by Laura Elliot
‘No sense suffering in silence, Enright,’ she’d said. ‘It’s time to tell me why your heart is breaking.’
It had seemed strange to breathe private confessions into the ear of a woman he hardly knew. But she had listened and hadn’t passed judgement. Instead she’d spoken of lost loves and lost opportunities. After divorcing two husbands, she’d settled on cats as the only tolerable live-in companions. The phone had rung when he was in the kitchen turning steaks.
‘Must be the office,’ he’d shouted. ‘Take a message and tell them I’ll ring back.’
‘No one spoke.’ Ellen had lowered the music when he’d returned. ‘But I could hear someone breathing.’ She’d figured it had been a crank call. One of the many crazies who haunted the Big Apple.
‘Eva, listen to me… You’re talking about Ellen Lloyd. She’s a good friend, and quite ancient.’
‘Ancient?’ Eva laughed, unamused. ‘Then she must be the same age as my business partner. It’s such a relief that neither of us has anything to worry about.’
‘I miss you, Eva.’ He was weary of these brittle exchanges. ‘There’s no one else in my life. No one but you.’
Her voice was softer when she spoke again. ‘When you come home for Christmas we’ll talk.’
‘Can I stay with you in the cottage?’ he asked.
‘I’d like that.’
‘Eva… do you still love me?’
‘I’m confused and I’m angry. But love doesn’t die easily.’ Her words were hesitant but he sensed their truth. Soon they would be together. In the spirit of Christmas they would find a new path.
The season of goodwill was a short break in the Big Apple where the population faltered briefly in its pursuit of the big buck. Unlike in Ireland, where the population glutted on pleasure and sloth for a week. Who was right? Who was wrong? What did it matter? Greg was not coming home for Christmas.
Stateside Review had planned a festive special that he would present. In the hostels of the greatest democracy in the world he would walk among the homeless who had found shelter at the inn. Cameras would be aimed at their grateful faces. There would be many politicians present.
He reminded his producer that a flight home at Christmas had been built into his contract.
‘What d’ya expect us to do? Line up the bums a week beforehand and feed them turkey so you can have a holiday?’ His new producer was a man who did not mince his words. ‘Get fucking real, Enright.’
‘I can fight this on a point of principle.’ He tried to make Eva understand. ‘But they’ll find an excuse to shaft me when I get back. Things are uncertain at the moment. Falling ratings. I can’t take the chance. Why don’t you fly out here?’
‘I won’t close until late on Christmas Eve. You know it’s impossible.’
‘Nothing’s impossible, if you make the effort.’
‘You make the effort then.’
‘I told you! I’m filming on Christmas Day.’
‘Then we’re hardly going to have time to pull the turkey wishbone together, are we?’
‘I suppose you’ll do that with your business partner,’ he snapped back.
She hung up on him. How quickly arguments flared between them. So silly to believe a marriage could be saved in a festive atmosphere of holly and mistletoe.
Stateside Review filmed the unwashed, the unloved, the forgotten. Smooth-faced congressmen shook Greg by the hand and offered their tanned profiles to the camera. He returned to his apartment to shower away the smell of overcooked vegetables and took a cab to Kieran Grant’s house.
Albert Grant was present at the Christmas feast, his complexion gleaming with good cheer and fine malt. His sister sank deep into the cushions of an armchair and sipped sherry. Marjory Tyrell had the vague look of someone who would forget names as soon as the introductions were made. A cigarette dangled dangerously from her fingers. The hostess cast desperate looks in her direction and nudged ashtrays under her hands. The guests recreated an Irish Christmas, becoming noisily jolly and singing nostalgic ballads. They argued about politics and religion. Albert made a rousing speech about Ireland’s finest asset. He raised his glass in Greg’s direction and inclined his head graciously towards Ireland’s youth – her diaspora, long may they spawn the world. Greg felt a hundred years old. He wondered how soon it would be appropriate to leave.
His wife was sleeping alone that festive night. Last Christmas, in her parents’ house when everyone was in bed, and Faye was contentedly sleeping close by them, they had made love in front of the fire. The room had flickered with flame and passion. Such pleasure, deep yet soaring, lifting them, sinking them into each other’s being. How could it fade so quickly?
He saw her image that night in Kieran’s house, a photograph on top of a display cabinet. A young woman, laughing, blonde hair falling over her eyes.
Marjory Tyrell followed his gaze. ‘My child,’ she sighed. ‘My poor lamb.’
Chapter 47
Christmas week was hectic. Most of the time Eva was out on the road making deliveries while Muriel shifted poinsettia and chrysanthemums, holly wreaths and Christmas cherries. When the last customer left on Christmas Eve, they locked the gates of the centre and drank a toast. They were exhausted and giddy, unable to wind down now that the rush was over. The centre resembled a scene from the Blitz but the cash register had keyed in profits. Her business partner would be pleased. Earlier, he had stopped by to say goodbye; he was driving to the country to stay with relatives.
‘I wanted you to have this.’ He’d handed her a parcel wrapped in gold foil paper. When she’d opened it she found a painting of Murtagh’s River. A strange abstract image, as if the river flowed through a shrouded landscape where nothing had a recognisable shape, sound and movement suspended. Their first meeting place.
‘It’s beautiful.’ She’d been immediately embarrassed at not having a gift to give him in return.
He’d brushed aside her apology. ‘It’s the first thing I’ve painted in years that gave me pleasure. I wanted to share it with you.’
She’d walked with him towards his car.
‘I’ll see you in the New Year,’ he’d said and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. The sudden image of their mouths opening in a deep, searing kiss had shocked her equally as much as the jolting excitement that shivered through her. He too had seemed infused with the same desire and when she’d pulled away she’d been aware of an almost physical wrench separating them. Inside the car she’d seen the glowering face of Lindsey McKeever and an elderly woman who’d smiled back at Eva as he’d driven them away to celebrate a family Christmas.
It was late on Christmas Eve when she reached her parents’ house. At midnight Mass she dozed off, unmoved by the singing and the wafting clouds of incense drifting over the congregation. Yet when she went to bed, she was unable to sleep. Peter Wallace intruded on her thoughts too often. His direct gaze, always watching her. When he’d first come to her caravan and by the river, even when she’d sat mourning Faye, he had watched her. She remembered the close, almost claustrophobic feeling when they’d walked through the copse at the back of Havenstone, his strong grasp on her waist when she’d slipped. What was happening to her? Was it a reaction to Greg’s decision to remain in New York? He made excuses, repeated apologies. His words had a hollow echo and the imagined face of Ellen Lloyd was vibrant, young – as sensuous as the dawn on a Portuguese mountain.
Her relations came to Wind Fall on Christmas morning, the Frawleys and the Loughreys, hearty voices noisily greeting each other, hugging Eva too tightly. Maria arrived, radiant, accompanied by the first two-legged love of her life. Desmond Thorpe was a rugged man with good shoulders and a strong pair of hands for handling high-spirited fillies.
‘Magnificent in jodhpurs,’ Maria confided to her cousin, her eyes glowing joyously.
‘Spare me the lurid details,’ Eva warned. ‘And run as fast as you can in the opposite direction.’
Her friend placed two fingers in her ears
and said, ‘I’m joyously deaf. Shut up.’ She skirted around the subject of Greg’s absence before asking outright if their marriage was over.
‘Was it ever on?’ Eva replied. ‘We had nothing in common. Nothing. When it came to making choices between his career and his marriage there was no competition. Do we have to talk about him today? I’d much rather hear about Desmond. Tell me everything. I mean everything.’
Maria moaned happily. ‘Where do I begin?’
Dinner was boisterous. They wore party hats and read silly riddles from Christmas crackers. It was their first Christmas without Brigid Loughrey and everyone was determined to be merry. This time last year Faye had been a bundle of love passed from one set of arms to the next. They toasted absent friends and Liz cried quietly into a paper tissue printed with holly.
Greg rang from New York. He was sharing a meal with some Irish friends. When his call ended Eva told her mother she was returning to the cottage.
Liz protested, shocked at her decision. ‘I have to go.’ Eva had no excuse to offer her. The words became a mantra. ‘I have to go.’
Liz followed her to the bedroom. ‘What about your marriage?’ she demanded. ‘You hit the first wall and that’s it, is it? Is that all your husband means to you?’ She fired questions, her face flushed, sternly challenging. Did Eva think her marriage to Steve was easy in those early years? Their dreams falling apart month after month. ‘It’s not that easy to cope with a failed IVF procedure, no matter what you might think,’ she cried.
Eva winced back from her anger. She sank to the edge of the bed and placed her hands over her face, shamed. ‘I’ll never forgive myself for that remark, Liz. All I can do is ask you to forgive me.’
Her mother’s shoulders slumped, weary suddenly from the intensity of emotion in the room. ‘Go if you must,’ she said. ‘But remember this, Eva – grief is a lonely journey if you insist on walking it alone.’
Chapter 48
This was Connie’s first visit to Anaskeagh. Until then, she had resisted all of Beth’s invitations. Anaskeagh was Barry’s life before they’d met and she had always displayed a quiet deference towards his wife’s wish that their paths never cross. She only agreed to come when she heard that Marjory was once again spending Christmas in New York.
Peter escorted her into the house, carrying her suitcase and leaving Lindsey to trail behind. Trouble was brewing, Beth observed; it was obvious from his grim silence and Lindsey’s sullen glare, which changed to a delighted shriek when she greeted Stewart. Soon afterwards they left together for a long walk, something they always did whenever Lindsey visited Anaskeagh. Beth had no idea what they spoke about during their time together, and they didn’t confide in her. She felt no resentment at being on the sidelines of the close-knit relationship they had always shared. It would be Stewart, not she or Peter, who would bring their child through this crisis.
‘She was arguing with Peter the whole way down,’ said Connie when Beth showed her into the spare bedroom. ‘She’s a bold brat when she makes up her mind to torment a body.’ She gazed out the window over the darkening headland. ‘Barry talked so much about Anaskeagh. I’m glad I’ve had a chance to see it at last.’ She smiled and hugged her daughter-in-law. ‘You’re looking well, pet. Don’t worry about Lindsey. She’s a prickly little madam but her heart’s in the right place. I’d be lost without her these days.’
The spirit of Christmas did not improve Lindsey’s mood. She deliberately stepped out of Peter’s way every time he walked past. His gift to her remained unopened under the tree. He had chosen his gifts with care this year: a book on traditional music for Robert, a magician’s set for Paul, and Gail’s present – a toy dolphin that could swim and leap in the bath – created such excitement that she insisted on Peter filling the kitchen sink and showing her how it worked.
He pretended not to notice Lindsey’s unopened present. Nor did he react when she refused to sit near him during Christmas dinner. He even remained calm when she contradicted him every time he spoke. Connie ordered her to behave, using a tone of voice that would have invoked instant rebellion if Beth had tried it. Lindsey subsided for a short while but her resentment cast a pall over the festivities. Stewart was the lash she used. Never had her love for him been displayed so openly, and she seemed elated by the tension she created.
‘Have you any idea how much you’re upsetting everyone, especially your father?’ Beth asked when she found her wrapped in her anorak in the back garden, swaying listlessly on Gail’s swing.
‘Which one are you talking about?’ Lindsey snapped back. ‘The one with my heart or my DNA? What did you ever see in him? You must have been stoned out of your mind.’
From the mouths of aggressive teenagers, thought Beth as she retreated indoors, a truth could sometimes shine.
Nuala O’Neill drove to the bungalow the following afternoon and announced that she had sold three of Lindsey’s paintings before Christmas. This innocent remark proved to be the spark that struck the tinderbox. Afterwards, Beth could only wonder how the row hadn’t erupted sooner.
‘I’d love to see your work, Lindsey.’ Peter was unable to hide his pleasure as Nuala discussed the sold paintings. Beth watched the storm clouds gather as he asked Lindsey about her techniques and the materials she used.
Lindsey, tired of her monosyllabic replies, jumped to her feet. ‘Mind your own business and stop poking your nose into mine,’ she yelled. ‘This has nothing to do with you and never will – understand?’ She turned to Stewart and smiled brilliantly. ‘I need fresh air, Dad. How about a walk? I’ll get my jacket.’ She stalked from the room, leaving a stunned silence behind.
Nuala looked bewildered. ‘Was it something I said? I’ve never seen Lindsey behave that way before.’
‘Count yourself lucky,’ sighed Stewart, rising to accompany his wayward child on a walk over the blustery headland.
Nuala left shortly afterwards. Connie retired for a nap. She was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, looking old and vulnerable in a way that worried Beth. But Connie insisted she was simply tired – too much rich food. She closed her eyes and waved Beth from the bedroom. Robert went off to join his friends on Turnabout Bridge, a meeting place for teenagers. He was creating a new musical wave, he told Peter. Celtic rock rage was a protest against manufactured boy bands and would soon take the country by storm.
‘Sounds like Horslips on speed.’ Peter laughed. ‘How do you intend promoting this new wave?’
‘I’ve formed a band,’ replied Robert. ‘We’re called Hot Vomit. Packs a punch, don’t you think?’
‘Right in the gut,’ agreed his uncle. ‘I’d love to hear you sometime. Perhaps when I’m senile and totally deaf.’
Peter left soon afterwards. ‘I’m sorry to have been the cause of so much upset,’ he told Beth. ‘Coming here wasn’t a good idea.’
‘Lindsey’s rudeness is unforgivable,’ Beth replied. ‘I don’t know what to say…’ She faltered before his penetrating gaze. ‘She’s stressed over repeating her Leaving—’
‘Beth, stop pretending. We can’t keep up this charade any longer. You must tell me the truth about Lindsey. Sara knew. I convinced myself she was lying. That she’d found another way to torment me but, deep down, I realised it was true. I’ve lived with the knowledge since then but I need to hear you say it out loud.’
She bowed her head, weary of lies and prevarication. ‘Lindsey is your child. But she’s Stewart’s daughter. She loves Stewart too much to let go of any part of their relationship. You’ll lose her if you attempt to take that from her.’
‘What can I do?’ he asked bleakly. ‘How can I reach her, knowing she hates me so much?’
‘Stop trying so hard. Nothing about Lindsey is easy but if you give her the space she needs then maybe you’ll both be able to form a different bond in the future. For the moment the only room she needs is in here.’ She touched her head with her index finger.
He offered to come back at the end of the week to collect Conn
ie. Beth told him she had an important meeting in Dublin early in the new year and would drive Connie home then. On his way out, they passed the open door of their daughter’s bedroom. Paint tubs and brushes were heaped untidily on the floor. His eyes rested hungrily on an easel holding a half-finished canvas. What would their lives have been like if they’d stayed together? Beth wondered. Reared their child and the others who followed? Useless speculations, filled with the reverberations of old passions. An abstract thought, fleeting. Once it had filled her world.
He was gone when Lindsey returned. She pretended not to notice.
Chapter 49
Eva spent time preparing an evening meal – fresh herbs and an expensive white wine poured generously into a sauce that bubbled gently when she added chicken and sun-dried tomatoes. She placed it on the coffee table and watched it congeal.
It was cold in her bedroom. She stood in front of the long cheval mirror and pulled a nightdress over her head, a sleek ivory robe she’d bought for her honeymoon. On those nights with Greg, it had enhanced her complexion. Now all it did was emphasise her pallor. She touched her face, cupped it with both hands, and stared into the mirror. Grief, like love, needed a companion.
She returned to the living room where the fire still burned brightly and the aroma of her untouched meal made her realise how little she’d eaten that day. She was about to pick up the phone to ring Greg when she heard the doorbell. Her body quivered with shock, her need for him so immediate that she believed he was standing outside. The thought died just as quickly and when the bell rang again, a prolonged, impetuous summons, she figured it was a motorist lost in the labyrinth of narrow country roads surrounding her cottage. She draped a jacket over her shoulders and opened the door.
Peter Wallace had started to walk away. He apologised for intruding so unexpectedly. He’d noticed the light when he was driving past. She could have reminded him that Grahamstown was now bypassed by a motorway but that would have added a personal element into their conversation.
