The Coast Road, page 19
‘Just wait until the summer,’ Donal said. His look was softer, his tone measured. ‘We’ll be able to charge more for it then. And if she won’t pay, we’ll get her out and get holidaymakers in. We can’t be losing out on money with another child on the way.’
‘I’m going to go up to that house tomorrow and give her a month’s notice.’
Donal stepped closer to Dolores and took his son in his arms. He lifted Eric to his face and kissed him on the ear. And then as though he were about to bestow the same blessing on Dolores, he leaned towards her. ‘You’ll go nowhere fucking near her. If I hear you’ve been up there messing with her head there’ll be trouble. OK?’ He pressed the child back into her arms and Eric let out a little squeal of discomfort. ‘And do something about your hands,’ he said. ‘They’re fucking rotten.’
She watched him striding down the hall, following the cheers and chants coming from the television in the kitchen. She dropped down on the sofa and held her son closer to her. ‘Shush, shush, shush,’ she said, rocking Eric back and forth. The child lay entirely still and silent in her arms. ‘Madeleine,’ she shouted.
‘Yeah,’ came the thin call from upstairs.
‘Where’s Jessica?’ she said.
‘She’s with me.’
She felt the baby turn inside her and placed her hand on her stomach. ‘Shush, shush, shush,’ she said.
Chapter 21
The house was in complete darkness when James pulled up outside. She would be at one of her classes, he thought, yoga or tai chi or painting. This is what she did when they fought – she absented herself. Sometimes she brought Niall with her and he sat in the corner reading or drawing. But he couldn’t think what class she would have on a Friday night. And her absence was only a surprise to him because she’d been so present in his mind during his trip to Dublin, and he’d spent the entire four-hour drive home imagining what he would say to her.
He unlocked the door and turned on the hall lights, left his weekend case at the foot of the stairs. He walked to the notepad beside the phone and found it blank. The house was cold. He went to the hot press and turned on the heating. The air in the kitchen smelled fresh, the surface of the cooker gleamed. The fridge was near empty. He checked in the spare room and all her things were there, everything placed in an orderly way – the corners of the bed sheets neatly tucked, the duvet perfectly smooth.
In the sitting room he opened the drinks cabinet and poured himself a measure of whiskey. He turned on the television and started to watch the nine o’clock news but was distracted by the thought that Orla should have been home by now. Was she standing at the bus stop in the town waiting for someone to collect her? But the bus would have arrived hours ago, and Izzy would not forget something like that. Had Orla gone to stay with one of her friends for the weekend? This was the kind of thing Izzy usually found a way to communicate to him – she would have written it on the notepad.
And so he guessed that during his time away his wife had decided to deepen her silence, to punish him further. He had hoped that a bit of time apart would have eased tensions between them, had returned prepared to begin some kind of reconciliation. And he could think of only one reason why in the past week she would have hardened against him more fully. When he’d phoned his office from Dublin, Cassie could not resist telling him the great bit of gossip about Father Dempsey vanishing. She’d begun to relay the details with a modicum of delicacy, knowing that he was a friend of the family, but by the time she’d finished delivering the news she was breathless with excitement – the whole town was talking about it, she’d said. And Izzy was no fool – she’d have guessed that he’d had something to do with it. He’d been prepared to play dumb if the circumstances allowed for that, but it seemed more likely now they would have to have it out over this, that he would have to hold his hands up and admit his part in it.
He switched over from the nine o’clock news to the ten o’clock, watched the same headlines rehashed, turned off the TV. He rose from the sofa, walked to the hallway. He took Izzy’s phone book from the drawer and began to look for Margaret Brennan’s number. She was Izzy’s closest confidante, and he knew she was aware of how much they fought, but still he felt embarrassed at having to phone her to find out where his wife and children might be. And what if he had to call the Guards? He counted backwards in his head – it was five days since he had even laid eyes on his wife and a much greater length of time since they had spoken. And how were things between you? And he would have to say that things had not been good for some time. And is it unusual for your wife to disappear like this? And while it was not entirely unusual, he had never gone this long without having some communication with her. And do you have any reason to believe that your wife might be in any kind of danger, that she might have done some harm to herself?
As he lifted the receiver to dial Margaret’s number, he heard the noise of a car pull up. He put down the phone. Izzy came through the door unbuttoning her raincoat. She was out of breath. She looked as old and tired as he had ever seen her – no make-up, but more than this, it was as though some fundamental layer had been stripped from her. She passed him without acknowledgement, took her cigarettes from the pocket of her coat, and hung it under the stairs.
‘Jesus Christ – where have you been?’ he said.
She walked into the kitchen and he followed. She was sitting in Niall’s place, facing the door, her arms folded on the table. She didn’t meet his eye when he walked into the room. She wore a plain white blouse buttoned to the throat.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Sit down, James.’
‘You frightened the life out of me,’ he said, stepping closer to the table. ‘Where are Niall and Orla?’
‘They’re with Margaret Brennan – they’re going to stay there for the night, to give us a chance to talk.’
‘You could have left a note. I was going out of my mind.’ He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. ‘So you’re talking to me at least – that’s a good start.’
But it was bothering him, how prim and formal she looked sitting there in that starched white blouse.
‘James, there’s something I need to say to you.’
‘Well, go on, spit it out. I’m just glad to see you. Honest to God, I thought . . .’
‘James—’
‘Well, I don’t know what I thought, but . . .’
‘James,’ she said again, meeting his eye, ‘I want a separation.’
‘What?’
‘I want a separation,’ she enunciated.
A sharp breath shot from his throat. ‘You’ve said that before.’
‘I have. But it’s different this time. I’ve spoken to a solicitor and I’m going to start the process of—’
‘You’ve spoken to Peter?’
‘No, James. I’ve found my own solicitor. But that was no easy task. There were a few who wouldn’t even speak to me when they found out who I was married to. I had to go all the way to Letterkenny before I found a woman solicitor who talked me through everything and—’
‘Hold on, hold on – you’re telling me you’ve gone to speak to a solicitor, before we’ve even had a chance to discuss this?’
‘James, we’ve been talking for twenty years. Honestly – what’s left to say?’
‘But I’m back now and we can hash this out.’ He tried to steady the panic in his voice. ‘I know I’ve been preoccupied lately, there’s been a lot going on. I’ve neglected you. But I’m ready to do whatever—’
‘Next Friday I’ll bring Niall down to Majella’s,’ Izzy said, ‘and on the way I’ll collect Orla from school—’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the Sunday you’ll drive down to Galway to meet us, and we can talk to the kids together.’
‘You need grounds for a separation.’
‘You’ll bring the kids back with you and I’ll stay with Majella for a while. I don’t know how long. At least a week. I’ll need a bit of time to get my head together—’
‘On what grounds are you making this application,’ he said, jabbing his finger at the table.
She sighed, sat back in the chair. ‘It’s a complicated kind of description, but what it boils down to is that the marriage has broken down to the extent that a normal relationship has not existed for a period of—’
‘Oh, you’re well versed in it now, aren’t you? But that’s not going to wash. How are you going to prove that?’
‘There is a process that we’ll have to go through and—’
‘And what if I just refuse to play ball?’
‘You can make things more difficult if you want but the only ones you’ll be harming are the kids.’
‘I’m not the one who’s intent on dragging them through the courts.’
‘And I hope that while I’m away you’ll do the decent thing and find alternative accommodation.’
‘Alternative accommodation?’ He shot up from the chair. ‘Alternative accommodation? Would you listen to yourself? What are you fucking talking about?’
He watched her staring off into the corner of the room. ‘Is this because of that priest?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ he heard her whisper.
He walked to the kitchen sink and reached under it for the whiskey bottle, took down a tumbler from the cupboard, and poured himself a large measure.
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’ she asked. ‘God, I never thought you’d insult my intelligence like that.’
He took a gulp from the glass, felt the sting in his throat. He put the drink down on the table and the dark liquid lapped over the rim. He sat down in the chair. ‘I did it to save our marriage.’
‘You’re a fucking coward, James Keaveney.’
‘This is a chance for us to start again, now he’s not around anymore filling your head with shite.’
She withdrew a cigarette from the pack and lit it. ‘Tell me—’ She took a drag and exhaled a train of smoke. ‘Was it so embarrassing for you, so scandalous, for me to be friends with the parish priest?’
‘Oh yeah – because that’s what people were saying, all right – that you were great friends.’
She placed her chin in the heel of her hand, closed her eyes, and smiled. ‘God, Shaun Crowley really did a job on you, didn’t he?’
‘Did she put you up to this?’
‘Who?’
‘Housewife of the year – Colette.’
‘Oh yeah – because I’d really need to be convinced to leave this marriage.’
‘Maybe we should follow their lead – they seem to be making a great go of things. I’d say their children are really happy.’
‘We would not be the first couple to get separated, James, it happens all the time.’
‘Oh really – and how many couples do you know that are separated?’
‘Margaret and Brendan have been separated for years and they manage to make it work.’
‘Brendan Brennan is a rich man, he can afford to keep two homes.’
‘We’re not poor.’
‘My God,’ he said. ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that.’
‘Look, we can sit here all night and try and blame Brian Dempsey, or Shaun and Colette Crowley, but the truth is that any problems we had, we had before they came on the scene. Things have been bad for a long time. Maybe now we can move on and draw a line under it and life can be better for all of us. What do you think it’s like for the kids having a mother and father who don’t talk to each other for six months of the year?’
‘You see, that’s the difference between you and me – no matter how bad things got, I would never want a life without you and the kids.’
‘Oh, don’t start feigning interest in the children now, James. It doesn’t suit you. And I don’t doubt that if I had your life, I’d be satisfied with it. You have every single one of your needs met. Your children are reared for you, your home is looked after, you don’t have to cook or clean or iron a shirt for yourself. You spend half your time on the road to Dublin and when you’re here you may as well not be. In the past twenty years I have not been able to rely on you for even that much support.’ She pinched her fingers together and held them up in front of him. ‘Your job’s always been more important to you than me and the kids. I gave up trying to compete with that a long time ago. But any little bit of independence I’ve ever tried to have you’ve taken away from me.’
‘The shop?’
‘Which one – the one you sold on me fifteen years ago or the one you denied me last year?’
‘My job has kept a roof over our heads and two cars running and school fees paid and all you’ve ever done is complain there’s never enough. You’ve made a good enough job of spending it.’
She stubbed her cigarette out, placed her palms against the table, and pushed herself up out of the seat.
‘Sit down,’ he shouted. ‘We’re going to talk about this, now.’
She was staring down at the drops of whiskey pooled on the surface of the table.
‘Look, we always sort things out in the end,’ he said. ‘You’ve been saying for years that you want to leave and you’re still here.’
Her hands were still pressed against the table, her whole body bowed. ‘I know, I know,’ she said. Her arms began to shake. ‘Don’t remind me. I’ve wasted my whole life.’
‘I love you,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know that I love you?’
‘That’s an easy thing to say.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ he said. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Because if I have to stay in this marriage for one second longer, I swear to Christ, James, I’ll—’
‘Well, maybe you need to see a doctor.’
She strode towards the door.
He called after her, ‘If it’s so easy to say, then let me hear you say it.’
She stopped in the doorframe. Strips of light and shadow fell across the white material of her blouse. Her head drooped forward, her shoulders rounded. And all at once she straightened and walked off down the hall. His body was overcome by a sensation then, like the rattling of an engine. His face was in his hands and his chest heaved, forcing great gasps into his mouth – but whatever mechanism existed within him was so worn and out of use, it could not be called upon to produce tears.
Chapter 22
Colette had put her coat on to go for a walk but was distracted by the page again. She sat back down at the table and re-examined the words. The poem in front of her was titled ‘Solace’. She’d always loved this word, how it at once spoke of peace and complete desolation. And it sounded so much like the Irish word for ‘light’. She wanted there to be some hope. The word was a light at the top of the page to guide the reader through the darkest moment of her life. She’d laid out the details in blank verse – it was important for her to state these words as baldly as possible. Twelve lines in iambic pentameter and a full stop, blunt as a tiny fist, at the end of each one. To wake, and walk to your son’s cot and find he was no longer there, that he had been replaced in the night by something cold and unyielding – there was no real way to soften that.
Two days ago she had visited his grave and laid an arrangement of white roses beside a wreath of white roses, which she guessed had been left by Shaun. They had visited the grave together almost every week in the first year after Patrick died. Then they went at Christmas or on his birthday and eventually they stopped going altogether. She’d thought it strange they had both visited so recently, had chosen the same flower. And then, not for the first time in the past few months, she’d wondered where her own body would be laid to rest when that time came. She’d cast aside this thought, focused on the words on the stone: PATRICK CROWLEY – DIED 9 MONTHS – 4 JUNE 1976 – BELOVED SON AND BROTHER. That was it. And she wanted the poem she wrote to be as stark and unforgiving as the words engraved there.
The kitchen table was strewn with handwritten pages. She swept them together and the page that came to the top was covered in numbers. She’d written down her incomings and outgoings, but whatever way she’d tabulated and calculated, the simple fact was there was more going out than coming in. The £474 in her account was what remained of the money she’d borrowed from her mother. Under ‘options’ she’d written ‘sell car, get more teaching work’, and finally, ‘begin the process of legal separation’. The fact that Shaun had not been in contact via solicitors had given her hope – but Shaun had not paid any money to her since before Christmas, and she knew now that keeping her poor and beholden was part of the protracted punishment he was intent on exercising upon her. And he’d refused to forward her post, which, she was sure, contained invites to readings and festivals that might have provided her with some source of income. There was still £40 a week coming in from her writing workshops but that was barely enough for groceries and petrol.
But she was surprised at how much further her money stretched now that she’d stopped drinking, and at how easy it was to stop once she discovered her body was set to serve a different purpose. But most astonishing was the discovery that at the age of forty-four she was pregnant with her fifth child. She’d thought that her period might be late or that she was beginning early menopause. She’d only ever suffered mild morning sickness, and as it was, she was hungover so consistently that she expected to feel lousy when she woke. And sometimes when Donal had shown up at the cottage, she’d had a lot to drink already. She’d be quiet and listless, pretending to be overcome with desire when really she was incapable of standing up straight. At that point she didn’t care what became of her, and Donal had cared even less.
