High on the cliff top above Killybegs harbour Sean Delaney sat chewing over the news that Tom had brought back to him: the warmth of Alison’s welcome, how happy she appeared, the new life she had given the place and the new life she had created for herself. She was still at that writing she had always been so bent on. Sean had never seen the point of it himself, had laughed out loud that time when she had tried to explain to him that she fished for words deep inside herself in the same way that he trawled the sea for his catch. She had packed it away after that. Well, away from him anyway. Always willing to please, he smiled, that was Alison. Always bending and shifting to suit him ’til in the end there was hardly a bit of the girl he had fallen in love with left.
The child was still in London, happy, it seemed, and Alison spent part of every day down at the home with Maryanne, according to Tom. His mother had always had a soft spot for Alison, constantly reminding him of how lucky he was to have such a loving and supportive wife. And there was always that something in the way she would say it, almost like a warning, as if she was fishing, knew more than she was letting on.
Maryanne hadn’t spoken since the accident, Alison had told Tom. His mother, who was never short on advice or opinion – Sean couldn’t credit that she could hold her counsel for so long. But then some things aren’t easy to speak out. There are some things in life that there are no words for, no matter how deep or how long you trawl. Sean knew that, knew it better than anyone. Still, he felt, if he could only get to Maryanne, explain things to her, they could work it out. She could always see his side, always.
His brow creased, a darkness crowding his eyes as his thoughts turned again to Alison’s reply when Tom had asked how she would feel if Sean were back in her life. There was absolutely no question, Tom had said, but she wouldn’t want him. He lay back in the long grass and pulled deeply on his cigarette. Tom had described how she had searched and waited, desperately clinging to the hope that, dead or alive, he would be returned to her. He could see how someone like Tom might think there was no going back, no mending that. But Tom didn’t know the old Alison. He didn’t understand how she’d given up everything for him, had made him her whole world. All those years together had to count for something. It was all right saying that she wouldn’t have him back, but Tom didn’t think it out. She believed he was dead and what she had said to Tom wasn’t how she would really feel. Not if there was a chance he was still alive. No, he knew Alison. He knew what he meant to her. Tom had never known that kind of love. How could he understand?
He sat up again and looked down into the harbour. Tom was in his boat below, mending nets, the child sitting on the stern beside him. He watched as Tom reached out a hand and ruffled the child’s hair. His mouth tightened. What would Tom know about loss or wanting, things that had never touched his world? Himself and that boy were never out of each other’s shadow, Ella always back at the house. What gave him the right to talk about moving on and letting go? Forgetting. Move him away from his family and he’d soon see there was no forgetting! Tom was a good man, to be fair to him, but simple with it and he hadn’t the first clue what he was talking about. He had told Sean that, as far as he could tell, there was no new man in Alison’s life. Jesus, wasn’t that proof enough for him? Sean had always been the only one for her and she was still waiting for him. She wasn’t lost yet. Much as Tom had tried to drive home to him that he should forget and move on, Sean knew better. He wouldn’t be moving just yet. At least not in the direction Tom thought.
* * *
‘Can I ring her, Dad? Tell her where I left it.’
‘Och, Daniel, the dogs’ll have it well broken up by now. Can’t ye bring her another, the next time we call? I might find a big scallop shell for ye in the pots some mornin’, bet she’d like that.’ The child had him tormented about the shell for Alison that he had left in the plastic bag in the field. You’d swear it was gold, Tom laughed to himself, taking in the child’s solemn face.
Sean had been up and off early again this morning. That had been his pattern since Tom had come back with the news from Carniskey. It had really knifed him hearing what Alison had said, and the way Sean had taken to avoiding him since, Tom felt as if he almost blamed him for not bringing back the response he wanted.
Though he had only met her twice, Tom had a great fondness for Alison. She was a sweet wee thing, and honest, and God knows she had been through more than her share of sorrow. He could see how shaky her happiness was and so he had laced her words with more anger and bitterness in the retelling – his own anger, he knew. He couldn’t get out of his head the torment the girl had come through and now Sean wanted to go back and turn all that heartache into nothing, into a joke! No one, not even the strongest could cope with that. It would be the finish of her. Whether Sean liked it or not, he had involved Tom in the whole mess and he would do all in his power to make sure that Sean never looked on her face again. And he would never feel guilty about embellishing Alison’s words: she had done her suffering and now Sean had to carry his.
He had spared Sean the bit about the man who’d arrived just as they left. Hadn’t told him how she half-ran to meet him, linked his arm, allowed her head to lean towards his shoulder. The man had enough to carry, there was no point in twisting the knife.
Sean had packed in the job with Matt Holland and would be leaving by the end of the week, he’d promised. Where he would end up God only knew, but the whole fiasco was of his own making and every man, Tom believed, had to learn to live with the consequences of his own actions, no matter what the cost. Though he wished him well, he wouldn’t be sad to see Sean go. It would be good to have the place back to themselves again, would give Ella and himself a chance to sort out the distance that all this business had carved between them. There was no future here for Sean and the sooner he left, Tom reasoned, the sooner he could put this whole episode out of his head and get on with the business of living.
* * *
Alison cried through the whole of Sunday. She didn’t eat. When darkness fell, she pulled the curtains and went to bed, where she tossed and turned until morning. Monday and Tuesday passed in slow motion: solitary beach walks in the drizzling rain; afternoon visits to Maryanne that she could barely endure; long telephone conversations in the evening with Hannah and Kathleen. She told neither what troubled her. Wednesday night found her in her favourite chair in the sitting room, music playing, a bottle of wine by her side.
When does anything change, she sighed. She’d been in this spot before summer began. Almost mid-July now and here she was again: same music, same wine, same goddamn tears. Had the pain of losing Sean not taught her anything?
She had never expected to fall for William, had never even considered that things might go that way. He was a friend, someone she understood and who understood her. They shared similar interests, ideas, were both outsiders in a way, who empathised with one another’s loss. But there was never any question of romance. Never. Then all of a sudden, without warning or sign, it had just consumed her. And now he was gone and she was right back to where she had been before she had met him.
Nonsense! She sat up defiantly in her chair. She was no longer mourning Sean, no longer waking each day with a dread of filling it. She had brought the house back to life, had given Hannah the holiday and space she was crying out for. Not only had she paid off the bulk of her bills but she still had some savings left over, and to top all that she had written over thirty thousand words of a novel. But above all else her time with William had proved something she thought impossible: she was capable of loving again.
She sat back, smiling. William would laugh if he could see her now, pep talking herself like some kind of half lunatic. They’d had some good times together, times she would treasure. His company and support had helped her through that really tough time when Hannah had first gone, had inspired her to look inside herself for fulfilment. Now he had decided it was time to move on, and why shouldn’t he? He had never promised her anything; in fact, he had made it clear from day one that he wouldn’t be around forever. So what reason had she to be angry with him? She wanted more, he didn’t. It was as simple as that. William had moved on, and now so would she.
Back in the kitchen she flicked on the computer. She sat and typed ’til tiredness defeated her and she tumbled into bed exhausted, satisfied with her night’s work.
* * *
William despised the white nothingness of the ward, its hushed stillness and sterility fevering his longing for Alison and the wildness of Carniskey. He closed his eyes and called up the greens, blues and greys of the sea; the golden browns and fiery reds of the mountains as the rising sun roused them from sleep. The heathers, the sea pinks and whitethorn had begun to die away before he left but wreaths of horse daisies and the red tears of fuscia had softened their passing. He chased the roar of the ocean, the dance of the shingle that had lulled him to sleep in the camper. And Alison. Everywhere Alison. In her rolled-up jeans paddling the foam; on her knees among the heather in the mountains; in her shorts digging the rockery; her smile stealing the light from the moon that night they had swum together; the way she stood on the podium reading, her nervous bow, that girlish smile. And her kiss . . .
‘I’m taking a walk,’ he muttered, passing the nurses’ station for the third time that morning.
‘But Mr Hayden . . . ’
William didn’t turn from the lift, just held up his hand, his frustration finding expression in the sharp clench and release of his raised palm.
‘Leave him, Kathy,’ the older nurse advised, ‘give him some time.’
The hospital foyer was bright and welcoming, masking the misery in the wards upstairs. Stuffed toys, chocolates, ‘Get Well’ balloons – the place was like a shopping centre. Even in these places commercialism thrives: William spat out the thought as he pushed his way through the smokers at the door and sat on a bench in the sunshine. He wondered if the sun was shining in Carniskey too, as he settled the drip-trolley beside him. He had seen Fogarty twice since Monday and he had recommended this stuff to build him up. For what, William had asked, a healthier, heartier death? They would do a scan this afternoon, see what new territory had been claimed, get a better idea of what time was left to him. William prayed it would be short. He felt like a caged lion. He knew the nurses were only doing their job – and a good one, too – but Jesus, the way they soft-stepped around him! Their smiles of pity, the way they called him ‘love’ and ‘dear’ – some even speaking loud and slow, as if he were either deaf or foreign, or both. He felt the mobile phone in his pocket and his fingers ached to press her number. Just to hear her. To tell her how he missed her. To tell her why he had to hurt her.
* * *
Rob crunched the car to a halt on the gravel outside the black iron gates. ‘I can see you back then, all right,’ he smiled. ‘Fat little face squashed between those bars.’
‘Oh no,’ Kathleen turned to him, ‘we didn’t bother with gates. See that old stone wall over there’ – she pointed towards the rear of the property – ‘whoever built that factored in our sort. Perfect little footholds between the stones, and not too high to throw the apples back over.’ Her smile was wistful, remembering those long ago September days: the crunch of dry leaves under their feet as they jumped silently from the wall, stifling their giggles so as not to alert old Mr Warner. She could almost taste the soft sweetness of the windfalls, feel the sticky dribble of juice down her chin.
‘Such a pity,’ she sighed, squinting through the gates at the gnarled rhododendron and hydrangea bushes battling to smother the gravel path. Two of the upper floor windows were completely obscured by creeper and the glass in the fan light over the front door had been smashed. Broken roof tiles littered the ground.
‘I know my memory is probably coloured by nostalgia, but you should have seen the place back then, Rob – the soft green lawns and the rose gardens, the sun always seemed to be shining up here.’
‘How long has it been empty?’
‘Oh, years. Ten, maybe more. Old Warner left it to a nephew in England. He came occasionally in the summer the first few years but he was an odd old sort. It had started to fall apart even before he put it up for sale.’ She laughed then, remembering. ‘When I think of how often I used to come this way after school. I’d look in the windows, imagine what I would do with each of the rooms.’
‘Fancied yourself as a bit of a Lady of the Manor, then?’
‘Oh, shut up, Rob!’ She elbowed him in the side. ‘It was a silly childish dream, don’t tell me you never had any.’
‘No, I was never the dreaming kind.’ He leaned across and opened the glove compartment. ‘Well, not until I met you, at least.’ He handed her the red envelope.
‘What’s this?’
‘Only one way to find out.’
Her thumb stole under the seal, lifting it, and a big silver plastic key hanging from a red ribbon fell into her lap.
‘A plastic key?’ Brow furrowed, she held it up by the ribbon between them.
‘It was the biggest one they had in the card shop. They don’t seem to go in for the whole twenty-first thing any more, not like they used to.’
‘Huh?’
‘They can’t hand over the keys until Monday, but I just couldn’t wait . . . ’
‘Keys? What are you on about, Rob, what keys?’
He motioned with his head towards the house and her brow knotted even deeper.
‘Maybe your dream wasn’t so silly after all.’ His smile widened into a full grin.
‘What, you mean . . . no, you can’t.’ Her head moved slowly from side to side, her eyes almost popping from their beds.
‘Yep. I know there’s lots to be done, but I got it for a song and I can do most of the work myself. Just think . . . ’
Her squeal filled the car as she threw herself towards him and smothered his words with her kiss.
* * *
Hannah’s email arrived the following Tuesday and Alison couldn’t believe what she was reading:
London’s great, Mum, but I don’t know how anyone actually lives here. The heat is awful and everywhere’s crowded ALL the time, everyone rushing round like they’re running from a fire or something! The first thing I’ll do when I get home is get into my wetsuit and catch some waves. I miss surfing so much and Aoife and the girls – even Grainne! I can’t wait to lie in my own bed and listen to the wind and rain. I can’t wait to see you again, Mum . . .
Alison printed off the email and put it in the folder, along with the others Hannah had sent. She would show them all to her one day in years to come, show her all the growing up she had done in one short summer. She hugged the folder to her, a huge smile creasing her face. Her little girl was coming home and she was looking forward to it!
She turned and looked out the window. It was just after nine and already the sky was darkening. Her eyes strayed in the direction of Tra na Leon. She had arranged to go and look around the old Warner place with Kathleen tonight but had changed her mind at the last moment, something telling her that William might be home, that she’d get a chance to talk to him, to explain her reaction to his leaving. To apologise for her anger. But when she had walked along the cliff an hour ago the camper was still locked and empty. Maybe he would come tomorrow.
She had passed the weekend watching the camper like a child waiting for Christmas. She didn’t go into town, never strayed from the house for more than an hour for fear she would miss him, afraid that the next time she went up to Tra na Leon the camper would be gone and she’d never see him again. By ten o’clock on Monday night she’d begun to give up hope. What if he didn’t come back? Surely there was stuff in the camper that he needed. He wouldn’t just leave it there, would he? Now Tuesday had come and gone and there was still no sign of him. He had definitely said he was only going for a week. She paced the kitchen, no longer able to ignore her growing restlessness. Dropping the folder back on the desk, she picked up her mobile and tried his number for the fourth time that day. It was still switched off.
She bit down on her lip. Something was wrong, she had sensed it all evening. Seized by a feeling of urgency she switched on her computer. She made a list of all the Dublin hospitals and began ringing round them in alphabetical order. Her search was short and in less than half an hour she had located him in Beaumont.
The following morning, after a hurried arrangement with Kathleen to care for the dogs and a garbled excuse about a sick aunt in Dublin, she was on the road, without a thought of where she might stay, what she would say to him. She only knew that she needed to see him. And that was enough. She’d had her fill of sudden partings, with no goodbyes, no discussions. Days and nights and years of wondering, wishing. She was damned if she was going to let that happen again. She drove on over the bridge, out onto the main Dublin road and whatever awaited her at the end of it.
Alison walked the length of the narrow ward, searching each bed in turn for his face. Some of the patients were sleeping, others lay staring ahead of them into nothingness. Only two caught her eye and she smiled apologetically. She felt like a voyeur, like she was invading their most intimate space. She tried to move without making her presence heard or seen, tried not to encroach with her eyes or body movements. But the momentary eye contact she had made with those two patients told more of their story, of William’s story, than a thousand questions could answer. The emaciated frames, the hollowed cheeks, the prominent eyes filled with a kind of innocence and trepidation. Alison was taken back to a similar, smaller ward in another Dublin hospital, to that familiar stare of child-like fear and questioning on her mother’s dying face. Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard, closing her ears and her mind and her heart to the unbearable truth screaming inside her.
She stepped quietly to the bed by the window at the far end of the ward. William lay sleeping in a T-shirt and shorts, his hands clasped across his chest. His face looked grey and long, the closed eyes sunken. Her heart swelled, gathering every drop of blood in her body to itself. Her head swam, her legs threatening to buckle as she lowered herself onto the plastic chair by the window. Her hand stole to her lips as if to prevent the anguish that howled inside her escaping them. Her eyes moved to the bedside locker, bare except for a jug of water, a glass, and a grey and white stone from the beach. No books, no magazines, no get-well cards. Fighting the swelling in her throat, she looked away towards the car park below the window. Through her misted eyes a sea of cars glinted in the evening sun. A constant dribble of visitors and staff criss-crossed the narrow walkway to the hospital entrance, their path lit by a blaze of colour from the flowers and shrubs that lined each side. Just one wall separating two wholly different worlds, Alison sighed, her eyes returning to the white hush of the sleeping ward.
Later, when the patient opposite protested loudly to the nurse’s ministrations, William’s eyes fluttered open, momentarily fixing on Alison before closing again. She didn’t speak but moved closer and covered his hands with hers. His eyes remained closed as he lifted his fingers and laced them between hers.
‘William?’ She smiled her whisper and his eyes opened slowly. Afraid. Afraid to lose the dream. He gently turned his head to the side to face her, his cheeks lifting in a slow, incredulous smile.
‘Alison? I thought I was dreaming . . . ’
The disbelief and delight in his slow, low whisper tempted her tears but she held on to her smile, defying them. She squeezed his hands, not daring to speak.
‘How long have you been there – why didn’t you wake me?’
‘Not long. I didn’t want to disturb you, you looked so peaceful. Plus, you’re easier company when you’re sleeping,’ she added, a forced jollity in her low laugh. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘A million dollars for seeing you,’ he smiled, his eyes holding hers as he moved to sit up.
‘No, don’t move.’ She shifted from her chair and sat on the bed beside him. ‘So, this is where you’ve been hanging out?’
‘You can’t imagine how good it feels to see you.’ His eyes drank in her face, her hair, the loose green shirt, the tiny freckles on the exposed V of her chest. When she bent and kissed his cheek, the subtle smell of honeysuckle, the tickle of her tumbling curls on his skin sent a surge of hot life burning through him. He reached out a hand to stroke her cheek, his eyes looking in through hers. ‘Let’s get out of here for a bit.’ He eased himself into a sitting position.
They sat on a wooden bench to the right of the hospital door. Other patients in nightgowns and slippers were gathered round on benches and wheelchairs. Some chatted and laughed with visitors, others sat deep in thought, their faces held to the sun. The breeze played with Alison’s hair and she tied it in a loose knot behind her neck. She took a deep breath before turning to face him.
‘How long have you known?’ She lifted her sunglasses and looked into his eyes.
‘Six months or so.’
She nodded, slowly. ‘And the prognosis?’ Her questions were straight, matter of fact.
‘Two months, maybe less.’
A hard slap stung her heart.
‘And there’s nothing . . . ’
‘No.’ He knew what her questions would be. The same ones he had had the first time round. ‘It’s over this time. I’ve been very lucky. Last time I beat it – won myself six years. This time it has the winning hand.’
They sat a moment in silence, Alison digesting the full and final impact of his words. Her mind raced, searching back for the clues she had missed. That time he was sick, of course she should have seen that it was a whole lot more than a chest infection, would have seen if she hadn’t been so wrapped up in her own stuff. That day when he’d held her in the kitchen – the desperation in his sigh, in his kiss that night on the pier.
‘You okay?’ William broke in on her thoughts. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to land any of this on you,’ he sighed. ‘But you understand now why I had to leave the way I did.’ At least now she would know that he hadn’t just abandoned her, hadn’t just taken what he wanted and walked away as she had believed. He remembered her anger on the beach that last morning they parted, her hurt and confusion. But time would have taken care of that, would have allowed her, one day, to look back in fondness at their time together. Whereas this, he could see in the white-knuckled clench of her fingers, in the pain piercing her eyes, in her silence, this was wounding her in a far deeper place. ‘You should have just left it, Alison, you shouldn’t have come.’
‘I couldn’t just leave it.’ She raised her eyes, tilted her head back slightly to hold the tears that threatened. ‘Not the way we parted. There were things I needed to say to you, to explain.’
‘You can’t imagine the number of times I almost called you, to ask you to come. But I didn’t want you to see or know this. I wanted you to think of me out there somewhere, to remember me as the person you shared those great times with, not wasting away in some hospital bed.’
‘And I wanted you to remember me laughing,’ Alison smiled, her tongue catching the tear that had escaped down her cheek. ‘The way you had taught me to laugh again. Laughing and alive, not that person you met when you first arrived. That last day on the beach – it was like I’d turned back into her. I wanted you to know that I hadn’t.’
He eased his arm around her shoulder and drew her to him. ‘I’ve replayed that morning a million times. I never meant to hurt you, I wanted to . . . ’ He leaned her head into his chest, stroked her hair. ‘You’ll never know how much that night at the festival meant to me. Your kiss . . . ’
‘I thought it had driven you away.’
‘What drove me away was how much I wanted you. Oh, Alison.’ He sighed, kissing the top of her head. ‘I honestly thought that by leaving I could protect you.’
‘Don’t talk any more, William, just hold me.’ She lay back in the crook of his arms, the sun warming her face, his closeness warming the very core of her.
The clatter of the tea trolleys scattered the visitors towards home. ‘I’ll go,’ Alison whispered, seeing the tiredness in his face. They were back in the ward and he lay on the bed, Alison beside him on the chair. ‘I’ll call again in the morning, sleep well.’ She kissed his lips and, head bent, walked back down the ward. Reaching the door, she turned to look back at him. He lay turned towards the window, the setting sun stretching its fingers up the bed. She couldn’t see the tears pool in his eyes, slowly trickle to the pillow.
Alison half-ran to the jeep and, safely inside, she unleashed the hot tears that had bulged and burned in her throat all evening, her whole body shaking with their release. She must have sat there for over an hour, her mind wandering frantically back and forth: back to her mother in her last weeks of life, to the guilt she had felt as she prayed to God or whoever or whatever was out there to take her, to release her and end her misery. Back to her lamplight searches for Sean, willing the beam of the torch to touch him and at the same time dreading what she might find. And back to the pier and how even the magic of the fireworks had been dimmed by William’s kiss.