‘You’ve made that more than clear,’ she cut in, not wanting to hear his excuses. ‘You never considered anyone but yourself. With all your questions, your pretence at caring – I should have seen you for what you were.’
‘Alison, I do care!’ He caught her arm as she turned to walk away.
‘Let go of me, William Hayden.’ Her voice matched the steel in her eyes. ‘Go on to the next one with your free spirit, no attachment bullshit!’ She took a few paces, then turned. ‘You should have learned with Helene. You can’t just take what you want and walk away.’ She shook her head, bit down hard on her lip to stop her chin from trembling.
‘I’m going to hospital, Alison.’ Arms outstretched, he stepped towards her, his eyes pleading. She folded her arms around her middle, her head tilted in question.
‘With my hip? I’ll be back in a week to collect the van – we’ll talk then?’ He looked at his watch and her anger bubbled anew.
‘Why? What’s the point?’ She threw her hands in the air. ‘You’re leaving anyway. You left last night, after you kissed me.’ Her deep breath fuelled her anger. ‘You got what you wanted and, like all selfish bastards, you’re off on your way.’ Unable to hold her tears any longer, she turned and ran towards the shore.
‘I love you, Ali—’ The wind caught his words and flung them back up over the dunes, away from her hearing.
He checked his watch. The bus would be leaving in under five minutes. He looked after her as she walked away along the water’s edge, everything inside him straining to follow, to catch her, to turn her round, to fold her in his arms and promise never to leave her. And that would really make him the selfish bastard that she’d called him. He couldn’t promise her anything. Except a few months of misery and then he’d be gone and never coming back. He turned and walked back up towards the street. This way was for the best; it would hurt her least in the long run. It didn’t matter what he felt, what she thought of him now. It would all be over soon and he could never hurt her or anyone ever again. She turned to run back to him as he disappeared into the passageway.
Alison unleashed the dogs from the boot and rounded the house. The sky had greyed over and rain gathered behind the mountains. She jumped with fright when the figure crouched at the back door hopped to his feet.
‘Jesus, Joe! What are you at?’
‘Is Se . . . Seany back yet?’ Recognising the fire in Alison’s eyes, he took a few steps backwards.
‘Sean is dead! Dead! Dead! Dead!’ Alison emphasised every word at the top of her voice. ‘He’s dead, Joe! Gone! Can’t you get that into your thick head?’ she shouted, advancing at him like a madwoman.
‘He’s not!’ His defiance fuelled her anger.
‘He’s gone, Joe. That’s what they do! They make you love them and then they leave.’ Her voice softening, she turned to open the door. ‘Just go home, Joe. Just go home and leave me alone.’
Head bent, he stood his ground, his foot rolling the gravel under his boot.
‘NOW, Joe! Get out of here NOW or I’ll call the guards. GO ON! And don’t ever ask about him again!’ She slammed the door behind her.
Joe hopped the ditch into the neighbouring field and sheltered in under the bushes as the first drops of rain began to fall. ‘I’ll wait for ya, Seany,’ he muttered, pulling the black anorak tight around him.
Thirteen
High on the cliff top above Killybegs harbour Sean Delaney sat chewing over the news that Tom had brought back to him: the warmth of Alison’s welcome, how happy she appeared, the new life she had given the place and the new life she had created for herself. She was still at that writing she had always been so bent on. Sean had never seen the point of it himself, had laughed out loud that time when she had tried to explain to him that she fished for words deep inside herself in the same way that he trawled the sea for his catch. She had packed it away after that. Well, away from him anyway. Always willing to please, he smiled, that was Alison. Always bending and shifting to suit him ’til in the end there was hardly a bit of the girl he had fallen in love with left.
The child was still in London, happy, it seemed, and Alison spent part of every day down at the home with Maryanne, according to Tom. His mother had always had a soft spot for Alison, constantly reminding him of how lucky he was to have such a loving and supportive wife. And there was always that something in the way she would say it, almost like a warning, as if she was fishing, knew more than she was letting on.
Maryanne hadn’t spoken since the accident, Alison had told Tom. His mother, who was never short on advice or opinion – Sean couldn’t credit that she could hold her counsel for so long. But then some things aren’t easy to speak out. There are some things in life that there are no words for, no matter how deep or how long you trawl. Sean knew that, knew it better than anyone. Still, he felt, if he could only get to Maryanne, explain things to her, they could work it out. She could always see his side, always.
His brow creased, a darkness crowding his eyes as his thoughts turned again to Alison’s reply when Tom had asked how she would feel if Sean were back in her life. There was absolutely no question, Tom had said, but she wouldn’t want him. He lay back in the long grass and pulled deeply on his cigarette. Tom had described how she had searched and waited, desperately clinging to the hope that, dead or alive, he would be returned to her. He could see how someone like Tom might think there was no going back, no mending that. But Tom didn’t know the old Alison. He didn’t understand how she’d given up everything for him, had made him her whole world. All those years together had to count for something. It was all right saying that she wouldn’t have him back, but Tom didn’t think it out. She believed he was dead and what she had said to Tom wasn’t how she would really feel. Not if there was a chance he was still alive. No, he knew Alison. He knew what he meant to her. Tom had never known that kind of love. How could he understand?
He sat up again and looked down into the harbour. Tom was in his boat below, mending nets, the child sitting on the stern beside him. He watched as Tom reached out a hand and ruffled the child’s hair. His mouth tightened. What would Tom know about loss or wanting, things that had never touched his world? Himself and that boy were never out of each other’s shadow, Ella always back at the house. What gave him the right to talk about moving on and letting go? Forgetting. Move him away from his family and he’d soon see there was no forgetting! Tom was a good man, to be fair to him, but simple with it and he hadn’t the first clue what he was talking about. He had told Sean that, as far as he could tell, there was no new man in Alison’s life. Jesus, wasn’t that proof enough for him? Sean had always been the only one for her and she was still waiting for him. She wasn’t lost yet. Much as Tom had tried to drive home to him that he should forget and move on, Sean knew better. He wouldn’t be moving just yet. At least not in the direction Tom thought.
* * *
‘Can I ring her, Dad? Tell her where I left it.’
‘Och, Daniel, the dogs’ll have it well broken up by now. Can’t ye bring her another, the next time we call? I might find a big scallop shell for ye in the pots some mornin’, bet she’d like that.’ The child had him tormented about the shell for Alison that he had left in the plastic bag in the field. You’d swear it was gold, Tom laughed to himself, taking in the child’s solemn face.
Sean had been up and off early again this morning. That had been his pattern since Tom had come back with the news from Carniskey. It had really knifed him hearing what Alison had said, and the way Sean had taken to avoiding him since, Tom felt as if he almost blamed him for not bringing back the response he wanted.
Though he had only met her twice, Tom had a great fondness for Alison. She was a sweet wee thing, and honest, and God knows she had been through more than her share of sorrow. He could see how shaky her happiness was and so he had laced her words with more anger and bitterness in the retelling – his own anger, he knew. He couldn’t get out of his head the torment the girl had come through
and now Sean wanted to go back and turn all that heartache into nothing, into a joke! No one, not even the strongest could cope with that. It would be the finish of her. Whether Sean liked it or not, he had involved Tom in the whole mess and he would do all in his power to make sure that Sean never looked on her face again. And he would never feel guilty about embellishing Alison’s words: she had done her suffering and now Sean had to carry his.
He had spared Sean the bit about the man who’d arrived just as they left. Hadn’t told him how she half-ran to meet him, linked his arm, allowed her head to lean towards his shoulder. The man had enough to carry, there was no point in twisting the knife.
Sean had packed in the job with Matt Holland and would be leaving by the end of the week, he’d promised. Where he would end up God only knew, but the whole fiasco was of his own making and every man, Tom believed, had to learn to live with the consequences of his own actions, no matter what the cost. Though he wished him well, he wouldn’t be sad to see Sean go. It would be good to have the place back to themselves again, would give Ella and himself a chance to sort out the distance that all this business had carved between them. There was no future here for Sean and the sooner he left, Tom reasoned, the sooner he could put this whole episode out of his head and get on with the business of living.
* * *
Alison cried through the whole of Sunday. She didn’t eat. When darkness fell, she pulled the curtains and went to bed, where she tossed and turned until morning. Monday and Tuesday passed in slow motion: solitary beach walks in the drizzling rain; afternoon visits to Maryanne that she could barely endure; long telephone conversations in the evening with Hannah and Kathleen. She told neither what troubled her. Wednesday night found her in her favourite chair in the sitting room, music playing, a bottle of wine by her side.
When does anything change, she sighed. She’d been in this spot before summer began. Almost mid-July now and here she was again: same music, same wine, same goddamn tears. Had the pain of losing Sean not taught her anything?
She had never expected to fall for William, had never even considered that things might go that way. He was a friend, someone she understood and who understood her. They shared similar interests, ideas, were both outsiders in a way, who empathised with one another’s loss. But there was never any question of romance. Never. Then all of a sudden, without warning or sign, it had just consumed her. And now he was gone and she was right back to where she had been before she had met him.
Nonsense! She sat up defiantly in her chair. She was no longer mourning Sean, no longer waking each day with a dread of filling it. She had brought the house back to life, had given Hannah the holiday and space she was crying out for. Not only had she paid off the bulk of her bills but she still had some savings left over, and to top all that she had written over thirty thousand words of a novel. But above all else her time with William had proved something she thought impossible: she was capable of loving again.
She sat back, smiling. William would laugh if he could see her now, pep talking herself like some kind of half lunatic. They’d had some good times together, times she would treasure. His company and support had helped her through that really tough time when Hannah had first gone, had inspired her to look inside herself for fulfilment. Now he had decided it was time to move on, and why shouldn’t he? He had never promised her anything; in fact, he had made it clear from day one that he wouldn’t be around forever. So what reason had she to be angry with him? She wanted more, he didn’t. It was as simple as that. William had moved on, and now so would she.
Back in the kitchen she flicked on the computer. She sat and typed ’til tiredness defeated her and she tumbled into bed exhausted, satisfied with her night’s work.
* * *
William despised the white nothingness of the ward, its hushed stillness and sterility fevering his longing for Alison and the wildness of Carniskey. He closed his eyes and called up the greens, blues and greys of the sea; the golden browns and fiery reds of the mountains as the rising sun roused them from sleep. The heathers, the sea pinks and whitethorn had begun to die away before he left but wreaths of horse daisies and the red tears of fuscia had softened their passing. He chased the roar of the ocean, the dance of the shingle that had lulled him to sleep in the camper. And Alison. Everywhere Alison. In her rolled-up jeans paddling the foam; on her knees among the heather in the mountains; in her shorts digging the rockery; her smile stealing the light from the moon that night they had swum together; the way she stood on the podium reading, her nervous bow, that girlish smile. And her kiss . . .
‘I’m taking a walk,’ he muttered, passing the nurses’ station for the third time that morning.
‘But Mr Hayden . . . ’
William didn’t turn from the lift, just held up his hand, his frustration finding expression in the sharp clench and release of his raised palm.
‘Leave him, Kathy,’ the older nurse advised, ‘give him some time.’
The hospital foyer was bright and welcoming, masking the misery in the wards upstairs. Stuffed toys, chocolates, ‘Get Well’ balloons – the place was like a shopping centre. Even in these places commercialism thrives: William spat out the thought as he pushed his way through the smokers at the door and sat on a bench in the sunshine. He wondered if the sun was shining in Carniskey too, as he settled the drip-trolley beside him. He had seen Fogarty twice since Monday and he had recommended this stuff to build him up. For what, William had asked, a healthier, heartier death? They would do a scan this afternoon, see what new territory had been claimed, get a better idea of what time was left to him. William prayed it would be short. He felt like a caged lion. He knew the nurses were only doing their job – and a good one, too – but Jesus, the way they soft-stepped around him! Their smiles of pity, the way they called him ‘love’ and ‘dear’ – some even speaking loud and slow, as if he were either deaf or foreign, or both. He felt the mobile phone in his pocket and his fingers ached to press her number. Just to hear her. To tell her how he missed her. To tell her why he had to hurt her.
* * *
Rob crunched the car to a halt on the gravel outside the black iron gates. ‘I can see you back then, all right,’ he smiled. ‘Fat little face squashed between those bars.’
‘Oh no,’ Kathleen turned to him, ‘we didn’t bother with gates. See that old stone wall over there’ – she pointed towards the rear of the property – ‘whoever built that factored in our sort. Perfect little footholds between the stones, and not too high to throw the apples back over.’ Her smile was wistful, remembering those long ago September days: the crunch of dry leaves under their feet as they jumped silently from the wall, stifling their giggles so as not to alert old Mr Warner. She could almost taste the soft sweetness of the windfalls, feel the sticky dribble of juice down her chin.
‘Such a pity,’ she sighed, squinting through the gates at the gnarled rhododendron and hydrangea bushes battling to smother the gravel path. Two of the upper floor windows were completely obscured by creeper and the glass in the fan light over the front door had been smashed. Broken roof tiles littered the ground.
‘I know my memory is probably coloured by nostalgia, but you should have seen the place back then, Rob – the soft green lawns and the rose gardens, the sun always seemed to be shining up here.’
‘How long has it been empty?’
‘Oh, years. Ten, maybe more. Old Warner left it to a nephew in England. He came occasionally in the summer the first few years but he was an odd old sort. It had started to fall apart even before he put it up for sale.’ She laughed then, remembering. ‘When I think of how often I used to come this way after school. I’d look in the windows, imagine what I would do with each of the rooms.’
‘Fancied yourself as a bit of a Lady of the Manor, then?’
‘Oh, shut up, Rob!’ She elbowed him in the side. ‘It was a silly childish dream, don’t tell me you never had any.’
‘No, I was never the dreaming kind.’ He leaned
across and opened the glove compartment. ‘Well, not until I met you, at least.’ He handed her the red envelope.
‘What’s this?’
‘Only one way to find out.’
Her thumb stole under the seal, lifting it, and a big silver plastic key hanging from a red ribbon fell into her lap.
‘A plastic key?’ Brow furrowed, she held it up by the ribbon between them.
‘It was the biggest one they had in the card shop. They don’t seem to go in for the whole twenty-first thing any more, not like they used to.’
‘Huh?’
‘They can’t hand over the keys until Monday, but I just couldn’t wait . . . ’
‘Keys? What are you on about, Rob, what keys?’
He motioned with his head towards the house and her brow knotted even deeper.
‘Maybe your dream wasn’t so silly after all.’ His smile widened into a full grin.
‘What, you mean . . . no, you can’t.’ Her head moved slowly from side to side, her eyes almost popping from their beds.
‘Yep. I know there’s lots to be done, but I got it for a song and I can do most of the work myself. Just think . . . ’
Her squeal filled the car as she threw herself towards him and smothered his words with her kiss.
* * *
Hannah’s email arrived the following Tuesday and Alison couldn’t believe what she was reading:
London’s great, Mum, but I don’t know how anyone actually lives here. The heat is awful and everywhere’s crowded ALL the time, everyone rushing round like they’re running from a fire or something! The first thing I’ll do when I get home is get into my wetsuit and catch some waves. I miss surfing so much and Aoife and the girls – even Grainne! I can’t wait to lie in my own bed and listen to the wind and rain. I can’t wait to see you again, Mum . . .
Alison printed off the email and put it in the folder, along with the others Hannah had sent. She would show them all to her one day in years to come, show her all the growing up she had done in one short summer. She hugged the folder to her, a huge smile creasing her face. Her little girl was coming home and she was looking forward to it!
Finding Alison Page 21
