On a sunny day at the end of August, Ellie and I flew to London. I gave her the window seat because I didn’t want to look out over Strangford Lough and find myself wondering if one of the little glinting dots moving along the ribbon of road was Albert’s car, and who, if anyone, might be with him. I hadn’t heard from him since the telephone conversation before my birthday and I hadn’t rung him back, or emailed, even though I had been sorely tempted. However, there is one thing to be said for the end of a love affair: you feel so bad that nothing else matters. I found that all the normal irritations and concerns about air travel suddenly dwindled into insignificance; after all, what are queues and searches, restrictions and security alerts – never mind alarming engine noises and the prospect of imminent death – in the face of the all-consuming misery of heartbreak?
As for Ellie, it wrung my heart even more to see her as thin and drawn as she was then. She is my middle child, sandwiched between Finn and the twins, and until now had dealt with life’s misfortunes with an unflappable serenity, but on that journey – despite our best efforts – we were both sunk in gloom. Still, there is nothing like a change of scene to lift the spirits, and the sight of Finn waiting to meet us was the best of all possible antidotes to our sad condition.
A year or two earlier, Finn and Marta had started a market-garden business in one of those surprising green patches in the city. Pippa (otherwise known as Pipsqueak) is Marta’s six year-old daughter from a previous liaison and is a delightful child whom we all love dearly. The three of them live with several other like-minded souls in a rambling communal house known to Nuala and Seamus as the Organic Ashram.
As Ellie and I followed Finn down the hall, picking our way between bicycles, gumboots, and assorted piles of recycling, a door opened and a small vision in violet dungarees and a floppy hat stitched with sunflowers came flying towards us.
‘Granny Finn! Ellie!’ Pippa flung her arms around us. ‘Mummy’s in the garden but first you have to come upstairs and see your room!’ She pulled us along behind Finn, who was climbing the stairs with our bags, and danced ahead into a tiny room with a sloping ceiling. Two narrow beds stood on either side of a rag rug, with just enough space for a slightly rickety chair between them; there was an ancient chest of drawers, a jam jar full of daisies, and a tie-dyed curtain looped back from the window with a bootlace. There was also relatively little dust, and, pinned to the wall, a large banner reading WeLcum!
Pippa surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. ‘Doesn’t it look nice?’ she said. ‘I did it nearly all myself. I even did sweeping.’
Ellie picked her up and hugged her. ‘It’s gorgeous!’ she said. ‘Better than staying at the Ritz! And I love your outfit – did Mummy make it?’
Pippa nodded, beaming, and Finn said ‘Marta’s been branching out into children’s clothes: she’s selling as many as she can make. But she can tell you all about it herself. Come on down now – I’m starving.’
At the back of the house there was a lovely overgrown patch of lawn with apple trees and a hammock, and there we found Marta, setting out a picnic supper.
‘We thought we’d eat out here, just the five of us,’ she said, after hugs and kisses had been exchanged. ‘It’s such a lovely evening, and anyway Raj and Sophie won’t be back until much later, and Leila has gone to visit her mother. There’s so much to catch up on, we don’t want to share you with anyone else.’
This was something of a relief to me: meals in that house were strictly communal, and as cooking was done according to a weekly rota, the standard was variable but tended towards lentil stews and vegetable casseroles made from whatever produce remained unsold. A previous visit had coincided with a glut of turnips and I had made a mental note to stay away in winter.
But on this occasion we feasted on summer vegetables and Raj’s mother’s celebrated samosas, along with homemade dips and elderberry wine – and in my case, mercifully non-organic gin and tonic. Sitting there in the long, summer dusk, we caught up with all the news: Pippa had a great deal to tell us about her first year at school, Ellie and I touched lightly on our very different travels, and Finn and Marta were happy to report a modest growth in the gardening business, as well as an unexpected demand for the children’s clothing which Marta had begun as a sideline, but which now threatened to expand into something a lot more time-consuming.
‘But profitable,’ said Finn, with his characteristic crooked grin, and I thought how well and happy he was looking. He has his father’s dark looks but is slighter, and inclined to push himself too hard; now though, he looked utterly contented and relaxed. As for Marta, I had never seen her looking better. Her normally wraith-like presence seemed suddenly rosy, and unusually substantial – and when she stretched up an arm, I thought I saw the reason why.
‘Marta! Am I imagining it or are you …’ I let my eyes rest on her stomach, and she blushed, and then both she and Finn began to laugh.
‘We were saving the best news until last: Pip is going to have a little brother or sister in the New Year. Are you pleased?’
‘Pleased? I couldn’t be more pleased!’ I jumped up and hugged her, and then my son. ‘What wonderful news! We should be drinking champagne!’
‘We will,’ said Ellie. She had thrown her arms around Finn in delight and was now sitting beside Marta, stroking her long pale hair. ‘Oh, Marta, what brilliant news. I’m going to be its very favourite aunt.’
‘In that case you’ll have to stick around,’ said Finn. ‘You can’t be a favourite aunt if you’re always off to Ulan Bator or Patagonia.’
‘Oh yes I can,’ said Ellie. ‘I can send back exotic presents and turn up once a year on a camel. I might stay a bit closer to home though – I’ve been thinking of Spain as it happens. At any rate, I’ve had enough of South America for the time being.’
There was a little silence, then Marta said softly, ‘I’m really sorry, Ellie: Carlos is a moron. But it’s nice for us to have you back.’
‘Why don’t you come back to London for a while?’ Finn suggested. ‘You can have the room you’re staying in now for as long as you like, and you’re bound to get work: supply teachers and tutors are always in demand.’
‘Or you could help out here,’ said Marta. ‘We always need a hand.’
‘Oh please come!’ Pippa beseeched her. ‘I want you to live here more than anything in the world!’
‘In that case,’ said Ellie, ‘how can I refuse?’
Soon after we returned to Belfast, Ellie went back to London and I found myself once again on my own. September was a cold, wet month, and the stormy grey waters of the lough were a sad reflection of my mood. I missed my children terribly, but I was delighted that Ellie was putting her life back together again. Tiger Lily, who had obviously been well looked after in my absence, had seemed surprisingly pleased – for a cat – to have me home again, and Fred was often to be found curled up with her on my sofa. Sticky Wicket had indulged in an orgy of cat-flapping while I had been away – there was now a flap in his door upstairs, as well in my front door, so both cats were free to come and go at will. And in those lonely days, I found their presence an unexpected comfort.
Of course, I went to work, and I had the odd meal upstairs with Archie, who seemed to think I needed feeding up. I did my weekly stint in the Good Intentions Bookshop, and I walked for miles along the shore, and tried very hard not to think about Albert. I also caught up with Rita.
She had rung to invite me for an after-work drink in yet another newly opened little bistro, and I was pleased to see that it looked a good deal more promising than the previous one. I was less pleased to see that she was not alone.
‘Johanna, I don’t think you’ve met my colleague, Campbell Pearce? He’s got an hour to waste before he has to catch his train to Dublin, so I invited him to join us.’
It was a set-up, of course. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on him, because he was about my age, and no lawyer has an hour to waste, unless there’s the possibility of turning it to some advantage.
‘Do you live in Dublin?’ I enquired, as he handed me my drink.
‘No, I’m based in Edinburgh, but I come to Belfast and Dublin regularly.’
His voice had a nice Scottish burr and he was certainly presentable – and attentive. I could see Rita smirking complacently as we discovered mutual interests, and I have to admit that an hour passed very pleasantly before he glanced at his watch and said, regretfully, that he would have to go.
‘But I hope we can do this again sometime. I’ll be back in Belfast in a fortnight. It’s been a great pleasure to meet you, Johanna.’
‘Well?’ said Rita, the moment he was out of earshot. ‘What do you think?’
‘Very nice. For you or for me?’
‘Don’t be silly, he’s far too old and civilised for me.’
‘True. But what makes you think he’s right for me?’
‘You’ve got a lot in common,’ said Rita. ‘You’re roughly the same age, you’re both single, and you like music and travel. What’s not to like?’
‘He’s not Albert.’
‘Too right he’s not. From what you’ve told me, he’s got a lot more hair, for one thing. And at least Campbell has actually divorced his wife.’
I sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Rita. He seemed a really nice man, but he’s just not my type.’
‘And what exactly is your type, Johanna?’ Rita snapped her fingers for the waiter. ‘So far you have shown a predilection for tall, dark and handsome criminals, and tall, bald and dithering academics. Apart from their height and nationality, the only thing they seem to have in common is their unreliability.’
There was a temporary lull while Rita instructed the waiter to bring us another carafe and a plate of meze, but that done, she returned to the attack.
‘Look, Johanna, I know you’re still yearning for your useless Albert, but it’s time you moved on. And here’s a lovely, sensible, successful Scot who’s obviously taken with you – why can’t you give him a chance?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s too soon.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Rita. ‘It’s never too soon. Oh well, Campbell will be snapped up by someone else, and you’ll end up resorting to internet dating.’
‘What’s wrong with internet dating?’ I looked at her in surprise. ‘Doesn’t everyone do it? I thought it was considered perfectly respectable these days.’
‘They do and it is,’ said Rita. ‘But they all tell lies about themselves. They put up photos taken twenty years ago and then turn up with hearing aids and paunches and want to talk about their divorces. You’ll see.’
‘No I won’t,’ I replied, ‘because it is not something I am ever going to do. Anyway, how did you meet …?’ I struggled to remember the name of her current toy boy.
‘Vladimir? I spotted him in a wine bar and was immediately attracted. So I went straight up to him and said, Excuse me, you’re not Algernon Woodcroft, by any chance?’
‘Why Algernon Woodcroft?’
‘I thought the answer was unlikely to be yes.’
‘And then?’
‘He said he wasn’t and I said, what a pity, I was hoping it would be you, but I’m so late he’s probably left by now. To which he replied, why don’t I buy you a drink instead? Voilà!’
I gazed at her with unbounded admiration. ‘I could never do that! You’re so … focused!’
Which just went to show why Rita was a top-flight lawyer with an endless supply of adoring men in tow, while I was an impoverished part-time seller of dodgy antiques and second-hand books, with only the prospect of seedy internet Romeos to comfort me in my declining years.