The midnight house, p.6
The Midnight House, page 6
When Mama spoke again, her voice was softer. ‘I don’t think that’s true, Teddy. It was the war. Before that, well, you know what he was like. It’s been nearly twenty years since you’ve seen him. Since we saw him at Blackwater Hall in 1939. Nobody parted on the best of terms.’
‘No,’ said Papa. ‘But we did write. His letters . . . there weren’t many.’ He cursed. ‘Always so chipper . . . full of bravado. God help him.’
In the silence that followed, Hattie brushed aside her fringe, appraised herself. Then looked away. Mama said that beauty lived within, which Hattie had come to learn was something only beautiful people said.
‘And your father?’
‘He could barely speak . . . distraught.’ The clink of ice, the splash of liquid. Papa was closer to her now. She could hear the gulp as he drained his glass. Then more ice, more liquid. ‘We may have our differences, but . . . his son gone . . . how does it feel to lose a son? What if I lost Albert? I can’t imagine. I can’t.’
‘Your mother . . . how is she?’ Mama’s voice was full of distaste.
‘Confined to her bed.’ He moved to the door, inches from Hattie.
‘Funeral?’
‘Next week.’
A murmur from Mama she couldn’t make out.
‘Yes, perhaps it’s best you stay here. I’ll go alone. It’s a long trip. But then . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘But then in the new year, we must return.’ To where?
‘Yes, of course. The children can meet their grandparents.’ Hattie’s scalp prickled at the prospect. Grandparents. She could barely imagine it. ‘We’ll go for the summer.’
Papa paused as though gathering his thoughts. Or his courage. ‘No, not just for the summer.’
‘I won’t.’ This was Mama’s I’ve made up my mind voice.
‘It’s my duty now.’
‘Oh, tradition, is it?’
‘Don’t say it like that.’ Hattie was lost. What duty? What tradition? If Albert were here he could translate; he always knew what things were and what they meant.
‘Times have changed . . . we don’t have to go back to Ireland.’
Papa said, ‘But it has to go to me. Then it has to go to Albert. We’re the last of the line.’
Mama scoffed. Began to say something. Paused.
‘It’s a peerage, not a raffle prize.’ Papa drained his glass, the final chink of ice signifying the end of the conversation.
But Mama didn’t stop there. ‘Teddy, I won’t go back to that house. After what happened . . . after what happened to Charlotte.’
‘I’m sorry, Nancy. I’m so sorry.’
There was a gentle brush of linen, a slow released sigh; the sound of a warm embrace. Mama’s voice was muffled. ‘I won’t go back, Teddy, I won’t.’ But her resolve had melted away, her fire put out, and although she didn’t understand exactly how or why, in that instant Hattie Rathmore knew her life was about to change for ever.
Chapter Seven
Blackwater Hall, County Kerry
July 1939
Charlotte was waiting by the sweet peas.
‘You didn’t tell me about Lord Hawley,’ Nancy called across the empty walled garden. She’d seen the gardeners down by the pier, noticed them because of the noise they were making, hammering timber boards onto the boathouse walls as the morning sun licked vapour from the still lake. But people aside, the garden brimmed with life. And colour. A magnificent assortment of vegetables and flowers, and birds hopping on recently turned soil.
‘Why didn’t you mention anything? In your letters?’ Nancy said as she picked her way along a gravel path half hidden under squash leaves. The smell of damp earth reminded her of her final foster family, Rod and Barbara. They’d loved to garden; Rod was obsessed with his prize-winning pumpkins and Barbara her roses. They were very elderly when she’d been placed with them, and she wished they’d been younger. So they could see her now.
‘What was there to say?’ Charlotte had amassed a collection of pastel flowers. Even from where Nancy stood, the scent was heady.
There was a great deal to say. ‘Does Teddy know?’
Charlotte shook her head. Nancy had supposed, or rather expected he didn’t.
At the far end of the garden, built over a cast-iron bench, was a living arbour, its green leaves entwined with drooping blue clematis. It was surrounded with white and yellow lilies. ‘Let’s sit under the willow over there,’ Nancy said.
Charlotte followed her sister-in-law’s gaze, her eyes swinging past the seat. ‘The what?’
‘Willow.’
‘You mean the sally?’ She led Nancy to the seat, still damp from the night’s sprinkle. ‘The farmers curse this tree, it grows so quickly. This one was only planted a few years ago.’
Nancy couldn’t believe it; the tree was bedded in, heavy with foliage. It blended into the wild walled garden.
They sat in silence. The air was pleasantly heavy with some far-off rain, the scent of lilies almost overwhelming. Nancy reached out to touch one, its orange pollen staining her fingers.
‘So, what does it mean?’
Charlotte picked a flower from above her. A sprinkle of dew rained down on them. ‘It means my life is mapped out.’
‘It’s just a visit. It can hardly—’
‘I heard Father discussing figures with Mother.’
‘Perhaps we’ll still be here, Teddy and I.’ Nancy didn’t think it would help.
As if reading her mind, Charlotte said, ‘I’m grateful. But it won’t help.’ She plucked a petal from the blue clematis. ‘I’ve written to him, Lord Hawley. Thads, what a funny name.’
‘Thads?’
‘Thaddeus. His father was a classicist. He’s actually rather pleasant. A bit eccentric. He lives in some sort of castle, and is obsessed with the concept of destiny and inevitability. A big fan of Conan Doyle, and I mean more the spiritualism nonsense, not the detective.’ Nancy smiled, but her expression slipped when Charlotte added: ‘But he’s old.’
‘How old?’
‘Forty-five.’
She bit her bottom lip. ‘Perhaps when you get to know him . . .’
‘No.’ Charlotte shook her head. ‘I want to break away.’
Nancy paused. ‘You should talk to Teddy. He’ll understand.’
‘Yes, he found his own path,’ said Charlotte, ‘and it changed our family.’
Nancy was quiet.
‘Don’t . . . don’t misunderstand my meaning. In a good way.’ Charlotte grinned, a little of her humour returning. ‘But still, maybe I should call you Trouble from now on. Trouble Rathmore.’ At Nancy’s raised eyebrows she continued, ‘I want my own life.’
Nancy felt she was being drawn into something dangerous. ‘Charlotte, I don’t know how to put this.’ She rubbed pollen into little circles on her palms, its stain satisfyingly rich. ‘Teddy’s a man. It’s different. I wish it weren’t.’
‘But I have skills. I could come to London. I could be a secretary too. Or I can work with my hands. Needlework?’
Nancy looked at this creature from another era. ‘When was the last time you went to a city?’
‘Dublin, two years ago.’
‘And?’
Charlotte turned over her sister-in-law’s hands, tracing the orange stigmata. Then she let go, suddenly self-conscious. ‘It was busy . . . so busy. I simply couldn’t understand how everyone knew where to be. And cars, everywhere. Bicycles. Trams, of course. They reminded me of Mother because they would never have stopped if you stood in their way. We stayed at the Gresham. And the Abbey Theatre was wonderful. Juno and the Paycock. I insisted on going, but Father only made it to Act Two. I’m afraid I never saw the end.’
Nancy shifted. ‘It is lovely to see that side of the city. The hustle, the finery. The entertainment. But city living is quite something else. Particularly on a budget. Everything costs something. And at the end of each month when the rent is paid and the cupboards are bare, you simply start again.’
‘I know what you think of me. Spoiled girl. Can’t get her hands dirty.’
‘I don’t think anything of the sort.’
‘You’re probably right.’
Nancy didn’t want to let it hang. She changed the subject. ‘So, can I come to the next society meeting?’
Charlotte coloured. ‘Well, I . . . I’d be embarrassed. We’re only playing at it really.’
‘Good, that’s settled. Thursday, is it?’
She laughed. ‘I see your plan, Nancy. I can change subjects too. Let me see . . .’ She scratched her chin, a theatrical move. Nancy noticed the translucent skin on her hands; so fine, so delicate. She folded her own away in shame. ‘You’ve been married . . . how long?’
Nancy smiled. ‘Two and a half years.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Well . . . what can I say?’ An Englishness overcame her. ‘It’s nice. We have a good time.’ She laughed, a cork releasing pressure. ‘I’d feel odd discussing it . . . Teddy’s your brother.’
Charlotte made a face.
‘I feel very lucky. I’ve never made that a secret in my letters, have I?’ said Nancy.
‘You seem happy together.’
‘I won’t lie to you – we are. But some people find a happy marriage highly suspicious, so we won’t spread the news too far.’
A tiny robin dropped from the garden wall to peck at the base of the rosemary. He stopped to look at them, the rouge on his scrawny breast scruffy.
‘This little boy has a big year ahead of him,’ said Charlotte and Nancy felt a fondness flood her heart. For a girl with silken hands, she didn’t miss the nuances of nature.
‘So, what’s the secret?’
‘Secret?’ said Nancy.
‘To a happy marriage.’
She thought. ‘Respect, mostly. And an even footing.’
Charlotte looked confused.
‘Not socially, you understand. When you marry – no, before that – you must know your partner wants you for yourself, not for something you should be or could be.’
The robin sang, jumping staccato over an invisible skipping rope.
‘I see . . .’
Nancy closed her eyes. ‘Charlotte, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Of course not.’
‘I’m sorry.’ How many times would either of them say that today? Nancy felt the conversation was spiralling down and away, out of her control.
Charlotte took her hand. ‘I’m happy for you and Teddy. Goodness, if you hadn’t met, I wouldn’t know you.’ She smiled. ‘And where would I be then? Who would I write all my secrets to?’
Charlotte had been very candid with her during their correspondence – her admission about the Ballinn Dramatics Secret Society, her feelings about her mother, her dissatisfaction with her lot. Nancy felt a pang of guilt. Why could she herself not be so frank? She had nothing to be ashamed of.
As if reading her mind, Charlotte asked: ‘And children? When will you start?’
Nancy looked away. ‘Not for a few years, I’d imagine. Twenty-five feels too young for a family these days.’ She wondered if she was blushing.
Teddy appeared through the archway, his hand held high to shield a sliver of sun cutting through the clouds. ‘There you are. Thick as thieves.’
Charlotte jumped up and ran to him. ‘I’m sorry, Teddy.’
‘Hush now.’ He put his arms around her, winking over her shoulder at his wife, seated amongst the sapphire clematis.
Nancy felt a tug deep in her chest. For a lesser woman, it would be jealousy. The worry that her husband might love his sister more than his wife. That their shared memories would be richer than those she and Teddy had forged together. But for Nancy it was something else. In that simple hug, Teddy had showed a different kind of love. A love of family.
She felt, not for the first time, inadequate. She only wished her body would stop failing and that she could provide him with another reason to feel that way. Another person to love. His own flesh and blood.
Chapter Eight
Ballinn, County Kerry
September 2019
Ellie stopped the Micra across from the new place on the edge of the village, a little green-fronted shop with a sign advertising Great Coffee.
Her need for real coffee was desperate, as was her desire to gather her morning’s thoughts, scattered as they were like fallen leaves. She longed to rake them up, put them together in a pile, or let the wind blow them away. Her phone and its thousand emails were weighing down one pocket and Charlotte’s letter was beginning to burn a hole in the other. She had to tackle them both. And to do that, she needed caffeine. Real, bitter caffeine, from real, bitter beans.
She eyed the café suspiciously. Two people sat inside drinking coffee out of double-walled glass mugs. Ellie watched the woman bring her mug to her lips and close her eyes in pleasure.
It was too much. Her veins tingled in anticipation. She stepped out of the car and crossed the empty street.
The other customers nodded an acknowledgement as Ellie entered the café, the sound of a milk steamer piping her aboard. Twin scents of coffee and baking infused the warm room, and her shoulders instantly dropped. She could almost taste caffeine in the air.
The barista turned from his place at the coffee machine and gave her a hundred-watt smile. He looked like a Roman soldier. ‘You might have to wait,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘I am running off my feet, non?’ A continental accent ran his words together.
‘Of course, I’m not in a rush.’ She chose a table next to the wall and took out her phone. Then stopped and looked at his waiting face. ‘You were joking . . .’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not highly amusing, perhaps?’
Ellie put a hand over her eyes. ‘It’s been one of those mornings . . .’
‘Désolé. Coffee?’
‘Yes, black, please.’ She walked to the cabinet and perused its contents. ‘Does that say beetroot chocolate cake?’
‘Oui.’ He laughed at the look she gave him. ‘No one wants the beetroot cake in Ballinn?’
‘You never know . . .’ She looked uncertain, but if it bothered him, he didn’t show it. ‘I’d better have a slice.’ She wanted to add, so it doesn’t go to waste, but instead she said, ‘It looks delicious.’
He nodded as he packed grounds into the portafilter, his long fingers nimble. Glancing back over his shoulder he said, ‘You sound . . . how can I say? A little local?’
She wondered if it was a compliment. ‘A little local?’
‘Mais oui. You’re no tourist. But your jacket, those boots and that hair – non, I don’t think you are living here.’
‘No?’
‘I would have noticed you before,’ he said lightly, before turning back to the coffee machine.
She let it hang. Three years and she’d forgotten how to flirt. But making eyes at a man was the last thing she needed right now. ‘My mum has a farm up the hill.’
He plated up a huge slice of the chocolate beetroot cake. Slid it across to her. ‘You look nothing like a farmer.’
‘No, I’m a journalist. Although I’m . . . between jobs at the moment.’
Mock fear crossed his face. ‘You’re not a food critic, are you?’
‘No. But I look forward to criticising this.’ She winced.
He laughed lightly. ‘Nils,’ he said, holding out his hand.
She reached across the cake display. ‘Ellie.’
Three young tourists entered the café, their eyes lighting up at the timber-clad interior. They peeled off plump Puffa jackets, and as they approached the counter, Ellie retreated to her table and listened to their orders. Beetroot cake, vegan pumpkin slice and three soy lattes. Over their shoulders, Nils gave her a look. She shook her head. Perhaps the guy was onto something.
She took a bite of the chocolate cake. Not bad, not bad at all. She chewed slowly, savouring it. What a morning she’d had. After two weeks holed up at the house, she felt exhausted but somewhat invigorated to be out. And relieved that no one seemed to care. The contrary, actually. The people of the village – several walked past the window now, looking in with suspicion – were quietly getting on with their lives; it was she who’d been standing still.
She unlocked her phone, then withdrew the slip of paper from her pocket. The two phone numbers were written in a shaky sloping hand. She tapped Milo’s into the keypad.
The number you have dialled is incorrect.
She tried the second number, Hattie’s.
The number you have dialled is incorrect.
Poor Albert. All alone and several relatives who may or may not exist. She called Bernie’s number – no answer – and reminded herself to try again in an hour.
Then she took a deep breath. Opened her email and scrolled through the messages, looking for one sender in particular.
Nothing. She typed his name into the search bar. The most recent email was the last message she’d sent him. It made her mouth dry rereading it. She hadn’t thought for a moment he would agree to let her go. Let it hang. Allow everything they had, everything they’d been through, wash away.
It’s all your fault, Ellie.
She felt a familiar swell of anxiety and tried to bring herself back to the present. The fine autumn day, the smell of coffee in the air, the anticipation of its bitter taste on her tongue. She let the sounds from the warm café wash over her as she closed her eyes. Counted backwards from ten. When she opened them again, Nils was standing there.
He held out two mugs.
‘Both for me?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
One of the drinks looked delicious, the other rather unusual. ‘That one’s a funny colour.’
‘Turmeric latte.’
She made a face.
‘Good for the stress. It’s . . . how do you say? On the house.’
‘No,’ said Papa. ‘But we did write. His letters . . . there weren’t many.’ He cursed. ‘Always so chipper . . . full of bravado. God help him.’
In the silence that followed, Hattie brushed aside her fringe, appraised herself. Then looked away. Mama said that beauty lived within, which Hattie had come to learn was something only beautiful people said.
‘And your father?’
‘He could barely speak . . . distraught.’ The clink of ice, the splash of liquid. Papa was closer to her now. She could hear the gulp as he drained his glass. Then more ice, more liquid. ‘We may have our differences, but . . . his son gone . . . how does it feel to lose a son? What if I lost Albert? I can’t imagine. I can’t.’
‘Your mother . . . how is she?’ Mama’s voice was full of distaste.
‘Confined to her bed.’ He moved to the door, inches from Hattie.
‘Funeral?’
‘Next week.’
A murmur from Mama she couldn’t make out.
‘Yes, perhaps it’s best you stay here. I’ll go alone. It’s a long trip. But then . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘But then in the new year, we must return.’ To where?
‘Yes, of course. The children can meet their grandparents.’ Hattie’s scalp prickled at the prospect. Grandparents. She could barely imagine it. ‘We’ll go for the summer.’
Papa paused as though gathering his thoughts. Or his courage. ‘No, not just for the summer.’
‘I won’t.’ This was Mama’s I’ve made up my mind voice.
‘It’s my duty now.’
‘Oh, tradition, is it?’
‘Don’t say it like that.’ Hattie was lost. What duty? What tradition? If Albert were here he could translate; he always knew what things were and what they meant.
‘Times have changed . . . we don’t have to go back to Ireland.’
Papa said, ‘But it has to go to me. Then it has to go to Albert. We’re the last of the line.’
Mama scoffed. Began to say something. Paused.
‘It’s a peerage, not a raffle prize.’ Papa drained his glass, the final chink of ice signifying the end of the conversation.
But Mama didn’t stop there. ‘Teddy, I won’t go back to that house. After what happened . . . after what happened to Charlotte.’
‘I’m sorry, Nancy. I’m so sorry.’
There was a gentle brush of linen, a slow released sigh; the sound of a warm embrace. Mama’s voice was muffled. ‘I won’t go back, Teddy, I won’t.’ But her resolve had melted away, her fire put out, and although she didn’t understand exactly how or why, in that instant Hattie Rathmore knew her life was about to change for ever.
Chapter Seven
Blackwater Hall, County Kerry
July 1939
Charlotte was waiting by the sweet peas.
‘You didn’t tell me about Lord Hawley,’ Nancy called across the empty walled garden. She’d seen the gardeners down by the pier, noticed them because of the noise they were making, hammering timber boards onto the boathouse walls as the morning sun licked vapour from the still lake. But people aside, the garden brimmed with life. And colour. A magnificent assortment of vegetables and flowers, and birds hopping on recently turned soil.
‘Why didn’t you mention anything? In your letters?’ Nancy said as she picked her way along a gravel path half hidden under squash leaves. The smell of damp earth reminded her of her final foster family, Rod and Barbara. They’d loved to garden; Rod was obsessed with his prize-winning pumpkins and Barbara her roses. They were very elderly when she’d been placed with them, and she wished they’d been younger. So they could see her now.
‘What was there to say?’ Charlotte had amassed a collection of pastel flowers. Even from where Nancy stood, the scent was heady.
There was a great deal to say. ‘Does Teddy know?’
Charlotte shook her head. Nancy had supposed, or rather expected he didn’t.
At the far end of the garden, built over a cast-iron bench, was a living arbour, its green leaves entwined with drooping blue clematis. It was surrounded with white and yellow lilies. ‘Let’s sit under the willow over there,’ Nancy said.
Charlotte followed her sister-in-law’s gaze, her eyes swinging past the seat. ‘The what?’
‘Willow.’
‘You mean the sally?’ She led Nancy to the seat, still damp from the night’s sprinkle. ‘The farmers curse this tree, it grows so quickly. This one was only planted a few years ago.’
Nancy couldn’t believe it; the tree was bedded in, heavy with foliage. It blended into the wild walled garden.
They sat in silence. The air was pleasantly heavy with some far-off rain, the scent of lilies almost overwhelming. Nancy reached out to touch one, its orange pollen staining her fingers.
‘So, what does it mean?’
Charlotte picked a flower from above her. A sprinkle of dew rained down on them. ‘It means my life is mapped out.’
‘It’s just a visit. It can hardly—’
‘I heard Father discussing figures with Mother.’
‘Perhaps we’ll still be here, Teddy and I.’ Nancy didn’t think it would help.
As if reading her mind, Charlotte said, ‘I’m grateful. But it won’t help.’ She plucked a petal from the blue clematis. ‘I’ve written to him, Lord Hawley. Thads, what a funny name.’
‘Thads?’
‘Thaddeus. His father was a classicist. He’s actually rather pleasant. A bit eccentric. He lives in some sort of castle, and is obsessed with the concept of destiny and inevitability. A big fan of Conan Doyle, and I mean more the spiritualism nonsense, not the detective.’ Nancy smiled, but her expression slipped when Charlotte added: ‘But he’s old.’
‘How old?’
‘Forty-five.’
She bit her bottom lip. ‘Perhaps when you get to know him . . .’
‘No.’ Charlotte shook her head. ‘I want to break away.’
Nancy paused. ‘You should talk to Teddy. He’ll understand.’
‘Yes, he found his own path,’ said Charlotte, ‘and it changed our family.’
Nancy was quiet.
‘Don’t . . . don’t misunderstand my meaning. In a good way.’ Charlotte grinned, a little of her humour returning. ‘But still, maybe I should call you Trouble from now on. Trouble Rathmore.’ At Nancy’s raised eyebrows she continued, ‘I want my own life.’
Nancy felt she was being drawn into something dangerous. ‘Charlotte, I don’t know how to put this.’ She rubbed pollen into little circles on her palms, its stain satisfyingly rich. ‘Teddy’s a man. It’s different. I wish it weren’t.’
‘But I have skills. I could come to London. I could be a secretary too. Or I can work with my hands. Needlework?’
Nancy looked at this creature from another era. ‘When was the last time you went to a city?’
‘Dublin, two years ago.’
‘And?’
Charlotte turned over her sister-in-law’s hands, tracing the orange stigmata. Then she let go, suddenly self-conscious. ‘It was busy . . . so busy. I simply couldn’t understand how everyone knew where to be. And cars, everywhere. Bicycles. Trams, of course. They reminded me of Mother because they would never have stopped if you stood in their way. We stayed at the Gresham. And the Abbey Theatre was wonderful. Juno and the Paycock. I insisted on going, but Father only made it to Act Two. I’m afraid I never saw the end.’
Nancy shifted. ‘It is lovely to see that side of the city. The hustle, the finery. The entertainment. But city living is quite something else. Particularly on a budget. Everything costs something. And at the end of each month when the rent is paid and the cupboards are bare, you simply start again.’
‘I know what you think of me. Spoiled girl. Can’t get her hands dirty.’
‘I don’t think anything of the sort.’
‘You’re probably right.’
Nancy didn’t want to let it hang. She changed the subject. ‘So, can I come to the next society meeting?’
Charlotte coloured. ‘Well, I . . . I’d be embarrassed. We’re only playing at it really.’
‘Good, that’s settled. Thursday, is it?’
She laughed. ‘I see your plan, Nancy. I can change subjects too. Let me see . . .’ She scratched her chin, a theatrical move. Nancy noticed the translucent skin on her hands; so fine, so delicate. She folded her own away in shame. ‘You’ve been married . . . how long?’
Nancy smiled. ‘Two and a half years.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Well . . . what can I say?’ An Englishness overcame her. ‘It’s nice. We have a good time.’ She laughed, a cork releasing pressure. ‘I’d feel odd discussing it . . . Teddy’s your brother.’
Charlotte made a face.
‘I feel very lucky. I’ve never made that a secret in my letters, have I?’ said Nancy.
‘You seem happy together.’
‘I won’t lie to you – we are. But some people find a happy marriage highly suspicious, so we won’t spread the news too far.’
A tiny robin dropped from the garden wall to peck at the base of the rosemary. He stopped to look at them, the rouge on his scrawny breast scruffy.
‘This little boy has a big year ahead of him,’ said Charlotte and Nancy felt a fondness flood her heart. For a girl with silken hands, she didn’t miss the nuances of nature.
‘So, what’s the secret?’
‘Secret?’ said Nancy.
‘To a happy marriage.’
She thought. ‘Respect, mostly. And an even footing.’
Charlotte looked confused.
‘Not socially, you understand. When you marry – no, before that – you must know your partner wants you for yourself, not for something you should be or could be.’
The robin sang, jumping staccato over an invisible skipping rope.
‘I see . . .’
Nancy closed her eyes. ‘Charlotte, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Of course not.’
‘I’m sorry.’ How many times would either of them say that today? Nancy felt the conversation was spiralling down and away, out of her control.
Charlotte took her hand. ‘I’m happy for you and Teddy. Goodness, if you hadn’t met, I wouldn’t know you.’ She smiled. ‘And where would I be then? Who would I write all my secrets to?’
Charlotte had been very candid with her during their correspondence – her admission about the Ballinn Dramatics Secret Society, her feelings about her mother, her dissatisfaction with her lot. Nancy felt a pang of guilt. Why could she herself not be so frank? She had nothing to be ashamed of.
As if reading her mind, Charlotte asked: ‘And children? When will you start?’
Nancy looked away. ‘Not for a few years, I’d imagine. Twenty-five feels too young for a family these days.’ She wondered if she was blushing.
Teddy appeared through the archway, his hand held high to shield a sliver of sun cutting through the clouds. ‘There you are. Thick as thieves.’
Charlotte jumped up and ran to him. ‘I’m sorry, Teddy.’
‘Hush now.’ He put his arms around her, winking over her shoulder at his wife, seated amongst the sapphire clematis.
Nancy felt a tug deep in her chest. For a lesser woman, it would be jealousy. The worry that her husband might love his sister more than his wife. That their shared memories would be richer than those she and Teddy had forged together. But for Nancy it was something else. In that simple hug, Teddy had showed a different kind of love. A love of family.
She felt, not for the first time, inadequate. She only wished her body would stop failing and that she could provide him with another reason to feel that way. Another person to love. His own flesh and blood.
Chapter Eight
Ballinn, County Kerry
September 2019
Ellie stopped the Micra across from the new place on the edge of the village, a little green-fronted shop with a sign advertising Great Coffee.
Her need for real coffee was desperate, as was her desire to gather her morning’s thoughts, scattered as they were like fallen leaves. She longed to rake them up, put them together in a pile, or let the wind blow them away. Her phone and its thousand emails were weighing down one pocket and Charlotte’s letter was beginning to burn a hole in the other. She had to tackle them both. And to do that, she needed caffeine. Real, bitter caffeine, from real, bitter beans.
She eyed the café suspiciously. Two people sat inside drinking coffee out of double-walled glass mugs. Ellie watched the woman bring her mug to her lips and close her eyes in pleasure.
It was too much. Her veins tingled in anticipation. She stepped out of the car and crossed the empty street.
The other customers nodded an acknowledgement as Ellie entered the café, the sound of a milk steamer piping her aboard. Twin scents of coffee and baking infused the warm room, and her shoulders instantly dropped. She could almost taste caffeine in the air.
The barista turned from his place at the coffee machine and gave her a hundred-watt smile. He looked like a Roman soldier. ‘You might have to wait,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘I am running off my feet, non?’ A continental accent ran his words together.
‘Of course, I’m not in a rush.’ She chose a table next to the wall and took out her phone. Then stopped and looked at his waiting face. ‘You were joking . . .’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not highly amusing, perhaps?’
Ellie put a hand over her eyes. ‘It’s been one of those mornings . . .’
‘Désolé. Coffee?’
‘Yes, black, please.’ She walked to the cabinet and perused its contents. ‘Does that say beetroot chocolate cake?’
‘Oui.’ He laughed at the look she gave him. ‘No one wants the beetroot cake in Ballinn?’
‘You never know . . .’ She looked uncertain, but if it bothered him, he didn’t show it. ‘I’d better have a slice.’ She wanted to add, so it doesn’t go to waste, but instead she said, ‘It looks delicious.’
He nodded as he packed grounds into the portafilter, his long fingers nimble. Glancing back over his shoulder he said, ‘You sound . . . how can I say? A little local?’
She wondered if it was a compliment. ‘A little local?’
‘Mais oui. You’re no tourist. But your jacket, those boots and that hair – non, I don’t think you are living here.’
‘No?’
‘I would have noticed you before,’ he said lightly, before turning back to the coffee machine.
She let it hang. Three years and she’d forgotten how to flirt. But making eyes at a man was the last thing she needed right now. ‘My mum has a farm up the hill.’
He plated up a huge slice of the chocolate beetroot cake. Slid it across to her. ‘You look nothing like a farmer.’
‘No, I’m a journalist. Although I’m . . . between jobs at the moment.’
Mock fear crossed his face. ‘You’re not a food critic, are you?’
‘No. But I look forward to criticising this.’ She winced.
He laughed lightly. ‘Nils,’ he said, holding out his hand.
She reached across the cake display. ‘Ellie.’
Three young tourists entered the café, their eyes lighting up at the timber-clad interior. They peeled off plump Puffa jackets, and as they approached the counter, Ellie retreated to her table and listened to their orders. Beetroot cake, vegan pumpkin slice and three soy lattes. Over their shoulders, Nils gave her a look. She shook her head. Perhaps the guy was onto something.
She took a bite of the chocolate cake. Not bad, not bad at all. She chewed slowly, savouring it. What a morning she’d had. After two weeks holed up at the house, she felt exhausted but somewhat invigorated to be out. And relieved that no one seemed to care. The contrary, actually. The people of the village – several walked past the window now, looking in with suspicion – were quietly getting on with their lives; it was she who’d been standing still.
She unlocked her phone, then withdrew the slip of paper from her pocket. The two phone numbers were written in a shaky sloping hand. She tapped Milo’s into the keypad.
The number you have dialled is incorrect.
She tried the second number, Hattie’s.
The number you have dialled is incorrect.
Poor Albert. All alone and several relatives who may or may not exist. She called Bernie’s number – no answer – and reminded herself to try again in an hour.
Then she took a deep breath. Opened her email and scrolled through the messages, looking for one sender in particular.
Nothing. She typed his name into the search bar. The most recent email was the last message she’d sent him. It made her mouth dry rereading it. She hadn’t thought for a moment he would agree to let her go. Let it hang. Allow everything they had, everything they’d been through, wash away.
It’s all your fault, Ellie.
She felt a familiar swell of anxiety and tried to bring herself back to the present. The fine autumn day, the smell of coffee in the air, the anticipation of its bitter taste on her tongue. She let the sounds from the warm café wash over her as she closed her eyes. Counted backwards from ten. When she opened them again, Nils was standing there.
He held out two mugs.
‘Both for me?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
One of the drinks looked delicious, the other rather unusual. ‘That one’s a funny colour.’
‘Turmeric latte.’
She made a face.
‘Good for the stress. It’s . . . how do you say? On the house.’
