Finding Alison

by Deirdre Eustace

  ‘Sure,’ Rob nodded, recovering. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we head up there now, choose the right spot?’

  ‘Cool,’ a beaming Jamie had met Kathleen’s eye.

  She walked back into the kitchen now, her whole being liberated, a feeling of absolute invincibility she had never experienced before coursing through her. This was her. This was her life, her family, and nothing could ever steal it from her. There were no secrets any more, no need to hide out, to prove herself. Rob knew everything, everything, about her and he loved her. He loved her for exactly who she was, nothing more, nothing less. If Sean Delaney were to appear in the kitchen before her right this minute, it wouldn’t knock a whit out of her. All that was finished. Over. She didn’t want or need him and she would have no problem in telling him exactly that. If he ever did return, if Alison were to decide that she wanted him back in her life, then good luck to her, but Sean would never again be a part of her life, or Jamie’s. Jamie certainly didn’t need him, she smiled, gathering her bag and her keys for work. He had the best father any child could wish for in Rob. Jamie was one lucky boy.

  She stopped in front of the hall mirror to check her make-up. Even if she plastered it on with a trowel, she thought, it still wouldn’t hide the evidence of the sleepless nights, the terrible angst of the past weeks. Alison’s face popped into her head again now, as it did so often, day and night. That awful, wild desperation in her eyes the night she had called, soaked through, to the door. How was she doing now? And William? She hadn’t heard a word since but she knew Susan Murphy was going up there, helping out. Alison had made it crystal clear that she wanted nothing more to do with her and as long as she felt like that there was no point in her trying to shift things, it would only make Alison more entrenched. She could only put her faith in time. If and whenever Alison was ready to talk, she would more than gladly welcome her with open arms. And Hannah. Her heart tightened. Hannah was due home and Jamie did nothing but talk about seeing her, even suggesting they should go to the airport with Alison to meet her. Poor Jamie. If only he knew. And one day, she hoped, he would. One day Jamie and Hannah could be what they really were to one another, brother and sister. No sins of the past should be allowed to carry on and destroy the next generation. Alison would see that in time, she knew she would. And they would find a way, all of them, she knew that too, deep inside her. Hadn’t finding Rob proved that life always had a way of working out? She leaned in closer to the mirror. Yes, she did look tired. Tired but happy, she nodded. All she could do now was keep trusting, keep positive and be grateful for every day that she woke with that wonderful, indescribable feeling that loving, being loved, by another wraps you in.

  She locked the front door and stepped down into the bright morning sunshine. She had started walking the fifteen minutes to and from work as part of her trimming and toning regime for her big day and now she couldn’t imagine starting the day any other way. The fresh air, the time alone, the very act of walking cleared her head and left her energised and positive and ready to tackle the day.

  Alison would no doubt be in at some point during the day to see Maryanne, she thought, turning in the direction of the town. Poor old Maryanne, she’d gone even further into herself, it seemed, this past week, had even begun refusing her meals in the last few days, and coaxing only seemed to make her more determined not to touch a bite. Kathleen didn’t want to agree with Nurse Hassett’s opinion that Maryanne was giving up completely, was wanting to be gone; her theory was that withdrawing from food was withdrawing from the last and only social activity that Maryanne took part in. Pure nonsense! Kathleen spat now in defiance. Maryanne probably just had a bit of a bug, was maybe feeling a little bit down in herself. She must remember to remind her again today – several times – that tonight Hannah would be back home with them. Wouldn’t that raise anyone’s spirits? She veered off the main road and began the short hill climb to the home. Maybe Alison had already visited. Part of her secretly hoped so, she hated that awful awkwardness between them now, the turning of heads, the frantic digging in handbags. Still, what could she do? Nothing. She was the villain.

  Well, maybe not nothing, she thought, nodding her head in decision. From today, she could stop turning her head in shame, stop ducking into corridors and rooms every time she saw Alison approach. From today, she would stand her ground, act normally and leave Alison in no doubt that she was there and willing to talk whenever and no matter how long it took.

  * * *

  Hannah zipped up the second, smaller suitcase and stood it beside the empty wardrobe. All that was left to do was to pack her in-flight bag and she was ready to go. She was so thrilled that Claire was travelling with her, it would make leaving so much easier and she could just picture Mum’s face when Claire stepped through the Arrivals gate with her – it was by far the coolest present she could bring home to her. Home! Hannah could almost feel the salt water tighten her face, feel the pull and yield of the waves under her surf board. She could hardly wait!

  She checked her watch: 8.15 a.m. Harry would be here in less than an hour. He was taking her back to the London Eye for one last outing together. Butterflies stirred in her stomach. She would miss Harry most of all. Miss the way she could talk to him just like to one of her girlfriends. Miss the way he was always interested in what she had to say, what she thought about things, as if she were special, different – but in a good way.

  There were no boys like Harry back home, just idiots like Peter O’Neill who were only interested in themselves and how far they could get with you. Harry wasn’t like that – but oh my could he kiss, slow and gentle, like your lips were covered in his favourite chocolate. Claire said he was well brought up. A real gentleman, she said, and the only kind of boy that Hannah should consider good enough for her.

  She fingered the soft cotton of the dress spread out on the bed. She hoped Harry would like it. Claire had helped her to pick it out, but she had paid for the whole outfit herself – even the shoes – although Claire had tried to insist. Mum would be proud of her, she smiled. It had felt so good handing over her own money, money she had earned. It made her feel proud, less like a kid. It was a feeling she wanted to hold on to and the first thing she would do when she got home was to find herself a part-time job before the savings she had made from working at Claire’s gallery ran out.

  Well, not the very first thing, she smiled, gathering her towels and padding across the hall to the bathroom. The first thing she had to do was to convince Mum to allow Harry to come for a visit during his mid-term from college. Herself and Harry had already planned it all out and Harry said, that way, today wouldn’t really be a goodbye. Still, that didn’t stop her missing him already, even before she had left.

  How had Mum coped after Dad, she wondered again now, turning on the shower and stepping out of her bathrobe. No matter how much she thought about it she just couldn’t imagine what it had been like for her. To know that you were never, ever going to see the person you loved again. She could never cope with that. During her first few weeks in London she had missed Mum more than she ever thought possible and she had worried about her back home on her own. Grandad had said at the time that there weren’t many people as strong as Mum and she could see now what he had meant.

  She stepped under the jet of water. She couldn’t really imagine Mum with a boyfriend. How had that happened? When Aoife told her first she’d thought it was gross – a boyfriend at Mum’s age? But then, as Claire had pointed out, she was older than Mum and Hannah found nothing gross about her dating. Even Grandad had ‘a companion’, as he liked to call her. And Mum deserved a bit of happiness, just like everyone else. Plus, Hannah smiled to herself, tilting her head back under the hot stream, Mum having someone of her own would definitely work in Hannah’s favour when it came to persuading her to let Harry visit.

  * * *

  Although Hannah’s flight wasn’t due in until nine that night, a girlish giddiness had driven Alison from her bed before seven that mornin
g to hang the banners and balloons for her daughter’s homecoming. She had helped William to take what little breakfast his diminished appetite would allow and when a deep sleep had stolen him from her again she had walked the dogs and completed her shopping before midday, allowing an hour for an afternoon visit with Maryanne. But almost two hours later she found herself still at her side. Maryanne had refused to leave her bed today and there seemed such an unbearable sadness in her lost eyes that Alison couldn’t find it in herself to leave before she had spoken to the doctor and tried to figure out what was troubling her.

  As Maryanne dosed in and out of sleep, Alison’s mind wandered again to William, remembering Barry O’Driscoll’s reaction three days ago when she had dropped the sketches William had given her into his shop in Cuan Roan to have them framed. Remarking on their ethereal, other-worldly quality, he had studied them closely, all the time trying to fathom why they seemed so familiar to him. His wife, Addy, had joined him behind the counter, her eyes agog as she detailed the similarity in style to the two treasured sketches she had inherited from her father, sketches by an R. W. Hayden, a young Dublin artist that she remembered her father being so taken by when she was a teenager. Addy had almost collapsed with excitement when Alison’s finger had pointed to William’s signature. Never mentioning that William was actually living at her house, they had arranged to meet again next week when Alison would collect her framed sketches and have an opportunity to see William’s earlier work.

  Then that telephone call yesterday from Nigel Collins, William’s solicitor. It was typical of William not to have told her himself. Typical of his endearing humility and grace that he would not want to be seen as a benefactor and yet would want her to know, before he was gone, that she would at least be financially secure and not have that worry. The generous lump sum that he was leaving her was shock enough, but the solicitor had been more ebullient about the back catalogue of work – valuable work, he had called it – that William had bequeathed her. And that was why she had spent the previous night and the whole of that morning trying frantically to contact Claire.

  ‘Ah yes, R.W. or William Hayden – disappeared off the face of the planet more than thirty years ago.’ Claire had known immediately who Alison was talking about.

  ‘After his fiancée left him?’ Alison had nodded, pressing her lips together.

  ‘The ghostly Helene,’ Claire sighed. ‘The bulk of his first – and last, as it happened – exhibition were studies of her. The whole lot sold out in just two days. She took a great talent with her when she decided to walk, but you know that yourself, you’ve obviously read up on— ’

  ‘No,’ Alison shook her head.

  ‘No? Then how do you— ’

  ‘He told me.’ And Alison recounted the whole story to silence at the other end of the phone.

  An hour later, Claire called back and, without preamble, launched straight in: ‘Robert William Hayden, born Dublin, Ireland, 10th April 1955. Studied architecture at University College Dublin before moving to Paris in 1976 where— ’

  ‘He taught English while studying art at night. That’s him,’ Alison smiled through her tears.

  ‘And he? You? You mean . . . oh my God!’ Alison held the receiver away from her ear, Claire’s excited shriek filling the whole room. ‘Alison, do you realise what those sketches are worth?’

  ‘They’re priceless to me, Claire. I’ll never part with them.’

  ‘But you can’t just sit on them, Alison, you don’t realise— ’

  ‘I would be willing to lend them out – to a certain trusted gallery owner?’ Alison realised their worth only too well. When she’d been unable to reach Claire she had scanned the internet in open-mouthed disbelief.

  ‘Oh, Alison! You can’t imagine – oh my God, what a coup! This is going to fix me on the map – dead centre! Oh Alison, how can I ever thank you . . . ’

  ‘No, Claire, I want to thank you. Without your help, without you caring for Hannah, this summer would never have happened for me. God knows what state we’d be in by now. This is just your own generosity looping back on you.’ Alison’s heart swelled. At last she was able to give something back, something worthwhile, and in Alison’s experience there was no better feeling. And she could truly understand now that all Claire had done, all she had given them over the years, hadn’t been charity. It had all been given in the spirit of generosity, of love. To Alison, William had been the embodiment of that very spirit and she would do her best to ensure that, after he was gone, through his work, William’s spirit, his enormous talent, would continue to be felt and appreciated in the world.

  ‘Alison?’ The staff nurse smiled at her from the door. Alison rose from her chair beside the bed, walked towards her.

  ‘I’m afraid the doctor’s out on a house call, it’ll be at least another hour before he’ll get to see you.’

  Alison checked her watch. Almost two thirty. She would have to leave for the airport at seven at the very latest. She still had to shower and change and grab something to eat and she wanted to be able to spend as much time as possible with William. Late evening was his best time now, when he was most alert, and she didn’t want to waste a precious second of the time they had left together.

  ‘I can’t really wait around any longer.’ She didn’t want to have to leave William again before the airport trip. There was something about him at breakfast this morning, something in his eyes – she couldn’t describe it, but it was as if some knowing inside her felt him being pulled farther away from her. ‘Could I maybe just call, have a chat with him on the phone?’

  ‘You could try, but there’s no guaranteeing when he’ll be in his office – there’ll be his rounds and . . . if you were here, you’d definitely get to have a word.’

  ‘Right. Okay, I’ll need to get home to William – and Hannah’s coming tonight.’ She drummed her lips with her fingers. ‘If I say I’ll be back at four?’ Surely fifteen minutes would be enough to spend with the doctor, then she’d only be away from William for about half an hour, she reckoned.

  ‘Perfect, he’ll be here till at least five and he knows you’re anxious to see him, so take your time.’ Her smile was almost too kind, as she squeezed Alison’s upper arm. ‘We’ll try Maryanne with a little dinner in the meantime.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Alison smiled, backing away towards the bed, the warning burn of tears for some reason stinging the back of her eyes. ‘I’ll head off, promise me you’ll try to eat some dinner.’ She kissed Maryanne on the forehead, collected her bag from the chair. ‘I’ll see you again in a little while.’

  * * *

  Unable to sleep, Tom had left the hotel early to continue his journey south. His heart felt even heavier this morning, the battling voices in his head refusing to be stilled. Was he making the right decision? His head assured him that confessing to Alison was the only and honest thing to do. But his heart refused to be persuaded. Was he telling Alison for her own good, or was he just using the girl to quiet his own conscience? What had she to gain from learning that Sean had been alive these past three years? Surely telling her only amounted to taking Sean from her for a second time. He pictured her smile, her enthusiasm about the house, about her daughter returning; the way she had skipped down the drive to meet that man, leaned her head in towards his shoulder. The same way Ella had once leaned into him: trusting him, loving him, filling him with a warmth and comfort, with that deep stillness that comes only from being truly accepted, truly understood. With more than half of his journey south behind him, Tom felt the binds of indecision begin to loosen and fall away from his chest, his whole body suffused with an urgent longing to be back in the shelter of Ella’s trust. Only by sharing his story with Ella, with the guards, with Alison, only by speaking out the guilt, the gnawing culpability that plagued him, would he finally be able to find the peace he had been chasing, finally find his own truth.

  Alison’s truth, she believed, was that her husband had been lost at sea. Three whole years she had str
uggled to make that truth a part of her. When Tom had lowered that knapsack to the ocean’s depths, he had denied her the right to her whole truth, denied her the right to know, to heal, to get on with her life. It was high time that was given back to her. And this time she would be left with no uncertainties, no doubts. Sean’s body was lying in a morgue waiting to be claimed and the only thing that stood between that man and a decent burial, the only obstacle to Alison finally being able to lay her husband and her past to rest, was him. He would go directly to the guards, face whatever consequences were to come and confess the one thing that could set him free to return to his life and to Ella: the truth. He sighed out his relief as he circled the roundabout, pointed the car north.

  * * *

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ Stepping out into the corridor, Alison closed the office door behind her and sneaked a look at her watch. It was just after 5 p.m. Still gripping the door handle, she closed her eyes to steady herself. Her head felt light, almost dizzy, her stomach angry and gnawing. No wonder, she hadn’t had a chance to eat since her hurried breakfast at seven. William’s colour had really worried her when she got home to him earlier and, although he had rallied and tried his best to join in her excitement about Hannah’s arrival, the weariness in his eyes, in his whole face, had given him away. He was sleeping heavily again before she left, but she was conscious of every moment she was away from him. She thanked her lucky stars again for Susan, for William’s insistence that she accept the offer of home help – where would she have been without her?

  When she’d returned to the home at four, she’d had to wait a further thirty long toe-tapping minutes before the doctor was able to see her, and after all that she was really none the wiser. Maryanne’s condition hadn’t altered ‘medically’, he’d assured her, and when Alison raised her concerns about Maryanne not eating, about how removed she seemed, his only response was, ‘Well, I’m afraid we can’t force her. We can only continue to tempt her . . . little portions, see how she responds.’ And he had left it there, hanging, his eyebrows raised above his glasses as he glanced from the file on his desk to Alison, as if questioning her, as if challenging her to . . . to what? She didn’t know. And what more did he know – or care, for that matter, she cursed to herself, digging in her shoulder bag for her car keys, her hurried footsteps echoing along the empty corridor.