Echoes (73 page)

“I can't leave you.”

“But suppose, just suppose he
has.
”

“He couldn't have. I'd have known by her voice.” David stood up and paced the room. “I'll ring her, that's what I'll do.”

He telephoned the Lodge, there was no reply. They looked at each other: was that good or bad?

“She might have gone in to your mother and father,” Caroline suggested.

“No, however bad she felt she wouldn't do that.” He looked tormented.

“Where could he have been, just at the window of the caravan?” she glanced over at the dressing table.

“That's what he must have done. But why? I mean is it for money? His business is meant to be in a bad way, but he couldn't expect us to pay him.”

“We would, wouldn't we?” Caroline said simply.

“Yes, I suppose we would. But he doesn't
ask
for money. Do you think it's because he disapproves, because he wants you and he's jealous?”

She shook her head. “I don't think that would explain it.”

“But
why
? Why would someone do that? It's so perverted. To peer through a window . . . my God. He must be obsessed with you—it's the only explanation. He can't have you himself, so he does what he can to ruin the chances of anyone else having you.”

“Oh, he's
had me
himself, many, many times. That's not likely to be the reason. He's actually lost his mind and become a lunatic.”

She had her head in both hands and didn't see the look of shock and pain on David's face. She went on talking.

“The trouble is, we can't really tell the Guards, or they'll want to know why, but he should be locked up, shouldn't he?” She looked up for confirmation.

“He didn't sleep with you,” David said.

“David, that's neither here nor there. You sleep with Clare. Do I mind that? Did I ever mind it? Once?” Her voice was getting shrill and hysterical. “Christ, this isn't the time to do the Victorian Husband bit. Everyone in the county has been with Gerry Doyle in some form or another. The point is, what do we do?”

She looked young and frightened and alone.

“I know this is the most unhelpful thing in the world, but I think I should go back to Castlebay. Under the circumstances I don't think you should come with me . . .”

“No.”

“I'll ring you when I get there. I'll ring to know are you all right.”

“Sure.”

“I'll come to see you first thing tomorrow morning, when we're calmer, we'll decide what to do.”

“Great.”

“Is there anyone—have you any friends, anyone who could come in, or someone you could go to?” He looked around, willing himself to find her some support, hating to leave her.

“No.”

He swallowed and couldn't speak.

She turned her head toward the dressing table and the pictures that were turned upside down.

The wind and rain lashed the car; the road was strewn with bits of branches.

A steady drumming beat in David's heart. May Clare be all right. May Clare be all right. May he not have shown her the pictures. May he not have shown her the pictures. . . .

 

Clare stood at the window for a long time. She hadn't heard the car starting up. Perhaps he would come back again. But then he had been very final when he had left.

Please, God, he had been lying when he said he showed the pictures to David, and to Caroline. Please may David not know about them. It made everything so definite if he knew, if he had seen. She would deny she had ever seen them if David asked her. She couldn't bear to hold any discussion based on what she had seen. It didn't make her retch now; it made her sad. But she had known for months, hadn't she? All Gerry Doyle had done was to make her admit it to herself.

Please may Gerry go away from Castlebay, forever and ever. Please, please.

 

Gerry closed the door gently behind him. He had never slammed a door in his life. He would like to have taken it from its hinges.

Clare had looked at him as if he were mad. As if
he
were mad! It was Clare who was mad. To have hoped that she would be accepted in that family for one thing, to have looked at the evidence in black and white and
then
to decide to stay . . . That wasn't the Clare O'Brien he used to know, the Clare he had the plans for. He had been so
forgiving
toward her, so
understanding.
He had said so little when she behaved like a common
tramp
and got into trouble with the boy from the big house. No accusations had come from him. And there she stood tonight,
frightened
of him and
doubting
him.

He hit violently at some gorse that jutted out of the hedge between the Lodge and the cliff. He remembered telling a hundred girls, maybe more, about the old saying, “When the gorse is out of bloom then the kissing's out of fashion.” They had always been surprised that gorse seemed to bloom all year round, and Gerry would laugh. He hit again and scraped his hand on the prickly branches.

How dared Clared talk to him in that frightened, teeth-chattering way? How
dared
she look up at him as if she were afraid he might strike her? She had more to fear from her big unfaithful husband than from him . . . from Gerry, who had always wanted her,
waited
for her.

He moved angrily to the cliff top and looked out at the sea.

Everything had gone now.
Everything.
Not just the business, he had seen that coming for many a month, but Clare's face tonight . . . He had not foreseen that. She was frightened of him as if he were a stranger who would do her harm, not her soul's other half. Her one true friend and love who would make a home for her and her baby, and accuse her of nothing except bad luck, as he had.

His breath came in short bursts.

She
would not
do this to him . . . She
would not
back out now . . . Now, after
everything . . .
After all he had planned . . .

Clare!
It was too much to take, too much for her to do now at this stage.

She would regret it for the rest of her life.

There would be no drive to England in the van tonight for her.

There would be no new life for her.

What did she mean by throwing back all he offered her?

She would want him in a little while, when it was too late. When he had gone. When nobody knew where he was. She would stand on the cliff and wish she had left with him tonight.

He found that he was trembling, shaking with anger. He had never known such a sensation—it was as if a great wind had taken hold of him and borne him up in the air . . .

He was shaking too much to drive. He would walk on the beach. It would clear his head.

He slipped and climbed down the path. The beach looked dark and dangerous, but the bigger waves were dying down; the tide must be going out now. It was on the turn anyway. He walked, his head wet from the salt spray and the rain; but he didn't care.

He had really blown it now.

The business was a shambles. He couldn't meet even one of the bills that were piled neatly on the desk under a paperweight for whoever would have to go through them. He hoped it wouldn't be Fiona but he couldn't think who else it might be. When the staff couldn't get in tomorrow, there would be a hue and cry but he had left no note to say that he was going to England. There would be no Guards looking for him for bounced checks. He could always get by on credit; that's what he had always done.

There were very few lights up in Castlebay. He looked up at the outlines of the houses clustered together and the dark spire of the church. He would never look at them again from here, or at all. Once he got to London it would be a new life. It would be
exciting.
It would not be exciting to stay to see their sympathy, to work for someone else, to see Clare, lovely,
lovely
Clare put up with that
sod.
He was
glad
he had done it. He was near the rock pools. Since he was a child he had loved walking over them, balancing, teetering on the edge. It was only inches of water if you did trip over and fall in. Tonight the waves were crashing over them . . . but still, it was a temptation.

He walked around them, playing games with himself, his feet and legs wet to the knee. He cried out with hysterical excitement. It was ludicrous, but it was exciting.

The wave knocked him down and he cut his cheek on the jagged rock.

It wasn't funny anymore. Here came another one. Then the drag—he felt his leg being scraped across the rocks. Desperately he reached out with his hands.

But the drag was too great.

When the third wave had reared up at him, he knew he was going to drown or be battered to death on the rock pools, where he had played since he was old enough to walk.

 

“Clare.” He rattled the door. It was locked. “Clare? Are you all right?” She came to the door pale but calm.

He reached out his arms for her but she stepped out of his way.

“I'm very sorry. I was frightened. It's the storm. I'm all right now. I'm sorry I called you home.” She spoke like a stranger.

“I rang. I rang twice about seven, and again at a quarter to eight.”

“I was in your parents' house.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I am now, I think. But I don't feel like talking. Do you want tea or food? Were you able to have your dinner?”

“No, no, it doesn't matter.” He wasn't concentrating.

“Was the road bad?” Again like a person making conversation.

“Yes, branches, and in one place a tree down, and you'd have to drive right up on the ditch to get past.”

“Imagine.”

“Clare.”

“You know I said I'd like to go to Dublin for a few days and you said that would be fine, because you could get looked after . . . ?”

“Yes?” His voice was hollow.

“I'd like to go very soon. Tomorrow maybe.”

“You're not all that well, wait a few days.”

“I don't want to wait.”

“It's silly to take Liffey off the whole way across the country when you're not well.”

“It's sillier to stay here on my own hour after hour listening to the sea when I'm not well.”

“You don't have to be on your own here.”

“No. David, will you do me a great favor? Will you not make a scene? I've had as much drama as I can take, and I'm sure you've had a bad day too. But I want to go up to Angela and Dick tonight. Please.”

She must know.

He must have shown her the pictures. David's heart was like a stone.

“Why? What brought this on?”

“I think if I stayed here tonight it might be bad for us. We might say things that would hurt each other.”

He tried a little laugh. “Heavens, isn't that very fanciful?”

“No,” she said. “It's not.”

“Do you want to take Liffey with you?”

“Please.”

“I could try to explain . . .” he began.

“And so could I. But we know too well how easily people say things that are unforgivable when they're hurt or annoyed. We've done very little hurting and wounding. Don't let's risk it tonight.”

“Have you packed?” he asked.

“Yes, just things for tonight. I'll come back tomorrow when you've gone out and I'll sort out what we'll need in Dublin.”

“I'm saying yes, not because I'm weak but because I think you're very sure what you want, and I'm not, so we should go along with the one who is sure.”

He grinned at her and she almost took a step toward him.

“Thank you,” she said formally.

“Is Angela expecting you?”

“Yes.”

“Well.” His shoulders drooped.

“She doesn't ask. You know Angela—she doesn't ever ask.”

“I wasn't thinking of that.”

“It's better.”

“I suppose it is.”

So many times they had wished Liffey would sleep rather than struggle and chatter and try to escape. Tonight when they could have done with a bit of distraction she lay in Clare's arms breathing evenly, her long eyelashes making shadows on her cheeks.

 

David held his daughter tight in his arms and two tears came down his face. “I'm sorry, Liffey,” he said.

“Why are you sorry?” Clare said gently. “I have much more to apologize to her for. But it's only like talking to ourselves until she can understand.”

“Goodbye, Clare.”