Finding Alison Page 9

  ‘But Frank, his homework – and can’t you see the boy needs his bed, he’s fit to drop,’ she’d protested that evening.

  ‘Don’t mollycoddle the lad!’

  * * *

  ‘Go and put on something dry,’ William urged as they stood in the moonlit kitchen. ‘I’ll fill the kettle, you’ll need something to warm you up.’ Like a lost child she moved down the darkness of the hallway and into the bedroom. William felt for a switch and turned on the kitchen light. He found the kettle, filled it with water and plugged it in. Leaning back against the counter, he took in the room. The sea occupied the whole of its length. The blue walls were stencilled with shells and fish. Stones, shells and driftwood occupied every window ledge, shelf and press top. The centre light over the kitchen table could have come straight from a captain’s cabin. Old glass buoys, green and blue, hung in their netting from the thick wooden beams supporting the ceiling. A four-foot lighthouse, crafted from driftwood, occupied the centre of the front bay window. The window to the side housed a large desk and computer, a sea of papers and clippings littering the surrounding floor space. Although the room was warm William sensed a familiar cold, an emptiness around him as he stood looking out at the moon lighting the sea beyond. He studied the photographs framing the window. The same face, at varying ages, looked back at him from every one. A handsome face, tanned and healthy, the eyes alive with youth and energy. In most of the photos he wore his fishing gear, yellow oilskins and a navy cap. The tilt of his head, the lopsided smile and the way his strong hands held a salmon, a mooring rope, a lobster, all shouted of his pride and abandon in his work.

  ‘That’s Sean.’ Her quiet words startled William and he spun around to find her in the doorway. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, its rich red accentuated by the white oversized dressing gown.

  ‘Sean?’ He stepped towards her, his brow creased. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Alison, but not to be confused with the wonderland variety.’ She stepped past him to the front window and flicked a switch setting the huge lighthouse aglow, its soft red light casting a warm beam across the room.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Alison. To finally know your name.’ William watched her. Trance-like, she gazed out the window.

  ‘You can see this light, you know, all the way from Helvic Head, over there.’ He followed her finger out into the darkness. ‘I’ve lit this every night of every year since Sean was lost. Out there. Hannah and I, we put it together that November.’

  ‘Hannah?’

  ‘My daughter. She’s in London. And I need a drink.’ She turned swiftly from the window.

  ‘I’ve boiled the kettle . . . ’

  ‘No tea and sympathy, thanks. There’s only one cure for the sea’s salty bite.’ She bent at the sink and opened the cupboard below. A bottle of Jameson’s in hand, she took two glasses from the overhead press and switched off the kitchen light, bathing the whole room in the soft, warm glow of the lighthouse. She sat at the table. ‘You’ll join me?’ She motioned to a chair opposite and poured two generous measures. William took the seat offered, raised his glass.

  ‘To Alison,’ he smiled. ‘Are you warming up?’

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ Her head was bent, her two hands hugging the glass.

  ‘I left the pub just after you, was making my way up the track when I noticed you.’

  ‘The sea, sometimes it calls me.’ She took a fast gulp of the burning liquid.

  ‘You really love it, don’t you, the sea?’ Not one day had gone by since he’d come here that he hadn’t seen her on the beach.

  ‘I should hate it. It’s taken everything from me. And it still roars for more.’ She emptied the glass in two short bursts and promptly refilled it. ‘It’s like it had claimed me.’

  ‘Have you lived here always?’

  ‘The love affair with this place began when I was just fifteen years old. I moved here at twenty. Packed in college, my degree, the lot, to answer its call.’ She lit a cigarette, moved her gaze to William.

  ‘You’ve not been here before. Will you stay long?’

  ‘Just a couple of months, but yeah, I can see the attraction.’

  ‘It’s much more than that.’ A dark passion lit her eyes. ‘It’s an obsession. And the loneliness and longing it stirs in you binds you to it, like it owns you.’ The melancholic resignation in her young voice drew him like a magnet. He wanted to know her more, to know and share the secrets of that sadness haunting her green eyes. And in their haunting, he glimpsed Helene.

  ‘Where are you from?’ The passion had deserted her voice.

  ‘Dublin, originally. Then Paris, Montpellier, parts of Italy, Spain. I’ve moved about a lot.’

  ‘And I have walked the same stretch of sand for the last seventeen years.’

  ‘Must get lonely here in winter.’ He sought out her darkness.

  ‘Winter’s my favourite time. Grey and wet. Wild and deserted. You can hide in the greyness, you know. And it soothes the longing. Makes you feel at home in yourself.’ She looked away into the distance before continuing. ‘No pressure in winter to be part of a busy world. Winter is the soul’s season. It can shine in the quiet, the anonymous darkness.’

  ‘Why can’t it shine in the sunlight?’ William urged her on.

  ‘Because then you’re certified. Crazy. It’s under the spotlight and everyone’s picking at it. No, mine lives in the greys and the blacks.’

  ‘You’re a writer?’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I’ve seen you, on the beach.’

  ‘A writer? I wish! No, it’s taken that from me too.’ Her face grew hard.

  ‘And Sean. How long . . . ’

  ‘Do you always ask so many bloody questions?’ Her sudden hostility startled him.

  ‘Forgive me . . . maybe it’s time I left. I . . . ’

  ‘No! Please, stay a while.’ Her fingers were on his arm, her eyes filled with childlike pleading. She topped up his glass, drained her own and then coloured it again with the golden liquid. Her step was unsteady as she rose from the table.

  ‘Do you like music?’

  ‘Some.’

  She flicked on the stereo. The Marriage of Figaro haunted the room. She turned up the volume and, eyes closed, moved like an ethereal spirit across the floor, her arms and hips slowly undulating to the music’s melancholy strains. Her head, slightly back, was tilted to one side like a ghost of Venus, the full lips slightly parted in longing and promise, her long red curls a flame licking her shoulders and back. William looked on open-mouthed, entranced.

  ‘Dance with me, William.’ Arms stretched towards him, she twirled and giggled, almost landing in his lap.

  ‘Thanks,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll sit this one out.’

  ‘Come on!’ She tugged at his hands, twirled under the bow of his outstretched arm.

  ‘Oh God . . . ’ She rushed from the kitchen. He hesitated a moment before following her out into the hall. He heard the retch from behind the bathroom door.

  ‘Alison?’ He knocked gently, pushed back the door. ‘Alison?’

  She was on her knees at the toilet bowl, the long robe trailing behind her.

  ‘Alison, you okay?’

  She retched again. He moved gingerly towards her and taking her hair in his hands held it behind her neck.

  ‘Please, just leave me alone.’

  He passed her some tissue and flushed the bowl. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’ When he returned from the kitchen, she was sitting on the floor, her back to the radiator, knees bunched up under her chin.

  ‘Drink this.’ He handed her the glass, wet a flannel under the cold tap and folding it, pressed it to her forehead. He hadn’t noticed the silent tears slow-winding down her cheeks.

  ‘Alison, it’s okay, maybe you should lie down . . . ’

  ‘It’s not okay! It’ll never again be okay. Just leave me, please.’

  ‘But I don’t . . . ’

  ‘Just get
out of my house! Go. Get out and leave me alone!’ She hurled the glass at the wall, threw down the flannel and fled to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  William bent and gathered the shards of glass, the tiny slivers of anger and hurt glittering on the bathroom floor. With a heaviness in his heart and step, he closed the back door and disappeared into the velvet night.

  * * *

  Lilies or sunflowers? Rob fingered the coins in his pockets. He was already late for work. Lilies or sunflowers? If you were to give him a thousand, he couldn’t remember which were her favourite. But he was certain of one thing: his big mistake had been leaving it three days before making contact. He had thought he would give her some time to cool down, put the whole thing into perspective, miss him. He had been stubborn, yes, but by God he had found out to his cost that she beat him hands down in that department, too.

  If he had that time back over again, he would have camped out on her doorstep that night, would have refused point-blank to leave until she had taken him in – if only out of embarrassment. He had seen it played out in a movie once, it had worked for that guy.

  He scraped his fingers through his hair. It was almost two weeks since he had seen her now – if you didn’t count that evening he’d bumped into her in the shop. She had seen him come in, he knew it. Knew it by the way she had suddenly leaned into Jamie’s football coach, all pals and laughs over the deli counter. Kathleen couldn’t stand that guy! He remembered her saying once that the reason he drove a soft top was because no car with a roof could house that ego. The swing of her hips then as she sashayed up to the counter, all the time pretending she hadn’t seen him in the frozen food aisle.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she’d answered when he had caught her at the door and asked how herself and Jamie were doing. But her eyes weren’t as quick as her tongue and something in them, something missing from them, gave him his first flutter of hope in over a week.

  ‘Well, have you decided?’ The florist’s impatience, impeded by her fixed smile, found its way out in the flick of her wrist as she ran the blade of her scissors along the length of red ribbon, curling it like the peel of an apple.

  ‘Can you mix lilies and sunflowers?’

  Six

  William had fallen into a deep sleep in the late afternoon, his hip and his racing thoughts having kept him awake through most of the previous night. He didn’t hear the soft knock on the camper door. It was the dogs barking excitedly around the gorse that eventually roused him.

  ‘Alison?’

  ‘Oh, I thought you were out.’ She turned around, retraced her steps. She had been relieved when she’d received no answer. Deciding to come here and face her embarrassment was one thing, going through with it was another. She lifted her head, her eyes for a second meeting his as she thrust the bunch of wild daises into his hand. ‘An apology – for last night?’

  ‘I was sleeping, sorry. Really, there’s no need.’ His eyes were shadowed, making him look older, wearied.

  ‘Will you come in?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m taking the dogs to Sliabh Carraig, they’ve been cooped up all morning.’

  ‘Right. How are you feeling?’ he risked.

  ‘Miserable.’ She lowered her head. ‘Tired, sick, foolish, confused – all of the above.’ She grinned her despair, her shoulders rising then falling with her sigh. An awkward silence and she turned to leave.

  ‘Is it far – the mountain?’

  ‘About five miles. I’ll go, sorry to have woken you. Catch you again and, well, sorry.’

  ‘Alison!’ He called to her back. ‘Fancy some company?’ Facing him after last night couldn’t have been easy – the way she had herself hidden away in that big man’s jacket screamed her discomfort. She hesitated a moment before turning again to face him.

  ‘If you don’t mind the incessant yelping on the way, sure.’ Her smile was uncertain, timid almost.

  ‘I’ll just get a jacket.’ He disappeared into the van. The pregnant sky stooped in conspiratorial whisper to the rising sea. ‘Bring a hat,’ she called after him through the open door. ‘Rain’s not far off.’

  ‘Is it your hip?’ Alison motioned to the walking stick in William’s hand.

  ‘Yeah. I didn’t figure you as a mountain person,’ he remarked, steering the conversation away from the pain that knifed his hip as he raised himself into the passenger seat.

  ‘I’m not usually.’ She started up the jeep. ‘Just felt I needed to get away from the sea for a bit. Plus, it’s a change for the dogs.’

  ‘I’ve never been up there – hope you don’t mind me tagging along.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Alison smiled. ‘You can help me keep these two under control.’ She was grateful to this stranger who had cared enough to see her safely home last night. And the way she had treated him after . . . That familiar burn of humiliation heated her chest.

  ‘They’re beauties – have you had them long?’ He had learned from last night to keep the conversation light, was wary of upsetting her or causing offence with his curiosity.

  ‘Tilly five years – she was a birthday present for Hannah. And she presented us with Tim and five others last July.’

  Driving slowly towards the mountain, Alison enjoyed the easy small talk, the light silences. She felt strangely at home with this almost stranger.

  ‘We’ll leave the jeep here, maybe walk as far as the waterfall?’ Alison pointed towards the long white fingers of water massaging the mountain face in the distance. She eased into a neat parking space. There weren’t many cars for a Sunday, the sky’s threatening greys probably keeping many indoors.

  ‘Wow, what a beautiful spot.’ William tugged on his jacket and joined her as she released the straining dogs from the boot. Carpets of purple and blue heathers softened the craggy ground, long haired elders and tight curled lambs dotting the hills and dips. Pulled back on themselves by the wind, the whitethorn bushes in the distance put him in mind of reluctant brides.

  ‘You should see it on a bright day.’ Alison zipped her jacket, shoving her hands into its generous pockets.

  ‘Won’t they bother them?’ William worried as the dogs raced ahead in the direction of the disinterested sheep.

  ‘No, I think they’re afraid of them. They’ll investigate nothing bigger than a rabbit. Cowards, the two of them.’ They laughed companionably as they slow-strolled the path to the waterfall.

  ‘This old man’s going to have to sit down.’ William sighed as they neared the frantic foam fall. He eased himself onto a large, flat rock, the walking stick held in both hands between his legs. Alison turned off the path and, squatting down, began to pluck at the blue and purple blooms.

  ‘You like flowers?’

  ‘Wild ones, yes. I admire their stamina, their independence. There’s a spirit and beauty in them that the greenhouse variety don’t have. A real survivor’s life force, I suppose.’

  ‘You could be describing yourself.’ William voiced his impression as he took in the wild red curls tumbling over her shoulders. There was a wildness and vulnerability about her, a strength and a kind of sad delicacy in the wiry frame lost in the bulky wax jacket. Her face reddened and she bent her head in fake concentration. Neither spoke, each enjoying the quiet solitude, the easy togetherness, the company of their own thoughts.

  ‘Just listen to the power in the roar of that water.’ Alison joined him on the rock, a bunch of wild heathers held lightly in her hand. The rush and urgency of the water’s fall filled the still air.

  ‘You came here to get away from the sea.’ William turned to face her. ‘But the water seems to move with you.’

  ‘She moves with me.’ Alison’s green eyes locked on his. ‘And in me.’ That look was in her eyes again. That haunting.

  ‘Why refer to the sea as “she”?’ William held her gaze.

  ‘I know what she is.’ Her words were hushed, as though confiding a secret. ‘I’ve witnessed her gentle seductions, her flirting and teasing. That hypnotic allure
. And her manic and desperate hold. She’s the ultimate mistress, William.’ She nodded her head slowly, her gaze shifting back in the direction of the ocean. ‘With her gentle comforts, her whispers of adventure, freedom and danger.’ She broke off, as if reluctant, afraid of being overheard. When she spoke again her voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘Her kiss-smack on a stern is really a lick of his soul; her undulating beneath the boat, an erotic promise and teasing. The way she will spurn him in winter and laugh, thrusting herself at the cliffs. And he’ll watch from the shoreline, straining to touch her, to feel her yielding curves beneath him. Then he’ll shut down his heart to all around him. And wait. Wait and hope through the darkness of winter for spring and her opening and invitation.’ Her words tapered off, her gaze moving to the waterfall. ‘That’s the Carraig fall,’ she offered, pointing. ‘It rushes all the way from here to Carniskey and empties itself into the ocean at the left-hand side of the bay.’

  ‘Seems urgent in its journey.’ William studied her profile. ‘Under her seductive spell as well?’ He was entranced by her personalisation of the sea and its wanton appetite.