One Bad Turn Page 9

  This wasn’t the time or the place to tell Eileen about the moment of terror she’d experienced when she’d found out she was pregnant, not at the thought of the baby but at the thought that she would be bound to Marc Gilmore, a stranger, for the rest of her life. There was no need to mention the sense of floating, of being outside the experience, she’d felt when he had grabbed her hand and told her he’d been waiting for her all his life and that the only reason he was still single at forty-four was because he hadn’t met her sooner.

  Heather hadn’t been head over heels in love with Marc Gilmore. But she had been tired, with a bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with the tiny life growing inside her. She was tired of being the girl with no permanent home, no real family. She was tired of being a label, rather than a person – ‘The Yank’, ‘The New Girl’, ‘The Goth’. She was tired of being a student and of never having money and of shouting about the Establishment, while the idea of owning a smoked-glass coffee table was becoming more attractive by the week. She was tired of smoking dope and boycotting Nestlé, tired, if she was completely truthful, of being her mother’s daughter and of doing all the things her mother had reared her to do. So, when Marc Gilmore had grabbed Heather Sterling’s hand across a smudged Bewley’s table and told her that all he wanted to do was take care of her and their baby, Heather decided to let him. Never before had the phrase ‘happy accident’ seemed more appropriate. Her old family hadn’t been of much use to her. Maybe it was time to focus on one of her own.

  And if sometimes, late at night when he was snoring and Leah had taken up all the room on her side, she felt that Marc had swallowed the old Heather and conjured someone new in her place, well, that was how all relationships felt at times, wasn’t it? Romantic novels talked about the heroine being ‘consumed’ by passion, but sometimes Heather felt that her husband had simply inhaled her and she had disappeared, with not even her surname left to remind her of the girl with the dyed black curls and the ripped jeans. Maybe she could tell Eileen that part of it. Maybe she should. She imagined the relief of letting it all spill out, all the uncertainty and the tension, like the brown sugar on the table that was soaking up coffee slops.

  But Eileen didn’t want to hear about that. After all, hadn’t she just said that she’d looked up to Heather back in the day, that her individuality, her quirkiness were what she remembered about her? She didn’t need to know that Heather Gilmore, née Sterling, was now more likely to be found in a pair of navy Marks & Spencer slacks than eighteen-hole Doc Martens. Soon, she’d be heading off to college and maybe then she’d go back to the girl she used to be or become another woman entirely. But for now south Dublin housewife would have to do.

  And that was fine. Heather gave herself a mental reprimand. Eileen didn’t need to hear about her worries because she didn’t have any, not really. She had made the right decision, the right series of decisions. After the cacophony of her early years, everything was simple now. She didn’t speak to either of her parents and that was fine. She didn’t need them. Marc had his business, and in a few years she’d be a doctor, and they’d rear their daughter in Fernwood and be a power couple, a king and queen of South County Dublin. They would give Leah everything, every bit of the stability, every bit of the security, that she herself had never had.

  And to think how close she’d come this morning to losing everything.

  ‘Mummy! I have new shoes!’

  Her tiny daughter dodged between café tables, her husband following close behind, and the rest of Heather’s thoughts were lost in hugs and introductions. One look between herself and Eileen was all it took for them to decide that they wouldn’t tell Marc the full circumstances of their reunion. Some day, Heather thought, she’d tell him. Some day. Far enough in the future for it to have become a funny story.

  There wasn’t time now, anyway, because Marc took over the conversation like he always did. Charmingly, wittily, decisively. He shrugged off his sheepskin coat and hung it carefully over the back of his chair before launching into tales of the shops he’d taken Leah to, the shoes they’d tried on, the grumpy shop assistant who shouldn’t have been let near the child’s feet, and the ice cream they’d had afterwards to celebrate the purchase. Sure, that was what it was all about, wasn’t it? Children, family, spending time with them. His big easy smile pulled Eileen into the conversation, and Heather tried not to think of how a giant ice cream would mean Leah wouldn’t eat any lunch and would be cranky for the rest of the day.

  Yes, Eileen told him, in answer to Marc’s animated, interested questions, she was still living with her father, in the house where she had grown up. Yes, that was right, just a mile or so from Heather’s old place. It wasn’t what you’d call charming, no, no real character. A barn of a place, really. She had no idea why her parents had thought four bedrooms to be necessary when they had only the one child. But it was near a great school and the big back garden was terrific for a growing boy. She looked across at her son then, at Alan, and Heather and Marc looked at Leah, and all three smiled at the children playing together, oblivious to the adult conversation. Alan was running a toy car up and down a track of spilled sugar and Leah was building a garage out of salt packages and telling him he was to call in as soon as he needed a tyre change.

  Then Marc looked at his watch regretfully and told them he’d have to make tracks, he had a meeting at three. ‘You girls could stay on as long as you like,’ he said, ‘order more coffee, make a day of it,’ but Eileen peered at her watch and began to gather her things. Then Marc put his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the camera he’d brought along that morning to capture his day out with his daughter – or morning, Heather thought sourly.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely,’ he said, ‘to have a memory of the day?’

  He faffed around for a while, fussing about exposure and whether or not to use the flash, and then an American tourist, two tables over, came across and offered to take a group shot so they could all be in it together. Within moments Heather found herself squashed into the centre of the booth, her husband on one side and her newest, oldest friend on the other, the children squirming on their laps. They smiled when the tourist told them to and Marc took Eileen’s address, promising he’d send the picture on.

  A month later when she collected the snaps from the chemist, Heather could hardly recognize the tired, stressed-looking woman she had become, staring fixedly at the camera as if the photo were an ordeal she’d had to endure. Eileen on the other hand looked beautiful, young, happy and contented, while Marc had his arms around both of their shoulders, lord of the table.

  He’d put a note in with the photo, Marc told Heather, when he’d posted it, suggesting they all get together. Maybe at night, without the kids this time.

  ‘Sure,’ she’d said, distracted by a question from Leah. But they never did meet Eileen for dinner, in the end.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘So, how are things? Work keeping you busy, I suppose?’

  ‘Ah, sure, no change there. Wouldn’t we be complaining if it was any other way?’

  The pain in his side was biting again and Flynn shifted in his seat. His physical discomfort, however, was more than matched by the awkwardness in the car, their close proximity creating a sense of uncomfortable intimacy between them. At least he had the driving to distract him, but he could sense Matt flailing for something to talk about.

  ‘So, ehm, how’s himself?’

  ‘Ah, grand, yeah. Flying form, thanks.’

  Fair play to him for asking, Flynn mused. Not that he expected Boyle’s husband to have a problem with him being gay but the question had sounded completely natural. Now he came to think of it, Daly had got on well with his boyfriend the last time they’d met. ‘Significant others’, as the super called them, had been invited to the Collins Street Christmas drinks, with the bossman himself raising a glass to thank them for all the times they’d been abandoned by t
heir other halves for ‘The Job’. Quigley’s words had elicited strained grins and glass clinking from the various halves in the room, most of whom were women, while Diarmaid had ended up in a corner talking with Daly about woodwork, of all things. Diarmaid was an architect who specialized in New England-style new builds, and Daly, it turned out, had developed quite the love for DIY since his wife had gone back to work and he’d become the main parent in the home. Or something like that, Flynn wasn’t 100 per cent sure of the details, but at least the whole carpentry thing had given them something to talk about and the party, which Flynn had worried would be a disaster, had turned into quite a decent night out.

  ‘Things must be picking up for Diarmaid again, anyway?’

  He was making an effort to keep the conversation going. Flynn searched his brain for something other than a two-word answer.

  ‘Ah, they are, yeah. Finally. It took a while, but he’s a big job on now and another one planned for after the summer. It’s a relief to him.’

  And that was the truth at least, Flynn reflected, as he rounded the corner and checked the name on the street sign. His partner, Diarmaid O’Doheny, had trained as an architect, but had been unemployed since just after they’d met, a situation that had forced him to move back to live with his mother at the humiliating age of thirty-three. He wasn’t the only one: architects had been the first against the wall when the economy had collapsed, and even when things started to pick up, people were far too busy paying overdue bills to think about a new conservatory or a two-storey extension.

  Over the past few months, though, Diarmaid had started to pick up the odd nixer and just that week had finally been offered a part-time permanent position with a well known firm. He was even trying to persuade Flynn to take a holiday with him, a week in Greece in May before the prices shot up for the school holidays. Flynn, pleading rostering complications, had declined. The roster thing hadn’t been strictly true: he had plenty of leave coming to him and the super had been moaning at them not to hoard it, but he just wasn’t sure he wanted to do the whole couple-on-holiday thing. Diarmaid was the first serious relationship he’d had in a long while – there was plenty of time to start worrying about ‘aisle seat or window’, let alone any other sort of aisle, if things stayed on an even keel.

  ‘Anyway.’

  Realizing once again that he had left Daly with all of the talking to do, Flynn tore his mind away from charter flights and watery beer, and searched for something else to say. But he hated small-talk at the best of times and this was a particularly ridiculous situation to be in, driving around Dublin looking for a woman who was presumably drinking coffee somewhere and would have a fit if she knew she was being hunted down like one of her own suspects. Still, though, Daly was clearly agitated – although Flynn had a sneaking suspicion that his own job, rather than his wife’s whereabouts, was troubling him most – and then there was Flynn’s own promise to the super to take into consideration as well. At least, Flynn thought, he wouldn’t be the focus of Boyle’s bad mood when they finally did track her down. He’d let her husband stick on the flak jacket for that one.

  Were these lights ever going to change? The silence in the car was becoming oppressive again. If they could default to sport, at least they’d have something to discuss, but Daly as far as he knew didn’t follow soccer, or any sport really. The pause lengthened. Daly rubbed his hand against the back of his neck and squirmed.

  ‘So, eh . . .’

  Oh, Christ. Flynn could feel it coming – like a show jumper on a horse approaching a difficult gate.

  ‘So, ehm, any sign of you two setting a date?’

  And there it was. The question that, since the passing of the marriage referendum, dared to speak its name too fecking often. Flynn gave an awkward chuckle.

  ‘Jesus, me mother wouldn’t ask me that! No – no plans. No day out as yet anyway.’

  Daly blushed.

  ‘Ah, you’re right, you’re right. Sure what’s the rush?’

  What was the rush indeed? In fact, the first part of Flynn’s answer had been a lie. His mother had asked him the question, several times in fact, most recently the previous weekend when he’d gone home for the night and had a query about his ‘intentions’ served up alongside a soft-boiled egg the following morning. Was this really what straight couples had been putting up with for years? If it was, Flynn mused, they could keep it. He had no notion of getting married, didn’t even fancy the thought of Diarmaid moving into his rented house, even though he’d been getting a fairly strong vibe over the past few weeks that an invitation to do so would be most welcome. But things were grand at the moment and he just didn’t see the point of changing them. Everything was fine. He enjoyed the time he spent with Diarmaid, of course he did, but he was enjoying living on his own even more. He had shared a bedroom with his brother for years, then stayed in digs in college, a shared flat in third year, then back to digs again when he’d decided after graduation to apply to the guards. That was nearly ten years of queuing for the bathroom and arguing over the remote. No, living on his own, being able to come and go as he pleased, and eat whatever the hell he liked in front of whatever he wanted to see, was a luxury he didn’t want to relinquish, not for a while anyway. But it seemed the entire country wanted to marry off every same-sex couple they knew.

  The car slowed again and both men swore as a big lad in a yellow high-vis jacket pointed a large red stop sign in their direction. Another bloody delay. Flynn sighed. Was it too soon for another painkiller? The ache in his side, coupled with the car’s constant stopping and starting, was making him queasy. He reached forward and switched on the radio – any excuse to distract himself and obliterate the need for conversation. A day out. Christ. He couldn’t see what the big deal was with marriage. That was the truth of it. Look at this poor bugger. Climbing the walls because the missus had forgotten her phone. He himself just couldn’t imagine having that level of dependence on another human being and he didn’t want to either.

  ‘I’m really screwed if I don’t make this meeting.’

  Daly took out his phone and was staring at a home screen that showed no missed calls and no overlooked text messages.

  ‘I can’t believe she’d be so inconsiderate.’

  Flynn felt himself flush and kept his eyes firmly on the road. Shooting the breeze with Sergeant Boyle’s husband was one thing – he could even handle a quip about his own non-existent wedding plans, if that was what it took to shorten the road. But it was starting to become apparent that an increasingly angry Daly was looking for an ear to bend and Flynn had no interest in providing one.

  Go green, go green – please! Flynn stared at the workman, willing him to swivel his sign, but the chap seemed to have taken root. Aware that Daly was waiting for a response he aimed for the most neutral tone possible.

  ‘Ah, the job can be mental all right. Diarmaid says the same thing sometimes.’

  Not that, Flynn thought, he ever paid any heed to him. Sure, he’d had to cancel dates, reschedule nights out, because of the job. But that was just the way things were, and guards’ other halves had to live with it. By the look of things, though, Daly seemed to disagree.

  Finally, the lad in the high-vis jacket swivelled his stop sign and Flynn put the boot down. Matt Daly gave his phone one last filthy look, then turned to him.

  ‘Don’t you get sick of it?’

  Ah, here – were they in a car or a confession box? But Boyle’s husband seemed to be waiting for answer and Flynn gave a brief smile.

  ‘Sick of the job? Not at all, I love it.’

  Daly gave a heavy sigh.

  ‘Yeah. That’s how Claire feels as well.’

  To Flynn’s gratitude, he fell silent then and nothing more was said until they pulled up at the row of shops where Daly said his wife’s GP’s surgery was located.

  ‘It’s closed.’

  By the time Flyn
n had eased himself, wincing, out of the driver’s seat, Daly had already reached the surgery door and was staring at the bronze plaque, a look of misery on his face. For the first time, Flynn felt a little sorry for him. Poor bastard. He clearly was worried about the missus. And it was unlike her to be incommunicado for that long.

  ‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation . . .’

  But Daly stepped closer to the door again.

  ‘Can you hear that?’

  Flynn shrugged. A dog was barking a couple of blocks away. Was that what he meant?

  Daly frowned and raised a finger to his lips.

  ‘Ssh. Listen. Can you hear a baby crying?’

  And Philip Flynn looked at Claire Boyle’s husband and thought, Christ Almighty, the poor eejit has really lost it this time.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Eileen, 2011

  Eileen didn’t shed a tear until she saw the spade. The removal man, well, a boy, really, just some young fella with a card in the newsagent’s window and the use of his dad’s van at weekends, came trotting into the garden, the worn wooden handle bumping against his shoulder, and waved it at her.

  ‘Are you taking this with you or will I chuck it?’

  And then Eileen felt the misery swell inside her. Her dad’s spade. Everything else she’d been able to cope with, the sale of the furniture, the kitchen equipment, Alan’s baby toys. There had been moments even when she had even managed to convince herself that there had been some sort of grand plan to it all, that the move was a good thing. Sure, the house was too big for herself and Alan anyway. Wasn’t she always saying it? Moving to a smaller place was forcing her to do the clear-out she’d been putting off for years. So she threw herself into action and it soothed her for a while. She sorted out their clothes and gave bags of them to charity. It was stupid, anyway, to hold onto dresses and jeans she’d never fit into again. And it wasn’t like she’d ever have another baby to wear the boxes of Babygros and tiny cardigans she’d kept for fourteen years. She applied the same ruthless efficiency to Alan’s school stuff. Endless boxes of artwork, projects going all the way back to playschool: everything, bar a couple of school reports, ended up in the skip. She had Alan: that was the main thing. She didn’t need all of these ‘things’ to remember his childhood. She threw out piles of magazines, old curtains and sheets, half-finished tins of paint and two of the special milk bottles that had been delivered when the country went mad during Italia ’90. A pile of her father’s old shirts she’d been going to make into dusters, three pairs of his shoes, his razor – skip, skip, skip. She should have done this years ago. She and Alan could make new memories now.