Ninemile House Page 13

  She calmed down even more after the political broadcast was aired. Sitting down to watch it with Gabby and the twins, for whom the novelty of seeing Daddy on the TV had still not worn off, she found herself gazing intently at James on the screen, searching for clues in his polished speech, something in his face that might ring alarm bells, but there was nothing. A consummate professional, from the top of his immaculately groomed head to the soles of his hand-made Italian shoes, James Quinn was the ultimate young politician. Suave, savvy, yet sincere, he spoke to the camera in a way that made each and every viewer feel as though he was speaking to them personally and that each and every one of them was in some way special. Derry knew just how they felt. That was one of the qualities she loved best about him, his ability to make you think you were the most important person in the world. That your opinion counted!

  James wound up the broadcast and the camera crew followed him out of the TV studios in order to get the usual pressing of the flesh shots. Babies in all states of emotion were lifted for his inspection and duly kissed; women from sixteen to sixty-plus flirted and pushed themselves forward and then he was ushered over to his state Merc, where he was greeted by a man, Derry recognised as the eminent property developer, Mick Roberts. In his late 40s, expensively attired and with hair that might once have been just as blond as James’s, but which was now mainly an attractive silver grey, the camera panned in for a close-up, as both men got into the car and a moment later the credits rolled.

  “So, Gabby,” Derry said, turning proudly to her sister. “What did you think of your brother-in-law’s performance? Isn’t he brilliant?”

  But Gabby wasn’t listening. White as a ghost she sat staring at the screen, her knuckles clenched so tightly on the arms of her chair that the white of the bones showed though.

  “Gabby?” Derry’s voice rose sharply. “Gabby, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Do you feel ill?” Covering the short distance between them in a nano second, she prised Gabby's hands off the arms of the chair and chaffed them gently between her own, relief washing over her as the colour gradually returned to her sister's face.

  “I-I’m okay. I-I just had a small bit of a turn. Nothing to worry about. “ She smiled bravely at the twins. “You poor things. What kind of an aunty have you been saddled with at all?”

  Derry decided not to press the issue, but she wasn’t at all convinced. Something had rattled her sister and she had a hunch that it was something to do with the man James met at the car. “I’ll tell you what,” she forced herself to sound cheerful, unconcerned. “Why don’t I make us all a nice hot drink?” Her glance bounced between the twins, who had taken up a protective stance, one on either side of Gabby’s chair. “And, as you two have been so good, I might even open that lovely packet of chocolate biscuits I bought earlier today and which the pair of you have been making eyes at ever since.”

  ***

  “James,” Derry asked, much later that night after they had made mad passionate love – the sex was always incredible after a successful broadcast or interview, when her husband’s self-esteem levels were through the roof. “How well do you know Mick Roberts?”

  “Fairly well. He’s a nice chap. Why do you ask?”

  Derry nestled in more closely to him. “No reason really. I just wondered what he was doing at the broadcast today.”

  James, nuzzled his face down into her neck. “Oh, we had a bit of business to discuss, a few i’s to cross and t’s to dot, that kind of thing. He’s tendering for one of the biggest development sites over in Dublin Dockyards.” His fingers tiptoed down her bare back, stopping at the curve of her behind, “Not that he particularly needs the money, it must be said. The man is as rich as Croesus already.” His other hand reached out and found her breast, the nipple springing instantly to attention beneath his touch. “And now, Mrs Quinn, I can think of far more interesting things to be doing, other than discussing Mick Roberts.”

  ***

  In her room across the hall, Gabby lay curled in one corner, her knees drawn right up to her chin, small animal sounds escaping from her mouth. Through a gap in the curtains, she could see the moon, almost full, trailing a row of stars like rosary beads across the sky.

  “Thereeesa . . . . Thereeesa . . . .” The voice was in her head, getting louder and louder and more insistent. “Tramp! Slut!”

  “Nooooh,” she wailed, rocking backwards and forwards, her hands coming up to defend herself. “Nooooh, please leave me alone.” But it was only a matter of time. She knew that now. He was coming for her. There was no hiding place. Not even Derry’s house was safe. “Michael,” her sobs were soft, broken, muffled against the thick pile of the carpet. “Michael, is that you?”

  CHAPTER 13

  After the political broadcast aired, Gabby seemed to take one step forward and two back, refusing for the first few days even to set foot outside the front door and stubbornly refusing to say why. In vain, Derry, Sheila and even the twins tried to lure her out with tempting promises of visits to the beach, the shops and even the local cinema where they were showing A Bug’s Life, a film so touted by the children that she was now as desperate to see it as they, more so, since she had never even been to a cinema before. But no, standing firm on the subject, she spent most of her time lurking in her bedroom, eating very little and seldom joining the family and it was only conscience that finally got her out the door to mass on Sunday. Even then, Derry noticed, she spent an inordinate amount of time looking around her, gripping the order of service leaflet as though her life depended on it, seemingly ready to bolt at any moment.

  Making the correct responses to the mass, automatically rising and kneeling when it was called for, Derry racked her brains over and over again for anything that could logically explain her sister’s change in behaviour and always she came back to the same thing again and again – Mick Roberts, the property developer. But why? Her journalist’s nose twitching, she determined to find out more about him. Most likely, it was something as simple as his face reminding Gabby of someone in the past, a priest who wasn’t very nice to her, maybe, or someone she knew before she went into the convent. Either way, Derry intended to find out. Beside her Dilis started a fight by poking Dara in the eye and a moment later found her attention diverted to the immediate problem of preventing a bout of fisticuffs in the church.

  After mass, Gabby insisted, on going straight home, provoking instant mutiny from the twins, who had wanted to play on the beach and prompting Dara to scream at Gabby that she was the meanest, nastiest old aunty in the world and she wished she had never come to live with them.

  “You stop that at once,” Derry roared, her patience with them all, Gabby too, sorely tested. “Apologise to your aunty at once and don’t ever let me hear you say a thing like that again.”

  “Sorry, Aunty Gabby.” Not liking the look in her mother’s eye, Dara immediately did as she was told.

  “I’m sorry too,” Gabby said in a strangled voice and Derry and the girls were shocked to see there were tears rolling down her face. “You’re right, Dara, I should never have come to live with you. The truth is, I should go back to Ninemilehouse. I’m nothing only trouble.”

  Coming to an abrupt halt, Derry swung her sister round to face her, oblivious to the curious stares of passers-by. “Now, what kind of nonsense is that? Of course, you’re not trouble. We love having you living with us, don’t we girls?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t want to hear any more of that kind of talk, all right? Your home is with us and that’s that and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. And if that means forever, then forever is just fine.”

  “You’re very good to me, Derry,” Gabby smiled wetly, “but I don’t deserve it, you know. I’m no good. Sr Peter used to say I was neither use nor ornament.”

  Throwing her eyes skyward, Derry thought, not for the first time, of how she'd pay big money to be able to put her hands around that woman’s fat neck and squeeze and squeeze. “Look, you don’t want to be minding t
hat that one said. She’s not infallible, you know, not the Pope. She’s just a mean-minded, fat old nun who’s steeped in the ignorance and bigotry of ages. You’re lovely, Gabby. You’ve just been very unfortunate in the hand of cards life has dealt you up till now.” Linking her arm, she led her towards where the car was parked, the twins trailing behind them, both unnaturally quiet in the face of their aunt’s distress. “But that’s all changing. You’re not on your own any more. You’ve got me now and the twins and James, so you’re not to be frightened of anything or anybody.” Deliberately she stressed the last word. “Okay?”

  Gabby nodded, but her eyes were fixed firmly on the pavement and there was no telling what she was thinking.

  CHAPTER 14

  Gabby liked Mr Patel – his first name was Mahendra – but she insisted on observing the formalities. Therefore, he called her Miss and to her, he remained Mr Patel. Most days she found a reason to call into his shop, encouraged both by Derry and Sheila, both of whom insisted it would help her to get used to using money and to become more independent, but secretly because they both liked the idea of Gabby having a bit of romance in her life. And who better to start with than the gentle Mr Patel? Neither had it escaped either woman’s attention that on those occasions, Gabby took more care with her appearance and lately had even started to apply the merest touch of lip gloss.

  When the shop wasn’t busy, Mahendra, told her stories of his native India, and to someone who was only just getting used to the freedoms of her own country, India sounded like something out of a fairy story. From him she learned the story behind the building of the beautiful Taj Mahal, erected by a Muslim prince in memory of his dead wife, a garish 3D picture of which was hanging up on the shop wall behind the cash register. He told her too of the Hindu gods of his own religion, Ganesh, the elephant-headed god and Hanuman the monkey-god really catching her imagination, till she went and spoiled it all by quoting the first commandment at him. First I am the Lord thy God, though shalt not place false images before me. Worried that she might have hurt his feelings, she followed it up hurriedly with the parable of the Prodigal Son, assuring him that it wasn't too late to repent and be welcomed back into the fold.

  Patiently and not at all offended, Mehendra would just smile and nod and tell her about the beautiful River Ganges or Mother Ganges as his countrymen called it, that ran in serpentine splendour for one thousand five hundred and sixty miles all the way from the Himalayas to the Bay of Bengal, and of how all who bathed in it were said to be purified and cleansed of all their sins. Entranced she listened as lovingly he would describe the flowers of his native land, the musk roses, foxtail lilies, blue poppies and the lotus flowers that opened like a blessing to the sun, till she convinced herself that she could actually smell the rich exotic scents and the press of the soft velvety petals against her skin. She learned that the tiger was the national animal of India and the male peacock, with his vain display of iridescent tail feathers, the national bird. From Mahendra, she learned that all men are not the same.

  On one memorable occasion, he disappeared briefly out the back of the shop, returning with a tiny honey and pistachio cake which, much to her embarrassment, he insisted on feeding to her. Blushing to the roots of her hair, Gabby obediently opened her mouth, noticing up close that his eyes were like the dark velvet insides of the pansies in the one and only flower bed at Ninemilehouse, and that his teeth were extraordinarily white against the toffee brown of his skin. She tingled a little where his warm fingers had touched her lips and later at home, found herself unaccountably touching the same place over and over again, as a fluttering feeling, the likes of which she hadn’t felt for over thirty years began to build in the pit of her stomach. Not since . . .not since . . . Michael! With a little cry of anguish, she sank down on the bed.

  CHAPTER 15

  Ten days later Mr Patel called to the door, making his way diffidently up along the driveway, a bunch of mixed flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand. Arrayed in what was clearly his best suit, navy pinstripe, shiny at the knees and elbows, he shuffled awkwardly on the doorstep as, Derry, a little at a loss, opened the door to him.

  “Ah, Mrs Quinn,” he flashed his white teeth at her in half-greeting, half-apology. “I hope you don’t mind me calling, only I have not seen your sister for many days now. Tell me, is she ill?”

  Derry shook her head. “No, no, not exactly ill, Mr Patel, more a little out of sorts.”

  Mr Patel looked unhappy. Miserably he looked at the bunch of flowers in his hand, as if only just becoming aware of their presence and wondering how on earth they had had got there. “Is it me? Is it something I have said? Did I offend your sister in some way?”

  “Oh, good grief no! What an idea.” Derry gave one of those falsely cheerful laughs, wondering at the same time if such was, indeed, the case. Certainly, Gabby was refusing point blank to go anywhere near the newsagent's shop, her stubborn gene, another trait she quickly discovered they had in common, coming hurtling to the fore whenever anyone tried to persuade her. And neither had there been any explanation for her sudden reticence.

  Running his free hand through the mop of black hair he had attempted to tame with gel or mousse or something, presumably in honour of the occasion, Mahendra nodded in a worried fashion.

  “I hope you are right, Mrs Quinn. Your sister is like a bird with a broken wing.” Perceptive in the way that seems more common to those born in the East, his lovely brown eyes seemed to search deep inside her own. “I am thinking life may not have been easy for her.” Immediately he dropped his gaze, feeling perhaps that he had trespassed on an area that was not his business. “Do you think . . . would it be poss

  ... can I see her?”

  Somewhat embarrassed herself, Derry dithered on the doorstep. The last thing she wanted was to hurt the poor man’s feelings. Clearly it had taken something for him to work up the courage to come to the house in the first place. “Well . . . I . . . eh . . .” She broke off with some relief, hearing Gabby's light step at the top of the stairs.

  “Hello, Mr Patel, I thought I heard you.” Coming up behind her, Gabby gave a self-conscious little laugh. "Well, it had to be you, since I don't know anyone else who sounds like you."

  At the sight of her, Mahendra's whole mien changed. Gone was the slightly subservient hunch as his shoulders straightened to their fullest extent, making him seem at least six inches taller and Derry didn't miss the sudden kindling as his dark eyes roved over her sister. His deep affection, writ clear in his body language, was there for anyone who cared to look.

  “Ah, Gabby.” Embarrassed, he checked himself immediately. “Miss McManus. You don’t come to my shop and I am finding myself getting worried. Mahendra, I say to myself. Miss McManus she doesn’t come to my shop today. She doesn’t come yesterday. She doesn’t come last week. And so, today, I come myself as the mountain to the prophet.” He smiled his beautiful blinding smile. “And look, I am bringing you some beautiful flowers.”

  Awkwardly taking them from him, Gabby immediately buried her face in the coolness of the blooms in a vain effort to hide the rosy colour of her cheeks. “They’re beautiful, Mr Patel, thank you very much.”

  Conscious that she was very much surplus to requirements, Derry stepped back from the door. “Gabby, why don’t you take Mr Patel through to the sitting room and make him a drink? It’s so hot and sticky today.” And her heart went out to the poor man who looked so uncomfortable trussed up in his heavy suit.

  As panic showed itself on Gabby's face, Mahendra shook his head rapidly.

  “Oh no, no, Mrs Quinn, thank you all the same. That is very kind. However, I must be getting back to the shop now.” He smiled to show that he was not offended by Gabby's reluctance in any way. “I have left my nephew in charge, which was maybe not such a good idea. Young Atif, sad to say, has not been blessed with many brain cells. Besides, I just wanted to see you, Miss McManus. And now I have seen you and I am happy. Very happy indeed.”

  Closing
the door behind him, Derry turned round surprising such a look of pure longing on Gabby's face that it left her quite shaken. “What a lovely man. Clearly he thinks the world of you.”