In her usual infuriating way, Miss MacReady did not seem surprised when Marianne, still ashen with rage, told her over coffee that Padar Quinn had been Paul Osborne’s undercover photographer.
“I thought maybe it was Padar. Too much cash and credit readily available.”
“Not Sean? I thought Sean when he got the flat screen TV and everything.”
“Ah, he could have been in on it alright, in the beginning, spying and such. But no, it needed someone a bit more switched on to take the photos. Padar does fit the bill.”
“And you’re not horrified?” Marianne asked. “Mortified he betrayed us? All of us?”
“I don’t think he bargained for the last lot, the made-up reports about Oonagh and the orgy on the yacht. That went too far.” Miss MacReady put her cup down, smiling indulgently at Bridget who was conducting one of her many diatribes with Monty. “I don’t see it quite like you, though. Oh, it was sneaky alright. It was wrong, no doubt, but everything happens for a reason. We’d not have had the support for the bridge, or the new project without the fascination the media has with yourself and Ryan, hyped up by Padar and his pictures. A double-edged sword, as they say.”
Marianne blinked. The postmistress had a point.
“And all the lovely things Oonagh and the baby enjoyed before she died, the fabulous christening and the boat and all. It wasn’t all bad. It might end well, after all.”
“What on earth do you mean?” Marianne was incredulous.
“Well your fella is on the telly tonight doing the chat show again and a little birdie tells me he has some news of his own to impart.”
Marianne was intrigued. Miss MacReady always seemed to know everyone’s business, even people thousands of miles away, on another continent.
“Have you anything else to tell me?” Marianne held Miss MacReady’s gaze.
“Well, I did overhear Padar confessing to Ryan about being the secret photographer and I got the distinct impression Ryan wasn’t bothered, not bothered at all. As if he’d gone beyond all that, as if it didn’t really matter one jot in the overall scheme of things.”
Marianne clattered the mugs into the sink.
“By overhear, I take it you mean on the telephone?”
“Of course on the telephone, how else am I to keep track of everybody and their comings and goings? It’s my job.”
Miss MacReady suddenly decided she needed to be somewhere else, obviously aware she had revealed too much. Irked, Marianne forced herself to completely ignore the fact Ryan was on television that evening. She had never succumbed to a TV in the cottage. Weathervane was her haven. If she did want to watch the box, Maguire’s had the latest satellite paraphernalia only a few strides from her door. So after walking Monty along the cove, with Bridget firmly strapped into the baby sling, all three of them devoured a delicious supper of lamb stew and creamed rice pudding and settled down for the night.
Unsurprisingly, Marianne was restless and unable to sleep. She went to her desk to dig out the problematic paperwork relating to the purchase of Ophiuchus; the house she intended to transform into a holiday retreat.
There was a complication relating to the deeds of the property. The merchant banker who owned it had fallen on hard times and had re-mortgaged the property, but no-one knew who with. The new mortgage had never been cleared and it could prove an expensive legal wrangle if not dealt with. Just the sort of mind-numbing distraction she needed to fuddle her brain and prevent her from dwelling on things like self-obsessed celebrities spouting off to millions of viewers on national TV.
Marianne rang Father Gregory. No answer. She tried Miss MacReady. No response there either. She growled to herself, she supposed they were all in the pub watching, mesmerised, as Ryan blathered on about this or that exotic location. Good God, had they not all heard enough of his bullshit over the past couple of years?
Suffering a major grump, she pinged off an email outlining the problem relating to the deeds, requesting names of legal contacts and other assistance she could call upon to help resolve it. She copied in the whole Board, the same team who had managed the ‘Bridge Too Far’ campaign.
Then, finally slamming shut the lid of her laptop, took herself off to bed, far too bad-tempered to concentrate on the novel she was reading.
Bridget was unusually fractious the following morning. Monty, too, seemed below par, only giving the sea grass in the garden a cursory sniff before returning to the cottage to sit moodily in his basket.
Marianne prepared breakfast in silence, not even switching on the morning radio programme she loved to argue with. Monty growled, indicating a visitor approaching, when Padar poked his head through the top half of the kitchen door. It made her jump. The toast fell to the floor, butter-side down. Her mouth dropped open. She could not believe he had the gall to show his face after all that had happened.
Padar was pink and flustered. Marianne continued to glare at him. Bridget, spotting her father, started to squirm in her high chair, reaching out and gurgling a welcome. Monty, sensing trouble, just looked cagily from one to the other. Marianne bent down, picked up the toast and threw it in the sink.
“What the hell do you want?”
“To apologise,” Padar said quietly, “for everything.”
“Go away, Padar.” Marianne busied herself making fresh toast. She could feel a burning rash of anger at her throat. Frustrated at not being picked up by her father, Bridget started to grizzle. Monty was pacing around the table; he hated it when Bridget was upset.
Padar stood at the door like a statue.
“I have to talk to you, Marianne. I’ve been awake all night. I can’t bear it if you leave me too, if I can’t call you a friend.”
“Ha! I called you a friend, and look what you were doing to me. Us. All of us.” She rescued the burning bread from under the grill. Bridget had started to howl. Monty was joining in. “For God’s sake, Padar, come in and pick the child up.”
He flew through the door, took Bridget in his arms, burying his head in her fluffy, pink romper suit, and started to sob. Marianne sighed loudly but, turning from the sink, felt her heart break as she watched him weeping into his daughter’s downy hair.
“Pull yourself together, Padar. Come on now,” she said coldly, but her eyes were soft. He sniffed.
“It all got a bit out of control.” He turned bloodshot eyes on her. “I really didn’t mean to make trouble for you and Ryan. At first I thought it would just be a bit of harmless fun. I’d get paid, pay a few debts and that would be it. But they wouldn’t let me stop. They kept demanding more and when they found out how ill Oonagh was, they threatened to tell her everything if I didn’t keep the photos coming.”
“Ah, Padar,” Marianne said dismissively, looking down so he could not see the pity in her eyes.
“I’m sorry I made everything so bad for you, really, really sorry.”
Marianne closed the top of the kitchen door. The breeze off the sea was fresh. There was a chill in the air. Padar took a deep breath.
“You probably don’t like me anymore, and I don’t blame you,” he stuttered, “but if we could put this behind us, and if you could just be civil to me, if nothing else for Bridget’s sake. I dunno.” His eyes filled with tears again. He pushed an envelope across the table towards her.
“More photos?” she asked, and opened it. She gasped. It was a picture taken at Bridget’s christening. They were all in a disorganised row. Padar with Monty in his arms, smiling next to Ryan. Ryan with his arm around Oonagh, his hand on Marianne’s shoulder as she held Bridget grinning into the camera, the baby looking up at her. It was a picture of everyone she loved in the world, a picture of happiness, heart-breaking happiness.
She slumped into a chair and put the photo on the table before her. She pushed her hair back. She was tired, she had hardly slept, and when she finally woke she had come to the conclusion that, like so many people in her life, Padar had been doing all the wrong things for what he thought were the right reasons
.
She beckoned him to sit down.
“Tell me this is an end to it and the source of all this inane and hurtful drivel has well and truly dried up?”
“I’m finished with all of that, I promise you.”
She turned to face him, arms folded.
“Okay, we can talk and I’ll be civil, but I’ll have to work on the forgiveness and it could take a while.”
He breathed a sigh of relief, placing a now smiling Bridget back in her high chair. Monty emerged from his basket, wagging his tail. Marianne picked him up so he was level with Bridget, who immediately fed him her toast.
“We’d better go back to our original arrangement or Bridget will have him the size of a house,” Padar suggested meekly.
Marianne was just about to agree, when Miss MacReady appeared, black PVC raincoat flapping in the wind, collar turned up and an overlarge sou’wester pulled down over her ears against the October squall. Her earrings jangled as she clattered onto the tiles, her bare feet filthy in daisy-adorned flip-flops. She took in the scene in the kitchen with one sweep of her birdlike eyes and declined to comment.
“Well, what do you think?” She poured coffee from the pot, lifting the rim of her hat to drink.
“I think we’ll be grand.”
“No, not you, Padar. The news, Marie. What do you think of the news?”
Marianne shrugged.
“Did you not hear?” Miss MacReady glanced at the radio. “Last night, on the live chat show, Ryan announced he’s jacked it in, resigned, stepped down, given it up. There, live on the telly in front of the whole nation.”
“Given what up?”
“The role, the job, the super-hero spy fella. It’s all over the radio this morning, be in all the papers tomorrow. They could sue him for breach of contract – he’s supposed to do three films – but he said he’s not bothered about that, so there you are.” She took a mouthful of her drink, while Marianne and Monty watched, bemused. “And what’s more, the divorce. That’s next. He’s filed for divorce and is going for custody of the child.”
Marianne put Monty down. As usual, Miss MacReady knew far more than what might have been said during a television interview.
“He’ll get it too,” Padar surmised. “There’s loads more men are getting custody of their kids these days, particularly when the mother is a druggie.”
“Substance dependent, Padar. It’s not the same,” explained Miss MacReady.
“It is so.” Padar was adamant.
“Well, anyway, he finished by saying he is coming to live in the West of Ireland to pursue a career as a scriptwriter. It’s what he’s always wanted to do. Well, what he actually said was, ‘revisit my one true love’ and then explained he meant scriptwriting. Isn’t it great news altogether?”
Marianne raised her eyebrows. “For whom?”
“Everyone. He’ll be back now, surely.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Marianne said, although deep down inside, her breath had been on hold for some time. “Anyway, I have bigger and better things to worry about, there is a problem with the deeds for the children’s retreat. A company in England has a charge on the property. It’s complicated, and I’ll need a hand sorting it out. English and Irish law can be far from compatible. Now, Padar, off you go and open the pub, and if you don’t mind, Miss MacReady, I’m very busy and I’m sure you are too,” she said, taking Miss MacReady’s mug off her and shooing them both out the door.
Chapter Twenty Nine –
A Fair Wind
A few days later, word came from Snelgrove and Marshall; they could untangle the charge on the property; it would cost twenty-five thousand pounds to pay off the charge and about three thousand pounds in legal fees. There was enough in the bank account to do this but the lawyers needed proof of identity to be satisfied the sale was legitimate and there was no risk of money laundering. Once all this was in order, the whole thing could be completed in a matter of weeks.
Marianne was relieved, the same legal team had handled George’s legacy, the sale of the house in Oakwood Avenue and the purchase of Weathervane. She knew she could trust them. She and Sinead were keen to get the holiday retreat up and running as quickly as possible. They had already planned a packed schedule for the children they hoped would arrive in the summer via the new bridge, if everything went according to plan.
But time had a habit of flashing by, and as with all her projects, Marianne became totally immersed in every tiny detail, driving things forward with her usual obsessive ambitiousness. Still refusing to admit, even to herself, that this was the way she always dealt with any prolonged loneliness or grief, obstinately pushing Miss MacReady’s revelations about Ryan to the back of her mind and, ignoring the fact that despite his momentous change of plan, he had still not been in touch.
To be fair to Ryan, Marianne had been refusing to acknowledge any correspondence from him for some time and was quite proud she had managed to stick to her resolution.
Pulling out the chest where she kept her birth certificate and adoption papers, Marianne could not recall the need for such rigorous proof of identity when she had upped sticks and moved from England to this far-flung western isle. Surmising that times do indeed change, rooting through the chest she came upon a plethora of memorabilia she had not seen for years.
Scattering papers and photographs across the desk, she found her old passport, stamped by the French Authorities, acknowledging her arriving and leaving Paris. It was strange, as if it had happened to someone else. She remembered speaking to Claude for the last time on the telephone to the hospice, when he had asked her to forgive him. Forgive him for what? Breaking her heart? She shrugged. There was plenty of tape around her heart, at this stage of the game, anyway.
She came upon a copy of George’s death certificate, folded carefully in a velvet purse containing his signet ring and mother of pearl cufflinks. A copy of the picture of them at the Awards Dinner fell onto the desk. She blinked her tears away, smiling at George, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat, then grinning to herself, she looked smug and a little bit pissed.
She laughed out loud when she at the handwritten proposal George had tied to Monty’s neck when he had presented the puppy just before Christmas. The proposal and ribbon Monty had been wearing were wrapped around his Kennel Club Certificate – George had been very proud of the fact he was the offspring of a supreme champion, she remembered.
Then she found her own birth certificate. This had always been a mystery. Handwritten in ink, it looked as if it had been deliberately splashed with water. The mother’s name was indistinguishable, the father’s name only slightly more legible, definitely beginning with a B, but her mother’s was just a splodge with a y at the end.
Her place of birth had not been defaced, but it was just a squiggle, so again, impossible to decipher, although she had been told she was born in Galway, but where was the proof, she sometimes wondered.
By comparison, her Certificate of Adoption was pristine; the Coltranes’ names clear and efficiently entered. Another thing that had always fascinated her, attached to the certificate, was a picture of herself as a baby, a tiny black and white photograph.
Fascinating, because she had been a toddler when the Coltranes had adopted her, although she could barely remember anything about it. Yet her mother had treasured this picture of her as a tiny infant, as if she had wanted to capture her earliest years and share them, as if she had given birth to her, as if they had always been together.
Monty, snuffling through some of the papers she let slip to the floor, brought her back to the task in hand. Quickly putting everything away, she shoved the required paperwork in an envelope and, clipping him onto his lead, walked up to town to make copies and discuss with Miss MacReady, the best way to send off the original documents safely.
Miss MacReady was thrilled to see them. She was wearing one of her favourite purple ensembles, a luxuriant velvet kimono, with bare feet, toenails painted peacock blue.
“Come in, come in, let me get you a drink,” she called, turning the closed sign on the door as they passed through. Marianne gave her a broad grin to show the fractiousness of a couple of days ago was long forgotten. Miss MacReady poured them each a large measure of whiskey.
Monty had his own dish on the floor of the postmistress’s kitchen. She warmed some milk in the microwave for him and he lapped at it leisurely, keeping an eye on Marianne, which Marianne knew was his way of conveying he was not planning to stay. He needed to be clear about that.
Marianne explained the scenario to Miss MacReady.
“I saw from the email you sent round that we had a problem. Will these fellows in England be able to sort it?” she asked.
“I hope so. It’s expensive but I don’t want the property to go back on the market. We could lose the opportunity to turn this into something useful for the island.”
“That’s not everyone’s opinion,” Miss MacReady conceded.
Marianne dismissed the notion.
“We have to make something good out of all that’s gone on here; something we can all be proud of, something which will serve as a memorial for Oonagh.”
Miss MacReady dropped ice into the whiskey. It cracked.
“We have Bridget, that’s our gift from Oonagh and our life’s work too, we have to do right by the child. Have we not enough to be doing?” Miss MacReady eyed Marianne closely, sipping her drink.
“But we could do right by so many more,” Marianne protested. Miss MacReady pushed her face into the other woman’s.
“Have you always been such a pain-in-the-arse do-gooder?”
Marianne burst out laughing.
“Yes. Have you always been such a bloody know-it-all?”
“Of course,” grinned Miss MacReady, chinking her glass with Marianne’s.
The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 31
