The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (12 page)

“The last time I saw him was a couple of weeks ago. He was
stressed out of his mind, really strung out, said he was under
pressure...needed a break. He and Angelique have split up, for good this time,
said he needed to get his head round stuff, said he needed to go find himself.”

Lena dropped the cigarette in his coffee. It hissed,
floating to the surface.

“Find himself?” she roared, leaping off the desk with as
much velocity as her bulk would allow. The intercom buzzed.

 “Mr O’Gorman on line one, long distance,” Mimi announced
primly.

They both lunged for the phone. Lena was there first.

“Ryan, thank God, Alleluia! Where are you? We need you, come
home immediately. I’ll send an airplane, helicopter, whatever...”

 Silence.

“Ryan!” she yelled.

The line went dead.

Lena threw Larry’s office phone, complete with intercom the
entire length of the room.

The view forced her eyes wide open.
It was surreal, yet so vivid it seeped into her pores as she stared. She could
feel the top of her head lifting, like a tin can opening, the lid rising up and
the bright fresh air flying in like a flash of lightening; sudden and
scorching. It was the most amazing sensation. She breathed deeply, eyes
stinging, lips tasting of salt. She felt her shoulders drop and her fists
unfurl. Looking upwards, the sky swirled turquoise and sapphire above as the
sun, hidden behind a clutch of smoky cloud, streaked the blue with cream
plumes. It was like a painting she remembered from the convent, The Ascension
of Our Lady into Heaven. Either the artist had come from County Mayo or the
Virgin Mary had taken an unrecorded sabbatical to the West of Ireland, just
before following her destiny and ascending to heaven.

She took another huge breath, and raising her arms screamed,
and screamed and screamed. She had not felt this good in years.

Sean Grogan had been poking around with a stick in a pond
when he heard the screams. He pulled the battered cap on his baldy head, to the
left, to give his one good eye a little more clarity. Gazing upwards at the
Christ-like figure on the precipice of the cliff, he sighed. What was it,
another bloody American searching for their ‘Oirish’ roots? A Dubliner who can
no longer stand the fact that they pay a fortune for a pint and have to stand
in the rain to drink it, just because they fancy a smoke? Or worse still, a
local whose holiday home redevelopment plans have been turned down by the
council because of their new ‘anti-Ponderosa’ architectural policy?

Sean shifted in his wellies. If it jumps I’ll have to go and
investigate, he mused grumpily.

Luckily for him, it did not jump. It dropped its
outstretched arms and walked purposefully back to the vehicle parked a little
way along from the cliff edge, climbed in and, turning the engine to life,
rattled down the track towards him. He splodged out of the pond, to greet the
ancient four-wheel drive on the gravely roadway. It stopped with a loud
crunching, the window wound down, she bent towards him smiling.

“Grand day.”

He looked up. The sky had quickly closed in, grey and
threatening.

“T’will change soon enough.”

She continued to smile at him.

“Need a lift?” She sounded English. “I’m going to
Innishmahon. Do you need a lift?” She spoke loudly and gesticulated, as if he
were deaf or simple, or both. Sean tugged the front of his cap, pulled the door
open and climbed in. Huge droplets of icy rain splattered the windscreen. Sean
leaned over and flicked the wiper switch.

“Thanks.” She was still smiling.

He recognised the 4x4, one of the vehicles Padar Quinn
laughingly called his fleet, a few battered trucks, kept barely functional to
hire to tourists renting holiday cottages on the island. It was well
out-of-season for tourists. He allowed himself a brief speculation, giving her
a quick once-over. What was she doing on the island off-season? Working?
Visiting relatives? He huddled himself backwards into his ageing, tweed jacket,
grunting softly.

“I’m here for an out-of-season break,” she offered brightly,
reading his mind, “I haven’t been here since I was a child, used to come with
my parents, they loved to study here, marine biology. The Coltranes. Did you
know them?”

He rolled his one good eye up to heaven, frowning through the
smeary windscreen as they rattled away. The bundle beneath the Tartan picnic
rug on the back seat moved and a couple of pointed white ears, sharp black eyes
and a soft nose poked out. It sniffed the air with interest.

“That’s Monty, I’m Marianne,” she said chirpily, to the
other bundle in the car. “We’re over from England, stopped with relatives in
Dublin before heading out early this morning, boat, train and now car. We’re
here for six glorious weeks, rented one of the Quinn’s cottages, looking forward
to it, it’ll be great.”

He made no comment.

The rain battered the windscreen, the vehicle bumped along
the track as the mist swirled about them. A few lights ahead in the encroaching
twilight twinkled, flickered on and off and then all went dark.

“Crikey, the night comes in suddenly, doesn’t it?” She
searched the dashboard. He leaned over again and flicked another switch,
headlights.

“Especially when there’s a power cut.” He nodded ahead, the
village was in darkness.

“Ah, does that happen often?”

“Once is too often.”

They continued the rest of the journey in silence.

With the 4x4 safely parked, Sean pushed open the door of the
pub to allow her to enter, grunted a thank you for the lift and disappeared
into the dark, leaving her standing in the half-light of a couple of fat church
candles burning on the bar. A fire flickered in the hearth. There was a clank
of bottles from somewhere below, the cellar door was propped ajar.

“Hello, anyone there?”
A burly, red-headed man emerged smiling, a couple of cases of bottles in his
huge hands. She recognised him as the chap she had rented the car from at the
petrol station earlier, hardly a petrol station, a couple of pumps and a bit of
a shed behind. The whole lot looked as if it were held together with a sign
advertising
Mobil Oil
on one end and a
Sweet Afton
poster
at the other.

“Ah Miss, a bit of a power failure, would you credit it? And
the dark rolled in like the divil. Did you find the pub okay? Sure wouldn’t be
easy in the pitch black.” He worked as he spoke, stacking shelves with bottles,
rattling the empty ice bucket. “Sit down and I’ll bring you over a nice hot
whiskey. Then I’ll check with the wife if your cottage is ready. You’ll want a
wash and brush up before a bite of supper, no doubt. And sure you must be
dog-tired, it’s not an easy journey from Dublin, whatever the weather, and
you’ve to come from England first...”

He did not seem to require responses to any of his many
observations, so with Monty bundled under her arm, Marianne said nothing,
taking a seat in an old armchair beside the fire. Padar called for hot water
and after about ten minutes of bottle-clanking and fierce pump-polishing the
whiskey appeared, as did Padar’s wife, bosomy and bustling. She was introduced
as Oonagh and once she realised Marianne was on her own, immediately came to
sit conspiratorially beside her, scratching Monty’s ears with her chunky,
country-wife fingers.

“Now, Miss Coltrane...”

“Marianne, please.”

“Marianne. I’ve given you the best cottage. Not the largest,
but the nicest ‘arse-pect’, when the weather allows, and the most comfortable,
the bed is a good size and the fire draws well, heating the sitting room in no
time. The front garden is well fenced, so the little fella can go out and do
his business in safety.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind.”

“Not at all, I’m only sorry for the power failure, an awful
business. Thank God the ole cooker is still on bottled gas. I’ve a lovely beef
casserole on the go. Now, when would you like to eat?”

The woman looked intently into Marianne’s face.

“God love you, you look done in. A deeper weariness than
just the journey, I would say.” Oonagh touched her hand briefly. Marianne gave
her a quizzical look, but Oonagh did not elucidate. Marianne sipped her
whiskey, as Monty lapped milk from a dish Padar had lain before him. Mrs Quinn
took control.

“Might I suggest, Miss... Marianne, Padar goes and lights
the fire. I’d put the electric blanket on, but with this...” She shrugged,
turning her hands skywards. “So I’ll give him a couple of hotties for the bed,
you have your supper and take a hot whiskey in a flask with you. Padar’ll light
a few candles above in the cottage and we’ll have you settled before you fall
off your feet with the tiredness. Sure the weather’s set fine for tomorrow and
everything looks better in the sunshine.”

Monty sniffed the newcomer, he liked the smell of her and
her voice was soothing. With his tummy full of warm milk, and a glowing hearth,
he nudged Marianne with his nose, slowly wagging his tail, he seemed to urge
his mistress to accept all put before her. Marianne nodded.

“Thank you, a good plan,” she conceded.

The remainder of the evening was something of a blur. She
remembered that Sean Grogan and a couple of men had come in for a few pints as
she ate. He had nodded goodnight to her as she left, carrying Monty and her
overnight bag. She had shuffled the few, short steps from the pub to the
cottage door, noticed that the rain had stopped, and was glad of it. The
cottage was warm and the candlelight soft. She remembered finding the bathroom,
cleaning her face, pulling off her moleskins and throwing them on the bedpost.
She had put Monty and the picnic rug at the foot of the bed, bade him goodnight
and then everything went dark, very dark. The dark velvet warmth of a sleep
without dreams, or at least dreams which had the decency not to show themselves
in the morning. One of the best night’s sleep she had in many, many months.

When she woke she did not know where she was, and then
remembering, she slithered beneath the covers pulling the duvet over her face
to lie completely still. The weeks stretched before her, like a row of precious
jewels, linked only by the fact that one followed the other. She had nothing
planned, nothing scheduled, no reason for any two days to be the same. There
was no-one else to consider, nothing had to be done.

For once in her adult life, Marianne Coltrane was not on a
deadline and this precious gift of time would be spent in Innishmahon, the
little fishing village sitting on the edge of the island bearing the same name.
Perhaps the smallest dot on the map, nevertheless Innishmahon rose up out of
the sea boldly, staring defiantly across the Atlantic with its sweeping cliffs
turned upwards, seeming to snub the vast continent of America that lay across
the swathe of ocean. Marianne had always loved the place.

She sat up, contemplating the time laid out before her, six
whole weeks, a delicious indulgence. She had only been here one night and was
already beginning to unwind. She had never admitted, even to herself, that
after all she had been through over the past few months, few years, if she was
honest, she desperately needed some space, a bit of peace, time to herself.
This six-week break was going to be perfect.

 The electricity had returned mysteriously in the night and,
standing by the kettle, her gaze crossed the stretch of green at the rear of
the cottage. The little lawn led down to the lane and then onto scrub-grass,
sand dunes and out to sea; a sea which shimmered purple-blue; white crests of waves,
saluting her casually, as she watched. Oonagh had been right about the weather.
It had changed overnight and though a stiff breeze greeted her when she opened
the stable door of the kitchen to let Monty explore his new territory, the sun
had a little heat in it. Pulling on a cardigan, she sat down on the small stone
wall, sipping coffee and looking out to sea. It was already a grand day and she
had only been awake for an hour.

She looked along the lane leading to the pub and village
shop, with its fading name painted gold against midnight blue. It read,
Maguire’s Purveyors of Game and Quality Victuallers and on the other side it
exclaimed, Stout, Whiskey and Quality Provisions; the repetition of quality,
obviously an essential element of the marketing strategy. The gate of the neat,
cottage garden was a mere dozen steps from the side door of the pub, the front
of which swung to the right, curving onto Innishmahon’s main street. Nothing
had really changed in all the years since she had been there, a few satellite
dishes, a couple of properties extended and renovated, but it all looked very
much as she remembered from her childhood, familiar and safe.

To her left were two identical cottages, one painted duck
egg blue, the other pale pink with rich dark green doors and window frames. The
buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, smiling in the sunshine, positioned
slightly back from the lane as if in deference to her gateway, proudly leading
onto the pathway towards the pub. Both properties were larger than her cottage
but neither had windows that faced the dunes and the sea - being built sideways
- shunning the view and no doubt the weather. Weathervane, as her cottage was
called, had no such qualms about its stunning location, embracing it head-on
with a small garden, a terrace and a glorious glass conservatory, all facing
seaward to make the most of the spectacular and constantly changing landscape.

The little conservatory was a jewel of an embellishment,
featuring multi-coloured glass panes; it had obviously been added at a time of
great prosperity. Among its treasures: a grandiose Spanish chandelier, a fine
Persian rug, a tired but elegant tangerine chaise longue, a Victorian china
cabinet bearing a crystal decanter – empty but none the less appealing – and an
original 1950s radio, resplendent in its highly polished walnut case. The glass
doors at the end of the conservatory opened out and backwards, lying flat
against the glass walls, revealing a small terrace of local slate, down to a
sweep of lawn, then the fence, the lane and on to dunes and out to sea.