A Grand Old Time Read online

  ‘The police can’t find a trace of her. It’s been two days and nothing. They’ve told me to not worry, to carry on as normal.’

  Brendan slumped forward across the desk, sending papers in all directions. Penny Wray came to stand behind him; she laid her hands on his shoulders and pressed down on his taut muscles. Brendan tensed his body. ‘What if they don’t find her? Or what if something has happened to her?’

  ‘It’ll all be fine. Wait and see.’

  ‘She’s seventy-five, Penny. My head’s full of what might happen to her.’

  Penny increased the pace of her rhythmic massage to his shoulders. Brendan put back his head and closed his eyes, allowing the warmth of her fingers to seep through the fabric of his shirt. He thought about Penny, who was standing a few inches behind him; how she’d been a friendly presence in the staff room for over a year; how he was grateful for her warmth and kindness. It occurred to him that she had never mentioned a boyfriend. She wore a huge silver ring on her wedding finger: some sort of Celtic design with a big ruby. She wasn’t married, she was Miss Wray, and if she’d never mentioned a man in her life, then perhaps there wasn’t one. The ruby ring was a deterrent. It was there to keep the wolves away, he decided; she was fiercely single, dedicated to sports, to fitness, health and beauty, to teaching.

  Her fingers pressed deeply into the soft tissue of his shoulders and Brendan felt himself give in to the pressure of her knuckles. He knew she had training in sports massage, but she had always been especially friendly to him, supportive and kind. Brendan imagined Penny at weekends, waking early, going for a jog and then a swim. She’d make muesli, for breakfast; a salad, something with lentils for lunch, then off to Pilates or she’d teach a spinning class. He imagined her with friends in the evening. She’d live in a small cottage, have a dog – a Ridgeback – and it would go running with her in all weathers, dog and woman striding as one around a lake at dawn. No, he decided, she wouldn’t have time to be married to a man. She pressed her thumbs against the back of his neck and he felt tension seep away like a hiss of gas. His face broke into a wide smile and he wondered if she was enjoying the sensation as much as he was. A sigh shuddered from his throat and he heard the desperation in it. She moved away.

  ‘You’re very tense. It must be a heap of worries, Brendan. Is your wife not able to help?’

  Brendan’s shoulders tightened automatically and he turned round to look at Penny, who was putting on her jacket. She was a practised masseuse. He had seen her pummel the knotty shoulders of other colleagues in times of stress. But she’d spent a long time on his shoulders, longer than she needed. He bit his lip. Her hair was long and glossy: she looked like an advert for shampoo. She made a little mouth at him, to show she was concerned.

  He shook his head. ‘What can I do, though?’

  She pushed one of her sandwiches towards him. It was cheese salad. ‘Here. You ate nothing at lunchtime.’

  ‘I’ve no appetite.’

  Penny came over and took his hand in hers and held it. He noticed he was shaking and he had no power over the tremor.

  ‘Brendan, it’s nearly five o’clock. Why don’t you go home? We’re all finished up here. Give the Garda another call; ask them if you can talk to someone who’s on the case.’

  His head began to feel heavy and a dull ache settled between his eyes. Brendan thought he would rather stay in school than endure an evening with his wife. He wondered if Penny could read his thoughts; perhaps she was impatient for him to go home. Perhaps she had somewhere else to be, somewhere more interesting. Perhaps there was a man after all. He eased himself up from his seat as if stuck to it, slowly, heavy with worry, picked up his case and shoved some papers in it.

  ‘You’re right, of course. It will all be better tomorrow. Thanks. You’ve been amazing.’

  She hugged him and Brendan breathed in her warmth. He held his arms away from his body and wondered if he should clasp them tightly around her waist. A sob caught in his throat. He stiffened his shoulders. ‘I’ll say goodbye then, Penny.’

  His mobile bleeped. It was Maura, no doubt, reminding him that he was late for his dinner. He fumbled in his bag and pulled out the phone. He saw the name on the screen, ‘Mammy’, and his hand clenched around the plastic casing, leaving finger marks of sweat. Penny was at his elbow as he pressed for the message; he read it once, then again. His mother was all right. His eyes blurred as he stared at the text again. She was in Liverpool.

  Chapter Ten

  Evie sat in the bath and closed her eyes, feeling stiff and sore. The steam rose around her as she cried angry, stubborn tears. She recalled the stifling emotion, the one where you felt not good enough. It was the hollow inadequacy she had felt at St Aloysius School when Sister Benedicta told her she had achieved three per cent in a test on the Scriptures. She’d felt similar pangs of shame on her second day at the bakery when she dropped a whole tray of fresh cream horns. It came back to her, the sense of humiliation and loss which squatted on her shoulders when the doctor had told her about her first miscarriage, and that she might not expect to have a baby of her own. She recalled Jim’s sad face, so like Brendan’s now, as he observed her from beneath his cap, his eyes misting. Evie clambered out of the bath, wrapped herself in a towel and took another to dry her hair. She looked at the blotching blue bruise and the new heaviness as she tried to lift her arm. Her jaw tightened.

  She could go back to the Lodge. At least she’d be safe there. Safe but bored and wasting away. A memory drifted back to Evie like a faint odour, one which made her squirm and feel uncomfortable. She remembered walking in a park in Dublin, almost a year ago. It was early autumn and she’d needed to get out of the house, with memories of Jim whispering at her from each corner and the Hoover sitting squat in the middle of the hallway and the windows smeared and dirty in the sunlight, screaming at her to clean them. She liked the open space of the park, the long pathways, how trees and plants were different shades of greens and reds beneath the wide white sky and how sparse little flowers made dots of vibrant colour. A dog had come from nowhere, rushed at her in a whirl, and then she was on the ground, and its paws were on her chest and she could feel the heat of its breath, smell the stink of its wet pink tongue. A man had grabbed its collar. ‘Get down now, will you, Bucket.’

  The young man had been ever so polite. He had shouted at the dog and attached a lead to the collar. Her memory became muddled at this point. The young man had a shaved head and a brown jacket, she thought. The dog was big, an Alsatian, perhaps, with huge beads for eyes and slavering chops. Evie had been shaken, deep inside her bones, she had been terrified. The young man’s voice was a rattle in her head. He’d helped her stand up, apologised, said something about Bucket being only a pup. She’d muttered that it was all right, she was fine, and she’d turned round, gone home, skulked back to the Hoover and the smeared windows.

  Later that week, she had spoken to Brendan and Maura about the dog and the subject of her safety and her loneliness. They had brought up the possibility of her moving to a home. To Sheldon Lodge.

  But the feeling of the lurching dog was still with her, the way it rushed at her and bowled her over, its heavy paws poking into her chest. She thought of the young lad who had just attacked her in the dark alley, pulling at her handbag, swearing at her, his voice like a growling animal’s. The Lodge was warm, peaceful, safe.

  Evie bit her lip and sat up straight, thinking. She had survived. A kind man had helped her, called her plucky. Her handbag was intact and so was she. She was on holiday, she’d been shopping for new clothes and she was newly blonde. She breathed out. ‘I’m damned if I’m giving up. I haven’t got to seventy-five and learned nothing about fighting back.’

  Evie took out the mobile phone. The crack reflected light off the screen but the clouds still came up bright blue. Her green jacket had mud and gravel stuck to a sleeve but it was intact. The jeans would clean up in a wash and the red mark on her face and the bruise on her arm would fade befo
re too long. Evie went to the minibar and poured herself a gin and tonic. The sharpness in her throat gave her a sudden purpose. She would ring reception, organise for the jeans to be laundered. Then she would order a pizza.

  When Brendan arrived home, the house was in darkness. He frowned. Maura seldom went to the supermarket without him and it was unusual for her to be visiting friends in the evening. He dropped his bag in the hallway. His copy of the Irish Times would be waiting and he would have a quiet read before dinner and then he would mark the poetry homework for a few hours.

  A gentle voice came from the dining room. ‘In here, Brendan.’

  The table was set for dinner, an array of little tea lights, their flames shimmering in the darkness. Brendan recalled his Uncle Patrick’s funeral, which he’d attended when he was a teenager, and he felt the draughty air of the church on his skin as he thought of his own father’s death last year, the solid coffin containing someone cold he would never touch again.

  Maura was sitting at the head of the table and she had a casserole dish in front of her. She removed the lid and steam rose up, the flickering candles casting shadows against the wall, a sorceress standing over a cauldron. A bottle of wine was open and there were two empty glasses. Brendan stared.

  Maura slithered from her seat and came towards him. She was wearing a black dress with a low neck, and he could see the pink of her flesh moving beneath the fabric. The straps slipped from their position and she hoisted them back up. Her hair touched her shoulders, sprayed in a shell of loose gold curls. She put her arms around his neck and he breathed in rose petals.

  ‘I’ve made us chicken chasseur.’ He turned to look at the table and she kissed his cheek. Brendan turned back to kiss her but she moved her face away.

  ‘We’ve a lovely bottle of Pinot Grigio. It’s been chilling for hours.’

  Brendan shivered without meaning to.

  ‘I thought we could have dinner then maybe we could have an early night.’ She batted her eyelids and gave him a flirtatious look.

  Brendan took another look at his wife. It wasn’t his birthday and he had not forgotten their anniversary, so why …?

  ‘Come and sit down, darling. I cooked it specially.’

  He had never heard her call him ‘darling’ before. He sat down like a dutiful child as she stood over him and ladled chicken and sauce onto his plate. She poured the wine into his glass, leaning heavily on his shoulder, and he heard the liquid gurgle and splash. Maura’s cleavage was not far from his face and he remembered a time when he used to kiss her there. She had been young and vulnerable in his arms and his chest had filled with the pain of too much love. His mind wandered to a possible bedroom scene after dinner and he tried to recall how long it had been since they had shared any real closeness. In the candle light, her face took on a soft glow and he noticed how perfectly rounded her shoulders were. He shook his head. His eyes flicked back to the tough skin of the chicken.

  ‘Eat up, darling,’ said Maura. She moved back to her seat and ladled meat onto her plate.

  Brendan tried to cut into the chicken breast, but his knife slipped. He took a forkful of mushrooms and onions and watched the gravy drip between the prongs. Maura’s mouth was full.

  ‘How’s your food?’ she asked him, her eyebrows high in eagerness, and he bobbed his head politely and made a contented sound.

  ‘Lovely, thanks.’

  ‘I thought a nice piece of chicken would be just perfect.’

  ‘It’s delicious.’

  She looked at him for a moment, their eyes holding, and Brendan wondered whether to compliment her on the dress. He thought the shiny black material and her gold curls gave her the air of a movie star. For a moment, he wanted to tell her that he loved her. He opened his mouth, but no words came, so he filled it with a forkful of chicken.

  The clatter of knives and forks on china continued for a few moments then she said, ‘And how was your day, then?’

  ‘OK. Busy.’

  ‘I’ve made us a cheesecake for dessert.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘It’s strawberry.’

  Maura had almost finished all the food on her plate. Brendan swiped his fork at the meat. He glanced across at her. She smiled back at him as if a stretching grin could sustain the boundaries of a shrivelling marriage.

  ‘Eat up then, darling.’

  Brendan took a breath. ‘I – I had a text from my mother today.’

  ‘Oh?’ Maura’s brows came together.

  ‘She’s in Liverpool.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Her smile had gone.

  ‘But she’s fine.’

  ‘When did she say she’d be home?’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘That was good of her.’

  Brendan couldn’t think of a reply.

  ‘Is she having a little holiday, then?’ It came out as a sarcastic question and he shrugged.

  ‘I don’t really know, my love. Yes, I suppose she is.’

  ‘All right for some, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Brendan, we could do with a holiday. It’s been ages since you and I got away.’ She paused for a moment, leaned forward and smiled. ‘Remember how lovely it was when we were in Corfu?’ Her face flushed pink and she was suddenly bright-eyed with recollection.

  The chicken flesh was pale against his plate. Maura’s straps slipped down again. ‘Corfu? That was eight years ago.’

  She gave a little giggle and put her hand to her mouth. She looked suddenly excited. He saw the sweet hopefulness of the girl she had been; excitement shone in her face and, for a moment, Brendan wanted to hold her in his arms. ‘We never left the hotel room for the whole fortnight. We both came back with skin as pale as when we left. Your father said—’

  Brendan didn’t want to be reminded that his father said they were just like a honeymoon couple, so he interrupted her. ‘Corfu would be too hot this time of year.’

  She shrugged and pulled up the straps. ‘I thought it would be nice for us to spend time together.’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘Think of it – dinners together, relaxing on the beach, a romantic hotel, a big four-poster bed …’ She waved her hands to show the size of the bed; it was as wide as her hopes. Brendan nodded. Her eyes sparkled. ‘It would be a chance for us to spend some time together. Just me and you. I mean, you work so hard, Brendan. You’re always at the schoolwork, evenings, weekends, refereeing the football in the park. I get lonely by myself. Just imagine. Quality time together. A chance for you and me. We could get to know each other all over again. We could see it as a chance to rekindle—’

  Brendan was taking a mouthful of chilled wine. He breathed in sharply and it filled his nose. He sniffed. The liquid bubbled and tickled and it snorted like laughter out of his nostrils.

  Maura’s face clouded. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ She stood up, almost knocking over the wine bottle as her body pushed against the table. He snorted again. ‘Brendan?’ He was doubled over, coughing, a choking, snickering sound. Her face was suddenly sad, her eyes full of round tears. ‘I made an effort tonight with all of this, and now you’re laughing at me.’

  Brendan rubbed his eyes, which were watering. He spluttered. ‘I’m not laughing—’ and another paroxysm caught his throat and he shook again.

  ‘It’s not funny, Brendan.’

  He started to cough more loudly, stuffing his hand into his mouth. His face was wet.

  Maura put her hand to her cheek and wiped away a stray tear. For a moment, she said nothing, her eyes frantic. Then she breathed out, air coming in a hard gush. ‘I hope you’re enjoying yourself at my expense.’

  The tears were running down his face; he bent over his meal and a second paroxysm caught in his throat and he heaved and spluttered again. Maura’s voice was weak, strangled in her throat, as she caught a sob. Her face froze in horror and she stared at Brendan as if he was a stranger, someone she did not recognise. She clenched tight fists an
d pulled them towards her face, which had broken out in a red flush extending to her cleavage. She bumped against the table, moved away and then turned back to him.

  ‘I’ve done my best for you tonight. For us. And all you do is throw it back in my face. You can go to hell, Brendan.’

  She rushed past him. The door slammed; feet pounded on the stairs and he could hear her crying. He pressed the space between his eyes with two fingers, put his elbows on the table and let his head fall in his hands. He would go up and apologise. In a minute.

  Chapter Eleven

  She bought two novels at Lime Street station and, by the time the train arrived in Plymouth, Evie knew Emma Bovary quite well. She had never been one for novels, but she had to find something to pass the time between stations and a bubbly woman in her thirties with spiky hair and round glasses had recommended that she read the Flaubert if she was going to France, and a Brontë, if she’d never read it before. Evie laughed; she’d never read anything much before, except turgid stories about saints and sinners at St Aloysius and rubbishy romances at the Lodge.

  Evie decided that Emma Bovary shouldn’t have bothered with any of the men in the story. Had she won some money while placing a bet on a lucky horse, she would have done much better for herself. Evie started on the Brontë. She would read the rest of Wuthering Heights after the crossing to Roscoff. The ticket she bought in Liverpool had a two-berth cabin and, by the time Evie had found her way to number 8215 and let herself in with the cardboard key, it was almost midnight and she wanted to sleep.

  She thought the cabin was like the black hole of Calcutta. She had never been to the black hole of Calcutta, but once the lights were out, the cabin swum with darkness and swayed with the motion of the sea. Evie closed her eyes and felt alone. France was a long way away and she wasn’t sure what she’d do when she got there. She’d find a hotel in Roscoff, like she had in Liverpool, do some shopping, eat some French food and drink some nice wine, then come home. She had money and she would be independent – treat herself to a little break. She could do it, an adventure, by herself. She’d use her lucky number again. Yes, she’d stay for four days. Then she’d know what to do.