Finding Alison

by Deirdre Eustace

  The van looked deserted. Maybe someone had dumped it there. Make a nice little writing studio for winter, she thought as she passed it, taking in the vast view of the main beach to the left and Helvic Head, with its arm outstretched, embracing the horizon beyond.

  Reaching the outcrop, Alison slipped off her old runners. Jesus, she could kill that dog, they were the only decent pair of sandals she had. Sitting on the cliff edge, her bare feet dangling over the ledge, she lit a cigarette, opened her manila wallet and took out her notepad and pen.

  Inhaling deeply, Alison drank in the view before her, the gentle lapping of the waves below soothing her heavy head. The tide was going out, the brown and black skirts of the freshly awoken rocks jewelled with glistening barnacles and muscles. All around the horseshoe of cove sea pinks and purple heathers clung like brilliant badges to the lapels of the cliffs. The sand and seaweed on the ocean bed lent the water a mossy green hue, the still submerged rocks and weeds painting a mysterious, undiscovered world.

  A scatter-screech of gulls from a rock to the left drew her attention. Alison watched in open-mouthed disbelief as a naked figure emerged from the water. He climbed the rock, shook out his grey hair, stretched his arms above his head and dived. Ducking her head behind the high outcrop, she peeped again. There was no sign of him. Then, like a thunder-burst in the silence, his head and shoulders re-emerged, his face tilted towards the sun, his hair returning a rainbow of droplets to the ocean. She could almost taste his wild pleasure and abandon as he stroked effortlessly to the rock and, hauling his broad shoulders from the glistening green, climbed again. He turned to face the strand. He must have been all of six foot, his whole body a honey brown. Biting her bottom lip, Alison took in the girth of his thighs, the strength and bulge of his hips, his buttocks. A tiny warmth unfurled deep inside her. He stretched again and once more dived to the sandy depths. He surfaced, turned over on his back and floated towards the shore. Shamed by the guilt and embarrassment of her own voyeurism, she turned her head away, her eye catching Tilly and Tim making their awkward way down the grassy slope to the shore. Shit! They’d give her away! She looked again. He stood in the shallow water, running his large hands over his face, then squeezing the salt water from his shoulder length hair. The dogs pounced into the water to greet him, Tilly, the braver one, licking the salt from his limbs as he stepped from the lacework of shallow foam. Alison noticed the drag of his left leg as he strode towards the rocks, salt droplets glistening on his shoulders and buttocks. The man, now vigorously towelling his shoulders and back, was the one she’d seen yesterday morning watching her from the cliff top over the beach.

  She returned to her notepad and pen, trying desperately to ignore the beginnings of a strange and forgotten excitement stirring inside her. Another thousand words. God, what had possessed her to accept Eugene’s offer of a weekly women’s column in the local paper? She didn’t even feel like a woman most of the time. And as for Career vs Motherhood, well, she didn’t have the first and was making a damn bad job of the second. Write about what you know? No wonder she found this article impossible.

  When she looked again, the cove was deserted. Her watch read 3.20. Better get home and fix something for dinner – a hot meal for Hannah was the least she could do in her attempt at motherhood. She shoved her feet into her runners, stuffed her notepad and pen into their wallet and whistled for the dogs as she retraced the winding cliff path to the jeep. Passing by the camper van, the rich homely smell of coffee and bacon reminded her stomach that she hadn’t eaten all day. Tim’s erect tail peeped from behind the van. ‘Tilly, Tim, come on!’

  Out of nowhere he was standing in front of her, coffee cup in hand. His grey hair was tied in a damp ponytail, his striped grandfather shirt loose over faded jeans. His feet were bare. ‘They’ve joined me for lunch.’ The wide grin and deep brown eyes lent him the look of an Indian chief, his dark tanned face a landscape of stories. Alison’s memory neon flashed his naked body. ‘William Hayden – fancy a coffee?’ His voice was deep yet gentle, his outstretched hand standing expectant in Alison’s embarrassed silence.

  ‘No. No, thank you – got to get home.’ She bent her head and continued with a quickened step along the path. ‘Tilly, Tim!’ The dogs didn’t budge. Alison hopped into the jeep, dumped her wallet on the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. When they’d hear the engine’s rev, the dogs would come running. The jeep coughed to life, spat and promptly died again. ‘Shit!’ She turned the key once more. A faint jump, then nothing. ‘Come. On,’ she urged, turning the key three times in quick and forceful succession. Not a budge. Alison thumped the steering wheel with her left fist. This was all she needed. She tapped her forehead on the centre of the wheel: ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’

  The driver’s door opened and she jumped.

  ‘Sorry if I startled you.’ The generous smile stole into his eyes, lighting them with more than a hint of amusement. ‘Want me to try?’

  Embarrassment reddening her temper, she slid from the seat in silence, summoning everything in her to hold her tongue. Where did this old guy get off? And what was with that smirk? William pulled himself up into the seat and coaxed the clutch. He turned the key gently and the jeep slow-shuddered to life. Relief washed through her.

  ‘Just flooded,’ William smiled, easing his bulk from the high seat.

  ‘Thanks!’ A hint of a smile tickled the corners of her full mouth. She hurried around to open the back door for the dogs.

  ‘Sometimes things run a lot easier if we approach them with gentleness.’ His eyes followed her. ‘Instead of the full force of our passion.’ He seemed to be talking to himself as much as to Alison. ‘Sometimes it’s easier just to let go.’

  She climbed back into the driver’s seat.

  ‘See you again, I hope,’ he smiled, closing the driver’s door and turning back towards the cliff path. Alison pressed the accelerator, dust rising in her wake as she negotiated the track back down to the main road, the dogs bouncing and panting behind. William returned to his canvas chair, took up his pad and studied the sketch before him: the long, slender calves hugging the cliff top; the two narrow feet; the curve and arch of the soles.

  * * *

  Kathleen flung out her arms, palms up in exasperation. ‘For heaven’s sake, Alison, what’s the big deal? It’s only a meal and a few drinks. Hannah’ll be perfectly fine, we’ll be back before twelve.’

  ‘No, no big deal, it’s just that, well, maybe if you’d given me a bit of notice.’ Kathleen had been waiting outside the house when she got home and it looked like she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  ‘Notice? Notice? That’s good coming from the girl who thought nothing of hopping in a car and driving three hours to Ballymore at the hint of a party!’ They both laughed, remembering that night, shortly before Alison had married, the two of them diving into Kathleen’s old Renault before sense had a chance to catch up with them, and praying it would last the journey.

  ‘That was then,’ Alison smiled, shaking her head and turning back towards the sink.

  ‘Yes, and this is now.’ Kathleen reached up, grabbed Alison gently by the shoulders and turned her around. ‘You need a break, Alison. Come on, it’s all booked, my treat.’

  ‘But you can’t afford . . . ’

  ‘What I can’t afford is to stand by and watch my friend turn into some bitter old maid who’d give May Reilly a good run for her money.’

  ‘But last night, Hannah and me, we had a . . . I really need to . . . ’

  ‘Alison. Stop. The table is booked for eight. I’ll meet you here at seven and we’ll get a taxi into town. This is “You” time, okay? No Maryanne, no Hannah. And for heaven’s sake, please let that hair down, I don’t want people thinking I’m reduced to hanging out with an old nun!’

  Four

  From the kitchen window Alison watched the school bus pull back out onto the road. Hannah slow-stepped up the driveway, the evening breeze skipping playfully through her thick
black hair. There was a proud exoticism, a determination beyond her years in her streamlined back and shoulders, the slight upward tilt of her chin. Alison took in the dark eyes, the ripe red lips and wide cheekbones – all her father’s. What would he think if he could see his ‘little shrimp’ now, she smiled sadly, moving away from the window. And what would he think of her mother, a smaller voice inside her quipped. A burning shame heated her chest.

  ‘So, how was school?’ Alison placed Hannah’s dinner on the table. She would try and establish some sense of normality before broaching the subject of last night.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And what had Sister Andrew to say to your hair?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘Oh? Well, she must be softening in her old age. The least I expected was a stern letter.’ Alison pulled out the chair opposite, sat and filled a glass with water. Head bent, Hannah hunched over her plate, absently forking her food.

  ‘Claire called this morning. She’s sold two of her paintings.’ Alison took a sip of water. ‘And Dad’s gone and found himself a girlfriend.’

  Hannah kept her eyes focused on the meal before her, barely nodding her head in response. Alison knew she wasn’t going to make it easy for her. God, she wished Kathleen had picked any other night but tonight to go into town. All she wanted to do – ached to do – was to sit down with Hannah and try to talk things through, put an end to this ugly animosity between them. She rested her elbows on the table, took a deep breath. ‘Hannah, about last night – I’m so sorry. I never meant to . . . ’

  ‘Please, Mum, I don’t want to talk about it.’ Standing abruptly from the table, she placed her barely touched plate by the sink.

  Alison stifled a sigh, sat back in her chair. There was no point trying to force it. And it was probably best that they had a bit of space from each other this evening, let things settle. ‘Myself and Kathleen were thinking of going into town for a bite to eat later.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Hannah shrugged, addressing the floor. ‘I’m goin’ for a shower. I told Aoife I’d be down by half six.’

  ‘But Hannah, your dinner?’

  The kitchen door closed on her words.

  * * *

  Alison touched the pad of an index finger beneath each eye, dotting the concealer into place. She pressed her lips together, ran her tongue over her top teeth to catch any traces of lipstick. Standing back from the bathroom mirror, she kneaded and tamed her long red curls, tilted her head in self appraisal. The make-up wasn’t doing what it said on the tin – the smattering of tiny freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose was still visible. Forcing a smile, she brushed some rouge over the apples of both cheeks, tried to ignore the weariness hooding her eyes.

  Hannah had slipped out the door without even so much as a goodbye. What was going on with that girl? The hollowness inside Alison’s chest seemed to stretch and yawn and she sighed with it. How was she ever going to get through to Hannah, get past this constant bickering and fighting? She’d be first to admit that she hadn’t been the most attentive of mothers over the last few years but, damn it, she had tried to do her very best with what she had been handed. And surely at almost fourteen Hannah should have sense enough to see that now. These were the years that she had most looked forward to when Hannah was born: the growing-up years, the turning-into-a-little-woman years. God, all the things she had planned for them to do together. Instead, this, this constant feuding and blaming. Blaming. That’s what Hannah did. She blamed her for everything. And much as she was loath to admit it, a part of Alison resented the child for it. Resented that almost coldness that Hannah was capable of, how dismissive she could be – the way a flash of those dark eyes could cut you down to nothing. And that ‘whatever’ that she was so fond of spouting . . . She felt the heat of her temper rising again. And she was selfish too, Hannah, just like her . . .

  Stop! She warned herself. Hannah was little more than a child, for God’s sake, a child who needed mothering and guidance, not this. The problem lay squarely with herself, with her own reactions and resentments, not with Hannah. She was just being a teenager, like Kathleen said, and weren’t self-obsession and throwing a regular strop all part of that territory? Alison didn’t have to think too long or hard to remember the cheek she had given her own mother at that age. How she thought she knew everything back then, she remembered, leaning in closer to the mirror and running a finger over the contour of her upper lip. Those cigarettes are definitely going, she promised, stretching her lip to hide the tiny indentations above.

  What maddened her most about Hannah, she supposed, was what a joy she could be with everyone else – with Kathleen, with Maryanne. With little Jamie – she was so good with him, so responsible. Kathleen was forever singing her praises, although she had backed away from them all a little lately too, had gone more into herself. Was there more going on for Hannah than she knew, was something troubling her? Despite Kathleen’s assurances, Alison still felt a niggle in her gut, an intuition. But how to get Hannah to open up, that was the problem. Maybe if she started trusting her a bit more, Alison considered, treated her more like a grown up, an equal, would that work? Or would Hannah just go off the rails completely?

  ‘Oh, I just don’t know any more,’ she sighed into the mirror, straightening the neck of her blouse. A tiny button fell to the floor. ‘Damn!’ She checked her watch. Kathleen was due in ten minutes. Unbuttoning the blouse she hurried towards the bedroom. Kathleen was right, she did need time out. A few hours away from the constant worry of Hannah and Maryanne and the goddamn mortgage. She’d have a couple of drinks, enjoy a good chat with Kathleen – and a laugh, Kathleen’s company always guaranteed you that – and she would put last night behind her. She was finished with drinking at home, alone. It didn’t solve anything. She should have learned long before now that drink – that much drink – only deepened her misery, not to mention upsetting Hannah and wasting all the next day on a hangover and guilt. Well, that was it. Finished. From now on, she would make a real effort to spend more time with Hannah – proper quality time – and do all she could to really get to know the beautiful young woman that she had glimpsed walking up the driveway this evening. As she reached for the wardrobe door, the telephone shrilled to life at the bedside.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Delaney? Sister Andrew from St Laurence’s – I’m calling to enquire about Hannah’s leg. When Aoife told me about the fall this morning, she wasn’t sure whether Hannah had broken a bone or not?’

  ‘Oh, Sister Andrew . . . ’

  ‘Is it a bad time?’ She could smell Alison’s hesitation.

  ‘No, no, not at all. One moment, I’ll just turn down the oven.’ Alison placed her palm over the mouthpiece. ‘Shit!’ she mouthed silently, before taking a deep breath to swallow her rising anger.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sister, I should have called you earlier but between doctors and everything . . . nothing’s broken, thank goodness. Just a bad sprain. I’m sure Hannah’ll be back by Monday.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that, Mrs Delaney. Just make sure she has a note to cover her absence.’

  ‘I will, Sister. Thank you. I’ll tell Hannah you called.’

  That little madam was lucky she’d gone out the door twenty minutes ago. Jesus, she’d hear about this later.

  * * *

  The restaurant was quieter than Alison had ever seen it, but then, she reasoned, it was a week night after all and people just didn’t have the money to socialise like they used to. She wouldn’t be here herself if Kathleen hadn’t insisted on treating her. Her eyes strayed again to the couple seated at the bar. She watched how his hand stole protectively to the small of the girl’s back, the tilt of her head as she smiled up at him, engrossed in his words.

  ‘So, you and Rob?’ She returned her attention to Kathleen. ‘Should I be ordering my hat?’

  ‘Not likely,’ Kathleen smiled, shaking her head. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Rob’s great and we definitely have that something . . .
’ Her smile widened, her eyes dancing.

  Alison nodded, returning her smile. She knew exactly what Kathleen meant. That something was one of the things she missed most in life now. That buzz, that fire. That electric connection with someone that sparked some deep part of you that nothing or no one else could touch. Since losing Sean she had slowly grown used to living without it, in much the same way as your eyes grow accustomed to the dark: allowing you to make out shapes, move forward with a certain confidence, but always in the knowledge that the colour has drained from your world.

  ‘But . . . ’ Kathleen risked, sighing.

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, Rob wants us to move in together.’ She touched her tongue to her lip, her eyes searching Alison’s.

  ‘I knew it! I knew you two were made for each other!’ She reached across the table and grabbed Kathleen’s hand. ‘I’m so happy for you both.’

  ‘Oh, I wish it were all that simple.’ That sigh again.

  ‘But you two adore each other, what could possibly be simpler?’ Alison encouraged, squeezing her hand.

  ‘Well, there is Jamie.’

  ‘And?’ Alison smiled, inching back her head. Right from their early days Kathleen had been thrilled at how great Rob was with Jamie. The boy idolised him.

  ‘It’s just that, well, Jamie’s so stuck on him, you know, too stuck on him. Great while things are going well but, I mean, what if it all went wrong? What if he walks away? Jamie’s already been denied his father, how would he cope if Rob were to turn his back on him too?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Kathleen, you know that’s never going to happen. Rob loves that boy.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s no guarantee . . . ’