At a Time Like This (28 page)

The sense of intimacy among the three of us was palpable. Whatever way you cut it, it was as though Pete’s misfortune and our own sense of shock had bonded us more closely together than
we’d ever been before. We didn’t voice it then, but I felt that night that the loss of Georgie was in some way a relief to all of us, in different ways. We could each be ourselves with
the other, without any conflict of loyalty or expectation. None of us was anxious to please any more because none of us needed to be. I think that was it, or part of it, anyhow.

‘Has Pete discovered any more clues?’ I asked.

Maggie hesitated. ‘He’s not sure. It seems that she’s pretty well covered her tracks. There was just one scrap of paper in between the liner of her wastebasket and the basket
itself. It had a name on it.’

We looked at her expectantly.

‘Well, go on then,’ Nora and I both said at the same time.

‘Pete thinks it might be significant. Either of you ever hear her mention anybody called Bob?’

‘No,’ Nora and I said in unison again. And Nora grinned at me. ‘Why?’ I continued. ‘Has he reason to believe that she’s run off with someone?’

Maggie shook her head. Then she stopped. Her face registered something I couldn’t read. Then she went on as before, as though nothing had happened. I decided to let it slide, for now.

‘No, no, no. Not at all. He’s thinking along the lines of brokers, I think. He’s already searching out all of them whose surnames are Roberts. I think he feels she might be
trying to keep one step ahead of the law. He’s on a hiding to nothing, though, I think. Those guys aren’t going to release any confidential information, least of all to an angry
spouse.’ She lit another cigarette and apologized. ‘Sorry, Claire – I really will go outside if you like.’

‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘But I’m hoping we don’t make a habit of evenings like this.’ I turned to Nora. ‘The happy parts, by all means, lads, but not the
sort of stuff that drives any of us to smoke our brains out. Life’s much too short.’

We called it a night soon after that. All Maggie could do was pace restlessly and smoke. There was a piece missing, she kept saying. A piece missing. Georgie would never be foolish enough to
give anyone reason to come after her. Any legal or financial reason, that is. And all Nora could do was handle the photographs of Megan, already aeons removed from the drama of the absent Georgie.
I felt tired and flat and encouraged the two of them to share a taxi home. They did, but not before they protested about wanting to help with the cleaning up. I waved them away and they finally
left me to it, at my own insistence.

Maggie hugged me for longer than usual before she left. I had a strong sense that the breach between us was finally healed, that our future would be better than our past. I felt a surprising
amount of gratitude to Georgie for having made it so.

‘Take care of yourself she said, and then, as Nora opened the front door after her perfunctory embrace, she whispered: ‘I thought you were very brave tonight. I’ll call you in
the morning. Maybe we could meet for coffee, just the two of us?’

I hugged her back. ‘I’d like that. And by the way’ I said, ‘you’re holding back something. You’d better tell me tomorrow.’

Maggie looked over her shoulder quickly. Nora was just getting into the taxi. ‘Our Italian supplier,’ she whispered. ‘His name is Roberto something or other.’ She
frowned. ‘Like the film director, but with a different ending. I can never get it right.’ Then her face brightened. ‘Tarantini, that’s it. Roberto Taran-tini.’

‘And do you think . . . ?’ I began.

Maggie shrugged extravagantly. ‘Jesus, Claire, what do I know any more? He’s years older, conservative as they come – and I found him terrifying. If there was anything between
the two of them, they deserve an Oscar. Each.’

The taxi-driver sounded the horn. A brief, impatient summons.

‘Gotta go.’ She hugged me again. ‘Thanks again for dinner. Talk tomorrow.’

‘’Bye,’ I said. ‘Take care. Sleep if you can.’

She waved over her shoulder and ran down the garden path, her high heels clicking. I smiled to myself. Despite Frank’s well-meaning and often-repeated advice, no one could part Maggie and
her stilettos.

As I loaded the dishwasher, some old memories began to nudge. A fragment of conversation here, a sideways glance there. Georgie at Trinity, not bothering to turn up if a more attractive
opportunity presented itself, or two-timing Danny on the occasional weekend, or else just calculating the best way to get whatever it was she wanted.

I thought of the ways she’d always tried to sideline Nora, and how astonished she’d be at tonight’s revelations. I felt sad as I remembered Nora’s photographs: not just
those of Megan, but the ones of Robbie’s birthday party too. She’d brought them along to point out all the family resemblances for us – the dark hair and brown eyes; the sallow
skin; the
handsomeness.
I had envied her her four children all over again. What’s this the expression is: an embarrassment of riches? I wished, not the first time, that I had more
photographs of Paul and me, ones that were more natural, less posed than was the fashion of the eighties.

It was as I was scraping the remains of the coq-au-vin into a Tupperware bowl – none of us had been very hungry – that I froze. I can still see myself standing there, wooden spoon in
hand, rich red-wine sauce dripping on to the countertop in front of me. It made a pattern on the white marble, a shape reminiscent of the map of Australia. I had a sudden feeling of paralysed
recognition, that moment when time stands still. As it began to recede, leaving the back of my neck tingling, it became a slowly satisfying click-clack of things falling into place. It was like the
domino effect of hundreds of tiny pieces from the past twenty-five years, each knocking the other off balance, each tumbling after the one before it and finally settling in front of me into silence
and to rest. I dropped the spoon, scattering New South Wales into Queensland, obliterating Tasmania completely, spattering the painted surface beside the stainless steel hob.

‘Oh, good Jesus Christ of Almighty’ I said aloud.

10.
Maggie

I like the feel of the air here because it’s fresh and it’s clean and it smells of newly cut grass in the mornings. In the evenings, there is the scent of turf
fires and woodsmoke. It’s a treat after the dirt and diesel of Dublin. I’ll always be grateful to Georgie for helping me get my hands on this. My own cottage, views of the Curlews,
miles and miles of peace and tranquillity. And it’s just remote enough for me, tucked away safely between the hills of Leitrim and the waters of the Shannon.

My new weekend routine is very pleasant. For the last six months, ever since I found my refuge, I leave the shop as early as I can manage on Fridays so that I can beat the traffic. That means I
get here by around half-five or six. The first few months were taken up with overseeing the renovations, making decisions about what to change and what to keep, and then cleaning up after the
builders. I mean, they were all enjoyable activities in their own way, and Anthony, my builder, made sure that I felt in control all the time, but I was glad when they were over. I was impatient to
start the fun stuff of decorating and buying and playing house. Anthony humoured me, and the man’s response to every request was always, ‘Yeah, that’s possible. No problem.’
Thanks to him, I felt a sense of excited ownership even while the interior was still a tip.

But all that has now come to an end. These weekends, as soon as I arrive, I light my fire and pull the curtains. In a couple of weeks’ time, the clock will go forward and then I’ll
get another hour or so of brightness in the evenings. I’m looking forward to that. In the meantime, it’s wonderful to close my own front door, to shut out the gloom and do something I
haven’t been able to do in years. I’m reading up a storm. All the books I’ve not had time for, the ones I bought and postponed for a quieter time, the Christmas and birthday
presents that were never opened, but sat on shelves and bedside lockers waiting for their opportunity. Well, the opportunity doesn’t come by itself, so why keep waiting for it? And I have
discovered that quieter times are a myth. It’s now or never.

And where is Ray, my husband of twenty years? Where is my family in all of this self-indulgence? My two lovely daughters are at university, managing their own lives and looking after their own
flats. I have one young son about to spread his wings. In less than three months, a whole eleven and a half weeks, he will sit his Leaving Cert, and who’s counting? We both are, that’s
who.

‘You tryin’ to get rid of me, Ma?’ he asked me the other night when we were trawling the internet together, looking at student accommodation in Glasgow. But he was
grinning.

‘Kevin, I’m appalled you could even think such a thing,’ I told him.

‘That’s a “yes”, then, isn’t it?’

We’ve been having this kind of banter on and off for a few weeks now. Part of me knows he’s being the protective son, that he knows that when he’s gone, the nest is definitely
empty. He doesn’t mention Ray, and I don’t either. But I won’t allow feelings of guilt or responsibility or duty to hold him back. It’s his turn, his life. And oddly enough
it’s also mine. All we each have to do is take it. Then it’s freedom for him, Glasgow, university life, fun, novelty and good luck to him. He doesn’t know about ‘Blue
Heaven’ yet. Nobody does, except for Georgie. But he will, in time. And until then, I’ll continue to enjoy my solitary weekends, my walks, my books.

My time. My life. The time of my life.

I get up about nine on Saturdays and walk to the local supermarket for fresh bread and fruit. I like this kind of shopping. It’s so much more enjoyable than the forced marches I used to
have to the shops when the kids were small. I remember our student times, too, when Georgie hated grocery shopping even more than I did. Can’t see the point to something that has to be done
over and over again, she used to complain. A waste of our existence. And I agreed. I mean, at least when you shop for clothes you come home with something that gives you pleasure. And something
that
lasts.
But this leisurely shopping is different, this early morning stroll down the hill towards the village. It doesn’t feel like a chore. Instead, it has become the way I choose
to start my day.

I may well be the cause of some local gossip around Coillte, although people here are very polite. I have got to know Anthony of course, and through him, carpenters, painters,
the owners of the local hardware store. I made it a point to bring nothing with me from Dublin. Everything I bought during the cottage’s renovation was bought either in Coillte, or in the
villages surrounding us. Everyone I employed was local. I’m not green enough to believe that you can buy acceptance, but I do believe that you can create goodwill.

When I finally arrived here last night, it was strange to feel that I was carrying on as normal despite the huge absence of Georgie. During other, previous lives of ours, even if we
weren’t in touch on a daily basis, we always knew we
could
be. Then, when we met, we just picked up where we’d left off, as though no time had passed at all. But this time things
are different. I don’t know where she is and I can’t imagine her in her new surroundings. That makes me feel edgy, as though I have lost my bearings, although I am not the one doing the
travelling.

And then, last night, I pushed open my front door to find Georgie’s letter waiting for me. At a time like this, I felt that its arrival was significant in more ways than one. It was the
first piece of post to come to me at my new address. Or should I say our new address? For legal and technical reasons, Georgie is the owner of my cottage because this is one bit of my life that Ray
will never share. ‘Blue Heaven’ is not a name I’d have chosen for a cottage surrounded by so much green. Even the name of the village, Coillte, means ‘woodlands’. But
there you have it. Georgie thought that the name was so naff I should keep it.

‘Hang on to it, Maggie,’ she advised. ‘It’s just like a boat,’ she looked all solemn and serious, ‘bad luck to change it.’

And I have held on to it, just to please her. But I have my doubts.

I knew she’d get in touch with me eventually. I was just glad that it was sooner rather than later. It’d be hard to break a habit of forty years, even if you wanted to. It feels
strange that she’s only a week gone now and already we have all begun to adapt to her absence. True to form, her letter explained nothing and didn’t try to justify anything. She knows
that, with me, she doesn’t have to. The envelope was postmarked Frankfurt, and that is all I need to have, to know that the one place in the world that Georgie has not fled to is Germany. And
‘fled’ is hardly the right word, either, I think. There is no sign of panic in Georgie’s leaving. Quite the opposite. This was an orderly retreat, if ever I’ve seen one.
I’ll tell Claire about the letter at some stage, of course, but I’ll have to let at least some time pass before I do. There is a role for her, spelt out by Georgie with her usual
succinctness. But she’s right, Claire might not want to accept it.

‘Papers will follow by the end of the month,’ Georgie wrote. ‘You’ll be able to see that “Blue Heaven” is yours for your lifetime. After that, I’ve set
up the trust, as we agreed, and on your death, it passes to Eve, Gillian and Kevin. Your solicitor and mine will both be trustees, and they suggest that you invite one other person. Someone
you’d be confident would make the right decisions on your kids’ behalf. I think that Claire would be ideal, but you might feel differently. It could bring her into contact with Ray, and
I don’t know how either you or Claire would feel about that. There’s no immediate rush; take your time and think about it.’

Trust; trustees; trustworthy. It was like a map of my life, pointing out the same destination over and over again, with me never managing to reach it. But at least I have this: something in my
name, something that gives me independence and freedom, something that Ray cannot take from me, as he has taken so many other things.