Finding Alison Page 14

  They sat at the base of the dunes, the picnic basket between then. ‘To dreams,’ Alison smiled, clinking her glass to his before raising it to her lips. She turned and lay on her stomach, her bare calves and feet in the air. ‘Now, William Hayden, stranger, I want to know about you.’

  ‘What would you like to know?’ He shifted down on his side, watched the soft glow of the candlelight play on her face.

  ‘Why you left Dublin? Where you went next. How you survive. Why you’re here – that’ll do for starters.’

  ‘Okay.’ William’s gaze moved from her face, out across the whispering tide and on out to the horizon. ‘I was twenty,’ he began, ‘an architecture student in Dublin. Bored, hungry for change. I took a summer job in Paris teaching English and at night I indulged my passion. Art. I took an evening class in a little centre near the school. They thought I had talent’ – he smiled at her, his eyes and his voice hinting his humility – ‘encouraged and fostered it. By the end of the summer William Hayden, Architect was dead, replaced by a lover of Art and the French. And I just never went back.’ He sipped his wine, his eyes moving back to the ocean.

  ‘How long did you stay in Paris?’

  ‘Five years. Then the rambling began. I’d move from place to place, country to country. I’d get by painting sceneries, private commissions of houses, yachts. Summers I’d do portraits for the tourists.’

  ‘So, where was home?’

  ‘Wherever I’d land. Dublin didn’t hold the same meaning as it had. My mother had died in the meantime and my father, well, he was never in the picture.’

  ‘But Paris – surely after five years . . . ’

  ‘Paris was nothing to me any more.’ There was a slight harshness to his words that she had never heard before. ‘Not without Helene.’ His sigh was heavy, loaded.

  ‘Helene?’ Alison prodded, intrigued at the almost-reverence in how he whispered the name.

  ‘I met her that first summer. She was the model in my life drawing class. And the inspiration for all that followed.’ He paused, sipped his drink, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He could see her now, as clearly as on that first night. Dark hair, cut close to her head, those carved cheeks, the taut golden skin. Full red lips, arched and slightly parted. And the eyes: huge and black and staring, filled with an innocence and vulnerability that gave her a lost, almost endangered look. Apart from the red voile draped across her upper thighs, her long boyish body was uncovered. His hands strained to touch again the satin-soft hollows between her neck and shoulders, the small round breasts. But on that first night his eyes could not be drawn from the haunting in hers, from the secrets he imagined might lie behind them.

  ‘Tell me about her,’ Alison hesitated. ‘Helene.’ She tried out the name again, tasting its sacredness.

  ‘She knew little of her birth.’ He shifted his weight from his hip. ‘She’d been raised in a home, fostered out when she was five. By age ten she had been with three different families and at sixteen she struck out on her own and moved to Paris. She’d been there three years when I met her, surviving on what she’d make from modelling at different art classes.’ He paused again. Alison didn’t speak, anxious to know more, anxious not to break the magic in his eyes and his words. ‘I was captivated by her . . . by everything about her. Within a month I’d persuaded her to move in with me and for the first time in my life I knew what it felt like to be complete. To be home.’

  ‘So what happened – what made you leave Paris?’

  ‘I went to a gallery opening in London the following September. They’d accepted some of my paintings and it looked like this was going to be my big break. I flew to Dublin for a couple of days when the exhibition finished. I was on a high. My work had been really well received. She must have thought I wasn’t coming back.’

  ‘She left?’ Alison prompted, after a few moments’ silence.

  ‘I searched for her for six solid months, eventually tracked her down – or what was left of her—’ He broke off, his voice trembling. Alison took his hand. He cleared his throat, continued. ‘In Montpellier. She was using again, she was destroyed . . . ’

  ‘I’m so sorry, William, I shouldn’t have . . . ’

  ‘No. No, it’s okay.’ He squeezed her hand tight, held it fast in his. ‘It’s good to remember. It’s like what you were talking about earlier tonight, about this belonging. Helene had spent her life drifting, surviving, trying to figure out who she was, where she had come from. She thought she’d found some kind of belonging in me. With me. And when she thought I’d left her, she just didn’t want to feel any more.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I felt I’d failed her. I had. I should have seen – I should have known. I tried everything, arranged rehab. She quit after five days, refused point-blank to see or speak to me after that.’ He shifted, rested his back against a rock, all the time keeping hold of Alison’s hand. His sigh was long and deep. ‘I stuck around for eighteen months, cursing myself, my stupidity. I’d fallen victim to my ego. Thought I was going to be the next big guy. It was all I had talked about and to her it must have seemed all I cared about. It had taken me over. No wonder she felt she’d lost me. Do you mind?’ William reached for Alison’s cigarettes.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know you . . . of course, go ahead.’

  ‘There was never again going to be anyone for me after that. I was never going to cause that pain, suffer that pain again.’ He drew deeply on the cigarette. ‘After eighteen months I bound up my wounds and moved on.’ He exhaled slowly into the still night air, the sound of the surf washing the silence.

  Alison took both his hands in hers. ‘Let’s swim,’ she whispered, pulling him upwards. She unbuttoned her shirt and let it fall from her shoulders, stepped out of her jeans and pants and unclasped her bra. She stood before him, her wild red curls lit by the moonlight, tumbling over her breasts. His eyes held hers as he freed himself slowly from his clothes. Hand in hand, they walked slowly towards the water.

  The soft wet sand yielded beneath their feet, the bite of the water tensing their naked skin as they followed the moon’s trail, the water rising to their waists. Alison dived into the silent depths, surfaced breathless and smiling a few feet away. He stood watching, mesmerised by the darkened curls clinging to her head, the light of the moon bathing the pale, raw beauty of her face, her neck, her shoulders.

  Seeing his chance, Joe O’Sullivan stole from the high dune grass, helped himself to two cigarettes, a lump of cheese and some crackers. He put the wine bottle to his head and drained it before returning again to his watch post.

  * * *

  Just after midday the following Wednesday, Alison saw the blue lorry negotiating the mouth of the drive. She tapped the screen saver and rose from the computer, her eyes strained and itchy. The clock read ten past twelve. She had worked straight through since returning from the beach at eight thirty that morning. Just one week since she’d started and already she had written almost eighteen thousand words. Something just seemed to have clicked inside her that Tuesday. A belief in herself, in the worth and beauty of the story she would write. The last week had gone by in a flash. She’d hardly stepped outside the house, except to walk the dogs at seven each morning and make a half-hour visit to Maryanne in the afternoons. There had been one frantic evening visit to William to tell him she had started, how alive and full of drive and passion she felt. He had been almost as excited as she was, as she tried to explain how she felt like she was back in those early years again with a real life, with real possibilities, how she had finally broken free of Carniskey without even stepping outside it.

  She went out through the back door and around the house just as the lorry pulled to a halt at the top of the drive. A tall man with wiry black curls hopped down from the cab, lifting a small boy down to the ground behind him. He took a few long strides towards Alison, the little blond child keeping up behind. He wiped his big hand on the seat of his jeans and offered it to Alison.

  ‘Tom O’Donnell
, I rang about yer ad in The Skipper?’ The Donegal lilt lent him a real gentleness. ‘This is wee Daniel.’ He motioned with his head to the child behind.

  ‘Oh, Tom, hi. I wasn’t expecting you till Friday.’ Alison took his hand.

  ‘Och, with the weather so broken we thought we’d make use of the day. Mind, ye have it good down here,’ he remarked, looking out towards the bay.

  ‘This has been our best week.’ Alison couldn’t understand why she felt so awkward in his presence. Was it his size? The black curls and familiar fishing gait reminding her of Sean? ‘The stuff’s round here, if you’d like to take a look.’ She led him around the side of the house. The little boy screamed as the two dogs rushed towards him, knocking him onto the ground.

  ‘Tilly! Tim! Oh, I am sorry. It’s okay, Daniel. They won’t hurt you, they’re just excited to see you.’

  ‘See, Dan, they’re just lookin’ to play with ye.’ Tom straightened the little boy. ‘He’s well used to it,’ he smiled. ‘He’s got two of his own at home.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to look at this lot, come inside when you’re ready and I’ll put on some tea, ye must be hungry after the journey.’ She disappeared in the back door.

  Ten minutes later Tom knocked on the open back door. Alison turned to find him leaning against the jamb.

  ‘I’ll give ye five grand for the lot.’

  ‘But— ’

  ‘I can give ye cash, shift the lot today?’

  ‘I didn’t, well— ’

  ‘It’s a fair deal, and the most I’m prepared to offer,’ Tom cut in. ‘As I said, cash in hand.’

  Alison nodded, open-mouthed.

  ‘Have we a deal, then?’ Tom stuck out his big hand again.

  ‘A deal,’ she managed to mutter, shaking his hand.

  ‘Great, I’ll start shifting it then, we’ve a long drive home.’ He was gone before she could say any more. She sat down slowly on the chair. Five thousand? Had she heard him right? If he’d said three, she’d have been more than thrilled. Would have settled for two and a half, with the bind she was in. A huge smile creased her face. Five thousand euro! She’d never dreamed of having that amount of money. She could paint the house outside, fix the leak in the back kitchen roof – maybe even have a holiday with Hannah! Best of all, now she would have the time and peace of mind to write without the constant panic of where the next bob was coming from. Life was turning. At last things were on the up. She could feel it in every cell of her body. Joe O’Sullivan, she thought, rising up frantically. Some of Sean’s gear would have to be left for Joe. She rushed outside. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ she called to Tom’s back. She moved to where he was sorting the pots. Tom smiled to himself.

  By three o’clock they had shifted the lot, had eaten their fill of sandwiches and cake, and Alison stood at the top of the drive waving them off. She wondered why she’d had such an odd feeling around him at first; he was such a lovely man, gentle, shy and yet chatty, and so interested in herself and Hannah, their life in Carniskey. She hadn’t mentioned that the nets and pots had belonged to a man lost at sea, mindful of Joan and Theresa’s ‘bad luck’ theory and fearful it might make him change his mind. Five thousand euro? She still couldn’t believe it.

  She walked back around the side of the house. The garden seemed huge without Sean’s gear strewn all over it. Huge and empty. She sat down on the grass. So this was it then, Sean was finally gone. The uncovered grass was dead and yellowed from its years in the darkness. But here and there, she noticed, a green tuft peeped its head. There’s still life, still hope, it seemed to whisper to a tearful Alison. And she knew it was right. She would make a rockery, she decided. Here, just outside the kitchen window. She would use the stones and shells from the kitchen and fill it in with wild plants to remember Sean, to remember their love.

  * * *

  Tom O’Donnell pressed the call button on his mobile phone. It was answered on the first ring.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s done.’ Tom spoke quietly. ‘I’ve got the gear, paid over the five like ye said.’

  ‘And Alison? How was she?’

  Tom sighed at the loneliness and desperation in Sean Delaney’s voice. ‘She’s fine, Sean, she’s happy. I’ll talk to ye when I get back.’

  He replaced the phone in its holder.

  ‘It’s a queer old world, Dan,’ he sighed, stroking the sleeping child’s hair.

  Nine

  Just shy of his twenty-first birthday, Sean had been. The sun that day – the whole of heaven – had seemed to shine on and through him.

  Maryanne felt the heat of her pride well up again now, just as it had that clear May day, and spill from her eyes, her body unable to contain it. At thirty-two feet, with its dark blue hull and the solid red stripe at its base where it met the water, The Maryanne dwarfed every other fishing boat in the harbour.

  A knot of well-wishers had gathered at the end of the pier for the priest’s blessing, young Alison to the front, her red curls dancing as she angled her head and aimed the champagne bottle at the bow. Frank looked on from beneath the peak of his cap, his pride evidenced in the outward thrust of his chest, his hands remaining stubbornly in his pockets while neighbours and fishing colleagues clapped Sean on the back and shook his hand.

  His own man now, Sean hadn’t seemed to notice, his whole attention fixed on the boat: the pristine wheelhouse, the high pot hauler, every part of him aching, itching, she knew, to feel her yielding on the water beneath him.

  Alison had wanted it raised after, hauled from the depths. But Maryanne had been fixed in her opposition, knowing that had the wreck been recovered then this memory, this day, would have sunk in its place to the sea bed. No, she would remember her son and The Maryanne exactly as she saw them that day: strong, pioneering, invincible.

  * * *

  She would lodge the money, Alison decided, collect her ring and then take William for a celebratory meal. She parked at the top of the dirt track and half-ran the short path to his camper. ‘William?’ She knocked on the door. ‘William?’ She looked out over the slumbering sea while she waited. ‘William?’ No answer. She tried the handle. Locked. Maybe he’s swimming, she thought, following the cliff path to the outcrop and looking down into the cove below. It was deserted. She drove down to the main beach, but couldn’t see him anywhere. He wasn’t in the shop. She tried Phil’s, bought some cigarettes. No William. Climbing back into the jeep, she turned for town. She had been looking forward to sharing the evening with him, telling him about her great windfall and the book and how well it was going, about the optimism she felt when she woke each morning – hurrying breakfast, rushing to the beach with the dogs, hungry, like a young lover, to get everything out of the way so that she could indulge in the dream that had finally been given light.

  His body weeping a cold sweat, William lay on the bed, pain burning his hip and lower back. His mouth, dry and open, begged a drink. Blankets tight around him, he couldn’t control the shivers that rippled through his body. Neither could he chase the image of Helene, naked on that crack house bed, her eyes, dark and staring and pained with loss.

  * * *

  The evening sun blushing the sky at her back, Alison sat in the kitchen window and twirled the newly polished engagement ring around on her finger. It winked up at her, happy to be back where it belonged. She felt restless, felt an urgency to share her good fortune, to speak it out loud and make it more than the dream she feared she’d awake from. She looked out towards the sea, her eyes straying in the direction of Tra na Leon. Surely William would be back by now.

  Ten minutes later she was at his door, knocking and calling his name. She tried the handle. Still locked. She sighed and turned for home.

  * * *

  When Tom O’Donnell reached his home in Killybegs just before ten that night, Sean was waiting for him at the kitchen table. He passed a sleeping Daniel to his mother Ella, who took him upstairs to bed. Tom drew a bottle of Paddy’s from the side dresser and p
laced two tumblers on the table.

  ‘Hannah? Is she tall? Is she like me?’

  ‘I didn’t see her, she’s away for the summer – in London, with her aunt.’

  ‘London? Jesus, she’s hardly old enough to—’

  ‘I don’t think it’s for ye to judge, Sean.’ Weary from the journey, Tom hadn’t the energy to disguise the impatience in his voice. ‘Ye haven’t been there. Ye don’t know how things have been. Alison seems a strong and capable woman, I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.’ Tom sighed, dropping into the chair.

  ‘Did she mention me?’ Sean’s dark eyes searched every inch of Tom’s face, his whole body straining towards him across the table.

  ‘No. No, she just spoke a wee bit about the place, about the sea. She seems proud of Hannah. A real beauty, according to her mother, and wilful with it.’ Tom held the whiskey a moment on his tongue, relishing its burn.

  ‘She always was,’ Sean smiled, fingering his beard. ‘Right from the day we brought her home she made herself heard. She demanded a lot from Alison. How did she look, Alison? How would you say she’s doing?’

  ‘I can’t understand how ye left a woman like that behind.’ He shook his head, remembering the shy dip of her head, the rich red hair. ‘She was shy, didn’t give much away. But ye’d know she was strong, ye know. No fool.’ Tom laughed then. ‘She’d be no great shakes at poker, though! Ye’d want to have seen her face when I offered the five grand – the two big eyes nearly jumped out of her head!’

  ‘There was always a lot of the girl in Alison. Well, in the early years anyway, before I wore it out of her.’ He swirled the whiskey glass in his hand, looked into its golden depths as if searching the past.

  ‘She looked really well, Sean. Healthy. Happy with life, I’d say.’

  ‘And the place?’

  ‘A bit neglected from the outside. Could do with a painting up. But the kitchen had a homely feel – even though I’d say she had half the stones from the beach inside it. She had a lot of pictures of ye on the walls.’ Tom sat back in his chair, drew a hand across his eyes before fixing them again on Sean. ‘She hasn’t forgotten ye.’