The House on the Cliff, page 22
She’s very glad of this feeling when she sees a very familiar face straight ahead of her. It’s Father Crispin, the headmaster.
‘Miss Murphy,’ he says, smiling. Theresa feels awkward. Crispin had also been called to give evidence to the coroner. Which means, of course, that he knows the truth now about her relationship with Trystan. She aches to get away, to avoid the desperately awkward conversation that’s bound to follow. She needs to book her ferry crossing. She plans to leave first thing tomorrow.
‘I… wanted to drop by before I go,’ she says, her voice faltering. ‘I’m just going to the cove now, actually… I wanted to…’ She begins to walk away.
‘Please, don’t leave on my account. You are always welcome here.’
She turns and looks at him in surprise.
‘I know I have sinned dreadfully,’ she says. ‘I apologise for doing so while I lived here. I know it’s not the standard of behaviour expected by members of staff.’
‘No, it isn’t. But we all sin, Theresa,’ he says, using her first name for the first time. Well, I’m not an employee now, am I? she thinks. ‘And if we seek forgiveness, we are always forgiven.’
‘That’s what the monk I was talking to just said,’ she says, smiling. ‘I didn’t ask his name, but he was so lovely. The monk who was just cleaning the church.’
‘Which one was that? Can you describe him?’ asks the abbot.
‘He was tall, with blue eyes and white hair in a side parting. He was so lovely. So reassuring to talk to.’
The abbot doesn’t reply for a moment. She wonders if she’s said something wrong.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Was he supposed to be working in silence? I don’t want to get him in trouble.’
‘No, child. No. But the monks don’t clean the abbey. We have female cleaning staff from the village who do that.’
‘Oh.’ Theresa is confused. ‘Was he breaking the rules, then? By being here?’
‘No, I rather think he was doing God’s work,’ says Crispin.
‘Yes.’
‘I believe you’ve been speaking to Brother Volmar.’
‘Ah. Volmar. Yes. He was lovely.’
‘Volmar died a year ago,’ says Crispin, still smiling.
It takes Theresa a few seconds to realise what he’s just said. ‘He… died?’
‘He was one of the kindest men I have ever met. He provided me with a great deal of solace and reassurance, and a gentle ear, for all the years I knew him. It is as you would expect, I think, that he could continue to do so, even in the afterlife.’
‘I’m sorry… are you saying I’ve just been talking to a ghost, Father Crispin?’ she asks, incredulously. That man she spoke to, she thinks, cannot have been a ghost. He was as solid, as real as Crispin or her.
‘I rather think I am,’ says Crispin. ‘And you are not the first person to report seeing him, either. He seems to appear when he is needed.’
‘I… I don’t know what to say.’ Theresa looks around her, expecting to see this monk, this Volmar, floating by or jumping out from behind a pillar.
‘I’m sorry, Theresa. Please don’t be frightened. He cannot harm you. He certainly would never wish to do so. If you can, I would try to see it as a blessing. That’s how I saw it.’
‘You’ve seen him, too? Since he died?’
‘Oh, yes,’ says Crispin. ‘I certainly have.’
‘And did he help you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
27
AMANDA
Good Friday, 2025
‘Just come inside, my love,’ says Amanda, coaxing Mike inside their flat like a child. She’s praying no one saw them make their slow, sodden walk from the coastal path to the residential block. As far as Bede and the rest of the management team are concerned, Mike is just laid low with food poisoning or norovirus, and that’s how she’s determined it will stay.
She is relieved when he crosses the threshold and she’s able to shut the front door behind them.
‘Let’s go into the bathroom first. We can take your wet things off and warm you up in the shower.’ He’s still impassive, his face blank, like a ventriloquist’s dummy. She tries not to panic. It won’t achieve anything, anyway, even if she does. She cajoles him into the bathroom and peels off his clothes, like she used to do for the kids when they were toddlers. He’s shaking with cold, and his skin is grey. She chucks his wet clothes in the direction of the corridor and then turns on the shower, and the room fills with steam. ‘In you go, my love,’ she says, gently. He does as she asks. She wonders for a moment whether she’s going to have to wash him, but she’s relieved when he picks up the shower gel from the ledge, squirts some on his hand and washes himself methodically, four decades of muscle memory kicking in.
She sits on the toilet to wait. His expression, when he’s turning to face her, is no longer blank. It’s more… pained, she thinks. Yes, pained. In pain. She wonders whether his frozen limbs are aching as they thaw, or whether his pain is more of the emotional kind. Both, she thinks, most likely.
When he’s done, she hands him a towel and watches him dry himself. Then she lifts his dressing gown from a hook on the back of the door and helps him put it on.
‘How about I set you up on the lounge with a blanket, and I’ll make us a hot drink,’ she says, sounding like a relentlessly cheerful Guide leader on a long, rainy hike. He makes a noise that sounds like ‘hmmm’ and follows her into the living room. He sits down with a loud sigh, and she pulls one of the blankets they keep in a pile in the corner over his lap. Then she walks into the kitchen, flicks on the kettle and sets about making two cups of tea. She’s grateful for the fact that she could do this particular activity in her sleep, because she needs to think carefully about what she’s going to say to him. She’s not a trained psychotherapist, and that’s what he really needs, of course. That, she thinks, will have to happen later. Whether he wants to do it or not, and she already knows that the answer will be not. He’s that sort of man.
When she’s decided what she’s going to say first, she dumps the tea bags in the bin and carries the mugs into the lounge, where Mike is now staring straight ahead, apparently into space. She sits down next to him, puts the mugs on a side table, and says, ‘I’m here.’
She could have said any number of profound things or asked any of the myriad questions she’s got swirling around her head, particularly about that photo, but in the end, she’d thought the best thing was reassurance. He’ll need that more than anything, she thinks, knowing that, frankly, that’s what she needs most of all, too.
And then he does something unexpected. He starts to cry. Not just a few tears running down his face, but huge, body-wracking sobs. He’s never cried before in her presence, not really, except for a few happy tears shed after the children’s births. She’s taken aback. She instinctively drapes her arms around him and gathers him close. She wonders if, given their recent arguments, he might shrink from her, but he doesn’t. In fact, he leans in more. She feels his warm body on hers, and the rawness of his emotion, and she instinctively just wants to provide comfort. That doesn’t mean that all is forgiven, of course. Life and feelings are never that simple. But for now, she knows that the man she loves needs her help, and that’s enough.
‘I don’t deserve you,’ he says, into her shoulder.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she says, incredibly relieved he’s able to speak.
‘I don’t. I realised that, yesterday, after you left. I realised that I’ve been taking you for granted for so long, and I’ve put you through so much. I’ve been so selfish.’
After an intense minute, Mike pulls away. Amanda picks up one of the mugs of tea and hands it to him, before picking up her own.
‘That’s not true,’ she says, taking a sip. He has a point, of course, but she’s not going to ram that point home now, not when he’s so down. And after all, she could have refused to come to Hallows, couldn’t she? She could have, if she’d really not wanted to do it. And in the end, she’s almost grateful that he forced her out of her comfort zone, out here to the beautiful countryside, by the wild sea. ‘I mean, you getting a promotion here was about us, wasn’t it? More money, a better pension for our retirement…’
‘No. Coming here was… one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had,’ he says, lifting his mug to his mouth with trembling hands.
‘Oh, Mike. You’ve been so busy and so I think you haven’t really noticed, but honestly, I’ve grown to really like this place. It took me a while to realise that the troubles I’ve been having were more about what’s going on in my body and mind than they are about where I am. And I love my new friends. I like my new job. I think it could work here. But I know your job here has been much harder and more exhausting than you’d hoped…’
Mike doesn’t say anything immediately. But instead of staring straight ahead, he looks at Amanda for the first time since she persuaded him to leave the beach.
‘Like I said,’ he says, his eyes fixed on her, ‘I don’t deserve you.’
‘No… It’s not like that.’
‘It is.’ Mike’s manner has changed, and Amanda feels unsettled by it. He seems like he’s being powered by a force she’s never noticed before.
‘What is it, Mike? What is it that you need to tell me?’
‘It’s… Oh God, it’s too much,’ he says, putting his tea down and closing his eyes. ‘I don’t even know where to begin.’
‘Does it have something to do with Father Paul teaching your brother?’ she asks, with trepidation. Because it was his face, the face of Hallows Abbey’s headmaster, that she’d recognised in that school photo.
Mike’s steely expression wavers.
‘You saw it, then?’ he says. ‘I should have put it away. I was trying to sort things, finally, as you’d asked. In case you came back. So I could show you I was trying to make an effort, to try to make you happy… And then I just… I just… I couldn’t. I can’t. I can’t do it any more.’
‘Tell me. Tell me why that photo made you feel so upset. And why you never told me that you knew Paul, from before.’
‘I didn’t know Paul. Not really. He taught Olly, not me.’ Of course, she thinks. Olly and Mike went to different schools. ‘After Olly… did what he did, there was no way in hell Mum and Dad were going to send me to the same place. Because it was that school that sent him into a spiral. He was bullied there, you see. Badly bullied. And Paul was his form teacher. Olly went to him for help when it got really bad, but all Paul did was give him useless advice about standing up for himself. And that made Olly feel like it was all his fault. He committed suicide not long after. Paul could have saved Olly then, if he’d got him the right help. I really think he could. But he did nothing. The inquest let him off any sort of blame, but I’ve never forgiven him for what he said to Olly, and what he didn’t do.’
‘So why on earth did you take a role at a school where he’d just been made headmaster, if you disliked him so much?’
He takes a large gulp of tea and swallows hard.
‘I didn’t know it was him, at first. I saw the deputy headship advertised and you know I’d always been itching for a promotion. God knows why, given what it’s been like, but anyway… I wanted a change, and I saw this place and obviously given my experience with Catholic education, I thought I’d stand a good chance of getting it. And I also thought, given our happy holidays in this area, that you might like it, too. I thought it might give us a new start, after your mum’s passing, and now the kids have left. God, I’m a fool.’ He says, shaking his head. ‘So, yes… I applied. It was only when I’d been invited for interview that I discovered who’d just been brought on board as the new headmaster.’
‘And that didn’t put you off?’
‘It did, at first. But then I realised it might be an opportunity.’
‘An opportunity for what?’ Mike looks pained. ‘What?’ she repeats, determined to find out what’s going on in his head.
‘Revenge.’
28
THERESA
2 August 1966
‘Fishguard Harbour! All change, please.’
Theresa steps off the train, the heels of her black knee-high boots clicking on the platform as she adjusts her handbag’s shoulder strap and picks up her suitcase. She takes in her surroundings. The station is a mix of old and new, the Victorian architecture of the ticket offices and waiting rooms contrasting with the diesel engine lining the platform. The last steam service departed from this platform just a few years previously. The main building’s brickwork has been darkened by decades of soot and salt. A large clock, its numbers roman numerals and edged in gold, hangs from the main station building, its hands ticking steadily towards eleven.
Theresa stands still for a moment, trying to calm her anxiety, which has been prompted by the hive of motion around her. Porters in navy uniforms push trolleys loaded with luggage, and passengers surge for the exit, except for one couple who are sharing a passionate embrace before the sea divides them.
She wonders for about the fifth time today whether she’s doing the right thing, leaving England. But then she thinks about Trystan. The man she’d loved, the man she is still grieving for, despite his lies, who has now gone forever, doing a job she recommended him for. A man who is now unable to support his family, John included. No, she thinks. No. I made a terrible mess of my time at Hallows Abbey. Daddy was right. I will never make anything of myself over here.
She needs to get moving, or she’ll risk missing the ferry she’s spent a whole day, a night stop, and then several hours this morning, travelling to meet. She walks out of the station and follows signs to the port, passing a kiosk selling newspapers and sweets. As she approaches the ferry terminal, she sees its concrete walls are plastered with posters advertising trips to Ireland, promising adventure and a warm welcome. The irony of that, she thinks, is extreme.
Up on deck, the air is thick with the scent of saltwater and diesel. Above her, seagulls cry, their calls piercing the hum of the boat’s engines as it pulls away from port. She remembers how she’d felt when she’d first set eyes on the small town of Fishguard. She’d never been to Wales before, or England, for that matter. She’d felt excited, nervous, when she’d first seen it from the ferry. She’d absolutely been a fish out of water, there had been no doubt about that. She’d been an Irish Catholic convent schoolgirl with a childhood not entirely dissimilar to the nuns who’d taught her. She’d had no idea about anything, anything at all. But also, she’d felt a huge sense of relief at finally gaining her independence. Independence, of course, which has led her down a terrible path.
She wishes she could go back and never meet Trystan at all. If she hadn’t, she’d still be at Hallows. The thought of that beautiful, barren place tugs at her heart. She had enjoyed her work there. She’d loved helping the homesick boys with their complicated lives, just like her own.
The ferry’s horn blasts, and the noise brings her back to her senses. Nothing good will come of thinking like this, she decides. Nothing at all.
The journey to Rosslare takes four hours. Theresa spends most of the trip on deck. She isn’t a good traveller, and she doesn’t trust her stomach.
As the ferry pulls into Rosslare, Theresa doesn’t want to leave the boat with the first surge of passengers. Instead, she stays on deck and watches the harbour workers engaging in what seems to be the precarious task of winching several cars off the ferry and onto the pier. She’s so interested in this activity, in fact, that one of the stewards has to attract her attention.
‘Miss? It’s time to disembark, miss,’ says a young Welshman with an earnest expression.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Of course,’ she replies.
‘Shall I carry your bag?’
‘Oh. How kind. But I’ll be fine. It’s very light.’ She picks it up.
‘Were you in England for the World Cup, miss?’ ‘Oh, yes. It was hard to miss,’ she replies, trying to smile convincingly. The truth is, she can hardly bear to remember John’s wonderful words that had summed up the boys’ excitement so well: ‘the thought that for once, we might be more than we are.’ She sees the faces of those lovely lost boys in her mind, and she fights the urge to cry.
‘Must have been something,’ he says.
She nods and walks slowly down the steps towards the gangway, the man trailing her; checking, no doubt, that she’s actually going to leave. In fact, a small part of her, maybe not even that small a part, wishes to stay on the boat, to let it take her right back to Fishguard without ever setting foot in Ireland again. The rational part of her brain knows this is ridiculous, of course. She has to get off. She has to keep moving. She has to go home.
Theresa manages to snatch a small amount of sleep on the bus to Dublin. Her accommodation the night before, a very cheap bed and breakfast in Cardiff, had been both noisy and dirty. When she wakes – feet swollen, mouth dry – she sees they’ve entered Dublin. The roads are wider here, and the traffic thicker. Georgian buildings, blackened by soot, compete with modern high-rise offices and flats, adorned with plastic panels giving splashes of colour, and angular concrete roofs. The River Liffey glistens under muted sunlight.
Finally, the bus pulls into Áras Mhic Dhiarmada on Store Street. The building, opened in 1953, had been dismissed by critics as a ‘pile’ and ‘like a factory’, but most Dubliners are now quite fond of it. She disembarks from the bus and waits patiently for her bag to be handed to her by the driver. It’s certainly got the hint of the exotic, what with the pillars at its entrance, wood panelling and its Venetian glass mosaics. If only the rest of Dublin was this modern, she thinks, receiving her bag and walking, with no particular urgency, to the stands which host the local buses. She searches the timetables for the next bus to Tallaght, walks over to the required stand, and sits and waits.
As she does so, she looks about her. These should be my people, she thinks. I’m from here. Born and bred in what was once a tiny village on the outskirts, but which is now rapidly becoming a town. But why, then, do they seem so unfamiliar? Their accents should be the same as hers, shouldn’t they? But she finds she’s unable to immediately understand the conversation two young women are having next to her on a bench. Can local slang have changed this much since I left? she thinks. Or have I forgotten? And their clothes – well, the hemlines mostly seem to be lower here, she thinks, tugging her miniskirt down towards her knees. She’s now doubting this clothing choice, which had seemed perfectly fine in Cornwall. What will Daddy think of it? She considers changing in the ladies’ toilet, but this thought is disregarded when she sees her bus approaching. Better to get this over with, she thinks. She gets into the queue to board.
