Those Faraday Girls

by Monica McInerney

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Farrelly —’

  ‘Faraday.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Faraday, but both Mrs and Mr O’Toole are away on holidays at the moment. If you like, I can take a message and they could get in touch with you when they return.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  Not for another fortnight, she told him. Leo thought about it. No, he couldn’t wait that long. He’d approach another cleaning company instead. One in the UK. Perhaps that would make more sense, anyway.

  ‘Would you like to leave a message, sir?’

  He hesitated. He looked at the folder; at the information about the company; at the photo of the woman on the front who looked uncannily like Sadie. The brochures did say they were the most successful company of their kind. But he was too impatient. He wanted to talk to someone about it now, not in two weeks’ time.

  ‘No, thank you all the same. Have a lovely day.’

  He hung up, put the folder to one side and reached for the yellow pages instead.

  Sadie laughed at the expression on Larry’s face. They’d been there for four days now and he didn’t look any more impressed with the scenery or the view than he had when they first arrived.

  ‘Where’s the asphalt? Where are all the cars? What’s that green stuff over there?’

  ‘It’s called grass.’

  ‘And that watery stuff? Next to that sandy stuff?’

  Sadie laughed. ‘It’s called the sea. And that sandy stuff is a beach. Children love it. That’s why we’re here, remember?’

  ‘Constance wouldn’t know if she was in a sandpit or a bag of kitty litter yet. Don’t blame her for this disaster of a holiday.’

  From her seat under the umbrella a few metres away, Maudie laughed too. ‘You stop that moaning. I know you’re having a great time. You’re just pretending. I think he wants to move down here, don’t you, Mum?’

  It was a beautiful house, newly renovated, looking out over the sea and the valley, on the south-west coast of County Kerry, the bottom tip of the country. It had made sense to stay in Ireland for their summer holidays rather than try to carry everything to Spain or France. They needed so much luggage these days. Sadie had forgotten how much equipment a baby needed. At ten months of age, Constance was a beautifully behaved baby, sunny-natured like her mother and grandfather, but she still made a big mess too. Another good reason to have this kind of self-catering holiday. The washing machine had been going constantly since they arrived.

  It had been Sadie’s decision to come to this particular spot. She’d spent an afternoon on her computer looking up holiday web sites before finding this one. It was perfect, just four hours from Dublin. Lorcan, Maudie’s partner, would be joining them for two weeks of it, but they were so close he’d been able to come down for the weekend as well, in between jobs. It was also at the opposite end of the country from Donegal.

  The key to this holiday for all of them was relaxation. Larry had been forced to slow down. He’d had a minor heart attack six months earlier. It had been one of the most frightening nights of Sadie’s life. From now on, it was less work and more fun.

  Larry had been easy to convince. He’d frightened himself too. ‘I don’t want my granddaughter growing up without her grandfather to look out for her.’

  Sadie ignored the pang his words gave her. She’d learned to ignore it. Especially during the past year, when she had thought many times about how easy it would be to reconnect with her own family. Had she made the right decision that day with Maggie? She had to believe it. Not just for her sake, for her own peace of mind, but for Larry, Maudie, Lorcan and Constance. That was part of being a family. Realising that any decision she made, any action she took, wouldn’t affect only her but all of them as well. A ripple effect or a tidal wave – either way, she knew she wasn’t going to allow it to happen. She would still write to Maggie and she would still love receiving her letters. But she could never have more than that. She had done just one thing differently since she met Maggie. She had sent her a birthday card as usual, but she had added a new sentence: ‘Please give Leo and the others my love.’ She meant it too. She had thought of Leo going to all that trouble, hiring a private detective. She remembered all the letters she had received from her sisters in the early years. She knew she couldn’t see them again. But she could send a message, at least.

  She looked at her husband stretched on the sun lounge beside her, wearing a ridiculous hat, bouncing Constance on his knee and singing her a nonsense song that made her laugh. She could hear Maudie in the kitchen now, beginning to prepare their lunch, humming to herself.

  It was true what people said, Sadie realised. You couldn’t have everything. But sometimes you could come close.

  Maggie moved her passport from one hand to another. She’d been in the immigration queue for nearly an hour now. She’d kept herself busy looking at everyone around her. She counted the people in the different queues. She counted the number of desks, the number of immigration officers. She divided one into the other. She counted the posters carrying warnings. She counted the number of people with red hair, black hair and blonde hair.

  She counted the minutes until she would see Gabriel again.

  ‘Come forward, ma’am.’

  She stepped towards the desk, handed over her passport, her heart thumping, even though she knew all her permits were in order. Dora, Gabriel’s mother, had helped her with those. Not just with the permits either. She’d found the job for her in the first place.

  They’d received the message from her while they were sitting in a seaside café in Italy. She and Gabriel were midway through their six months of travelling. They’d started in London, spending time with Leo, before going up to Manchester to see Juliet and Myles. From there they had flown to Paris. After that, they had gone wherever the urge took them. They had one rucksack each. They stood at railway-station platforms, looked up at the boards and chose destinations at random. They crisscrossed Europe. If they liked a town, they stayed for a week. If they didn’t like it, they still stayed for a minimum of two days, to give the place another chance. They were the only rules they’d set themselves. The rest they took as it came.

  The text from Dora had been brief but to the point: Juicy job for Maggie. Ring asap.

  A friend of hers, a very rich woman, had set up a philanthropic fund, financing projects all around New York. She was generous and she had the ideas, but she had no business experience. She’d told Dora she needed someone with a brain, a conscience and a flair for numbers. Someone like that doesn’t exist, though, do they? she’d lamented.

  Oh, yes they do, Dora had said.

  Maggie had talked about it with Gabriel. She’d rung Dora’s friend from a phone box on the esplanade of the Italian village. They’d spoken for an hour. Maggie had made her decision before she hung up. She’d do it.

  It had changed their plans. They had intended to fly to Tasmania and spend time with Clementine before she went to Antarctica. She hadn’t delayed her trip in the end. Maggie hadn’t asked her to. She wanted Clementine to go ahead with her research. She knew what it meant to her. And as Clementine had said, there were emails these days. It wasn’t as if she was completely cut off. They’d emailed each other more since Clementine had been down there than they ever had before, in fact.

  Maggie would soon see it all for herself. Instead of visiting Clementine in Hobart, they’d decided to fly to Antarctica instead. They’d already booked. One of the few tourist flights. They’d get to spend a night with her. It made perfect sense, Miranda had said. Clementine in her natural habitat.

  ‘That’s fine, ma’am, thank you.’ Maggie was finally cleared to go through by the immigration official.

  Gabriel was waiting just outside the doors for her. He’d gone through the fast channel with his US passport.

  ‘Welcome to New York,’ he said, kissing her, as though it had been months, not minutes, since they’d seen each other. ‘I was starting to think they weren’t going to let yo
u in.’

  ‘I was getting worried myself.’

  ‘Here, let me take that.’ As she passed her bag over, a frayed piece of the strap caught on her ring. On one of her rings, at least. They stopped, heads bent over, trying to untangle it.

  ‘My own fault for being so showy,’ she said.

  ‘My own fault for being such a generous fiancé,’ he replied, smiling back.

  She had worn both engagement rings for the past six months. They were simple designs, each with thin silver bands – one a tiny diamond, the other a delicate emerald. He had given them to her just a few weeks before they left on their trip. She had moved out of Miranda’s friend’s apartment the month before. She had been staying with Gabriel since. His doctor flatmate had gone to live with his girlfriend, and his writer flatmate had decided to move to New Orleans. They had the apartment to themselves.

  They’d become lovers the first night they were there together. It had been all Maggie had hoped, and it had got even better every time since. They made love to each other as well as they made each other laugh. They enjoyed long lazy days in bed as much as they enjoyed long conversations in bars and over restaurant tables. They were hungry for each other. They felt right together. Maggie still felt a small jolt of happiness each time she looked at him. She felt something else too. Love, certainty and contentment. She knew he felt the same way about her. He told her often.

  On the way back home from seeing a film one night, they’d crossed Washington Square. He remembered another promise they had made in that same place, more than a year before, the first night they met. She had dared him to sing in public, and in return she had promised to eat snails.

  She reminded him she hated snails. He said he was sorry to hear that, but a dare was a dare. The following night, he took her to the finest French restaurant he could find. They both dressed up, Gabriel in a suit, Maggie in a black dress with a jet necklace. The waiters were polite, with just the right amount of superciliousness.

  They delivered the snails, six of them, on a specially shaped silver plate.

  Maggie looked down at them in disgust. ‘Do I really have to?’

  ‘I think so. Our whole relationship depends on it. It’s all about give and take, Maggie. You know that.’

  She picked one up with the tiny silver fork. She could smell the garlic. The butter dripped onto her finger.

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Of course you can. We can’t tell our children in years to come that their parents’ marriage proposal fell in a heap because their mother refused to do the first part of it.’

  Maggie dropped the snail.

  ‘What marriage proposal?’

  ‘The one I’m about to propose. You can propose a proposal, can’t you? Or is that bad English?’

  ‘It’s good English. I like the sound of it anyway.’ She looked down at the snails again and back up at him. ‘The marriage proposal depends on me eating these?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve hidden the rings inside two of the snail shells and you have to find them.’

  ‘The rings? Plural?’

  ‘It’s our second engagement, I realised. Then I realised I didn’t give you a ring for our first engagement. So I’m making up for it now.’

  ‘You’ve put the rings inside the snails?’

  ‘I didn’t. The chef did.’

  ‘Oh, Gabriel.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m just not sure —’

  ‘About getting married?’

  ‘No, I’m completely sure about that. Sorry, didn’t I say yes?’

  ‘Well, no. But I didn’t put it to you as a question either.’

  ‘Could you do that now? Make it romantic? And we could worry about the rings later?’

  ‘It’s not very romantic to do it without the rings.’

  ‘It’s more romantic than doing it with the snails, I promise.’

  He reached across, moved the snails, took her hand and asked, very solemnly, ‘Maggie Faraday, would you please do me the honour of getting engaged to me again? Only this time for real. And we have to get married at the end of this one.’

  ‘I would love to. I would love that very much. But you do know what you’re getting yourself into? I come with a complete, ready-made family. Too many aunts. A mad grandfather —’

  ‘That’s why I’m marrying you. For them, not you.’ He smiled. ‘That’s not why I’m marrying you. I’m marrying you because you are the best person I have ever met in my life. And not only that, the most beautiful. And the kindest —’

  As it turned out, he had a long list of reasons why he wanted to marry her. She gave him a long list of the reasons why she wanted to marry him too.

  By the time they’d finished, the snails had gone cold.

  ‘What a shame. I can’t eat them now, can I? The chef would be very angry.’ She picked one up and started shaking it. Butter flew across the table.

  Gabriel ducked. ‘Why are you doing that?’

  ‘I’m trying to find the rings.’

  ‘Look behind you.’

  The waiter was carrying a tray. On it were two small boxes. He passed them across to Gabriel with dignity. No fanfare, no corny music, no balloons.

  ‘These are for you, Maggie,’ Gabriel said. ‘With all my love.’

  She accepted them, with as much love. She had worn them every day since.

  The crowds were growing bigger all around them in the airport as more people came through immigration. Gabriel finally untangled the thread from her rings. He helped her put her rucksack back on. She helped him with his.

  ‘Ready?’ he said now.

  She smiled. ‘Ready,’ she replied.

  It was time to go home.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My love and thanks to my families and friends in Australia and Ireland for their constant support and encouragement, with special thanks to my three sisters, Maura, Marie and Lea, and to my mum Mary. My extra-special thanks to Maura for getting insomnia just when I needed her beautiful emails and expert help twenty-four hours a day.

  Thank you for the loan of family stories, help with research and much more to: Max and Jean Fatchen, Noelle Harrison, Madonna Noonan, Fiona Gillies, Merran Gillies, Imojen Pearce, Bill Page, Sarah Conroy, Brona Looby, Maria Dickenson, Stephanie Dickenson, Carol George, Lyn Vernon, Kristin Gill, Jenny Newman, Margie Arnold, Sinead Moriarty, Helen Peakin, Melanie Scaife, Fiona McIntosh, Karen O’Connor, Maeve O’Meara, Alicia Humeniuk, Noelene Turner, James Williams, Marea Fox, Andrew Storey, Margaret, Tony and Julie Fox, Jane Melross, Rod, Lizzie and Joe Arnold, Marie Harrington, Jean Weir, Janet Grecian, Christopher Pearce, Amanda Wojtowicz and Bruce and Vicki Montgomery.

  Thank you to my niece Ruby Clements for being the perfect five-year-old.

  Thanks to all my publishers, especially Ali Watts, Saskia Adams, Anne Rogan, Dan Ruffino, Sally Bateman, Felicity Vallence, Cathy Larsen, Robert Sessions, Gabrielle Coyne and everyone at Penguin Australia; Imogen Taylor, Trisha Jackson and David Adamson at Pan Macmillan in the UK; Cormac Kinsella of Repforce in Ireland; and Laura Ford, Lisa Barnes and all at Random House in the US. My thanks also go to the Books Alive team in Australia, especially Sandra Yates, Brett Osmond, Margaret Burke, Andy Palmer, Tim Fitzgerald and to Sue Hill of the Big Book Club.

  Thank you to my agents: Fiona Inglis and all at Curtis Brown Australia; Jonathan Lloyd, Camilla Goslett, Kate Cooper and Alice Lutyens at Curtis Brown UK; Christy Fletcher at Fletcher Parry in New York; Anoukh Foerg in Munich and Roberto Santachiara in Italy.

  And, as always, all my love and thanks to my husband John.

 

 

 
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