by Faith Hogan
Todd began to tuck in. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate a proper breakfast. He cleared the lot.
‘I suppose, you haven’t eaten in days, not properly anyway.’ Denny said as he sipped his own coffee.
It was the dreams that were the worst. Todd didn’t know who to say it to, maybe it was normal. He’d never been a dreamer. All he needed were a couple of stiff drinks before he went to bed and he was out cold. The last few days though, bloody hell; it felt like he was dreaming for Spielberg. They were full on, wake you up in the middle of the night dreams, technicolour, and surround sound and starring a cast of long forgotten faces from his past. Was he surprised that he dreamed of the love he lost? He had made some bad decisions, some that kept him awake at night now he didn’t have whiskey to knock the edges off his nightmares. Guilt was a terrible curse when you had a near death experience.
The doctors looked like teenagers to Todd. The surgeon spoke with a light inflection in his voice, as though it was his personal duty to bring happiness to each patient.
‘It went very well. Of course, there was a lot of damage there, but you understand, that with your lifestyle.’ He looked down at his notes, ‘you were very lucky.’
‘When can I go home?’
‘That very much depends on where home is, Mr Riggs. I can let you out of here in about twenty-four hours; we just need to make sure that there are no complications, bleeds or reactions. Don’t worry, it is very rare.’ He looked now at Todd closely, ‘but flying would be out of the question yet. You’re from Ireland?’
‘Yes, originally.’
‘Ah, I love Ireland,’ the surgeon turned to a young red haired doctor, ‘I spent a year there as part of my training,’ he smiled. ‘Yes, I can see how your arteries might get blocked up very easily in Ireland.’ He laughed a gentle sound of reminiscence for happy times past. ‘But, no, Ireland would be out of the question, for at least a week.’
‘A week?’ Denny echoed. Todd looked at his manager; it was as devastating for him as it was for Todd.
‘Yes, you see flying, well, a long haul flight like that, there would be too many risks.’ Then he looked again at the red haired girl beside him, ‘thrombosis, lowered immune system – it opens up the possibility for all sorts of infection.’
‘So?’
‘Well, we can discharge you from here, the day after next, all going well, but I would prefer if you didn’t fly, for at least a week.’ Then he turned towards the door, busy man and Todd Riggs was just one more patient on his list.
‘Thank you, doctor.’ The words were out before Todd realised it, and it took him a minute to realise what he was thanking the guy for. After all, he’d just grounded him for over a week. He watched as the doctor turned and looked him in the eye. ‘Thanks for, you know, doing the operation and all that. Ye’ve all looked after me really well.’ Todd felt tears well up behind his eyes, he managed to lower his gaze from the faces that stood transfixed in the door way before he started to cry like a baby.
‘You’re welcome, Mr Riggs,’ and then he was gone.
‘Don’t you say a bloody word Denny, not a bloody word.’ Todd couldn’t make eye contact with his manager, had a feeling that his emotions would certainly get the better of him.
Claudia Dey arrived at about eleven. Denny rang her. Maybe he had suggested she come, but most likely he outlined the possibilities in terms of the press coverage she could harvest in the US. Their relationship was hanging on the brink, but for today, that seemed to be irrelevant to Claudia. She looked well; the flight had done her good. She always slept when travelling, made the most of her time with hydrating creams and sleeping pills. She was wearing a white suit, her hair smelled of coconut when she brushed her lips on his forehead and her hands had the smoothness of one who has spent some time getting them just right. She was ready for all eventualities; the press had managed to get a few words from her on her way to the foyer. She confirmed Todd’s surgery had gone well and he was doing fine. She cancelled any work she’d lined up for the next week and even if she wasn’t exactly delighted about it, Todd was genuinely grateful.
‘You look good,’ she said, but he knew she was lying. He had caught a glimpse of himself earlier, his face dragged, his eyes bloodshot, the bags beneath them beginning to droop. He’d aged by at least ten years since he’d come here. He felt like an old man, his hair standing shocked on top of his head, his slowly rounding trunk giving only a hint of the decades abuse he’d put his body through. Before the heart attack, he thought, if he could still sing, then what was the problem? He hadn’t figured on the rest of him giving up first. Of course, he’d convinced himself that he was still young, Claudia was part of the fairy-tale.
‘What day is it?’ he asked her as the sun cast shadows of deep orange about his room.
‘Sunday,’ she said absently, she was checking emails on her phone. ‘They’ve run that piece I did for Guinness.’ Her manager had sent her copy of a shoot she’d done for the drinks company at a castle on the furthest west coast of Ireland. ‘Of course, it’s even bigger news now that you’re in the headlines.’ Her voice sounded like it had lost its glint. Maybe she was tired. She hadn’t mentioned the blonde and there hadn’t been any interview anywhere that was anything like he expected. Maybe the shock of it all made her think again, or maybe it didn’t matter to her as much as he would have expected it to.
‘Can I see it?’ he said holding his hand out for the phone.
‘Since when did you care about fashion shoots?’ she laughed passing him the phone.
‘They’re great Claudia, really great.’ He said and he actually meant it. There was something about them, they made her look… otherworldly, the light and the sea and the way they’d done her up. ‘Can I take a look through them?’
‘Sure, I’m going to get myself some diet coke; can I get you something?’
‘No thanks.’ He said, but he hardly noticed her leaving, was relieved if anything. He couldn’t talk to Claudia, not really. Not about important things, he stared now at a long splintering crack in the plaster opposite him. His life was changing, changing whether he wanted it to or not, but oddly, he felt on some levels he was ready for change. It felt like he’d outgrown some parts of his life. What he had to do now was figure out which parts, London, the band, the booze or Claudia? He felt an arrow of pain shoot across his forehead, knew it was too much to figure out here, in this room, right now. He needed time, that’s what he needed more than anything and he would take time. He would learn to live a different life, one that contented him and made him feel like it was worth something.
He began to read about Ballytokeep, a little village on the far west coast of Ireland, and the Norman castle that didn’t look much like a castle to Todd. It was more like a square tower, built on an outcrop of rock. It stood tall and strong on the ragged coastline, long windows winking out at the Atlantic Ocean. He read about the little fishing village that filled with family holiday makers for the summer and about how much Claudia loved the place. ‘The most magical place in the world,’ she called it. He had to borrow Denny’s glasses as he made his way down through the piece. The voice in the piece was Claudia’s, but it wasn’t a Claudia he knew. Todd felt himself re-evaluating her. All he’d ever seen, all he’d ever wanted to see, was a glamour girl on his arm. He’d never really wondered about what might lurk beneath the surface. He’d been to her flat in London, often enough to know that homemaking wasn’t one of her skills, but here she was talking about this forgotten castle as though it was her soulmate. As he read deeper into the article, he became more entranced with the place. It was a stocky Norman keep – didn’t Jeremy Irons have one of those in Ireland somewhere too? The doctor had said he needed to simplify his life, to make time to smell the roses, practise a little mindfulness or yoga. Todd had laughed, but it was a laugh that sounded hollow, because at the moment his emotions were all over the place. He could cry or laugh really; the truth was, he was as scared as it was possible to be.
He’d try anything to get away from that feeling. He needed to make changes and as he held the images of Claudia at the base of that windswept fortress a plan began to formulate in his mind. A plan that felt right for him now. A plan that didn’t involve picking up strange women who just wanted to sleep with him and sell their story. It was a plan that would bring him home. A plan that might even make him happy.
7
Iris, Present
It was hardly a surprise, when Kate asked to meet with them both that night. Her face, a few soft lines about the eyes, had a flushed look to it, as though she’d just opened the Christmas gift of her dreams. The eagerness was a striking contrast to her manner since she arrived. Iris had seen the change in her since Archie had sent the girl off in search of the bathhouse. Iris had not been as enthusiastic as Archie about the possibility of Kate finding solace in Ballytokeep. The place was little more than a village, and a dead one at that for half the year.
In the years since Robert’s death, they had never considered selling the bathhouse, but the last few months had set her thinking. There were many little things, but they all boiled down to one thing, she knew that she and Archie could not go on forever. It seemed to Iris that within the space of a few months, she could see Archie moving away from her. It was in the way she caught him, too often now, she knew he was back in that time. He forgot things; things that he shouldn’t forget. Sometimes, he looked at her and she had a feeling he was working things out, maybe figuring out what he was meant to be doing. She knew, knew for certain, that twice now, he didn’t know who she was. His eyes held a kind of trembling fear, for just a fraction of a second, and then the recognition came back, but she was losing him, just as they had lost his father. She only hoped that she could keep him a little longer.
When Kate returned from her visit to the bathhouse, Iris was in the kitchen, far behind the front reception, past the little snug bar they closed up long ago. She was baking, up to her elbows in flour and reluctant to leave the job at hand. Still she found the rhythm of kneading and sieving relaxing. Memories of busy and blithe times flooded her thoughts as bread took shape.
‘Sit there, dear, Archie will be back in a moment, he’s just gone to get more fuel.’ Iris pointed to a large kitchen chair. It had been her mother-in-law’s. She had sat in it when she was too old to make her way about the kitchen usefully, too interested in the goings-on not to be included, too wise not to be involved.
‘It’s really cosy here,’ Kate said and she leaned her hands towards the old stove.
‘Ah, you can’t beat the Aga, can you? It heats all of our living areas and I can bake and cook on it, the only downside is poor Archie spends his time filling it with turf.’ Iris smiled now at Kate. ‘You look much happier than you did, my dear.’
‘Thank you.’ Kate smiled, her eyes gleaming like one who hasn’t known simple happiness in some time. ‘I feel much happier. It’s this place and the people. It’s very… special.’
‘Yes, you need to watch it all right; it can get under your skin a bit.’ Iris knew what she talking about. ‘Anyway, if it does you good…’ Iris turned out the flour.
‘Ah, you’re back. Nice walk?’ Archie shook off the old jacket from across his shoulders. ‘I was just getting the…’ he looked down helplessly at the basket of turf, ‘the stuff we put in the fires.’ He shook his head. ‘Tea, dear?’ he asked, making his way towards the kettle. His mother had instilled in him many years ago that anyone visiting needed tea. It was like the remedy to all ills, the cure for all tribulations. He pulled the old steam kettle onto the hot plate and, before long; he was heating the pot and setting the world to rights with a couple of spoons of tea leaves. He placed the pot at the end of the long scrubbed baking table. ‘There’s something on your mind?’ He beckoned Kate to move her chair nearer while he pulled one out for himself.
‘It’s that obvious?’
‘Everything is obvious once you reach my age, dear, it’s the Lord’s way of saving you valuable time trying to work things out. It has to do with the bathhouse?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled at him now. ‘I’d like to buy it from you.’ She let out a deep breath, as though saying the words caused surprise in her own mind. ‘Or at least take it over, start up the baths again.’
‘I thought you might. You know we’ve had offers before, people who looked at it and thought…’
‘I don’t want to pull it apart, I want to keep it exactly as it is. I’d like to move here and run it as it should be run.’
‘And, forgive me, dear, but you could afford to do that, to throw up your life in England and move back here?’ Iris glanced at Kate before making her way to the oven.
‘I think what my wife is trying to say is that, well you can see for yourself, you won’t be making a lot of money here for a good part of the year.’
‘Maybe not on the tearooms, but I’d say there’s a good business in the baths. If I bring in a therapist or two, maybe look at developing the seaweed business again.’
‘Aye. True enough, that wasn’t something we ever really followed up. Truth be told, there was probably a whole business there, but we just didn’t have the time.’
‘No, nor the heart.’ Iris looked at Archie, but he hardly met her eyes. She sat down at the table beside them. At the window, she saw a large black cat snake past in the shadows. The wind was beginning to brew again and the chimney echoed its lonely howl. ‘I hadn’t expected this,’ she whispered, ‘the bathhouse opened up again.’ She smiled, a small swell of pleasure rippling down her back. ‘It is a good time, Archie, it’ll be sixty years this year, time to let it go.’
‘I’ve known that for a long time, Iris,’ he placed a hand across hers. It was aged, speckled and shaking, but it was still strong and comforting. He still made her feel safe and cherished. ‘It was just waiting for the right person to come along.’
‘Kate, I think he’s saying that you are that person.’ Iris met Archie’s eyes, they were still brown and kind, but they seemed always on the edge of tears now. His smile let one escape so it ran unchecked down his cheek. ‘It’s right, isn’t it?’
‘It’s right.’ They drank their tea in celebration and some of the loneliness of their past lifted from them that evening.
*
They sorted out the details quickly. At this stage, making a profit came far down on Iris’s list. It had never really figured for Archie. They would have handed it over to her gladly, just to know she would look after it. After all, she was family; but she was a solicitor too and she insisted on having it all above board.
‘We should go down and say our goodbyes,’ Archie said a few weeks later when they were getting ready to sign the papers. ‘It will be Kate’s tomorrow.’ His voice petered off, of course, in many ways although they owned it; it had never been truly theirs. How can you accept something that comes with such a high price tag?
‘Better if I wait until it’s cleaned up and fresh,’ what Iris did not say was that the decay of the place could kill her. It was silly of course. Robert was long gone and it made no difference to him now. That was half the problem though; she had never let him go.
*
1957
Iris did not hear Clive call her and she hadn’t thought about the possibility that anyone would rescue her. By the time Clive took her from the water, she was almost dead. They brought her back to the castle, and there she lay for four days. On the brink of pneumonia, it seemed like Iris would die if not of one thing, then of another. Feverish and incoherent, the story of her predicament came from her without her even realizing it.
Before she woke, it was settled.
Clive’s mother was probably more upset than Mrs Burns was.
‘Well, she’s stuck with him as a son-in-law, isn’t she?’ her mother said coldly. ‘At least, well, we’ll be all right.’
‘You’ll come to Paris with me,’ Pamela said flatly. It was just days since she had married, but already she seemed to have the assurance that came with b
eing Lady Pamela. ‘No one need ever know. The child can as easily be put up for adoption there as here.’
‘I cannot just go to Paris with you and Clive.’
‘Of course you can, it’s for the best, mother agrees.’ Pamela looked across at their mother. It was done.
‘It’s better than the alternative you were thinking of.’ Maureen Burns would be hard-pushed to choose which was the bigger sin, sex or suicide. Iris knew that she was just relieved that she was alive. ‘Pamela is right. It’s the best thing to do.’
‘When is William getting married?’ Iris despised how weak and feeble she sounded.
‘They married this morning, just family as witnesses. We won’t be seeing them for a very long time. The Consulate offered him a junior position in the embassy in Boston. Clive’s mother is devastated, but then Clarissa was always a bit wild.’
‘It will be fine, Iris, you’ll see. You will head off to Paris. Pamela will look after you until you have the baby. Sure, wouldn’t any girl your age be delighted to be seeing a glamorous city like Paris. Who knows, you might be coming home to me a proper lady, speaking French and everything.’ Her mother was trying to make the most of things, but they both knew this had to be heart-breaking for her. Iris thought she would die of shame for the way she had behaved. She almost wished Clive had left her where she was, at the bottom of that cold lake.
*
Paris was not at all what Iris or Pamela had expected. Their mother waved them off at Dublin Airport. If it weren’t for what lay ahead of her, Iris might have been excited at the idea of her first flight and her first time leaving Irish soil. The embassy supplied Clive and Pamela with an apartment in a smart part of the city – from what Iris could see, most of Paris was smart, but then she didn’t venture too far in the early days. They had a maid called Marianne and a little car that none of them drove. Iris was not sure where Marianne had come from, but Pamela explained that the Earl’s wife always had help. Her mother-in-law had secured Marianne and she would cook, clean and generally take on tasks that were considered beneath Pamela now. Iris liked Marianne from the start and they spent many evenings in her little flat admiring the fashion magazines that Marianne adored. It was Marianne who took the girls to the best dressmakers in Paris. She showed Iris how to give her drab Irish clothes some je ne sais quoi!
