After her third gin and tonic and a hastily prepared white pudding sandwich to soak up the alcohol and absorb the slurring, Oonagh made Marianne promise she would come to ‘the session’ planned for Maguire’s the following evening.
“Of course, I’d love to,” Marianne guided her along the path. Oonagh swayed a bit. “Are you on duty this evening?”
“I’ll be grand, I’ll have a little lie down first, sure Padar won’t even notice I’ve been gone.” She smiled crookedly, slinging the luminous rucksack over her shoulder.
Friday morning arrived grey and mizzly. Marianne made porridge in the microwave, sprinkled it with brown sugar and, dividing it equally, poured half over Monty’s dog food. He was particularly fond of the glutinous topping, on his savoury meat breakfast. She pulled on a padded gilet, then a waterproof, counting five layers in all.
“Should be enough,” she assured Monty’s quizzical look. He stuck his nose out of the half door and sniffed, bad weather was coming in, it would be down for the day. His glistening eyes glanced back at her. She had pulled the serious boots on.
“Let’s go.” She tugged the door behind them. She had one hell of a hangover to dispel and could not blame Oonagh. Marianne and gin had never been a good mix. A punishing walk, fresh air, wind, sea spray, whatever the elements could throw at her would be the perfect antidote, de-fuzzing the brain, cleansing the lungs and purging the body. Marianne grabbed a bottle of mineral water as they left.
They turned right at the gate, passed the pub, crossed the road, taking the pathway worn by holidaymakers, towards the beach, then slipped through the crevice between the cliffs. Making their way downwards, they followed the track, towards the crescent beach, swirling beneath them, a grey and white mass of spray and froth. The wind and rain intensified. Monty charged towards the shoreline, wagging his tail, yapping at the waves, the biggest they had seen since they arrived. Marianne stood for a minute, taking a couple of deep breaths. Then, shaking her head to dislodge the cotton wool, strode off along the sand, calling Monty to follow, who seemed glad of the command, the surf being too violent for even his dogged valour.
They walked beyond the beach, heading upwards over rocky shale, following a path which faded the further they climbed. The wind was coming straight off the sea and the rain hit them in sharp bursts. Marianne was finding it hard going, her calves ached. The trail turned to craggy rock and as the mist thickened, she could just make out a ridge line, probably twenty or thirty feet above. She hoped it led to the coast road. Looking down, she was surprised to see how far they had climbed, the swirl of sand below had all but disappeared from view.
Out to sea, the greyness that was sky and ocean was broken only by the white surf, crashing angrily against itself. The force of the wind flattened her against the rock. She began feeling her way along the cliff face. Trying to wipe her eyes, her fingers were numb; the small of her back felt like a slab of ice - five layers were nothing against this chilling damp. She stopped, clamping her arms against herself for warmth, then taking a huge gulp of air, turned to make the trek upwards to the ridge in one attempt, fearing if she stopped again, she would be blown clean off the rocks. She stumbled, losing her grip, then righted herself against the force of the wind. Monty followed, skilfully picking his own route, stopping every few steps to sniff upwards and move steadily on.
Then, above the howling wind, they heard an ear-piercing screech, flapping and a dull thud. An injured gull landed on a ledge, about ten feet away, it squawked and tried to move its wings. Monty, his ears pricked, started sideways to investigate.
Marianne called out.
“No, Monty, leave.”
He could not to hear her and carried on.
“Monty, no, here.”
Her words were carried away on a squall. Monty jumped down to where the dying bird lay. He sniffed it. It flapped. He jumped back startled, the impact forcing a crack in the ledge, the spot where the bird had lain, fell away. Monty froze. He turned to climb back but more of the ledge crumbled, falling into the sea. He inched away trembling, perched on a tiny shelf of sandy shale jutting out from the cliff. Marianne stared down, terrified. Monty looked up at her. She heard him whimper above the gale. She held onto the rock, stretching down her fingers towards him but he was too far away. He stepped gingerly towards her hand. More of the ledge fell away. They both looked down into the grey swirl of rocks below.
“Don’t!” She screamed. “Monty stay! Stay Monty!”
She felt the panic rise in her throat. She looked desperately up towards the ridge.
“Help! Help!” she roared, at what, she did not know. She shouted again, moving upwards, something in the back of her mind, hoping against hope that the ridge led to the coast road and there just might be someone up there, someone mad or stupid enough to be out on a day like this.
“Monty, stay!” she repeated firmly, to the sodden little mass of fur, petrified on the ledge. Fearful trusting eyes looked back at her. Her heart plummeted. She scrabbled feverishly, tearing her fingers as she hauled herself towards the ridge. She dragged herself upwards, the wind beating her back until she finally reached the top of the escarpment and cried out with joy. It was a road, a beautiful new but very empty road. She looked one way, then the other.
“Oh God,” she prayed, “please, God.” The greyness stretched across the tarmac like a cloak. And then a glimmer, a light, headlights.
“Oh thank you, God, thank you.” An elderly 4x4 rumbled into view, one of Padar Quinn’s. She jumped up and down, waving her arms. “Stop! Stop!”
The vehicle screeched to a halt, the window wound down.
“Oh thank you, thank you.” She clung to the door.
“I’m hardly going to drive by and ignore anyone on the road on a day like this, am I?” The man grunted. Marianne’s face was snow white; oh no, not him, she thought.
“Please help me. My dog, he’s stuck on the cliff, on a ledge…”
He was out of the door in an instant.
“Where? Show me,” he shouted over the wind, following her as she ran towards the ridge and cliff face. He looked down.
“Shit!” He started to climb towards the trembling animal, far below. “Okay, I’m coming little fella. It’s okay.”
Marianne followed him.
“Stay up there, on solid ground,” he commanded. “Have you rope, string, anything?” She fumbled in her pockets; she found one of Monty’s retractable leads.
“Wrap it round your wrist and pass the end to me.” He wrapped the other end around his own wrist and continued downwards. He had reached the same level as Monty, when a squall hit. He slipped and crashed against the cliff. Rocks fell away below. The slip and tug on the leash pulled Marianne over, smashing her back on the ground. She stifled a scream and, grabbing a branch, scrabbled to her feet. Holding her breath, she sat down next to a jut of rock. She wrapped her arms around it; the lead was taut off her wrist, all the anchorage she could offer. She started repeating Hail Marys, as she watched him inch towards the terrified canine.
“Good boy, good boy. Steady now.” His voice was calm. He reached towards the dog.
A blast of wind and rain hit them sideways on. The animal was lifted off its paws into the air. In the same instant the man reached out and grabbed the dog by the scruff, as the ledge he had been clinging to, disintegrated. With one almighty surge, he hurled the dog upwards, throwing him like a cricket ball back towards her. She heard the crack and crumble of the ledge as a mass of fur flew by her head. The lead went slack. She gasped. There was a thud, a yelp and then a scuffle as Monty trotted over to her, tail wagging furiously, nuzzling her, in joyful recognition. The lead loosened off her right wrist. She pulled herself up and staggered to the cliff edge. A hand appeared. She lunged at it and with one almighty yank, hauled him up. He lay still and flat on the ground for a couple of minutes. Monty sniffed him and wriggled his whole body as he wagged his tail in relief. Marianne dropped down beside them and promptly burst into tears.
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“Thank you, thank you. How can I ever thank you?” she asked, pulling Monty into her arms.
He lifted his head, his hair matted with rain and sweat. He stood up and, grabbing the collar of her jacket, hoicked her to her feet in one swift movement. He held her off the ground, her nose touching his, his slate blue eyes glittering, boring into her for all their coolness. He smelt of sea and musk, she felt a sudden urge to kiss him. She could almost taste the salt on his lips. He scanned her face, the sweep of his eyelashes branded her skin as his gaze rested on her mouth. Beneath the dampness, she felt a burning in her chest. She closed her eyes. Kiss me, please kiss me, she begged silently, leaning towards him.
He let go of her jacket abruptly, dropping her like a stone to the ground.
“Ouch!” She landed unceremoniously on her arse.
“Are you a complete moron? We could all have been killed,” he barked, “this is the west of Ireland, not West Hampstead, for goodness sake. For someone supposed to be vaguely intelligent, what on earth are you doing out climbing cliffs on a day like this?”
And with that he strode off towards the car, leaving her there in the rain. She struggled to her feet and, lifting Monty, tucked him safely inside her jacket, then pulling a sour face at Ryan’s back, followed and climbed into the vehicle. She felt relieved and pissed off at the same time. She should be grateful. She was grateful but he was still an arrogant tosser. She could not believe she had wanted to kiss him, surely it was just the emotion of the moment? She certainly did not fancy him, not one bit. Then she felt guilty, he had taken a huge risk and she had put them all in a very dangerous situation. Ryan O’Gorman, her saviour yet again. She contritely considered his heroism as they rattled down the road towards the village.
“I really am very grateful,” she said in a small voice.
“And I really am very wet and very cold, so you two must be nearing hyperthermia. You stupid woman, what possessed you?” He poked his words at her, snarling as he crashed through the gears. He was probably the rudest and the bravest man she had ever met.
Arsehole, she thought, staring blankly at the windscreen. They drove the rest of the way in silence.
When they reached Weathervane Cottage he surprised her by gallantly jumping out of the car to run round and open the door for her. Tucking a shivering Monty even further beneath her jacket, she found her voice.
“I really don’t know how to thank you.”
“You can buy me a pint later.” He nodded towards Maguire’s.
“I’d be glad to.” She said, quietly.
“Sure you’re both okay?” He seemed kinder now. She nodded and he was gone.
She flung herself through the door. Putting Monty down, she ran, still trembling, to the bathroom to draw a bath, as her heart rate gradually returned to normal. Both bathed and dry, she heated soup and, dunking brown bread in the creamy vegetables, fed it slowly to Monty. He licked it elegantly off his whiskers, his gentility making her smile. She scratched the space between his ears with shredded fingernails and when he had finished eating, bundled him in her arms, taking him upstairs, breathing in his clean, freshly-washed smell.
“I very nearly lost you today, you monster. What would I have done then?” She held him at arm’s length, laughing at the little white ball, soft, bright eyes and huge pointed ears. He turned his head endearingly, giving her his quizzical, ‘what’s up?’ look.
“You little scrap.” She smiled. “You lovely little scrap.”
She wrapped him in her arms, rocking him gently and, without noticing, she started to sob softly. As she wept, her sobs grew louder and longer, coming from somewhere buried deep inside, her weeping became a mournful howl, the desolate wail of bereavement she had never allowed herself to release. The cottage filled with the hollow sound of loss. Weeping and rocking, rocking and weeping, gradually her mourning grew quieter, the rocking stopped, until her sobbing subsided and the bleak tears had dried on her skin. Monty did not stir from her arms throughout. At last she slept, another dark and dreamless sleep in the big warm bed and when she woke, a couple of hours later, everything had changed. She felt calm, still and a deeper, stronger feeling that whatever the danger had been, it had passed, and a lot more besides.
Chapter Nine –
A Hooley In Maguire’s
The heat of bodies and smell of burning peat greeted her as she pushed through the door of the Lounge Bar of Maguire’s. The aroma of alcohol combined with the faint whiff of excitement blended pleasantly in welcome. Oonagh spotted her first. She beckoned, chubby arms jangling with bangles, smiling through tangerine lips, painted to match her satin blouse.
“What can I get you?” she called across the crowded bar.
“A whiskey and red, please.” Marianne had enjoyed whiskey and that unique Irish concoction called Red Lemonade since her student days. She loved this uniquely Irish tipple, although she also included a cube of ice, much to her Aunt Peggy’s dismay.
“Sure you’re watering it, girl. It’ll have been watered enough already in dis establishment,” Aunt Peggy would comment loudly, no matter which establishment they happened to be in.
“And mine’s a pint.” He had slipped in unnoticed.
“Good evening Mr O’Gorman, still a filthy night out there, but you’re looking well enough,” fluttered Oonagh. He wore faded denim and leather, quite well, Marianne begrudgingly thought. She was in green moleskins and an Aran sweater, in honour of the occasion, a green silk scarf at her throat and emerald studs in her ears; a gift from George.
“That’s definitely on me.” She smiled at him, a warm, genuine smile. He very nearly smiled back. “He rescued my dog this morning.”
“Ah, sure we know all about it,” laughed Padar, coming to help Oonagh pull pints, standing them in an enticing row to settle. “You were out alone on Croghan with the storm raging, it can be very dangerous there, even in the sum-ugh.” Oonagh had given him a good puck in the ribs but Padar would not be quietened, “Sean told us, he saw it all. He was up on the hill watching.”
“Shame he didn’t move his arse and come down and help,” snapped Oonagh. “Two packets of crisps, was it?” She cooed at another customer, passing Ryan his pint, as Marianne handed over the euro.
“Slainté,” she said.
“Cheers.” He returned, nodding to a faraway corner. She followed. Oonagh raised an eyebrow at her. Marianne pretended not to notice.
The band was tuning up, an electric fiddle, guitar, accordion and drum kit were cluttered together on the makeshift stage. The bass drum bore the legend, The Finnigan Twins, though it was hard to see any family resemblance between the gathered ensemble. There was the obligatory ruddy, redhead with beard and beer belly; a reed-thin middle-aged man, wearing a pony tail and a bit of a hump, and a young, elfin-faced boy, beneath a flurry of blue-black curls who reminded Marianne of a long ago pop star, Stevie Saffron. Momentarily lost in thought, she remembered when, as a young girl, she had seen a recording of the pop idol on Top of the Pops, and as she watched him, feeling for the very first time, the deep, fluttering stirring of teenage lust; the seeping dawn of sexual desire. Delicious.
“That young boy reminds me of Stevie Saffron,” Ryan broke into her reverie, nodding at the gaggle of musicians.
“I was thinking just the same.”
“Really? You must have been no more than a baby when he was around. I met him once when we were in the band, charming, handsome and a wicked sense of humour.”
Marianne smiled. “I’m envious. The older girls at the convent loved his music. He was my first proper crush. I really fancied him.”
“Everyone did.” He laughed, eyes twinkling, and watching him as he bent to lift his pint, eyelashes so long they shone, Marianne felt again, that long hidden stirring deep inside and gave herself a little inward shake. Enough of that, thank you. She took a sip of her drink and looked back at the members of the band tuning instruments, putting microphones on stands.
The boy was smiling a h
alf-grin at a girl, about his age but taller and fairer. She wore a purple smock over stonewashed jeans; the smock was worn where her bony elbows threatened to break free. Her hair was roped in a plait to the side and threaded with purple ribbon, highlighting the violet of her eyes and the veins in her translucent skin. They were both beautiful and clearly in love. Marianne was not sure whether it was the whiskey or the young couple giving her a warm glow.
“Who are the twins, I wonder?” Ryan asked, as he sipped his pint.
A woman with a perm and a low-cut t-shirt squashed up beside them on the bench.
“Sure, don’t you know the Finnigan Twins?” She oiked a finger at the two men. “Sure everyone knows the Finnigans. You’re in for a real treat if you’ve never heard them before.”
“Did you never hear of the Finnigans?” a round-faced man chipped in, squeezing in beside her, pint in each hand. “Where’ve you been? You’ve never heard of them!” he exclaimed. Ryan blinked. They had both looked straight into his face and neither gave the remotest sign they had any idea who he was, or had ever seen him before in their lives. Ryan looked at Marianne, he seemed surprised not to be recognised. She could not tell whether this pleased him or not.
“I work abroad a lot,” he said, hopefully. They looked back blankly.
Marianne smiled. “Oh, the Finnigans, those Finnigans, sure they’re great altogether.” She laughed, loading the accent and pulling a face at Ryan.
The place fell hush, the first strains of an air started up as the snare beat them in, the accordion and guitar followed and then the boy on the fiddle. The jig started softly, easily and flowed over them with a light, dancing beat. Fingers tapped glasses, toes tipped off the floor and heads nodded in time with the lift and fall of the tune, light and lovely, like a sunlit meadow of wild flowers. The band was tight, they finished as one, and as one, the packed pub erupted, roaring and clapping and calling for more.
“Told you they were good,” teased Marianne.
“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Ryan acknowledged, “I was only having the one, but looks like I’m here for the night. Want another one?”
The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 11
