Finding Alison Page 7

‘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 mar
ched 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 App
le 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 . . .