A Grand Old Time Page 23

  Brendan fixed his eyes on the road ahead.

  ‘I am so sorry, Brendan.’

  He couldn’t remember the last time she had apologised to him, but he was thinking of an interview at St Cillian’s and how it could be a new start. He was thinking of Penny and her Sam scuba-diving together, Sam proposing and Penny accepting, a Christmas wedding. The hills rose higher on both sides of him and he felt penned in. He gritted his teeth. His eyes hurt.

  They drove for an hour in silence, Maura looking at her hands or rummaging in her handbag, Brendan staring at the road, lost in thought. She picked up the road map and flicked through the pages. She paused on one page, took off her sunglasses and stared hard at the map.

  ‘Brendan?’ Her voice was suddenly sharp, inquisitive.

  He grunted.

  ‘Didn’t you say your mother said she was staying in a cave?’

  He grunted again.

  ‘It’s just, well, here on the map, there are some caves. Maybe she is living near there. What did she say exactly?’

  He sighed. ‘That she was living in a cave.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘I’m driving, Maura—’

  ‘Caves, near Foix. Rivière souterraine de … La-bou-iche. Underground. River. Caves.’

  Brendan glanced at the map. ‘Where are these caves?’

  ‘Just outside Foix. We pass right by them. What do you think?’

  ‘Perhaps there’s a house nearby. Worth a try,’ Brendan admitted. ‘If it’s on the way, we’ll stop in and ask. She might be living near there. We have plenty of time. But she’d be so surprised to see us. I can just imagine the smile on her face as she answers the door.’

  Maura dismissed the image of Brendan and his mother rejoicing, found a CD and put it on. She sat back in her seat looking pleased with herself and rummaged in her handbag, finding a packet of mints. She unwrapped two, putting one in her mouth and popping one in Brendan’s before offering him a bright smile, pushing on her sunglasses and sliding down in her seat.

  The temperature had dropped considerably and his skin prickled with cold. Brendan was encased in darkness and a steady dripping came from a distance. Maura stood at his shoulder. Rocks rose on either side of them, gnarled carbuncles, scored pictures of bison in black and red on the smoother surfaces. Lights illuminated corners and brought the cave drawings into sharp focus, and Brendan imagined how uncomplicated and pleasant life must have been centuries before. His hands were icy, a chill sat in his shoulders. He’d almost expected to see Evie sitting at the kiosk, selling the tickets, but no-one had seen an Irish woman living nearby.

  They followed the guide, past white stalactites that hung like daggers overhead, to a bridge. There were waterfalls splashing on either side of them, the flow pooling surf-white and spreading towards darker greys and blues as the water stilled. They crossed the bridge, Maura then Brendan then several other tourists moving single file into the gaping mouth of another cavern. It became dark and there were pendulous nodules, swellings and shiny tissues hanging from a curved ceiling, like being inside an enormous throat. The smell of damp became a wheeze in his chest. The darkness opened; there was the sound of crashing water and they walked into a dreamy blue light. A little boat was waiting for them and they clambered in, packing tightly, while the guide explained that they were in Europe’s longest navigable underground river. The water reflected a magical sheen of turquoise and azure and emerald on the rocks. As the boat moved through the still river, the glow caught on Maura’s face and illuminated her expression, her eyes shining. The boat took them inside a gorge, golden and scored deeply with time, blue rocks emerging from shadow. Refractive light lapped against the rocks.

  ‘All those years ago, how those people must have lived.’ Maura was clutching the guide booklet and bending the page, looking at the English translation. ‘We take so much for granted in our lives, don’t we? The beauty of those caves … how tough their lives would have been just to survive.’

  After a moment, Brendan spoke. ‘I am glad we stopped here. It would have been awful to have missed out on this place.’

  He started the car. Neither of them spoke until they arrived in Foix. They drove around for half an hour but there was no sign of an Irish bar. Brendan asked a passer-by, who just shook his head and walked away. At Maura’s suggestion, they stopped at a restaurant to eat and asked the waiter, who did not know. Halfway through their meal, the patron came out with a map and showed Brendan the way to an Irish bar, back the way they had come. He said it was called O’Driscoll’s and was near Saint-Girons. Brendan’s heart lifted and Maura’s eyes darted from the map to his face, gauging his thoughts.

  Two hours later they were still driving around Saint-Girons. Finally Brendan parked the Panda opposite O’Driscoll’s and went over to the dingy-looking building with the dark door. The paint was peeling off in strips. He pushed the door but it wouldn’t open. Maura was at his shoulder. He pushed again and then pulled hard, just in case it opened the other way. It would not give. Maura pointed to a sign which said: ‘Fermé. Deux jours de congé’.

  O’Driscoll’s was closed, and would not open for two days.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Evie could not sleep. The night was warm and she pushed the duvet away. It was so deeply dark in the countryside; the window was wide open but the room had no light. Jean-Luc was asleep, breathing softly, and she lay against the vast wall of his back. His skin was cold. She moved the duvet to cover him.

  Sleep would not come. She was searching for links to her lucky number. Four. He was not born on the fourth day, nor in the fourth month. His birthday was in November, the seventh; 1941 had a four in it, but that didn’t count. His name had seven letters. There was no way she could make her lucky number four work with Jean-Luc. But they were lucky nevertheless. Her luck had changed and her lucky number with it. Perhaps seven would be her lucky number now.

  It was almost five in the morning, according to the little red numbers on the alarm clock. Dawn creased the skies, the familiar reds and purples blended with the darkness over the hills. She made plans for decorating the other bedrooms, to paint the walls sail-white and raise long curtains which would billow in the breeze.

  She thought about Cave Bonheur in winter, the old house with its thick cob walls, a huge log fire in the living room, Jean-Luc singing and playing guitar, a stew simmering on the kitchen range. She put out her hand, feeling the warmth of his cheek and the curve of his mouth. He mumbled and rolled over onto his back, his arm wrapping around her, and she nestled her head in the indentation of his shoulder. There was a fluttering in the window and Evie raised her eyes. She could make out a rounded stare, unblinking and still, looking at her from the window ledge. There was another flurry of feathers. The owl shook out its wings but was still there. She rolled closer to Jean-Luc, closed her eyes and smiled.

  When she awoke, there was an empty space beside her. He was gone and it was past ten. She stretched and felt the breeze from the open window against her skin and she wriggled out of the bed and into clothes.

  He was not downstairs, but there was coffee simmering steadily on the range and he had left her some bread and fruit for breakfast and her favourite yogurt.

  She went outside into the bright sunlight; the tractor was still in the barn but his red sports car had gone. She frowned and went back indoors.

  After breakfast, she went into the office, filed a few papers and entered the barn. They would need a new fridge next year, a bigger one for the sparkling wines and perhaps some fine wine glasses. Evie imagined the heavy crystal in her hand, passing the Claret to a customer who would take a mouthful and nod appreciatively. She imagined the pride on Jean-Luc’s face as the customer bought cases of wine and, in her daydream, the barn was light and airy and the tables were fashioned from sturdy oak wood, with knots in the curved legs.

  She went outside to the open barn and climbed onto the tractor. Next spring she would learn to drive it. She gripped the wheel and wag
gled it.

  ‘And I don’t see why not.’ She could learn to help with the harvests and use the machinery as well as anyone else. She could haul in the crop and crush the grapes in the steel tanks, watching the wine gush. She waved an arm in the air, cutting down an imaginary vine as big as a beanstalk, hacking it with a huge sword, leaning out from the tractor.

  ‘Be careful, Evie. Don’t fall.’

  Jean-Luc held out a hand and helped her down. She could manage by herself but he was being kind. He kissed her and she tasted brandy on his lips. She feigned annoyance. ‘Where have you been all this time, you terrible boozing man? In the pub, drinking?’

  He smiled and draped an arm around her.

  ‘I went to town, on business. Afterwards, I saw your friend Ray, in his bar.’

  ‘Oh yes? And what mischief did you both get up to there?’

  ‘I drank one glass with him and then an idea came to me and we shared it. Now we will make the mischief with our own women at home.’

  She frowned. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘After the business, I—’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘Oh, just a few things in town.’ He clutched a little bottle in his hand; Evie took it from him and rattled it loudly.

  ‘What’s this, Jean-Luc?’

  ‘Well, first I saw the doctor, and he gave me vitamins.’

  She gave him the package back. ‘You need vitamins?’

  ‘My doctor says they are good for me. Then I went for a meeting with my accountant and the business is doing very well. I think to myself, this is all because of my little Evie, so I have an idea. I go to see Ray for a drink and I tell him that I think you and I will go away for a little time together and he is jealous, he likes the idea too, so today he takes Paulette and the children for a break at the coast for two days. And you and I are going away now, somewhere special.’

  She was puzzled. ‘Now?’

  ‘We pack the car and go today. It is fine. Benji will look after the grapes for us, and I will call Gaston and some other men from nearby who help sometimes. I will pay them well for extra time. We deserve a celebration.’

  Evie grabbed his hand. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘A place where we can drink txakoli and pacherán; we can eat brebis cheese and cross the border and drive through Spain to Figueres and see the works of Dalí and eat paella and stay in a little place I know in the mountains.’

  ‘Jean-Luc, that’s grand.’

  ‘Let’s do it. Imagine, Evie, we can sit in the sunlight in the Pyrénées Mountains with the sheep and the goats and share a picnic and play guitar, just me and you and nature.’

  Evie hugged him. ‘You may need those vitamins …’

  He thought for a minute, unsure of what she had said, and then he laughed.

  Two hours later, the yellow Panda stopped outside Cave Bonheur and Brendan stared up at the crooked sign. ‘Do you think this is it?’

  ‘The man outside the Irish bar said it was here. This is what he said it was called and it’s a cave, Brendan.’

  Brendan climbed out of the car and went over to peer at the sloping sign. ‘This must be it.’

  ‘I thought he was a lovely man. Irish too. Do you think that he really played his banjo on stage with your mother? He said she had a great singing voice. Can you imagine them singing “Danny Boy” together? I never heard your mother sing.’

  ‘This is it. I think we’ve found her.’

  Maura was still in the car. ‘He didn’t know the Irish bar was closed either. He seemed very disappointed. He knows your mother, though. And he knows her new fancy man.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Maura. They live here. He might hear us.’

  ‘By all accounts he is a strange one. It seems odd that your mother has picked up with a—’

  Brendan walked away, towards the buildings where a little campervan with flowery curtains was parked. Maura slid out of the Panda and stood still for a moment, swallowing hard.

  Brendan turned to her. ‘Are you coming or not?’ His voice was a little irritable. He was not sure how his mother might react, and if she was inside the house with her new man, what would they say to him? His heart thumped.

  She tottered forwards. ‘Hold on a minute … I am sure something disagreed with me in that cheap B and B. The coffee was horrible and the milk was off—’

  He was already knocking on the door marked ‘Accueil’.

  Maura reached him and was clutching her handbag and leaning against the door post, breathing deeply. Brendan looked around him, taking in the trees and the courtyard and the barn with the tractor and the house. He looked out at the little vines like bonsai trees, as far as he could see.

  ‘Perhaps she’s in that place over there? It seems to be some sort of manor house.’

  ‘It’s all a bit scruffy,’ she said.

  Brendan ignored her. He saw someone running towards him from the distance, where vines stood in rows. The figure was shouting and waving. It was a skinny boy in jeans with a shock of yellow hair. Benji stopped short and looked at Brendan and Maura as if he thought he had first recognised them but now realised they were someone else; he asked them politely in French if they had come to taste some of the best wine of the region. Brendan explained that he was here to see Evie Gallagher and Benji was a little confused. Maura took over, speaking slowly.

  ‘Evie Gallagher. Where is she? We have come a long way to visit her.’

  Benji looked around him anxiously and was not sure how to deal with these people who spoke in loud hesitant French. He wondered if they were the police or people who could not be trusted. He twisted his fingers. ‘Evie? She is not here.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Brendan and Maura spoke almost together.

  ‘Monsieur and Madame are away. They are back tomorrow. Or the day afterwards. I don’t know.’

  Maura asked Brendan in English if they should stop and buy some of the wine and Brendan said they should concentrate on trying to find his mother. Benji was confused and waved his hands in front of his face. ‘Evie is not here. Maybe she will be here tomorrow. Today she is away with Monsieur.’

  Brendan scratched his head. ‘Where has she gone?’

  ‘To the mountains.’

  Maura looked at Brendan. ‘Where’s she gone?’

  ‘We must have missed her …’

  Benji was walking away. Brendan shouted after him: ‘We will come back tomorrow and perhaps she’ll be here then?’

  Benji began to run back towards the vines. He sat down behind a clump of grapes and ran his hands across his face, leaving dirty smears. He would tell Monsieur Bonheur when he came back; he would know how to deal with these visitors. He worried that, although they said they were Evie’s family, the man’s voice was loud and the woman interrupted him and looked anxious. He was happy to wait, to sit somewhere familiar, and to see what the patron would say.

  Brendan turned slowly back to the car.

  ‘So, that went well,’ Maura shrugged and he ignored her.

  An hour later, Brendan shoved his phone back in his pocket and frowned.

  ‘What did she say, Brendan?’

  ‘I can’t get a signal.’

  ‘Let’s find somewhere for tonight perhaps? I could do with a lie-down now.’

  He drove around for half an hour and found them another bed and breakfast place near Foix, which was better than the one they had stayed in the night before. The bedroom was small but clean and it had space for a double bed and their cases. Maura felt tired and disappeared for a long soak in the bath. Brendan sat down on the bed with his laptop and found the email in Trash inviting him for an interview at St Cillian’s. He confirmed that he would be available to attend in Dublin in twelve days’ time, at the beginning of September. He spent a few moments wondering what a difference the job would make; he could be in charge of pastoral care. He was imagining the interview in his head, and formulating his answers. ‘Oh yes – I’m very calm, comfortable at supporting c
hildren with emotional or behavioural problems. As a sportsman, I realise the importance of being in a team. I’m not only a football coach but a life coach too. I believe I can make a difference in how young people are integrated into the social network of the school, and made to feel like they belong.’ He smiled. Life would be better in a school where he could have responsibility and respect.

  He thought about his mother; he had no idea where she was but at least he knew where she was living. He would see her tomorrow, definitely. Brendan wondered about her new man. He doubted that it was anything more than a joke on his mother’s part; the man was probably just the owner and she was staying as a paying guest. His mother would not embark on another relationship, not after his father. And besides, she was seventy-five. Brendan wondered why she might need a relationship and he thought sadly that he didn’t really need one himself. A pinging sound signalled the arrival of an email in his Inbox and he noticed it was from Penny. He held his breath for a moment, listening to be sure that the splashing of Maura’s bathwater had stopped, then he opened the message.

  Penny wrote that she and Sam had hired a speedboat and she had spent the day sailing and snorkelling before an evening of cocktails. There was an attachment and Brendan downloaded the photographs and looked at each snap. Penny, her back to him, wearing a green cap and driving a speedboat; Penny again, in a flowery sarong holding up an ice-blue drink filled with fruit. Penny, with her arms around a slender girl in shorts and T-shirt, a girl with a long cascade of dark curls and coffee-brown limbs who was kissing Penny’s cheek. Penny was flashing a huge smile and a shining ring at the camera. Brendan hit his thumb pad and saved the pictures in his file marked ‘PW’. So that was Sam, the slim happy girl in Penny’s embrace. Brendan thought of Penny, her kind words of support in the staff room, the way she would bring him a sandwich at lunchtime. She was a lovely, kind girl and he was just a fool. He closed down his laptop; the disappointment was a thick bitterness in his mouth. In the next room he could hear the gurgling of bathwater as it drained into the plug hole.