The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (13 page)

Retrieving Monty from a very interesting sniff around the
legs of an ageing cane chair on the terrace, she bundled him under her arm and
closed the doors proprietarily behind her.

“Already a grand day,” she announced, nuzzling his damp
nose, “we’ll unpack, have breakfast and make a bit of a plan.”

Monty sat on the bed, chin resting on front paws, giving him
the perfect position from which to adopt lookout. The bedroom window was across
from the pub and gave an excellent view of comings and goings along the main
road of the village. The ceiling in the room was very low; the top of the
window was only waist-high on Marianne who was not tall by any stretch of the
imagination. She could only see out of the window if she lay down beside him.

She followed his eye line. “You had better check this
vantage point regularly, Monty, who knows what could be going on out there, we
could easily miss something.”

There was a loud creaking as Marianne heaved the suitcase
onto the bed. The clasps clicked open as Monty watched her empty the contents
she had so lovingly packed only few days before. What was that sound? She was
humming. He half- turned so he could keep one ear on the lane and the other on
his mistress who, almost merrily, was taking one garment after another out of
the bag, shaking it, looking at it like a dear friend she had not seen for some
time, then placing it in one of the drawers in the mahogany tallboy or draping
it on satin covered clothes hangers, dangling in the lavender-scented wardrobe.

Marianne kept coming across Oonagh’s thoughtful, feminine
touches in the cottage: tissues, bath oil, a doggy placemat and special bowl
for Monty, a box of dog biscuits in the cupboard, a large slab of chocolate in
the fridge.

As she unpacked, Monty spotted some activity outside. He
pricked his ears, but his mistress had started unpacking footwear and this
could take a while, as a complete army of shoes marched from the case: dancing
shoes, beach shoes, town shoes, country shoes and, finally, boots. Monty moved
his tail expectantly across the coverlet when he espied the boots. He had
enjoyed many a long and, indeed, winding road with his mistress and these boots
were a particularly good omen. She clumped them together in time with her
humming.

“These boots were made for walking, and that’s just what
they’ll do. One of these days, these boots are gonna walk all over you.” She
marched the boots, one in each hand, along the bed to trap his increasingly
waggy tail beneath them. He pulled free and swerved expertly round to face her,
making a playful, growling noise in the base of his throat.

“Great boots Monty, great boots for walking in. We’ll do
plenty of walking in these boots these coming weeks, fella me lad, you see if
we don’t.” And then she yelped, dropped the boots with a clunk to the floor and
fell on the suitcase. She pulled a plastic carrier bag bearing the logo of her
aunt’s favourite Dublin butcher aloft, and strewed the contents on top of the
bed in a frenzy of excitement.

“Look Monty, oh look, Aunty Peggy’s an old dote, she’s
smuggled a bag of goodies into the case. Look, sausages, a ring of white
pudding and a great lump of ham. Fantastic, a feast, we’ll think we’ve died and
gone to heaven.” She stopped, noticing her navy, Aran jumper oddly rolled at
the far end of the bag, stuffed all round with socks and knickers.

“Aha.” She lunged at the roll and laughed out loud as she
pulled a litre bottle of whiskey from the wrappings. “And Uncle Michael’s a bit
of an old pet as well,” she grinned, “we really have died and gone to heaven.”
She pulled on the boots and, hauling up her trove, stomped cheerfully
downstairs, with Monty hot on her heels.

He had worked since early morning, all day and through the
night. The words just seemed to flow. It had been like that ever since he had
arrived on the island, the script flying off the pen, filling pages with
vibrant pictures, scenes, dialogue. It was so much easier here, nothing to interrupt
him, no phone, no email, no need to be in another place. It was such a relief
to be somewhere he could not be reached, somewhere he was not known and hardly
recognisable anyway, with stubble and greying temples. He had come to work,
under his own steam, in his own time, to his own deadline. He needed space -
this was perfect - it was all going very well. He played the announcement of
his intention to take a sabbatical on Innishmahon, back in his head.

“Totally selfish,” she had scoffed, flouncing through the
Manhattan apartment, “you tell me you want to break up, and then run away like
a frightened animal. Leaving me to deal with the aftermath, the rumours, the
press.”

 “For how long?” His agent had spat, horrified.

His response to both, quietly spoken, “I have to go. I don’t
know for how long.”

As soon as he arrived, he got down to it, working every hour
God sent. He breathed life into his characters as they leapt from scene to
scene, sword fighting and sweeping up and down staircases with passion and desire.
They flaunted their personalities in his face, he smiled at their impudence,
relishing their right to be born, live their lives, play out their story. This
was art. This was what being creative meant. He worked through the day and
night. Going from pen to keyboard and back, sipping cold coffee and warm
whiskey, in turn. Then finally lifting his head, he stretched, looking up to
see the sky streaked with silver. A new day beckoned. He lay down his pen. This
place had taken him to another place entirely. 

He read through the sheets, scratched in a few notes,
stacked them together and then, pulling on his battered leather jacket, lifted
the latch, pushed open the half door of the cottage and strode out.

It was a raw, fresh morning, the smallest hint of heat in
the sun. He stood by the water butt, three-quarters full with rain and, taking
a deep breath, pushed his head beneath its cold, glittering surface. He gasped,
straightened up and shook like a dog, choking slightly.

“Shit that’s freezing!” Won’t do that again, he thought and,
heading towards the coastline, moved quickly, keen to increase blood flow
before he started to shiver. He trotted off the tarmac and along the sandy
track towards the beach. There was a stiff breeze off the Atlantic. He could just
see the ocean. The sun was slicing through slate grey cloud, dappling the cliff
that loomed before him. He followed the sandy path as it narrowed and
disappeared. If you knew to keep going, it slid through a hidden ravine to
reveal a sweep of bay, blond cool sand and a silver shimmering sea, breaking
nonchalantly against the shore. He scrambled downwards, loose rocks and stones
falling before him. Losing his footing, he tumbled, slid a little way on his
backside and, grabbing a tuft of grass, steadied himself. Pulling himself back
on his feet, he made his way gingerly to the beach.

Once there, he hit the ground running and, flinging his arms
outwards, charged along the sand until he reached the water, and then ran the
full length of the shore as fast as he could. Heart pounding, head bursting and
lungs aching, he crashed to the ground at the water’s edge. A small wave lapped
at his feet. The second wave came up to his waist, the third over his head. He
started to laugh, spitting sand; he was soaking wet; no point in moving now; he
let another wave cover him from head to toe.

Monty was snuffling through the undergrowth, occasionally
cocking his leg to make his presence felt. Marianne followed his wagging
bottom, until it disappeared and, looking up, she realised she did not have a
clue where he had gone. She called him. She could hear yapping in the distance.
She shouted again, moving towards what appeared to be a solid face of rock. She
spotted a trace of track and, moving quickly, was soon through the hidden
ravine and out onto a ledge that looked down to a secret beach. She caught her
breath, taking in the horseshoe shaped bay. She had never seen it from the
shore, only ever from a boat out to sea when crewing with her parents. The
discovery was thrilling, she felt like an adventurer. The sky had brightened,
the sand glowed and the water sparkled up at her, beckoning. She could see
Monty just beyond a grassy ridge. He was barking downwards, indicating that
something required her urgent attention. She moved towards him, he was right on
the edge of a sheer drop.

“What is it, boy?” She followed the sharp black eyes and
gasped. There was a figure, outstretched, flat on its back at the water’s edge;
it lay there immobile as the waves rolled over it.

“Oh God, Monty... Is it drowning? Is it dead? Hey, hey...”
She started to scramble down, deaf from the pounding in her ears. Monty slipped
and slithered ahead, breaking into a gallop as soon as he landed on the beach,
scampering towards the prone figure, now embedded in its own sandy imprint.

Ryan’s reverie was broken with a different kind of cold and
wet. He opened an eye. A shiny black nose nuzzled his. He smiled into the dog’s
face. The dog rubbed his chin against Ryan’s stubble, tail wagging
victoriously. Marianne fell to her knees, straddling him.

“Are you okay? Can you speak? What happened?”

Ryan pulled his hand to his mouth, wiping dog and water
away.

“I’m fine. Nothing’s happened.” He struggled to sit up,
pushing her weight off him. “Do you mind?” He was annoyed.

She jumped up, shocked.

“Sorry, only it looked like you were in trouble, I thought
you were drowning, washed overboard or something.” She tried to brush sand and
water from her jeans.

He drew himself up to face her. It was his turn to be
surprised.

“Well I…wait I know you, don’t I? Marianne, isn’t it? What
on earth are you doing here?” He shook water from his hair.

“Ryan O’Gorman. Well I could ask you the same question.” It
was her turn to splutter.

“I’m not here to answer questions, I’m here for a break,” he
snapped.

“Me too, as it happens,” she snapped back.

They looked at each other for a long minute, neither one
giving ground to the other.

Sean Grogan’s one good eye watched the whole scene from the
other side of the cliff. He recognised the people on the beach. He already knew
who they were; the so-called actor and the woman journalist. There they were,
charging around the sand like a pair of young pups, lying down in the freezing
water, fully clothed, like they had never seen the sea before in their lives.
People do an awful lot of stupid carrying on trying to find themselves, he
surmised bleakly. Fecking eejits, losing themselves in the first place.

An hour later they were
sitting side by side outside the pub, a pint of apiece before them, Monty
lapping his now expected saucer of milk. Ryan had changed out of his wet
clothes, the cottage he was renting almost as close to Maguire’s, as
Marianne’s. He was slightly more rotund then she remembered and the longer
hair, streaked with silver, gave him a wild look, enhanced by week-old stubble,
fast becoming a beard.

He thought she seemed smaller, thinner and sharper than when
he had last seen her; her cheekbones accentuated by the hat pulled down over
her ears; mouth taut, skin pale against the stray strands of copper hair. He
avoided eye contact. They chose not to speak until they were halfway down their
pints. Monty, having finished his milk, sat cautiously between their booted
feet.

“What were you doing down there on the beach?” she asked,
finally.

“Enjoying myself, didn’t think anyone would try to save me
from myself.”

“Well it looked a bit odd.”

“So?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interfere. I didn’t even know it
was you.”

“Really, well why are you here?”

“I told you, I’m here for a break too.”

“Sure.” He sounded unconvinced.

“Small world as they say.” She hated an atmosphere.

“Sure is.” There was a tinge to his voice.

“Why here?”

“Used to come as a kid.”

“Me too.”

“Coincidence then?”

She thought for a second.

“My groupie days are long over.”

He did not get the joke. She tried again.

“Someone after you?”

“Only my agent.”

“Angelique with you?”

“No.”

“How is she? I didn’t get a chance to see her before I was
discharged. She looks fabulous in the recent photographs I’ve seen of her, you
know, in the women’s magazines.”

“Looks can be deceiving. Ah, to be honest I don’t see that
much of her.” He bit his lip.

They each took a swig of their drinks.

“Anyone with you?” he asked.

“No, just Monty, here.”

Monty gave his tail a swing at the mention of his name.

“You working?” Ryan slid her a glance. The penny dropped. He
thought she was either a stalker or paparazzi, she did not know which was
worse.

“No, taking a break, like I said. Been through quite a bit
lately.” She wished she had not said that. She finished her pint with a
flourish. His gaze stayed fixed ahead.

“See you around then.” She was on her feet. Monty followed,
looking quickly from one to the other.

“Hopefully not, if this morning’s carry on is anything to go
by,” he murmured.

“Charming,” she said, and strode on to the cottage, annoyed
that the chance meeting had brought discord to her previously perfect day.

Once inside Weathervane,
she eyed the mobile phone plugged in, and charging, on the dresser in the
kitchen. She checked it. No signal. Good. She lifted the receiver of the
ancient
Bakelite
telephone in the hall. She listened, nothing, the line
was dead. So even if she wanted to, there was no-one she could ring to announce
that she had just met a self-obsessed weirdo who, scarily, was staying in the
next door cottage. She flicked the kettle on.

“Arrogant tosser! And I thought he was quite nice when he
wrote to me in hospital; obviously just PR at the time, probably wrote to
everyone. I mean who the hell does he think he is?” she asked Monty, angrily.
Monty quickly disappeared under the table, pushing his tail over his eyes,
feigning a much needed sleep.