Watching Nell drying her hair, Laura felt bad. She’d betrayed Eve, broken her word. She’d send her a text later, let her know she was thinking of her. She could do that much, at least.
By the time Laura’s hair was dry, Maisie Kiely had arrived for her weekly wash and set. ‘Isn’t it a grand day, ladies? About time that old rain dried up for itself – am I right or am I right?’ she demanded, looking fiercely from one to the other.
‘You’re right, Maisie,’ Laura told her, wondering if anyone had ever had the temerity to suggest that she might be wrong, about anything at all. Maisie might be coming dangerously close to eighty, but you didn’t mess with her.
Nell hung her jacket. ‘Have a seat at the basin, Maisie, and I’ll be right with you.’ She took Laura’s money, gave change. ‘Talk soon. Tell Tilly I’m looking forward to seeing her.’
‘Will do.’
Maisie was right; it was a dream of a day. A bare hint of a breeze, the sky at last showing blue again, sunlight pouring onto faces and buildings, bringing everything into sharp relief. Maybe they were finally getting a summer, just in time for Tilly’s visit.
On her way home, following an impulse she could hardly understand, Laura detoured onto the pier and made for the yellow ice-cream van.
‘Hey,’ Andy said, setting aside his phone. ‘Your hair is nice.’
‘Just out from Nell,’ she told him. ‘Looking forward to seeing Tilly?’
He grinned, tucking hands into armpits. ‘Yeah.’
She let a few seconds pass, waiting for more, but no more came. ‘Everything OK with you?’ she asked. ‘Summer going well so far?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine.’
‘How were the exams?’
‘Not too bad.’
‘When will you know?’
‘Middle of August.’
Laura didn’t see much of him in the normal run of things, despite them being next-door neighbours. When she dropped over to Nell on the weekends he was home from college, he was usually out with friends, or studying in his room.
Two and a half years with Tilly, and still going strong.
Apparently.
‘Seen Eve lately?’ she asked. Just for the hell of it.
He coloured slightly, a pale pink washing onto his face. A hand came up to scratch an ear. ‘Not much, but she’s around. Why do you ask?’
Why did she ask indeed? ‘I was just thinking I’ve hardly seen her since the crèche finished up. Hope she’s coping alright since Hugh died, that’s all. Thought you might have some news of her.’
‘Not really.’
There was no reason to suspect him, no reason in the wide world. Eve had said it wasn’t anyone Laura knew – why would she say it if it wasn’t true?
But people didn’t always tell the truth, did they? People lied when they didn’t think the truth would be well received.
It was just a notion she had, one that had crept into her head sometimes when she wasn’t paying attention. She hoped he was innocent. She liked him, always had – and of course Tilly was mad about him. She hoped to God he wasn’t involved.
‘You want an ice-cream?’ he asked.
‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘A small cone.’
Stop seeing a problem where there isn’t one. He’s with Tilly, and Eve is pregnant by someone else.
A little boy in green shorts and a mustard-coloured T-shirt, four or five, scampered across to the van, a man following some distance behind with a buggy. Canary Islands, the T-shirt said, above a red and yellow parrot. ‘Conor!’ the man called, but the lad ignored him.
‘I want a ice-cream,’ he said, watching Laura’s order being created.
‘What’s the magic word?’ Laura asked – ever the mother – but the boy made no response. No magic words in his house.
Andy handed Laura her cone, took her euro fifty. ‘Will we wait for your dad?’ he asked the boy, who shook his head firmly. A tuft of his blond hair stuck up in front, reminding Laura of Ben and Seamus at that age. Impossible hair the two of them had had as kiddies, nothing to be done but let it go its own way. It hadn’t improved much in the meantime, but she felt its management wasn’t really her responsibility any more, now that they were heading for twelve in November.
‘Do you have any money?’ Laura asked the boy. ‘You need money for ice-cream.’
‘My dad has money’ – and here came the harried father to rescue the situation. Laura took her leave and headed home, relishing the cold sweet creaminess of the cone – she should really treat herself more often – and the feel of the sun on her bare arms, and the occasional pleasant citrus waft from her newly washed hair.
Had he looked guilty – or was the blush simply a natural reaction to a mention of his old love?
She remembered the two of them together in the early days, just after the girls were born, and Eve was still helping her out at the B&B. She remembered him calling there a few times to collect Eve, and the way she’d light up when she saw him. Love’s young dream, a right Romeo and Juliet they’d been. No wonder Nell had fretted they’d elope. Imelda too, probably, not that she’d have confided in Laura the Jezebel.
She found herself wishing that Walter, the previous owner of her house, was still around. ‘I need you,’ she told him. ‘I could do with someone to listen to my rubbish, and tell me to cop on.’ But nobody was listening. Walter had finally made his departure: she didn’t feel him about the place any more. And maybe she’d imagined him all along. Maybe he’d buggered off after dying, like most people did.
Active imagination, one of her teachers had written on a long-ago report card. Trying to think of something positive to put down, no doubt. Good student had never featured, or attentive in class. But hadn’t she done alright for herself, even with her lack of study, her paltry academic achievements? Hadn’t she created a happy home for her children, despite her own childhood home being far from a happy place most of the time?
She walked past the hotel, waving in the driveway at Henry, who stood at the bottom of a ladder by the gable wall. A man halfway up was trailing a string of bunting. The party, she remembered. Not for another few weeks, but the birthday boy would be anxious to set the scene. Must get him a nice present. Something flashy: Henry liked his bling. Shame he had no boyfriend to celebrate with on his big night.
Further on, just across from the church, a low-sized, rather heavyset man stood by an easel, looking out to sea. He wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, and loose navy overalls. On his head was a straw hat, by his side a little folding table that was covered with a muddle of tubes and jars. An enormous lime green suitcase on wheels sat behind the table, presumably to cart all his stuff about.
He turned at the sound of Laura’s footsteps and lifted his hat a fraction, like Walter used to do – the memory caused a pang – and smiled at her very sweetly. Nice-looking for his age; somewhere in the late sixties, she guessed. Wasn’t Irish, not with that tan. Following another impulse, she crossed the road.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Lovely day for painting.’
He gave a little bow of acknowledgement. ‘Sì, signora, a beautiful day.’
This was Imelda’s man: it had to be. ‘Mind if I look?’ she asked, and he stepped aside to allow her to stand before the easel.
‘Golly,’ she said. ‘Gosh.’
It was the sea, and it was certainly colourful, every shade of blue and green imaginable, with dashes of white and purple and yellow and black and pink and orange thrown in. The water moved, or seemed to, beneath a sky that was also vibrant with great colour and energy. ‘That’s wonderful. Really wonderful.’
‘Grazie, signora,’ he murmured with another little bow. ‘The sea, she is very …’ he turned a hand, searching for the word ‘… alive.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
She wondered what he’d say if she told him her father was the great Luke Potter – as a painter himself, he would undoubtedly be familiar with the name, although Luke’s meticulously execute
d paintings were a million miles away from this gloriously chaotic creation.
‘I’m Laura,’ she told him instead. ‘I live just up the road, another five minutes or so.’
He wiped his hand on his overalls before offering it to her to shake. He said a name she didn’t quite catch, and told her he was pleased to meet her.
‘Can you say your name again?’ she asked, and this time she heard it, and wondered.
‘In English,’ he added, ‘is Walter.’
Yes. In English he was Walter. He was so like him, in manner and gesture. She told him about the other Walter, who had lived where she lived now. She told him about her and Gav buying the house after his death and turning it into a B&B and calling it after him, to keep his memory alive.
‘Is good story,’ he said. ‘Roone is special place, I think. I feel, here.’ Tapping his chest with fingertips.
He got it. Not everyone got the island but he did, after only a few days. ‘I used to think,’ she said slowly, ‘after Walter died, that I could still – that he was still around, still here. I would feel him nearby, now and again. I know that probably sounds very … silly, but I really thought he wasn’t gone. Roone makes you believe that things like that can happen.’
She waited for him to laugh, but he didn’t. ‘Is not always easy,’ he said in his halting English, ‘to see what is real and what is not. Sometime the ’ead is playing tricks, but perhaps not always. I think we cannot know for sure.’
‘I agree.’
Look at them, going all philosophical in the middle of a sunny day, within a minute of meeting. She found him endearing, found herself wanting to delay her departure, even though there were plenty of jobs awaiting her. ‘You’re staying with Imelda,’ she said, ‘Mrs Fitzpatrick,’ and his face changed.
‘You know this,’ he said, ‘because I think Eemelda ask if you have place for me. She tell me she ask everybody, but all is full.’
Poor man, landing into such a fraught situation. ‘I wish I could help – in fact, your nephew and his wife stayed with me last year – but I have no vacancy until the end of the month.’
‘Yes. This is problem. I know this is bad time for Eemelda.’
Nice the way he said her name, made it sound almost Italian. ‘You know, maybe it’s a good thing that you’re here,’ Laura told him. ‘Maybe she needs to have someone in the house with her now.’ Clutching at straws, but she wanted to offer some comfort.
He gave another smile, although she got the impression that she hadn’t convinced him. She bade him goodbye and kept going, sorry she couldn’t have been of more practical help to him. Maybe she’d invite him to dinner, if their paths crossed again – and they surely would. She could do that much for Walter’s Italian counterpart.
She reached home and let herself in by the front door. She admired her hair in the hall mirror before making her way to the kitchen.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Gavin said, surrounded by his three small daughters. Toys and games and books pretty much covered the kitchen table and spilt onto the floor. It always amazed Laura how quickly they could make such an impressive mess. ‘Doesn’t Mum look gorgeous?’
‘No,’ Marian said, and tittered.
‘No!’ Evie shouted, darting a defiant look at their father. ‘She looks howwible!’ Erupting in giggles along with her sister.
‘Not!’ Poppy cried, lifting her arms towards her mother. Faithful old Poppy, not yet old enough to recognise a bit of nonsense. Laura gathered her up and kissed her loudly on her soft plump cheek. ‘Thank you, darling. Don’t listen to those two witches.’ She turned to Gavin. ‘Did the boys walk Charlie?’
‘They did, they’re back. They’re boxing up the eggs outside.’
Good. All her chicks accounted for. ‘Any arrivals?’ Two new parties she was expecting today, from England and from Germany.
‘Nobody yet.’
‘Any hope of a coffee?’ Her taste for it had finally returned last year, nineteen months after her last chemo session.
‘Coming up,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘You want me to heat a scone?’
She shouldn’t, not after the ice-cream. On the other hand, the scales had been kind when she’d stepped up this morning. ‘Go on.’
Her hair was newly cut. The sun was shining. Her husband and children were healthy. Bookings were solid, pretty much, right up to the middle of August, and coffee and a scone were on the way. All was well.
She deposited Poppy in a chair and gathered the fallen items from the floor. She took blackberry jam from the press and searched in the fridge for the whipped cream that they’d almost, but not quite, finished off the night before. If she was going to have a scone, she might as well do it right.
She turned from the fridge, the bowl of cream in her hand, and felt, for an instant only, a cold dark rush of something – what? Before she could define it, it was gone. She stood where she was, trying to puzzle out what might have caused it, or what it might mean. A premonition of some kind, a portent of oncoming trouble?
Before she’d come to live on the island, she’d have dismissed it without a thought, called it a goose walking over her grave and forgotten about it the minute it had passed. Now, having experienced for herself Roone’s inexplicable magic – mushrooms that cured arthritis, a signpost erected by nobody, an apple tree that fruited three times in a year – she was more inclined to attach some significance to it.
‘Coffee,’ Gavin said, clearing a space for the mug on the table.
‘Thanks …’
The microwave pinged. Her scone was presented to her. She looked down at it, still a little thrown.
‘What’s up? What did I forget?’
‘Sorry,’ she said, taking her seat. ‘Miles away.’
She spread jam, topped it with cream. She was being silly. It was a half-digested bit of breakfast sausage making its presence felt. Or it was her father and Susan and Eve, or it was all the concerns that went along with being a working mother of five young children.
She ate the scone and chatted with her family, and resolved to believe that nothing bad was headed their way.
Tilly
‘G’DAY, SHEILA,’ HE SAID. ‘YOU TOOK YOUR TIME.’
His Australian accent was atrocious, but the sight of him was truly wonderful. He was there, he was right in front of her, after her long wait to see him. She abandoned her case and threw herself into his arms. Unwashed, largely unfed, hair a complete fiasco, no sleep for the past thirty-one hours, not a wink. Deodorant and blusher and lipstick applied hurriedly, for all the good they’d done, in the Ladies at the airport while she’d waited for her luggage.
‘Don’t look at me,’ she commanded, face pressed to his jacket. She breathed him in, relishing the feel of him, the solidity of him. ‘I look a fright. Keep your eyes closed all the way back to Roone.’ Roone!
She felt the bubble of his laughter. ‘Might be tricky, what with me driving and all.’
She inhaled him again. He smelt of the outdoors – and something sweet, like fairground candyfloss. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ she murmured. ‘Missed you so much.’
‘Me too, Sheila.’
Without moving from his embrace she thumped his arm. ‘I’ve told you to cut out the Sheila – and your accent is awful.’
Another laugh. ‘Well, so’s your Irish accent – and you’re supposed to be Irish.’
When I move over here, I’ll pick it up. The comment stayed in her head. Not yet, not yet. She was already listening to Irish singers on YouTube, Lisa Hannigan and Ham Sandwich and Damien Rice and Imelda May. She’d sound like a native in no time – or at least she’d sing like one.
‘Right,’ he said, drawing back, ‘we need to get a move on.’ Her flight from Dublin had been delayed, causing two hours longer of a wait. The frustration of it, when she’d been so close to seeing him. He stooped to reclaim her case, slung an arm through hers as they made their way across the small arrivals hall to the exit doors that slid apart at their app
roach.
She drew in a breath as they walked out. The air here was different. Not just cooler and fresher, but different in a way she couldn’t define. The scent of Ireland. Maybe all countries had their own aromas. She wished she could bottle it, bring it back to Australia and draw it deep into her lungs in the middle of a muggy summer’s afternoon.
It was dry, had been all day by the look of the ground, and beautifully mild. And how wonderful that at twenty past nine in the evening the sky had yet to lose all of its colour. She marvelled at the generous daylight hours of Ireland in the summertime.
But best of all, they were together again. It felt unreal. She was light-headed with happiness, beside him where she belonged. Singing on the inside.
The car looked worse in real life than it had on FaceTime. Spotted with rust, some of the larger patches painted over in the wrong shade of blue. Various dents on the wings, a series of long scrapes running the length of the driver’s side. She was careful not to laugh. ‘It’s great.’
‘It’s a heap,’ he said, shoving her case into the boot, ‘but it goes. It’s fine for Roone.’ He slammed down the lid. ‘Get in, or we’ll miss the last ferry.’
If only. She yearned for something, anything, that would prevent them from making the crossing to the island. A flat tyre, a sudden storm that forced the cancellation of the ferry, too many cars waiting to board ahead of them. She willed them to be stranded, obliged to find a place for the night, just the two of them. Of course she was eager to see Laura and the children – but Roone, and all it held, would still be there in the morning.
He drove carefully, like she remembered, not showing off the way other guys might do with a girlfriend in the passenger seat.
Girlfriend. Fiancée. Another thing she had to hug to herself.
‘So how’s the ice-cream business?’
‘Good, plenty of customers. Even on the rainy days it’s not bad. Lots of visitors around right now. You’ll see it when we get to the pier. You can help me out if you like.’
‘I like,’ she said, reaching over to rest her hand lightly on his thigh. ‘What are your hours?’
The Birthday Party: The spell-binding new summer read from the Number One bestselling author Page 9
