Finding Alison Page 8

  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.

  Five

  Alison let her eyes wander over the stack of CDs on the sun-faded carpet, the electric guitar, the straw sun hat perched on the bed post, the knapsack and school bag bulging from the space between the wardrobe and wall. Well, at least she had made an effort to tidy before she left, she smiled. Sitting on the bed she smoothed a palm across the pillow and inhaled deeply, chasing Hannah’s smell. Eight days now since Hannah had left for London and not an hour went by that Alison didn’t agonise whether, in her haste, she had made the right decision. It had all happened so quickly: Hannah was in the air before Alison had fully realised she had let her go. She hadn’t even wholly made up her mind that day when she had called to the travel agents. It was seeing Hannah in the nursing home that evening that had finally sealed it. She had watched from the door of the dayroom, her hand clutched to her throat as if fighting the lump there that threatened to choke her. Hannah standing behind Maryanne’s chair, her head resting on her shoulder, arms clasped tightly round her grandmother’s neck, and the two pairs of eyes, one more lost, more pained than the other.

  Alison’s mind shot to that moment at Departures, Hannah gripping her in a childlike hug – their first real physical contact in what seemed like forever. Alison had wanted to melt into her, to cancel all plans and turn back for home. Hannah then, gently pulling away, her excitement and frantic prattle failing to hide her trepidation.

  She straightened the two teddy bears against the pillow. Hannah was safe and well settled in – and so happy, if her voice on the telephone last night was anything to go by. She had a truly wonderful summer ahead of her and Alison had no doubt that Claire would spare nothing to make it a holiday that Hannah would remember for the rest of her life. And Kathleen was right. Alison had given her that opportunity and she should be proud of herself, proud of her strength as a mother. And she would make Hannah proud of her, too. When she returned, Alison would be different, stronger. She would use this time to sort out her life, get rid of that gnawing resentment, the dark negativity that had come to stalk her every step. She rose from the bed, closed the bedroom door softly behind her, refusing to entertain the gaping emptiness inside her.

  Back in her own room, she unclasped her hair and the fiery curls danced below her shoulders, framing her cheeks. The blue shirt accentuated her full bosom when she tucked its tails inside the waistband of her jeans. Bit too ‘woman on the make’, she decided, pulling the shirt free and letting it hang loose. She wasn’t particularly in the mood for the scene in the local pub – and why did Kathleen have to invite May, of all people! Alison could picture it: Kathleen would have met her in the street or somewhere, mentioned they were going out, listened to May’s troubles, felt sorry for her and asked her to come along. Typical Kathleen – and typical May, to wheedle her way in when it suited her! Now they’d have to watch every word they uttered – that’s if they got a chance to utter anything over May’s incessant gabble about Paul’s affair and the woes of being a newly separated thirty-something.

  ‘Come on, that house will close in around you,’ Kathleen had urged when she’d rung to ask how Hannah was settling in. Alison had declined, but Kathleen persisted, adding how she was missing Rob and could really do with some company. ‘Come on, Alison, do me a favour, please?’ Kathleen had been so good about the whole Hannah incident, how could she refuse her? But now May? She sighed, strapped on her watch. Quarter to nine. She topped up the dogs’ water bowl and locked them into the back kitchen. She’d walk the ten minutes to Phil’s. It was still bright and the fresh air would help to lift her tiredness. She could grab a lift home with Kathleen.

  The small thatched pub was already full. The dance of the banjo and the heat hit Alison like a burst of life when she opened the door. Kathleen and May waved from their table under the window. Maybe it’s not so bad to get out after all, she smiled to herself, ignoring the heads that turned to look at her as she made her way through the crowd to join them.

  ‘Alison, you’re looking wonderful! What’s your tipple?’ May, her blonde bob waxed and teased to within an inch of its life, stood and kissed the air either side of Alison’s face. That perfume could strip walls, Alison thought, catching her breath.

  ‘We’re in for a long one, girl, so what’s
it to be?’

  God, how long’s she been here, Alison wondered. Kathleen, reading her mind, threw her eyes to heaven and patted the stool beside her.

  ‘Budweiser, please – a bottle.’

  May tottered to the counter on her high red heels.

  ‘She had an early start,’ Kathleen confided. ‘Paul called to see the children this evening and they had a massive row. Poor May – she’d secretly hoped the whole thing would’ve fizzled out by now, that he’d have come back, tail between his legs.’

  ‘I can’t believe she’d even consider having him back.’

  ‘Well, I suppose everyone deserves a second chance.’

  ‘Including Rob?’ Alison smiled. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still giving the poor guy the cold shoulder.’

  ‘Rob’s not . . . ssh, here she comes, I don’t want her knowing any of this. So, how’s Hannah doing?’

  They chatted and laughed over the music. It seemed an age to Alison since she’d done this. There’s still life in the old place, she thought, finishing her second bottle and moving to the bar to order a round. The music stopped and the guitar player called on Bill Fleming for a song. The old man turned from his pint at the counter, palmed his cap and began:

  From pigtails to wedding veils

  From petticoats to lace . . .

  A lump lodged itself in Alison’s throat. She leaned her elbows on the counter and rested her chin on the heels of her hands. This was her father’s song. The one he would sing to herself and Claire all those years ago when he’d tuck them into bed at night.

  So slow up

  Don’t rush to grow up

  Stay awhile

  In the special years.

  Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. Her smiling face at the airport, the anxiety in the set of her mouth at Departures, the smell of her lingering on Alison’s shirt sleeve on the journey back home, alone in the car. The room burst into applause, saving her, calling her back. She took a deep breath and, turning her head to attract the barmaid’s attention, Alison half jumped at the sight of William Hayden sitting at the end of the bar, his eyes smiling through her as if reading her soul. He lifted his glass and nodded his head in greeting. Alison returned a tight smile and looked away in embarrassment.

  ‘Who’s your man at the bar?’ Kathleen couldn’t wait till Alison was seated.

  ‘Oh, he’s some old guy, I don’t know, camping out up at Tra na Leon. Thinks he owns the place!’

  * * *

  Hannah sat cross-legged on the white bedcover, fingering the iPhone, its purple metallic case dancing under the lamplight. A ‘welcome’ present from Claire, it was the very latest model, the most expensive. Grainne White would turn green when she saw it!

  She stretched out on the bed. It had been nice of Claire to turn it around so that it faced the same way as her bed at home. It did help her sleep better. She hadn’t slept through a full night yet, but at least now she wasn’t waking with a start in the dead of night, her heart pounding as she fought to figure out where she was, another version of that awful dream of Peter O’Neill fading as she came to.

  She left the bed and padded to the window. Down below Claire and Grandad were sitting at the table on the small patio – an exact replica of the empty one next door. Claire was explaining something, her hands working in backwards circles, Grandad throwing his head back, laughing.

  She picked up the whelk shell from the window sill, felt its rough curves. She had carried it all the way from the beach at Carniskey – a kind of link to home, to Mum. She brought it to her ear now, the thunder of the sea pulling her lips to a smile; then to her nose, its neutral smell causing her to lick it, searching its salt, before placing it back on the windowsill and returning her attention to the patio below. Claire did look like Mum: the hair, the eyes. A plumper, happier, more-alive Mum.

  Mum would be visiting Nan again today, at least that’s what she had said on the phone last night. Hannah had asked her to give Nan her love, knowing while she said it that it was useless, stupid. She pictured her mum, sitting there in the nursing home, holding Nan’s hand and talking on and on as if some big tide of words would somehow lift Nan back from wherever she had gone. Hannah just couldn’t understand how her mum did it. Day in, day out, sitting in that place. She knew she couldn’t. She knew too that she would never be able to put into words how she felt, seeing Nan there but not there. How that stare in Nan’s eyes made her shiver with fear, with loneliness – just like after Dad died.

  Mum didn’t seem to mind, though. Sometimes she even thought that Mum liked it, that she was attracted in some weird way to sad things. Maybe, Hannah thought, it made her feel closer to Dad, maybe it was her way of holding on to him.

  Hannah couldn’t understand anyone thinking like that. As far as she was concerned, once someone was gone they were gone. You just shut it out, shut the whole thing out. That’s why she had decided not to use Claire’s laptop today to check her Facebook account. She was tired of Aoife’s messages about Peter O’Neill and Pamela. They could go to hell, the two of them. What did she care? She waved down to Claire who was beckoning her from the patio.

  * * *

  The musicians were packing away their gear, a few of the locals conducting their own singsong – a mixture of comeallyas and rebel rousers – when May returned from the Ladies, her eyes puffed and red. ‘One for the road?’ she slurred to the barman, cleaning the tables.

  ‘Sorry, love, it’s well gone time.’ He hurried on to the next table.

  ‘Come on, May, best be getting home,’ a sober Kathleen urged. ‘The babysitter’ll be getting itchy to go.’

  ‘Home?’ May’s pitch was high and hostile. ‘I haven’t got a home, Kathleen! Not any more, and that Purcell slut cosying up with my Paul somewhere . . . ’

  ‘C’mon, May, it’s not so bad, we’ll talk in the car,’ Alison soothed. She could feel the eyes on them, could sense the gossips smelling out a little late-night entertainment.

  ‘Not so BAD? And what would you know about it? It’s all right for you, at least your fella’s dead. He’s gone. Safe from the clutches of the likes of that Purcell vulture and her—’

  ‘May, please—’

  ‘You’re a widow. There’s some dignity in that. You don’t have to lie in bed wondering where he is, what he’s up to.’ She grasped the side of the table with both hands, her narrowed eyes piercing Alison. ‘You can strut around the place like a half lunatic but no one’s pointing the finger at you saying, “Oh, there she is, so washed up she couldn’t even keep her own man!”’

  Alison squirmed under the spotlight of the silence and the forty pairs of eyes she imagined boring through the back of her head. She reached for her cardigan and handbag, a hot fire burning behind her eyes.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift.’ Kathleen’s gentle voice threatened to unplug the dam in her heart.

  ‘Thanks, Kathleen. I’d prefer to walk.’ She almost knocked over a stool in her rush to the door. It had been a mistake to come out. She should have known better. Nothing ever changed in this place.

  She crossed the road and negotiated the dark passageway to the beach. Her eyes accustomed to the blackness, she walked along the dry sand to the clutter of rocks on the right. She knew every inch of this place. Knew it and loved it even more in the dark than in the glare of daylight. And it knew her – and every secret and longing stored at the root of her.

  Her heart swelled and fell with the rhythm of the waves, swelling and crashing, swelling and calling, her dry eyes locked on the dark horizon. Slipping off her shoes, she soft-stepped towards the water. The wet yielding sand gripped at her bare feet – childlike, impatient in its wanting, its yearning to claim her. She stood at the water’s edge, at the tail of silver ribbon the moon had spun out across the still sea. She imagined it was a spotlight, a search light, and Sean was holding it, out there at the other end, searching, calling for her. The waves were his whisper, the tide all the time drawing back, making room, tempting her on. And in its retr
eat, revealing what lay beneath. Rocks emerged, and they became people – her mother, her grandfather, calling to her. Oh, the sea knew her well. Slowly, slowly, drawing back, revealing its own and her own depths.

  Her loose jeans rolled easily over her knees. She stepped slowly from them. A few paces forward, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound, that mighty, hypnotic echo-sound of the sea. She imagined a huge cavern out beyond the horizon from where the tide sprung and to where it returned every night at dark, offering up the treasures it had seduced into joining it. She could picture its vast blue-green interior, an Aladdin’s cave of old ships and bounty. And Sean there, waiting for her.

  The wet sand clung tighter now, a more adult desperation in its grip. Alison paced forward, her heels sinking deeper, deeper, the breaking waves caressing and licking her bare thighs.

  The strong hand on her shoulder broke her reverie. She turned her head slowly and stared into his dark eyes. He didn’t speak but, holding her gaze, turned her towards him. His arm gently around her shoulders he took her cold hand in his and led her from the water. William took off his jacket and draped it around her. ‘Come on, you’re cold – I’ll take you home.’ Her whole body trembling, he helped her step into her jeans and shoes and then led her silently up the beach and through the black passageway. ‘Which way?’ he coaxed, his arm firmly fixed around her shaking frame. He followed her lead, past the pub, up the hill from the village and in around to the back door, neither of them uttering a word.

  * * *

  ‘Don’t mollycoddle the lad!’ Frank’s words echoed back to Maryanne, as sharp in memory as they had been in life, and with them came the picture of one particular September evening. Sean would have been, what, eight, maybe nine? School was just back after summer and Sean was fighting to keep his eyes open over his homework at the kitchen table. He had been out with Frank since five that morning, shifting pots ahead of the oncoming storm – had got in barely with time for breakfast before heading to school. ‘We need to get down and tighten that mooring.’ Frank grabbed his hat from the hook on the back door, Sean almost tripping over his chair in his rush to join him. ‘We need to get down . . . ’ He could never address the child by his name, had seldom uttered it since that first night at the hospital – God forbid he’d show any bit of a feeling, or ‘weakness’, as he’d class it himself! Sean, struggling into his coat then, his arms stretched and tightened beyond their years from hauling pots, pulling nets. Sometimes Maryanne felt that Frank didn’t see a boy at all but a man the age and strength of himself. And why wouldn’t he, the way that poor Sean would master every task he set him, completing it quicker and better than someone twice his age. She would often notice the way the child would stand back then, dark eyes stealing sideways from the work to his father, a hand in his soft curls hiding his face, his whole being straining for those few words of praise that never came. ‘That’ll do,’ was the closest Frank was ever able to come to it.