The Beach at Doonshean

by Penny Feeny

  Ronnie was doing her best and she wasn’t certain that Tom appreciated this. She passed him a towel, wishing she could take his wet head between her hands and rub some sense into it. ‘You should change into something dry before you get a chill. Why can’t you take better care of yourself?’ It was a question, she thought, that could apply to everything he did. Including the feckless women he went with. ‘And don’t be leaving Pat on his own,’ she added. ‘So you can go chasing after girls in boats.’

  ‘I promise I’ll look after him. And when Kieran gets back we can go out for a jar. Dad must be going stir crazy stuck in the house. He could do with meeting up with some of his mates.’

  ‘Go easy on the drinking, the both of you.’

  ‘Mam!’ his expression was half-wounded, half-teasing. ‘Don’t you trust us? Anyway, it’ll help him get into form for tomorrow.’

  Ronnie gave up. She marched the child upstairs and dunked her in the bath. She tied fresh ribbons to her plaits, knotted the laces on her trainers and drove over to the Hogans’.

  Her car wheezed and snuffled like a sick pig. The passenger windscreen wiper had snapped off so she had to drive slowly and Clemmie’s view was of the rain swishing down.

  Ronnie said, ‘We’re visiting a close friend of mine. I know you will show her what a good girl you are.’

  Clemmie, sitting pert and upright, thrust forward her chin and pouted. Ronnie wondered how much of a risk she was taking.

  ‘Well now,’ said Teresa when she saw them on the doorstep, bemusement quickly turning to curiosity. ‘And who have we here?’

  The child didn’t let Ronnie down. ‘My name is Clementine Alice Beaumont,’ she said in a voice that was high, clear and polite.

  ‘Clementine indeed?’ Teresa’s eyes sought Ronnie’s and she did a little double-take, compressing her lips, arching her brows. ‘Will you come in and tell me about yourself?’

  Teresa’s house bristled with knick-knacks. Ronnie had never understood why you’d want to take on so much dusting, but Clemmie was enchanted. She stroked the china ornaments and admired the model boats in full sail. Her meticulous tour of the items put Ronnie in mind of Tom’s homecoming routine but she soon dismissed it. ‘Watch you don’t break anything,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on while you get comfortable,’ said Teresa. ‘Back in a moment.’

  She returned with a carefully arranged tea tray: porcelain cups and saucers, a plate of biscuits, a teapot under a quirky knitted cosy. Ronnie herself had been responsible for more tea cosies than she could count.

  ‘Will you have a chocolate biscuit?’ Teresa asked Clemmie. ‘A little girl like you must surely love chocolate.’ Then she blushed as if she’d said the wrong thing and the plate wobbled in her hand.

  ‘She has some colouring books,’ said Ronnie. ‘Sit over there, Clem, with your crayons. And maybe Teresa will put the television on for you.’ The animated squawks and screeches from the children’s cartoons would drown out the details of their conversation.

  Teresa poured a steady stream of tea into the cups. ‘So who?’ she began, although there was no need for Ronnie to answer her. She completed her sentence with: ‘Well, hasn’t your Tom always been one for springing surprises?’

  ‘It was as much of a shock for him,’ said Ronnie.

  ‘That seems to be the way it goes these days. Children popping out of nowhere. Has she any of his talents at all? Can she sing?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He may have been taken advantage of.’

  Teresa tut-tutted. ‘What do you know about the mother?’

  ‘Almost nothing! Her name is Monique, but he says she isn’t French.’ (Though how you could have a name like Monique Beaumont and not be a bit French baffled Ronnie.) ‘She comes from London, still lives there… I don’t even know how they met.’

  A million questions were bouncing around her head like rubber balls; she couldn’t field them all. Flapping her hands in despair she knocked a magazine off the coffee table. It fell open at an advertisement for spa treatments: seaweed wraps and hot stone massage. She’d noticed that you couldn’t move these days for promises of pampering. ‘Look at this!’ she exclaimed. ‘The self-indulgence of it. Why on earth would you want to lie around with your face dressed up as a salad? A total stranger fondling you? It’s not like in our day, Teresa. People think only of themselves.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s different altogether. Girls will open their legs for anyone after a few drinks. They haven’t had the terror put into them by nuns.’

  ‘Ah, the nuns. Do you remember how our embroidery had to be just as fine on the inside as on the outside?’

  Teresa nodded. ‘Because God sees everything.’ They were both silent for a moment, contemplating the strictures of their girlhoods. Then Teresa asked, ‘So what happened? Did this Monique not tell Tom she was pregnant? Why would she keep the baby a secret?’

  Kieran had hinted that Tom might have let the girl down, pointing out that he wouldn’t want to look bad in his version of the story. But Kieran hadn’t met her, so all was supposition. ‘These modern women think they can cope without a man.’

  ‘Well you would know the truth of that. What with Pat off on his projects, leaving you to manage the farm and the kiddies.’

  ‘I missed him though. And he was providing for us. We were doing what was necessary to survive; we weren’t acting against nature.’ Still, she didn’t want to paint the picture too bleak. ‘Maybe the mother had help from her family. I gather it’s some sort of nursing she does. But she was out of work for a while. That’s why she pursued him.’

  ‘And did he help out?’

  ‘He tried.’

  Teresa whispered, ‘He has acknowledged the little one then?

  ‘Well, that’s why he brought her here to meet us.’

  ‘But they’ve not done the test? For the DNA?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I have to tread carefully – this is a delicate matter.’

  ‘You don’t believe she’s his?’

  No, Ronnie didn’t. How could she? This wasn’t the way you acquired a granddaughter. She’d never cooed over the new bundle and mused: who do you think she looks like? She hadn’t held Clemmie in her arms as a baby; she hadn’t watched her learn to crawl or toddle or caught her first words. She’d been presented with a school-age child – well behaved, which was a blessing to be sure – but one who didn’t in the least resemble her son. An alien being.

  ‘For the moment,’ she said. ‘We have no choice. We have to make the best of it.’

  ‘What does Pat say?’

  ‘Pat is glad to have his family around him. We must concentrate on getting through the week now.’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘Do you remember how after Conor was born, Eoin asked Anna if they could send the baby back? He didn’t want it to be a permanent fixture…’

  ‘I know exactly how you feel.’

  Was that possible? Could Teresa really understand when she’d never had kiddies of her own? Ronnie could scarcely recall a time without her children, she’d started so young. She was pregnant at twenty-three with Anna, not quite ready for babies – not ready either for the terrible loss of the twins she was carrying after Nuala. It took a while for a person to get over something like that. Perhaps that was why, when Tom came along, he was so close to her heart.

  ‘You’ll be worrying about tomorrow night,’ Teresa observed. ‘She’ll no doubt cause a stir.’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t realise that!’

  ‘But she may not be the only one.’

  Teresa went over to a cupboard and extracted a box. She sat down again with it on her knee as if it were a mysterious treasure chest. Evidently she didn’t want her thunder stolen. She gave Ronnie a direct look. ‘She said yes by the way.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The widow.’

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘I rang her after I’d spoken to you. She was pleased to hear of the invitation. Very appreciative I’d say.’ She passed over a
photograph cut from the Kerryman. ‘Here she is.’

  Ronnie examined the picture; recognition stirred. ‘Ah yes, she had a son herself.’ At the hospital, waiting for Tom to be discharged, she’d seen the woman with a little boy in her arms. Her shorn hair had been sticking up in short spikes; her eyes had dark rings around them. She was accompanied by a pair of gardai who were taking her to the hospital morgue.

  ‘Did I not tell you? He’s a solicitor. I spoke to him myself when he rang.’

  ‘You have to take a lot of exams to become a solicitor,’ said Ronnie.

  ‘You do so. He’ll be a hard worker, for certain.’

  ‘She must be proud of him.’

  ‘Oh, she is. He’s married now – she showed me a photo – such a beautiful wife, he has. And he calls his little one Danny boy, like the song. It goes to show, doesn’t it, he’s been able to overcome the loss of his father.’

  Ronnie smoothed the strip of newspaper and handed it back. How could you possibly tell, looking at an innocent child, how they might turn out? As a parent you could only try your best. Don’t make comparisons. Be grateful. Nevertheless she felt uneasy. ‘But what shall I tell Tom? How can I prepare him?’

  Teresa glanced over at Clemmie. ‘How did he prepare you?’

  The child must have sensed the atmosphere because she turned her head and regarded them both with a grave stare. Well she may be cute enough, thought Ronnie, and Tom may be trying to do the right thing, but it’s quite obvious she doesn’t belong here. She could never match the image of that other family; those perfect people Teresa had conjured up.

  Then Clemmie gave her such a sweet smile her heart flipped over. She would have to harden it.

  PART FIVE

  Thursday Friday

  22

  The Fallout

  Leo knew her secret. Leo knew about the bunch of cells that were dividing and multiplying inside her: not yet a person, perhaps never to be a person. And Rachael had no idea what he might do with the information. He was a loose cannon. She wished she could have sent him packing after the barbecue, along with the kids, but he’d shown no inclination to move on.

  On Thursday morning Danny was in a strop because he couldn’t find the book he needed. He lay on the floor and kicked his legs and refused to fetch his trainers. ‘I told you, Mummy, I promised I would bring the frog book into class today. We’re growing them. It’s important.’

  Matt intervened. ‘You can’t grow frogs, Danny boy,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Yes you can. We’ve got them in the tank. They start as tadpoles and then they grow legs and lose their tails and…’

  ‘But they’re the ones who do the growing, not you, don’t you see? Now let’s have a competition. Mummy and I will hunt for the book and you hunt for your trainers. Put them on properly and we’ll see who gets to the winning post first.’

  ‘Where’s the winning post?’

  ‘The front door. First person to touch the handle is the champion.’

  Dan scrambled into action; Matt sat back, satisfied, and sipped his coffee. He might have grown up in a dysfunctional household but he had faith in his own behaviour. Rachael and Dan alike were oversensitive, affected by a change in temperature, atmosphere or setting that Matt wouldn’t even notice. She worried that she transmitted her neuroses and made Danny fretful, whereas when he was with his father, he was the strong and sturdy person he wanted to be. Inevitably, she was the parent who ran up and down stairs in a panic until she found the mislaid book. Danny clutched the door handle and crowed in triumph.

  Leo missed all this. Leo did not rouse himself until long after she’d returned from the school run, when, at ten o’clock, he appeared and asked for a spare front door key. ‘I meant to get one off you yesterday.’ (Yesterday had been spent negotiating with the garage who’d rescued the Lotus and with Nick, the car’s owner.) ‘You don’t want to be waiting in for me.’

  She was tempted to retort that no way would she do such a thing. Instead, she handed it over, suspecting this was another of his ruses. ‘The lock hasn’t been changed,’ she said. ‘In case you were thinking of making a copy.’ She regretted the sentence as soon as she spoke it.

  The spare key was on a worn leather fob; it was probably the one he’d used himself. She watched uneasily as he examined it, lying in his palm. His eyes could twinkle in an avuncular way one minute and freeze into marble chips the next. Luckily this was his twinkling phase. ‘Oh, Raquel, why would I do that? This is your house now.’ He rummaged in the large satchel he carried with him, checking phone, laptop, wallet. He thrust the key into his trouser pocket and glanced at the wall clock.

  ‘It’s fast,’ Rachael said. ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘Ah.’ He helped himself to a banana, stripped its skin and took a large bite. When he’d finished chewing, he said: ‘The advantage of having a reputation for poor punctuality is that no one ever worries if you’re late.’

  ‘Are you meant to be somewhere?’

  ‘The Tate. But don’t worry. I’ll get a cab.’

  She hoped he’d be out a long while. She hoped he’d meet an old friend or colleague (not Nick, obviously) who’d invite him for a meal and then, with luck, to spend the night. What she needed, to get through the next twenty-four hours, was a period of respite. She needed to order her thoughts, to prepare what she might say to the counsellor. Then, perhaps, her dilemma could be resolved.

  She should not be scared of having children. Matt had persuaded her tenderly there was nothing to be frightened of. Dan’s birth had been difficult, true, but she had coped well and the second time around was sure to be easier. But the problem wasn’t just the process of giving birth: Dan’s entire babyhood had terrified her. Now of course she loved him to bits, a love so overwhelming it submerged her. Where was the Rachael who’d been thrilled to leave the dull small-town life of her parents and move to a city as exciting and edgy as Liverpool? What had happened to her ambition and her joie de vivre?

  She was still ambitious, of course, but the juggling was hard and another baby would make it harder. And she couldn’t say any of this to Matt because there, ahead of her, was the example of Julia: a person of supreme competence, a person who could surmount all the obstacles life threw at her. No one had ever made a comparison – Rachael knew these misgivings were in her own head – but none of her achievements as cook, wife, mother could entirely banish her childhood sense of inadequacy.

  It was tricky enough to talk to Matt anyway, aware of how much he wanted to have another child and of each missed opportunity to tell him the truth. Conception had happened far too quickly and she still felt the shock of disbelief. It was blindingly obvious the timing was wrong: they had only just moved, the house needed work, Dan needed to settle in his new school. Also, she was still establishing the catering business and would struggle to keep up momentum. That was why the purchase of the Rangemaster, though it might have seemed spontaneous – even wilful – was so significant.

  She couldn’t think of a convincing excuse to cancel her regular session with Emma at the swimming pool and gym, but she powered through the water and pounded on the treadmill so their conversation was limited by gasps and grunts. She recounted the trip in the Lotus and the broken exhaust as a funny story, but she didn’t mention the buying spree and she cut short lunch on a pretext.

  She arrived home to find Leo sprawling on the sitting room sofa and glowering at a half bottle of whisky on the coffee table. His legs were stretched out at such an angle it was almost impossible not to fall over them. The sofa faced the fireplace and above it was a large patch of wallpaper paler than the rest. A shadow line marked where his painting, Conflagration 2, had once hung. It was a curious juxtaposition: the presence of the man and the absence of the work. Although Rachael was responsible for its removal, she couldn’t help wondering how it might feel to him, the sense of being erased bit by bit.

  ‘You weren’t out long,’ she said.

  He spoke with his eyes shut. ‘Lon
g enough.’

  ‘I’d rather Danny didn’t see you drinking. Spirits, I mean, at this time of day.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No, not yet. But he’ll be home later.’

  He grabbed the neck of the bottle. ‘I’ll have finished it by then.’

  ‘Please, Leo.’

  With his free hand he reached for her wrist and pulled her down beside him. ‘Please what?’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘You think I’m out of control?’

  ‘No… I just don’t know what you want, why you came, what you’re doing here.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ he said. But he relaxed his grip.

  She withdrew her wrist and rubbed at the bone. Her leg was trembling; she couldn’t stop it. They both watched her thigh jiggling up and down until he put his hand upon it and leaned towards her. She could smell the whisky on his breath. Even before this visit, she had been a little fearful of him. You never knew where you stood: whether he was joking or serious, whether he was going to offer a compliment or a put-down, whether his laughter might blast into rage. Her own family life had been quiet – Leo would probably say buttoned up – appearances had been important; deviation suppressed.

  ‘It’s all gone belly-up,’ he said.

  ‘The meeting didn’t go well?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He seemed grateful for the question, for the chance to rant. ‘There’d been talk of a group show from the early days of the Liverpool scene – Henri and Cockrill and so on – through my generation and beyond, but it turns out they were just stringing me along. The Walker and the Bluecoat are much better at arranging that kind of thing. Tate’s too fucking precious but you can get the spin-off you see. Posters. Calendars. Fucking fridge magnets if you’re lucky. Forget prestige. Money, Raquel, that’s what it’s about. As a subject it’s crass and boring as hell. But the stuff’s undeniably useful.’