And Ella? Each day seemed to be forty-eight hours long. And no day seemed different from any other day nor any night from the one which followed.
It was just that the nights were worse.
Sleep would vanish. She would get up and pace around her room looking up at the shelf where she had hidden his briefcase and the laptop it contained. A hundred times she had wanted to take it to the Fraud Squad, say she had found it. They might be able to track down some of the money and rescue people like her father, like Brenda's friend Nora whose wedding savings were gone, like the man with the red face buying a villa, so he thought, for his wife who had a bad chest, like the pale woman on the television interview who said she knew she owned the flat because Don had shown her a picture of it.
But she couldn't do it.
He had trusted her, he never left that briefcase behind him, she used to joke that it was chained to his arm. She had delayed him by kissing him when he was leaving her flat in a rush that day but he hadn't worried or panicked. He hadn't called her or got anyone else to. He knew she would keep it safe for him.
And, in spite of all the evidence, she knew he would be coming back for her.
Anyway it was all down to Ricky Rice, he ran the whole show. Everyone knew that, people just did his bidding. Indeed, the very fact that Don had left the computer with her was some kind of message. Why hadn't she thought of that before?
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Of course he would just come walking back into her life to tell her that it had been sorted. A love like theirs wasn't the ordinary kind of affair that people thought it was.
He was just sorting things out.
At night it seemed clear and certain.
She just had to wait for it to happen.
It was during the days that it seemed unlikely. There was no message from Spain, no call on the mobile, no text message. And then one day there was the request for a meeting by the Fraud Squad. Did Ella have anything pertinent to their enquiries ? Like a list of files?
Ella looked the two men straight in the eye and said no, she had no files and no knowledge of anything that "would help them.
"He didn't give you anything to look after for him, Madam? Any records, that sort of thing?"
She wasn't quite sure why she said no. Strictly speaking it was true. He hadn't asked her to look after anything for him. But of course she was lying to them and she knew it. Why? she wondered. Why had she wrapped Don's laptop in a great amount of padding and put it deep in her suitcases of clothes that were on the way back to Tara Road? If they had a search warrant they would have found the little machine and she would have been in real trouble. But in a mad way she felt she owed it to him not to hand over something he had left in her care. And of course he knew she had it, so he might well get in touch with her about it.
It was a very unreal time. She would have been lost without her friends. Deirdre had been there day and night whenever she was needed. Sometimes they said nothing, they just listened to music. Sometimes they played gin rummy. Deirdre helped her to pack up all her things in the flat and move them back to Tara Road. Ella wanted to burn the sheets on the bed. Deirdre said this was no time for dramatic gestures; she would take them to the laundry and then give them to a charity shop.
It was Deirdre who explained to the landlord that Ella would not be in a position to pay any more rent, and could they cut the agreement short? Deirdre often made sure she was there in the evening, about suppertime, so that the family would have to give the appearance of normality and sit down and have something to eat.
Sometimes Deirdre asked her, "Do you still love him?"
Always Ella answered, "I don't know."
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I
Deirdre asked would she take him back suppose he did ask her? Ella took the question very seriously. "I think not, and when I look at my father's face, I think surely I'd never be able to look at Don again. But then I keep hoping there's some other explanation for the whole thing, which of course there isn't. So, crazy as it sounds, I must have some feelings for him still."
And Deirdre would nod and consider it too. Deirdre had insisted on only one thing: that she go in to the school and face them immediately. So Ella went to see the school principal.
Til leave whenever you want me to," she said.
"We don't want you to."
"But where's the bit about us giving a good example to the little flock?"
"The little flock would buy and sell us all, Ella, you know it, I know it."
"I can't stay, Mrs Ennis, not after this scandal."
"What did you do? You were taken in by a man. You won't be the first or the last to have that happen to you, let me tell you. You're a good teacher. Please don't go."
"The parents?"
"The parents will gossip for a couple of weeks and the kids will make jokes, then it will be forgotten."
I don't know if I can face it."
"What's to face? You have to look at people whatever job you do. And presumably you have to earn a living."
"Oh, I do, Mrs Ennis, I do."
"Then earn it here. Go on just to the end of the school year anyway. See how you feel then."
I might want to get out of teaching entirely, you know, try something different."
"If you do, then do it, but not in mid-year. You owe us this, and you owe it to yourself not to run away, like he did."
"You've been very understanding. Imagine an Irish convent school allowing a scarlet woman to stay on."
"You're not very scarlet, Ella, just a bit pink-eyed at the moment. Get back into those classrooms. The one thing we can all say about teaching is that it's demanding enough to take your mind off other things."
"Thank you, Mrs Ennis."
"Ella, he won't get away with it totally, you know. Even if he doesn't get a gaol sentence. He'll get some sort of punishment."
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I
Ella shrugged. "Whatever."
"He will. He can't swan around here any more, go to golf clubs, yacht clubs, be recognised in restaurants."
"They've all those things in Spain, too."
"Not the same at all. Anyway, none of my business. Hang in there for the rest of the year, will you, and then we'll talk again."
"You're very kind, very understanding."
"Well, we've all been there, Ella, and just between us, the late Mr Ennis, as he is often respectfully called, is not late, he's just out of the frame. He had a different view of his future which involved my savings account and a girl young enough to be his daughter, so of course I understand."
For days afterwards, Ella wondered whether she had imagined this conversation. It seemed highly unreal as did everything else these days. It was as if she were watching all these conversations on a stage rather than taking part in them.
First Sandy phoned. She still worked with Nick in Firefly Films.
"I just rang to say that if you were looking for extra work, there's always a bit of night work going here."
"Thanks, Sandy, that's very nice of you. Nick okay with this?"
"Yeah, but you know the way he is. He didn't want to ask you in case you thought he was patronising you or patting you on the head or something."
"I wouldn't think that."
Then are complicated."
"Tell me about it, Sandy."
"What'll I tell Nick?"
"Tell him I'd love it, anything at all."
And Brenda Brennan offered her work when Ella had telephoned to thank her for all the kindness. "If you want any weekend work here in Quentins, just ask. I know it's only a few euros when what you need is thousands, but it might be a start."
"Half the city wants to work in Quentins, you can't let me waltz in there ahead of the rest."
"There's a bit of solidarity among women, Ella. You got a punch in the face and now you need a hand up as well. You'll find a lot of people will offer one."
"Ella Brady?"
"Yes?" She always sounded jumpy and nervy on the teleph
one
now. It was a bad habit and she must get out of it.
"This is Ria Lynch from down the road."
"Oh yes, indeed."
There had been a time when this woman, rather than Ella, had been the subject of gossip all over Tara Road. Her husband had left her, and in a very short time Ria had taken up with Colm, who owned the successful suburban restaurant. The place had buzzed for a while, but now they were as settled and staid as any regular married couple. What could she be calling about?
I heard you were badly hit by Don Richardson, and I want to give you some advice. I thought I'd talk to you rather than your parents."
"Yes?" Ella had been a little cold. Unasked-for advice wasn't too welcome these days.
"Don't let your father sell the house to raise money. Change it into four flats; they were flats already - you're halfway there. You'll get a fortune for renting them. Then take your garden shed, make it bigger and live in it for a couple of years."
"Live in the shed?" Ella wondered if the woman was deranged.
"Look, it's enormous. All it needs is a couple of thousand spent on it, put in plumbing, and it can be made into two bedrooms, and a living-room with a kitchenette."
"We don't have a couple of thousand."
"You would have in weeks if you let your beautiful house. I'll take you and show you Colm's old house if you like. It's a gold mine. Everyone wants to live in this road these days, and there's so much money about."
"Why are you telling me this, Ria?" Ella had hardly ever talked properly to this woman before.
"Because we've all been through this - bankruptcy, a fellow not being what he said he was."
Ella wondered if this was true. Had half the country been cheated and duped?
One night she dreamed that he had sent her a text message on her mobile phone. Just two words: Sorry Angel, It was such a real dream Ella had to get up in the middle of the night and check her phone. There was nothing there but a message from Nick. I really need your help for a competition . . . Say yes." She phoned him next morning. He brought a sandwich up to the school and they had lunch in her car. His enthusiasm was as
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boyish as ever. There was going to be a film festival on a theme. Some aspect of Dublin life which would illustrate all the changes there had been in the city over the years.
"What kind of change do you mean? Architecture or something?"
"No, I don't think everyone will go for that," Nick said.
"Well, what then? The growth in Irish self-confidence?"
"Yes, but we can't just make a film saying everyone's becoming more confident. Lord, just look at those confident faces passing by . . . there has to be something that binds them together, some theme."
"And if we found one, what do we do next?"
"Go to New York and sell it to this fellow there who has a foundation. The King Foundation, to help young people in the arts. If we made this film, Ella, and won a prize at the Festival, we'd be made. Made, I tell you. Something that gives a picture of Dublin changing . .. Can you think of anything that sort of sums it all up?"
"Sorry to ask, Nick, but would there be money in it? You know we're cleaned out."
"I sort of heard," he said, looking away.
"So is there?"
"Yes, there would be, if we got the right idea."
"And -when would it need to be done?"
"We need to be ready to pitch in three months" time."
"That would work out all right. I could work during the day, once we get school holidays from here in two weeks from tomorrow."
"Do you have any ideas at all?" he asked.
She was silent for a moment. "Quentins," she said eventually.
"What do you mean?"
"Do a documentary about the restaurant, the changes in people's aspirations, their hopes and dreams, since it was founded about forty years ago."
"It's never been there that long."
"Well, it was a totally different kind of cafe in the sixties and early seventies, until Brenda and Patrick took it over. It was really only watery soup and beans on toast before then, you know."
"I didn't know that."
"Well, that's what people wanted then. And look how different it all is nowadays. You could tell the stories of the kind of people
76 who come there .. . how it's all changed since the days when it was full of people with suitcases tied with string come in for tea and a couple of fried eggs before they took the emigrant ship."
"It was never like that, surely?"
"It was, Nick. They have pictures of it all up in their bedroom, a whole history waiting to be told."
He didn't ask how she had been in the Brennans" bedroom. Nick was very restful sometimes. But he didn't buy the idea. "It would just be a plug for them. It would be like a commercial for the restaurant."
"They don't need it. Aren't they full all the time? No, it wouldn't be done like that ... it could be a series of interviews with people remembering different times . .. you know .. . oh, all kinds of things - the way First Communions have changed, stag party dinners, corporate entertaining. It sure tells the story of a changing economy better than anything I know."
He was interested now. "Other restaurants are going to be full of grizzles and complaints about why -we didn't pick them."
"Deal with that when it happens, Nick."
He looked at her admiringly. "You're very bright, Ella," he said.
"Where did it get me?" she asked.
"You asked about money," he said, changing the subject. "Well, this is what I suggest. If you help me develop this and sell it to Derry King, I'll pay you a proper wage for five weeks. Suppose I said eight hundred euros a "week?"
"That's four thousand euros. Fantastic," she said, delighted.
"What do you need it for so badly?"
"To do up the garden shed for my mother and father, because thanks to my lover, they are going to have to leave their own house."
He laughed first and then stopped. "You're bloody serious," Nick said, shocked.
"Yes, I am."
I can give it to you now, tomorrow."
"No, you can't, Nick."
I can. Let's say I can get my hands on it easier than you can."
"You're not to go into debt."
"No, but we've got to get the Bradys a henhouse or whatever to live in." He grinned at her.
Wouldn't it have been much easier if she had loved Nick, Ella thought.
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They made an appointment with the Brennans the next day. Nick and Sandy and Ella sat in the kitchen of Quentins at five o"clock and told them about the project. Brenda and Patrick were doubtful at first. They listed their reservations. It would be too much upheaval, it would get in the way of their main business, which was to provide food. They didn't need the publicity. Perhaps some of the customers might not like to be interviewed.
Slowly they were worn down. Soon they began to think of the positive side of it. In a way, it would be some kind of permanent proof of what they had done. It would be exciting to be considered part of the history of Ireland. Customers who didn't want to be interviewed need not be approached. They had huge amounts of memorabilia. Both of them were magpies who collected things and refused to throw them away. And then the most compelling reason of all ... Quentin would surely love it.
"Quentin?" Ella said. "You mean, there really is a living person called Quentin?"
"Oh yes, indeed there is," said Patrick Brennan the chef.
"Yes, he would," Brenda said slowly. "It could be a sort of monument to him."
"Could you tell us some of the stories about the place?" Ella asked, and a s she turned on the tape recorder she realised that for the past hour and a half she had not thought about Don Richardson once. The pain that was like something sticking into her ribs was not nearly so sharp. Still there, of course, but not like it had been earlier.
I
Q
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Quentin's Story
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Quentin Barry had always wished that he had been called Sean or Brian. It was hard to be called Quentin at a Christian Brothers school in the 1970's. But that was the name they had wanted, his beautiful mother Sara Barry had wanted, she who had always lived in a dream world far more elegant than the one she really lived in.
And it was what his hard-working father Derek wanted too. Derek, who was a partner in Bob O"Neill's accountancy firm. He had always seen the day when his son's name would be on the notepaper too. That had been very important to him. Bob O"Neill had no son to succeed him. If people saw the name Quentin Barry on the office paper as well as Derek's, they would know who was important.
Since his earliest days, Quentin knew that he was going to work in his father's firm. It was never questioned. He even knew which room he would work in. It was across the corridor from his father's. At present, it was a storeroom and his father was keeping it that way until it was time for Quentin to take over.
The other lads at the Brothers didn't know what jobs, if any, they would get when they left school. A few of them might go to university. Some might go to England or America. There would, of course, be a couple of vocations to the priesthood or the Brothers.
Quentin used to pretend that he too had a choice in it all. He said that he might be a pilot or a car mechanic. These were things
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that sounded normal and masculine. Not like his name, not precious, like his lifestyle as an only child with a mother who looked like a film star and talked very fancy when she drove by school to collect her son in a cream-coloured car.
Maeve Binchy Page 9
