OUT OF THE BLUE a gripping novel of love lost and found (16 page)

‘You smell wonderful,’ Aidan says, rolling her on top of him. ‘Of warm spices and sugar.’

She sniffs her fingers that smell now of him, too; musky, sweaty. Her hands are supple from the scone mixture. ‘Am I sugar and spice and all things nice?’

‘Hmm. That would make me rats and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.’

They have both been sleeping, the brief, satiated sleep that comes after daytime lovemaking. She looks down on him, laying her arms along the length of him. With his head back, in the afternoon light, he looks younger, his skin ironed of cares and creases. His torso is a deep butternut colour from working outside and tending his garden. He has tiny abrasions on his arms from where nature has fought back. There is a toughness that she likes, a sturdiness from physical work. He brings with him a scent of the outdoors, of earth and vegetation.

She runs her tongue along his forearm. A fearful happiness floods her heart. He was her first love and there is a way in which he can be her only love. The knowledge is woven in the densely packed layers that accumulate as life paces on. She pictures Lucinda’s bog paintings, the deep compacted earth that conceals and preserves bones, gold and artefacts, the tokens of human longings.

He has been describing his garden to her; the rows of potatoes, lettuces and onions, the fruit bushes, his plans for hens, his frustration at not having enough land. She can picture it, well-tended, fed, weed free. He had always been methodical, thorough in whatever he did; his flat had been much neater and cleaner than hers.

‘This is the bed my father was born in,’ she tells him. ‘That used to fascinate me when I was a child, that he’d been a baby in this bed.’

‘I thought he didn’t like me when I first met him. He was so quiet. But then, your mother could talk!’

She lies down, her head on his chest. ‘I used to think they were happy, well matched but when my mother died he remarried quickly, to a woman completely different to her; an invalid type. She’s even quieter than him, there’s a kind of hush in their house. In fact it’s more silent than my library.’

‘Maybe he sought someone as different as possible because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of what he’d lost.’ He kisses her forehead, arches his back, and gives a luxurious groan. ‘I’m starving, I could eat for Ireland,’ he says.

He had arrived with champagne but it remained unopened in their hurry to shed their clothes and fall into the welcoming bed. He uncorks it while she fetches warm scones, butter, cheese and jam on a tray and they eat a bed picnic, sitting on top of the eiderdown.

‘My scones, your jam,’ she says, ‘a complimentary mixture.’

He raises his glass: ‘To us, to this amazing, extraordinary coincidence that’s brought us together.’

‘To us and to Nanna, who must have been weaving an unknowing spell.’ She clinks her glass to his. ‘She wouldn’t approve, of course, she’s probably turning in her grave. Actions and unexpected consequences; she wrote a will and here we are.’

He leans on an elbow, touches her knee. ‘Tell me about Douglas.’

She looks at him and then down, picking at the flowers on the eiderdown. ‘I married him the week after I graduated. He was a locum doctor at the student medical centre on campus. I felt so lucky, to have found love again and so quickly. I think Douglas was always drinking but I didn’t notice at first; I didn’t read the signs and then there’s the golden mist of love. Gradually the drinking came to dominate our marriage. He’s tried to give up many times. Now he’s booked into a place where he’ll be helped. He’s hoping it will save our relationship.’

‘And you?’

She rolls her glass against her cheek. ‘I don’t know. I want him to stop drinking but that would still mean I’m married to an alcoholic and I don’t know if I can live that life any more. I don’t know if I still want that to be my identity. Addiction is a hard taskmaster. I know it inside out, it’s my best friend and my worst enemy. It goes to bed with me at night, gets up with me every morning. I’ve read the books, studied the up to date literature on the Internet. The latest theory is based on genetics and I discovered a few years ago that Douglas’s grandfather was a heavy drinker. The subject, the fact of it takes all my energy. It has made me tough in ways that I don’t much like. Since I came here I’ve understood exactly how exhausted I am.’

‘Have you any children?’

‘No, that’s another bit of our life that’s gone adrift. In many ways, Douglas is my child; I have to look out for him, protect him, and pick up the pieces. You see, his big relationship with drink has robbed us of so much, it’s the thief in the night who steals away with your precious things.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes. That’s all I want to say about my marriage, I don’t want to dwell on it. You know,’ she touches his hand with her fingertips, ‘I feel as if I’ve been tunnelling for a long time in a dense gloom and now I’ve finally broken through. Up here in the airy height of the glen, with you, I’m afloat in light.’

He puts the tray on the floor. She moves into the well between his legs and he runs his thumbs down her cheekbones. ‘I think you have more freckles now. They make you look serious, a woman of the world.’ He kisses her face, blowing lightly on her eyelids.

She holds him tight. Sun is spilling into the room, tracing patterns through the lace curtain. The lace, pretty and delicate, reminds her of Maeve. ‘I should be serious,’ she says. ‘This is serious, what we’re doing. Your wife, your child — what about them? We’re heading for trouble, Aidan, you know that, don’t you?’ But at the same time she feels that she deserves him and that this reunion had to happen.

‘Shh. Don’t talk about that now. All I know is that you’re Livof-my-life. That’s what’s important, that’s all that matters.’

She accepts the loving lie, allowing him, his tempered skin, his breath and warmth to become the world.

‘I don’t want to go,’ he says, looking at his watch.

She doesn’t need to see the time; she knows from the movement of the sun, just glancing off the corner of the window, that it’s about five.

‘I could ring Eileen and ask her to keep Carmel for a bit. Maeve’s at an evening class after work.’

‘What will you say?’

‘That it’s a late delivery.’

‘Well . . . you know I don’t want you to go. There’s something I’ve been wanting to show you.’

He makes the call on his phone, speaking of a last-minute order, stating that he’ll be there by seven thirty. Carmel comes on the line and he bends into the mouthpiece, reassuring her that he has apples for chutney. ‘Carmelita,’ he says quietly. She wonders if the child detects the false note in his voice.

They look at each other. He rubs the front of his throat, where the lie has snaked from.

‘Deceit is awful,’ she says. ‘It taints everyone, doesn’t it?’

‘This was meant.’ He reaches for her hand, pulls her close. ‘I’d lie my way to hell and back not to lose you again.’

She feels claimed, wanted. It’s a long time since she’s felt that way and it’s an exhilarating rush. ‘Now,’ she says. I’ll show you where I get the water, my place of magic.’

Down at the well, lying side by side on their stomachs, they gaze into the depths.

‘Do you remember,’ he says, ‘that caravan we rented near Whitstable? The roof was leaking and we both got food poisoning.’

‘From the pot roast in the pub. We said that it must be love, if you’ve heard the other person groaning on the loo while you were groaning too.’

‘There was a foldaway bed but we never folded it away.’

‘We needed it too often.’

‘You were my world.’

‘And you mine. I’m the man who threw the world away.’

‘But now it’s here. Just us, in this enchanted glen. This well has magical properties, you know.’

‘How come?’

‘It’s to do with the power of place. There’s been a tradition of that in Ireland since prehistoric times. The Celts believed in earthcentred religion, goddess based. Certain places, particularly wells and natural springs are believed to have curative and regenerative powers. You might, for example, look into the water for inspiration or good luck. My grandmother gave it to people to relieve their ailments.’

‘Maybe I should take some to Carmel, her mouth hurts from her brace.’

‘Why not? The magic works in all kinds of ways, allegedly, from bestowing wisdom to sorting out headaches and lack of libido. Maybe it brought you to me. I especially wanted you to be here with me, by this well. When I came to Glenkeen after you told me we were over, my grandmother walked me down here and smoothed the water over my face and my heart. I think she wanted the well to ease the hurt and thoughts of you. I humoured her; I was too despondent to resist and it meant so much to her. But maybe there was healing and magic, it was just longer term; it was your return to me.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘I believe in now, and you and me and this place. God, Aidan, there’s so much I’d like to do with this, my home on the hill. I’ve got a builder coming, Owen recommended him. I want to talk over some possibilities.’

‘Such as?’

‘A bathroom, for starters, maybe the smaller bedroom upstairs. A fitted kitchen and a conservatory so that I can have sun without the wind and rain. Not too much, I want to maintain the simplicity. I’d have to take out a small loan, I could manage that.’

‘You’re definitely keeping the cottage then?’

‘Yes. I wasn’t sure at first but I know now I need it.’

There is a silence. They are both boldly imagining the life they could have in the glen and are unsettled by this prospect within their reach.

He speaks first, his voice shaky. ‘I’m envious of that garden, there’s such potential. I’ve been mapping it out in my head, where I could grow stuff.’

She runs her fingers through the water, splashes her face. ‘We could garden in the early morning, sell at the market, swim in the afternoon, cook, eat and make love at night, then water the crops. A simple life.’

He rolls on to his back, sighs contentedly. The sun is a warm blessing, enveloping them in a fond embrace. ‘In the winter, we could concentrate on buying from the markets and making home produce.’

‘I’d love that; I’m enjoying cooking so much now. You could really branch out.’ She sits up. ‘Listen, I was thinking in bed last night; you could provide recipes featuring the seasonal vegetables you’re selling. Every week, you could give new recipes away with the stuff you sell. Simple, easy to make dishes, no fuss. I bet it would be a real draw; something different.’

He looks at her and sees himself in her eyes; a real person whose labours are significant. ‘Liv,’ he says. ‘Liv.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I’m full of such energy. I could run a marathon and climb a mountain, sail the seven seas and all before breakfast.’

‘Will you marry me?’ he asks.

She strokes his hair back, rubs a springy grey curl between her fingers, and then pushes firmly back along the top of his head, remembering how he loved to have his head stroked, how it calmed him. His hair smells yeasty, like rising dough. There is a rawness in his eyes and voice that makes her want to shelter him from the rough chafing of the world.

‘You have a wife, Aidan. I have a husband.’

He takes her hands, cups them in his. ‘I know. But will you, when the time is here?’

‘Oh yes. There is no other answer.’

Chapter 9

The builder, Marty Nulty, arrives early, at eight. He is long and thin, with shoulder-length grey hair, small round eyes and a solid expression, as if he would be a hard man to impress. He takes his boots off outside the front door and says he’d shake hands but his are covered in muck. Liv finds this reassuring, and the pencil stuck behind his ear. When she’d got a builder in to rebuild the front wall in London, he’d arrived at night, clothed in spotless denim, smelling of after shave and he’d taken ages over the job.

Marty accepts a cup of tea and she shows him around, explaining her ideas. He taps walls and presses his hand against them, examines window frames and floors.

‘We’d have to run water up, and electricity, of course. You’d need a septic tank dug somewhere out the back.’

‘So it all sounds feasible?’

‘Oh yes. It’s good, the way you want to keep the features. There’s plenty now with more money than sense, building monstrosities that wouldn’t look out of place in Texas, having Jacuzzis and the like. Last year a fella, a cousin of the O’Donovans the other side of Redden’s Cross, had a lovely thatched cottage pulled down and put up a ranch house with a hot tub outside.’

‘Well, just a bathroom with a shower will do me.’

Outside, they walk the garden. The dew is still fresh, beading the dark rhododendron leaves. It’s another cloudless day with a breath of breeze.

‘I’d stop by here sometimes and buy eggs from your grandmother,’ Marty tells her. ‘Her hens laid the best I’ve ever tasted. She said it was the special mash she made for them. She’d never tell me the secret of it. Smarty Nulty, she used to call me, because I was so good at quizzes.’

‘Do you think she’d approve of what I’m planning?’

‘I’d say so. She’d appreciate that you’re not going to go over the top. The tank could go by the side here so it wouldn’t be obtrusive. Then you can have a clear run at your garden. Have you plans for that, too? If you need help, my brother does gardens, he’s in Cork but he travels.’

She thinks of Aidan’s schemes for the garden, his description of how he would double dig vegetable plots and have espaliers for fruit, apples and pears. On the eiderdown in front of the fire, he’d explained the value of horse muck and how the stables would give it away by the steaming sack full. On a piece of paper, he’d illustrated the twelve months of the year and the labour that would need to be done in each season. It would be hard graft, team work, but satisfying. She’d looked at his roughened fingers, the swift strokes of the pen and blinked to capture the moment, store the image in her memory. She has already composed her letter of resignation to the library in her head. Her explanation to Douglas is harder to formulate, she hears it like a distant train, vibrating faintly. The world has become Aidan; there is no sense or shape to anything now without him.

‘I’ll deal with the house first,’ she says. ‘Get that in shape.’

‘Very wise, one step at a time.’ He takes his pencil from behind his ear and gestures with it. ‘You have a lovely spot here, with the land and the sea behind you.’

‘I know. I’m blessed.’

‘I’ll put a quote together for you, so.’

‘Lovely. Oh, and the well stays untouched, did I say that?’

‘That’s fine. No one in their right mind would touch a well, my father would say, on account of the little people and the mysteries within. I stopped by there on my way up, to ask a special favour. I’ve been suffering with my nerves; my mother has Parkinson’s and I’m pretty frazzled,’ he confides.

She reappraises him. ‘You believe in the powers of the well?’

‘Indeed. I’ve done the circumambulation a number of times. It never fails.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It was your grandmother who got me into it, as a matter of fact. You walk around the well, clockwise, about, oh, a dozen times, whatever feels enough. You say whatever’s bothering you, what you need to resolve. It’s worked for me; whether it’s the power of the well or my own mind I don’t know. I don’t care either; it gets the result. I suppose it’s just another form of prayer, in a way, asking for your intentions to be granted.’

Only by the earth rather than the heavens, she thinks.

When Marty has gone she goes to the well and stands, studying the water. Now she knows what Nanna was doing the night she’d read the letter from or about Owen, when the heart had been put across her and she’d circled the well, unaware that her granddaughter was watching her. But what was her prayer and was it granted? Walking back up the path, gazing at the cottage, she visualizes Marty, her unexpectedly spiritual builder, making her wishes come true.

* * *

There is a longer letter from Douglas this morning, headed
Shame List
. Kia, he says, has encouraged him to write it. He supposes it’s a kind of confession, a therapeutic naming of his sins. In no particular order, she reads:

Disappearing at the end of dinner at Mandy & Philip’s & being found asleep in the bath. I think we were never invited back.

Going out for postcards in Rome and being escorted back to our hotel room 6 hours later by a kindly bar man.

Vanishing overnight in Nice with that new best friend who stole my credit cards.

Falling down the hotel steps on our wedding anniversary. Failing to turn up for my own brother’s wedding.

Making you miss your grandmother’s funeral.

And many more such incidents which you will recall far better than me. I have liked vanishing, haven’t I? Evasion has been my forte. I realise that this list is of more use to me than you. I can hear the ring of hollow laughter from your end. I suppose I’m asking for forgiveness, like any penitent.

She reads it calmly, knowing that it has come too late. These words would have meant so much last year, the year before. She is far removed from him now, from that life; it’s like reading a letter from a fond acquaintance. The woman who recalls all those occasions is no longer imprisoned by the memories. It’s easy to consider forgiveness now, when she is replete with another touch, another voice, her life suddenly brimming with possibility.

* * *

Aidan stops in briefly in the late afternoon; he has an hour, just, between hurriedly packing up the stall and calling for Carmel. He turned away a few customers to get a head start, jumbling produce together hastily, chucking boxes into the van. Bertie from the cheese stall had called to him, laughing, ‘is the devil riding your coat tails?’

The kitchen is empty. He blinks, coming from the brightness into the shaded room. He sees that Liv has acquired some tall oak shelves where she’s put her books and there’s a new painting of moorland on the wall opposite the dresser. On the table lies the biography of Keith Richards that she’s reading, and a pile of tomatoes and onions. He smiles, breathes. The fire is burning low but intensely and there’s a huge pot of water simmering over it. He hears a radio, identifies Paul Simon. There’s a banging from upstairs.

‘Liv?’ he calls.

‘Up here!’

He finds her in the bedroom, standing on a chair, trowel in hand, stripping wallpaper, dressed in her swimming costume. She’s done half the room and she’s covered in grime, her hair dust filled.

‘This is a surprise; as you can see, I’m not dressed for visitors.’

‘You don’t mind? I managed to grab a bit of time. I so much wanted to see you. It’s been two days, seems like two years.’

‘I know. Why do you think I’m up here, scraping and sneezing? Anything to keep occupied.’

She steps down from the chair, kisses him. She smells of glue and brackish water. Her lips are warm and dry and there’s the heat of hard work pulsing from her skin. He feels her biceps.

‘I like a strong woman. Why the swimsuit?’

‘It seemed most practical; I was going to strip off but then I thought someone might call and I’d be the scandal of the town. Or maybe I’d become the latest TV guru: the Naked Decorator.’

He picks her up and swings her round, smudging himself with debris. ‘I love you and your no-nonsense approach to life. When did you decide to do this?’

‘After lunch. I reckon if Marty’s going to start the renovation soon, I might as well do up this bedroom and sleep in the small one in the meantime before he tears it apart for a bathroom. Then there’s one room that’ll be liveable while he does his worst. I’ve excavated four layers of paper; the top and second layers floral, the third geometric and the last brown and green stripes. I had to soak each wall twice, they used glue made to last. I’ll finish tomorrow, I was about to have a bath. Want to join me? You’re all mucky now.’

‘I can’t, really. I have to go for Carmel. I’ve another ten minutes; I’ll help you fill the tub.’

He draws the curtains, drags the tub out and fills it while she rinses her hair off outside. Pausing, he looks at her in the sunlight, head bent, and spray flying. He watches the lean lines of her, her taut calves and grimy feet. When she has finished washing she’ll smooth some moisturiser on her face, nothing else. He is contented with her straightforwardness, her lack of fuss. There is a cool, unruffled quality to her that he finds reassuring; despite whatever travails she’s had in her marriage, she moves in her own composed space.

‘I like the shelves and the painting,’ he tells her as she climbs into the tub and lathers her hands.

‘I got the shelves from that house clearance place on the Cork road. The painting I bought from Lucinda, Owen’s friend; it was in her exhibition. I like its mystery, the way you can read stories into it.’ She lies back in the water. ‘I had another letter from Douglas today.’

‘Oh. How is he?’

‘He says he’s doing well. His body is through the worst of the withdrawal now; the sweats and cravings. He seems positive. They have a strict regime but the rules really help him. There’s nowhere to skulk and hide, which is what alcoholics do best.’ She looks at him, rueful. ‘Ironic, isn’t it, that just as he’s finally doing what I’ve been begging him to do for years, we meet and his efforts seem less crucial to me.’

‘They still are to him, though. He has to do this for himself, surely. He’ll benefit, his life might turn around.’ This is what Aidan needs to believe; he injects optimism into the words.

‘Yes, but I doubt he’d be able to continue with the cure if he could see me here, now, with you. It would probably drive him straight back to the bottle. I reply to him with supportive little comments, saying everything but the truth.’

‘We need to talk about how we’re going to do this, be honest, start the life we want.’

‘I know. We need time for that. More than a furtive hour here and there, looking over our shoulders, drawing the curtains in broad daylight. Your list of lies and excuses must be getting suspiciously long. I don’t want to have to lurk around the square in Bantry, getting a glimpse of you at the stall to keep me going, dodging around in case somebody sees me behaving oddly.’

‘You’ve been doing that?’

‘A couple of times. You have a lovely way of throwing bananas from one hand to another while you chat. When you drink your tea from your flask and gaze into the distance I imagine you’re thinking of me but you’re probably gauging the day’s takings. Sad, isn’t it? I’m like a lovesick teenager, mooning around, and playing truant. It’s no way for a grown-up to be carrying on.’

‘Don’t; it’s grim and I can’t stay. I don’t want to leave that hanging in the air. There’ll be enough difficulty ahead. Let’s not be grim for five minutes.’

She stretches her arms, nods. ‘You’re right. Will you help me choose a wallpaper for upstairs? I wanted to paint but the plaster’s too bad.’ She grabs his hand. ‘I mean, you’ll be looking at it as much as me, won’t you?’

He kneels by the tub. ‘I will, yes, there’s no doubt about that.’

He has to force himself to go out into the bright, revealing sun, hastening down the glen, fumbling with his keys as he sees how the time has flown again, flitting, gone for ever while his back was turned.

* * *

Liv is trying her hand at a barm brack, love flowing from her fingers into the mixture. Aidan says they’re both going to get fat, that they won’t be able to make it up the glen. She can’t stop baking; it’s such an unusual pleasure to make food as a gift of affection. And the scents of fruits and spices belong in the cottage, nestling into the beams and plaster, breathing back into the air when the fire warms the room.

There is a sharp knock at the door. Wiping her hands down and across her apron she opens it. An oldish, balding man in a black suit, like an undertaker is standing there. He seems vaguely familiar.

‘I believe you’d be Miss Liv Callaghan.’

‘That’s right. And you are?’

‘My name is Magee. My sister, Miss Edith Magee, is down with the car and she’d like a word with you. She can’t come up here, you understand, because of her disablement.’ He has stony eyes, eyes that miss nothing. He’s looking at her apron as if he’s counting every stain. She takes it off and he is already walking away so that she has no time to wash her hands. His arms swing by his sides in a marching step.

A large silver car is parked by the hedge and beside it is the woman she saw at the birthday party, balancing on her sticks. She is formally dressed in a white blouse and black skirt with a string of pearls at her neck. Her hair is subdued again in a tight bun. On her feet she wears stout black lace-up shoes. Her eyes, unlike her brothers, are moist today, rheumy under crepe lids but they dart still.