Always You (24 page)

Her hand went limp in his. She stared at him, the vast blue sea framing her face, the wind blowing in her hair.

‘I miss them too much,’ he said. ‘And I can see how much my absence hurts them.’

Sarah nodded grimly and, slipping her hand from his grasp, shoved it in the pocket of her pink fleece.

‘Brady’s not a bad sort of bloke,’ he went on, ‘and he’d never be unkind to them, but all he thinks about is beer and sport. He’s not a bad influence but, well, the boys need their father. I don’t want them to grow up strangers to me.’

Sarah bit her lip and there was a long silence. ‘What are you saying, Cahal?’

He swallowed and forced himself to go on even though each word felt like a betrayal. ‘I’m saying that I won’t leave my boys, Sarah.’ She flinched and he had to look away. ‘They need me. As much as I need them. I …’ He looked at the ground. ‘I couldn’t live with myself if I did.’

‘More than you need me?’ she said and when he looked up, her face was pale and stricken.

He grasped her by the shoulders and squeezed. Her bones felt small and fragile. ‘No, not like I need you. I need you like I need air in my lungs and blood in my veins. But I need them too, Sarah, in a different way. And they so desperately need me. I could never be happy, knowing that my actions have made them miserable.’

Sarah gave him a sad smile. ‘I understand how you feel, Cahal, and I respect you for it.’ She stepped closer and stroked his face with her hand, as gently as if he were a wounded bird. ‘If you felt any differently, I wouldn’t love you the way I do. And though I love and adore you with all my being, I would never leave my children for you either.’

‘Oh, Sarah. If only we’d made it the first time round. If only we hadn’t let other people tear us apart.’

He pressed his forehead against hers and they stood together like that for a long time, as cars roared past and the sun sank behind the Antrim hills. It was nearly the end of June. He was more than halfway through the contract. In three short months he would have to return to Australia. ‘Do you think … would Ian ever agree to the kids moving to Australia? I mean if you would consider it, that is?’

She gave a little sob. ‘I would, if it was the only way we could be together.’ She took a deep breath and shook her head. ‘But I can’t see Ian agreeing to it. He adores those kids and for all his faults, he’s a good father.’ She paused and said, without much hope in her voice, ‘There’s no way Adele and Brady would consider moving here is there?’

He shook his head. ‘Adele only visited once and she hated it. And Brady’s a dyed-in-the-wool Aussie. He’s never even been out of the country on holiday.’

‘I see.’

‘Will you ask Ian?’

She lifted her head and stared at him with sad eyes. ‘I’ll ask him, Cahal. But what kind of a man would let his ex-wife take his kids to the other side of the world? And what kind of a woman would take them away from the only father they’ve ever known?’

He had no answers. He just held her tight and looked out at the deep blue sea, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. Ian Aitken hated him. And he could not help but ponder, with wonder and dismay, how it had come to pass that his greatest enemy held the key to his happiness.

Cahal grasped a handful of weeds with his gardening glove, loosened the roots with a trowel and yanked them out of the flower bed. He tossed them on the growing pile behind him on the lawn and wiped his brow with his forearm. It was a futile task, of course. He would not be here in a few months’ time, when the front garden would again become overrun, but the simple physicality of the chore appealed. It was what he needed to soothe his troubled mind. If only he could root out his problems and cast them aside just as easily.

He stood up and surveyed the patch he’d just cleared and a sense of misery overcame him. He never should’ve come to Northern Ireland, not without thinking through the consequences of what might happen. He knew Sarah was divorced. He should have realised she would have kids. If he’d only stopped for a moment to consider the difficulties they’d face, he might never have pursued her. For now she was hurting, and he was the cause of it.

Weeks had passed since their walk to Ballygally and they were no further forward. Sarah had yet to put the question to Ian, but he knew in his heart what Ian’s reply would be. They both did. That was why Sarah had not broached the subject with Ian, and it was why he had not pressed her. While that shred of hope remained, they could pretend, clinging to each other in desperate throes of love-making, that they had a future, that somehow it would all come good. But time was running out. The change management programme was running horribly to schedule and the team were scheduled to return to Australia in mid-September.

The thought of having to wait until all the kids were independent before he and Sarah could be together broke his heart. He could not imagine living another decade, or longer, without his darling Sarah by his side. They’d already missed out on the best twenty years of their lives. With a flash of bitter rage he threw the trowel across the garden. It clattered against the garden fence and disappeared amongst a thriving patch of nettles.

A car screeched to a sudden halt on the road and Cahal turned to look, shading his eyes in the evening sun. The driver’s door burst open and a tall, well-built man leapt out, leaving the car door open and the keys dangling in the ignition. The man marched down the gravel drive and across the lawn towards Cahal, anger and determination etched into his familiar features. It was Ian, his hands clenched at his sides. He came to a halt and glared at Cahal. Cahal glared back, refusing to be intimidated.

‘I want to talk to you,’ said Ian, the anger in his voice barely controlled.

The muscles in Cahal’s body tensed and he squared up to Ian, planting his feet a shoulder-width apart on the dry grass. ‘Fire away.’ Ian glanced at the house and Cahal said, with a nod at the ground, ‘Here’s as good a place as any. Say what you came to say.’

‘You put her up to this, didn’t you?’

‘What?’

‘She just asked me if I would let her take Molly and Lewis to Australia. For good. So that you and she can play happy families.’ The skin just above his collar went red and spread upwards until his freckled face was crimson and his pale eyes bulged with rage under almost transparent eyebrows. ‘Well, I’ve news for you and I don’t care who hears it,’ he roared.

Across the street, a man watering his hanging baskets put down his watering can and leaned on his garden fence.

‘I will never …’ Ian bared his teeth and struggled to contain his rage before going on. ‘Those children are my life. No one is taking my children away from me. Do you hear? No one.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Cahal, shame engulfing him. He could not blame Ian for his reaction. If anything, he had reacted with admirable restraint in not decking Cahal on sight. ‘We had to know.’

Ian’s shoulders sagged a little and he exhaled long and loudly. And when he spoke his voice was calmer and quiet. ‘Well, now you do.’ He turned and started to walk away and, then, thinking better of it, came back. ‘Jesus Christ, did you think I’d say yes?’ His eyes filled with tears, whether of rage or sorrow, Cahal could not be certain. ‘Did you think I’d let you have my children? They’re all I have left in this world.’

Cahal swallowed the lump in his throat. He had never before felt so ashamed.

Ian sniffed, wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said with a tone of utter contempt, ‘Why don’t you just get on a plane and go back where you came from? No one wants you here.’

He looked up quickly. ‘If Sarah tells me she doesn’t want me, I’ll go.’

‘Sarah?’ Ian gave a hollow laugh. ‘Can’t you see that all you’ve done is cause her misery and heartache? She left my place in tears.’

Cahal’s heart leapt. He must go to her.

Ian went on, ‘We were on the verge of getting back together before you came on the scene. And now you’ve ruined everything.’

Cahal stared at him in astonishment. ‘She was never going to get back with you, Ian. She doesn’t love you. She loves me.’

‘Don’t tell me what Sarah feels. You don’t know anything about us.’ Ian stabbed at the middle of his chest with his forefinger. ‘I’m the one she married, Cahal.’ His voice rose to a crescendo, like a minister delivering an impassioned address. ‘I’m the one who gave her children. No power on this earth can break the bonds between us.’

Cahal stared open-mouthed. Ian had clearly deluded himself into believing this fantasy and yet, in spite of his aggressive manner, Cahal felt a wave of incredible sympathy for him. ‘She divorced you, Ian,’ he said calmly. ‘You had your chance and you blew it. You cannot make her happy because she does not love you.’

‘And you think you can?’ said Ian, sizing him up and down with a look of disgust on his face. ‘You might have set yourself up as a fancy consultant but you don’t fool me. I know who you really are, Cahal Mulvenna.’ He shoved his face in Cahal’s. Sweat beaded his brow and his breath was stale. ‘You’re nothing but a low life with a benefit sponger for a father who crawled out of the Drumalis estate. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Sure he’s been dragging that leg round behind him for decades but there’s nothing wrong with it when there’s a bet to be placed or a drink to be had, is there?’

Cahal stared at him coldly, refusing to rise to the bait. He may not feel much in the way of love for his father, but he still felt loyalty.

‘I’d be careful what you say about my family, Ian.’

‘I’ll say what I like because it’s true. He’s not just a sponger, he’s a liar and the worst sort of criminal.’

Cahal shrugged, determined not to let Ian see that he had got to him. ‘He stole a bunch of TVs and got in a few fights. So what? He served his time. He paid the price.’

Ian nodded his head slowly. His eyes narrowed and what came out next was injected with pure venom. ‘You think the time he served was justice for what he did? You think he deserved to go free after just five years to carry on his life where he left off, when other people’s lives were ruined? Well, I’ll tell you what would’ve been justice. He should’ve hanged for what he did.’

Cahal felt like all the blood had pooled in his feet. He could not move, he could only stare in horror at Ian’s vengeful face with white spit on the centre of his bottom lip and burning hatred in his eyes.

‘What are you talking about?’ he eventually managed to blurt out. But, by then Ian was halfway across the lawn. Across the street, the man picked up his watering can and scurried inside.

Ian sat in the car outside the nursing home in the golden sunshine of a fine late July evening, and took long, deep breaths until the blue veins on his wrists stopped throbbing and his heartbeat slowed. He checked his appearance in the mirror, straightened his tie and wiped the sweat off his brow with a folded paper hanky. He must not let Evelyn see him upset. He would not trouble her with his worries.

A month had passed since Sarah had asked him if he’d give permission for her to take the children to Australia and, even though it had not come as a surprise, he was still furious about it. He knew from Vi that Cahal had an ex-wife and three kids in Australia, but there was no talk of uprooting
his
kids and taking them away from their mother. Of course Cahal wanted it all his way.

Sarah had looked thoroughly ashamed of herself when he’d told her he would never give up his kids. And now he worried that Cahal was planning some other way to get what he wanted, maybe through the legal system. Everyone knew it was stacked against fathers. Hadn’t he read only the other day about a similar court case where the judge ruled in the mother’s favour and permitted her to take her child to the US against the father’s express wishes?

He took a deep breath and resolved to put them out of his mind. He must concentrate on Evelyn. The doctor had said it could be a matter of weeks now. He tried to tell himself, as she herself had done, that she’d had a good and happy life and her death would be no more than the next step in the natural order of things. But he could not accept it. He lived each day on edge, dreading it every time the phone rang and lying sleepless in his bed at night, rigid with fear.

Evelyn was just as he’d left her the day before, lying with her head propped up just slightly, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. Jolanta, who was sitting by the bed when he came in, got up.

‘Any change?’ said Ian fearfully.

‘No. She just the same.’ She placed a hand on Ian’s shoulder and a little of the fear subsided. ‘She seem a little unsettled to me. She keep asking for you.’ She touched him lightly on the arm then left, closing the door behind her.

‘Hi Mum. It’s me,’ he said, taking the seat Jolanta had just vacated. He watched her for a few moments then placed a kiss on her papery brow.

Evelyn’s eyes flickered and opened. She turned her head towards him and the muscles in her cheeks worked but didn’t quite manage to produce a smile. ‘What time is it?’

‘Eight thirty at night, Mum.’

She frowned. ‘Have I slept all day?’ Her brow smoothed again and the thought was gone. ‘When did you last come and visit me?’

‘This afternoon.’

A long pause. ‘Oh. Don’t you have to go to work?’

He smiled, his insides all twisted up like knotted rope. ‘Not today, Mum.’ His employers had been incredibly understanding. He’d barely been in the office the last fortnight, working mostly from home and spending as much time as possible by his mother’s bedside.

‘Your face is thin. Are you eating properly?’

‘As well as I ever did,’ he said truthfully. Raquel had rarely cooked and the kindness of near-strangers kept him going these days. ‘The women from the church are determined I shan’t starve. I found a shepherd’s pie on my doorstep this morning. Nearly tripped over the darned thing! And yesterday it was Irish stew. Emily Ferguson made that.’

Evelyn sighed, a substitute he thought for the smile that would no longer form on her face. ‘People are so very kind.’

‘Yes, yes they are,’ he said, dropping the pretence of humour. He glanced at the table against the wall, crammed with flowers and cards from well-wishers. ‘And I appreciate it.’

‘I’m glad Raquel left,’ said Evelyn.

He looked at the floor. He was glad too but it seemed terribly disloyal and shallow to say it, so he kept quiet.

‘You love Sarah.’

He looked at her unreadable face. Her eyes had closed again. Was he that transparent? ‘What makes you say that?’ he said, playing for time because he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this. He wanted his mother to die peacefully, untroubled by worries about him.

Her eyes flickered open. ‘I see the way your eyes never leave her when she’s in the room, Ian. You look at her like she’s the sun. You always have done.’

‘Let’s not talk about Sarah and me.’

‘I want to.’

‘Oh.’

‘You do love her, don’t you?’

It was pointless to deny it. She would know he was lying. ‘I’ve loved her from the first day we met.’

‘I’m sorry. I wish I could wave a magic wand and cure you of it, of her. But I can’t.’

He laughed lightly. ‘I don’t wish to be cured of Sarah, Mum. I’m going to win her back.’

She sighed. ‘You do know she’s seeing someone, Ian. An old sweetheart.’

Ian frowned. Sarah must’ve told Evelyn because he certainly hadn’t. ‘I know. But it won’t last,’ he said confidently. ‘It can’t. She’s still my wife.’

‘Ah.’ A long pause. ‘She might be in your eyes, Ian, but not in hers. Nor in the eyes of the law. She divorced you. And she loves this man Cahal.’

Her words struck him like darts. ‘Did she tell you that?’ What was Sarah doing talking to Evelyn about another man?

‘She didn’t need to tell me. The facts speak for themselves. In seeing him, she’s going against the deeply held wishes of her family. Yet, she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her and she wears his ring on her finger.’

Ian swallowed. He’d seen the ring too, a symbol of ownership, and he hated it. ‘She’ll tire of him and I’ll find a way to win her back.’ He shuffled forward in his seat and lowered his voice. ‘When I was growing up you always told me that nothing was impossible. That if I really, really wanted something, there was always a way.’

Her chest moved rapidly up and down, her breathing was shallow and laboured. ‘Not in affairs of the heart, Ian,’ she said quietly and the hope that he had kept alive in spite of the events of recent weeks, began to falter. ‘Sarah cares for you, but she doesn’t love you. And even if she and Cahal cannot be together, she will never love you the way she loves him.’

The truth of this statement struck him like a slap in the face. Sarah had told him herself, of course, but he’d refused to accept it. But hearing it from his mother, whose wisdom and counsel he had always valued, was devastating.

He put his hands over his face and his resolve crumpled. He wept, for his dying mother and for himself. Soon he would be all alone in the world. And the two women he had loved the most would be lost to him.

He sobbed for a few long minutes and then wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, ashamed of himself for bringing his sorrow to his mother’s bedside.

‘All I ever wanted was to make her happy,’ he said. ‘Why won’t she let me? Oh, what am I to do, Mum?’

She reached out a hand and he took it gently in his own. Her skin was dry, bones showing beneath pale, transparent skin. ‘You must take joy in the good things in your life, Ian. Find things to be grateful for, like your darling Molly and dear, sweet Lewis.’

He grasped her hand a little tighter. It seemed so frail, so insubstantial. Was this the same competent hand that he remembered from his childhood? The firm hand that had kept him safe crossing roads, whipped cream till it peaked in soft crests, and rubbed his wet hair with a rough towel when he came out of the bath? ‘I will, Mum.’

‘And if you love Sarah the way I believe you do …’ She paused to rest and he leaned closer. When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible. ‘Take joy in her happiness, even if it comes at the price of your own.’

Cahal walked up the steps to Ballyfergus library on a wet Saturday morning and snuck inside like a thief, the collar of his jacket turned up, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

Even since Ian had paid him that visit he’d been unable to put what he had said about his father out of his mind. At first he dismissed it as spiteful gossip, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought it had a ring of truth about it. Could it hold the key to why Sarah’s family hated him so much?

He only found out that his father had been in prison at all, when Uncle Vincent let it slip one New Year’s Eve when he was nine. When he asked questions, thinking this might be something to boast about at school, he was told in no uncertain terms to shut up. So how did Ian know, for example, that his father had served five years? And who were the people Ian had alluded to, whose lives had been ruined? Were they victims of his father’s crimes? Had he accidentally hurt someone in a blundering burglary or robbery? Or was it more serious than that? Ian had said he should’ve been hanged. Had his father killed someone? A chill went down his spine even though the day was warm and muggy. No, that couldn’t be it. He would’ve served a lot more than five years if he had.

Inside, the matronly librarian with a head of wild salt-and-pepper curly hair smiled radiantly when he approached the counter.

‘I rang earlier about looking at old papers,’ he said and she stood up.

‘That was me you spoke to. Follow me please.’ She led him to a bank of computers in a quiet corner of the library, trailing the way in a floor-length floral skirt and open-toed walking sandals. ‘We have
The Ballyfergus Times
going back more than a hundred years. Have a seat and let me show you how to access it.’

He sat down and, leaning over him in a cloud of jasmine, she cradled the mouse with her right hand, necklaces jangling between her breasts. ‘All you do is click on the year you want, like this,’ she said, clicking on 1970. ‘Then the month and then the date and
voilà
, up it comes!’

‘That’s great, thank you,’ he said with relief, as she stood up and folded her arms. She watched him tentatively move the cursor round the screen. ‘What year do you want?’

He did a quick mental calculation. ‘I want to start with 1952.’ His father turned eighteen that year. And if he had been convicted of a serious crime, surely it would’ve been reported in the local papers?

‘Those papers were originally stored on microfiche, which was subsequently converted to computer. So they won’t be the best quality.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be just fine,’ he said dismissing her with a polite nod of the head, anxious to get cracking.

He waited till she disappeared then clicked on the first edition of the year. He put a hand over his mouth and stared at the front page. Someone had died in a car crash on the icy roads. There were plans to expand the port terminal creating fifty new jobs. On the next page, letters to the editor complained about bus services, pub closing time and the dilapidated state of the town parks. He skipped to the court pages, full of reports of drunken brawls, petty thefts and an assault on a policeman. But no mention of Malachy Mulvenna.

He searched all through that year and the next, by which time hours had passed, his head was sore, and he was hungry and thirsty. He leaned back in the chair and letting out a long sigh, dragged his hands down his face.

It was a hopeless task. What was he looking for? A crime that may or may not have taken place decades ago. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. And did he really believe the word of Ian Aitken, a man who hated his guts?

He glanced across the library, quiet save for a few well-behaved youngsters with their mums and old-age pensioners sitting in red bucket chairs, reading the paper. The table from where he had once spied on a teenage Sarah was now gone, replaced by racks of children’s books.

He stared at the bookshelves, seeing once again the back of her blonde head, the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her neck. What would happen to him and Sarah now? Ian’s refusal to let Sarah take the children to Australia felt like the final nail in the coffin of their hopes. As the summer waned, there was a kind of desperation between them. It was as if they were going through the motions of building a relationship that they both knew was doomed. Because once September came, he would have to go back to Australia and she would have to stay here. He did not think he could bear to lose her a second time. Anger at Ian, at her family, at God Himself, rose up in his chest. He had never asked for much – only Sarah. Why couldn’t he have her?

‘Researching a bit of family history?’ said a voice behind him and he snapped his head round. It was the librarian, standing with a pile of books in her arms, smiling.

‘Huh?’

‘That’s why most people want to look at old papers.’

‘Well, I wonder how they get on.’ He folded his arms across his chest and said crossly, ‘Because this morning’s been a complete bloody waste of time.’

She bristled. ‘There’s no need for language like that,’ she said coldly. ‘I came to tell you that we’re shutting for lunch in five minutes.’

‘Oh, thanks. Sorry,’ he said sheepishly, collected his jacket, and went out onto the street.

He found a takeaway place at the top of Main Street and ate a greasy kebab, sitting in the car while he pondered what to do next. He couldn’t do anything about the terrible predicament he and Sarah found themselves in, but he could do something about Ian’s accusations against his father. He could find out if they were true. Of course he knew what he must do, he just didn’t want to do it. He put the key in the ignition, shoved the car into first gear and drove off.

He was surprised to find his elder brother, Sean, sitting on his parents’ sofa, smoking roll-ups, looking as thin and badly dressed as any of the down and outs on the corner of Victoria Parade and Smith Street back home. He’d visited him in Carnlough a couple of times, where he lived alone, eking out a living as a farmhand, supplemented by a bit of poaching and lobster fishing on the side. Though he loved his brother, or perhaps because of it, the visits to his squalid room above the chippy had been depressing affairs. The vast age difference between them ensured they had nothing in common, except a shared hatred of their father.

The two men shook hands. Sean said, ‘What about ye?’

Malachy, sitting in the same chair, and wearing the same clothes as last time with a folded paper on his lap, said, ‘Look what the cat’s dragged in.’

Cahal tensed and Bridget came scurrying into the room, brushed Malachy’s knee lightly with the feather duster she’d had in her hand when she opened the door, and laughed. ‘Ah, now don’t be teasing him, Malachy.’ She smiled rigidly at Cahal, willing him to go along with this pantomime. But this time he didn’t feel in the mood for playing her silly games.