From the kitchen window Alison watched the school bus pull back out onto the road. Hannah slow-stepped up the driveway, the evening breeze skipping playfully through her thick black hair. There was a proud exoticism, a determination beyond her years in her streamlined back and shoulders, the slight upward tilt of her chin. Alison took in the dark eyes, the ripe red lips and wide cheekbones – all her father’s. What would he think if he could see his ‘little shrimp’ now, she smiled sadly, moving away from the window. And what would he think of her mother, a smaller voice inside her quipped. A burning shame heated her chest.
‘So, how was school?’ Alison placed Hannah’s dinner on the table. She would try and establish some sense of normality before broaching the subject of last night.
‘Fine.’
‘And what had Sister Andrew to say to your hair?’
‘Nothin’.’
‘Oh? Well, she must be softening in her old age. The least I expected was a stern letter.’ Alison pulled out the chair opposite, sat and filled a glass with water. Head bent, Hannah hunched over her plate, absently forking her food.
‘Claire called this morning. She’s sold two of her paintings.’ Alison took a sip of water. ‘And Dad’s gone and found himself a girlfriend.’
Hannah kept her eyes focused on the meal before her, barely nodding her head in response. Alison knew she wasn’t going to make it easy for her. God, she wished Kathleen had picked any other night but tonight to go into town. All she wanted to do – ached to do – was to sit down with Hannah and try to talk things through, put an end to this ugly animosity between them. She rested her elbows on the table, took a deep breath. ‘Hannah, about last night – I’m so sorry. I never meant to . . . ’
‘Please, Mum, I don’t want to talk about it.’ Standing abruptly from the table, she placed her barely touched plate by the sink.
Alison stifled a sigh, sat back in her chair. There was no point trying to force it. And it was probably best that they had a bit of space from each other this evening, let things settle. ‘Myself and Kathleen were thinking of going into town for a bite to eat later.’
‘Whatever,’ Hannah shrugged, addressing the floor. ‘I’m goin’ for a shower. I told Aoife I’d be down by half six.’
‘But Hannah, your dinner?’
The kitchen door closed on her words.
* * *
Alison touched the pad of an index finger beneath each eye, dotting the concealer into place. She pressed her lips together, ran her tongue over her top teeth to catch any traces of lipstick. Standing back from the bathroom mirror, she kneaded and tamed her long red curls, tilted her head in self appraisal. The make-up wasn’t doing what it said on the tin – the smattering of tiny freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose was still visible. Forcing a smile, she brushed some rouge over the apples of both cheeks, tried to ignore the weariness hooding her eyes.
Hannah had slipped out the door without even so much as a goodbye. What was going on with that girl? The hollowness inside Alison’s chest seemed to stretch and yawn and she sighed with it. How was she ever going to get through to Hannah, get past this constant bickering and fighting? She’d be first to admit that she hadn’t been the most attentive of mothers over the last few years but, damn it, she had tried to do her very best with what she had been handed. And surely at almost fourteen Hannah should have sense enough to see that now. These were the years that she had most looked forward to when Hannah was born: the growing-up years, the turning-into-a-little-woman years. God, all the things she had planned for them to do together. Instead, this, this constant feuding and blaming. Blaming. That’s what Hannah did. She blamed her for everything. And much as she was loath to admit it, a part of Alison resented the child for it. Resented that almost coldness that Hannah was capable of, how dismissive she could be – the way a flash of those dark eyes could cut you down to nothing. And that ‘whatever’ that she was so fond of spouting . . . She felt the heat of her temper rising again. And she was selfish too, Hannah, just like her . . .
Stop! She warned herself. Hannah was little more than a child, for God’s sake, a child who needed mothering and guidance, not this. The problem lay squarely with herself, with her own reactions and resentments, not with Hannah. She was just being a teenager, like Kathleen said, and weren’t self-obsession and throwing a regular strop all part of that territory? Alison didn’t have to think too long or hard to remember the cheek she had given her own mother at that age. How she thought she knew everything back then, she remembered, leaning in closer to the mirror and running a finger over the contour of her upper lip. Those cigarettes are definitely going, she promised, stretching her lip to hide the tiny indentations above.
What maddened her most about Hannah, she supposed, was what a joy she could be with everyone else – with Kathleen, with Maryanne. With little Jamie – she was so good with him, so responsible. Kathleen was forever singing her praises, although she had backed away from them all a little lately too, had gone more into herself. Was there more going on for Hannah than she knew, was something troubling her? Despite Kathleen’s assurances, Alison still felt a niggle in her gut, an intuition. But how to get Hannah to open up, that was the problem. Maybe if she started trusting her a bit more, Alison considered, treated her more like a grown up, an equal, would that work? Or would Hannah just go off the rails completely?
‘Oh, I just don’t know any more,’ she sighed into the mirror, straightening the neck of her blouse. A tiny button fell to the floor. ‘Damn!’ She checked her watch. Kathleen was due in ten minutes. Unbuttoning the blouse she hurried towards the bedroom. Kathleen was right, she did need time out. A few hours away from the constant worry of Hannah and Maryanne and the goddamn mortgage. She’d have a couple of drinks, enjoy a good chat with Kathleen – and a laugh, Kathleen’s company always guaranteed you that – and she would put last night behind her. She was finished with drinking at home, alone. It didn’t solve anything. She should have learned long before now that drink – that much drink – only deepened her misery, not to mention upsetting Hannah and wasting all the next day on a hangover and guilt. Well, that was it. Finished. From now on, she would make a real effort to spend more time with Hannah – proper quality time – and do all she could to really get to know the beautiful young woman that she had glimpsed walking up the driveway this evening. As she reached for the wardrobe door, the telephone shrilled to life at the bedside.
‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Delaney? Sister Andrew from St Laurence’s – I’m calling to enquire about Hannah’s leg. When Aoife told me about the fall this morning, she wasn’t sure whether Hannah had broken a bone or not?’
‘Oh, Sister Andrew . . . ’
‘Is it a bad time?’ She could smell Alison’s hesitation.
‘No, no, not at all. One moment, I’ll just turn down the oven.’ Alison placed her palm over the mouthpiece. ‘Shit!’ she mouthed silently, before taking a deep breath to swallow her rising anger.
‘I’m so sorry, Sister, I should have called you earlier but between doctors and everything . . . nothing’s broken, thank goodness. Just a bad sprain. I’m sure Hannah’ll be back by Monday.’
‘Well, thank God for that, Mrs Delaney. Just make sure she has a note to cover her absence.’
‘I will, Sister. Thank you. I’ll tell Hannah you called.’
That little madam was lucky she’d gone out the door twenty minutes ago. Jesus, she’d hear about this later.
* * *
The restaurant was quieter than Alison had ever seen it, but then, she reasoned, it was a week night after all and people just didn’t have the money to socialise like they used to. She wouldn’t be here herself if Kathleen hadn’t insisted on treating her. Her eyes strayed again to the couple seated at the bar. She watched how his hand stole protectively to the small of the girl’s back, the tilt of her head as she smiled up at him, engrossed in his words.
‘So, you and Rob?’ She returned her attention to Kathleen. ‘Should I be ordering my hat?’
‘Not likely,’ Kathleen smiled, shaking her head. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Rob’s great and we definitely have that something . . . ’ Her smile widened, her eyes dancing.
Alison nodded, returning her smile. She knew exactly what Kathleen meant. That something was one of the things she missed most in life now. That buzz, that fire. That electric connection with someone that sparked some deep part of you that nothing or no one else could touch. Since losing Sean she had slowly grown used to living without it, in much the same way as your eyes grow accustomed to the dark: allowing you to make out shapes, move forward with a certain confidence, but always in the knowledge that the colour has drained from your world.
‘But . . . ’ Kathleen risked, sighing.
‘But?’
‘Well, Rob wants us to move in together.’ She touched her tongue to her lip, her eyes searching Alison’s.
‘I knew it! I knew you two were made for each other!’ She reached across the table and grabbed Kathleen’s hand. ‘I’m so happy for you both.’
‘Oh, I wish it were all that simple.’ That sigh again.
‘But you two adore each other, what could possibly be simpler?’ Alison encouraged, squeezing her hand.
‘Well, there is Jamie.’
‘And?’ Alison smiled, inching back her head. Right from their early days Kathleen had been thrilled at how great Rob was with Jamie. The boy idolised him.
‘It’s just that, well, Jamie’s so stuck on him, you know, too stuck on him. Great while things are going well but, I mean, what if it all went wrong? What if he walks away? Jamie’s already been denied his father, how would he cope if Rob were to turn his back on him too?’
‘Oh, come on, Kathleen, you know that’s never going to happen. Rob loves that boy.’
‘Yeah, but that’s no guarantee . . . ’
‘We all know there’s never a guarantee,’ Alison cut in, ‘but you can’t just throw away your future because of what happened in the past. And as for Jamie’s dad . . . ’ Alison hesitated, knowing to tread carefully. The holiday romance that had resulted in Kathleen’s son was the one subject always certain to clamp her shut. She had confided in Alison after the birth: the guy was married, already had a family and apparently just didn’t want to know. But people changed, didn’t they? People often regretted decisions and spent their lives wishing they had the opportunity to put things right. She knew in her heart that if Sean were still alive things would be so different for Hannah. Nothing Alison could do about that. But Jamie – Jamie’s dad was out there somewhere and Alison knew that if she were in Kathleen’s shoes she’d be doing her damnedest to find the boy his father. ‘Well, what’s to stop you making contact again?’
Kathleen fingered the stem of her wine glass. ‘As you said earlier this evening, that was then.’
‘But surely, for Jamie?’
Kathleen lifted her head and met Alison’s eyes. ‘He knew about Jamie. He had his chance and he made his decision.’ Her words were echoed by the old hurt stealing into her eyes.
‘I know, but if he could see him now maybe . . . ’
‘Jamie is happy as he is.’ Kathleen shifted, straightened in her seat. ‘The past is the past and there’s nothing any of us can do to change it.’ Damn, she had never meant to get into all this. Tonight was meant to be about Alison. ‘Happiness is in the now,’ she smiled, ‘in looking forward, not back. And you’re right. Rob is my now. My future.’ She lifted her wine glass: ‘To trusting your heart and taking a chance.’
Alison mirrored her smile. ‘To the happy couple,’ she toasted, clinking her glass.
* * *
Fingers trembling, Hannah struggled with the clasp of her bra, the smell of weed in the fogged-up car threatening to make her gag. Though Peter’s words were disjointed and seemed to come from far away, like an echo, they still carried the force of his anger and spite: ‘ . . . fucking tease . . . waste of . . . crazy as . . . mother . . . ’ The white of her bare thighs flashed in the glare of the dashboard lights, her words struggling to negotiate her heavy tongue.
Peter O’Neill pressed down the window, flicked the reefer out onto the ground and gunned the engine. He’d had enough of this shit, Peter cursed, swinging out of the lay-by and onto the main Carniskey road. He couldn’t believe Hannah was only fourteen when he’d first spotted her: that wet suit moulded to her body, those wild dark eyes. She might have been young but boy did that body shout she was up for it! He dropped a gear, paced for the hill. Well, he’d been wasting his time – and his stash! – and by the looks of her now, he thought, flashing a sidelong glance at her sheet-white face, if he didn’t get her out of this car soon, he’d be scraping her dinner off the floor too. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Pamela Forde. The corner of his mouth stretched towards his ear. Now, there was a girl worth getting to know.
* * *
‘Jesus, Rob!’ Kathleen fought to keep her voice down, conscious of Jamie asleep upstairs. She steadied herself with one hand on the kitchen table, the other making a tight fist over her heart. ‘What gave you the right?’ A deep breath to contain her anger. ‘Don’t you think you should have at least discussed it with me first? You knew how sensitive he was about the whole bedwetting thing!’ Her eyes shone with temper.
‘Come on, Kath.’ Rob pushed himself away from the counter and walked towards her. ‘It’s not like I interrogated him or anything, it just came up . . . ’
‘Just came up? All I’ve had is silence, no matter what I tried, but oh, with you, it just “comes up”?’ She jerked away as he reached a hand towards her shoulder. ‘He didn’t even know that I’d told you! What’s he to think now? That he can’t even trust his own mother?’ She pulled out a chair, flopped into it.
‘Hey, he’s cool with it. Glad to have got it out of the way, if anything. Anyway, aren’t you firing off in the wrong direction here? Shouldn’t it be that babysitter and that O’Neill guy your tongue should be targeting! Imagine, at her age, bringing him in here – and drinking . . . ’
‘You’re missing the whole point.’ Kathleen rubbed a hand to her temple, the fire in her words waning. ‘It wasn’t your place, you had no right.’
‘But you’re glad he trusts me, right?’ Rob leaned back against the counter, fingering the coins in his trouser pocket. ‘That he had that confidence? Man to man and all that. The boy’s growing up, Kath.’
‘Oh, yeah? And you’re the expert all of a sudden? I’ve done this alone, remember, for seven years.’
‘Easy.’ Rob raised both his hands in defence. ‘I’m only saying, maybe it’s time to cut the strings a bit, you know, give the guy some space to breathe.’
Kathleen’s head shot up, her eyes flashing. ‘Space?’ Her short laugh was loaded. ‘That’s what all this is really about, isn’t it? Making space. Here. For you. You just couldn’t allow me the time to sort it out for myself, could you? You had to go playing your stupid games.’
Shaking his head slowly, he moved towards the door, rested a hand on the door jamb and turned, his steel blue eyes searching her face. ‘Who’s the one playing games here, Kath? Maybe you should ask yourself that.’
She heard the front door click softly behind him, his car cough to life in the driveway. She stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. This wasn’t what she’d envisaged twenty minutes ago, coming home in the taxi. Coming home to tell Rob that she was ready to give living together a shot. Her heart felt as if it were pulling downwards, like a large leaden drop, tugging, trembling, falling.
* * *
Rob parked his old Volvo under a street lamp on the pier and strolled to the slipway, the night wind combing his dark hair. Disgruntled bedfellows, the boats in the harbour heaved and sighed in protest at their tight mooring. He jumped down onto the wet sand. All was quiet, the peace of the night seeming to wrap its arms around him, attempting to still him. ‘Damn it,’ he cursed, throwing back his head and closing his eyes. He’d gone and blown it! Why couldn’t he just have left things as they were? At least then he’d still have her – well, part of her.
But that was the whole problem. Part of her wasn’t enough. He wanted all of her. He bent and picked a flat stone from the sand, skimmed it over the orange-tinged water. This dating like teenagers was killing him. He was staring down the barrel of forty, for Christ’s sake! He was tired of fooling around, always playing the clown, no ties, no responsibilities. He wanted roots, a home. Family.
All his life he’d been in a hurry: moving on to the next job, the next country, the next big thing. Even when he’d come here eighteen months ago he had only signed a six-month contract with the company, had every intention of moving on. Until Kathleen happened. It was like this rush of energy had exploded into his life. He had marvelled that such a small body could contain such force, such zest. It was all centred there in those huge brown eyes: the strength, the determination, that ‘can do’ fire. And then that dent on her upper lip, lending her whole face a childlike vulnerability that wrung his heart.
His dark sigh haunted the silence. For the first time in his life a woman had succeeded in anchoring him to one spot and he would have been more than happy to stay here for the rest of his days. He zipped up his jacket, shoved his hands deep in his pockets and, head bent, followed the curve of the tide. He’d walk on a little, see if the place couldn’t work its magic on him. Since moving to Carniskey, this little pier, at night, was where he would always come when he needed to think, to clear out his head, to decide. It was on this very sand that he had decided it was time to put some roots down; on this very sand not a week ago that he had mustered the courage to suggest to Kathleen that they give living together a shot. And now he’d gone and . . .
‘Come on, help me out here!’ he muttered, sidestepping the lick of the tide.
* * *
Eight o’clock. Alison marched into Hannah’s room and flung back the curtains. ‘How’s the leg, Hannah?’ She pulled the bedclothes from her sleeping daughter. ‘Sister Andrew called – very concerned. Now, UP! You’re coming to town with me to sort that hair out!’
A low moan escaping her lips, Hannah curled herself into a ball, the memory of last night burning the fog from the edges of her mind.
‘And you can make a start on this mess when we get back!’ Alison straddled the mound of clothes on the carpet, jiggled and forced the window clasp. With Hannah already sleeping when she got home last night, she had decided not to confront her, had decided to wait until morning – a new day, a new beginning. And this time she wasn’t going to fall into the trap of wrestling with her daughter, of shrinking under her sullen, dismissive tone. She was taking control. The girl needed guidance and this time Alison was determined to provide it. There would be no row about yesterday’s truancy – what was done was done – but neither would there be any doubt that a turning point had been reached and that things would be done very differently from here on. ‘Up, Hannah. Now. I’m taking the dogs for a run and I want you ready to be out that door by nine.’
* * *
The tide was full in, a brisk wind fashioning white wings from the wave caps. Alison sat on the grass verge above the dunes and watched the dogs gallop towards the water. Tilly plunged into the breaking foam, little Tim halting in mid gallop at the water’s edge, his calf-like hind legs almost somersaulting over his neck. His yelping was a mixture of excitement and fear: witnessing his mother’s delight, straining to join her but locked in by his own apprehension. Alison thought of the Tim inside her, that part of her that secretly strained towards life and adventure, a force deep inside her bursting to break free but always held back by the stranglehold of fear – fear of failure, of disappointment, of loss – locking her into the safety of the known. The water sparkled and danced its invitation, every glisten of the sun, every pound of the surf echoing seductively to the hollowness inside her.
Tilly swam with the strength and vigour of her Icelandic ancestors, Tim running excitedly back and forth along a few feet of water line, crouching and jumping, all the time yelping his hunger to break past that line of white fear, to be free.
Knees tucked beneath her chin Alison watched on, deep in thought. Just what kind of an example was she showing Hannah, she wondered. Right from the first moment she had held her, Alison had promised to raise her daughter to be confident, courageous, to go out into the world with purpose and passion, with a strong sense of worth and belonging. And Hannah was a strong girl – determined, intelligent, passionate. But how was she ever going to learn to throw herself into life, to express that passion, that determination? No wonder the girl was in such a knot. She pictured Hannah as a grown woman, digging and sifting back through these precious years, trying to make some sense out of what she had become and finding, at the root of that search, a broken mother. Alison knew that she alone had the power to prevent that happening. A new determination cementing inside her, she stood to make her way home.
* * *
Eyes downcast, Hannah swivelled in the hairdresser’s chair, not hearing a word of her mother’s instructions to the stylist. They could shave the whole lot off, for all she cared, it didn’t matter any more. Nothing mattered.
‘And I’ll meet you at three, then, Hannah, at the nursing home? You can take the bus out.’ The touch of Alison’s fingers on her shoulder made Hannah want to jump up and scream – at her mother, the stylist, at the whole bloody world!
Alison paid the receptionist, stepped out of the salon and turned down left past the library, head bent in thought. Hannah hadn’t as much as opened her mouth all morning. No words of protest, no exaggerated sighs or shrugs or ‘whatevers’. Perhaps a firm hand and a stronger belief in her own capabilities were all that Alison had needed all along. Could it really be that simple? She had noticed that look in Hannah’s eyes, in her whole face: that shrinking shame and embarrassment that Alison was all too familiar with herself. Hannah was obviously taking the whole Sister Andrew business to heart – surely that alone was a good sign. She slipped the envelope containing Eugene’s article from her bag and crossed the street. Underneath her frustration and annoyance, a huge part of her went out to Hannah. From her own experience, Alison knew that there was no punishment, no retribution to match the solitary knife of self-loathing. When they met up later, she decided, she wouldn’t rake over old ground with Hannah. Instead they would start from this moment: clean slate, new beginning.
‘Alison?’ Kathleen waved from the footpath opposite and weaved through the traffic stopped at the lights. ‘I’m glad I caught you.’
‘Hey, you’re out bright and early. So, how did it go with Rob last night?’
‘Disaster,’ Kathleen sighed, her whole body seeming somehow slackened, starved of its usual animation.
‘What? But you did tell him you’d . . . ’
‘That’s a whole other story.’ Kathleen waved a hand in dismissal. ‘There’s something I really need to talk to you about. Look, this is kind of awkward, I . . . ’
Alison inclined her head towards her, her brow knotting. It certainly wasn’t like Kathleen to be stuck for words.
‘It’s Hannah,’ she managed.
‘Hannah?’ Alison rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. ‘The mitching?’ she nodded. ‘I know all about it and believe me it won’t . . . ’
‘No, no. No, it’s Jamie.’
Alison pulled back her head, puzzlement re-establishing itself between her brows.
‘Remember the problem I was telling you about, the bedwetting? Turns out he told Rob last night.’ Kathleen took a deep breath. She had wrestled with this all night long: her burning anger with Hannah, with that O’Neill bastard! And her guilt at landing another load on Alison, yet knowing she had no other choice. ‘I’m not blaming Hannah and I think she did the right thing deciding not to . . . ’
‘Hang on, slow down.’ Alison touched her on the sleeve, as if to stem the flow of words, the confusion. ‘Not blaming Hannah for what, for heaven’s sake?’
‘She had him round when she was babysitting. Peter O’Neill.’ Kathleen spat out the name. ‘Drinking. Jamie woke with the racket and came downstairs.’ She looked into Alison’s wide eyes. ‘O’Neill shouted at him, threatened to come back and get him if he opened his mouth.’
Alison drew back her hand, folded her arms across her chest. She swallowed. ‘When was this?’ Her voice was dark with temper.
‘About three weeks ago.’
Alison shook her head, her teeth working her lower lip. ‘I am so sorry, Kathleen . . . ’
‘No. Please, it’s not your fault. I just thought . . . well, I knew you’d want to know, for Hannah’s sake.’
‘Listen, I’m late with this’ – Alison held up the brown envelope – ‘but rest assured I’ll deal with this. Can I call you later?’ Not waiting for Kathleen’s response she turned on her heel, her quick, heavy step voicing her fury.
Kathleen stood on and watched her – head bowed, shoulders hunched – disappear into the crowd. How different everything had been just last night. Over their meal and a couple of drinks they had put the world to rights, both of them looking to the future, making plans. Kathleen had hardly been able to contain herself in her race home to Rob to . . .
She stood to her full height, raised her chin. Just who the hell did he think he was, walking out like that and accusing her of playing games? And to top it all off no call this morning – not even a text! She re-crossed the street, a hot fist squeezing her heart. Let him walk! She had managed perfectly fine before he came along and she would manage again. Games! She’d show Rob Tyrrell she was well above his schoolyard tactics!
* * *
Alison stubbed out her cigarette, drained her coffee. Standing from the street-side table, she yanked the engagement ring from her finger and stuffed it deep in her jeans pocket. She cut through the cobbled side street and down towards the Apple Market. The sky had darkened, the first swollen raindrops beginning to fall.
A tinny bell announced her entry to the empty shop. She stood at the counter in the semi-darkness, her teeth almost cutting through her lower lip. A door groaned on weary hinges and a ruddy face set with keen, close-set eyes materialised before her. ‘Mornin’, love. Rain’s not far off.’ His two remaining teeth, chipped and stained, hung from his gums like badges of victory.
‘Is it ever?’ Alison smiled shyly. She fished in her pocket and proffered the ring across the counter. ‘What can you give me for this?’ She held her head high, cursing herself for sounding like a child in a sweetshop.
‘Let’s see then. Umm, pretty.’ He rolled the delicate ring between his thumb and forefinger before moving to a counter at the rear of the shop to study it further under glass and lamp, his tuneless whistle filling the room.
‘Say, six-fifty, love?’ He shot the words out of the corner of his mouth, his head still bent to his task.
‘Six hundred and fifty euro?’
‘Six. Five. O.’ He removed the tiny magnifying glass from his eye.
‘But it cost over twelve hundred – and that was pounds.’ Alison had reckoned on at least a thousand.
‘Sorry, love, best I can do.’ He stole a glance at her, weighing up the desperation in her tone, the determined set of her jaw.
‘Surely you can make it eight – isn’t the price of gold . . . ? I will be back for it, it’s my . . . I’ll be back before summer is out.’
‘Sorry, love. No can do. Six seven five, tops. That’s it.’ He moved back towards her, the tiny diamonds sparkling in his outstretched palm.
‘Okay. Yes, I’ll take it.’ Alison knew she would change her mind if she hesitated one second longer. She had signed the paperwork, taken the cash and returned to the street before she allowed herself to listen to the questions shouting in her head. What would Sean think? Remember the day he’d bought it in Appelbys? Remember his words as he slipped it on her finger? Maybe she would never get it back . . .
She stuffed the money into the inside pocket of her leather bag. It’s my ring and my call, she told herself, a warm bud of confidence causing her to straighten her shoulders. She could do without a diamond on her finger for a couple of months if it meant being able to get Hannah away from here. She zipped up her coat, pulled the collar up round her neck and ran through the downpour towards the travel agents.
* * *
William Hayden eyed Dr Fogarty across the desk. ‘How long?’ His voice was steady, his eyes inviting the doctor’s to meet them.
‘Four, five months at the outside. The chemo and radiation would buy you another two.’
‘We’ve already been there, Doc. I’m not interested in drawing it out.’
‘But there are so many advances now, it would be—’
‘No, thanks all the same.’ He dropped his eyes, unrolled and buttoned his shirt sleeve. ‘I’ve had fifty-four good years. Been blessed with a strong mind and body. I’m not going backwards at this stage.’ William paused, shook his head. ‘Not when the final result’s already in.’
‘I understand. And I do appreciate it is your decision.’ Fogarty had seen it so many times. The desperate grasping at treatments, alternative cures, faith healings. And the added misery and disappointment that went with them. He knew that were he in William’s shoes he’d be doing the very same.
‘So, the hip, how’s that been?’
‘Bit more troublesome than before, but the swimming seems to help.’ William didn’t mention the nights, frequent now, when he’d have to leave his bed, the burning pain in his hip and upper thigh not allowing him to lie or sit.
‘Any headaches, dizziness, loss of vision?’
‘No. None.’ Neither did he mention the bouts of melancholy, the chilling loneliness he could sometimes feel surrounding him, seeping into him, or his confusion at the tears that caught him, so often now, completely out of the blue.
‘Okay then,’ Fogarty sighed, rising. ‘We’ll up the painkillers for the secondary on the hip. I’ll need to schedule another scan for the brain tumour – say, four weeks from today? Maybe keep you in for a few days at that stage, decide on the best course of pain relief. And if you change your mind about the other treatment in the meantime, feel free to . . . ’
‘Thanks, Doc.’ William stood to leave, shaking the doctor’s hand. Fogarty held it warmly.
‘I should say that the high risk of blackouts puts driving out of the question from here on. Perhaps a family member could . . . you know you will need support as time goes on.’
‘No family, I’m afraid. The curse of the roving bachelor.’ William smiled, regret colouring his humour.
‘We’ll talk more when I see you in four weeks.’ Fogarty held the door open, his other hand finding William’s shoulder. ‘Take care of yourself.’
He studied William’s face as he leaned on the reception desk to fix his next appointment: the healthy tan, that wide grin, the hint of the rogue that lit his eyes. Incredible how someone so near the end could still possess such light, such good humour. He closed the door, moved to the window and stared down on the roofs of the sprawling city. He was a wealthy man, successful, renowned and respected in his field – all the boxes ticked on what he had spent his best years striving for. And yet the dying man who had just walked from his rooms had more life and energy in him still than Joseph Fogarty had ever had the pleasure of knowing. At only fifty-three he was already burnt out, but the lifestyle that he had been seduced into insisted that he carry on for at least another ten, fifteen years: all that time dealing out death, breaking the same news to the same pained and pleading eyes in so many different faces. He lowered himself into his chair with a sigh and buzzed through the next patient.