Ebb and Flow

by Mary O'Sullivan

  Rob Trevor was waiting for her at the entrance gate.

  “Thank you for coming, Ella. I thought you might like to park here and we could walk around the grounds and outbuildings first.”

  She got her clipboard and camera and followed him as he led the way through the shrubbery, the rose garden, the orchard and then onto the well-kept lawns. Even at this time of year, there was scent and colour in the gardens.

  “It’s beautifully kept,” Ella remarked.

  “We have a good gardener.”

  Of course. That’s how these people lived, wasn’t it? They enjoyed the spoils of someone else’s labour. The gardener, the cook, the nanny. The estate agent. Ella looked at the man walking beside her and flinched when she saw the pain in his eyes.

  “You’re sure you want to sell, Rob? Maybe you should wait a little while before making up your mind. It’s a very big decision. Maybe now is not the right time to make it.”

  “I must. I have no choice.”

  They walked in silence towards the stables. Ella’s heels clicked on the cobbles as they crossed the courtyard. Taking out her camera she began to shoot the stables from different angles. They were perfect for conversion to apartments. With proper planning it would be possible to fit eight, maybe ten, good-sized apartments around the central cobbled yard. A definite bonus selling point.

  “I gave the horses away,” Rob said quietly. “Karen was a great horsewoman. Talented. Ian was beginning to show some promise as well.”

  He stopped abruptly and stood staring at the stable with the red half-door. Ella assumed that must have been where Karen had kept her horse. She walked towards it and peered into the gloom. It was large inside, much larger than most inner-city apartments. The roof and walls seemed in perfect condition. Even though the stable was cleared out, the warm, musty aroma of straw still lingered. What a privileged lifestyle Karen Trevor had lived. Why couldn’t she have been more careful? How arrogant had it been to speed along that little road in the lashing rain? But she would have been an arrogant woman, wouldn’t she? Stables and rose gardens were the stuff of arrogance.

  When Ella turned, Rob had gone. She shivered. The courtyard seemed threatening now, the click of her heels eerie as they echoed around the quadrangle formed by the stables. It was a relief to get back onto the driveway and see Rob waiting for her at the front door.

  “Shall we see the reception rooms first?” he asked.

  Ella just nodded, awed into silence by the splendour of Manor House. She was used to seeing luxury, multi-million euro homes full of designer chic. This was different. The good taste here was not bought and paid for. It had evolved over centuries and was passed from generation to generation in the upper-class bloodline. The hall was vast, with a magnificent staircase sweeping upwards from the black-and-white tiled floor. Portraits lined the walls. Ella’s eyes were drawn to the largest portrait at the bottom of the stairs. As she walked towards it, it began to happen again. She felt the coldness, the fear, the horror. Karen’s face peered at her from the painting, the eyes wide and staring, the mouth open in a silent scream. Ella wanted to close her eyes, to shut out the vision, to stop the nightmare, but she could not move. She stood paralysed with fear, as blood trickled from Karen Trevor’s smashed forehead.

  “That’s Karen’s great-aunt.”

  Rob’s voice brought Ella back to reality. She turned and looked at him, wondering if he had noticed that she was behaving oddly. Insanely.

  “She was very beautiful,” Ella replied as she now examined the portrait as the artist had depicted it. The sitter was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, her blonde hair swept up underneath a hat with a large plume, her hands resting on the silk folds of her dress. There was something about the way the girl held herself, the proud tilt of the chin that reminded Ella of someone she knew. Not Karen, even though there was an obvious family resemblance.

  “What was her name?”

  Rob laughed and Ella looked at him in surprise. She had expected reverence where ancestors were concerned. Of course, these were Karen’s family. This was Karen’s house. At least it had been before she went and crashed her four-wheel drive on a flooded little by-road.

  “She was a feisty lady. Karen never liked talking much about her. The black sheep of the family. She eloped with one of the stable lads. That is Harriet. Lady Harriet Wellsley.”

  Ella examined the portrait again and this time she saw beyond the fine silks and plumes. There was a fierce pride and determination in the lift of the chin but it was in the eyes that the real character of Harriet Wellsley shone through. Even on canvas they shone with passion. This was a woman capable of either great love or great hate.

  “And what happened? Did she stay with her stable lad or did she come back into the fold?”

  Rob shuffled his feet and seemed a little uncomfortable. “I don’t know what happened. I told you the Wellsleys didn’t like talking about her. She never came back into the family anyway. At least, not that I know of.”

  “But yet they kept her portrait hanging in the hall.”

  “Probably because it’s worth a lot of money. It may be a Collier portrait.”

  Ella glanced quickly at him, surprised at the sharp tone. She had vaguely heard of John Collier, society portrait painter of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. If Rob said this might be a Collier, he was probably right. Rob was a well-established art dealer and Karen, an only child, had inherited all the old Wellsley money. Had money been an issue between himself and Karen? They must have had a very comfortable lifestyle. Except, of course, that the upkeep of this house would cost a fortune. Maybe the vulgarity of money had spoiled the elegance of Karen’s inheritance.

  She followed on as he led her into the splendid drawing room, still wondering about his offhand comment.

  It took them almost an hour to examine all the rooms from the ground floor to the top floor where the household staff used to sleep in their cramped quarters after a hard day slaving for the Wellsleys’ comfort. The house was in excellent condition.

  “It’s been very well maintained,” Ella remarked. “We should have very little trouble finding a buyer. Do you mind if I take a few photos now? Get some ideas for a brochure. I assume title deeds are in order?”

  “Yes. Ready to go as soon as you find a new owner.”

  She spent another half an hour taking shots of the grandeur of the interior. When she had finished, she found herself drawn back again to the portrait of Harriet Wellsley. Standing in front of it, she tried to remember just who the lady resembled. She had definitely seen that face before, seen those lustrous eyes.

  “She fascinated Karen too.”

  Ella jumped when Rob spoke. She had not realised he was standing beside her.

  “She is, or was, very beautiful,” she said. “A timeless type of beauty. Do you mind if I photograph her. Just for myself?”

  When Rob nodded his agreement, Ella began to click. Zooming in on the face, she was even more fascinated by the lustrous eyes, more certain that she knew somebody who looked just like Lady Harriet Wellsley.

  As she drove out through the pillared gates, Ella felt satisfied. She had faced one demon by going into Karen Trevor’s home. She had stood in the dead woman’s kitchen, incongruously modern in the old house. She had seen the bed where Rob and Karen had created the little boy who was destined to die in the wrecked four-wheel drive. She had poked and pried in Karen’s life. And she had survived. Maybe she could yet learn to live with Karen’s death. Glancing at her watch she realised it was almost time for her doctor’s appointment. Getting into her car, she smiled. She was ready now to tackle Dr Peter Sheehan.

  Chapter 5

  The blues and greens of the waiting room annoyed Ella intensely. The colour scheme was obviously designed to pacify, to lull neurotic patients into a false sense of calmness. Peter Sheehan must be the sort of doctor who thought he could cure his patients by controlling their moods, their thoughts. A manipulative, controlling man. By
the time his secretary led her into the holy of holies, into the divine presence, Ella had built up a huge resentment against Peter Sheehan.

  He was standing behind his desk. Tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair short and neat, skin tanned, he exuded an aura of confidence which irked Ella even more. His choice of clothes was the final straw. He was wearing a fine wool sweater and jeans. Dressing down so that he could fool his insane patients into a false sense of camaraderie. What a prick!

  “Mrs Ford. How nice to meet you. Sit down please.”

  Ignoring the chair he had indicated, Ella walked towards him and stood directly in front of him. Up close, he was handsome. His green eyes, clear and very alert, were carefully watching her. She stared back at him, noticing the dark thick lashes and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He had probably got them from laughing at his idiotic patients. Fuck him!

  “I won’t sit, thank you. I won’t be staying long. I just came here to tell you that I think you’re a disgrace to the medical profession. How dare you collude with my husband behind my back? I did not make an appointment to see you and I most certainly do not want to be treated by you. You have behaved unprofessionally and I intend taking this matter further. I’m going to make a complaint to the Medical Board.”

  He sat. Like a huge, green-eyed cat, he lounged on his chair and regarded her with interest. No anger, no shock. Just curiosity.

  “I see,” he said quietly.

  His voice had shades of the calming blues and greens too. It was deep and still. Ella knew he had sat so that she would not feel intimidated by having him tower over her. She sat now so that she could look him in the eye, not allowing him to take the initiative.

  “Do you usually handle cases without proper referral? Is a phone call from a family member enough for you?”

  He smiled and the flash of white teeth was so startling in his tanned face that Ella almost responded by smiling herself.

  “Yes. I’ve been known to oblige people by cutting through the red tape. Especially friends.”

  “Well, I’m not your friend.”

  “But Andrew is.”

  “What do you mean? Do you know my husband?”

  “Andrew and I are from the same neighbourhood. We were practically inseparable for twelve years. Terrible twins. Then my family emigrated to Canada. We stayed in touch for a long time but you know how easy it is to get too involved in your own life. We lost touch at the college stage. I’m surprised he hasn’t told you.”

  Embarrassed, Ella conjured up her business smile. How had Andrew allowed her to make such a fool of herself? Damn! He could have warned her. He should have warned her. Then she shrugged. Her attack on Peter Sheehan was as big a slur on Andrew as it was on her. She could almost read the doctor’s mind now, noting the lack of communication between husband and wife, wondering why Andrew Ford had married such a hysterical shrew. To hell with both of them. She stood.

  “Since you and Andrew are practically related then, would it not be inappropriate for you to treat me? It was interesting meeting you. Goodbye.”

  She held out her hand to him but he ignored it.

  “I believe you were involved in a very serious car accident, Mrs Ford. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Something about the green eyes, the calm voice, made Ella stop and think. Maybe she should challenge him to take her on, to give her back a normal life, a peaceful night’s sleep. See how he would cope with her recurrent vision of a dying woman.

  “Do you have expertise in the area of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?” she asked.

  He sat up straight then and his casual wait-and-see attitude fell away from him.

  “Yes, I do. I’ve worked for six years in a military hospital in the States. As you probably know PTSD is very prevalent in war veterans. Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq. No end of wars and war victims.”

  “I’m not a victim.”

  “From where I’m sitting, you’re a victim of your own unwillingness to face your problem. Why don’t you stop being angry and just sit and talk?”

  “So! You’re a Reality Therapist too. Not going to take any excuses for my behaviour?”

  He smiled at her again and suddenly Ella realised that she was behaving like a petulant child. Determined to prove that she could be mature, she sat and began to speak.

  “I’m stuck in a time warp. What happened exactly one year ago today is happening over and over again. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I can’t live like this. Can you help me?”

  “I will help you to help yourself,” Peter Sheehan said with such conviction that Ella dared to believe him.

  * * *

  Every time Andrew reached for the phone he had to stop himself dialling Maxine Doran’s number. He had been like this all day. He knew all the reasons he should not. She was far too sophisticated and ambitious to have any interest in a moderately successful estate agent. She was yachts and ski slopes and Caribbean islands. She was fantasy. And he was married. Sighing, Andrew dialled Gary Cox’s mobile number.

  “Ah! Andrew. You’ve made a decision on Ballyhaven?”

  “No. Not quite. I wanted to ask you a question. Why are you interested in it? It’s agricultural land. As far as I can find out, there are no plans to rezone the area. So why do the Cox brothers want to buy fifty acres of waste land?”

  “Why did you and Ella buy it?”

  “Because we hoped at some stage it would become residential and we would make a killing.”

  “Well, there you go. We’re thinking along the same lines. We’re offering you a good price.”

  Andrew grunted a noncommittal reply. It would be a very good price for the fifty acres as they stood now. He could not shake the idea that everybody knew of plans afoot for Ballyhaven. Everybody except Andrew Ford.

  “I’ll think about it, Gary. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Don’t take too long. We won’t leave this offer on the table forever. There are other investments we’re looking into as well.”

  Andrew quelled his instinct to tell Cox to shove his deal. He had not offered the site for sale. But he owed the Cox brothers, Gary and Noel. Besides he was in no mood for making business decisions. Unable to put the image of Maxine Doran out of his mind, he finally rang her house phone. Getting no answer, he rang her mobile. He left a bumbling hesitant voicemail on her message minder. Then he rang again and again, just to hear her voice on the answering machine. It took fifteen minutes for him to admit to himself just how adolescent his behaviour was. And to add guilt to shame, he had forgotten to ring Peter Sheehan to warn him of Ella’s attitude. A glance at the clock told him he was now too late.

  * * *

  Dirk Van Aken looked like a blonde version of Jason Laide. As the two men sat side by side in the restaurant after lunch, Maxine thought they could be twins. Both wearing silk suits and expensive open-necked shirts, both with gold chains around their necks, both sleazy. Jason glanced at his watch and winked at Maxine.

  “My wife is off on another of her ski trips. I must see her before she leaves.”

  He turned towards Dirk and smiled. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ll leave you with Maxine. She’ll show you around.”

  Dirk flashed back an identical smile. A sneer, full of the promise of debauchery and barely contained violence. Jason stood up and then strutted out of the restaurant, leaving Maxine to do the job expected of her. She turned to Dirk.

  “A walk around the city? Wine bar? What would you like to do?”

  “I would like to see your city now,” he answered glancing at his watch. “I need to walk. Get a little exercise. But later, a club. A little party for you and me maybe?”

  Maxine answered him with a smile and hoped that he read as much threat in her smile as she did in his. She could not tell this piece of shit exactly what she thought of him. Jason had said he was important. But she could think what she liked and all her thoughts now were murderous ones.

  “How long have you known Jason?” she asked.

 
“We have been acquainted for some time. We have mutual friends but we are not long in business together. Well, serious business anyway.”

  “Really?” Maxine asked, hoping her curiosity was not too apparent. Jason Laide must have done his training in the KGB. He was so secretive about his business affairs that Maxine had no idea, even after all the years, exactly how he made his money. Of course there was his haulage business. Laide Transport was the biggest national haulier and had a good share of international business too. The public face of Jason Laide. A money-spinner. But the overheads must be huge. Insurance, maintenance, wages, tax. The profit margins could not be high enough to support the Laides’ lifestyle.

  Maxine had lost track of how many foreign properties the Laides owned. She was probably not even aware of all of them. Sharon Laide seemed to spend most of her time visiting one or other of the properties abroad. Probably the only way she could manage to stay married to Jason. Maxine had also heard rumours of an art collection.

  She turned now to the sleazebag beside her, wondering if he too had been warned by Jason to keep his mouth shut. She smiled at him.

  “So Jason’s thinking of doing business in Holland?”

  “He already is,” he answered quickly. Then the ice-cold eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to talk about business. I want to talk about you. It’s not every day I get to share some time with a supermodel. Is Jason a good friend of yours?”

  “I’ve known him forever,” Maxine replied and she was not being smart. It felt like forever since Jason had spotted her in her school uniform and had offered to get her a starring role in a film. Stupid, stupid child!