Deceptions (32 page)

She shivered. Winter was upon them. Over a year now since it happened. Time did not stand still for anyone.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY

Large wooden frames were stacked against the walls of the studio and a number of canvases were in varying stages of completion. The road-works painting was a configuration of bent and crouching figures. The plane trees on the pavement outside her parents’ house stood still and black against the sky and the woman in her luminous jacket, her feet in hulking boots and thickly ribbed ankle socks, moved backwards in the spotlight flare, separated from the men yet linked to them by the cable she was unwinding. Lorraine had painted other women. Sophie, her face split in an exhausted grin, a new-born calf between her hands, all slime and glistening life. A canvas titled
Dancing at the Crossroads
revealed the village hall, where middle-aged women in cardigans and sensible shoes danced the salsa. But the painting which attracted Ralph’s attention was the one she had painted of bats in flight and a woman watching from the window, a spilled glass of wine on the ledge.

He had arrived in Trabawn with an encyclopaedia on horses for Emily and a bouquet of roses for Lorraine. She had prepared a seafood pasta dish which, after he had toured the studio, they ate in front of the fire. Music thumped from Emily’s room, where she had gone to study after regaling Ralph with horsy stories and the daily antics of Emily the calf.

He glanced towards the ceiling. “Who would have believed it? Emily a culchie.”

“She’s more contented, especially since she made peace with Adrian.”

“And you?”

“I’m managing fine.”

“By running backwards instead of forwards. Trabawn is a picture postcard, Lorraine, and you’re hiding in it. You let them run you out of town.”

To return to a place where so much happy memory was invested must seem like the act of a crazed woman, she thought. Ralph would never appreciate her reasons for coming here and she was only now beginning to realise why she had made such a decision. Trabawn with its high sand dunes and teenage yearnings was where a cruel triangle began. She was setting her own imprint on the shifting sands of deceit.

“When the past stinks there’s only one thing to do,” she replied. “Shake it like a rat. Toss it in the air. Conquer it.”

“Such venom!” Surprised by her outburst, he wagged his fork at her and grinned. “Where’s the sweet Lorraine I used to know?”

“I’m serious, Ralph. Trabawn belongs to me now, not to the past. It’s where I’ve chosen to begin again.”

His voice hardened. “Until it’s over, I’ve no intention of beginning again.”

“But it
is
over, Ralph.”

“Not until I say so.”

He reminded her of a damaged animal, a predator taken off guard, bleeding but still dangerous.

“I’m going to exhibit in the Spiral Staircase gallery,” she said.

He turned, surprised, then threw back his head and laughed. “In your old studio?”

“Yes. When I’m ready.”

“Will I get an invitation to the opening night?”

“Of course. They will also.”

“That should be an interesting occasion. I’ll look forward to it immensely.” Still smiling, he leaned towards her and wrapped a strand of her hair around his finger, watched it unfurl. Apart from the glow from a table lamp, the room was dim, mainly lit by the flames. “I find myself thinking about you at the most unexpected times. Do you know what I feel then?”

“I’d be afraid to guess.”

“Regret that you and I never really got to know each other.”

“I’ve known you for twenty years, Ralph.” She smiled back at him, aware that he was flirting with her for the first time ever. But what he said was true. They had never become close, despite all the years of togetherness. They needed space to understand each other but Virginia’s dominant personality had never allowed them find it. She had remained the centrepiece in both their lives, the one upon whom they focused their attention. Only occasionally, as had happened on the night Jake died, did Lorraine know him in any emotional sense.

“You were always wary of me,” he replied. “Ever since London.”

“You were such a bad boy in those days.”

“I was a fake. You saw right through me.”

She shook her head. “I never knew what to think. Virginia made you sound so dangerous.”

“She was right.” He pressed his lips against her forehead, butterfly kisses on her cheeks. “I am dangerous when I want something special.”

He would not be judged a handsome man by any accepted standards, his features too sharp, a tough city upbringing etched into his face, but the rough edges had been smoothed and what she saw before her was a suave confident man with calculating eyes. She wondered what it would be like to snatch, not just the pleasure he would give her, but also the freedom to walk away from the consequences, as he would do, when the night was over.

“Not a good idea, Ralph.” She eased him away with her elbow, keeping her tone light. “Three in a bed is too crowded for my liking.”

“Who would be in the middle, Virginia or Adrian?”

“Virginia?”

“Not Adrian?”

“He’ll never enter my bed again. Not in real time. Not in dream time.”

“But you think Virginia occupies mine?”

“I don’t think it. I know it.”

“She has nothing to do with us. This is just about you and me, Lorraine.”

She shook her head, unable to speak. Michael Carmody was in the room with her, conjured from the heat of the moment, reflected in the desire she saw in another man’s face, heard in his voice.

“My poor girl, you’re not going to cry on me, are you?” Ralph no longer sounded flirtatious, just concerned.

“No.”

“Yes.” He rested his finger beneath her eyes. Tears overflowed, trickled over his hand.

“I’m sorry, Ralph.”

“Is this about Adrian?”

She shook her head. “I never had his love, not in the way I believed. Why grieve over something that was never mine in the first place.”

“Have you met someone since you came here?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s exactly what Virginia used to say. Unlike you, she was a magnificent liar.”

She made the sofa into a bed for him. He would sleep alone tonight. He was nursing a brandy and staring into the fire when they said goodnight.

The following week, in Dublin with Eugene Murphy, she discussed the restoration of a Georgian house. The main repair work was almost completed and, walking through the large, high-ceilinged rooms, she had an immediate sense of how it would look when finished. An hour later she was driving to Drumcondra, having promised Eugene an outline of her plans and some sketches before the Christmas break. She lunched with her parents and was leaving their house when she met Mary Ruane from next door.

“Lorraine, it’s good to see you again.” The older woman was returning from the supermarket and hurried forward, arms outstretched. She had known Lorraine since she was a baby and the semi-detached houses had been shared with equal freedom by Lorraine and the two Ruane children.

“Donna has been keeping me up to date on everything,” said Mary, holding her close as she used to do whenever there were scraped knees and elbows to soothe. “I’m glad you’ve settled into your new home.” They talked for a few minutes about Eoin and his family, who had returned to Ireland from New York.

“What a pity you’re not staying longer. They’re coming over this evening for dinner,” Mary said.

“Give them my love. And tell Meg I’ll ring her when I’m next in Dublin.”

“I hope you’ll see her on Christmas night.” Mary hesitated, held Lorraine’s hand a little tighter. “Do you think you and Emily will make the party this year? I know it will be difficult without Adrian –”

“We’ll be there,” Lorraine promised. “Emily would never forgive me if I deprived her of Christmas night in your house.”

“What about the little pet? Has she settled?”

“Not so little any more, Mary. It was tough going for a while but I think we’re getting there.”

“I’m so sorry about everything, love. I wish you were still a tot and I could make it better with a hug. But you’re all grown up now. No more magic cures.”

“They worked a charm in the past.” Lorraine smiled and opened her car door. “I’ll see you all on Christmas night.”

The afternoon was spent stocking up on painting materials and by late evening Lorraine was driving along the quays, heading west. The peak-hour flow was underway, the traffic slow, hardly moving, the air sluggish with fumes and weariness. She drove past Blaide House and onwards towards a block of apartments with overhanging balconies. Not once did she slow down or turn her eyes from the road.

The sight of fairy lights slung across Market Street added a festive air to the village. Emily attended the lighting of the Christmas tree with her friends and made a wish list that included jodhpurs and riding boots. Horses were an endless subject for discussion and her conversation – which included numerous references to dandy brushes, curry combs and nutrient feeds – was beginning to sound increasingly like the dialogue in a teenage pony novel.

Lorraine forced herself to buy a Christmas tree and decorate it with her daughter. They unwrapped the familiar baubles from tissue paper and hung them from the branches. Along the lane they collected holly and ivy. On the last school day before the Christmas holidays, Lorraine attended the pupils’ carol service. She envied the ease with which Sophie wept, her black cheeks glistening as she smiled towards the stage where the pupils were assembled. Sophie had talked about her family, a rebel brother who had joined the Sudan People’s Liberation Army and was fighting government forces. Her elderly parents had not heard from him for over a year. She hoped to visit them in the summer but there was much injustice among her people and she lived with a quiet dread that her journey would be too late. Everyone around Lorraine had a story, hidden deep within the reality of ordinary days, but, as the carol service continued, a hushed peace settled over the congregation and the ache in Lorraine’s chest eased until she heard only the sweetness of the singing, the solemnity of a message of hope that never changed, no matter how wilfully it was challenged throughout the year.

Adrian had bought a pony for Emily’s Christmas present. He had rung the previous day, speaking quickly, his voice low. “I knew how much she wanted one so I rang Con and asked him to organise it. I was afraid to contact you in case you knocked the idea on the head.”

“You’re free to buy her whatever you want.”

“It’s what
she
wants, Lorraine. All I want to do is to make some kind of peace with you so that I don’t feel I’m trespassing in your life every time I come to Trabawn. We should make this a special occasion for Emily. I was hoping we could have another meal together. The last time meant a lot to her and we could –”

She heard a door open, a voice in the background. Virginia had obviously arrived unexpectedly into the room. She heard his muffled response, imagined his hand over the receiver, his placatory smile, and hung up the phone.

A pony, brown satin coat, cream markings, arrived on the Saturday before Christmas. Lorraine walked towards the farm where the new arrival would be stabled. In the farmyard, the horse box was open and Emily’s friends had gathered to inspect the pony. Con ran his hands over her in an experienced way as he explained something to Adrian, and Emily, her face alight with excitement, had her arm around the animal’s neck.

Adrian’s smile became more confident as the group opened up and admitted Lorraine. A name had already been decided. The new pony would be called Janine. But nothing, Emily declared sternly, would alter the affection she felt for her first love: absolutely adorable, amiable, agreeable, affectionate and accepting Antoinette.

Noeleen came from the kitchen to look at the pony but it was upon Adrian that she settled her shrewd eyes. He retreated from the pungent smell of the stables. Mud caked the ends of his trousers and covered his shoes. It was impossible to imagine him in wellingtons. He belonged to the city and to another life. The atmosphere began to relax. It was almost possible to believe this was a normal gathering of friends and family. Eventually they dispersed, leaving Con to settle the pony in an empty stall.

As she walked back to the house, Adrian fell into step beside her. “Are you annoyed with me?” he demanded, hurrying to keep abreast with her. “Say so if you are. It’s better than the ice-cold treatment. I was never able to tolerate it and time hasn’t made it any easier to endure.”

Without replying she walked faster. If he touched her she would splinter and fall apart. Emily was waiting at the gate, her foot resting on the lower rung.

“Is Daddy coming in?” she asked. “Can we make him something nice to eat? He’s had such a long drive to get here.”

Lorraine nodded, moved ahead to open the hall door. He breathed into the space she was so carefully creating. His laughter rose to the wooden rafters as he toured the house with Emily. He was lavish with his compliments. It was late by the time he left. Tomorrow Emily would have Christmas lunch with him in O’Callaghan’s before he returned to Dublin. He walked to the front door and embraced his daughter. She stood, her hand shielding her eyes, watching until his car disappeared from view.

“He could have stayed here tonight, you know.” She turned angrily on her mother. “But I was afraid to ask ’cause I knew you’d have a fit. Why should he be punished so much when it was all
her
fault?”

“Did he say that to you?”

“More or less.”

“And you believe him?”

“He wouldn’t have left us otherwise. She’s a vicious slag.”

“Stop it, Emily. Virginia didn’t hold a gun to his head.”

“Why are you standing up for her? You hate her as much as I do.”

“Hating her has nothing to do with it. It’s too easy to package the whole messy thing up and stick a label on it saying ‘Virginia’s Fault’. Your father made choices and one of those was to move in with Virginia.”

“Only because you threw him out. He never wanted to leave us. We could have divided the house in two and then I wouldn’t feel like I’m splitting
myself
in two every time I want to see him.” Her bottom lip swelled mutinously as she brushed past Lorraine and ran up the stairs.