Echoes

by Maeve Binchy

  “Drink that,” he said.

  She threw it at him. It missed and shattered all over the floor. She was shaking.

  Calmly he took a towel and wet it under the tap, he went up close and wiped her face, as you would wipe a child’s face. She was powerless to stop him.

  She poured herself another glass of water and drank it.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “OK.” He put his hand on the door.

  “Take these.” She gathered them up with a shaking hand.

  “Sure,” he said.

  She sat for a long time staring into space.

  She told David she felt a sort of flu coming on, if he didn’t mind she’d sleep downstairs.

  He was concerned, and felt her forehead. She did seem a bit feverish.

  They made up a bed for her. In the kitchen near the fire.

  “It looks very cozy,” he said. “Maybe we should move down here altogether.”

  “Remember when we lived in Rathmines? It was so tiny, and the bed, the stove, the dining table were all on top of each other.”

  “That’s right,” he said, and sighed.

  She got into bed and pulled up the sheets like an obedient child.

  He kissed her forehead.

  “David?”

  “Yes?” He looked alarmed.

  “Nothing, thanks for everything, sleep well.”

  She heard him go upstairs, the lavatory flush, and eventually his shoes fall. He was in bed.

  She saw the reflection of the bedroom light go off. He was asleep.

  She got out of bed, wide-awake. What on God’s earth was she going to do?

  She made a pot of coffee.

  She sat up all night and only when she heard the bed creak did she get back into her own.

  He tiptoed down and made a pot of tea.

  He brought it to her bedside triumphantly.

  “Who’s a good husband?” he said.

  “David’s a good husband,” she said mechanically.

  She looked very fluey, David thought as he went up to the big house. Funny that she hadn’t a temperature—he had taken it automatically. But her eyes were bright, her forehead hot and she was white as a sheet. Or maybe it was just that he felt he could hardly look at her these days without guilt and confusion.

  It was so easy to believe when he was with Caroline. Nobody would be hurt, nobody was going to make any demands, there would be no public scenes and at no time would Clare ever be humiliated. It would be discreet and it would be between them. Nobody would know. They would be the first lovers in the history of Castlebay who would get away with it.

  Caroline was so relaxed about everything, she never demanded to know what he thought or what he felt. She wanted no promises, no reassurances and certainly no discussion of the future.

  After a session with Clare about where they would be in ten years’ time and did he really love her and would they ever have got married if it hadn’t been for Liffey, it was like a warm bath to come to Caroline.

  Caroline said that he must of course make love to Clare, why ever not? She wanted no stories about separate beds or lack of relations. David was taking nothing from what he and she had if he and Clare made love anymore than she was stealing anything from Clare by having him come to her in the caravan.

  Sometimes he asked her what was going to happen. Would they have a great fight and hurt each other or would they just drift apart? She would laugh and say it was nonsensical to think of the future. It was very restful and it took all the guilt away.

  Clare was still lying in her made-up kitchen bed when she heard David’s car drive off on his rounds.

  A minute later Gerry Doyle came in. “Quite right too,” he said when he saw the bed.

  “Get out!” she cried.

  “Shush, shush.”

  “Gerry, I’m going to call Mrs. Power. Help!”

  He put his hand over her mouth gently, and his arm around her. Her thin body in the pink brushed-nylon nightdress with its long sleeves trembled. Her eyes were wild.

  “What do you owe him? You saw what he’s done to you. Clare?”

  She wrenched herself free. And out of his grasp. On her way to the door she picked up the carving knife.

  “Don’t be silly.” He wasn’t a bit afraid. “Put it down, Clare, I won’t touch you, put it down, you’ll hurt yourself.”

  She laid it down.

  “I’ll go now. I’ll come back for you later.”

  “Come back for me?”

  “I think we should go away, you and I and Liffey, far away.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “No, not at all. We leave the pictures on the table so they know why. And off we go.”

  “I know you’re in trouble, Gerry. I know you have money problems. Could I lend you some or get you some or something?”

  “We’ll get plenty in time. You and I, we’ll go to London maybe. I can work there. We’ll have a home.”

  “This is fantasy. . . . You must stop.”

  “You’re not to use big words like that to me—those are for the Powers. I’ll come back tonight.”

  “No, you mustn’t. I’ll tell David. I’ll tell Dr. Power. You can’t.”

  “You won’t tell any of them, I know. You want to come away with me.”

  “Stop. Don’t go. Let me explain!”

  “Make up your mind. One minute you’re telling me to go, with a carving knife—the next you’re calling me back.”

  “Don’t come back tonight. Don’t. I won’t be here. Or I’ll have the Guards here and David and his father and everyone. You must understand now I do not want to come away with you. Whatever David’s done, I am going nowhere with you.”

  “See you.”

  He was gone.

  She sat frightened, teeth chattering.

  David phoned about six o’clock. His last call had left him near town, it made more sense to have a meal there than driving home through all this storm. How was her flu?

  “David, can you please come home?”

  “What is it?”

  “In all the time we’ve been here, I’ve never asked you to come home. I’ve never been a clinging person. Isn’t that true?”

  “Darling, of course, it is, of course. But it’s awkward now. I met Caroline. I just made arrangements to have a meal with her, as it happens.”

  “You can have three hundred and sixty-five meals a year with Caroline if you just come home tonight.”

  “I am coming home.”

  “No, now. I’m frightened.”

  “I’ll make it an early meal,” he said. “I’ll be home then, and you can tell me what’s worrying you.”

  “I see,” she said, and hung up.

  She left a note on the kitchen table which said:

  I feel very edgy and unwell tonight, so I’ve gone to the main house where there will be a lot of people to keep me company.

  That would do either for Gerry if he came, or for David.

  At six-thirty she knocked on her mother-in-law’s door.

  “You don’t have to knock, Clare,” Dr. Power said. He was just about to listen to the news.

  “Come on in and sit down.”

  Molly was darning by the fire, they had finished their supper.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve not been feeling well all day, and David’s been delayed. He won’t be back until about nine or ten. Do you mind if I stay here?”

  They exchanged looks.

  “Of course not,” Molly said.

  “I think it’s in bed you should be. David said you have a touch of flu.”

  “It’s not flu. It’s just jitters. I have this awful sense of something going to happen.”

  “Nonsense, it’s the storm. You’re even nearer the sea than we are. Don’t give in to it, child. Stay with us for a bit. Then I’ll walk back and tuck you up. And tuck her ladyship up too.” Liffey chortled in the basket. She could only make it stretch to an h
our and a half. By eight o’clock she was back in the Lodge.

  Dr. Power glanced at the note. “Well, you can tear that up now. He’ll find you asleep in bed when he gets back.”

  He fussed and filled a hot-water bottle for her, then he went up the stairs. She was ashamed that she hadn’t made the bed since last night, since David had slept in it.

  Dr. Power didn’t make any comment.

  As soon as he was gone she locked the door and put a chair against it; then she made sure the windows were fastened.

  She would stay up by the fire. David could only be an hour, couldn’t he? There was no way Gerry could get in.

  There was a movement behind her. And there he was, in his leather jacket, smiling at her easily.

  “Oh my God.”

  “I was in the dining room. It’s all right, it’s all right.”

  “You don’t understand. You’ve read it all wrong. I’m not coming away with you.”

  “You’ve always wanted me. We’re the same type, Clare. I said that to you years ago. We’re greedy and we want everything. Well we’re going to have it. David’s different. He’s gentler, born into a gentle life.”

  “If I did anything in my whole life that would make you think I was in love with you, I swear I can’t remember.”

  She wasn’t frightened, now that he’d hurt her. She just couldn’t bear the great fight when David came in, the producing of the pictures—and David had always thought that she liked Gerry. It was so unjust, so terribly unjust. David was the one who was unfaithful, and here was she locked into the house with Gerry Doyle.

  “Will you pack your things? I have the car up the lane.”

  “You are talking like a madman. There’s no question of it.” Gentler, now. “I’ve admired you and liked you, like everyone, but that’s all.”

  “Very well.”

  “What?”

  “You know what you are saying. I presume you mean it.”

  “I do.”

  He went to the door; her body was relaxing by the moment with relief.

  “You’ll be sorry of course. Sorry you didn’t come with me tonight. You’ll always be sorry. You’ll wake in the bed beside your cheating husband, or in a bed downstairs, and you’ll be sorry you didn’t leave tonight with me.”

  “No, Gerry. I won’t. We’ll always be able to talk you and I . . . always.”

  “No,” he said.

  She waited when he was gone, hoping to hear the sound of the van starting up in the lane. There was no sound. Or the crashing of the sea and the wind drowned it if there was.

  David cursed himself for having rung home. It was just that he had wanted to know how her flu was. Now look what he had brought on himself. This was exactly what he knew would happen despite all Caroline’s fine words. Now he was pleasing neither of them. Clare would be fretting at home over whatever was worrying her, and Caroline would be annoyed that he had to leave early, and slightly scornful. She had been like that once or twice recently. More or less taunting him, saying, of course he must go home to poor Clare if she needed him. Caroline had said more than once that there were no chains around his legs tying him to her apron strings. It had been very humiliating and oddly he had also felt like defending Clare. He would feel that way tonight too. The girl had flu, he would say, and how defensive and idiotic it would sound.

  He parked his car in the little yard of the small house that Caroline rented. He had been looking forward to the evening. Perhaps he would say nothing about his promise to be home early, perhaps he could ring and say that something had happened . . .

  Caroline was not in the kitchen. He had let himself in the back door. A saucepan with water was hissing on the back burner of the gas stove. He reached out automatically and pulled it away. The bottom had just begun to burn.

  “Caroline,” he called. There was no answer.

  That was odd. She must be at home. She still had the city habit of locking the doors when she went out.

  “Caroline,” he called again. Perhaps she was in the bathroom upstairs. He didn’t want her to get a fright if she came out and saw him unexpectedly. “I’m here,” he called again.

  There was a sound from upstairs.

  “Are you all right?” he called, alarmed suddenly and taking the stairs two by two.

  Caroline was sitting gray-faced on the bed. Both of her hands were held to her mouth.

  “What is it?” Could she have been attacked? Raped even? Why didn’t she speak?

  “Oh, my God, my God,” she said over and over.

  David told himself that he was trained to deal with people in shock, but it was no use, he had forgotten what to do if he had ever known. He knelt down opposite Caroline. He stroked her bent head, he unclenched her hands, he tried to get her to look into his eyes. That was the hardest bit. She wouldn’t meet his glance.

  “Tell me, darling Caroline. Tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Did anyone hurt you, touch you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Please, please, I have to help you. Have you had bad news from home? Your father, mother?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Did you see something, an accident? What is it Caroline? Tell me and I’ll help you.” He went on stroking her hair and looking up as she sat on the bed, her face stricken and her eyes wild.

  “David,” she said.

  “Has it anything to do with me?”

  “He’s mad. He’s mad enough for a mad home, to be locked away forever . . .”

  “Who? Who are you talking about? Tell me.”

  “Gerry Doyle.”

  “What has he done now?” David stood up in impatience.

  He followed Caroline’s glance to the dressing table and saw what had made her the way she was.

  One by one he looked at the dozen pictures, bile rising in his throat at what had been private turning into this. “It wasn’t like that,” he said eventually. “It was special. You know.”

  That cheered her somehow—she reached out a cold hand for his.

  “Why did he do this?” David looked through the pictures once more and turned them face down on the dressing table.

  “Because he’s mad,” Caroline said simply.

  David pulled the bedroom chair up beside her and held her hands. “Did he give them to you?” he asked gently.

  “No, they were here when I came home.”

  “Did he leave a note or anything?”

  Caroline reached down and picked up a piece of paper, it had Doyle’s Photographics on it. In small writing it said:

  Delivery three sets of pictures only. a) Miss Caroline Nolan.

  b) Doctor David Power. The surgery, Castlebay.

  c) Mrs. Clare Power. The Lodge, Castlebay.

  “My God.” David stood up. “That’s what Clare wanted. That’s why she rang.”

  “She’s seen those?” Caroline’s hand was to her mouth again.

  “I don’t know. She rang me, very hysterical. I mean I rang her to say I was coming here—she said she wanted me home. I said I’d be home fairly early.”

  “She couldn’t have. She couldn’t have seen these?”

  “No.” David was slowly going over the conversation. “No, she couldn’t have. She said I could have dinner with you three hundred and sixty-five days a year or something. . . .”

  “What?”

  “She said I must come home tonight. I said I was meeting you for dinner. She said you can have dinner every other night of the year but please come back now.”

  They looked at each other wildly.

  “He couldn’t have given them to her. She wouldn’t say that if she’d seen them.”

  “But why did she want me home?”

  “Do you want to go back?” She sounded frightened.

  “I can’t leave you.”

  “But suppose, just suppose he has.”

  “He couldn’t have. I’d have known by her voice.” David stood up and paced the room. “I’
ll ring her, that’s what I’ll do.”

  He telephoned the Lodge, there was no reply. They looked at each other: was that good or bad?

  “She might have gone in to your mother and father,” Caroline suggested.

  “No, however bad she felt she wouldn’t do that.” He looked tormented.

  “Where could he have been, just at the window of the caravan?” she glanced over at the dressing table.

  “That’s what he must have done. But why? I mean is it for money? His business is meant to be in a bad way, but he couldn’t expect us to pay him.”

  “We would, wouldn’t we?” Caroline said simply.

  “Yes, I suppose we would. But he doesn’t ask for money. Do you think it’s because he disapproves, because he wants you and he’s jealous?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think that would explain it.”

  “But why? Why would someone do that? It’s so perverted. To peer through a window . . . my God. He must be obsessed with you—it’s the only explanation. He can’t have you himself, so he does what he can to ruin the chances of anyone else having you.”

  “Oh, he’s had me himself, many, many times. That’s not likely to be the reason. He’s actually lost his mind and become a lunatic.”

  She had her head in both hands and didn’t see the look of shock and pain on David’s face. She went on talking.

  “The trouble is, we can’t really tell the Guards, or they’ll want to know why, but he should be locked up, shouldn’t he?” She looked up for confirmation.

  “He didn’t sleep with you,” David said.

  “David, that’s neither here nor there. You sleep with Clare. Do I mind that? Did I ever mind it? Once?” Her voice was getting shrill and hysterical. “Christ, this isn’t the time to do the Victorian Husband bit. Everyone in the county has been with Gerry Doyle in some form or another. The point is, what do we do?”

  She looked young and frightened and alone.

  “I know this is the most unhelpful thing in the world, but I think I should go back to Castlebay. Under the circumstances I don’t think you should come with me . . .”

  “No.”