Aisling Gayle (51 page)

“How is she?” Aisling asked. “The girl from your drama group.”

“She’s not too good,” he said, lying back down on the sofa with his arms behind his head, “but they reckon she’s over the worst.”

“So – what was wrong with her?” Aisling queried.

There was a pause. “I think they said some kind of allergy . . .”

“An
allergy
?” Aisling repeated. “An allergy to what?”

“Medication or some such thing,” Oliver replied, in the same vague way.

Aisling looked at her husband with narrowed eyes. “That’s very unusual,” she said quietly. “To be so ill with an allergy that you have to be hospitalised. Was it penicillin?”

“To tell you the truth,” Oliver said, sounding weary, “I haven’t a clue.” He yawned. “You’d never know what people could have wrong with them these days.” He looked towards the kitchen. “Were you making tea?”

“Yes, do you want some?”

He thought for a moment. “No . . . I won’t bother.”

“Maybe you should go to bed and have a few more ho
urs’ sleep, Oliver,” Aisling suggested. “You look washe
d out.”

He got to his feet, checking his appearance in the mirror above the fireplace. Then he ran his fingers through his hair to flatten it, and patted his cheeks to put some colour in them. “Yeah,” he said, turning to the side to check how he looked from a different angle. “A couple of hours mightn’t do me any harm.”

After an hour or so of pottering about in the rooms downstairs, Aisling threw a jacket on and went outside into the garden. She walked slowly around it, stopping here and there to pick a dead head off a rose, or to check for any signs of greenfly. But every bush she looked at and every flower she stopped to admire only took her back to another, bigger and brighter garden in America. Jameson Carroll’s beautiful, rambling garden at Lake Savannah. The garden where she had left her heart behind.

What am I going to do,
she asked herself as she distractedly picked off the dead leaves and flowers.
What am I going to do?

She had been determined to come back to Ireland to
sort things out
. She had been determined against all her heart’s true feelings and totally against Jameson’s feelings of what was the right thing to do. She had persisted in doing things her own way. The way she had always done things. The way that pleased everyone else back home.

But what about all the things she said she was going to do? All this sorting out of her parents and family, and all this sorting out of the business of school? Now she was back in Ireland –
what
was she actually going to sort out? And more importantly –
when
was she going to do it?

An awful feeling swept over her, and as soon as she recognised it she was ashamed of herself, for she knew instantly that it was
fear
that was holding her back. Fear of hurting her mother and father. Fear of walking away from her home and her sad – but familiar – marriage. Fear of leaving everything that was familiar to her.

And the biggest fear of all – that she wouldn’t live up to the expectations that Jameson Carroll had of her.

Deep down she knew she wasn’t the wonderful, beautiful woman he thought she was – and how was she going to deal with that? What could a small-town Irish teacher offer a wealthy, talented man like him?

She moved away now from the flowers and shrubs and walked down the little path towards the gate. She stood leaning over the gate for a while, and was surprised to see a number of bicycles and the few cars that were in the area, all heading down towards the town.
God!
she suddenly thought.
It’s Sunday
! Aisling shook her head, unable to believe that she’s forgotten about nine o’clock Mass. America was different – she was on holiday then. But this was Ireland, and she had
never
forgotten about Sunday Mass. It was what Sundays were centred around as far back as she could remember.

She ran back up the path and into the house, and up into the spare bedroom where she kept some of her school clothes in a big, old wardrobe. After rummaging through the racks, Aisling quickly fastened on suspenders and thirty-denier stockings that were too thick for summer, and put on an autumn suit and a blouse that didn’t quite match. The outfit looked a bit odd, but it was the best she could do without going into the wardrobe in her own bedroom. Thankfully, she kept her mantilla with her scarves in the spare bedroom too, so she grabbed it and stuffed it in her jacket pocket.

She ran downstairs and out of the house to the shed where she kept her bicycle, and within minutes she was cycling down the road towards the church. She pedalled as quickly as she could, feeling the muscles pulling on her thighs – unused to the exertion after a month away from her bicycle.

Five minutes or so later, Aisling arrived at the church, much too late to take her usual seat up near the front. She stood outside for a moment to catch her breath and cool down, then she walked quietly into the church and squeezed into a space in a pew three rows from the back. The pew was full of men, and it was unlikely that they would pay any attention to what she was wearing.

She knelt down and blessed herself, still catching her breath. At least she would be nearer the door for sneaking out quickly, and hopefully would make it home without having to stop and chat to anyone.

The priest appeared on the altar – Father O’Neill, the popular, understanding curate – and Mass began. The service went through its usual routine, with Aisling standing up and kneeling down with the rest of the congregation, her mind a million miles away from the rituals that she had taken part in every Sunday for many years.

Then, she was startled back to consciousness, suddenly a
ware of the silence that had descended upon the crowd of worshippers. The priest had started off on his Sunday sermon, and the theme of it had obviously caught everyone’s attention. Most weeks, people left the church unable to r
emember a word of the monotonously delivered sermon.

“Ignore what is happening at your peril,” was the priest’s dire warning, “and we could become as bad as the English and the Americans.”

Aisling felt a tightness creeping into her throat and chest.

“If we don’t cherish our family life above everything else, Irish Catholic values could be lost. Marital separation and divorce is a disease,” he warned, “and it spreads – tainting all whose lives it touches. Not just the husband and wife
and children – but the whole of the extended families.”

Aisling suddenly felt her face flush and her breathing shallow and uncomfortable. This was the last thing she wanted to hear – and church was the last place she wanted to be sitting listening to it. Even worse, that it should be the youngish priest she really liked, the one she might have considered approaching if she ever needed any personal kind of advice.

“It is far, far better,” the priest went on, “for a child to have
two
parents who are at least
trying
to make things work – than to have a single parent struggling on his or her own.” He paused, looking around the congregation. “You mightn’t think it appropriate to be talking about these matters in our church – but times are changing, and we have to be on our guard.”

A picture of Thomas and Jameson, and then one of Pauline and little Bernadette crept into her mind, as she listened to the priest going on for another ten minutes, every word he was saying cutting deeper into her heart.

Her feet seemed as though they had blocks of lead on th
em as she cycled slowly back to the house. She let herself
in quietly so as not to disturb Oliver, and went into the sitting-room to sink into the big, soft armchair beside the
fire.

For some time, she sat there, staring down at the fading, flowery rug. Then, for the second time that morning, an awful feeling of loss engulfed her. She stood up, determined not to give in to it. She went over and switched on the radio to distract her thoughts, only to hear the presenter enthusiastically introduce a track he was going to play from the ‘The
Freewheelin’
Bob Dylan
album’. Seconds later the room was flooded with the familiar voice singing, ‘Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right’.

As if she needed reminding about the distance between herself and Jameson Carroll

* * *

Maggie and Declan arrived for a visit that evening. “Well,” Declan said, greeting her with a big smile, “have you recovered yet? Glad to be back to normal again?”

Her mother’s smile was more pinched and didn’t reach her eyes.

Aisling led them into the sitting-room.

“Is Oliver not at home?” Maggie asked, loosening the flowery, silk scarf from around her chin.

“No,” Aisling replied, “he’s gone to visit someone in the hospital.”

“Oh?” Maggie said, her brows raised in question. “Anybody we know?”

“One of the drama group . . . I don’t know her myself.”

“
Her?
” Maggie said. “A woman, is it?”

Aisling nodded. “So he said.” Then she automatically added, “He’s not the only one – there’s a crowd of them gone into the hospital.”

They sat chatting over tea and toast, Aisling gritting her teeth every time her mother commented how nice it was to have a decent cup of tea again.

“Has Charles or Pauline said anything to you, at all?” Maggie asked at one point during the conversation.

“What about?” Aisling said.

“Well,” Maggie gestured with her hands, “nothing in particular as such. Just how things went on while we were away.”

Aisling shrugged. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to them . . . and you know Charles isn’t one for chatting much anyway.”

“It’s his eye and ear,” Declan said. “We’re just a bit worried that he’s had a run-in with somebody and doesn’t want to say. Maybe an awkward or a drunken customer – or some such thing.”

Maggie nodded her head. “Pauline says she knows nothing about it either. She said he just appeared with the sticking-plaster and said he’d hit his head carrying a sack in from the door. And when she asked about the ear, he said he didn’t remember what happened, and that maybe it was a bite from a horsefly or something like that.”

Aisling frowned.
God, all this going on and I haven’t even noticed.
“It sounds strange, right enough,” she said. “If I get the chance, I’ll mention it to him quietly.”

“And Pauline,” Maggie said, “thankfully, she seems to have brightened up a lot. The little bit of responsibility running the shop might have given her a bit of a lift.”

“All in all,” Declan said, “they managed the running of the shop well. I’ve no complaints there – just so long as Charles is all grand in himself.”

By the time they made moves to leave, there was still no sign of Oliver.

“Is everything all right?” Maggie asked in a low voice, while Declan revved up the car. “You know . . . between yourself and Oliver.”

Aisling took a deep breath. “Everything’s fine, Mammy – everything is the same as normal.”

Maggie nodded her head, like a bird pecking at a piece of bread. “It’s just that you’re not looking too bright . . . and I thought that maybe yourself and Oliver might have had words.”

Aisling folded her arms, waiting.

“It’s just with him being out tonight . . . and you being just back home from America.”

“Honestly, Mammy,” Aisling said snappily, “there’s nothing wrong.” Then, the car horn sounded impatiently. “Daddy’s waiting for you – you’d better go.”

Maggie went to the door and gestured to Declan to have patience. “Aisling,” she said, coming back to her, “you didn’t say anything to Oliver about America , did you?”

There was silence for a few moments. Then, Aisling said in a low, weary voice, “No, I didn’t say anything about America.”

“If you take my advice,” her mother warned, “you never
will
say anything.”

* * *

Aisling was in bed for the second night in a row when Oliver returned from the hospital. He tiptoed into the bedroom, undressed in the dark, and then slipped into bed beside her. He lay still for a few moments, then he turned towards her, gathering her into his arms.

“Aisling?” he murmured into her hair. “Are you awake
, darling?”

“Mmm,” she answered sleepily, hoping he would turn away to his own side of the bed.

There was a short pause. “Are you annoyed with me for being late again?”

Aisling gave a short sigh. “No, Oliver. You told me you were going to the hospital.” She wriggled out of his arms and moved further away from him. Anyway,” she said, looking at the bedside clock, “you’re earlier than last night.”

“Well,” he said, “I think we’ve all done our bit. She’s a lot better – they’re letting her out tomorrow.”

“Did they find out what was wrong?” Aisling said.

“Oh,” he said, “you were right – it seems it was the penicillin.”

There was a longer silence, while Aisling wondered how she could muster up the interest to ask him any more questions – and she knew by his awkward manner that Oliver felt the same.