It was still early in the morning, so there were few out and about. The butcher looked at her oddly before dipping his head as she came closer, so she did not have to get drawn into a conversation.
Michael Conway’s shop was open: there was a delivery of milk not yet taken in and a stack of newspapers still where they had landed when the van slowed down, so they could be thrown from the side door.
Faltering in her resolve, she thought he might not be there. What would she do then?
Her heart skipped when, as she got closer, she saw him in the doorway, bending down to collect the milk and bring it into the shop. He disappeared from view for a few moments and she knew he was placing the milk in the fridge by the door. Her heart thumping, she saw him reappear to pick up the stack of newspapers with his two hands. When he saw Eve, he stopped.
Not sure what to do, Michael did nothing.
She took him in: his face grey, pale and tired-looking, his clothes creased, the pile of newspapers heavy in his hands so that she worried he might keel over. A fear peppered through Eve they wouldn’t be able to salvage anything, that she had pushed him too far. When he ducked back into the shop, she wondered whether to turn away.
The postman, about to cross over the street, shoved a letter into her hand, telling her to give it to Michael. She did not let on her discomfort and made her way inside the shop.
Michael, wavering at the counter, pushing newspapers about, saw her come in. He kept his head down, not knowing what to do. He took her in as she fumbled with her handbag. Her face was blotched from crying. She had put on lipstick, but this highlighted the pallor, he thought, the strain around her eyes, the frown lines embedded across her forehead.
“Michael, we need to talk.”
“Eve, you don’t look well.”
“Can you get Richie up to the shop?”
“He is in Dublin today. Maybe Derek can keep an eye. Let me find out.”
She stood fiddling with the corner of a magazine on a shelf as she watched him walk across to the butcher’s.
When he came back, he stood wringing his hands.
“He has a lad in on work experience: he is trustworthy and Derek will send him over. I will just have to show him how to use my till. Do you want to wait in the back?”
She nodded and he showed her into the small kitchen, where she sat listening to him patiently coach the teenager on the cash till.
When, after ten minutes, Michael came into the kitchen, he looked nervous.
“We might be better getting out of here. Will we go for a drive?” he said.
She stood up and followed him to the car, her head down in case anybody spotted something was wrong.
“Is there anywhere you want to go?” he asked quietly.
“Could we go to Ludlow, walk around the lake? Connie won’t mind.”
He turned the car, gliding down the hill, turning in at the gates of Ludlow Hall.
“I will park at the hazel trees,” he said.
She did not answer, but he got out of the car and opened the passenger door for her.
They started to walk across the grass, their footprints embedded in the sodden ground.
“You have no shoes for this type of terrain. Are you sure you want to continue?” Michael asked.
“Ludlow is the right place to be, for what I have to say.”
Not another word was uttered between the two as they walked side by side, sometimes leaning close to each other, each afraid of what was to come.
Crossing in front of the house, they quickened their step, both anxious not to be spotted slipping into the yew walk. Michael, walking two steps ahead, headed for the bench he had put in place almost twenty years before, so she could sit and enjoy the cherry blossom and rhododendron in bloom under the yew trees’ arc of shelter. Brushing the bench lightly with his hand to scrape off any loose dirt, along with the brown soupy petals of faded wilted blooms, he motioned to Eve to sit.
“We can talk, if you feel up to it,” he said gently.
She sat down and he joined her at the other end of the bench, waiting for her to speak. They listened to the new sounds of Ludlow Hall: men beginning a day at work kitting out the barn, shuffling, coughing, the hammering and pounding of nails, the odd shout, loud music in the air.
“I need to know, Eve, where we are at.”
She did not answer immediately, but reached out and took his hand.
“I love you.”
She spoke so gently he could barely hear her.
He turned to her, his face puckered in tears.
“There is a ‘but’, isn’t there?”
“I wronged you, I jumped to a conclusion about you, I blamed you, I never gave you a chance to explain. I am sorry.”
“Eve, I know it hurts, but I only had suspicions, the rumours of a small town, the habits of the father to go on. I could not risk making you so unhappy when I had no hard facts. All I could do was watch out for you. I have tried my best to do that.”
“Do you think Arnold loved me, ever?”
“I am sure he did.”
Michael stood up, plodding across the soft, damp ground.
“There is something else I have to tell you, Eve. I am not sure how you are going to take it.”
She stiffened, afraid of what he was going to say.
“Is this something I need to know, Michael? There has been so much heartbreak.”
She looked old, he thought, shivering even though she was wearing her big coat, tears beginning to inch down her face.
“You are the last person on this earth I want to hurt, but I don’t want any more secrets between us. I have to tell you this: it is for you to decide what you want to do with it.”
Pain flared through her; she steeled herself for his words. He cleared his throat before continuing.
“Arnold was my half-brother. I don’t know if he knew. I never knew it, until my mother died.”
He said it in such a rush that the words came jumbling out, so she had to decipher and consider them.
“I am trying to tell you something, but I am doing it so badly.”
He stopped, shaking his head. Eve put her hands up to her ears.
“Don’t be so stupid, you are talking silly words.”
Michael gently removed her hands from her ears. When he spoke again, it was quietly but firmly.
“How do you think we have that shop in the centre of town? Edward moved my mother and I here from Cork when I was just a baby. We were near him, and it was easy to tell everybody the story of a widow left with a baby. I never knew about Edward Brannigan being my father until my mother died. In her will, she also requested that I never let on to Arnold. We never spoke about it, but I always thought Arnold knew something, because I was about the only person from the town he trusted.”
“Is that why you love Ludlow so much?”
“I have always loved Ludlow, even when I did not know about Edward.”
“You had a right to it, just like Arnold.”
“Edward left us well provided for; I have no complaints. I love Ludlow Hall, Eve. If I could have bought the place, I would, but that was not to be.”
“How can you not be bitter that Arnold ran it into the ground? Ed Carter was his son and all he wanted to do was destroy Ludlow Hall.”
“Connie’s husband? The poor man.”
“His American mother was well provided for. I have only just found out. Arnold would have nothing to do with his son.”
“Eve, all I ever wanted growing up was a father. If I am to be bitter about anything, let it be that. Similar to Ed Carter’s case, my mother gave up my right to that for a monthly stipend. The Brannigan men knew how to buy silence.”
“Arnold would have liked a brother.”
“He had one, he just didn’t realise it.”
They sat, the breeze ruffling his hair, curling around her ankles, making her shift her feet, because she was cold. A dog ran past, snuffling the ground. They both looked for the owner, but she was far away, cross
ing the far paddocks, not caring the dog was running loose through the gardens.
“Connie is right: some people have no respect at all,” Eve said.
“Why did you give me back the ring, Eve?” The question was asked so gently, but the force of the anguish behind it was powerful.
She followed the dog with her eyes as it scooted across the fields to its owner.
“I felt I was not good enough for you. What am I now? Only a stupid woman who has been duped by her husband.” She got up, stamping her feet to get warm. “I allowed myself to be duped. I loved Ludlow Hall so much, I was blind to everything else.” She stood directly in front of him. “Michael, at this minute I don’t care about anything. I love you. I may not deserve you, but I love you.”
He stood in front of her.
“I only want you, Eve. I would live in a makeshift house with a tin roof, if I was with you.”
She punched him playfully. “No you wouldn’t, you would use your two hands to make it into a mansion. That is the sort of man you are, Michael.”
He laughed, enveloping her in a tight hug, kissing the top of her head. “I don’t want to spend another day without you at my side, Eve.” He pulled out the jeweller’s box.
“Put it on my finger, Michael, it can be the engagement and wedding ring. We don’t need to stand in front of anyone to declare our love.”
He did as she bid, sliding the ring on the second finger of her left hand.
“Hetty will be disappointed to be deprived of a day out.” She laughed.
“There will be talk.”
“Silly talk in this day and age. What do I care?” She corrected herself. “What do we care?”
He laughed and they walked on, their arms wrapped around each other, along the yew walk and across the front paddock to the car. As they passed Ludlow Hall, Eve snuggled closer to Michael.
“Time enough to tell Connie, I think,” she said.
Date: May 18, 2013
Subject: THE LUDLOW LADIES’ SOCIETY
Ludlow ladies,
We won all three prizes:
First Prize: Molly’s quilt
Second Prize: Ludlow Hall quilt
Third Prize: Rosdaniel quilt
As you all know, Hetty withdrew her entry before the competition.
There is a heck of a lot for Davoren to put in his pipe and smoke.
Seriously, I would at this stage like to extend my commiserations and those of the Ludlow Ladies’ Society to Jack Davoren, who came in fourth and runner-up with his beautiful watercolour of Ludlow Hall in the morning light.
All the entrants, including the winners, will be on display in the drawing room at Ludlow Hall.
Full steam ahead now for the Obama visit and the opportunity to show off Molly’s quilt and the Ludlow Hall quilt. So exciting!
Kathryn Rodgers,
Chairwoman
29
Making her way through the hall, Connie checked her appearance in the mirror. Last week she had gone to Arklow on Hetty’s insistence and had her hair coloured and cut. Patting her auburn bob, she poked at one stray hair, pushing it into place.
Bill had said to expect him around eleven and it was that now.
Fingering roses in the vase on the hall table, she was almost sick she was so nervous. Connie fumbled, rearranging the flowers, her mind racing that maybe he had decided not to come after all. When she heard a car on the avenue, her heart flipped, but when it went around the back of the house, she knew it was not him.
Rebecca Fleming stuck her head around the kitchen door.
“Just checking, Connie,” she said loudly, while stepping into the kitchen, “the men are not disturbing you too much? Wow, you look lovely.”
“I am expecting a friend to arrive from the US today.”
“Must be some friend. Don’t heed us; we will work away in the barn. You don’t mind if we paint the walls white to brighten it up?”
“That is fine. Please come in and help yourselves to tea, coffee, cookies.”
“Don’t worry about those men, they will be fine with a breakfast roll and a takeaway tea from the service station on the Ballyheigue Road,” she said, pulling the back door shut before Connie had time to answer.
Connie went into the dance studio. Pacing deliberately across the floor, she waited for him. When they danced the tango, it was only the two of them. They could have been in front of an audience of thousands, but it was only her and him: close, slow, purposeful, deliberate steps, their backs straight, their dance intimate and intense, their passion in the movement.
It was the happiest of times getting to know and love each other, devastating when he said he had a job offer in California.
“Let’s start a new life together, just you and me.”
He made it sound so easy, but it was terribly complicated. If she could roll back the years, she would tell him she was pregnant, that she did not know if he or Ed was the father. She would tell him of her intention to stay with the father. Ed, she thought, needed her. She wanted a stable home environment for the baby. Her fear that her relationship with Bill might not last made her feel she had no choice but to stay with Ed.
Mindful of Ed, and afraid of the hurt he would suffer, she chose to stay. When Molly was born, it was the happiest time.
If she had a dull ache in her heart, it was the price to pay for giving baby Molly a stable and happy home. Three and a half years later, when Bill returned to Manhattan, he looked her up. It mattered little that it coincided with a time when Ed, under severe financial pressure, was edgy and distant: the minute she saw Bill walking towards her, she knew she loved him. She immediately regretted her decision to stay with her husband. Bill had stepped lightly across the dance studio floor, as if no time had passed. They chatted and laughed, and she felt so alive she did not want it to end. She had to pick Molly up from day care, so they arranged to meet the next day. She told Ed she had to work late, she had to give extra classes . . .
Connie shook herself and went back to the drawing room window. The room was bright, the windows gleaming, the chairs and couches gone, the arts and crafts exhibition ready for the weekend opening, Molly’s quilt hanging on the chimney piece. Connie looked out at the fields and driveway that were home to her now. Somehow, she did not know how Bill fitted in here, fitted into her life here.
When she saw the strange car make its way slowly up the avenue, she shrank back, mindful that the bare windows left her exposed. Part of her wanted to hide, a bigger part of her wanted to run to him, but she stayed where she was, a trepidation feeding through her as she waited for the first glimpse of him in too many years.
After Molly died, something happened and nothing happened. She slept and ate, existing, locked in guilt and grief. She knew he spoke to Amy, but she couldn’t bear to be near him or even see him. It was not that she blamed him; she blamed herself too much.
Peering hard from her hiding place, she smiled as he came closer. His broad frame appeared uncomfortably cramped in the economy car. When he pulled up at the front, she watched him unfurling from the car like a cat stretching after a long nap. He gave a low whistle as he took in the big house. She watched him skip up the stone steps, tripping along, eager to get inside. As he stamped his feet at the front door to dislodge some dirt, she felt fixed to the spot, tense, waiting for the doorbell to ring. Even so, when the sound twirled across the hall, bouncing through the rooms, she jumped, pain coursing through her, her head thumping. Would he understand and forgive? She did not know.
Sluggishly, she made her way to the front door, faltering when the bell sounded again. Glancing in the mirror, she flicked a thread from her shoulder before pulling back the door.
“Sorry, Bill, I was at the top of the house.”
“Connie, it is nice to see you.”
She did not know what to do. The formality between them was strangely upsetting. She could smell the musky aftershave he always wore. His black hair still flopped over his forehead, almost in his eyes,
and the trousers he was wearing were just a little too short, because he could never get a pair long enough to fit his big frame.
“Can I come in, Connie?”
“Yes, of course, I am sorry.”
She stepped back to allow him in, feeling the warmth of his body as he brushed past her into the hall.
“You got the flowers?”
“They are beautiful, thank you.”
He walked further down the hall, turning right into the drawing room.
“Everybody in the town, when I mentioned Ludlow Hall, told me I had to see this exhibition when it opens.”
She followed him, not sure how to answer. He stood, gazing at Molly’s quilt.
“A fitting tribute. I salute you.”
She twiddled with her hair, unsure of what to say. He turned, letting his hand brush her cheek gently.
“I love you, Connie. I wish you would have let me be there for you.”
“I am sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, just tell me why.”
It all happened on a Wednesday; she had planned to leave Ed on the Friday with Molly. In her head, she had composed a note, talking reasonably about separation and access to Molly. Bill, who was in Boston for that week, had given her a key to his place. When Bill came back, she had planned to completely open up, tell him everything.
Now, all these years later, after so much heartache, she still had to find the words to tell him.
He pointed to the quilt. “Thank you for including the pyjama top I bought Molly. She loved it, didn’t she?”
“She loved trains. Just like her dad.”
Bill swung round. She clenched her fists by her side, the tension rising in her.
“What are you saying, Connie?”
Her heart was racing; pains were shooting across her head. Her brain was fogged over, her anxiety pinching her so she could only blurt it out.
“You are Molly’s father, Bill. I got a DNA test back before Ed . . . before it happened. I was going to tell you . . .”
He stepped towards her. “What do you mean?”
“I was going to tell you when you came back from Boston. I found out on the Wednesday, I planned to come to you on Friday with Molly. I’d already told Ed I needed a break. Maybe he suspected about Molly, I don’t know.”
The Ludlow Ladies Society Page 25
