The Beach at Doonshean

by Penny Feeny

  ‘His family?’

  ‘Er… yes…’ It wasn’t strictly true and perhaps it was unwise. Should she have distanced herself from the Farrellys?

  Clemmie’s mother picked up the suitcase; her earrings bobbed and swung. ‘I knew it would be a mistake to let her come. Are you ready, sugar?’

  It would be useless, Bel thought, to try to defend Tom. She could see quite clearly why he would have fallen for the goddess, equally clearly why she would have despaired of him. But she hated standing there like a spare part unable to stop Clemmie leaving the hospital, leaving Ireland, walking out on her new-found relatives without saying goodbye. She had to do something.

  ‘Before you go,’ she said, ‘I have some pictures I drew for Clemmie. Not just now, I mean…’ The surreal images of the nose-diving car, the legs without a torso, the dwarf with the phone lay uppermost on the bed. Clemmie’s mother looked disdainful. ‘Let me find the others,’ Bel went on. ‘Somewhere in my bag.’

  She turned her back and pretended to hunt, while sending a swift text to Kieran. ‘You remember when we were on the boat, Clem? When I told you about the magic dust the volcano spewed out? And how you grew wings and were able to fly? Well here you are! You can take it.’ She handed over the notebook.

  ‘It isn’t finished,’ Clemmie objected, flicking through the pages.

  ‘What did you say your name was? Bel? I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry. We have to leave now.’

  ‘You don’t want to see… him… at all?’

  Her expression told Bel all she needed to know. Why would she waste time on a man who ran out on his obligations? Why would she want to weep over an inert intubated body that might never regain consciousness? She’d come to rescue her daughter from a dreadful experience and she wasn’t going to hang about.

  ‘Okay then,’ said Bel. ‘Give me your address and I’ll finish the story off myself and post it to you. How about that?’

  She deliberately pressed too hard on her pencil point so that the lead snapped and she had to find another. She kept writing down the postcode wrong. Covertly she resent her text. But her delaying tactics finally ran out. ‘You really can’t stay another minute?’ she said, hugging Clemmie goodbye.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  With the rhythm of the righteous, the mother swayed out of the ward on her perilous heels; the daughter trotted happily beside her. Bel, her hands hanging at her sides, stood and watched them go.

  31

  The Patient

  Ronnie had no idea how long she’d been asleep. She was surprised she’d dozed off at all, upright in a narrow chair, but that was the way of it: the brain shutting down, shutting out clamour and chaos. That was what Tom’s brain had done, that was why he was lying peacefully beneath the gentle rise and fall of the sheet while a jagged line scribbled its way across the monitor screen.

  So many times she’d been in this hospital: for the births of her children and then Anna’s; for the miscarriage of the twins; for friends with breakages and removals and investigative procedures; for Nuala with her appendix and Kieran with his tonsils. And then the past few months with Pat and the treatment they hoped had finished. She’d never have guessed, after months of visiting oncology, she’d back so soon.

  Tom had been a healthy child; not a day’s illness, she used to say proudly. There was the odd patching-up – stitches for cuts, bandages for sprains, a dislocated shoulder – but it was nearly thirty years since she’d sat beside his bed all night and thanked God for his survival. In the faint blue light of the ward, he’d been a frail ghost of the gleeful four-year-old swinging his bucket for the beach. She’d practically been able to see through his flesh to the bony skeleton beneath. Just like the shrimps he’d sought in the rock pools.

  There was a different cast to things now and she suspected God was playing games with her: holding out two fists and asking her to guess which held the prize. She always picked the wrong one. She reckoned even if He turned over his palm and she caught a fleeting glimpse of joy, it would be snatched away. She’d be left staring at emptiness again.

  It had been wonderful to have Pat restored to her and their sons coming home, how could she have imagined the pleasure would be so short-lived? Though there were clues: the girl, Clementine, for a start. The shock had knocked the breath out of her. She’d struggled with indignation and disbelief, but she’d kept her reservations quiet for Tom’s sake. Now she was seeing things differently, seeing the child as a gremlin come to upset the structure of her family, the plans she had coveted for them.

  She was suffering pins and needles in her leg from sitting too long in the same position. She’d have to walk about to get her circulation back. She heaved herself out of the chair. Her knitting bag lay on the floor beside it, abandoned because her fingers were becoming tangled in the wool, even though she could generally operate by touch alone. There were magazines abandoned too; she’d kept being drawn to tales of loss or betrayal or acts of desperate courage that made her start crying or want to rip out the pages. Either way it was an unhappy experience and unhappy experiences were something she could do without.

  At least the magazines contained words she could read. The monitor told her nothing except that Tom was still alive and she could see that for herself. She moved towards the bed. Should she take his hand? Little chance he’d let her do so when he was awake and alert. He might dance around her, hug her, whisper nonsense in her ear – but it would be on his terms only. In the past, if she’d tried to comfort him with a squeeze or a cuddle, he would pull away. He couldn’t pull away now.

  She bent nearer to the pillow and ran her thumb softly over his chin, feeling the rasp of stubble that didn’t stop growing just because the mind was absent. Was that a tremor in his cheek? An involuntary response to her touch? Or a protest? Did his lip twitch? A sign, that was all she was waiting for, a very small sign.

  She straightened her spine and took a step back, colliding with another person whose shape was familiar. For a second, no – less, she imagined Tom was playing tricks, rising from the bed to taunt her. But it was Kieran, with his jacket collar turned up and a closer shave and a better colour than his brother. He cocked a hopeful eyebrow.

  ‘No change,’ said Ronnie. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I know. I came to see if you wanted a ride back with us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘I have Bel with me. We called in before to see Tom.’

  The clumsy English girl, was how Ronnie thought of her. Couldn’t make her way through a farmyard without tripping over. She had a pleasant enough manner, though there was also the question of her mother. She had tried to thank the woman once. A true irony, considering how all these years later she’d despatched Tom to this twilight zone and he might never come out of it. ‘When was that? I didn’t see you.’

  ‘Did you go out for a bite maybe?’

  ‘I went for a sandwich, yes, but that was ages ago. I’ve been sleeping since.’

  ‘Well it can only have been a catnap if you came back after we left.’

  ‘A catnap!’ She’d felt as if she was being dredged up from the bowels of the earth, it had taken her so long to surface. ‘Would you believe it?’

  ‘Anyway,’ he said patiently and she had to allow that Kieran was a patient man. ‘Will you be needing a lift?’

  For a moment she wavered. This wasn’t a world she could ever be useful in. She should be at home with Pat and the grandsons who loved and appreciated her. ‘But what if Tom wakes up, alone in this room?’ He wouldn’t know where he was; he’d be totally disorientated. He’d already lost two days of his life. ‘I can’t let that happen.’

  ‘Mam, you can’t stay here forever. Aren’t they talking of moving him to Cork? Then what will you do?’

  She set her jaw, didn’t answer.

  He said, ‘Perhaps it’s you who shouldn’t be alone.’

  ‘Why? Do you think I’m not up to it? That I’m not used to a little adversity? I’ve had plenty of practice
.’

  She shouldn’t be shouting at Kieran. None of this was his fault. He’d done exactly what she’d asked, back in March: he’d brought his brother home. The English girl, the black child, the car accident, they were none of his doing. He waited with his hand in his pocket. She could hear the chink of loose change.

  ‘I can spend another night with Carmel,’ she said. ‘It’s no problem.’

  ‘I shall have to leave tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ve changed the date of the crossing once already and I can’t delay any longer. I have to get back to work and Tom won’t be coming with me, whatever.’

  They both looked gravely at his body. Ronnie wished she’d been able to keep her children close. She had long ago recognised the boys’ need to escape but it didn’t stop her missing them. Usually it was a latent niggle, like a toothache, though it could grow to enormous proportions if she stopped to think about it. That was the great compensation of keeping herself busy: less time to think.

  ‘I’ll get Bernie or someone to bring your dad over in the morning and fetch me back. He’ll be wanting to see Tom anyway. But if there are developments, or any change overnight I ought to be here. You do understand?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Then I’ll be home tomorrow and we’ll cook up a fine roast dinner before you set off. Are you getting the night boat?’

  ‘No. I’ll stay over in Dun Laoghaire, at Ned’s place. Leave the next day.’

  Was she imagining it or did he seem relieved to have made his plans to go? He was turning away from her and pulling out his phone. ‘I have a message from Bel.’ He frowned. ‘Urgent, she says.’

  Urgent? Ronnie could no longer imagine any circumstances in which she would need to hurry. Could that be the one and only mitigation for having her son in a coma? Anything and everything from now on would happen very slowly. Recuperation. Rehabilitation. There was some pleasure in the thought. She had noticed, as she aged, how fast the days slipped by and wished she could slow them down. Perhaps this was a twisted granting of her wish. If Kieran’s claim that she could only have slept for a matter of minutes was true, so what? It hardly mattered.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She wanted to see Clemmie. I guess she’s still with her.’ (Ronnie was, of course, mightily relieved that Clemmie was unscathed by the accident.) He added. ‘Did you get in touch with…’

  She pursed her lips. ‘The mother? Yes, Nuala rang her. I believe she’s on her way.’

  ‘You mean Monique.’

  ‘Whatever her foreign name is.’

  ‘You didn’t speak to her yourself?’

  ‘There was no necessity.’

  ‘That’s an awfully high horse you’ve climbed onto,’ said Kieran.

  ‘Nuala’s good at that type of thing,’ insisted Ronnie. ‘Dealing with difficult customers. I might have said something I regretted. You know how I get when my tether’s frayed.’

  In truth she didn’t want to be put on the defensive by a woman she disapproved of, a woman who went around having children out of wedlock and finding some unfortunate man to pin them on.

  ‘You might regret not speaking to her. Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. That’s what you always used to tell us when we were young, remember?’

  She stroked the limp hand lying on the sheet. ‘Leave me be, Kieran. I can only deal with one thing at a time right now.’

  ‘You realise Tom loves that kid?’ said Kieran. ‘He may not have been much good at taking care of her, but I’m pretty certain he carried her off because he didn’t want to leave her somewhere she might be rejected.’

  ‘She was never rejected! We made her welcome, you know we did. I wouldn’t have a child suffer for the misdeeds of its parents.’

  There came another beep; they were in thrall to their phones, her children. Kieran wasn’t even looking in her direction. ‘She’s sent it again,’ he said. ‘I wonder what the matter is…’ He was edging towards the door.

  Ronnie decided to be magnanimous. ‘You’d better go and find out.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’ll probably take her back to Dingle after.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ she said. ‘And we’ll have a proper goodbye.’

  But once he’d gone, retreating down the corridor, she felt a horrible sense of isolation. He had taken with him a warm vibrancy, an animal energy and she was left with the sad pallid scent of sickness and inertia. She returned to her chair and picked up her bag. She was knitting a collection of toy ducks. A family of six, she had decided, with plump yellow bodies and red felt beaks. The parents were already complete and she was going down a size for the little ones. She was on the second to last duckling (she’d started at the tail and was pleased with the way it curled into a point) and she didn’t need a pattern any more. If she could only make the effort, the rhythm of her movements might soothe her.

  It was no good; within moments her fingers and the yellow wool were in knots. She was trying to untie them when a nurse entered the room and nodded to her. He picked up the chart at the end of the bed, adjusted the IV drip and then stayed longer than she would have expected, gazing at Tom’s face.

  Ronnie dropped the duckling. ‘Is something wrong?’

  The nurse bent closer and murmured in a low coaxing tone. He said to Ronnie, ‘I think he may be coming round.’

  Her heart thumped so hard against her ribs she feared it would break them. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘I’ll see if I can get the doctor to verify it.’

  Ronnie stumbled over to the bed as the nurse left. Could this be possible? She hadn’t waited in vain? ‘Oh, Tom,’ she said. ‘Tom, my darling. Will you open your eyes? So blue they were when you were little, like pieces of sky.’ A summer sky, clear and sharp. They could pierce her like no one else’s.

  Hope swam inside her, the first real hope since the accident. It made her giddy. And now, instead of time stretching and looping like skeins of wool into infinity, it concertinaed. There was a distinct speeding up of activity (even though it was a Saturday) – a second nurse, a registrar, a doctor she hadn’t seen before, an auxiliary with a cup of tea. Some noises were issuing from Tom’s throat, although you couldn’t call them words. His eyes did eventually flicker, though his gaze was unfocused, you couldn’t call it sharp.

  ‘It’s looking hopeful,’ the doctor said. ‘We may need to perform some more tests. Why don’t you go out for some fresh air, Mrs Farrelly? This has been an awful strain on you and you could do with a break. You could ring your husband with the good news.’

  ‘It is good news? Definitely? I couldn’t bear it if there’d been a mistake.’

  ‘It’s early days,’ conceded the doctor. ‘But your son is on his way back to us. The coma is partly a defence mechanism of the body…’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘And we never expected him to be in it for long; the trauma was not so great—’

  ‘That’s not what you told me before.’

  ‘Well now, Mrs Farrelly, it’s hard to judge these things and it’s better to err on the cautious side.’

  ‘So he’s going to be all right?’

  ‘We mustn’t rush. Why don’t come back in half an hour? The nurses will sort him out, try to make him comfortable. You’ll be better off seeing him when he’s more composed.’

  Half an hour? That didn’t give her time to get over to Carmel’s. Anyway, she wouldn’t want to leave the hospital site with Tom so near to recovery. And why was your man talking about fresh air? What was there on offer but a car park full of petrol fumes? Then she remembered Clemmie. She ought to check on the poor little mite. She’d be going home soon and maybe it wasn’t her fault entirely that Tom had been distracted from his driving. All kiddies were attention-seeking.

  Ronnie headed through the labyrinth of corridors towards the children’s ward, a positive bounce in her step. It was extraordinary how different everything
looked once you had some good news. She pictured Clemmie’s animated face, the endearing gap in her teeth, her pink satiny ribbons; she was brimming with good intentions as she buzzed for entry.

  ‘Clementine Beaumont?’ said the ward sister. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Farrelly, she’s been discharged.’

  ‘Are you certain? When?’

  ‘Let me see.’ She consulted a chart. ‘Not long ago, in point of fact. Her mother came to collect her.’

  Her mother? Well, she was expected, as she’d told Kieran, but to appear and disappear so quickly into thin air; to leave without a word? Had she not even wanted to know how Tom was doing? Ronnie couldn’t credit it. Surely there’d been a mistake? She strode into the middle of the ward and nobody stopped her. She gyrated her bulk slowly, taking in every occupied bed, every pale complexion. One bed was stripped, she saw, awaiting a new patient. There was no lively black face giggling up at her.

  The realisation was like a plunge into icy water: it was Tom’s giggle the girl had inherited – how could she not have spotted it before? She could hear it, mischievous and unmistakeable, but in her imagination only. Not in real life.

  PART SEVEN

  Sunday Monday

  32

  The Leave-taking

  In retrospect, Pat’s birthday dinner was a high spot. Ronnie had no idea when it might happen again: the chance to have the full complement of Farrellys around the table. Now they were back in the familiar groove with Anna and her husband bringing their children over and Nuala absent because she was working. But she wanted to give Kieran a good send-off so the rib of beef was magnificent and there were more than enough potatoes, boiled, mashed and roast, for the seven of them. Their spirits were high too, everyone talking at once. The little boys, Eoin and Conor, were bashing the table legs rowdily but nobody much cared. Least of all Ronnie, who was feeling reckless and half drunk – although there was only one bottle of wine between them on account of Kieran setting off for Dublin.

  In fact it was Anna who’d organised the meal, according to her mother’s instructions. Most of the morning Ronnie had been in the hospital, clasping Tom’s hand as if she would never let it go. (She worried that she should have been at Mass, giving thanks, but the moments were too precious so she promised God she’d go in the evening when events had quietened down.)