Ebb and Flow

by Mary O'Sullivan

  When she reached the street, she noticed it was a nice day. The sunlight made her feel very exposed. She felt a need for clouds and darkness, for shelter. For a hiding place. Humiliating tears welled in her eyes as she realised that she had no safe place. There was no shelter for Ella Ford, no refuge from all the chaos in her head. Then she remembered Ballyhaven. The fifty acres that had meant so much to herself and Andrew when first they had bought it. It was a place of shadows and secret nooks. She rang reception to say she would not be back until later in the afternoon. Then she went to the car park, got in her car and drove to Ballyhaven.

  * * *

  Maxine dressed even more carefully than usual this morning. When she examined herself in the full-length mirror she was satisfied that she had achieved the effect she wanted. On the outside anyway. She was dressed in John Rocha, all clean and subtle lines. Making a statement. This woman is beautiful, slim and clever. Well bred and successful.

  Leaning closer to the mirror she looked past her black suit with the straight skirt and fitted jacket, into the face reflected in the unforgiving light. Minute lines were beginning to appear around her mouth. So tiny that only she could see them. As yet. The effort of trapping words inside, of holding her thoughts hostage for years on end was beginning to show on her face. There were no lines around her eyes. She had never laughed enough to create them.

  Turning sideways, she examined her figure. Still perfect. Unusual that she should feel a degree of satisfaction with any part of her physique. As she examined herself now, for a moment she was able to look through Andrew’s eyes. She saw her figure, honed to perfection, her legs, appearing even longer in her high heels. Her stock in trade, the tools of her craft. What made Andrew Ford different to any other man she had ever met was that he saw beyond her physical appearance, beyond the barriers she had built. He spoke to her, listened to her. Shit, she had shown him her precious picture of great-gran Harriet!

  As Maxine stared at her reflection she saw the dark shutters fall over her eyes, the minute lines tighten imperceptibly around her mouth. Andrew could never know the real Maxine. He was enthralled by the image, out of love for the time being with his neurotic wife. If he knew the truth . . .

  The intercom sounded. Maxine did not bother answering it. She just picked up her bag and went down to the lobby to meet Andrew. His admiring glance told her he liked her businesswoman image.

  “Great that you were able to arrange a viewing so quickly,” she said.

  “Your wish is my command,” he laughed as he ushered her to his car.

  The nearer they got to Manor House, the more nervous Maxine felt. Suppose when she saw the portrait in reality, it did not resemble great-gran Harriet at all? Would she still think her plan was a good one then, would she still be interested in buying Manor House?

  “Will Rob Trevor be there?”

  Andrew shook his head. “He’s away in London for a few days. He left early this morning. Some art exhibition or auction. Something arty anyway. But I cleared the viewing with him before he left.”

  Maxine relaxed a little. She would feel more comfortable seeing the house with just Andrew. Apart from the whole idea of opening a restaurant there, she needed to find out if Manor House was indeed part of Maxine Doran’s past. Part of her heritage.

  * * *

  Ella had tried everything to open the rusty old gate leading into the Ballyhaven fields. It looked as if a good kick could knock it to the ground, but it would not budge for her. Glancing along the length of the narrow country road to make sure she was alone, she began to climb the corroded bars. There was a precarious moment as she straddled the top of the gate, her leather-soled high heels slipping on the bars, her skirt riding up her legs. Thankfully she dropped, feet first, onto the ground on the field side. She should have gone home for walking shoes before coming here. In fact, she should not be here at all. Traipsing through her past in unsuitable footwear.

  Keeping her eyes focused on the stand of trees in the distance, she began her uncomfortable totter through grass and rutted earth. She tripped several times but kept forging ahead. A thistle snagged her tights, a nettle stung. She kept going. When she reached the shade of the trees, she stood and breathed in the mustiness. Then she walked without hesitation towards the glade. The place where she and Andrew had celebrated their purchase of these fifty acres and their love for each other. She sat with her back against the big tree and remembered.

  It had been summertime six years ago. They had just completed the sale of a block of flats. They had disposable income. For the first time ever. And they had bought these fifty acres from a farmer who was about to retire. They had plans. Maybe they would develop this site in years to come. Maybe they would build a huge house here and fill it with children. Some time in the future. Then they had sealed the bargain by making love. Under the branches of this big old tree, bathed by dappled sunlight. Ella had cried out. And so had Andrew. They had pledged eternal love and both of them had meant it at the time.

  That moment, that sun-drenched, triumphant moment had been the highest point of their relationship. Their love had teetered on that brink for a while before sliding gradually downwards and then staying totally behind in the aftermath of the accident. Or had it been fading, losing its depth in the shallowness of day-to-day life long before Karen Trevor had crashed into their lives?

  Angrily, Ella picked up a twig and snapped it in pieces. The signs had been there. They had gradually begun to speak more of work and had stopped talking about children. It was as if Andrew and Ella had ceased to be a couple and had become a corporation. Their relationship was one long business meeting, with a few shags thrown in for the sake of correctness. Affection had succumbed to acquisition.

  Ella cried out, just as she had six years ago in this very spot. But the cry was one of anguish now. She remembered things she had not allowed herself to know at the time. Little things, like forgotten birthdays, like not sharing laughter any more, like not holding hands. It had all disappeared and neither of them had missed it or mourned its passing. The horrible truth, highlighted by the flood of memories, was that the eight-year marriage of Ella and Andrew Ford was dead. As dead as Karen Trevor and her beautiful little boy.

  Ella was suddenly filled with new understanding of why she obsessed about Karen, about the accident. By focusing on that, she could blot out other traumas. She had known before the crash that she and Andrew were in trouble and had not wanted to face it. She did not want to face it now either but she could no longer deny the truth of it. Nor would she.

  Reaching into her bag, she got a tissue and make-up and tried to repair the damage to her tear-stained face. She did not succeed very well. Her eyes were still puffy and full of pain. The deceit was what really hurt. So Andrew had fallen out of love with her. They had been very young when they met. Freshmen in college. Perhaps they had just grown in different directions. But having an affair? Lying to her? To hell with him!

  Tucking her bag under her arm, she began her trek back across the fields. It was easier now. Anger gave her impetus.

  She attacked the climb over the gate, throwing her leg over the top with abandon. She was sitting there, her skirt right up to her panty line, when a car came speeding along the road. Jason Laide tooted the horn and jammed on the brakes. Furious, Ella tried to pull down her skirt and at the same time dismount the gate with dignity. She failed on both counts, landing awkwardly on the road and managing to twist her ankle in the process. Jason jumped out of his car and ran to her side.

  “Are you all right, Mrs Ford? I’m sorry if I startled you.”

  Ella took the hand he offered and stood up straight with as much pride as she could muster. She had to bite back her angry retort. He was, after all, a very important client.

  “I’m fine, thank you. What are you doing out here, Mr Laide?” she asked.

  “Actually I’ve bought the little pub in Ballyhaven village. Do you know it?”

  Ella nodded. It was a dingy little bar,
not much changed since it had first been opened in the 1950’s. God! Was Jason Laide intent on buying up the whole country?

  “Would you like to come there now? Let me buy you a drink, a bowl of soup, something to apologise for scaring you?”

  Ella wondered if he noticed that she had been crying. Of course he had. Maybe he was just displaying that gentle streak she had seen in him the first time they met. She smiled at him and tried not to let the pain of her ankle show.

  “I’ve an appointment this afternoon but a quick bowl of soup sounds good. I’ll meet you in the pub.”

  “Can you drive with that ankle? Would you prefer to come with me?”

  “I’ll be fine Jason, thanks. It’s my left ankle and anyway my car’s automatic.”

  Jason smiled at her as she got into her car. He almost rubbed his hands together in glee. Well! Feck Maxine Doran! He might not need her after all. Not for the site in Ballyhaven anyway. It seemed like Mrs Ford was vulnerable at the moment. Getting her to agree to the sale of the fifty acres should be a piece of cake.

  Chapter 11

  Ella had taken her sleeping pills last night, just as she had all over the weekend. Possible headache was a far superior option to certain heartache. She did not want to know what time Andrew came home, what lies he would tell. Nor did she want to smell the lingering traces of another woman on his skin or see the satisfied afterglow of sex in his eyes. Peter Sheehan’s pills had dropped her into a dreamless sleep.

  She opened her eyes this Monday morning to a room flooded with clear light. It was late. Lying still she sensed the empty space beside her. Had Andrew already gone to work or had he not come home at all last night? Afraid of the answer, Ella lay on her back, her eyes focused on the ceiling light. It had a cream shade, circular, heavy, diffusing warm tones when the bulb was lit. Very gradually, blink by blink, Ella edged her gaze away from the ceiling and towards Andrew’s side of the bed. There was a dent in his pillow. An imprint of where his head had rested. The duvet was tossed back. Slowly, Ella leaned over and sniffed the space where Andrew had lain. She smelt nothing except the odour of her husband. His aftershave, his deodorant, him. Essence of Andrew.

  She showered and dressed in a cocoon of drug-induced drowsiness. Coffee would dispel the remaining traces of sleep. Coffee would allow the day, the truth, the questions to begin. She was halfway down the stairs when Andrew came into the hall, briefcase in hand. He looked calm, responsible. A busy man on his way to work. Not a trace of lies or deceit on his open face, in his dark blue eyes.

  He smiled at Ella. “You looked so peaceful this morning, I decided to let you sleep on. Did you have a good rest?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She stopped then, mouth shut, staring at her husband, not knowing what to say next. Should she tell him? Should she let him know she had discovered his deceit? Ask him why he had lied? Who he had been with?

  “Are you all right, Ella?”

  She nodded. Of course she was all right! Why wouldn’t she be? She had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, survivor’s guilt and cuckolded wife’s dementia but what the hell! Fuck you, Andrew Ford! She smiled down at him from her perch on the stairs, from her lonely place halfway up and halfway down, half-awake, half-asleep. Half alive.

  “I’ll see you in the office,” she said.

  “Yeah. See you later,” Andrew answered airily. “There are some things we must talk over.”

  Then he turned on his heel and walked out the front door.

  Ella began her slow descent of the stairs, her slow entry into a day she would rather not face.

  * * *

  Andrew was getting ready to leave the office just as Ella arrived in.

  “Glad you’re here,” he said. “I’ve had Jason Laide on the phone. He’s getting an engineer to vet Manor House for him.”

  “Good,” Ella answered, dropping her bag on her desk, holding back the words she really wanted to say.

  “Maybe,” he agreed. “But I’ve just had a call from another client who wants to view the house. It’s not a done deal for Jason Laide yet.”

  This was good news. Ella got the distinct impression that Jason Laide was totally overawed by Manor House, that he believed he could buy into its history and its inherent dignity by buying the property. He would outbid any other potential customer in order to stake his claim on respectability. The bigger the selling price, the bigger the commission.

  “Well, who is it?” she asked, wondering if it was somebody who could challenge Jason Laide’s resources.

  “Nobody you know. It was just an inquiry anyway. We’ll wait and see.”

  He had gone out the door before Ella could pin down her uneasy feelings. Just as the door shut, she realised Andrew was lying to her again. About a potential client for Manor House?

  A tight band of tension clamped around her head. The same as yesterday. And the day before. In another few minutes the pain would start.

  Angry, she picked up the phone and dialled Peter Sheehan’s number.

  His secretary was apologetic. “He’s at the hospital this morning, Mrs Ford. If it’s urgent, I could fit you in for an appointment this afternoon.”

  Ella made the arrangements. It was urgent. She urgently needed to tell Peter Sheehan that the sleeping tablets he had prescribed were giving her a headache, that his treatment, or what he termed as treatment, was not working. That she was sadder. Madder.

  The bureaucracy of buying and selling property generated mounds of paperwork. Ella could not concentrate on it. She pushed it aside and logged onto the web. Trawling around, she found the website of an auctioneer in Cuanowen. That was easy. There was only one, Cuanowen Properties Ltd. Cuanowen. Home. Or at least it had once been home for the young Ella.

  Several properties were shown for sale in the area but only one appealed to her. More than appealed. It was a new build bungalow right on the coastline. How had they got planning permission? Enlarging the picture, she examined the details. Four-bed, all ensuite, glass-fronted, overlooking the sea, wooden floors, under-floor heating. Fully furnished. Price on application. As Ella well knew, that meant a very high price tag, one that could kill all enquiries if it was published. Nevertheless she took down the contact phone number and logged off. She looked at her paperwork again but all she could think of was the way Andrew had slid out the door, disappearing before she could ask him any more questions. As if he had been trying to hide something else from her. Something about Manor House. That should be easy enough to check. All she had to do was cross the office and go to Andrew’s desk.

  When Ella checked the calls-received list on Andrew’s phone she recognised Jason Laide’s number instantly. Their accountant had called too. Just the two calls directly to Andrew’s line this morning. Could the accountant be the person interested in Manor House? Maybe Andrew didn’t want to say it until he had something definite. Only one way to find out.

  “Good morning, Gerard,” she said brightly to the Ford Auctioneers accountant when she had been put through to him. “I was just wondering if you have all the documents you need for our annual accounts.”

  “Yes, Ella, thank you. As I told Andrew this morning it will be another week before your tax returns are sorted out. I’ll let you know as soon as they are ready.” If he was puzzled, he kept it out of his voice.

  “Fine, Gerard. Anything else you’d like to know? Any more information. On sales, projections, anything?”

  Ella could almost hear the “she’s barmy after the accident” thought forming in his head. She could sense everything except an interest in Manor House. She finished the call with as much speed and dignity as possible. The inquiry about Manor House must have come to Andrew through the front office. Knowing that her behaviour had a manic edge to it, Ella dashed out to reception and asked for a list of all calls that morning. Clutching the page, she dashed back into her office and pored over it. Caller, time, enquiry and follow-up were all logged on the page. Not one call referred to Manor House. If Andrew had got
a call about Manor House, he had taken it on his mobile, which meant it was from a personal friend. Or else he was just lying. For what possible reason? To pretend he was showing someone around the property when he was elsewhere, just as he had done with the Cox brothers meeting?

  Ella dropped her head onto her hands. The headache was pounding now. What in the fuck was she supposed to do? Should she confront Andrew with what she knew, accuse him, question him? She had a right. But he would probably lie again. Deny. Should she demean herself by searching through his pockets, his clothes, for telltale signs, for clues that he was seeing, holding, laughing with, loving someone else? Wave evidence in his face? A ticket stub, a hotel receipt, an item of silky underwear. Every letter that Ella had ever surreptitiously read in the agony columns of magazines came into her mind now. She had never bothered reading the answers, preferring to think these problems were all fictitious and that anyway they had no relevance to her life.

  Grabbing her bag, Ella walked out of the office. She held her head high as she passed through reception, wondering how many of the staff knew that Andrew was playing around behind her back. Had he asked them to cover for him?

  When she reached the street, she noticed it was a nice day. The sunlight made her feel very exposed. She felt a need for clouds and darkness, for shelter. For a hiding place. Humiliating tears welled in her eyes as she realised that she had no safe place. There was no shelter for Ella Ford, no refuge from all the chaos in her head. Then she remembered Ballyhaven. The fifty acres that had meant so much to herself and Andrew when first they had bought it. It was a place of shadows and secret nooks. She rang reception to say she would not be back until later in the afternoon. Then she went to the car park, got in her car and drove to Ballyhaven.

  * * *

  Maxine dressed even more carefully than usual this morning. When she examined herself in the full-length mirror she was satisfied that she had achieved the effect she wanted. On the outside anyway. She was dressed in John Rocha, all clean and subtle lines. Making a statement. This woman is beautiful, slim and clever. Well bred and successful.