Ian sat in the car outside the nursing home in the golden sunshine of a fine late July evening, and took long, deep breaths until the blue veins on his wrists stopped throbbing and his heartbeat slowed. He checked his appearance in the mirror, straightened his tie and wiped the sweat off his brow with a folded paper hanky. He must not let Evelyn see him upset. He would not trouble her with his worries.
A month had passed since Sarah had asked him if he’d give permission for her to take the children to Australia and, even though it had not come as a surprise, he was still furious about it. He knew from Vi that Cahal had an ex-wife and three kids in Australia, but there was no talk of uprooting his kids and taking them away from their mother. Of course Cahal wanted it all his way.
Sarah had looked thoroughly ashamed of herself when he’d told her he would never give up his kids. And now he worried that Cahal was planning some other way to get what he wanted, maybe through the legal system. Everyone knew it was stacked against fathers. Hadn’t he read only the other day about a similar court case where the judge ruled in the mother’s favour and permitted her to take her child to the US against the father’s express wishes?
He took a deep breath and resolved to put them out of his mind. He must concentrate on Evelyn. The doctor had said it could be a matter of weeks now. He tried to tell himself, as she herself had done, that she’d had a good and happy life and her death would be no more than the next step in the natural order of things. But he could not accept it. He lived each day on edge, dreading it every time the phone rang and lying sleepless in his bed at night, rigid with fear.
Evelyn was just as he’d left her the day before, lying with her head propped up just slightly, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. Jolanta, who was sitting by the bed when he came in, got up.
‘Any change?’ said Ian fearfully.
‘No. She just the same.’ She placed a hand on Ian’s shoulder and a little of the fear subsided. ‘She seem a little unsettled to me. She keep asking for you.’ She touched him lightly on the arm then left, closing the door behind her.
‘Hi Mum. It’s me,’ he said, taking the seat Jolanta had just vacated. He watched her for a few moments then placed a kiss on her papery brow.
Evelyn’s eyes flickered and opened. She turned her head towards him and the muscles in her cheeks worked but didn’t quite manage to produce a smile. ‘What time is it?’
‘Eight thirty at night, Mum.’
She frowned. ‘Have I slept all day?’ Her brow smoothed again and the thought was gone. ‘When did you last come and visit me?’
‘This afternoon.’
A long pause. ‘Oh. Don’t you have to go to work?’
He smiled, his insides all twisted up like knotted rope. ‘Not today, Mum.’ His employers had been incredibly understanding. He’d barely been in the office the last fortnight, working mostly from home and spending as much time as possible by his mother’s bedside.
‘Your face is thin. Are you eating properly?’
‘As well as I ever did,’ he said truthfully. Raquel had rarely cooked and the kindness of near-strangers kept him going these days. ‘The women from the church are determined I shan’t starve. I found a shepherd’s pie on my doorstep this morning. Nearly tripped over the darned thing! And yesterday it was Irish stew. Emily Ferguson made that.’
Evelyn sighed, a substitute he thought for the smile that would no longer form on her face. ‘People are so very kind.’
‘Yes, yes they are,’ he said, dropping the pretence of humour. He glanced at the table against the wall, crammed with flowers and cards from well-wishers. ‘And I appreciate it.’
‘I’m glad Raquel left,’ said Evelyn.
He looked at the floor. He was glad too but it seemed terribly disloyal and shallow to say it, so he kept quiet.
‘You love Sarah.’
He looked at her unreadable face. Her eyes had closed again. Was he that transparent? ‘What makes you say that?’ he said, playing for time because he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this. He wanted his mother to die peacefully, untroubled by worries about him.
Her eyes flickered open. ‘I see the way your eyes never leave her when she’s in the room, Ian. You look at her like she’s the sun. You always have done.’
‘Let’s not talk about Sarah and me.’
‘I want to.’
‘Oh.’
‘You do love her, don’t you?’
It was pointless to deny it. She would know he was lying. ‘I’ve loved her from the first day we met.’
‘I’m sorry. I wish I could wave a magic wand and cure you of it, of her. But I can’t.’
He laughed lightly. ‘I don’t wish to be cured of Sarah, Mum. I’m going to win her back.’
She sighed. ‘You do know she’s seeing someone, Ian. An old sweetheart.’
Ian frowned. Sarah must’ve told Evelyn because he certainly hadn’t. ‘I know. But it won’t last,’ he said confidently. ‘It can’t. She’s still my wife.’
‘Ah.’ A long pause. ‘She might be in your eyes, Ian, but not in hers. Nor in the eyes of the law. She divorced you. And she loves this man Cahal.’
Her words struck him like darts. ‘Did she tell you that?’ What was Sarah doing talking to Evelyn about another man?
‘She didn’t need to tell me. The facts speak for themselves. In seeing him, she’s going against the deeply held wishes of her family. Yet, she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her and she wears his ring on her finger.’
Ian swallowed. He’d seen the ring too, a symbol of ownership, and he hated it. ‘She’ll tire of him and I’ll find a way to win her back.’ He shuffled forward in his seat and lowered his voice. ‘When I was growing up you always told me that nothing was impossible. That if I really, really wanted something, there was always a way.’
Her chest moved rapidly up and down, her breathing was shallow and laboured. ‘Not in affairs of the heart, Ian,’ she said quietly and the hope that he had kept alive in spite of the events of recent weeks, began to falter. ‘Sarah cares for you, but she doesn’t love you. And even if she and Cahal cannot be together, she will never love you the way she loves him.’
The truth of this statement struck him like a slap in the face. Sarah had told him herself, of course, but he’d refused to accept it. But hearing it from his mother, whose wisdom and counsel he had always valued, was devastating.
He put his hands over his face and his resolve crumpled. He wept, for his dying mother and for himself. Soon he would be all alone in the world. And the two women he had loved the most would be lost to him.
He sobbed for a few long minutes and then wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, ashamed of himself for bringing his sorrow to his mother’s bedside.
‘All I ever wanted was to make her happy,’ he said. ‘Why won’t she let me? Oh, what am I to do, Mum?’
She reached out a hand and he took it gently in his own. Her skin was dry, bones showing beneath pale, transparent skin. ‘You must take joy in the good things in your life, Ian. Find things to be grateful for, like your darling Molly and dear, sweet Lewis.’
He grasped her hand a little tighter. It seemed so frail, so insubstantial. Was this the same competent hand that he remembered from his childhood? The firm hand that had kept him safe crossing roads, whipped cream till it peaked in soft crests, and rubbed his wet hair with a rough towel when he came out of the bath? ‘I will, Mum.’
‘And if you love Sarah the way I believe you do …’ She paused to rest and he leaned closer. When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible. ‘Take joy in her happiness, even if it comes at the price of your own.’
Cahal walked up the steps to Ballyfergus library on a wet Saturday morning and snuck inside like a thief, the collar of his jacket turned up, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
Even since Ian had paid him that visit he’d been unable to put what he had said about his father out of his mind. At first he dismissed it as spiteful gossip, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought it had a ring of truth about it. Could it hold the key to why Sarah’s family hated him so much?
He only found out that his father had been in prison at all, when Uncle Vincent let it slip one New Year’s Eve when he was nine. When he asked questions, thinking this might be something to boast about at school, he was told in no uncertain terms to shut up. So how did Ian know, for example, that his father had served five years? And who were the people Ian had alluded to, whose lives had been ruined? Were they victims of his father’s crimes? Had he accidentally hurt someone in a blundering burglary or robbery? Or was it more serious than that? Ian had said he should’ve been hanged. Had his father killed someone? A chill went down his spine even though the day was warm and muggy. No, that couldn’t be it. He would’ve served a lot more than five years if he had.
Inside, the matronly librarian with a head of wild salt-and-pepper curly hair smiled radiantly when he approached the counter.
‘I rang earlier about looking at old papers,’ he said and she stood up.
‘That was me you spoke to. Follow me please.’ She led him to a bank of computers in a quiet corner of the library, trailing the way in a floor-length floral skirt and open-toed walking sandals. ‘We have The Ballyfergus Times going back more than a hundred years. Have a seat and let me show you how to access it.’
He sat down and, leaning over him in a cloud of jasmine, she cradled the mouse with her right hand, necklaces jangling between her breasts. ‘All you do is click on the year you want, like this,’ she said, clicking on 1970. ‘Then the month and then the date and voilà, up it comes!’
‘That’s great, thank you,’ he said with relief, as she stood up and folded her arms. She watched him tentatively move the cursor round the screen. ‘What year do you want?’
He did a quick mental calculation. ‘I want to start with 1952.’ His father turned eighteen that year. And if he had been convicted of a serious crime, surely it would’ve been reported in the local papers?
‘Those papers were originally stored on microfiche, which was subsequently converted to computer. So they won’t be the best quality.’
‘I’m sure they’ll be just fine,’ he said dismissing her with a polite nod of the head, anxious to get cracking.
He waited till she disappeared then clicked on the first edition of the year. He put a hand over his mouth and stared at the front page. Someone had died in a car crash on the icy roads. There were plans to expand the port terminal creating fifty new jobs. On the next page, letters to the editor complained about bus services, pub closing time and the dilapidated state of the town parks. He skipped to the court pages, full of reports of drunken brawls, petty thefts and an assault on a policeman. But no mention of Malachy Mulvenna.
He searched all through that year and the next, by which time hours had passed, his head was sore, and he was hungry and thirsty. He leaned back in the chair and letting out a long sigh, dragged his hands down his face.
It was a hopeless task. What was he looking for? A crime that may or may not have taken place decades ago. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. And did he really believe the word of Ian Aitken, a man who hated his guts?
He glanced across the library, quiet save for a few well-behaved youngsters with their mums and old-age pensioners sitting in red bucket chairs, reading the paper. The table from where he had once spied on a teenage Sarah was now gone, replaced by racks of children’s books.
He stared at the bookshelves, seeing once again the back of her blonde head, the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her neck. What would happen to him and Sarah now? Ian’s refusal to let Sarah take the children to Australia felt like the final nail in the coffin of their hopes. As the summer waned, there was a kind of desperation between them. It was as if they were going through the motions of building a relationship that they both knew was doomed. Because once September came, he would have to go back to Australia and she would have to stay here. He did not think he could bear to lose her a second time. Anger at Ian, at her family, at God Himself, rose up in his chest. He had never asked for much – only Sarah. Why couldn’t he have her?
‘Researching a bit of family history?’ said a voice behind him and he snapped his head round. It was the librarian, standing with a pile of books in her arms, smiling.
‘Huh?’
‘That’s why most people want to look at old papers.’
‘Well, I wonder how they get on.’ He folded his arms across his chest and said crossly, ‘Because this morning’s been a complete bloody waste of time.’
She bristled. ‘There’s no need for language like that,’ she said coldly. ‘I came to tell you that we’re shutting for lunch in five minutes.’
‘Oh, thanks. Sorry,’ he said sheepishly, collected his jacket, and went out onto the street.
He found a takeaway place at the top of Main Street and ate a greasy kebab, sitting in the car while he pondered what to do next. He couldn’t do anything about the terrible predicament he and Sarah found themselves in, but he could do something about Ian’s accusations against his father. He could find out if they were true. Of course he knew what he must do, he just didn’t want to do it. He put the key in the ignition, shoved the car into first gear and drove off.
He was surprised to find his elder brother, Sean, sitting on his parents’ sofa, smoking roll-ups, looking as thin and badly dressed as any of the down and outs on the corner of Victoria Parade and Smith Street back home. He’d visited him in Carnlough a couple of times, where he lived alone, eking out a living as a farmhand, supplemented by a bit of poaching and lobster fishing on the side. Though he loved his brother, or perhaps because of it, the visits to his squalid room above the chippy had been depressing affairs. The vast age difference between them ensured they had nothing in common, except a shared hatred of their father.
The two men shook hands. Sean said, ‘What about ye?’
Malachy, sitting in the same chair, and wearing the same clothes as last time with a folded paper on his lap, said, ‘Look what the cat’s dragged in.’
Cahal tensed and Bridget came scurrying into the room, brushed Malachy’s knee lightly with the feather duster she’d had in her hand when she opened the door, and laughed. ‘Ah, now don’t be teasing him, Malachy.’ She smiled rigidly at Cahal, willing him to go along with this pantomime. But this time he didn’t feel in the mood for playing her silly games.
‘Oh it’s all right, Mum. I’m used to him behaving like an arse.’
Bridget gasped and Malachy glowered.
Cahal sat down on the sofa beside his brother, crossed his legs and stared coolly at his father. ‘You’ve never said a civil word to me my entire life. No point in breaking the habit of a lifetime.’
‘Tea?’ said Bridget in a voice so high it might have broken glass.
‘Yer all right, Ma,’ said Sean, lifting the mug off the arm of the sofa and bringing it to his lips.
‘No thanks,’ said Cahal.
‘So what brings you here, son?’ said Bridget perching on the arm of the sofa, the duster in constant motion, held by hands that could not be still. ‘Did you bring those photos of the kids from when you were over?’
‘Sorry, Mum, I forgot. I’ll bring them next time.’
‘You’ll be going home soon,’ she said quietly, looking at her hands.
A wave of panic made him tense. Time was running out and he hated to be reminded of it.
‘I hear you’ve been sniffing round that Walker woman,’ said his father. He took a puff on the cigarette between his yellow-brown finger and thumb. ‘I thought you’d have more sense.’
Beside him, his mother’s hands stilled. And something in the atmosphere shifted.
Cahal leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees, and he said, ‘What were you in prison for?’
Malachy’s eyes darted to the left, then at Bridget and finally came back to rest on Cahal. ‘This and that. Sure, I was a head case when I was young.’ He tapped ash into the glass ashtray on the arm of the sofa and took a last, long haul on the cigarette. ‘I did a bit of time for theft and breach of the peace. Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Breach of the peace?’
‘That’s right. Man picks a fight with me in a pub, he’s not going to get away with it.’ He pressed the spent cigarette into the ashtray, twisting and squeezing till it was a pulp.
‘Theft and breach of the peace. And you expect me to believe that they gave you five years for that?’
‘Who told you he got five years?’ said Bridget sharply.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, and sensing he was onto something, he pressed on, keeping his eyes on his father. ‘You don’t get five years for petty crimes like that.’ He inched even further forward on the sofa, his heart pounding. ‘What did you really do?’
‘I fecking told you,’ said Malachy and he threw the newspaper on his lap across the room. ‘Are you fecking deaf?’
Malachy was lying, he knew it.
‘Do you know, Sean?’ said Cahal without taking his eyes off his father.
‘Nah. Why are you asking?’
‘Because,’ said Cahal, staring at his father’s red and furious face, ‘I think he did something he doesn’t want us to know about.’
Bridget jumped to her feet all of a sudden and screamed, ‘How dare you come into this house and start accusing your father of … of lying.’
Everyone stared at her in stunned silence. She waved the duster in the air. ‘Didn’t he tell you it was for theft and fightin’? You’ve no right coming in here, throwing lies around and digging things up from the past.’ And then just as suddenly all the fire went out of her and she sat down.
‘Do you hear your mother?’ Malachy roared. ‘Get out of here, Cahal. And don’t be bringing your filthy mouth back here again.’
Down on the street Cahal found his car untouched. The rain had stopped and the sun, peeking between grey, bubbling clouds, sent up hot steam from the black tarmac. A group of teenagers loitered at the end of the street, their winter hoodies exchanged for singlets and tattoos on red, sunburnt arms and necks. He raised a hand and one of them returned the gesture.
‘Cahal!’ said Sean’s gravelly voice. The door to the building slammed shut and Sean came down the steps.
Cahal opened the car door and put his arms on the roof of the car. ‘What did you think of that then? There’s something he’s not telling us, isn’t there? And I’m going to find out what it is.’
Sean glanced up at the windows of the flat, then grabbed Cahal by the forearm. His grip was firm and his eyes pooled with tears.
Alarmed, Cahal said, ‘What is it?’
‘You did the right thing getting out of Ballyfergus, Cahal, boy. I’m proud of you, my wee brother.’ He smiled. ‘You’re the only one of us that did good, Cahal.’ His grip tightened. The back of Cahal’s throat felt like it was closing over. ‘Go back to Australia,’ went on Sean, ‘and live the life the rest of us dream about. Live it for me. Forget about them.’ He looked again at the top-floor flat. ‘There’s nothing for you here.’
Cahal stared into his brother’s face but he saw not a haggard, broken man but a thirteen-year-old boy with blond hair and an angry, pure heart. A boy who had stood up to his father to protect Grainne, when she’d accidentally smashed the TV screen with a wooden sword, only to take the beating himself. A boy who’d started smoking at ten and drinking at twelve, all his promise withered by the age of eighteen.
Tears flowed freely down Cahal’s face but he did not wipe them away. He pulled a wad of notes from his jacket pocket and pressed them into Sean’s hand. ‘See that Ma gets what she needs,’ he said, his voice small and reedy. ‘And you too.’ Sean let go of his arm and stared at the money.
‘I’m sorry, Sean,’ said Cahal, his voice choked with years of regret and guilt. Then he got in the car and drove off.