On Wednesday there was no chance of going out to take more photographs; the weather was against her. Julia knew it could change rapidly, that if you stood in the right location you could see not only the blustery squall heading towards you across the Atlantic, but also the promise of blue sky beyond. Today, however, the rain skittered against the windowpanes as if someone were tossing fistfuls of shingle. Bel would not get her trip to see the dolphins.
Earlier she’d taken her a cup of coffee, which must now be cooling beside her bed. She’d said something about sleeping badly – the storm had got up in the early hours – so Julia had left her to rest. When she’d last peeked in, Bel had a book in her hand, but her head lolled on the pillow and her eyes were closed. She’d waited a few moments, watching the rise and fall of the feather duvet, her daughter’s lips parted, her face in repose as smooth and creamy as in childhood.
Back in the living room she stoked up the fire. Then she returned to the computer, scrutinising the slide show as if a story were unfolding and a pattern might emerge. She knew perfectly well how much of life was random. She had seen it first hand: children with leukaemia or heart conditions or missing chromosomes; a volcano erupting as the wind changed, sending the world into a spin. It was crazy to think her efforts to capture the moods of the ocean, the formation of the clouds on the horizon, would tell her anything. What was striking about the photographs – even for a hopeless amateur – was the enormous breadth and power of the seascapes. How could a person not feel diminished?
She was startled from her reverie by a rap – which she thought at first was a sound from within the cottage – Bel’s book slipping onto the floor perhaps, as she turned in her sleep. The second, sharper, she recognised as a knock on the door. She opened it to a large bunch of yellow tulips. The face behind the tulips belonged to a young man; his dark hair, sparkling with raindrops, was slicked behind slightly prominent ears.
‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed, trying to recall the last time she’d been presented with a bunch of flowers on her doorstep. And then realised it wasn’t so long ago after all: Matt, eager and grateful, on the day they’d swapped houses and she’d moved into Canning Street, had produced a lavish bouquet. (Although she also knew, with ninety-nine per cent certainty, that the bouquet in question had been conceived and chosen by Rachael. Rachael had thoughtful, impeccable taste.)
‘They’re for Bel,’ said the visitor in a mild Irish accent. ‘This is where she’s staying, I’m right in thinking?’
‘Well yes, but she’s not up, I’m afraid.’
She wondered whether to invite him inside. She could see that he’d left his car at the top of the lane and the wind and rain were still squabbling overhead. The bonnet of thatch above the door didn’t offer much shelter. He could dry himself by the fire and hand the flowers to Bel in person. Except she might not want to be caught unawares. If she was keen on him she might need some time to make herself presentable. And if not…
‘I can’t stop,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to check she was okay after yesterday. No bad effects, is what I mean.’
‘No bad effects?’ echoed Julia.
‘Her arm? It’s not troubling her?’
Julia frowned. She recalled Bel wincing, her denial that anything was the matter. Walking along she’d held herself stiffly, it was true, but her movements had been jerky throughout her convalescence. It was bound to take her a while to get back to the elastic-jointed acrobat she’d been before illness struck. ‘She didn’t mention it,’ she said. ‘So I imagine it isn’t. Troubling her, I mean.’
‘Oh that’s good!’ His smile was lopsided but engaging. He thrust the tulips at her, in their soggy tissue-paper wrapping. As she took them their fingertips tangled.
‘Do you want me to give her a message?’
‘A message? Right, yes, if you will. You can tell her Kieran was asking after her.’ He turned up the collar of his jacket against a rivulet of water shooting suddenly from the downspout. ‘I’m afraid I have to make a run for it now. Got to get back to fixing the fences. If the cattle escape it’s a hell of a trial herding them home again.’
Julia could believe this. She’d seen some errant cows lumbering along the road the day before. They were plundering new green shoots in the hedgerows and being chased by two teenagers in wellies waving sticks, like a scene from a child’s picture book. ‘I’ll be sure to do that,’ she said and watched him sprint up the lane, avoiding the puddles.
She carried the tulips over to the sink. Bel’s posy on the windowsill was wilting and forlorn. Wild flowers never lasted indoors. She threw them into the bin and filled the vase with fresh water. The yellow blooms brought a bright splash of sunshine into the room. She was about to start arranging them when her phone rang.
‘Dr Wentworth?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Teresa Hogan here.’
‘Oh… Teresa… Hello. Everything’s fine actually. We’ve had no problems…’
‘You’ve been sleeping well?’
Julia was perplexed. Surely she wasn’t phoning merely to enquire after her sleeping habits? ‘Almost twelve hours a night! I must have years of catching up to do.’
‘I always say we have the best air in the world. It’s a tonic in itself. I wanted to check that your daughter had arrived safely?’
‘Oh yes, she got here in the end, thank goodness. All in one piece too.’
‘That’s grand.’ Teresa cleared her throat and said in a casual tone, ‘You remember, when we met the other day, you were discussing the old graveyard?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you happen to notice a plaque for a man called William Langley?’
Julia didn’t answer. She sat down on a hard wooden chair, welcoming its rigidity. She needed firm, unyielding support.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘It must have been a shock,’ said the other woman gently.
‘Yes.’
‘You know I was certain I’d seen you before, only until you mentioned St Silas it quite eluded me – we have so many visitors. But then, when we saw the pictures of your grandson who is so like his daddy…’
What was she supposed to say to this? Was it foolish not to have realised she might set tongues wagging?
‘You probably wondered how it came to be there, the plaque, I mean?’
‘Yes.’
Teresa launched in. ‘It was put up by the Farrellys, Patrick and Veronica. They used to own the land, you see. They’ve sold it since to the parish to extend the burial ground. They’re old friends of ours. Ronnie’s a good Catholic. Pat, well to be honest, for a long time he didn’t go to Mass but just now he’s been persuaded again. Illness concentrates the mind.’
The mobile slipped a little in Julia’s hand, still wet from the tap. She tightened her grip, said again, ‘Yes.’
There was a long interval. Had Teresa rung off? No; after more throat-clearing she was back. ‘I didn’t know what to do for the best. I’ve been turning it over and over. Will she want to know? Will I say something, will I not…’
Julia tried to compose herself. The woman was well meaning; she shouldn’t leave her to flounder. ‘I’m afraid that first visit was a total blur for me,’ she said. ‘People were very kind but I couldn’t focus on anything. I don’t remember who anyone was.’
‘I couldn’t leave you in ignorance,’ said Teresa. ‘I have to tell you that the Farrelly boys are home for their father’s birthday.’
The wooden spindles of the chair were digging into Julia’s back. She held herself erect and wondered whether this was a situation she had invited.
‘The boys?’
‘Tom Farrelly was the little lad your husband rescued.’
‘Oh.’
Julia had observed that there was nothing harder to cope with than the death of a child. The mother’s pain at the loss of her son would have been more profound than Matt’s at the loss of the father he scarcely remembered – though how could pain be evaluated, parcelled up and weighed on scales to show whose was heavier?
‘There’s to be a party,’ said Teresa. ‘Celebrating Pat’s recovery also. From the cancer. You should know that I’ve just spoken to Ronnie…’ There was an edge of desperation in her voice. ‘I told her you were here and she feels, in the circumstances, since you are visiting and so forth, that you should be a guest.’
‘That’s very kind,’ said Julia. ‘But it really isn’t necessary…’
‘It’s tomorrow night,’ said Teresa. ‘His actual birthday. The way it goes is this. First the family have their dinner in the hotel and then they join their guests in the function room for a bit of a ceilidh. Music and dancing and so forth. It’s not a formal occasion at all and they would be more than happy to see you. Give it a little thought, why don’t you?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ This was unfamiliar territory for Julia. She was usually the person giving patient explanation; the bewildered parents were the ones stunned into monosyllabic response. She had no intention of going to any party and there wasn’t a single thing she could think to say to Teresa except, ‘Goodbye.’
Which made it all the more ironic that Bel should totter sleepily into the living room with the purple shawl around her shoulders and ask: ‘Whoever were you talking to?’ as if she’d been having a raucous conversation.
She nestled her phone inside its cover. ‘I had a call from the landlady, that’s all.’ She would explain later, when she’d been able to mull everything over. ‘You look like a character out of Dickens, darling.’
Bel warmed herself by the fire, then raised her head and spotted the glow of yellow on the draining board. ‘Hey, has someone been bringing you flowers?’
Julia was glad to steer away from Teresa’s news. ‘Actually they’re for you.’
‘Really?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Who?’ Bel seized the bunch and scrabbled amongst the stems in search of a card. She didn’t find one, but Julia noticed the movements of her left arm were not as fluid as her right.
‘You didn’t tell me you’d hurt yourself.’
‘Oh… it was nothing. I got my arm trapped in a door, bruised it a bit. I did ask you for painkillers, remember?’
‘You said they were for a headache.’
Bel blushed. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. It wasn’t exactly a lie. It’s just… I feel as if I’m forever having to give an account of myself. And I know you’ve been worrying about me – and I’ve been worrying about you too, which I guess makes us quits – but anyway, I’m fine. There’s no real damage.’ In disappointment, she added, ‘I can’t find a note. Was there any message?’
‘I’m to tell you that Kieran was asking after you.’
‘Kieran!’ Bel shook her head and laughed. ‘What a tease.’
‘Isn’t he the man you went out with?’
‘No Mum, that’s his brother. Tom’s, like, a total idiot, always winding people up. They look quite alike you see and when I first met them I got them muddled because Tom had borrowed Kieran’s jacket.’
‘I don’t follow,’ said Julia. ‘How can you be so sure it wasn’t Kieran?’
‘Because he wasn’t the one who called for me yesterday. And because he’s gay, I think.’ She cradled the sheaf of tulips and their heads drooped gracefully. ‘Did you ask him in?’
‘I didn’t think you’d want me to.’
‘No, I wouldn’t. I don’t know what he’s playing at. I suppose these are, like, an apology.’
‘For what? Did he trap your arm in the door?’
‘He didn’t mean to,’ said Bel quickly. ‘It was an accident. The thing is, it was quite tricky yesterday because Clemmie, his daughter, hadn’t met her grandparents before and then there’s the race issue. I’m not saying his mother’s a racist but it was quite a shock for her. I think my role was to defuse things but I probably made them worse and then we ended with this embarrassing scene when he invited me – and she had to agree – to some kind of get-together tomorrow night. A birthday party and—’
‘A birthday party?’
‘Yeah. I’d pretty much decided not to go. Only he can be quite persistent, so perhaps this is an… inducement.’
The chill from the stone floor seeped through the thickly woven rug, through the rubber soles of her deck shoes and crept along Julia’s veins. Flickers and snatches of information coalesced and multiplied in her brain. ‘What did you say his name was?’
‘Who? Tom?’
‘Yes. Tom what?’
‘Oh, Farrelly. Tom Farrelly.’
Another smattering of rain at the window, the sighing of peat in the hearth; otherwise the silence was thick and dense as fog. Julia had to fight it to speak.
‘It is him. How extraordinary. We’ve actually met…’ She shivered. ‘I don’t know how I feel about that.’
‘Mum, what are you talking about?’
Unsteady on her feet, Julia jogged the laptop on the table and its screen sprang back into life. In a continuous loop, the slide show repeated its sequence of shots. Waves swelled and burst into foam, the sun rose and dipped, chains of seaweed glittered like necklaces bedecked with fat jewels, footprints in the sand disappeared from one frame to the next. Neither Bel nor Julia spoke as the images played out in front of them.
Eventually Julia sat down again. ‘I have just learned from Teresa Hogan,’ she said, ‘that Tom Farrelly was the name of the boy who nearly drowned here thirty years ago.’
‘The one Matt’s dad…?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’s the same one I know?’
‘It looks like it.’
Bel stepped back, sat in the chair nearest the fire and let the flowers spill across her chest. No longer Little Dorrit, but a dramatic Ophelia. She rubbed her eyes vigorously as if things might look different afterwards. The effect was to turn the whites pink and raw.
‘I don’t believe it! You’re kidding me!’
‘Bel,’ said Julia quietly. ‘Why would I do that?’
She looked anguished. ‘He never said anything.’
‘Why would he? People don’t generally go around telling you they almost died.’ (Well, Bel did, but only because it was so recent.)
‘Don’t you see how weird this is?’
‘Yes of course I do! Though I suppose I must have realised it might be a possibility. Coming across the family, I mean. This is a small place where everyone knows their neighbours. Teresa Hogan especially.’
But Bel was on a different track. She played with the fringed ends of the shawl, plaiting and twisting the threads. ‘The really freaky thing,’ she said, ‘is that if Matt’s dad…’ (could she not bring herself to say William’s name?) ‘…hadn’t come to Tom’s rescue, then neither of us would be here today. Instead of which we’ve both met each other and…’
Julia didn’t want to know about the ‘and’. The facts were leaping ahead of her. She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to recapture the brief moment the young man’s hand had touched hers.
Bel continued to burble. ‘To think that I came across Tom on the boat when he could have been anybody! This has to be more than coincidence, doesn’t it? It must be Fate or something.’
‘I’m never surprised by coincidence,’ said Julia. ‘It’s much more common than you imagine, but I don’t believe in Fate.’
‘Oh, Mum!’ Bel came to stand over her, bent her head down until their cheeks were touching, a single tear (Julia’s) squeezing into a gap below the bone. ‘I’m sorry. Is this really traumatic for you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Julia truthfully. ‘He seemed a pleasant young man. Sensitive. Considerate. It was nice of him to bring you the flowers.’ Bel didn’t respond so she went on, ‘To be honest, it’s hard to know how to react. It happened a long time ago and I’ve managed to work through the grief, but… it’s not just the personal loss one has to deal with. There’s the wasted potential. The waste of a life, I mean. What William could have gone on and achieved.’
‘Like a cure for cancer or something?’
‘You just cling to the hope that something good will come out of the sacrifice.’
‘Oh God, Mum, you make it sound like everyone’s duty-bound to fulfil their potential.’
‘Well, yes I suppose… in an ideal world…’
‘That’s an awful obligation.’ Bel was biting her lip and still twiddling the ends of the shawl. ‘It doesn’t necessarily work that way. I mean, we can’t all of us live up to expectations.’
‘Darling, whatever makes you think I’m getting at you?’ Julia could remember, from her own distant past, when she and her friends had experimented with purloined substances from the chemistry labs and shocked the neighbours, the lament of an older generation: ‘We fought a war for you lot, you know. Good men died.’ And how, with the careless arrogance of youth, they had brushed this reproof aside, the war already an irrelevance.
Bel said, ‘I wasn’t talking about me.’
‘Who then?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Nobody special. It’s just… it makes you seem so unforgiving.’
Julia considered this. ‘I don’t see how anyone who spent twenty years married to Leo Wentworth could be described as unforgiving.’
Their eyes met and they both laughed. Bel reached to clasp her mother’s hand. ‘It’s okay, I won’t see Tom again. His life’s complicated enough and I wouldn’t want to do anything to upset you…’
‘What about the party?’
‘I don’t even know why he suggested it. I’m not bothered. I’d rather do something with you.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Julia, ‘I’ve been invited too.’