When he enquired the next day, Tom had learned that Sean hadn’t left on a boat but was seen boarding the early morning bus for Dublin. Maybe he’d arranged a pick-up there, Tom concluded, and he’d sail from the docks in Dublin. Anyway, he was gone from their lives and good luck to him, wherever he went. He genuinely hoped Sean would find peace. But at night when he lay chasing sleep Tom’s mind would throw up a thousand questions – what if Sean had gone to Waterford? What if he was down there now, tormenting and harassing her? He would feel the anger of a protective father rising inside him at those moments.
‘Will he come back, Dad?’ The boy broke in on his thoughts.
‘We’ll see, son, we’ll see.’ Tom put his arm around Daniel and drew him close. ‘Now come on, yer mother’ll kill us if we’re late for tea.’ He hoisted the boy up on his shoulders and strolled back up the pier towards home, wondering as he went whether it mightn’t be a bad idea to give Alison a ring in the evening. Sean was gone three days. If he was going to Carniskey, he’d be well there by now. That’s what he would do, he decided, whistling. He’d give Alison a call after tea and then he could settle his mind once and for all.
* * *
Kathleen waved Alison off, her mind in such a spin that she could barely separate one thought from another. How in the name of God could that girl look so glowingly happy when the man she had finally come to realise she loved lay within months, maybe even weeks of death? How could she have such a peace about her? If she were Alison, she’d be railing against God, against the whole world for what it was doing to her. But instead Alison appeared more content with herself, more calm and fulfilled than Kathleen had seen her since she had first married. Maybe it’s her way of protecting herself, Kathleen figured, closing the door and returning to the kitchen. Maybe Alison is not allowing herself to face the reality of it because she knows from before what it’s going to do to her.
Her secret passion for Sean rose in hot accusation in her throat. She could never tell her now, not with this. Alison would need her when William went, would need someone she trusted, some solid ground to keep her standing. Maybe it hadn’t been Sean on the phone, she tried to fool herself, while another part of her screamed out that of course it was him, and she knew it.
And she did know it. She knew every beat and nuance of that voice – God knows she had spent enough nights lying close to him, clinging to every word that came out of his mouth as if it were pure gold. What a fool! What she wouldn’t give now to be told that she would never again hear another syllable out of him.
She would keep calm, she decided, and if Sean did make an appearance she would deny everything. He had denied her and Jamie long enough, and anyway, who would believe a word out of him at this stage after what he had done? As for Rob . . . she sat at the table and cradled her head in her hands. She would either have to tell Rob or else spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. She wasn’t prepared to live like that any longer. She was done with lies. She would tell Rob and she would beg him, if he cared about her and Jamie at all, to keep it to himself – for Alison, for Jamie and for Hannah’s sake – to keep it to himself and to walk away.
* * *
The doctor was warm and receptive – and to the point. He detailed the hospice service and what they could provide for William and Alison, reassured her of his own assistance and availability, and reiterated again and again the importance of Alison taking good care of herself. He knew she was aware of what lay ahead for William but questioned whether she had given enough consideration to the impact it would have on herself. He was taken aback by her strength, her determination to follow it through, by the courage of this young woman who had already been tossed so much by life. He saw her to the door, confident that although this would test her more than she realised Alison would survive.
She left with the wheelchair the doctor had secured for her and the contact number of the hospice team who were expecting her call. Alison was to arrange a meeting at her house for later that evening, when Dr Clarke and the hospice nurse would assess William’s needs and set a care plan in place. She recognised fully the absolute necessity of involving the hospice home-care team for William’s professional care and comfort, but she had refused point-blank when Dr Clarke suggested that she avail of a home-care service for an hour every day. To give her a break, he’d said. A break? William’s time, their time together was short, she was under no illusion about that. She didn’t want the house, their space, taken over by strangers – well-intentioned as they might be. With the help of Dr Clarke and the hospice team, and of course Kathleen, she would look after William and keep life as normal and ‘hospital’ free as possible. Anxious to be back to him again, she stopped in at the chemist to pick up some aromatherapy oils and candles and was quickly on her way home.
* * *
Sean had moved the table and chair under the laced curtained window and passed his days and evenings watching the street below like a marksman. The bed and breakfast accommodation was seven doors up from Alison’s aunt, on the opposite side of the street, and gave him a perfect view of the comings and goings at the house with the yellow door. He sat and smoked and ate his meals behind the window, only leaving the room after darkness fell, when he could steal through the streets unnoticed. The landlady, suspicious of his behaviour, had tried to draw him out. Sean had spun her a story about how his wife had recently passed away, how he was struggling to come to terms with his loss before facing back into the world. Propelled by sympathy, the woman did all in her power to accommodate his privacy and grieving.
He felt tired. Tired and restless. Three days now and the neat, single room with the floral papered walls and low ceiling had already begun to close in on him. He hated being confined. Hated towns and cities: detested the noise, the rush, the bland similarity of the nearly day and nearly night, the way the streetlights stole the magic from the stars. He stared out blankly at the dull monotony of it all: that row of sameness across the street, the tiny gardens, neatly mown and bordered, the front doors numbered like cells – the odd one brightly painted in a stab at individuality. And the people, like machines they were. He could tell when each was due home, what time they slept and woke, what they would wear in their morning rush from door to car or bus. And still no sign of Alison. He had seen the aunt yesterday, catching the bus at midday. She’d looked hale and hearty – no sign of sickness there. Sean had considered ringing Alison at home again to see if she had returned, but he’d decided against it. He didn’t want to risk Kathleen answering again. If she got to Alison before he did, if she told her what had gone on, it would finish any chance of her taking him back. Maybe he had been right when he’d thought that over last night down by the canal. Maybe he should have gone to Kathleen first, made some kind of arrangement about the boy, got her on side. But he couldn’t trust her, not at this stage. There was a time when Kathleen would have done anything for him, anything. But that day was well past, he reckoned. No, it wouldn’t be worth the risk. He’d bide his time for another few days and if he hadn’t seen Alison by then he’d ring the aunt, see if she had gone back home to Carniskey. And he’d take it from there.
Home to Carniskey. Home. Cradling the back of his head with his clasped hands he leaned back in his chair, allowed his eyes to close. Home. An iron fist gripped his heart as the reel of every detail of that fateful night last February, when he had returned to Carniskey, clicked and spun in the darkness behind his closed lids. He was right back there once more, as if it were happening this very moment:
Ten minutes, that’s all he had reckoned it would take. Ten minutes and he’d be in and out of there. The old dear would be none the wiser and he would finally have his ticket to a new life, a new home.
Home. The word echoed inside him. Nobody ever really understood the hugeness of it until it was lost, he thought, standing from the rock now, its damp coldness beginning to seep into his bones. He checked his watch by the light of the reluctant moon. 2 a.m. How long had he been sitt
ing there – an hour, two maybe? He tugged up his jacket collar. A south-east wind rushed in from the Atlantic, wrapping itself around him in a cloak of belonging, the wet sand beneath his feet yielding to welcome him back, to claim him. He shook his head as if to shake out his thoughts, dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets, the car jack jabbing his elbow. This was no time for sentimentality; it was his one and only chance of getting his life back on track. He had come this far and he wasn’t about to let any old mawkishness get in his way.
He turned from the shoreline up towards the slipway. He didn’t need a torch. He knew every inch of this place, had been carved and shaped by it just like the cliffs towering above him. His sigh was laced with satisfaction, his whole sense of being heightened by the anonymity lent to him by the darkness, making him feel more creature than human, more invincible.
He swung up onto the wooden railing that led to the steep cliff path, a short cut from the harbour to the road above. Funny, he thought, head bent as he negotiated the rubble that had fallen loose from the cliff onto the pathway, funny how you almost became a place, how you can feel the force and energy of a landscape working inside you. Wherever his new life brought him, he knew he would always carry this place deep within him: the tiny harbour nestled below the watchful cliffs, its quays dotted with pots and nets awaiting their season; the mountains, their browns and purples spread out to the west; the curved coast road dotted with houses – pink, yellow, white – leading into the single street village that hibernated through the long winter and reawakened in all its colour and glory with each new summer. And everywhere, always, the thunder and taste of the sea.
The headlights of a passing car on the bend above moved like a search beam along the cliff face. He pressed himself into its darkness, the smell of coppered water and damp earth filling his nostrils and crowding his head with an avalanche of memories that threatened to turn him. Taking a deep breath, he sucked in his lips and hurried his step. He had a right to a life, the same as anyone else, and by Jesus he’d earned it. No, there would be no turning. He crossed the road and scaled the low stone wall that skirted the bungalow.
The house was in darkness. He pulled on his gloves, yanked the jack from his waistband as he stole across the lawn, the sea below roaring at his back, its salty breath whipping the cordylines that sentried the house.
The rain that had weighed the air all night began to fall now, fast and heavy as his feet moved soundlessly across the concrete yard to the back door. He eased the lip of the jack between door and frame, the long lonely howl of a dog on the neighbouring farm swallowing the sound as he shouldered the door ajar. Stepping across onto the cork mat he held his breath a moment, eased the door out behind him. Silence. Then that cursed dog again. Almost there, he reassured himself, slipping the torch from his pocket and setting the jack down gently on the counter top. Then something inside him took over, something he had cursed ever since had blinded him of any sense and led him down the dark, narrow corridor to the closed door of his boyhood room, just to stand there a minute, just to remember, to feel again. A fierce tightness in his throat restored his senses and he moved quickly back to the kitchen, careful to aim the beam of the torch towards the floor. Lifting the lid of the chest freezer he dug his gloved hand down into the bottom left-hand corner. Result! He couldn’t help but smile to himself. In and out in ten minutes? Cut that in half. He bent his back, unzipped his small holdall.
The sudden glare of the overhead light froze him to the spot, his heart swelling, threatening to stall. Before his brain had time to relay the message not to turn around his head had swung and his eyes had met his mother’s, met the fear and disbelief echoed in her high-pitched keen that filled the room before she slumped to the floor, the hollow thud of her head meeting the door jamb returning the room to silence.
Her eyes, wide and unblinking, stared up at him. Jesus! His eyes and mouth screwed up tight, he arched his neck and held his face towards the light. Jesus, Jesus Christ! He should check for a pulse. He should try to stem the bleed from her forehead. He should call a doctor, an ambulance. He should . . .
He hoisted the bag on to his shoulder, stepped over her body and out into his new life.
One fist thumping the table, Sean kicked the chair from beneath him. He grabbed his jacket and cigarettes and, taking the stairs two at a time, he marched out the door, his head bent in the direction of the corner pub.
* * *
The weekend brought August and a mini heatwave. Alison wheeled William along the pier. He was quiet in himself, thoughtful. He had refused to increase his medication for the moment, wanting to remain in full control of his thoughts and feelings, to enjoy them for as long as possible before they were dimmed and distorted by drugs. But this evening Alison could see that the pain was already more than he could bear. She would talk to him about it later when they got home and then Maria, the nurse, could make the necessary changes when she called tomorrow. Alison had felt a little resentful at Maria’s interference at first. Her time with William was so precious, so short, and she didn’t want to share it with anyone else. But now she was grateful that there was a Maria at the other end of the phone when she needed her.
Alison parked close to the front door. As she rounded the jeep to the passenger door, Joe O’Sullivan stepped out from the side of the porch.
‘Is he home yet? Is Seany back?’
‘Joe . . . ’ Alison tried to keep her voice as gentle and matter of fact as possible. ‘Haven’t I told you often enough? Sean won’t be coming back. Not today. Not ever. Now please, Joe, go home, I’m busy.’
He lunged forward and pressed his face close to the glass, his eyes dancing over William. ‘Git out! Git away! This is Seany’s place!’ His screech was high and hurried, his clenched fists beating and shaking the glass.
‘Joe!’
He ran and jumped the ditch to the next field.
‘Who was . . . ?’
‘I’m sorry, William, please, don’t mind him,’ Alison sighed as she helped him from the seat. ‘He’s not all there, poor lad. Sean made a bit of a pet of him over the years and he still expects him to come back.’ But inside she was seething, silently cursing Joe for the shock and discomfort on William’s face.
While William showered, Alison busied herself preparing the room. She lit the nightlights and placed them in a row along the windowsill, on the bedside lockers, and blended drops of basil and lavender with the carrier oil. Music of panpipes and water whispered from the CD player, the oil burner filling the room with a subtle scent of frankincense.
William lay on the bed in the semi-darkness, her fingers stroking and kneading, brushing his back like the wings of angels, quieting the fear and trepidation that shadowed him and easing him into a more restful night.
She gently stroked the length of his back. Even in the short time since he’d come to stay with her Alison could see a change in him, his frame more accentuated than before, as if the life were being peeled from him, layer by layer, his body undressing, preparing. Never in her life had she felt so filled with love, so sensitively aware of the strength and depth of her feelings and at the same time so acutely aware of the fragility of the body, of life itself.
When Sean had been taken from her, there had been no preparation, no parting, no body. It had all been too sudden, too removed from reality for her to know how or where to begin to cope with it. Witnessing William’s life force diminish day by day, sharing this sacred time with him, she felt a deeper understanding, a new respect for life, for death, felt its whole mystery calming her, guiding her.
She slipped out of her robe and stretched down beside him. They lay in silent union, the nightlights flickering in the growing darkness.
* * *
Kathleen placed the two mugs on the table and scalded the teapot. Of all the times for May to arrive on one of her unexpected visits. Trouble in the ivory tower again, she guessed, as she glanced over at May nervously twisting the thick wedding band on her finger.
> ‘How’s Paul?’ Might as well get straight down to the nitty gritty, Kathleen thought, no point beating round the bush with useless small talk, she had enough on her mind. May really got on her nerves at times.
Kathleen had hardly seen her since she’d got back together with Paul – too busy flashing about with their ‘high society’ golfing friends. Had she not realised the height they’d dropped her from when Paul had left her? They’d hardly given her the time of day. Oh, herself and Alison were good enough then. Kathleen’s temper flowered as she remembered how May had spoken to Alison in the pub. And then to think that she can walk in here again without a by-your-leave when it suits her!
‘Paul’s super – we’re off to Paris with two of his partners and their wives next week, I’m so looking forward to the shops!’
‘That’s nice for you. Who’s mindin’ the kids?’
‘Paul’s mum, she’ll spoil them rotten.’
Kathleen nodded. Had she just come here to boast? Hardly, she’s plenty opportunity for that at the golf club. So what did she want? Kathleen didn’t have to wait long to find out.
‘Tell me, Kathleen, is it really true about Alison, that she’s taken a lover?’
Kathleen looked across at the bobbing blonde head, the plumped-up pout, the two sharp eyes spidered with mascara.
‘She’s the talk of the place! Do you know him? They say he’s twice her age and— ’
‘They’ve little to bother them!’ Kathleen snapped. Where the hell does she get off with that accent? she seethed. Jesus, she was reared here with the rest of us! ‘Alison has a heart. And that’s what sets her apart around this place. Yes, I have met him, May. His name is William. He’s a wonderful, gentle man and a great friend to Alison. He also has cancer and only a few months to live.’
Finding Alison Page 25
