A Keeper(26)

Back in the familiar streets of her home town she reluctantly headed for the shop. Paul was behind the counter on the phone and greeted her with a wave. From behind an elegant tower of stainless steel bowls Noelle emerged and when she saw Elizabeth her face took on an expression of such deep dismay and sympathy that Elizabeth wondered how on earth she could have heard about Zach. Arms outstretched, her cousin lunged at her.

‘Rats! I was nearly sick when Paul told me, and you up there all alone the whole night. They could have eaten the face off you!’

‘It was only one rat, Noelle. I don’t think I was in that much danger.’

‘Young Dermot is after killing four of the monsters and it’s only been a few hours.’

Elizabeth felt the blood draining from her face.

‘Really?’

‘Four of them, the size of kittens. Come up to the flat and Gillian will make us some tea.’

The two women made their way up the stairs.

‘We weren’t expecting you tonight. Paul said you’d stay over in Kilkenny.’

‘It didn’t take as long as I was expecting.’

‘Everything all right?’ Noelle asked with a studied air of nonchalance.

‘Oh, fine.’ Elizabeth wondered briefly if she should mention the house in Cork, but decided against it. The less these people knew the better. ‘Just technical stuff about tax.’

‘Oh.’ Noelle’s face couldn’t hide her disappointment.

Sitting around the kitchen table with her aunt and uncle, the main topic of conversation was rats and what a narrow escape Elizabeth had experienced. Everyone seemed to have a story of someone getting their throat ripped out or innocent calves being murdered while they slept. The overall impression was that rats were to Ireland what sharks were to Australia. While not exactly enjoying the conversation, Elizabeth had to admit that it felt nice to have something to take her mind off Zach and his whereabouts.

She liked hearing her relatives telling stories. It was something she missed with her American friends. They were all so articulate but somehow lacked the skills to simply spin a yarn. Of course, ask them about their feelings and they became conversational virtuosos. When she had first arrived in New York that had thrilled her. Naming every emotional scar, exploring the cartography of relationships. It was all so new and refreshing, but now she found a nostalgia for a tale well told. Stories swapped across a cup-filled table, like serves being returned in tennis.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot!’ her Aunt Gillian exclaimed apropos of nothing obvious. ‘Remember we were talking about your father earlier?’

‘Yes.’ Elizabeth wondered where this was going. Questions about her trip to Kilkenny perhaps?

‘Edward Foley was the name?’

‘Yes?’

Noelle leaned forward. She clearly didn’t know what was coming next.

‘Well, I found the letter I was telling you about. The one from his mother.’

She bent stiffly and retrieved her handbag from the floor by her chair. ‘I shoved it in here somewhere,’ she said, unzipping the bag and rummaging in its contents. She glanced at various envelopes. ‘No, that‘s not it, no.’ Her face suddenly brightened. ‘Here it is. I’d kept it all these years in with the old photo albums. I knew I had it somewhere.’ She handed the slim envelope across the table to Elizabeth.

She looked at it.

‘This is from Edward Foley’s mother?’

‘Yes. Catherine Foley, I think she signs it.’

Elizabeth stared down at the letter in her hand. It made no sense, but there was no mistaking what she held. Pale blue Basildon Bond and the neat handwriting in black ink. Both identical to the letters she had found in Convent Hill. A cold hand reached across the decades and gripped her stomach. Her poor mother.





THEN


Something was wrong. What was it? Patricia lay rigid as a corpse. Then, it struck her. The wind had stopped. The stillness made her uneasy. There was a metallic taste in her mouth and her head felt thick and heavy on the pillow. Downstairs she heard a door open and shut. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to banish the horror of the night before. How could she ever leave this room again?

Her memories came in and out of focus like a half-remembered dream. She could picture herself stumbling through the dark, her sobs swallowed by the wind in the trees and the deep pit of the night. She had never felt so pathetic in her whole life. Even when her mother had died she hadn’t been so upset. Of course, she understood that the tears weren’t just for the humiliation back in the pub, they were for her life. A life so devoid of hope that she had allowed herself to imagine that Edward could be her knight in shining armour. She felt like such a fool. How had she become so deluded? Placing her feet carefully, she had marched slowly forward, her hands outstretched to protect her from branches or anything else that might confront her in the blind blackness of the night. All too soon of course the lights of a car had pinned her to the hedge and then Edward was out on the road, coat flapping in the headlights, pleading with her to get in. She knew she had been screaming at him but couldn’t remember exactly what. She ended up collapsed into a shuddering ball in front of the car. Edward had half-lifted, half-helped her into the passenger seat. She remembered the familiar smell of her coat which she kept pulled over her head on the drive back to Castle House.