Maggie jumped to her feet. “There’s still some of the mixture left,” she said, gathering up plates. “I’ll make him some right now. A growing lad like that needs a good breakfast.”
“Tell you what, buddy,” Jean said to Thomas, “you carry in some of those plates, and you can have some of Maggie’s famous pancakes. Her first time making them, and they’re the best I’ve ever eaten in America.”
Thomas clapped his hands delightedly. “It’s a deal!” he said, holding out his hand, palm upwards.
Jean gamely brought the palm of her hand down on his in a loud slap, then they went into a routine of slapping each other’s hands in a variety of ways.
The men stayed outside in the sun, while Maggie, Aisling and Jean went inside with Thomas. A little while later, while Maggie was serving up the pancakes, Aisling gestured to Jean to come into the hallway out of Thomas’s hearing.
“What do you think,” she asked, “about me going over to see Thomas’s medals?” She pulled a face. “I’m not too sure . . . you know . . . his father.”
“You should go across to the house,” Jean said without hesitation. “It means a lot to the boy. Don’t be put off by Jameson’s manner – when you get to know him, he’s a real nice man. I think he’s some kind of artist, and those creative types are often temperamental.” She glanced towards the kitchen. “He’s kind of wary of people – but I guess being on his own with a handicapped kid isn’t easy. Even a nice kid like Thomas.”
Aisling nodded slowly. “I didn’t realise they were on their own . . . what about Thomas’s mother?”
“Honey,” Jean said, raising her eyebrows, “your guess is as good as mine. When we moved here two years ago, there was only the two of them in the house on their own. Definitely no woman. And, as far as I know, there hadn’t been one for some time before that. ”
“Hasn’t Thomas’s father ever mentioned anything about the mother?”
“Vaguely,” Jean said. “Just odd comments about taking Thomas down to relatives in New York “ She shrugged. “I guess he’s not the kind of man who talks about personal things.”
Maggie came into the hallway now. “What’s all the whispering?” she asked, looking suspiciously at her sister and daughter.
Aisling coloured up. She didn’t want her mother to hear her asking about another man. Not after the things she had said about Oliver this morning.
Jean motioned with her hand for Maggie to keep her voice down. “I’m just filling Aisling in on Thomas’s details,” she said in a low voice.
“What kind of details?” Maggie said, all interested now. “I’ve just set him down at the table with his pancakes and syrup.”
“I’m just saying how Thomas and his father live on their own.” Jean craned her neck to make sure that Thomas couldn’t hear.
“On their own?” Maggie repeated. “What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s no mother.”
“Oh, the poor man!” Maggie said, shaking her head. “And that poor boy the way he is, and him with no mother. When did she die?” She looked back towards the kitchen. “Maybe we should have kept some of the pancakes for his father.”
“She’s not dead, Mammy!” Aisling hissed. “She’s just not living with them.”
The compassion drained from Maggie’s face, and it was replaced by a disapproving tightness. “Don’t tell me they’re divorced too,” she muttered, shaking her head.
“That’s the last thing that poor lad needs.”
“It’s OK,” Jean said. “Jameson Carroll is a very capable man. I should think he can cook his own pancakes, and a lot more besides. Thomas is very fond of his food, and he doesn’t exactly look as though he’s fading off the face of the earth, now does he?”
“True,” Maggie agreed. “He’s a fine lump of a lad, no doubt. And he’s clean and tidy, well-turned out considering there’s only a man looking after him.”
Aisling rolled her eyes over in Jean’s direction, and her aunt smiled back knowingly.
“Weren’t you a lucky girl yesterday, meeting Thomas and his dad?” Jean said, changing the subject.
Aisling closed her eyes at the memory of the purple and yellow shirt. “Yes,” she said nodding, “I certainly was lucky. It was awful. I was terrified – I don’t know what I’d have done if I hadn’t met them.”
“What did Jameson actually say to the guy when he confronted him?” Jean asked curiously.
Aisling shrugged. “I really don’t know,” she said. “I was just going to ask him that yesterday when you all arrived.”
“I’d love to have seen the guy’s face,” Jean said, “when Jameson Carroll loomed over him. He’s a good six-footer.”
“Yes – but so was the weird fellow!” Aisling said. “Thank God it came to nothing.”
Maggie shook her head. “I can’t imagine what Oliver would have had to say, if we had let anything happen to you . . .”
At the mention of Oliver’s name, Aisling felt herself flinch.
“And I wouldn’t have liked to have seen the state of that fellow if Oliver had got his hands on him,” Maggie told Jean now. “Oliver Gayle mightn’t be the biggest man in the world, but he has a fierce temper on him, and he wouldn’t back down from anything.”
Then, they heard the scrape of Thomas’s chair as he got up from the table, and the three women all rushed back into the kitchen – Aisling grateful for the diversion.
“Those pancakes – swell!” he said. “Best in America!”
“You’re very welcome, ” Maggie beamed. “I’ll save you some if I make them again before I go home.”
Thomas stood in front of Aisling, waiting.
“I get the feeling,” Jean said, “that you’re not going to get out of this. You might as well go now, honey – because we don’t know what the rest of the day might bring.” She ruffled Thomas’s hair. “When this guy gets the bit between his teeth, there’s no putting him off.”
She leaned towards Aisling. “Anyway, you’ll just love the house. It’s really something else.”
“Go on now, like a good girl, Aisling,” Maggie said, “and make sure you thank that man again for saving you yesterday.”
Aisling turned to Thomas. “You go on down to the lake,” she said, smiling, “and I’ll catch up with you. I just need to pop upstairs for a few minutes.”
Thomas nodded and after politely thanking the women again, he headed on out into the garden.
Aisling ran upstairs and quickly freshened up. She piled her blonde hair in a casual knot at the top of her head and put on a touch of pale pink lipstick. She looked in the mirror and then blotted most of it off with a tissue, so that it didn’t look too obvious.
Then, as she made for the bedroom door, she turned back to dab a little perfume behind her ears.
As Jean and Maggie stood on the deck watching Aisling run down to meet Thomas, Jean turned to her sister. “She’s a lovely, lovely girl. You must be very proud of her, Maggie.”
“Oh, I am proud of her,” Maggie said. “She’s a good teacher, and a very good housewife. She manages to keep on top of everything well.”
“She’s such a beautiful-looking girl, too,” Jean went on, “with her lovely long blonde hair and her slim figure.”
“Oh, well . . . beauty is as beauty does,” Maggie stated. “But fair dues to Aisling, she’s never let it go to her head. On the whole she has a nice, quiet nature.” She looked at her sister. “A bit too quiet at times. I think it’s all that reading she does. She’s a bit of a dreamer. She’s always been the same since she was a child.”
“Well,” Jean laughed, “she’s only living up to her name.”
“True,” Maggie said, laughing now. “I often forget that. I didn’t realise when we called her Aisling that it meant “dream-vision”’ in Irish. My Gaeilge was never the best. Maybe I should have checked it out beforehand, and indeed with Charles. God knows what his name means – but all I can say is that he’s even worse than Aisling for the books.”<
br />
“Did you check what ‘Pauline’ meant before choosing her name?”
Maggie’s face suddenly darkened. “No, indeed I didn’t,” she said. She moved closer to the large window, and watched as Aisling and Thomas moved further and further into the greenery. “To me, all ‘Pauline’ stands for is a mother’s broken heart . . .” Her voice tailed off, slightly cracking now.
“Oh, Maggie,” Jean said, coming to put her arms around her sister. “Don’t keep worrying about that – it’s 1963 now and people don’t mind so much.”
Maggie stiffened in Jean’s embrace, but didn’t move away. “Maybe here they don’t – but back in Ireland I’m never allowed to forget it.”
“A child always brings love,” Jean said. “I wrote that to you at the time, and I mean it more now.”
Maggie managed a watery smile. “Oh, I know . . . and Bernadette’s a grand little thing. A little dote – but God love her, she’s going to have it hard with no father.” She sniffed. “There’s hardly a night goes past that I don’t shed a tear over it . . .”
“Maggie, Maggie,” Jean said, hugging her tighter, “you need to stop looking back, and start looking forward. Bernadette has as much right to be in the world as any other child.”
Maggie nodded. “The thing is, it’s easy to understand all that while I’m here. Everything seems simple and easy. Even all the religion thing with Bruce – it doesn’t bother me. Listening to him, some of his views even seems sensible – but the minute I get back home it’ll be a different story. You wouldn’t survive over there to start questioning things too much, or going against the Church.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Jean told her. “The thoughts in your own head can be the same wherever you are – it’s up to you.”
“True . . .” Maggie said, but her voice was distant.
They walked out into the garden, Maggie stopping to examine the different plants and flowers. “I hope Aisling’s all right,” she said now. “There’s times it’s hard to work out what’s going on in somebody else’s head.”
“Aisling sounds just fine,” Jean reassured her, “and, aren’t you always saying what a wonderful guy her husband is?”
“Oh, he is, he is. She’s done well marrying him,” Maggie said. “She has a lovely big farmhouse, and she goes short of nothing. Oliver’s even talking of getting her a car in the near future.”
“He sounds a real nice guy, and so full of life. Declan said he was a leading light in the local drama.”
“Oh indeed,” Maggie said, cheering up now. “And they give huge amounts to local charities.” Then, she bent down to smell a rose bush. She picked one of the flowers and twiddled it around in her hands. “The only thing missing from Aisling’s life is a child.”
Jean raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She found it hard to understand this sister of hers who could lie awake regretting the birth of the only grandchild she had – and yet say everything would be fine if only Aisling gave her a grandchild.
“I don’t know who’s at fault,” Maggie went on, “either him or her. And I don’t know if they’ve ever found out . . . Aisling’s never said. But if they’ve not managed it in seven years of marriage . . .” Her voice tailed off.
“Oh, there’s lots of couples who conceive babies just when they’ve given up,” Jean said encouragingly, and rhymed off the names of girls they knew when growing up.
“I would doubt it now,” Maggie said quietly. “Not after all this time.”
“Aisling seems fulfilled in her teaching career,” Jean said, “and I’m sure she’s marvellous with children. You can just tell, even by the way she treats young Thomas.”
“Oh, she has great patience,” Maggie agreed, “there’s no doubting that.” She looked thoughtful again for a few moments. “If only she had one of her own. You see, it’s Oliver I worry about. A man likes to prove himself . . . in that way. And you never know . . . he could be tempted in other quarters.”
There was a silence.
“Have you any reason to feel that way about him?” Jean asked, realising she was treading on delicate ground.
“Good God, no,” Maggie said defensively. “He’s a good Catholic fellow – at Mass every Sunday. No . . . there’s no reason whatsoever.” She turned and started clearing the table. “It’s just – it’s just you would never know with men.”
* * *
As Aisling and Thomas turned the bend in the lakeside path, laughing and chatting, Aisling caught a glimpse of Jameson Carroll’s house for the first time. It was so tall – and yet delicate and almost regal – that it took her breath away. And the nearer they got, the bigger the house seemed and so full of details Aisling had only ever seen in American films. But this wasn’t a film – it was a house owned by real people. A house with balconies upstairs and a high white deck that ran all the way around it, full of rocking-chairs and tables and even a double wooden swing-seat.
A wave of anxiety washed over Aisling as she mounted the white wooden steps that led up to the meticulous white house. Jean and Bruce’s house was luxurious by anyone’s standards, but this was in another league yet again.
What on earth am I going to say to this man? she thought, wishing now that she could just turn back. Then, a picture suddenly flooded into her mind, reminding her of the embarrassing incident that happened yesterday when she dropped the parcels. And then her face burned, when she remembered the way Jameson had deliberately avoided any eye-contact when he handed them back to her. And then she thought back to when they bumped heads and he seemed really irritated by her . . .
And then . . . Jameson Carroll was opening the door and just standing there – waiting for her.
He looked different from yesterday, although he was still casually dressed. He was wearing a pale blue denim shirt, loose and flowing, and close-fitting denim jeans. He looked like one of the American singers or film stars. Tall with long sandy hair and a trace of a fair beard and moustache.
“Hi,” he said, his eyes warm and friendly. Then he laughed and shook his head as Thomas tore in past them, beckoning to Aisling to follow.
Aisling felt herself blush . “Hi,” she said, smiling and trying to sound casual. Then, as she passed in by him, their eyes met . . . and Aisling had that same feeling as yesterday. A feeling of self-consciousness. The intense awareness of an attractive man looking at her. A feeling she remembered from years back, when she was young and single.
“I hope this wasn’t too early for you,” he said apologetically, “I was trying to hang on to this guy for an hour . . . he was driving me nuts.”
“It was grand,” Aisling said, stopping in the hallway. “We’ve been up for ages. Anyway . . . it’s nice to visit another American house.” She looked around the high, airy hallway, adorned with paintings of every shape and size. “This is absolutely gorgeous,” she breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
She turned back to look at Thomas’s father and he was smiling. A really warm, friendly smile. And Aisling suddenly realised that when he smiled he was very attractive. Not in the usual way. Not attractive in the way Oliver was. Not smooth and handsome and meticulously dressed.
But Jameson Carroll was still very attractive – in a roughish, rangy kind of way.
“Down here,” Thomas said, rushing down the hallway, and excitedly beckoning them to come behind.
“We’d better go see these damned medals first,” the boy’s father whispered. “I think he’ll burst if we don’t get that over with.” He smiled again. “When you’re all done, I’ll fix us some coffee.”
“He’s a lovely boy,” Aisling said. “You must be really proud of him.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I am proud of him.” Then his face clouded over. “Although there’s lots of folks would think there’s nothing to be proud of in a slow kid . . . but I know different. A lot different.”
“Well,” Aisling said, picking her words carefully, “I can see why you’re proud of him. He’s got a lovely natu
re and that’s the most important thing in any person. I really like him.”
Jameson stopped and looked right at her. “Yeah,” he said, smiling broadly, “I kinda like him too.”
Then they both laughed in a nice, easy way.
As she followed him down the hallway she noticed that his thick, unruly hair had three different shades running through it: the main sandy-blond colour, with an undertone of reddish – hence Thomas’s gingery colour – and then there were odd threads of silver. The silver was hardly noticeable, but it was there.
Aisling found herself wondering how old he was. People often went grey fairly young. He could be anything from mid-thirties to early forties. A bit older than her. And a bit older than Oliver.
Thomas indeed had all the medals and trophies he had talked so much about. He had them displayed in strict order – from the time he first started swimming and could swim only ten yards, through to twenty-five yards and fifty yards and so on.
For breaststroke and backstroke and butterfly strokes – and some strokes Aisling had never heard of. Some of the awards – his father told her quietly – were for special kids like Thomas, and some were for swimming in classes of children of more than average ability.
“You are so clever, buddy,” Jameson told Thomas when they put the last of the medals back in their boxes, and had put the last trophy back on the shelves. He then grabbed the boy in a bear hug and said, “What about the deal we made earlier?”
Thomas looked puzzled.
“Your bedroom,” Jameson reminded him.
Thomas turned to the door of the sitting-room and started to kick the bottom part of it. “Don’t want to!” he said in a low voice.
“No, no, Thomas,” Jameson said in a patient but firm tone. “A deal’s a deal.”
Thomas now leaned his forehead on the door and then moved backwards and forwards, lightly banging his head against the door.
Jameson shrugged and rolled his eyes in Aisling’s direction. “It’s not gonna work, buddy,” he said softly. “You’re just gonna give yourself a headache, and you’ll still have to tidy your room.” He winked at Aisling now. “I’ll have a drink and something nice for you when you get finished fixing everything up.”
Aisling Gayle Page 7
