Set in Stone

by Catherine Dunne

  Lynda looked at him. It was probably the longest speech she had ever heard him make about his business. In fact, about anything. She tried to understand what he was telling her. Had he just gone bust? Was he just about to? ‘How many?’ she asked, after a pause. ‘How many have you to let go?’

  He didn’t answer at once. Lynda counted the beats. It must be really bad.

  ‘At least fourteen,’ he said at last. She could feel him wince.

  Lynda could feel the shock registering. She was glad that she wasn’t standing up. ‘Have you . . . have they been let go already?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said abruptly. ‘James told them. Two days ago.’

  Lynda swallowed. She looked over at her husband, careful to keep her expression neutral.

  ‘So. That means just you and James left, then.’

  Robert shifted in his seat a little. ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ he said. ‘I think that James is going to bail out.’ He signalled to the waiter. ‘Whiskey,’ he said. ‘A double.’

  Lynda knew at once that James’s bail out was already a certainty. Robert didn’t deal in speculations – he dealt in facts. ‘What’s he going to do?’

  ‘He’s trying to sell me his half.’ Robert spread his hands, both palms facing upwards. The classic gesture of resignation. Lynda wished that he had a little more fight in him. Why did James get to have things all his own way?

  ‘I can’t raise the cash to buy him out, not in the current climate.’ Robert reached over, put a hand on her arm. ‘No one else can raise the cash either, by the way, so I’m not in danger of being taken over, or forced out, or anything like that. Half of the business is still mine. It just means I’ll be left holding the baby – running what’s left of the show, essentially.’

  ‘Tell me, how does James get to walk away?’

  Robert shrugged. ‘He has been very canny over the years – he’s got a lot salted away. All James wants to do now is ride off into the sunset of retirement.’

  His voice was suddenly shadowed by bitterness. He stopped and patted his pockets for the occasional cigarettes he carried with him. He didn’t find them and clicked his tongue in irritation.

  ‘And what have we got?’ Lynda asked. She surprised even herself, asking the question. Robert had always looked after their future. He’d reassured her time and again that their savings were safe. ‘Blue Chip’, he’d call them. ‘Safe as houses.’

  Now he looked at her. ‘That’s part of the problem,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this. I’ve been trying to fight fires for the past few weeks, but . . .’

  ‘Anything to do with Anglo-Irish Bank?’ she asked at once. The newspapers had been full of it, radio and television commentators convulsed by it. A spectacular collapse, with suspect dealings and plummeting share prices.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s a complete disaster. Even more so than the other banks. It’s unbelievable.’ He shook his head.

  ‘There’s been nothing else on the news since you left. What have we lost?’ Lynda was amazed at how matter-of-fact she sounded. Robert’s long pause made her know the worst before he said it.

  ‘Everything. Or everything that wasn’t already invested in Cement Roadstone Holdings.’

  ‘The construction industry,’ she said, flatly.

  He nodded. ‘These days, the share value is pretty much worthless.’ His voice sounded small. ‘It’s gone, Lynda, all of it. I just didn’t know how to tell you. Particularly with all this other stuff that’s going on with Danny.’

  Lynda leaned across the table. ‘The only way we’re going to get through this is if you keep talking to me, Robert, let me know what’s going on. This is my life, too – all our lives. You and I have kept things from each other before, and it’s only done damage. To both of us.’ She kept her voice low. She was conscious that their silence seemed to have spread throughout the restaurant.

  ‘I need to know what’s happening,’ she went on. ‘Day by day, all the detail. Not just the general stuff. Don’t shut me out.’ Lynda bit her lip. ‘And I won’t shut you out. Ever again. We need to plan.’

  Robert took both her hands in his. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s been rough, and it’s going to get rougher. I need you, Lynda. I always have. From the first night I met you.’ And he tried to smile. ‘Right now, I’m terrified.’ He sighed and briefly rested his head in his hands. At that moment, Lynda thought how very like Danny he looked. The thought shocked her. She stroked his face, lightly. ‘We’ve got through tough times before,’ she said, quietly.

  He looked at her. ‘Yeah, well, this is different. Back then, it was just us: we were the only ones in trouble – because of Danny. The whole world wasn’t. We were able to recover, with both of us working ourselves to a standstill. That’s not possible, not this time.’ He gave a thin, bitter, smile. ‘There’s just not enough out there. Of anything. Opportunity. Work. Credit. Particularly credit.’

  Then, as though he had read her mind, he said: ‘You’re not run off your feet either, are you? When did you last get a commission?’

  Lynda nodded. ‘It has been slow – a few enquiries, nothing much. But I’m due to be paid for the last three jobs – I’m owed quite a bit. And then there’s the exhibition coming up in Belfast.’ I have a little ‘running away money’, too, she thought. That had been Robert’s mother’s advice to her, more than twenty-five years ago.

  ‘Always keep a little bit in reserve, dear. You never know the day nor the hour. Be like the Wise Virgins.’ And she’d winked. ‘I have my own few pounds that David doesn’t know about. It’s always a comfort for a woman. That little bit of independence.’ She’d smiled then, Emma’s smile. ‘Just in case the men lose the run of themselves.’ That was before Emma, of course. After Emma died, the woman had shadowed into herself, as though her light had gone out. Lynda shivered. She didn’t even want to think about what the loss of a child must have meant.

  Robert reached for his jacket. ‘Let’s go home,’ he said. ‘I’d rather be on our own. This place is beginning to feel oppressive. You okay to drive?’ He signalled to the waiter.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve just had the one glass.’

  When they step outside, the ferocity of the wind takes Lynda’s breath away. She feels her dress slap against her thighs. Rain stings her face.

  ‘Jesus, where did this come from?’ she gasps as Robert puts one firm hand under her elbow and steers her towards the Jeep. She leans into him, suddenly glad of the comfort his solidity offers her. She holds her handbag in front of her face, shielding her eyes.

  He opens the driver’s door for her and she struggles into the seat. The wind gusts and threatens to wrench the door from his grasp. His jacket flaps madly about his waist, his tie flings itself over one shoulder. ‘Quick!’ he shouts. ‘I’m soaked through!’ He slams the door and runs around to the passenger side. Lynda can see him through the windscreen: his figure distorted by the rain, huge drops of it acting as fat magnifying glasses. He keeps his head down, one arm in front of his face as he battles against the onslaught. She wipes her soaking hair with a handkerchief and drags it back off her forehead. She notices her hands are trembling. The sudden turn in the weather has shocked her.

  Robert climbs in and exhales deeply. ‘Christ,’ he says, ‘it’s savage out there. Force nine at least.’

  Lynda turns on the radio to listen to the ten o’clock news and weather forecast. Robert reaches out one hand.

  ‘Leave it,’ he says. Then: ‘Leave it, please,’ aware that his tone has been abrupt. ‘I don’t want any more bad news this evening. The worst has already happened.’

  ‘Okay,’ Lynda says. She waits until he has his seatbelt fastened. ‘Home, James?’ she asks lightly.

  ‘And don’t spare the horses,’ he agrees, smiling at her.

  She reaches over, touches his cheek. ‘I love you, Robert,’ she says, quietly.

  He takes her hand, kisses it. ‘I love you, too,’ he says.

  Lynda pulled slow
ly out of the restaurant car park. At this time of night, and in this weather, it was hard to judge distances. She’d never liked night-time driving anyway. Perspectives seemed to shift, familiar landmarks disappeared. Her eyes tired more easily. And there were always those, too, who drove on full headlights, blinding the oncoming motorists. She slowed again as she approached the roundabout. She could feel the Jeep being buffeted by the gale, even its sturdy body rocking a little from side to side. She glanced over at Robert. Sometimes they acknowledged it, sometimes they didn’t, that this was the roundabout where Emma had been killed. Twenty-six, almost twenty-seven years ago. More than a quarter of a century. Lynda shivered. The memory of it was still raw, even after all this time.

  ‘Cold?’ asked Robert. He turned up the heating. ‘It’ll get warm in a minute.’ Lynda was glad of the noise the fan made. Tonight, it was easier to drive without speaking.

  They had only just met, she and Robert. Lynda remembered that night now, only a few short months before Emma’s accident.

  ‘I don’t usually do this – come to the theatre,’ Robert had confided to her all in a rush, on the evening that Charlie had introduced them. ‘But I’m very glad I did tonight.’ Richard II, she remembered. A rousing interpretation by Dramsoc. She had been spellbound, wondering if she’d ever have the courage in the future to take even the smallest of parts. The stage terrified her – all that empty space. She was happier behind the scenes: the scenery that she had painted.

  Robert’s eyes had widened when Charlie nudged him towards Lynda.

  ‘This is the extraordinarily talented Miss O’Brien,’ she’d said. ‘Robert, meet Lynda. Designer, wardrobe mistress, scene stealer, sometimes lighting expert,’ she laughed. ‘She does it all.’ Then she’d turned to Lynda. ‘Lynda, meet Mr Robert Graham. Rugby-player, tennis-player, engineering student. You’re from the same neck of the woods. Get acquainted while I’m gone. Coming!’ she yelled, responding to a frantic, gesticulated summons. And she dashed off towards the stage door.

  ‘That’s Charlie – Charlotte, if you want to be formal – the Dramsoc whirlwind. Director, stage manager, publicity woman – and she talks about me!’

  Robert laughed. ‘Seems like the two of you have the world pretty much sewn up between you. This is my first time here – hope that doesn’t make me sound like a peasant. Niall insisted I come along. Bums on seats, he said.’

  Lynda nodded. ‘Thanks, yeah. It’s great to have a full house on opening night.’

  ‘Well, Niall said that Charlie would have killed him if he hadn’t gone out into the highways and byways. Saying “no” wasn’t really an option.’ He lowered his voice. When he spoke again, his tone was conspiratorial. ‘Tonight was my first time to meet her. Charlie, I mean. I’m glad I made the decision to come. I don’t think I’d be able to bear her wrath. She’s terrifying!’

  He looked at Lynda sideways then, an expression she was to become very used to over the following years. Half shy, half quizzical. As though he was trying to gauge how terrifying she might be. He gestured towards the table in the corner. Lynda could see some wilting sandwiches, some sad and sweaty cheddar cheese. The usual opening night fare, bludgeoned out of some local supermarket, or ‘borrowed’ from parents’ cupboards and wine racks.

  ‘The white wine is warm and the red – well, frankly, you wouldn’t know whether to drink it or put it on your chips.’ He nodded, as though weighing up his choices. ‘You finished here, by any chance?’

  She knew immediately what he was asking. Lynda had already decided, the moment she laid eyes on him, that if Robert didn’t ask her to slip away on their own somewhere tonight, she would have to ask him. She’d liked him instantly: his obvious strength, his open expression and the way he carried himself. As though he was comfortable with his bulk, even proud of it. He didn’t slink away into his body, a tortoise withdrawing into its shell. He was upright and at the same time grounded. Steady on his feet. She tucked a strand of curly blonde hair behind one ear. It was always escaping. She was conscious of how well they would look together, she and Robert: her fair hair and slender build a striking contrast to his dark looks. His tallness, too, felt comforting, protective. Steady on, Lynda told herself. You’ve only just met.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’m done here for tonight. I won’t be missed.’ She was surprised at her own directness.

  He grinned at her. ‘Then let me buy you a glass of something decent.’

  ‘Guinness,’ she’d said bravely. ‘Actually, I think I’d like a pint of Guinness.’

  His eyebrows had shot up. ‘Better and better,’ he said. ‘I know just the place.’

  They ducked out the door while Charlie’s attention was elsewhere. Lynda knew that she’d be forgiven, eventually. For once, she didn’t care how long eventually took. There was an eager boyishness to Robert that appealed to her more and more. She wasn’t about to pass up the possibility of a real date. As they hurried outside, Robert had taken her by the hand. They both stopped. Lynda held her breath.

  ‘I like you,’ he’d said. For a moment, he looked bashful again. Lynda wanted to laugh. His expression didn’t seem to fit with his body. ‘Are you about to make fun of me?’ he asked suddenly.

  She shook her head. ‘No, not at all. I’m smiling. I like you too.’

  It had been that easy, almost as though they were speaking lines that each had already rehearsed. Their own private theatre. It felt intimate, her hand in his. Natural, and exciting at the same time. Lynda tugged at his sleeve, pointing towards the bus stop. ‘Quick, there’s a number ten about to leave. If we run, we’ll just make it!’ He hesitated and she stopped. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Promise you won’t laugh?’ he said.

  ‘Promise,’ she agreed. She wondered what was coming next.

  ‘I have my own transport,’ he said, with a degree of dignity she found comical.

  ‘Oh – why didn’t you say!’

  ‘Well – and this is why you promised not to laugh, okay?’

  She nodded, waiting.

  ‘I am the proud owner of a . . . Honda, navy-blue, 500 cc scooter. Bit of a sewing machine on wheels, really.’

  Now she did want to laugh. She’d seen the careful scooters around college, put-putting through the car parks. The image of Robert, tall and robust, on one of those machines made her want to smile. But even then, she knew better.

  ‘Glamorous,’ she said gravely. ‘Most impressive.’

  He looked at her. His face was stern. ‘You promised not to laugh.’

  ‘Who’s laughing?’ she said. Then, as a deflection: ‘I don’t feel it would be right for two of us, though, do you?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ he agreed. He seemed relieved. ‘I just wanted you to know.’

  ‘Before someone else told me?’ she risked teasing him, just a little.

  ‘Pretty much,’ he confessed. ‘Not great for the image, though – but all I could afford. My brother Danny gives me enough grief about it.’

  ‘I think it’s fine,’ she lied. ‘But tonight, let’s take the bus, okay?’

  His face brightened then, as though confession had eased his conscience. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Race you.’ And he let go of her hand.

  Stunned, Lynda watched him take off. Then she gathered herself and followed, long coat flying out behind her. She easily overtook him, and jumped onto the platform of the bus, triumphant. The driver gunned the engine, impatiently. ‘Just a minute,’ she cried. ‘Hang on – my boyfriend’s coming!’

  Robert hurled himself onto the bus, just as it had begun to leave the stop. Gasping, he put his arm around her and steered her to the stairs. ‘Boyfriend, eh?’ He pushed her up ahead of him. ‘That’s pretty forward of you.’

  ‘You objecting?’ she asked. ‘Because if you are . . .’

  Then he grinned. ‘Go on,’ he whispered. ‘Walk up the stairs in front of me. I like the view.’

  ‘Is this how you like to embarrass women who have beaten you, fair and square?’ Lynda
demanded. She turned to look down at him, one hand on her hip. She was exhilarated after the race. She could feel her heart thumping, the blood singing in her veins. My boyfriend, she had said. My boyfriend. She wanted to tease him, to make him admit that she had won, that he had lost.

  He shrugged. ‘Not much of a race, really. Besides, I let you win. You have to see that.’ The bus lurched forwards. Robert grabbed her and held onto her waist. ‘Why don’t we talk about it when we’re sitting down?’ he said. ‘There’ll be much more time for you to see reason.’

  They went to Mulligan’s after that, Lynda remembered, pushing their way into the bar already crowded with Friday night students. He’d bought the first drink, she the second and by the time the pub closed, she knew all about him. About his rather proper mother, his sound father; his little sister Emma and his younger brother, Danny.

  Almost to her surprise, Lynda told him about her family: about how being an only child had made her feel responsible for her elderly mother and father, as though she were the parent, they her children. And she told him, too, about her love of art and design, and how that had been a bridge too far in her small family. Something practical, her parents had insisted. Something teachable. A good career, teaching, they had said. All this arty stuff is much too unpredictable. And so she’d chosen English and French – but most of her time was spent designing and painting scenery for Dramsoc. Listening to Robert, Lynda realized again how fascinated she was by other people’s siblings. The way Robert spoke about Danny in particular had intrigued her.

  ‘Is he like you?’ she’d asked. His reply had surprised her.

  ‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid my brother is a shit.’ Seeing her face, Robert laughed. ‘Don’t worry – it’s not a taboo or anything. I accept it. I’ve always accepted it. He’s selfish and wild and irresponsible towards everyone – my parents included. I hate seeing how he hurts them. But there’s nothing I can do about it.’ He finished his pint in one gulp. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m ashamed of him. Just keep that in mind when you meet him.’