The payphone was located in an alcove. The answering machine came on again, but the succession of blips was cleared. Peadar had been in and gone out again, or else he was there now, bizarrely listening to her leaving a message. Why would she even think such a thing? Still Alison waited a moment after she finished talking, hoping he might pick up the receiver. She could imagine her own sitting room, with her voice having startled the shadows there. Then she put the phone down.
She was concerned about Sheila, but knew she would only disturb Danny by returning this early. Alison decided to parole herself until ten–thirty. The glass doors out onto the roadway were open. She stood in the porch, staring across at the car park through the heavy rain that had threatened all evening. The battered van parked incongruously among the sleek cars must belong to Chris. Alison would never again think their own car out of place among the grander models there. The narrow road, leading to guesthouses and B&Bs and then the wind–swept golfing links, was deserted. The noise of the rain was soothing. She didn’t want to face the crowded Slaney Room, yet couldn’t stay out here.
Sally’s husband ran in from the car park carrying a baby–changing bag. He nodded, shaking rain from his jacket. Seamus, the night porter, was on duty. Alison sensed him hover behind her, concerned she might want some message done. She went back in, smiling to him.
The Slaney Room was packed. Joan and Joey were planked with two other couples at a table beside the dance floor. She slipped upstairs to the upper tier before they saw her. It was less crowded here, mainly with couples who did not intend dancing. At a small table, gazing down, Chris Conway sat alone. It was the table she would have picked, on the edge of things yet out of sight. He was nursing an Irish Mist, with two empty glasses on the table beside him.
Perhaps he was waiting in hope for her, his jacket on the other chair as if reserving it. But she chose the only other free table, right at the back where she could watch him, and ordered a rum and coke from a passing waiter.
From there, Alison could see half the dance floor but only the legs of the band. Joey’s bald patch was in view, but she only glimpsed Joan whenever the woman leaned forward for her drink. It was a different perspective. If Peadar was still with her they would be down there now, roped into that group who stopped talking to join in the applause as two tango performers came out to present their weekly display.
This was new, but she only half watched the dancers begin their routine. Instead, feeling like a voyeur, she observed Chris Conway watching them. The fringe of his hair was grey. She hadn’t noticed that before. She wondered about his present life, with all that free time which wasn’t consumed by the demands of children. Time not crammed into a schedule of school runs, art classes and swimming lessons. Time as it had once stretched out when she was a schoolgirl lying in bed on Saturday mornings or, later on, sharing that flat on Beechwood Avenue with two other trainee nurses.
She could still recall evenings there, with voices from the greengrocer’s across the road wafting through the bay window as Carmel boiled up Kerr’s Pinks or Queens potatoes – ‘great balls of flour’, as she called them – while grilling the cheapest pork chops. None of them ever seemed to have a penny from Monday to Thursday. They sat in or visited other flats, watching TV, talking, planning dances or weekend drinking parties, discussing men disparagingly, laughing about the hospital matron and putting their futures on hold.
The only thing they had owned in that flat was time. Whole evenings spent talking and smoking. Nights when they would troop out for cigarettes at two a.m., Carmel or Susan waking her up by calling across the shared bedroom to say they were dying for a drag.
New kebab shops were opening along Rathmines Road that year, with late–night traffic pulsing past towards Rathgar and Terenure. They would sit on the bench opposite the twenty–four–hour store to light up, enjoying the night air and laughing at their own craziness, when they knew they had an early shift to start in a few hours’ time.
Alison had never told the others that she’d been pregnant. It had seemed like a bad dream, something to be airbrushed from her life. If she had been able to look into the future, then surely she would be pleased to find herself here. All her dreams, or at least her safest ones, come through. Yet she knew that the twenty–year–old smoking on a bench in Rathmines would view her present incarnation as a stranger, burdened down and cheated by time.
The tango display continued. Alison could see girls from the kitchen crowding a doorway to glimpse the whirling figures. Girls overworked and probably underpaid, but still with the gift of time. The kitchen staff nudged each other and laughed as the man threw his partner flamboyantly over his shoulder. The local band played on, glad to be released from their normal medley of musical standards. This display was still novel, but within another few months the girls wouldn’t bother sneaking away from their pots and pans. It would blend into the seamless routine of each identical week, which was the mainstay of Fitzgerald’s.
The same menus, same songs, the same medals for kids after the magic show every Thursday. The same couples choosing the same week every year. If his family had not been killed, Alison and Chris could have continued coming here all their lives without ever meeting like this. He turned suddenly, as if looking for her, and pointed upwards. She was confused, then realised he was drawing her attention to a muffled announcement, which came again, asking for her to return to her room.
Alison rose, startled, and descended the stairs, almost running along the corridor. The door was ajar, the light on in the bathroom. There was vomit on the tiles and Sheila knelt, groggily, with her head over the toilet bowl. The babysitter looked up from beside her. Alison knew the woman was worried. She tried not to panic.
‘I don’t mind the vomiting,’ the babysitter said, ‘but I can’t seem to really get her attention.’
Alison knelt, turning the child around to face her. Sheila screwed up her eyes as if the light hurt. Alison pulled up her pyjama top. The rash was far worse now, with blotches on her chest and arms.
‘My head hurts,’ the child mumbled, ‘my head.’
‘Look down at your toes,’ Alison commanded, her tone sharpened with fear.
‘I don’t want to.’
‘It may just be too much sun.’ The babysitter tried to calm her. ‘Sometimes it affects children and then the holiday excitement gets too much for them.’
‘Look up at the light, then down at your toes. Please, pet, please,’ Alison begged.
The child seemed unable or unwilling to. She looked dazed, with barely enough strength to stand. She sank to her knees before the toilet and retched, although nothing was left in her stomach. Alison became aware of Chris Conway in the open doorway.
‘I just wanted to make sure everything was all right,’ he said.
‘Her neck is stiff. She has a headache and rash and can’t seem to stand bright lights.’
She didn’t have to mention the word. All three were thinking of meningitis. It was two weeks since Sheila’s class was notified that Jean O’Connor had it, with her grandmother driving her to the hospital just in time. The incubation period could be weeks.
‘I’ll phone reception,’ the babysitter said. ‘They can call a doctor.’
‘There isn’t time.’ Alison looked at Chris. ‘Can you drive me to Wexford hospital?’
‘I don’t know.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve had a few drinks.’
‘This is an emergency,’ she argued. ‘Peadar drives with a few drinks.’
‘I’m not Peadar,’ Chris replied defensively.
‘You never were.’ The barb was cruel, but she was frantic with worry. She couldn’t wait for the night porter to arrange a lift. She had to be gone now, holding her child, doing something. Every second counted with the possibility of meningitis.
‘Can you mind the boys?’ Chris was addressing the babysitter. She nodded and he took out his car keys from his pocket. The babysitter told her that Peadar had phoned twice, before Sheila started to stir.
She had passed him back to the switchboard but if an announcement was made Alison had never heard it.
Alison wrapped Sheila in a blanket, kissing the whimpering child. It felt unreal, like a nightmare. The night porter was startled to see them run down the corridor. He followed them out to the van, trying to help. If it was meningitis then the boys could be brewing it too. Her precious children. The gears grinded as Chris edged between the pillars. In the rain, his wipers could hardly keep the windscreen clear. The road was empty but he seemed to drive unnaturally slow, chugging cautiously over the hump–backed bridge and heading for the main road.
She stared across impatiently, willing him on. He seemed oblivious to her, peeping out at ditches flashing past in the headlights. Fifty miles an hour without another car in sight. Surely to God he could go faster than that?
‘Come on, Chris,’ she hissed. ‘Do you want us to get there at all?’
She could sense the child’s fear on her knee. Sheila seemed disorientated, with a rocketing temperature. The speedometer flickered to fifty–five then dropped back again. The road was half flooded in shallows, the rain incessant now. Alison realised she didn’t even know where the bloody hospital was in Wexford.
‘Come on, a bit faster,’ she snapped, ‘for God’s sake.’
‘Just shut the fuck up!’ Chris’s voice startled her, not in its anger but its fear. She noticed he was sweating. ‘Maybe Peadar is Superman, but Peadar isn’t bloody here, is he? I’ll get the child there safely, that’s what counts.’
In her anxiety she hadn’t thought about the crash. How hard was it for him to drive at night with a child? What demons was he confronting?
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, quietly.
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘How is she doing?’
‘Burning up.’
‘She’ll be all right.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Sara had septicaemia when she was three. The worst night of my life.’ Chris paused. ‘The second worst. Her skin was different than this, far worse.’ He looked across. ‘Still I could be wrong. Never take chances with a child.’
Alison gazed down at her daughter who seemed to be drifting towards sleep. It was impossible to conceive of life without her. Even the thought conjured up an arid infinity of pain.
‘How do you cope?’ she asked. ‘I mean, what do you do?’
They had reached the main road. A truck zoomed past with twinkling lights. Chris swung right, staring out into the rain.
‘These last months I’ve played a lot of golf mainly.’
Golf. She felt let down and almost angry. How masculine could you get? Your wife and children die, so you console yourself by golfing with your pals. Yet it was probably what Peadar would do. She could imagine Peadar in the clubhouse in Donabate, men clustered around him, careful of what they said. Lifts would be arranged when he drank too much, four–balls organised, his gimme range extended by six inches. In time there would be dinner invitations, discreet potential dates lined up.
Alison knew she was being bitchy, feeling abandoned. Peadar would be devastated without her. No friends could compensate for knowing in your heart that you were utterly alone. Yet Peadar could survive such a tragedy, whereas she would go to pieces, locked up or dead within months.
‘It’s good that you’ve golf to enjoy.’ She tried not to make it sound like a putdown.
‘I don’t enjoy it. I don’t enjoy anything.’
Chris managed to increase his speed on the main road, but she could see how much of a strain the driving was. How many drinks had he got through, and had the driver who’d killed his family been drinking too?
‘Why do you play then?’
Chris shrugged. ‘There’s enough space to be left alone on most courses, if you set out early. I gave my car away and kept this van that we used for deliveries. I fitted out the back of it, put in a bed, a gas stove, pots, pans. It’s all right, just a bit cold at night.’
‘You mean you’ve been living in it?’
‘I drive home occasionally. It’s crazy, a phobia. I get out, stand on the lawn. I don’t know what I’m afraid to find inside but each time I just get back into this van and drive off again.’
‘Your house could be robbed,’ she said. ‘Thieves cruise around, notice everything.’
‘What’s left to rob? Nothing I want anyway.’
There was no self–pity in the voice. A truck sped past, with a car trying to overtake it, forcing Chris onto the hard shoulder. If there was a checkpoint she knew that he would lose his licence because of her.
‘It’s up for sale now,’ he added. ‘The girls’ clothes went to charity shops.’
‘You’re keeping nothing?’
‘My partner even got the dog.’
‘And you just play golf?’
‘Some clubs get shirty about the van being parked overnight, not that they know there’s somebody sleeping inside. But you need a structure to your day. Up at dawn, brew some tea, then out. More often than not I just leave money in an envelope in a box.’
‘Do you not get tired of it?’ she asked.
‘Some mornings I can hardly hold the bloody driver, let alone care where the ball goes. Just hit the blasted thing and walk on, cursing myself every time it flies into the rough. Maybe you feel wrecked, but at least you feel something. Eighteen holes, then lunch, then another eighteen if there’s no outing on the course. Ending up in the bloody dusk. Then on to another club car park, a few drinks at the bar and I’m so wrecked I fall asleep before the barman locking up starts wondering who left their van behind.’
‘That’s no way to live,’ she said.
‘It’s a way to keep living, keep moving. I actually got a hole–in–one. Last Tuesday. The seventeenth at Seapoint near Baltray. Teeing off up on dunes with the Irish Sea below and the Mourne Mountains covered in cloud across Carlingford Bay. A gale blowing, rain and spray in my face. I hit a low four iron, one hundred and sixty–four metres. No fairway or anything, just the green peeking through a gap in the dunes with a rabbit path winding towards it. It bounced once, four feet from the pin, then ran in.’
Chris shook his head ruefully and laughed.
‘A hundred and sixty–four metres in the teeth of wind and rain. The shot of a lifetime. And just me there. Nobody else on the bloody course. Not even a gull overhead to yell at.’
‘How did you feel?’ she asked, stroking her daughter’s hair, trying to keep talking and not to panic.
‘Deflated,’ he replied, ‘in shock. God knows how long it was since I’d had a proper meal or slept in a bed. The green–keeper was leaving trolleys out. He didn’t even know I’d been on the course. I could have told him, but I didn’t. It was my secret. I wanted to throw the clubs away. It was finished, I was going home. I was telling nobody until I told Jane.’
He went silent, carefully negotiating the roundabout before Wexford town. Jane Conway. Sara Conway. Rachel Conway. How could she have missed such a trinity of deaths in the Irish Times? Though it was at the time when Dr O’Gorman had sent her for the mammogram, when she was preoccupied with her own concerns. ‘Deeply regretted by her loving husband, Chris.’ Surely his name would have stood out for her.
‘Do you often forget she’s dead?’
‘I did last Tuesday,’ he replied. ‘For a whole ten seconds. The time it took to start the van, then remember that I’d nothing to go home to. You don’t forget people are dead, it’s just that sometimes you forget their death is forever.’
Sheila stirred and made a retching noise. She looked up, scared, uncertain where she was.
‘Don’t worry,’ Chris said. ‘It’s not what you think. I know. I know. I know.’
He made it sound like a mantra, used to cover up his own fear. He repeated it again, jarring on her nerves.
‘You don’t know,’ she snapped, succumbing to panic again. ‘This is my daughter we’re talking about.’
The hospital was on a hill overlooking Wexford. T
he casualty department quiet before the pubs emptied. Alison rushed her in, with Chris lagging behind. Sheila was more distressed now, scared by the noise and lights and sensing the fear that her mother tried to disguise.
Once Alison mentioned the meningitis scare at Sheila’s school the nurses showed her into a cubicle. Chris stayed back but Alison waved him in. She was shaking and needed somebody beside her. The doctor was African with an impenetrable accent. He seemed to take forever, rechecking the child’s temperature, shining lights in her eyes, manipulating her neck. Alison’s years of nursing were of no benefit when it came to being a patient’s mother. The anxiety was worse for her memories of seeing other children suffer. Chris found her hand, squeezing it so tight his grip hurt. But she was glad of the comfort and squeezed back, almost afraid to let go.
‘You the father?’ the doctor asked Chris.
‘No.’ Chris seemed equally nervous. God knows what sights he had last confronted in a room like this.
‘Do you want to go?’ she asked.
‘No.’ His voice was grim, his fingers almost crushing hers.
The doctor made Sheila open her mouth again, using a wooden spatula to hold down her tongue. The child cried with fright, causing him to have to start again. He looked up eventually.
‘Tonsillitis,’ he said. ‘Her throat is raw, causing headache. Ponston now for the pain, then antibiotics.’ ‘But the rash …’ Alison began. ‘An allergy. She eat something different?’ The perfumed shower gel on Sheila’s skin. Alison closed her eyes, thanking God. Previously she had been too scared to even pray.
‘And no sign of septicaemia or meningitis?’ she asked.
‘Look.’ The doctor pressed a small glass against the spots on Sheila’s tummy. They faded under the pressure. ‘If they did not fade, you would need to go to a hospital immediately.’
‘But she was right to come and take no chances,’ Chris said, as if defending her. He let go her hand. Alison wanted to put her arms around him in relief, yet she felt stupid at the same time. She was a trained nurse. These were basic things she should have checked instead of panicking.
Temptation Page 10
