The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (39 page)

Monty lifted an eyebrow. He had not heard a full blown rant
for ages. But Marianne had been building up to this, rehearsed it in her head
many times. She had just not expected it to be now, but here it was, and out it
tumbled, for better or worse.

“I’ve had it. I’m calling it quits, calling it off, calling
time, hasta la vista, auf wiedersehen pet, and goodnight, Vienna.” The tirade
was accompanied by various pokes in the ribs, thumps to the shoulder and,
finally, a sharp kick on the shin. Ryan hopped, clutching his painful limb.

“Now, Marie.” He was half smiling, half wincing. “Calm
yourself. We’ve had a few drinks, you’re grieving. We both are. You don’t mean
it.”

She drew herself up to her full five foot three.

“How dare you?” she bellowed. “How dare you even suggest I
am drunk, you no-good, two-timing, hairy-arsed bastard.” She charged towards
him, arms flailing, fists clenched. He ducked expertly but caught his much
admired cheekbone on the door jam. “Ouch!”

She smacked him on the other side of his face for good
measure. She was on a roll now, her gander up, but she had pushed him too far.
Slow to anger, he was one of those brooding Celts who could really lose it on
or off screen. He lunged at her, pinning her arms by her sides and then he
shook her, hard.

“You’re beating me up, for God’s sake. Stop it!” He said.

She pulled an arm free and smacked him again. He released
her.

“I don’t believe this. I don’t know why I ever had anything
to do with a self-obsessed, screeching, banshee of a harridan like you! Yes
it’s over, well and truly over, and bloody good riddance.” He whirled into the
hallway, slamming the hall door behind him and stood, nostrils flaring, in the
filthy black night. Cold driving rain lashed into his face.

“Shit!” He swore, as he squished in bare feet and t-shirt to
the car. Thank God the keys were in it, he rejoiced begrudgingly. He turned the
ignition. The old truck drawled to life. Flinging the steering wheel through
his hands, he streaked away.

He drove like a madman for about half a mile, screeching
down the main thoroughfare away from Innishmahon. Then, slamming brakes on, he
twisted the wheel again, bumping the front of the car off the bank as he
struggled to complete a U turn and head back to the cottage. He crashed to a
halt, slammed the car door, nearly took the garden gate off its hinges, and
banged so hard on the knocker, if it was not for the howling wind and driving
rain, it would have been heard by the radar-eared Miss MacReady at the Post
Office on the other side of the village.

The door opened a sliver.
He kicked it open the rest of the way and stood in the pouring rain, staring at
her. She had dragged on the comfort of his jacket, he noticed. Her face was
striped with mascara, her mouth turned down at the edges, hair standing on end
from running desperate fingers through it. He thought her the most beautiful
thing he had ever seen.

He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her out to him in the
rain. He pressed his mouth, hard and fierce, against her lips, a kiss of
passion and possession, no room for argument or discussion. They fell back into
the hallway together. He drew the jacket and her top off her shoulders, pulling
it down to reveal her breasts, and pushed his wet face into her bosom, gnawing
gently at her skin.

“I love your breasts,” he whispered, then pressed his mouth
to her shoulders. Scars from the bomb attack stretched snail-like to her
collarbone. “I love every inch of your flesh, every inch of you.” She stood
motionless against the wall as he pushed her jog pants to the floor and fell to
his knees. He kissed her, again and again, soft, delicate kisses all over her
thighs, her groin, her hips. He kissed her belly and held his cheek against her
stomach, warming her through.

“I love every scar and every inch of you, and you are,
whatever you are, the love of my life.” He looked up into her face with so much
adoration she began to tremble. She buried her fingers in his sodden hair and
sank to the floor beside him. They wrapped their arms around each other and lay
there clasped together for a long time. Finally, they climbed the stairs, hand
in hand. Monty had long since removed himself from this scene of raw emotion,
having put himself quietly to bed in the basket located snugly beneath the stairwell.

Ryan was pushing his
toilet bag into his holdall as she handed him a coffee. They had barely said a
word to each other since they had woken.

“You off then?” she asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of
her voice.

“I have to sort things out once and for all.”

“I have heard that before you know.” She handed him his
shirt.

“I know, no empty promises this time, I promise.”

She took his hand in hers, preventing him from zipping the
bag.

“This is the last time, Ryan. If this is goodbye, it’s
goodbye, but this really is the last time. Go for good, or come back for good,
no in between, not anymore. I’m worth more than this. We both are.” She
released him and zipped the bag, handing it to him. He went to kiss her. She
blocked him with hands. He went to speak. She put a finger to her lips. He
grabbed his jacket and his keys and was gone.

The weeks following Oonagh’s death
were a blur. Padar was, one minute, fully compos mentis, the next, a gibbering
wreck. Miss MacReady appeared staunch with sobriety throughout the evenings
yet, could be found slumped in a stupor in the sorting room at the Post Office
at half eight in the morning. Marianne was wasting away to nothing, alternating
between helping at Maguire’s and the Post Office and trying to keep Bridget
fed, washed and watered in between.

It was Father Gregory who finally put his foot down. He
called a meeting of the ‘Bridge Too Far’ Committee, assembling the
grief-stricken adults, in the hope that once gathered, they could discuss how
to restore some sense of order into the life of the child, who was suffering
due to their pre-occupation with maintaining some semblance of normality. Once
they had finished deliberating the slowness of the construction process, the
popularity of the new marina and the latest funding report, the Priest called
them to order and put the upbringing of young Bridget Quinn under ‘Any Other
Business’.

Padar was shocked. “We’re grand, Father.”

“I’m not saying you’re not, Padar. But the child needs a
routine. Sure you’re run ragged with the pub and the holiday lets. It’s time to
sort something out.”

“Sure I’m a great help to them, aren’t I, Padar?” Miss
MacReady interjected, indignant at the Priest’s suggestion the child was being
neglected. Padar and Marianne murmured in agreement. The Priest banged the
table.

“To put it bluntly, I think she should go and live with her
godmother for at least part of the week, if she’ll have her. Only two minutes
from the pub, Marianne could set up a proper routine for her, while Padar gets
on with running the business to provide for them. It’s what she needs. It’s
what we all need.”

It was Marianne’s turn to be surprised. She knew the
situation was less than perfect and, if she was honest, could not continue
indefinitely, but she had not considered for a moment, that she could be the
person to remedy the situation. Yet thinking about it and putting the child
first, she could see what Father Gregory was suggesting made perfect sense, at
least for a while.

Padar, who was struggling to keep the business going on his
own, initially bridled at the idea of the arrangement and had to be assured his
relationship with his daughter would not suffer. Indeed, it could only improve.
He saw so little of her at the moment. Father Gregory slammed his clipboard on
the table.

“I’ll leave it with you then.” He left without finishing his
drink.

Miss MacReady remained indignant, ramming Oonagh’s curly
blonde wig a little further back on her head. Marianne could not help wishing
she would soon relinquish this particular memorial.

“The Priest has a point, Padar. She’s growing up fast; she
needs stability in her life. We all do,” Marianne offered softly.

Padar said he would think about it, but when Bridget crawled
into the doorway in a soiled romper suit with chocolate stains all over her
face, he just slumped in his seat.

“I’ll take her,” Marianne said, and swept the little one and
Monty back to Weathervane for a warm bath, supper and a bedtime story.

Two days later, a desperately exhausted Padar asked to see
her. They came to an arrangement. Bridget would live with Marianne at
Weathervane during the week, ensuring they all ate together at least once a
day, before Padar became embroiled in the business of the bar. They would
alternate between Weathervane during the week and Maguire’s at the weekend,
when Padar and Marianne would be at the pub catering for the weekend trade
anyway.

They agreed to give the arrangement a three-month trial. All
parties were satisfied, even Miss MacReady who was to act as on-call
babysitter, giving both Padar and Marianne a break when required.

It was on a Thursday night, the week before Halloween, that
Miss MacReady stepped into the breach to give them both a night off. It was
over two months since Oonagh’s death.

Ryan had been gone for almost as long, finishing the
promotional tour which seemed to be taking him the length and breadth of the
planet. He had contacted Marianne on numerous occasions, left phone messages
and sent emails but she had forced herself not to respond, telling herself she
was far too busy to stress unnecessarily about Ryan and his schedule. If he
could compartmentalise his feelings, then so could she. She had other
priorities at the moment. Plenty of busyness to fill her hollow heart, Miss MacReady
would no doubt agree.

“Marie, I wondered...” Padar was fumbling at the till,
straightening the Worcestershire sauce. “Would you come out with me for a bite
of supper? There’s a new place down at the Marina, a bit of competition. Will
we check it out?”

“We would, of course.” She smiled at his awkwardness. “I’ll
be ready in a jiffy, beep the horn and I’ll come out to you.”

“Not like Oonagh then, she’d take an age to get ready.”

“She did. But didn’t she always look gorgeous.”

He busied himself at the optics. Marianne swung out through
the side entrance, missing Miss MacReady arriving to collect Bridget, waving a
copy of the celebrity magazine,
The Biz
.

Padar rolled his eyes to heaven.

 “More of the same, is it?”

“Worse. It’s a scandal. Pictures of you all on the yacht,
and then a write-up, saying Oonagh disappeared off the boat, and could there
have been an orgy? And was there foul play? No name attached to it though, but
they’re calling it an exclusive, would you believe?”

“Dear God.” Padar slammed the till shut. “Will they not let
the dead rest in peace?”

“Not that lot.” Sean slid onto his usual bar stool. “Sure
that’s dancing with the devil, courting favour with that shower.” He glowered
at Miss MacReady as she took Bridget and Monty away with her for the evening,
two of Padar’s cousins arriving to take over the bar, as she left.

He sat stony silent over
his fish pie.

“Not to your liking?” Marianne broke his reverie.

“Have you seen the latest?”

“I’ve been warned about it. I’d just love to know where they
get the pictures from. Ever since myself and Ryan have been coming here,
someone has been taking pictures and sending them to the press. It’s someone we
know, but who?”

Padar shrugged.

“Is it that Paul Osborne fella dishing the dirt again?”

“No, Paul’s moved on, working for an independent TV company
in the Gambia, I heard, making a programme about the local people and their
struggle to survive.” Marianne was thoughtful. “ I’ve always wondered who the
traitor is. It’s a small island. It must be someone very close to us.”

Padar grunted, poking his fork in the pie. Marianne
continued,

“Sean Grogan always seems to have money for things like
satellite TV
and the latest mobile phone, I’ve never known him sell any
livestock, so where does all that come from, I wonder?”

Padar shrugged again.

“Why bring Oonagh into it? Why make up stuff like that?” he
said, eyes searching her face.

“It’s what they do, Padar. They’re very clever you know,
always run it past their legal department first. None of you get it. Oonagh was
the worst, the most naïve for all her assumed sophistication. It’s only about
circulation figures, not like the good old days when a decent journalist was
highly principled, a campaigner for justice, righting wrongs, exposing evil,
fighting good causes.”

“Were you one of them?”

“I’d like to think so. Chequebook journalism is what it is.
Cheap and nasty. There’s enough that’s cheap and nasty in the world.”

Padar took a large slurp of his drink.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Ah, you know full well who!”

“Ryan? Don’t know. We didn’t part on the best of terms. The
longer he’s away the more he becomes engrained in another way of life, another
set of values. I don’t know.”

“Would you have him back?”

“That’s a very personal question, Padar?”

“Would you though?”

“Only on a permanent basis, all or nothing, and that’s not
going to happen, so I guess it’s nothing.” She knocked back her wine.

“Sorry.” Padar looked baleful.

“Me too.”

They ate the rest of their now-cold food in silence.

News that the merchant banker in England had put the
Georgian mansion on the market, disturbed Marianne for some reason. It had been
refurbished to a very high standard prior to her arrival on the island but she
had never even seen its absentee owners, who had only once sent an entourage to
air the place ahead of the vagary of celebrities and politicians booked to stay
during the ‘Bridge Too Far’ weekend.