Ninemile House Page 14

  “I like him too,” Gabby said, but there was no joy in the admission, just a terrible flatness and then, her face crumpling, she took off back up the stairs like a bat out of hell, the bouquet clutched tightly to her breast.

  The next day, Derry discovered the flowers in the bin outside the back door, their heads torn off, stems bent and twisted as if someone had attacked them in a terrible rage. The discovery left her shocked and disturbed. Clearly there was something very wrong with her sister.

  Dear Angie

  “I have met a man. He’s very nice and he brought me flowers. Nobody has ever brought me flowers before. Well how would they? Can you imagine Sr Peter’s face if some man had turned up at Ninemilehouse with flowers for any of us poor Magdalenes?”

  Lightly chewing the top of her biro, Gabby re-read what she’d just written, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Angie would appreciate that little joke. The only flowers any of them ever saw were the sad little bunch of pansies some new gardener had planted once, before the stark grimness of the convent got to him or, more likely, Sr Peter made him concentrate his efforts on the vegetable patch.

  “Derry’s husband buys them for her all the time, great big bunches of red roses and lilies. He loves her very much, but sometimes she looks kind of sad. I’m not sure why and if I asked her she might think I was being cheeky and be cross with me. I don’t want to make her cross.

  Mr Patel, he’s the man who brought me the flowers, is from India. Remember India from school, Angie? It looked like a pink elephant’s ear on the map. Anyway, he has brown eyes, much darker than mine, almost black, and he has the whitest teeth I have ever seen. He wants me to go for a walk with him down by the sea. Derry says it’s only a walk and that I should go, but I’m really not sure. What would you do?

  I hope you are well, Angie. I miss you and I am going to ask Derry if we can come and visit you soon. Give my regards to Mary and Clare. I have to go now, because Sheila – that’s Derry’s friend and mine too now, I suppose, is coming to take me shopping. Maybe one day I’ll get used to all the noise and lights and things, but between you and me, there’s times I long for the peace and quiet of Ninemilehouse. Now don’t get mad with me Angie for saying that. I’m not ungrateful, really I’m not. It’s just that sometimes, it all gets on top of me a bit. Everything is so strange and new. And there’s so much to learn. But I’ll get used to it. I think about you a lot. Write to me soon.

  Love, Gabby.”

  PS. I know it was wrong, but I put Mr Patel’s flowers in the bin. I don’t know how to be around men. They frighten me.

  The following day, Sr Peter took delivery of the post at Ninemilehouse, just as she always did. Extracting Gabby’s letter from the pile, instantly recognisable by the childish, looped writing and the thick good quality envelope, she placed it with the growing pile in the drawer of her desk, snapping it beneath the elastic band that kept them all together. Appropriating Angie’s post cost her not one pang of conscience. It was for the best. News from the outside world always unsettled the women and Angie O’Grady was a loose cannon at the best of times. It was time for them all to draw a line under the Gabby episode and for life at Ninemilehouse to get back to normal.

  ***

  Exactly one week after Derry phoned Rusty, she called back.

  “Oookay,” she cut straight to the chase. “I’m afraid that address you gave me was of no use at all. It seems like the good doctor and his wife moved almost immediately after adopting young Michael. Digging through the usual church records and the like produced no results either.” She coughed on the other end of the phoned, a dry hacking cough, which told Derry that her friend had still not managed to give up the fags, although she’d been swearing for as long as Derry knew her, that she was going to give them up tomorrow, next week, next year for definite. Even marrying a violently anti smoking yank had seemingly not proved incentive enough. “Eventually, I called on the services of a PI friend of mine – you owe him five hundred bucks, by the way.”

  “Not a problem,” Derry assured her, surprised to find the biro trembling in her hand. “I’ll pay whatever it takes. But don’t keep me in suspense; I’m almost wetting myself here. Has he any news?”

  Derry gave a short back of nasal laughter. “My, aren’t you the impatient one. But okay, I won’t play about with your emotions. There’s nothing concrete as yet, but I believe he just might be on the scent. In any case I’ve passed your details on to him, so if someone sounding like a cross between Columbo and Ironside phones you, it won’t be me with a heavy cold, but Jerry Steinberg. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Derry said, and having promised Rusty to let her know the outcome, she replaced the handset without even looking at it. Disappointed at the lack of immediate news, she leaned both elbows on her desk, cradled her head between her hands and closing her eyes just for a moment or two. When she opened them again, it was to find the Slug gazing at her with an unblinking stare. When he was sure he had her full attention, he quickly drew his finger across his neck in a slashing motion, baring his filthy teeth in the rictus of a grin.

  “Fuck off!” Furious, Derry mouthed the words across the width of the space between them. Right now she had far more on her mind that Petey O’Donnell and his psyching her out mind games. It was only later that she thought about it again and, as before, a frisson of unease travelled down her spine.

  ***

  James’s face was dark with anger, but that was something Derry was coming to expect these days. She had hoped to catch him at a more opportune moment, but somehow an opportune moment never seemed to arise. And so, having tucked the children up in bed, and settled Gabby in the sitting room with the video of Cinderella which had rapidly become her favourite, she had, once more, in a studiedly casual way, set about raising the subject of Gabby’s baby. As the story of Rusty and the American PI, unfolded, her husband’s expression grew more and more thunderous, culminating in a great clap of anger.

  Slamming the flat of his hand on the kitchen table and slopping both their coffees over in the process, he nailed Derry with a look.

  “Now listen here, Derry, this has got to stop RIGHT NOW! Your sister is unstable as it is. This is guaranteed to push her right over the edge. You have to forget all about this, do you hear me?” Insistent, he glared across the table at her. “Promise me!”

  Derry’s lips clenched themselves to a thin white line. “I’ll promise no such thing. I’m fed up telling you that she has a right to know! And so have I the right to know my own nephew. Blood is thicker than water as the old saying goes.

  Impassioned, James banged again and Derry jerked her head warningly towards the sitting room just a short way down the corridor. He dropped his voice, but there was no doubting his anger. “She has a right to forget! God almighty, why can’t you just let the poor woman get on with her life? It's difficult enough for her to adjust to things as they stand.” A blue vein appeared on his forehead zig-zagged his frustration. “Why inflict this on her now? Seriously, what exactly are you hoping to achieve? Let it go, Derry. Just let it go.”

  Picking up her cup, Derry rose to her feet, signalling that for her part, at least, the conversation as over. Tipping the contents into the sink, she turned on the tap and washed the slops down the drain.

  “I haven’t decided anything yet, James. I was just batting ideas off you. But, ultimately, if that American PI does track down Gabby’s baby and I feel it’s the best thing for her to know, then regardless of what you or anybody else thinks, I will be telling her.”

  With a sigh that was half-disgust, half-disappointment, James rose too, turning for the door, no doubt intending to retire to his study or hot foot it down to the gym.

  “Oh, by the way,” there was something in Derry’s tone that stopped him in his tracks. “I’ve had another one of those silent phone calls. I don’t mind telling you they’re beginning to freak me out. As a matter of fact, I’m, thinking of asking the police to put a trace on the line.” Careful
ly, she watched his back, noticing the tension in the sudden straightening of his shoulders, the alertness to the set of his head, slightly cocked to one side like an animal suddenly scenting danger. If she could have seen his face, she wouldn't have been at all surprised to see his nose twitching. “Just supposing you’ve attracted a stalker, someone who’s so opposed to your brand of politics that they want to murder you and possibly your whole family. Or some nutter woman with a fixation on you?” She kept her own expression poker straight, although she didn’t believe for one moment that either scenario was the case. Instead the kernel of unease that had started to gnaw at her shortly after the first few phone calls had soon attained oak-sized proportions and now she was almost one hundred percent certain that James, her beloved husband, was being unfaithful. No matter how much she tried to ostrich it, the signs were there for anyone who cared to read them. Text-book perfect. Mentally she ticked them off. Sign No. 1, working later and later at the office, and with the elections looming didn’t he have the perfect, iron-clad excuse? Sign No. 2, honing the body beautiful down the gym, because it de-stressed him and, nowadays, distressed her. 3, his general snappiness at the family, at her, his wife, in particular. 4 - the daddy of them all, the telltale silent phone calls . Short of catching him in flagrante delicto, was there a bigger give-away? The only area where he deviated from the blue-print of the adulterer was in the bedroom, where they still made love as frequently as ever and in the same reassuringly familiar ways. So far, there had been no attempt to introduce anything unfamiliar into the proceedings, no sudden demands for a whips and chains session or that she dress up in tarty underwear or denude herself of all her body hair. She’d never smelled another woman’s perfume on him, nor found a stray long blonde hair on his shoulder that didn’t originate with the twins. Neither had there been any lipstick on his collar, but there was guilt on his face. Written all over it, in fact.

  James still didn't turn round, perhaps, she thought cynically, because he was worried he might not be able to keep his expression neutral. “No sense in bothering the police. They’re overstretched as it is and being asked to nursemaid a politician and his family certainly won't go down too well.” He cleared his throat. You had to know him intimately to know it was a nervous gesture, nothing to do with biology and all to do with buying time. “Besides, if it bothers you that much, we can always get the number changed or go ex-directory.”

  “A lot of things are bothering me at the moment, James.” With a supreme effort Derry fought back tears, neither willing nor ready to confront him just yet for reasons she, herself, didn’t fully understand. “And as you appear to have forgotten, we are already ex-directory, have been for years in fact. So, it would seem that our silent caller is someone who knows us well. Someone who knows us well enough to have our number.” Just as she knew her husband well enough to have his number.

  ***

  After he had gone, Derry made herself another cup of tea and carried it back to the table, not because she really wanted it, but more as a distraction technique. It didn’t work. Putting her head in her hands, she felt the suppressed tears well up with a vengeance and spill in bewilderment down her cheeks. How had it come to this? How could James, her husband, her lover and best friend betray her like that? Miserably she thought back to all the times she had doled out advice to friends caught up in similar situations, mindlessly blathering on about how if it was her, she’d bloody well chuck him out on his ear and there’d be no second chances. Once a cheat, always a cheat! But now it was her and suddenly it wasn’t quite that easy. Suddenly the shades of grey far outweighed the black and white. This was no simple equation. It wasn't simply a question of just herself and her hurt pride to consider. There were the twins too – daddy’s girls both of them, who loved him dearly and waited for his return lurking near the front door every evening, like two faithful little puppies. Many nights lately, they’d had a very long wait, once or twice even falling asleep, side by side, on the bottom step of the stairs. It would break their hearts if Daddy had to move out and what if matters disintegrated between her and James to the extent that the poor innocent little angels found themselves caught up in a power struggle between their warring parents? The thought brought on a fresh bout of tears. Could she really bear to see James reduced to having to apply to court for contact visits with his children? They stood out a mile, those part-time fathers. You saw them all the time, especially at weekends, cluttering up McDonalds or the local parks and attractions, desperately trying to condense a whole week’s worth of fun into the space of a couple of hours and failing miserably in the process.

  And now there was Gabby too. When she had taken her out of Ninemilehouse, she had promised her a stable, happy, family life of the sort she had missed out on for thirty years. Was it to be a case of out of the frying pan and into the war zone? If so, she would have done better to have left her where she was.

  Derry took a sip of her tea, scarcely tasting it or noticing the fact that it had begun to grow cool. If she were to be brutally honest, there was also the question of lifestyle to consider. She and James were doing very nicely in that department, thank you. They had all the trappings success brings, a lovely home in an upmarket area, at least two foreign holidays a year, top of the range cars, meals out and designer clothes. In other words, all the paraphernalia of an upwardly mobile successful couple. Life as a single mother had never been in her game plan. Not that she had anything against single mothers. Heroines one and all, but Derry, herself, was not cut from the cloth of such heroism and the thoughts of swelling their ranks only served to fill her with dismay.

  From the living room came the sound of Gabby tutting madly and she guessed the wicked stepmother was putting poor old Cinderella through her paces. That thought, of course, immediately gave rise to another that nearly caused her to hyperventilate with fear. What if not so far down the line, James saddled Dara and Dilis with a wicked stepmother?

  From the sitting room, Gabby tutted again loudly and then actually shouted something indecipherable at the screen, bringing a brief smile to Derry’s face, despite the morbidity of her thoughts. Poor Gabby, she really did struggle with the idea that the people in dramas and on the TV screen were only acting. On one occasion recently, so caught up in a particular soap opera did she become that when one of the characters was mugged, she demanded that Derry call the police immediately. She really was the archetypical innocent abroad and with three decades of catching up to do on modern day life and all its technologies and innovations, was it really fair to dump the maelstrom of a broken marriage upon her already overburdened shoulders?

  Surveying her cup of tea gloomily, Derry tried unavailingly to scry the future in its murky depths. One thing she was crystal clear about, though, was that she still loved James. And with the same crystal clear thinking she knew that that’s why she hadn’t confronted him, because to put her dreadful suspicion into words, would be to give it shape, form and existence. Gabby was right, some bogeymen did exist. And bogeywomen! Not for the first time she wondered who the other woman could be. Mentally she trawled through the list of vaguely eligible women she knew, but there were no obvious suspects. James’s line of work brought him into contact with all sorts, hundreds of women. It could be any one of them.

  Pushing the cup away in disgust, she put her head on the table in despair, knowing she was going to have to come to a decision soon one way or another and, as if on cue, the phone rang.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Well, Gabby, what do you think?” Derry led Frisco over to the fence for her sister’s inspection. “Isn’t he absolutely gorgeous?”

  Visibly trembling, her eyes glowing in a way that made them seem almost as though they were on fire, Gabby reached out and ran a hand down the length of the horse’s narrow face, stopping at his delicate muzzle and letting him push playfully against her fingers in the way that only someone used to and confident with horses would allow. “He is, Derry, absolutely gorgeous. How old did you say he i
s?”

  “Five and a half.” Derry patted the gelding’s shiny chestnut flank. “And as sweet tempered a horse as I’ve ever had the joy to meet, let alone own. I’ve had him since he was just a foal, nothing but skin and bone and awkward long legs. A bit of a runt if the truth be told, but look at him now.” She produced a bit of carrot and placed it on the palm of her hand. “So, how do you fancy a ride?”

  Shaking her head vehemently, Gabby drew back. “No. No thanks. I can’t ride.”

  Frisco snaffled the carrot into his mouth and Derry turned her attention to fiddling unnecessarily with the reins, keeping her gaze averted from her sister. “Nonsense! Of course you can ride. Didn’t you ride as a little girl and it’s like riding a bicycle, you never forget. From what I heard, Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet had nothing on you.”