Christmas at her mother’s was a frosty affair, each of them enduring a penance they could not discuss.
They exchanged gifts. Meg had bought Gloria a jumper from Marks and Spencer. Her mother gave her a cheque for fifty pounds. ‘I didn’t know what to buy you.’
For lunch they had turkey fillets, since a whole bird, however small, would have been a preposterous idea. They sat at opposite ends of the dining table, as if avoiding each other, and just before three Meg went home.
In the evening, when she thought the time difference would not matter too much, she steadied her nerve and dialled the number that Laurence Everett had written down. She waited, listening to the soft purr of an American telephone. After several rings there was a click and she heard a man’s voice. ‘Hi,’ he said, ‘we can’t take your call right now but if you leave your name and number after the tone we’ll get back to you.’ There were three short bleeps and then a longer one.
They were out. Spending Christmas somewhere else. She hung up.
That was stupid. She rang again. This time, after the long tone, she took a deep breath and spoke.
‘Hello, Mr Everett.’ And as she said it, she thought she should have worked out a kind of script beforehand. ‘This is Meg Winter calling you. It’s seven o’clock in the evening here in Belfast. Christmas Day. Merry Christmas to you – I suppose I should say that, shouldn’t I? Look, I should have got in contact before now. I just wanted to call and thank you for sending me the ticket and I wanted to let you know that I’m going to take you up on it. I’ll not waste time now in case your tape runs out. I’ll fix everything up the day after tomorrow and then I’ll write to you to let you have the flight details and where I’ll be staying. But in the meantime, you can call me here if you like.’ She gave her number and paused. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing you. Bit nervous as well. I should say that, too.’
When she had finished, she sat there, excitement fluttering in her heart. She had done it.
At around the same time two nights after that, she got a call.
‘Is that Meg?’
Her heart leaped. She knew who it was before he told her.
‘Yes – Mr Everett?’
‘Laurence. Larry,’ he said. ‘Call me Larry.’
‘Larry,’ she echoed.
‘Sorry we weren’t around when you called.’ His voice was not an old man’s. His reference to arthritis had thrown her a bit but she reminded herself now, thinking of the son’s age, that he could be in his fifties. She would have to wait and see.
‘That’s all right,’ she said.
‘We’re delighted you’ve decided to come and see us. It’s great news but, look, I feel bad about not offering to put you up.’
‘No, it’s fine, honestly. I’ve got something fixed up.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes. I’ve booked the flights and everything and a couple of nights at the Holiday Inn By The Bay.’
‘Oh, I see. The Holiday Inn. Well, if that’s OK—’
‘Of course, it is. You’ve been more than generous.’
‘The thing is – this new apartment. There’s just the one bedroom. There’s a couch in the living room. I didn’t think—’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I should have said.’
‘It’s not a problem.’ She wanted to be there now, face to face with these people, reading that letter from their son, asking them questions. But at the same time she wondered if she would be able to handle the answers when the time came. ‘It’s good to talk to you at last.’
‘You, too,’ he said. ‘So, tell me, when are you planning to get here?’
Three weeks later, she was sitting at her kitchen table, ticking off the items on the list she had made.
Passport, credit card, driving licence, cash, traveller’s cheques. She had all those. Ticket – yes, she had that, too.
Outside it was evening. She was going tomorrow. She could hardly believe it.
And on the day she came back it would be her birthday. She thought of everything that had happened since her last one.
She had made all her arrangements with a travel agent just along the Lisburn Road. She had hired a car, too; a compact, whatever that was. The agent reckoned it was cheaper to rent one at this end and it saved a lot of time. All she had to do was produce her voucher when she got to the Dollar rental place at Logan Airport.
Boston. She would not get to see a whole lot of it. Not this trip. Some other time, perhaps.
She tried to slide the list under the big magnet on the fridge where she kept all the scraps of paper that she did not want to lose but as she did so the whole thing collapsed. Notes, receipts fluttered to the floor like leaves. There were phone numbers, addresses. Elizabeth’s number was there, so was Florence Gilmour’s calling card. She picked them all up and as she stuck them back carefully she thought for a second of calling Gilmour and putting her in the picture.
No, it would wait until she had returned.
There was something she had to do, however. Something unfinished that had been niggling at her, and she could not go tomorrow without putting it to rest. She grabbed her car keys and her coat and went out.
Ten minutes later she was pulling into the visitors’ parking bay outside Elizabeth’s flat. There was a ‘For Sale’ sign now.
Elizabeth opened the door, looking tired. She gave Meg a weary smile.
‘Life’s too short,’ Meg said. ‘Can I come in?’
They talked and drank tea and massaged their emotional bruises. Meg got the impression that Elizabeth was on the wagon but she did not broach the subject.
Vincent was installed in London and Elizabeth would be moving to join him in a week. Everywhere there were things in boxes.
At eleven, Meg looked at her watch. ‘It’s late. I’d better go. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.’
At the door she remembered something. She took a slip of paper from her pocket and handed it to Elizabeth. ‘I’m at the Holiday Inn By The Bay in Portland. This is the number, just in case you need me for anything. My parents have it as well.’ She had shoved a letter in the post to each of them this afternoon. Short and factual. No fond farewells.
‘I’ll be busy with this lot,’ Elizabeth said, looking round the hallway where there were more boxes. ‘You’ll be back before I know it.’
‘And then you’ll be off yourself,’ Meg said.
‘Something like that.’
‘Take care.’ They squeezed each other fiercely.
‘You, too,’ Elizabeth said.
‘I just want everything to be all right for you, you know,’ Meg told her and as she said it she thought she sounded just like her father.
At about the same time Meg was leaving Elizabeth, Dan Cochrane emerged from a pub in the village of Killough, just along the curving shoreline beyond Ardglass. The Guinness he had drunk alone tonight had tasted bitter, like his thoughts.
Behind the steamed-up windows of the bar he had just left there was the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. He stood for several minutes in the cool air, looking at the moonlight on the water, then he walked across the road to the edge. The tide was in and it licked gently at the stony shore.
There was a decision to be made.
He turned and went to where he had parked, then drove the few miles back to Ardglass. When he got to the pottery he let himself in and went straight upstairs. In the bedroom that was his, the bed was unmade, as always. Clothes lay where he had dropped them. The room was stale and he opened the window to a sharp breeze that chilled him instantly.
He closed the window after a few moments, then began to tidy up. He picked up a pair of jeans, opened the wardrobe and put them on a hanger. He stood, thinking about something, and then he reached up on tiptoe and took a box file from the top.
Setting it down on the floor, he opened it and began to examine its contents.
There were photographs, photocopied documents, newspaper cuttings. He spread the whole lot out before him but it was the photographs which occupied his attention most. He looked thoughtfully at each one, then laid them out carefully in rows, like a game of solitaire.
After a couple of minutes, he pushed himself to his feet, his legs stiff and cramped from crouching on the hard floor, and looked at his watch. It was after midnight. Too late for him to phone now. He would call in the morning, after another night which he knew would be without sleep.