurgitated stuffing, with their travel bag by her feet, while he went to look for someone. She could hear him chatting and a slow voice answering, far down a corridor, before he returned.

  She was amused to hear in Franz’s voice a faint twang of Irish accent. He did that: picked up people’s voices, often unaware that he was doing it. She wasn’t sure if it was empathy or a desire to be accepted that made him do this chameleon thing. She had teased him about it once and he was amazed: ‘I don’t do that, do I? That’s not good. People will think I’m sending them up, mimicking their accent!’

  Most people didn’t seem to notice, or mind, though. It was surprising how many people confided that they’d had the feeling of being on the same wavelength with Franz from the first moment of meeting him. If Ella had been the jealous type she might have been upset by the number of women who claimed Franz as their soulmate. As it was, she knew that when Franz was at his most charming, he was on autopilot. It was when he was blunt with someone that she knew he either liked them or they had got under the veneer of his charm and somehow under his skin.

  He was no longer charming with Sharma, and he never had been with Phil. Ella saw that as positive, in both cases.

  She stood and shook hands with the proprietor, a short round man with a friendly face and bushy white eyebrows. They looked comical standing together, Franz and Tom O’Connell, she thought – one tall, one short, and both extravagant in the eyebrow department, with Franz’s jet-black jagged hyphens at uneven heights and Tom’s Santa Claus white clouds which matched Franz’s silver hair more than his own grizzled red fuzz.

  Tom preceded them to their room, carrying the bag in a tight grip under his arm and tossing it unceremoniously on to the bed as soon as the door was opened. It’s just as well I don’t iron anything, Ella thought, amused. She would hang her spare skirt and Franz’s shirts in the shower so the creases would drop out by morning.

  The bed looked welcoming. She dropped on to it as soon as Tom left them. Franz stood by the open window and looked out.

  ‘There should be a view out here in the morning. I can just see the outline of a river at the bottom of the hill.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Are you tired?’

  ‘I’m okay. Give me a few secs.’

  She lay there as Franz unpacked but instead of feeling less tired she was becoming heavier by the minute. Is this because I’m pregnant? she thought. But it felt more like delayed tiredness, not from the journey but from the course of their relationship: the months of getting to know Franz and still never really knowing him, the long hours when he worked late into the evenings and early in the mornings, the things that were never said even when they had time to say them.

  The Healing Place ate up their lives, Ella thought drowsily. It was good to escape for a while. Now perhaps they would have a chance to get to know each other, even in these few days.

  Franz’s mobile rang. She opened her eyes and looked at him with reproach. He had promised to switch it off, except for once a day to pick up messages.

  ‘I forgot,’ he said. ‘I’ll switch it off now. Hold on – it’s Sharma.’

  ‘Take it,’ she said, sitting up.

  ‘Sharma? Huh? No progress. What about the police? Okay. No, I did say to ring, any time. If it’s switched off, leave a message, okay? I’ll catch you later. Ella says Hi. Bye then.’

  ‘What?’ Ella said.

  ‘No progress. He thinks he’s narrowed it down to one area, but still no real signals from the boys. All he has seen clearly is some kind of metal shape, a silver square with a snake in it.’

  ‘Like a gate or something, you mean?’

  ‘He isn’t sure. He thinks one of the boys must have registered it because it’s unusual. Both boys are very afraid and confused, he says, and it’s hard to pick up anything with much clarity.’

  ‘Poor kids.’ Ella felt tears well up and tip themselves out of the corners of her eyes.

  Franz took her hand. ‘You should eat, you know. You’ve had nothing all day – half a sandwich.’

  ‘I don’t feel like going out. You go.’

  ‘I’ll go and ask Tom what there is round here. There may be a shop and I can bring you back something.’

  ‘Sorry. I feel so tired, suddenly.’

  ‘It’s okay. You relax.’

  She lay back on the bed as he went out. It was quiet here. She had grown used to the constant rhythm of traffic outside their bedroom window at home. Before that, in the flat she had shared with Maz and two others, there had always been as much noise inside as outside. She didn’t mind it: didn’t notice it any more; it was simply the background to everyday life. But now she drank in the silence like someone starved of it. I didn’t know I needed this, she thought.

  It was like being back in childhood, waking in the night to total silence, only then it had been a fearful experience, not knowing whether she was alone in the house.

  She would psych herself up to get quietly out of the bed, feeling with her toes for the cold floor and reaching across to switch on the light, then tiptoe into the next room where her mother’s presence would show itself against the window – she never drew curtains, even if they had any – as a single mound under the pile of assorted half-finished patchwork quilts and old coats. Or there would be a double mound – her mother and Rick, or Kurt, or some stranger whose outline Ella wouldn’t recognize.

  Or else the bed would be flat, with no one in it except the cat, who would miaow pitifully on seeing Ella till the child scooped it up and carried it back to her own bed, where it would curl up and sleep beside her head, edging its way on to more and more of the pillow, and Ella would lie awake, wondering where her mother might be tonight.

  She would usually sleep, though any small sound in the room or in the street made her instantly wake, and in the morning her first task was to check the next room again, then the sitting room sofa, where her mother sometimes slept if she came in too stoned or too drunk to manage the few extra steps to her bed.

  Some mornings, both sofa and bed were vacant and no strangers occupied the bathroom (she always knocked first, since going to the toilet one night and finding her mother in the shower with a six-foot Texan, who said ‘Hi there!’ in a lazy drawl and laughed as she gasped and ran out).

  Then Ella would know she must get herself off to school, and remember on the way home to buy bread and milk because her mother would be angry if, after coming home late and sleeping long and heavily, she then woke up to a schoolgirl daughter unable to make her mother tea and toast because she’d forgotten to check the fridge before she left.

  Adult Ella gave a huge yawn now and stretched out, starfish-style, on the double bed with its oldfashioned candlewick bedspread. It was good to be here, feeling somehow like a child yet without the anxieties and responsibilities of childhood.

  When Franz returned, to say that Tom had offered to make them scrambled eggs on toast if that would be acceptable to them both, she rolled off the bed and wrapped her arms round him, kissing him with an effusiveness that made him laugh and respond with equal alacrity.

  ‘You’re feeling better, then?’ he said.

  She slid her hand into his as they walked downstairs. ‘More than that,’ she said. ‘I’m feeling happy.’