The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (30 page)

“We’ll start the bridge-building the way they built the
grotto back then,” she explained to the committee, handing out leaflets,
calling for volunteers. “We’ll lay the foundations ourselves, with our own bare
hands, then they’ll see we mean business and, if anyone who has ever visited
the island volunteers to help, just for one weekend, it will demonstrate how
badly we need the bridge to survive.”

Marianne issued press releases; they launched a ‘Bridge Too
Far’ website and Oonagh started a daily blog clocking up the numbers of
respondents, highlighting writers, artists and other celebrities who had
promised to come and join the working party. For those who could not attend,
foundation stones were being ‘sold’ at one hundred euro a time. Cash was
beginning to roll in.

“I’m trying to get loads of superstars, boy bands and the
rest of their pals to come. I’m on their websites and tweeting like mad,”
Oonagh announced at the committee meeting prior to the ‘Bridge Too Far’
festival weekend, delighted with her role of adding celebrities to the guest
list.

“Will they take to the stage, do you think?” Miss MacReady
was beside herself; she had a particular passion for boy bands.

“Sure a session here would be the best of all worlds, and
Father Gregory does a great version of
‘I don’t like Mondays’
except he
sings Sundays,” laughed Padar, as the excitement began to take hold.

Oonagh followed Marianne into the loo. Over the last few
weeks, her friend had spoken of nothing except the campaign. It had absorbed
her entirely. Oonagh thought she looked pale, despite the fire in her eyes.
Marianne was dragging a brush through her hair.

“Any news?” Oonagh asked, nonchalantly.

Marianne shrugged. “Sure I’m well off the radar. He’s
married to Angelique, they are expecting a child, he’s made his choice and I’ve
made mine. We won’t see him again, and that’s for the best.”

Oonagh raised an eyebrow. Marianne had done a fantastic job;
and all the TV channels were running the story, reporting updates as the
campaign progressed. Oonagh blogged news online and Miss MacReady was
negotiating exclusive rights with a celebrity magazine and a Sunday newspaper
from her newly purchased laptop. Someone would need to be living on another
planet to be unaware of what was happening on the small island off the west
coast of Ireland. Even if Ryan had missed any of the news bulletins, which was
unlikely, Oonagh had kept him up to speed via her special status as one of his
most fervent fans.

Although disappointingly, she had not had one email
acknowledging her pleas for him to help with the campaign. But Oonagh was not
prepared to give up on him, she could not believe he had abandoned them. He had
been a real life hero in their darkest hour. He was one of their own.

Back in the bar, Oonagh was not going to let the subject
drop.

“If you want my advice,” she said, gazing sagely at her tea
towel.

“It seems I always receive your advice whether I want it or
not.” Marianne was smiling.

Oonagh continued polishing glasses, “I’d wait for the
stallion to return.”

“What?”

“Hear it from the horse’s mouth, you know, ask Ryan straight
out, is he with Angelique or not. Was the marriage a publicity stunt, or
something more sinister. Did he have to do it; was he blackmailed. I mean, what
do you feel in your heart of hearts?”

“I don’t know what I feel if I’m honest, or which way to
turn. Sometimes I feel like I’m in the eye of a storm too, blown from pillar to
post, homeless, heartless, loveless, oh I dunno.” Two huge tears slid
unexpectedly down Marianne’s cheeks.

Oonagh ran from behind the bar as fast as her bulk would
allow. She gripped Marianne by the arms, staring in mock horror into her face.

“Dear God, was that you speaking Marianne? Did you just talk
about your feelings? You know, articulate how you actually feel?”

“What do mean?” Marianne sniffed, incredulous, “I’m very
open about my feelings, people know exactly where they stand with me.”

“Really? Ever told him you’re in love with him?” Oonagh
released Marianne, and folded her arms.

“Well, of course.” Marianne looked out of the window. “You have
customers coming.”

“Ever?” Oonagh was rooted to the spot.

“Well, probably not precisely in those words, no.”

“So he doesn’t know where he stands either. Poor fella,
trailing halfway round the world in the hope the woman he loves will tell him
she loves him, demand he stays with her, or never darken her door again; living
in hope she’ll make a home for him, so he can, at last, stop flitting around
the globe, like a homeless will o’the wisp.”

The small area around the bar was suddenly full. The next
time Oonagh checked the corner where Marianne and Monty had been sitting, it
was empty.

The very next day Miss
MacReady charged through the door of Weathervane, brandishing a letter, stamped
airmail, from Australia. She and Marianne both recognised the handwriting.

“Well?” Miss MacReady pushed the envelope across the table
towards her. Marianne opened it. A cheque for fifty-thousand euro fluttered to
the surface.

“Mother of God!” Miss MacReady exclaimed. No note, no
explanation.

She handed it to the postmistress.

“Lodge it.”

“Good enough.” Miss MacReady left, bursting with the news
for Oonagh to blog.

Marianne sat down, winded. Monty, always the opportunist,
jumped onto her lap. She put her arms around him and let the tears drip slowly
into his fur, till he shook his ears free of the wetness. Sometimes,
maintaining this stiff upper lip was bloody hard work.

Marianne spoke into the receiver.
“Love? Are you drunk? Stoned?” 

“No way. I only said ...”

“I know what you said. How much is asked of that little
word? I mean, really? How can I possibly know if what it means for you is what
it means for me?”

“Ah ...”

“Is it a sweet fondness that makes you smile when you hear
my voice or see me enter a room, I wonder? Or an all-consuming passion that
means you can’t think of anything else, food is abandoned, and the night is
endless?”

“Er…I think you’re the one who’s been drinking.”

She ignored him. “I mean, I love baked beans, sunshine,
Christmas, clean hair, airports. How can that tiny word apply to so much?”

“Well...”

“So no, I don’t know you love me and I certainly don’t know
how much. There’s your answer.”

“And they say romance is dead.” He was laughing, the line
crackling.

“I just thanked you for your generous donation to the
campaign, I did not expect the response to be ‘but you know how much I love
you.’” She twisted the frayed cord in her free hand.

“Well I do, and whatever the word means to you, it means an
awful lot to me.”

“Really, how’s your new wife?” She bit her lip.

“Impossible. But that’s another story. A story I want to
tell you face to face.”

“Not sure if I want to listen.”

“For fifty grand, you’ll listen.”

“Don’t make me feel cheap.”

“Fifty grand is not cheap. Anyway, I genuinely want to help.
Innishmahon means a lot to me too, it feels like roots.”

“I know what you mean.” She softened.

“I know you do, sure we’re the same soul.”

“
Wuthering Heights
has been done.”

“That’s the other thing; I’ll bring the latest draft of the
script with me.”

“You’re coming, then?”

“Try and stop me.”

“I’ll tell Oonagh, and she...”

“No. No publicity till after I’ve been. I’ll be incognito.”

“I’ve told you before, Ryan, this super-spy thing is just a
role. Might you be taking the method acting too far?”

The line went dead. He had called on the landline from a
public telephone in New Mexico. She was thrilled to hear his voice. She dared
not admit, even to herself, how much she longed to see him. She shook her head
sadly, she probably had drunk a little too much wine with her solitary dinner,
but she had been working all hours helping to co-ordinate what was going to be
a mammoth weekend. She stood looking at herself in the mirror in the hallway of
the cottage, holding the heavy
Bakelite
hand piece aloft. How did she
feel now? Exasperated, exhilarated and excited. She replaced the receiver,
missing the almost imperceptible click of someone else listening on the line.

‘The ‘Bridge Too Far’ Festival was planned for the Bank
Holiday weekend at the end of October. Preparations were in full swing. All the
holiday cottages had been let; a special caravan and camping village erected
with a huge stage, seating, toilets, showers and canteen facilities all in
place.

People were arriving by the boatload. Oonagh had emptied
Maguire’s storerooms to turn them into makeshift guest suites; Father Gregory
had given over the Priest’s house to invading celebrities and their entourages,
and even the abandoned Georgian mansion, positioned on the highest cliff facing
seaward, had been made ready for visitors.

It was rumoured some young Royals were staying there,
bringing friends from the world of sport, stage and screen. Miss MacReady was
rather proud of that particular rumour.

A starting gun would sound the commencement of building
works at eight o’clock on Friday morning and a siren would cease production at
dusk on Monday evening. For entertainment, an open mic session was scheduled
for Friday night at Maguire’s, a full blown rock concert on Saturday, and a
ceilidh on Sunday. The island was to play host to three and a half thousand
revellers, most of whom would work for at least a couple of hours on the
foundations of the bridge. Some of Ireland’s biggest building firms were
supplying materials free of charge, and by Friday evening, the concrete for the
foundations had been poured into the footings.

Everyone was invited to sign their name in the still-wet
cement, quickly followed by the laying of blocks bearing the names of the one
hundred euro benefactors. Even though only an eighth of the project would be completed
by the end of the festival, it was an eighth that could not be torn down,
destroyed or blown away. It was a great start.

As the weekend drew to a close, Father Gregory announced
word from Brussels was positive. There was every indication, due to the
community’s dogged determination to help itself, that the match funding would
be granted. The news was greeted with rapture. Miss MacReady, resplendent in a
red satin cocktail gown, pirouetted into Maguire’s, clasping a print of an
email.

“We’ve done it! We’ve done it! It only needs rubber stamping
but we’re there. This is confirmation from Nuala, good girl she is.” Nuala
O’Shaugnessy was the MEP for the area.

“Well done, Miss MacReady. I’m proud of you, proud of all of
you,” rejoined a distinctive accent from the shadows. Miss MacReady flurried
bird-like towards the voice.

“You made it! Fair play to you. What are you doing hiding
here in the corner?”

“Waiting for the fuss to die down a bit. You know the
press.”

“Sure there’s plenty bigger names than you here. You’ll
hardly be noticed in that crowd,” she tried to reassure him, indicating the
hordes drifting by the window, heading for the extra ferries laid on to see the
revellers home in time for work, college or school.

Miss MacReady gratefully sipped the drink he handed her.

“I’ve a fierce dry throat with all the talking. God, I’ve
been interviewed by everyone, even that lovely fella off the telly. I’d have
him on my dance card any Saturday night.”

“Sure that would leave anyone thirsty,” laughed Ryan.

There was a struggle at the door. Father Gregory appeared
with Marianne, supporting Oonagh. Marianne stumbled under the weight of her
friend. Ryan was there instantly, taking Oonagh from her. Marianne was so
consumed with anxiety, she did not even notice him.

“She’s exhausted, taken on far too much,” Father Gregory
indicated the stairs. The colour was draining away from Oonagh’s usually russet
complexion.

“Let me.” Ryan took over from Marianne. Miss MacReady put
her pint down.

“I’m going for Sinead. The baby’s coming.” She indicated
Oonagh’s bump, and flew out the door.

Less than an hour later, Padar announced the premature
arrival of his baby daughter, Bridget Marianne, to a subdued gathering of
regulars at the bar.

“All’s well, all’s well,” he repeated, not quite
convincingly, but as Sinead was not allowing any visitors for at least
twenty-four hours, they would have to take his word for it.

“We’ll wet the baby’s head tomorrow then,” Father Gregory
confirmed as the crowd started to disperse. The fact he had been asked to stay
to conduct the Baptism had not gone unnoticed.

“Can I walk you home?” It was the first time Ryan had
addressed Marianne directly. She nodded and, taking her coat off the hook, he
placed it around her shoulders. She could feel the imprint of his touch long
after he had taken his hand away. Monty padded out behind them. They walked in
silence. He took her arm and they strolled down towards the beach and the
opening in the cliff leading down to the cove.

The last of the festival-goers were leaving, the lights of
their cars disappearing as the ferry set sail. Marianne and Ryan stood on the
beach and watched, as it left the pontoon, Monty sniffing along the water’s
edge. Ryan put his arms around her. She returned his embrace. They held each other
tightly.

“It will be alright,” he said into her hair.

“Are you staying?”

“If I may?”

“Still married?”

“At the moment? Yes.”

“You’ll have to sleep on the sofa then. I won’t be a
mistress.”

“I know.” The reflection of the sea made his eyes glitter,
but his mouth turned down at the edges.