Girl Unknown(58)

‘How are things at home, David?’ he asked, his tone changing, becoming avuncular. ‘How’s your mother doing?’

In one of our informal chats over coffee, I’d told him that she had moved into a nursing home for palliative care. ‘She’s not so good. It’s only a matter of time now.’

‘Time is precious. I often think time is the commodity we deal in, as historians. An examination of its passage …’

Alan’s patter began to sound perfunctory, and I lost focus on what he was saying.

He must have noticed my wavering attention, my despair: ‘What about taking a break?’ he asked.

I protested, but only mildly.

‘Take a few days,’ he said. ‘Spend them with your mother. With Caroline and the kids. A break will help you get your affairs in order, and let matters blow over here.’

‘What about my lectures? My seminars?’ I asked.

‘Don’t worry about any of it. I’ll ask John McCormack to cover for you.’

Great, I thought, as I left his office. McCormack to the rescue.





17. Caroline


April started out as a difficult month. After a bruising client meeting one afternoon, in which I presented with incorrect data, Peter called me into his office and informed me that, once the maternity leave I was covering was over, my employment with the firm would end.

‘It’s not just today,’ he said, in response to my craven apology, my pathetic attempts to explain myself. ‘You’ve been distracted for a while now – missing appointments, turning up unprepared.’

Like an idiot, I began rattling on about another client, a proposal I was putting together, plans I wanted to run past him. I felt like a child again, needing him to be pleased with me. He held up his hand. ‘I’m very sorry, Caroline,’ he said with cold civility. ‘We have limited resources, and I need someone who is at the top of her game, not distracted by her domestic situation. I’m happy to write you a good reference, but that’s the best I can do.’

He meant well, but I left his office ungraciously, barely making it to my car before the tears came.

Whatever disappointment I felt had to be put on hold once the news we had been waiting for came. On 14 April, a week shy of her seventy-fifth birthday, Ellen passed away. David, who has always had a knack for compartmentalizing, held himself together well in the days before the funeral, making the arrangements, taking calls of condolence, dealing with the nursing home and the undertakers. Even on the day of the funeral, he managed to control his emotions, appearing sombre but composed, his voice only cracking once during the address.

Outward displays of grief are not part of his make-up but in the days that followed he seemed to turn in on himself. He became enervated, his sadness surfacing in a kind of lassitude. He moped around the house, saying little to anyone, while the rest of us tiptoed around him.

A week or so later, I suggested we take a hike in the Wicklow hills – all of us. All this hanging around the house in gloomy silence wasn’t doing us any good. It had been a long time since we had undertaken a family outing, and a trek over muddy terrain in the fresh spring air was just what David needed to blow away the cobwebs of his depression.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

It was a sharp, clear day, the air crisp with new life pushing up through cold ground. We took the car as far as Tibradden, then got out, lacing up our hiking boots, a brisk breeze whipping at our anoraks as we pulled rucksacks on to our backs. There were five of us that day as Zo? had chosen to come with us. The bruising on her face had faded, and in the days since Ellen’s death, she had seemed calmer, more acquiescent. Her manner had changed: the threat seemed to have left her. Or maybe the change had occurred within me. I was tired of feeling suspicious and angry. I was sick of myself and the constant negativity Zo? inspired. All of a sudden, it didn’t matter to me – her insidious presence, her lies, the self-inflicted wounds. She was a silly little girl with her own problems, none of which seemed important after Ellen’s death.

We set out, David taking charge of the map, pointing out the route we would take. He went ahead, Holly at his side, while Zo? and Robbie trudged through the mud together. I was happy to take up the rear. It felt good to be silent in the great vastness of the Wicklow hills. We splashed through water and trudged through gorse and heather, floundering occasionally in unexpected boggy dips.

‘You okay back there?’ David called to me.

‘I’m great!’

And I was. Seeing him smiling down at me, his face ruddy, I felt hopeful that the last few months were behind us. My failure at work, the struggle over Zo?, none of it seemed to matter, such was my optimism that day. No harm could come to us in that beautiful place.

After an hour, the climb steepened, and we found ourselves scrambling up a craggy path, slippery with scattered rocks and gravel. Trees grew tall on one side – Norwegian spruces, pines – and the shadowy ground was soft with layers of brown needles.

‘Will we stop soon?’ I called, and David pointed to a clearing on one side a little higher up. A space cut into the rock-face, shelter from the wind that had whipped up as we made our ascent.

We reached it and set about emptying our backpacks of provisions. My hands and feet were cold. The temperature was lower up there than it had been when we set out.