I’m running late. My glucometer isn’t working: the batteries are dead. A search through the bathroom and kitchen drawers follows, during which I find practically every other type of battery in the universe except the ones I need. Not being able to test my blood makes me feel ungroomed, like I haven’t washed my face or brushed my teeth.
Another delay happens over breakfast.
‘Where did those flowers come from?’ asks Jeanie, her mouth full of toast.
The gerberas are vivid and requiring explanation as they stand in their vase on the windowsill. I curse myself for not putting them in my room. Of course Jeanie would want to know where they’ve come from; the only reason she hasn’t asked before now is that she wasn’t home for most of the weekend.
‘They were on special at the supermarket so I picked them up,’ I reply airily. I am planning to tell her about Matthew. Very soon. But not now, when I’m already late for work.
Jeanie is distracted by my mention of the supermarket. ‘That reminds me, we have no washing detergent. Or butter, for that matter.’ She begins a spontaneous shopping list on a scrap of paper torn off an old bill – we were both too busy to do the usual Saturday grocery shop. Now, as we jointly compile a list, I’m keenly aware of minutes ticking by but I’m unwilling to excuse myself until I’m confident that Jeanie’s attention has fully moved away from the flowers on the sill.
But there’s yet another delay ahead: an unexpected and very disconcerting phone call that comes while Jeanie and I have headed to our separate bedrooms to get ready for the day.
‘Can you get that?’ Jeanie shouts from her room.
‘I’m late! Whoever it is can wait until later.’
On my way out the door, noticing the message light flashing on the phone I have second thoughts. Impulsively, I pick up the receiver and listen to the message.
‘Hello, Caitlin. It’s Dad here. How are you? Already gone to work, I suppose. Well, speaking of work, I was ringing to let you know that Maeve has accepted a position in the history department as an associate lecturer. I thought you’d like to know because your mother mentioned that you were worried about her. I’m sure Maeve will ring you herself to tell you all the details. Anyway, no other news from this side of the globe. Only that your mother said she didn’t hear from you over the weekend, so it would be great if you could give her a buzz and let her know that you’re alive and kicking. Goodbye, love. Take care now.’
I put the phone back in place and glide out of the apartment and down the stairs. Outside the blue sky and sun seem to hold the promise of spring, but the biting breeze is a harsh reminder that it’s still officially winter. I walk slowly, abstractedly, in the direction of the tram. Halfway there I stop, sit down on a bench and think about my father’s message.
Maeve has a job, a full-time job, at the university. Dad has obviously orchestrated this turn of events. He must have persuaded Maeve to send in an application, and put in a good word for her with his peers in the history department. Mum was right: Maeve listens to Dad. They get on well. God, I’m not feeling jealous, am I? No, I’m happy for her, regardless of what it proves about her relationship with Dad. Maeve has a job, a real job. She’s no longer a student, she’s a teacher. I’m so happy for her I feel tears stinging my eyes. Blinking down at my watch I realise I’ve just missed my tram. Ten minutes until the next one: I know the timetable by heart. I’m really late now.
Still sitting on the bench, my thoughts once more revert to Maeve. But other memories are activated by association – Liam, Josh and Mandy, whose contact details have lain untouched in the drawer of my bedside table since Easter. I try to visualise an older, more mature Mandy in the supermarket aisle, two kids in tow. Then I try to visualise Maeve, also looking older and more mature, lecturing a roomful of cocky first-year students.
I come back to the present with a start, check my watch again and realise I will have to hurry or risk missing yet another tram.
*
I walk with my hand enclosed in Matthew’s. This stroll along the beachfront is impromptu: Matthew planned to cook me dinner at his house but some friends of friends are planted in the kitchen there. He then suggested cooking at my place but I discouraged the idea; as far as I know, Jeanie doesn’t have plans to go out. So we ate in one of St Kilda’s many restaurants, not as nice as having him cook for me but nice enough all the same, and now we’re walking off the food.
The salty wind whips against my face and I breathe it deep into my lungs. The beachfront is relatively quiet, just a few joggers and power walkers, their silhouettes svelte against the dusk. I don’t know if it’s the taste of the sea, something familiar about the blue-grey-orange splotches in the sky, something set in train by my father’s phone call this morning, but suddenly I feel as though it’s Josh by my side, his hand cradling mine, and that we’re walking near the docks in Belfast, the huge ship-building cranes, Samson and Goliath, about to come into view.
I shiver and Matthew moves his hand to my waist to pull me closer to him. ‘Are you cold?’
‘Not really.’
‘Someone walk over your grave?’
I half smile and walk on without answering. My thoughts flicker back and forth between the present, with Matthew, and the past, a walk I must have had with Josh at one time; the sky or the wind or the feel of Matthew’s hand in mine must bear enough similarities to that earlier occasion to trick me into thinking it’s then instead of now.
Gradually, my thoughts return fully to the present. Matthew’s silent by my side, his head bent. He’s taken his hand away from my waist without my noticing and both hands are shoved in his pockets as he strides forward against the wind. He looks out of sorts; come to think of it, he looked that way at various points in the meal earlier on. Without talking or checking that I want to walk in that direction, he turns to lead the way out to the pier where we pass a few fishermen fishing off the side and a teenager weaving along on his skateboard.
‘You’re quiet tonight,’ I comment lightly.
‘Yes, I guess I am.’
‘Bad day at work?’
‘No. Work’s okay.’
I take a breath, a breath that doesn’t seem to have enough air in it. ‘Something to do with me, then?’
‘Yes, you could say it is.’
‘What is it?’
I notice him take a shallow breath of his own. ‘I’m not sure where this is going, Caitlin, where we’re going …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I feel our relationship is one-sided.’
I stop and put one hand on the railing. I feel weak, as though my knees could buckle at any moment. ‘That’s not true.’
‘You’re holding me at arm’s length, you tell me as little as possible, you won’t let me in …’
‘I tell you plenty!’ My voice lacks strength. ‘More than I’ve told anyone else.’
‘No, you don’t.’ He shakes his head, his expression resolute, immoveable. ‘You tell me as little as you feel you can get away with.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous. You know it’s true. I know practically nothing about your family and your upbringing, and you go out of your way to keep me from meeting your flatmate and your friends. God, you don’t even answer the phone when I’m with you!’
‘Matthew –’ I pause, stuck for words. I was aware that he was watching and, to some degree, forming conclusions, but I’m still stunned by the evidence of my own transparency and the extent of what he’s assimilated. There are things I can say in my own defence, explanations, but they involve digging deep into the past and bringing up matters that have no place on this pier where the world appears calm and beautiful and – other than the two of us arguing like this – completely free of conflict.
‘I can’t get close to you, and if we aren’t close then you have to ask if there’s any point to this … to us.’
I move away from the support of the railing. ‘Well, if that’s how you feel …’
‘No, that’s not all.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder, anticipating that I was planning to walk away. ‘I’m not finished with you. You drink more than you should –’
‘I drink way less than most people on a night out!’
‘You’re a diabetic, Caitlin. You can’t use what other people drink as a yardstick. You won’t wear your bracelet – you wear nothing that identifies you as a diabetic. If I found you on the side of the road, I wouldn’t know how to help you. Such a simple thing – wearing the bracelet, keeping yourself safe – but still you resist.’
‘God, I didn’t realise you had such a litany of complaints about me!’ I cry.
‘They’re not complaints – but there are things, big things, between us. This recklessness, this disregard you have for your health and safety really bothers me. The crazy way you ride your bike, how you cross roads without looking … sometimes it feels like you’re hell-bent on breaking the rules and putting yourself at unnecessary risk.’
‘Now you sound like my father,’ I say accusingly.
Matthew jumps at this mention. ‘Why do you hate him so much, Caitlin? Is it because of the affair? Do you still hold that against him?’
There’s a bitter taste in my mouth; I wet my lips and swallow, but the bitterness does not go away. ‘The affair – the divorce – they were the last straw …’
‘So something happened before that? Was it to do with the bomb? But he’s not part of the IRA, is he?’
‘No, of course he isn’t!’
‘From what I can tell from the internet, he’s been pivotal in bringing to justice the people who planned the bomb. He seems like an essentially good man …’
I stare at him incredulously. ‘You checked on the internet?’
‘What else could I do?’ He shrugs without looking at all apologetic. ‘You certainly won’t tell me anything.’
A little belatedly, I realise that I googled Matthew too. But that was different. I hardly knew him then, so I wasn’t exactly snooping behind his back. ‘Well, if you search for long enough, the internet should be able to tell you everything you need to know!’ I shriek, sounding petulant and childish even to my own ears.
Matthew looks deep into my eyes, past my sarcasm and anger to where I’m at my most vulnerable. ‘What I don’t know is who died that day,’ he says in a voice so gentle it could undo me if I’m not careful. ‘All I know is that it was obviously someone important for you to be like this so many years later, still too devastated to talk about it.’
My breath catches in my throat. Does he have any idea that the answer to that question will reveal everything he wants to know about me and more: the core of why I am the way I am, a truth I will never come to terms with.
‘Some things are private, Matthew,’ I say brokenly after taking a few moments to gather myself. ‘If you can’t respect that, then maybe there is no point to us.’
‘I respect your right to privacy, of course I do,’ he insists, his voice still unnervingly soft. ‘But being secretive, as you are, is completely different to being private.’
Quite clearly, he’s not going to let it drop. He intends to stay here and badger me until he gets answers, as though I were a criminal.
I push his hands away from my shoulders and step back, almost losing my balance as I do so. ‘Just because you’re a police officer doesn’t give you the right to know everything. Nor does it give you the right to preach to me! I should have known you’d be like this. I knew at the start that I shouldn’t get involved with someone like you, but I stupidly did all the same!’
I walk away, my walk becoming a jog, the wind flapping my jacket and stinging my eyes that are humiliatingly full of tears. I don’t need to turn around to know that he’s watching, forming more conclusions and probably deciding that this is the end for us. Damn him. Damn him and his need to know every single thing about me. Damn his non-stop observing and his ‘genius’ deductions about my personality and my life. Damn him for googling my father on the internet. Damn him.
He’s right about one thing, though. I’m too devastated to talk about any of it: the bomb, my father, or the terrible, terrible fact that I didn’t just lose my boyfriend that day, but my brother too.