Fragile Lies (28 page)

“
I
t will snow before nightfall
.” Noeleen called to the house on her way to the village and cast an experienced gaze towards the sky. “It’s waiting to happen. Stock up on anything you need. We won’t be going anywhere in a hurry over the next few days.”

Brendan arrived shortly afterwards to make sure the central heating was in order. He was followed by his father with a trailer of logs, which his sons helped stack against the outside kitchen wall. In the afternoon Lorraine drove to the supermarket. Snow dashed lightly against the windscreen as she entered the car-park. Sophie was at the check-out, swaddled in a brown padded coat, her vibrant colours hidden. In the art class she painted sunshine. Golden orbs high in the sky, black upturned faces.

“This weather is destroying my life blood,” she moaned. “Each winter I say, no more, no more, but what can I do?”

The initial flurry of snow stopped as suddenly as it had started. Clouds were whisked aside and on the journey home the sun shone with sparkling clarity on the snow-covered hills. The branches, caught in the flash of sunlight, reminded Lorraine of supplicating arms reaching upwards into the wintry sky. She was relieved to see the school bus pulling away from the top of the lane. Emily was walking fast, her hands plunged deep into the pockets of her school coat, her scarf flapping wildly behind her.

“I’m freezing to death,” she whined, climbing into the car. “Everyone says we’re going to be marooned. I’d better make sure Antoinette and Janine are comfy.” She leaned forward to peer through the windscreen. “There’s a car outside our house. Were you expecting someone?”

“Not as far as I know.”

His car was parked against the hedgerow, already blanketed with a light dusting of snow, empty. She recognised it instantly and felt the wheels of her own car glide dangerously towards it. She had not expected him to arrive so soon. He had left the car doors unlocked.
The Irish Times
was folded on the passenger seat beside his mobile phone. A manuscript lay on top with pencil notes scribbled in the margins.

Emily was stacking groceries into presses when she entered the kitchen.

“Who owns the car?” she asked

“Michael Carmody.”

“My God! What’s he doing here? You said he wasn’t coming back again.”

Lorraine reached upwards to place the last of the groceries out of sight. “I can’t always be right, Emily.”

“Where’s he gone?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he went to the farm to see when I’d be back.”

“I’ll check it out for you.” Emily grabbed her parka jacket and left.

Silence settled over the countryside. Even Hobbs was affected by the hush. Only the rooster, determined to outwit nature, crowed triumphantly into the muffled evening. Emily rang to report that Noeleen had earlier seen him crossing the stile and heading towards the beach. The snow was falling again, heavier now, and beginning to swirl on the wind. Lorraine hesitated no longer. Lights were already shining from the windows of the Donaldsons’ house. The beach was deserted. If he had left footprints they were already obscured. A cormorant was tossed like parchment against the pewter sky and the kittiwakes huddled on ledges, were silent for once. She called his name, forcing the sound forward into the rising storm. Again and again she shouted, cupping her hands to her mouth, her fear growing as the moments passed.

She heard something. It could have been an echo or the screeching of the cormorant. The old boathouse, barely visible, hulked above the rocky ledge on the half-moon turn. Boats had once slid effortlessly down the jetty when she was a child but over the years much of its wooden structure had collapsed into the sea. Only the shell of the building and its corrugated iron roof were still intact. She climbed from the sand into a tangle of dead fern and heather, searching for the trail that would lead her upwards. Again, she shouted his name. This time his reply was stronger, nearer. The mildewed smell of rotting seaweed reached her as soon as she approached the entrance. She gave a startled shriek when a rat scurried into a rocky crevice.

“Thank God.” He ground the words through clenched teeth, his back slumped against the wall. In the gathering gloom his face was a pain-stricken blur, his brown eyes shadowed with exhaustion. “I thought you might have been on the beach. It started to snow and I tried to find a short cut back to the lane. I hauled myself in here and hoped to Christ you’d find me before the waves did.” He rocked forward in agony. “I think I’ve gone and broken my bloody leg. Stupid … stupid thing to do.”

She removed her coat and put it over him, pulled her cap over his head, held his face between her hands. “Michael, listen to me. You’re safe here. The sea seldom rises to this height. I’m going for help.”

When he tried to move the pain jerked his head back with such force that she heard the thud of flesh on rock. He gripped her hand tightly. “Lorraine, I wanted to see you so desperately.”

“We’ll talk later. Everything’s going to be all right.”

She emerged from the shelter and heard, all around her, the fury of the sea as it struck the rocks, and the high screech of the wind, carrying its burden of snow. Unhindered by hills or walls, it almost tossed her off her feet. The Donaldsons responded immediately. Noeleen rang for an ambulance while Frank grabbed blankets and ran with his sons to the boathouse.

“Put this coat on you, for the love of the Lord Jesus.” Noeleen rushed after her and flung a coat over Lorraine’s shoulders. Michael fainted when they lifted him and laid him carefully on a plank covered with blankets. It formed a make-shift stretcher with Lorraine carrying the fourth corner. The journey back to the lane was hazardous and completed in darkness. Emily led the way, holding aloft a storm lantern. Lorraine felt the cold sinking into her bones. She imagined him dragging his body towards the boathouse. He must have screamed many times before he reached it. Perhaps he lost consciousness on the journey.

“The hospital can’t guarantee an ambulance for at least an hour.” Noeleen, dwarfed under a bright yellow oilskin jacket, met them at the stile. “I’m just hoping it’ll be able to make it down the lane.”

“I’ll bring him in the jeep.” Frank spoke with authority. “Even if the ambulance comes within the next hour it won’t get through to us. The man’s in deep shock. There’s no time to waste.”

“Better be on your way then.” Noeleen stared nervously into the night. “I’ll phone ahead and tell them to expect you.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Lorraine and held Michael’s hand as he was moved into the back seat of the jeep.

Accident and emergency was crowded. After an initial examination Michael was moved on a trolley into a cubicle. A young nurse apologised. Hopefully, tomorrow morning, a bed would be available. The woman in the next cubicle coughed persistently. An elderly man, injured when his car skidded into a ditch, loudly demanded attention.

“We’d better be starting back.” The drive to the hospital had been slow and Frank was becoming increasingly worried. “I’ll let you say your goodbyes. See you in the car-park, Lorraine.”

She lifted her coat from the chair. It felt damp and heavy, a wet-wool smell seeping from the fibres. Michael gripped her hand, pulled her closer to the trolley.

“I owe you my life, Lorraine.” He spoke quietly, his eyes half-closed, already drifting on the medication he had received.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I needed to talk to you.”

The snow was turning into a blizzard. She could see it swirling past the window and imagined it settling on the lane, banking high between the hedgerows. She bent over him and kissed his cheek.

“I’d better not keep Frank waiting. We’ll talk another time. For now, you need to rest. If I’m able to drive I’ll be in to see you tomorrow. Do you want me to phone anyone … Killian?”

Her hair brushed his face. His eyes darkened, as if he remembered the spread of it on his bed. He tried to rise. The effort made him gasp and collapse back against the pillow. “Don’t worry about Killian,” he said. “I’ll take care of him.”

At the door she turned and waved.

“I love you.” He mouthed the words towards her.

Her fingers curled tightly into a fist. All the love she would ever need flowed across the distance and was accepted by her.

The countryside held its breath for three days as snow floated lightly from branches, crunched icily beneath their footsteps. The occupants of the lane moved within their marooned ambit, separated from the main road by sculpted drifts that sparkled like crushed shards of crystal but showed no signs of thawing. School was cancelled and Emily struggled regularly through the snow to check on the well-being of horse and pony. Frank and his sons arrived with spades to help Lorraine clear the way to her studio. An unfamiliar shape hung over everything. The clinking sound of shovels, the hidden caw of crows, the bold chirp of a robin on the window ledge and the gnawing wind, forcing its way through the trees, played an eerie melody as they worked.

The urge to paint was strong. If the bats flew above the windbreak trees she did not notice. Darkness was everywhere when she left her studio on the third night. Even the glow from the windows of Donaldsons’ farmhouse had been extinguished. Snow crunched underfoot. A new moon disappeared behind clouds and emerged again to float in its silver aureole. A distant reach. A promise waiting to be fulfilled. She walked forward into its pale, filtering light.

“The specialist says I’ll be climbing mountains as soon as I’m back on my feet.” Michael’s leg had been operated on and he had rung earlier in the day with a progress report. “Are you still cut off?”

“It’s possible Frank will be able to drive the tractor to the top of the lane tomorrow,” Lorraine replied. “If he can, I’ll follow in his tracks. The main roads are gritted. They should be fine for driving.”

“I don’t want you to take any risks,” he warned. “Promise you’ll only come if the way is safe?”

“Promise.”

“I want to talk about Killian.” His voice was still slurred from the anaesthetic. “It’s important that we meet as soon as possible.”

The following morning the thaw was underway. Water dripped from the eaves of the old house and the crunch beneath Lorraine’s feet became a squelch. Snow slid easily from Michael’s car. She opened the door and removed his manuscript and mobile phone. As she expected, the phone was dead. It was the same model as her own and she plugged it into her battery charger. Emily, muffled in scarves and a woolly cap, opened the kitchen door and stamped water over the floor.

“This weather is driving me
nuts
. Con won’t let me ride Janine until it clears.” She buttered bread, sliced cheese and tomatoes, switched on the sandwich maker. The smell of toasting cheese filled the kitchen.

“I can’t believe I rescued the creator of
Nowhere Lodge
from certain death,” she said, noticing his manuscript on the table.” She carried it and the sandwich to the sofa where she read avidly for the rest of the morning. “My friends will never believe this.” Occasionally, she chortled. “I bet I’m the only person in the world who knows what’s going to happen in the next series. Can I visit him this afternoon? I’ve a number of suggestions to make. Some of his plot lines are way off target.”

“You certainly cannot visit him. He’s recovering from serious surgery.”

“Then I’ll make some notes. Be sure and give them to him. Tell him I’m prepared to accept ten Jason Judge autographs as payment. Otherwise –” she paused for dramatic effect, “I’ll reveal everything to the tabloids.”

“I’ll warn him.”

“I like it when you laugh and mean it.”

“Glad to know something meets with your approval.”

“Are you all right about me staying in Dad’s apartment next weekend?”

“I already told you. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine at all. But he’s under house arrest. She’s such a calculating, conniving
cow
. No! That’s too insulting to the mother of my calf. She’s a blistering, bollocking bitch!”

“Emily!”

“Stop pretending to be Saint Lorraine. If I were in your shoes I’d take out a contract on her. She was supposed to be your best friend and all the time she was cheating behind your back.”

“Stop it immediately. Do you hear me?
Stop
it.”

“It’s never going to be all right again with Dad, is it?”

“Not the way it was. I can’t turn the clock back, no matter how much you want me to.”

“If you went for counselling, it could help. I read an article on mediation. This woman said it gave her and her husband a whole new perspective on their marriage. I cut the article out of the paper for you.”

Lorraine had a sudden desire to slap her daughter. A sharp smack on her backside which would silence her instantly, stop the aimless drivel she felt obligated to fling at her mother whenever the opportunity rose. With the pony, Adrian had broken through the last of Emily’s defences. Lorraine had been aware of a shifting in the balance of blame. Somehow, Adrian, working gently, persuasively, had managed to obtain his daughter’s support and the two women who had been in the centre of his life for more years than Lorraine cared to count were now assuming responsibility for his marriage break-up. She stared at the set of her daughter’s mouth, the wilful expression disguising her confusion, and knew that Emily was as adrift as she was, battling too many conflicting emotions, dreaming too many impossible dreams.

The sudden flash of anger drained away and Lorraine was overwhelmed by all they had lost. It was a pure feeling of loss. Nothing else, no fury, disbelief or jealousy. She sank to the sofa and began to weep. Emily held her close. The reversal of roles was instantaneous and her daughter’s arms were strong. Later, they could reclaim their rightful order in the echelons of family life but for the moment there was just the comforter and the comforted.

A phone call from the hospital came as Lorraine was preparing to leave the house. The nurse was apologetic. Complications had arisen and Michael was under observation until his temperature settled. Could Lorraine postpone her visit until tomorrow? The nurse was reassuring but her brisk voice did nothing to lessen Lorraine’s apprehension. She remembered the urgency in his voice when he mentioned his son, his anxiety to see her as soon as possible. She moved indecisively around the kitchen, unable to settle. The opportunity of painting for the afternoon held no appeal. The studio was cold and the earlier bout of weeping had drained her energy. Emily was also suffering from severe cabin fever and intended cycling through the slush to visit the friend whose house was closest to Stile’s Lane. She emerged from her bedroom in black cycling trousers, a yellow puffa jacket and bicycle helmet. “Don’t say it,” she warned her mother. “I know I look like an obese wasp but you will insist on the helmet. Can I sleep in Fran’s tonight?”