The Wife Before Me(82)
‘Annie… Annie, I’m sorry, I’ve upset you,’ she says. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’
She is afraid to nod in case the dizziness returns but Elena is already walking towards the studio sink. So long since that tap was turned on. The water should taste of rust or decay, but it is as pure as she remembers.
‘Who gave you this?’ she asks after drinking the glass of water.
‘Billy Tobin,’ Elena replies. ‘He died that night. And I’ll be dead too if Nicholas finds out I came to you for help.’
The silence that fills the studio is thick with grief. She walks to the window and stares at the Atlantic, as she has done so often when the sky is clear. A walking trail runs from here to the summit of the cliff where a high, slanted rock leans like a watchful guardian over the turbulent waves below. Tourists write their names on that rock, draw love hearts and doodles. She believes it is likely that worshippers must once have gathered before it to honour the sun as it rose above its mighty incline. Witches too, she thinks, when it was silvered by the moon. Lightning struck it once. She saw it happen, a flash that dazzled her eyes and seemed to split it in two. But when she checked the following morning, it was still rooted to the earth. A fishing boat rounds the headland and heads for the harbour at Rannavale. The beat of the ocean is familiar to her. Like the shriek of seagulls, it is a backdrop to her days, a lullaby at night.
‘How dare you come into my house with your ludicrous accusations.’ Suddenly, she is screaming, her shrill wail of denial bouncing off the glass. ‘Amelia’s father was knocked down by a car. A drunk driver, most likely, who drove off and left him to die in a ditch. Get out of my house this instant and leave me alone – leave me alone!’ Dead memories clutch at her throat. They snatch her breath away. Tears run from her eyes. A dark road. Rain falling. A voice calling. John… John… The cracking is inaudible, yet she feels the sundering of two identities separating.
Elena’s arms are around her. They look too brittle to support her, yet they are surprisingly strong as they hold her upright. Together, they leave the studio and enter the living room. She removes the logs and opens the hidden door. Elena kneels inside this small chamber and removes the letter at the top of the bundle. The bare light bulb hollows her face and illuminates her eyes as she skims over the written words. She stares at the photographs and sighs heavily, as if a long-held suspicion is finally being exposed to brightness.
* * *
Out on the headland there is room to breathe. The jeep windows are open and the smell of seaweed drifts on the spume. Lily waves from the doorway of her shop as she drives past. In the rooms above the padlocked pub, an artist, a potter and a writer reside in relative harmony. A commune of new age travellers took over the defunct community centre that closed down when the recession hit and the young people fled to London, New York, Sydney. Like the ebb and flow of the tide, others will come and more will leave this rugged enclave. Constant motion, destabilising secure foundations and piledriving new ones.
Elena Langdon, alone in the cottage, searched for the truth and has now unveiled it. The fa?ade of a marriage laid bare. Children stream from the small school towards the bus that will carry them to outlying farms and bungalows.
‘Mammy, look. I made this card for you.’ Kayla proudly shows off her handiwork. The youngest pupil in her small class, she is surprisingly talented at drawing for her age. Two figures, one small, one tall, one pale, one olive-skinned. Always alone, mother and daughter. She turns the car round and begins the steep drive upwards.
Forty-Six
‘Uncle Mark is here. He’s here.’ Kayla dances on her toes and spins away from the window, where she has been waiting for the first sight of his car. Down the front path she runs and straight into his arms.
Mark swings her into the air. ‘Who are you?’ he asks. ‘I came here specially to see Kayla, not a big, beautiful, grown-up girl like you. What’s your name, big, beautiful girl?’
‘You’re a silly billy.’ She giggles. ‘I’m Kayla.’
‘That’s not possible,’ he gasps. ‘Kayla is just a titch. At least she was the last time I saw her.’
‘I’m Kayla,’ she repeats and smacks his head. ‘Where’s all your hair gone, Uncle Mark?’
‘I sold it to the fairies to weave into a coat of gold.’
‘That’s a big fib. Your hair was black.’
‘Haven’t you heard of black magic? It turns to gold when a fairy is the weaver.’ He throws her over his shoulders and marches towards the front door.
‘Is it gold like Mammy’s hair?’
‘Even more golden. Where is she?’
‘She’s baking cupcakes for you. I had two. They’re yummy.’
‘Yummy yum yum,’ he chants as he marches towards the front door, where she stands waiting for them. ‘Annie! Why didn’t you tell me Kayla had changed from a titch into a giant toadstool?’
‘It happened overnight,’ she replies. ‘I was as surprised as you were when I saw her the next morning.’
Kayla giggles and wriggles her legs as Mark lowers her to the ground. ‘I’m going to find Bluey,’ she shouts and runs out the gate. ‘I want him to meet Uncle Mark.’