Aisling Gayle

1. Chapter 1
   
2. Chapter 2
   
3. Chapter 3
   
4. Chapter 4
   
5. Chapter 5
   
6. Chapter 6
   
7. Chapter 7
   
8. Chapter 8
   
9. Chapter 9
   
10. Chapter 10
    
11. Chapter 11
    
12. Chapter 12
    
13. Chapter 13
    
14. Chapter 14
    
15. Chapter 15
    
16. Chapter 16
    
17. Chapter 17
    
18. Chapter 18
    
19. Chapter 19
    
20. Chapter 20
    
21. Chapter 21
    
22. Chapter 22
    
23. Chapter 23
    
24. Chapter 24
    
25. Chapter 25
    
26. Chapter 26
    
27. Chapter 27
    
28. Chapter 28
    
29. Chapter 29
    
30. Chapter 30
    
31. Chapter 31
    
32. Chapter 32
    
33. Chapter 33
    
34. Chapter 34
    
35. Chapter 35
    
36. Chapter 36
    
37. Chapter 37
    
38. Chapter 38
    
39. Chapter 39
    
40. Chapter 40
    
41. Chapter 41
    
42. Chapter 42
    
43. Chapter 43
    
44. Chapter 44
    
45. Chapter 45
    

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,

characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the

author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Ebook Published 2012

by Poolbeg Press Ltd

123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

Dublin 13, Ireland

E-mail: [email protected]

© Geraldine O’Neill 2003

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Typesetting, layout, design, ebook © Poolbeg Press Ltd.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781781990827

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

www.poolbeg.com

About the Author

Geraldine O’Neill grew up in Cleland, Lanarkshire, Scotland with her four sisters and brother. She attended teacher-training college in Northumberland, and then lived in both Scotland and Stockport, Cheshire for a number of years.

She moved to Daingean in Co. Offaly, Ireland in 1991,
where she teaches in the local National School.

Geraldine is married to Michael Brosnahan, and
they have two grown-up children, Christopher and Clare.

Aisling Gayle
is her second novel.

Acknowledgements

I
would like to give a big thanks to all the staff at Poolbeg, particularly Paula Campbell and Gaye Shortland,
for their continued advice and support.

Thanks to my literary agent, Sugra Zaman, of Watson
, Little Ltd., London, for pleasantly chasing up all my queries about the world of bookselling.

Thanks to Malcolm Ross McDonald for his personal appreciation of my work, and the Offaly Writers’ Group for continued interest in my writing and poetry efforts.

Special thanks to our great Stockport friends Alison and Michael Murphy, for their constant encouragement in my literary career, and their willing help with organising
events from birthday parties to trips to America.

Thanks to my lovely brother-in-law, Kevin Brosnahan, f
or his endless support and promotion of my work.

Thanks to Peter and Kitty Brady for their guidance with the Americanisms in
Aisling Gayle.

Thanks to my old Scottish teaching colleague and my dear friend Margaret Lafferty who encouraged me in the early days when publication seemed a long way off.

Thanks to all family members and Offaly and Stockport friends who were so supportive of
Tara Flynn.

Thanks to my brother and fellow-writer, Eamonn O’Neill and his lovely, artistic wife, Sarah, without whose wedding in Upstate New York this book would never have been written.

A special thanks to my mother’s old American penpal, Jean Harper, who in turn introduced Eamonn and Sarah as penpals – which led to the American wedding!

Thanks to Sarah’s family and all the lovely American
s I met whilst staying at the place that became ‘Lake Savannah’.

A little word of loving remembrance to Patricia, who would have raced through this book in a day. Also, Garda Evan Lillis who gave his parents, Marie and Michael, so much to be proud of during his young life.

A final thanks to my beloved Christopher and Clare, more supportive than I could ask for, and who are more precious to me with every passing year.

This book is lovingly dedicated to

my old college boyfriend and my
Anam Cara,

Mike Brosnahan

Come to the edge, he said.

They said: We are afraid.

Come to the edge, he said.

They came. He pushed them . . .

and they flew.

Guillaume Apollinaire

Chapter 1

Tullamore, County Offaly

May 1963

The morning after her seventh wedding anniversary, Aisling Gayle awoke to the early morning sun shining through the windows, and an empty space in the bed beside her.

She looked at the bedside clock. Quarter past seven. Quarter past seven on a Monday morning after a weekend away celebrating seven years of marriage. Neither of them needed to be up for another half an hour, and yet he was gone from their bed. He was downstairs and on the phone already.

Last week, they had sat with some of Oliver’s drama group at a wedding, and a new member had made a funny comment about them approaching the ‘seven-year itch’. Only no one had laughed. There had been a very awkward silence. The rest of the group knew – as Aisling knew – that Oliver had always had the itch.

He had the itch even before they got married.

Aisling threw the bedclothes back and padded across the cold linoleum floor, her long blonde hair swinging like two curtains on either side of her face. She opened the door just a few inches. Just enough to hear who he was talking to. Just enough to be sure.

“Of course,” she could hear Oliver say in a low voice. “You know I do. Why else would I be on the phone to you, at this hour of the morning?”

Aisling leaned her head against the jamb of the door and closed her eyes.
Why else
indeed?
she thought.
Why else indeed?

Oliver gave a little cough to clear his throat. The sort of cough he gave when getting agitated. “It was a special occasion . . . what else could I do? It would have looked bad if I hadn’t done something.” Then there was a pause. “Listen,” he said in his smooth Dublin accent, “I’ll have to go. I promise I’ll ring you later
. . . same arrangements as usual.”

Aisling heard the click of the phone, and waited. But Oliver didn’t come back upstairs. She listened and heard him first go into the bathroom, and then a few minutes later into the kitchen, and then she heard the rattle of the tap as he filled the kettle.

Aisling closed the door and got back into bed. She shivered, even though she had woken several times during the night with the heat. The old familiar feelings of dread and hopelessness began to wash over her again. Though it was not half as bad as it used to be in the early stages of their marriage. She was twenty-nine years old now – no longer the naïve young girl who had fallen under Oliver’s spell.

But still it hurt. It hurt very badly. Especially this morning. Especially after a romantic weekend in a nice hotel in Galway, which she had thought of as a fresh start in their marriage.

And now this. An early-morning phone call which heralded his latest infidelity. The latest in a long line of affairs. Aisling reached over to her bedside table for her romantic novel – her escape from reality. Her sad escape from a faithless, loveless marriage.

* * *

“Good morning, good morning – I heard your alarm go off just as the toast was ready.” Oliver was chirpy and cheerful as he elbowed the bedroom door open, to manoeuvre the breakfast-tray into the room. “Since you’ve become so accustomed to first-class hotel service this weekend, I thought I’d break you into the real world gently.” He gave a little laugh. “But I’m sorry to say we only serve tea and toast in this establishment.”

He placed the wooden tray with the varnished flowers on the bed beside her and, from the fleeting glance that she gave him, he knew that she was not fooled. Their eyes did not meet very often these days, because he couldn’t bear the accusation that looked straight back at him. At one time those blue eyes had so captivated him that he had gone out and bought her the biggest sapphire engagement ring he could afford. Now, he could barely look into those same eyes.

“Are you not having anything?” Aisling asked, for something to fill the silence.

“No, I’ve had a cup of tea. That’ll hold me until I get time at the shop.” He turned to the wardrobe to select a shirt. Although he left everything else in the house where he dropped it, Oliver’s wardrobe was perfectly organised. “I have a commercial traveller coming down from Dublin with a new range of fancy ties and hankies. I’m quite keen, but I’ll have to knock his prices down a good bit. I’ll have to make the poor mouth about business being slow and all that old shite. It’s worse than being on the stage.”

Aisling took a sip of her tea. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll perform well as always, Oliver,” she said in an even tone. “Sure,
aren’t people always telling you that you’re a born actor?”

“Thank you, m’dear,” he said jovially, slipping the shirt from its hanger and throwing it on the bed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Aisling’s eyes were cold and hard as she watched him take off his dressing-gown, revealing the firm, well-toned body that he was so proud of. As usual, he couldn’t resist a glance at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. An imaginary blemish on his shoulder, which he had to examine carefully, allowed him to draw out the process.

As she sipped her tea and bit into toast she didn’t taste, Aisling took in his curly black hair – still damp from his bath – and the rest of him down to the curly black hairs on his legs. Apart from being slightly below average height, he was – as the older women would put it – a fine figure of a man.

And didn’t Oliver Gayle know it.

After the short pause to admire himself, Oliver checked his watch and then hurriedly threw on his clothes. Another quick look in the mirror as he did up his latest new tie, a dab of cologne – and he was ready.

“I’m not too sure what time I’ll get in tonight,” he said, rubbing the excess cologne into his hands, “so don’t bother cooking me anything. I’ll get something in town, and it’ll keep me going ’til after rehearsals.”