Authors: Karen Perry
‘Mum! Come out here – quick!’ I heard Robbie call, and I followed his voice through the now-dark kitchen and living room, out through a set of French windows to a garden at the back with yew and olive trees. A limestone terrace glowed in the half-light. In the midst of it all was a pool – long and narrow, a little wider than a lap-pool, the water appearing purple-grey in the dusky light.
‘You didn’t say there’d be a pool,’ I said to David, coming to stand next to him.
‘I thought I’d surprise you,’ he replied, looking genuinely pleased. It was the first sign of real delight he’d shown in months.
‘I’m going for a swim,’ Robbie said.
‘Hang on,’ I called after him, as he hurried back to the house. ‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?’
‘Let him,’ David said. ‘He’s happy.’ I felt his arm go around my shoulders, drawing me to him. Tentatively, I put mine around his waist. I couldn’t remember the last time we had stood together like that.
Holly had taken off her shoes and was sitting at the edge of the pool, her feet dangling into the cool water. Behind her, the grass grew in long, dry clumps, feathery flowers peeking through. I could hear the low hum of nocturnal insects rising around us, and from one of the neighbouring houses someone’s laughter rang out.
‘So what do you think?’ David nodded back at the house.
I thought of the cool peace within those rooms: was he asking if I thought that here was a place where we might reconcile? Within the confines of this island, might we find some kind of healing after the difficult months we
had endured? Perhaps it was the relief of arrival after a long journey or the unfamiliarity of his body against mine, but I felt an answering optimism in my heart. ‘It’s perfect,’ I told him.
His smile broadened, and just then Robbie came running past and launched himself into the air, his hands clutching his knees to his chest. We watched as he plunged into the water, Holly shrieking and turning aside to avoid being splashed. I remember thinking I must freeze this memory and hold on to it: the beauty of the garden, the coolness of twilight after a long journey, the weight and warmth of my husband’s arm around me, and the rocking waters of the pool as my son surfaced, gasping for air, laughing, triumphant.
The first night, we wandered out into the quiet village square and ate outside a bistro while men played boules on the red clay beside the church. By the time we got back to the house it was late and we were all exhausted after the journey. We said our goodnights and it was not until the next morning that I had a chance to explore the house properly. David and the kids had gone out to the market to buy provisions, while I was left alone to wander through the quiet rooms, accustoming myself to the particular sounds and odours they held.
There was a masculine feel to the place – the furniture dark, although comfortable enough. The walls were hung with framed maps of the island and various sepia-tinted photographs – studio portraits of Victorian women with strong jaws and crinolines; moustached men with books lying open on their knees. Indeed, there were books
everywhere in the house – stacked in piles behind doors, towers of them leaning against walls. I imagined Alan sitting alone in the long stretch of the evening, sipping a glass of wine and getting lost in his reading, not noticing the hours ticking by. I was surprised at his gesture of kindness, offering us the use of his holiday home in the wake of David’s disappointment.
We hadn’t talked much about David’s failure to gain the professorship – he was reluctant, too, to discuss the difficulties in our marriage or the death of his mother – but I knew it had affected him deeply. It was more than just a professional disappointment. To him it was an indictment of his whole career. ‘You’ll get another chance,’ I had told him. ‘There’ll be other opportunities.’
‘That’s just it,’ he had said, looking at me in a despairing way. ‘There won’t be. This was my one chance and I blew it.’
He had always tended towards seriousness, but when we were first married, he would sometimes catch himself becoming morose or pessimistic, and pull the corners of his mouth into a cartoon face of misery that made me laugh. Just like that his mood would lift. Somewhere along the way he had lost the knack of it.
As for me, I was still smarting at Peter’s parting words: ‘I need someone who’s at the top of her game, not distracted by her domestic situation.’
Standing in the darkened living room, running my finger over the gilded titles of those old books, I considered our professional humiliations and the injured pride that went hand in hand with them. I thought about the chasm that had sprung up between David and me over the past
six months. I could blame a lot of it on Zoë, but the first fissure had appeared long before that – the first time I’d kissed Aidan, or when I’d stood in a darkened hallway and listened as my husband named another woman the love of his life. Perhaps it went further back to the ghost of a baby. That fissure had been there a long time, but how easily Zoë had caused it to widen and deepen, ripping through our family, pushing us apart. I looked around the room and felt the strain of my hope that in this house we might find solace, a renewal of love, a way back to each other.
The iron gate jangling on its hinges pulled me back into the present. At once the cloistered atmosphere in the house changed as the others came in, bringing with them the energy of the marketplace, the triumph of their purchases. There was a flurry of activity as bags were emptied, contents spread over the table.
‘Hungry?’ David asked, holding up a bag of pastries, the brown paper translucent with grease.
‘Famished.’
Those first few days, I remember in a haze of lightness, like shrugging off your winter clothes and stepping into the sun. We hired bikes and cycled across the salt flats, along the coastal paths. We went to Saint-Martin-de-Ré and marvelled at the wealth of pleasure-boats and yachts clustered in the harbour. On our way back to Loix, we discovered an oyster bar with an ocean view and spent a couple of hours there under the shade of parasols, feasting on seafood, David and I getting nicely sozzled on a chilled bottle of Chinon. The village itself hadn’t much to offer by way of entertainment – a café by the market,
the bistro and a bar on the village square – but it didn’t bother us. We were content to spend our days on the beach, our evenings dining on the terrace, reading our books as the sun set.
The kinks and bruises of the past few months faded a little more with each passing day. The tension that had stiffened David’s shoulders dissipated, and he relaxed, whistling to himself in the mornings as he made coffee, his face animated, no longer closed or drawn. Robbie was talking to me again, his exams completed without incident, the trouble at school behind us, as too was the fear I had felt for Holly’s security and well-being. The village, and the island, felt small, intimate, safe. The kids were able to wander off on their own, exploring the area on their bikes, while David and I relaxed by the pool or took a stroll down to the seafront.
Towards the end of our first week, David and I were sitting on the terrace eating lunch when his phone buzzed. Shading the screen from the sun with his cupped hand, he said: ‘A missed call.’
‘Who from?’
‘Zoë.’
I reached for my glass.
Since our departure from Ireland, her name hadn’t been mentioned: an unspoken rule between the four of us – a rule that even Robbie had adhered to. We needed to get away from her, if only for a short while.
‘Are you going to call her back?’
He began pressing keys with his thumb then seemed to think better of it. ‘No. If it’s urgent, she’ll try again.’ Putting the phone down, he reached for the bottle.
Later, we sat in a companionable silence, reading our books and finishing the wine. The afternoon stretched out long and lazy and there was no sign of the kids returning. I thought about walking down to the harbour, but when I suggested it to David, a slow smile spread across his face. ‘I’ve a better idea,’ he said.
The house was caught in the white glow of the afternoon sunlight, stillness and quiet filling the rooms. In our bedroom, we undressed with the shyness of new lovers. It had been months since we had made love and we were nervous, despite a long history of intimacy and the loosening of inhibitions brought on by the lunchtime wine. In the quiet of the late afternoon, as our bodies came together, I felt an enormous sense of relief. We held each other beneath the sheets, moving towards a new understanding, another layer of meaning added to the complexities of our bond.
We were dressed by the time the kids returned, tiredness quietening them as they slumped in the armchairs, their faces glowing from the sunlight, Robbie’s arms tanned against the white of his T-shirt.
‘There are pizzas in the freezer,’ David told them. ‘Your mother and I are going out.’
We set off hand in hand, still feeling the heat of our afternoon reunion. Something had sparked to life between us, passion rekindled. As we walked through the deserted streets, the noises of domesticity trickled out of open windows – saucepans clattering, voices raised in talk. His hand in mine, I basked in the renewed familiarity. Warmth from the sun still hovered in the air as we reached the square and took our seats at one of the tables outside the bistro.
I ordered
moules frites
while David had steak, and with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in an ice bucket between us, we talked of the village and of Alan’s house, speculating as to how he had come to own it. Property on the island was phenomenally expensive – when we had peered through the window of a local estate agent, we had come away reeling. Conversation flowed easily between us. David voiced his opinion that Alan had inherited his house and this led on to a discussion about Ellen, David confiding his sense of loneliness in the wake of her death, that with his parents no longer alive, and no siblings, he had been cast adrift.
‘You’re not alone,’ I assured him, and he reached across the table, placing his hand on mine.
‘Being away like this,’ he said, ‘it’s made me wonder whether I should look into taking a sabbatical abroad, maybe take Giancarlo up on his offer to do some research in Siena.’
‘Are you serious?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not? After Mum … I just need something to clear my head, take a break from UCD for a while.’
‘What about the kids? What about school?’
‘Robbie’s got three years left until he finishes – there’s time enough before he needs to start thinking about exams and university. Holly’s still in primary school. Now might be the perfect time for us all to go.’ He had finished his steak and pushed his plate to one side. ‘I think it would be good for us, Caroline. It might be just the break we need.’
With the wine in my bloodstream and the heat of the
sun still in my bones, the idea made me giddy with excitement. ‘Won’t it take time to organize?’
‘I’m sure I could square it with the university. We could be out there by Christmas. And it doesn’t have to be for a whole year. Six months would do, don’t you think?’
Six months in Italy sounded like a dream.
We leaned towards each other, talking excitedly about what would need to happen – arrangements with the school, perhaps let our house. It was all fantasy, really, and I think we both knew that. But for just a while, it was good to fool ourselves that we could live unfettered lives, shrug off the things that held us down. The conversation alone felt restorative, nourishing.
It was dark in the square as David signalled for the bill. Strings of brightly coloured lights reached across the boughs of the plane trees forming the perimeter. A hush had come over the gathered diners.
‘What about Zoë?’ I asked quietly. Even mentioning her name felt like a gamble. Our afternoon reunion, the flow of conversation between us, the warmth that had returned – it was still tentative.
He looked down at the receipt in his hand, folded it in half and pushed it into his shirt pocket with his wallet. ‘I think she’ll manage.’
His voice sounded heavy and I knew it was not just tiredness. He sat back, casting his eyes upwards at the lights looping through the trees. ‘I thought it would be easier. It didn’t seem like such a big thing to have her in our lives. Pretty naïve, huh?’
I waited for him to go on.
‘It’s not like having a child you’ve known from birth.
With Zoë, I don’t feel I’m ever really going to get to know her.’
‘You’ve tried hard with her, David.’
‘And I’ll continue to try. It’s just that …’
‘What?’
He shrugged, seeming a little sad in the half-light, a look of defeat coming over him. ‘I’m here for her if she needs me, but she has to forge her own path.’
Hope bloomed in my heart. Words I had longed to hear. ‘She can manage on her own, David. She’s perfectly capable.’
‘This thing with Chris …’
‘It’s a fling. She’s nineteen. You have to allow for these things.’ I didn’t say what I really thought: that her relationship with Chris was calculated to get at us.
‘I suppose.’
‘Wait and see. By the time we get home to Dublin, it will probably be over between them.’
A chill had entered the air as we stepped away from the square, David’s arm around me as we walked together. Buildings appeared chalky blue in the moonlight. We talked a little of our plans for the next few days. David wanted to visit some of the beaches on the south of the island where bunkers built by the Germans in the Second World War still existed. I had promised Holly a shopping trip to La Rochelle. Tired but content, we returned to the house, closing the gate behind us and crossing the courtyard.
As soon as I opened the front door, I felt a change. The house seemed alive in a different way – the air spiked with a new presence. David behind me, I pushed open
the door to the living room and saw Robbie sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, his face dark and unreadable. Movement in the kitchen caught the corner of my eye, but before I could turn to look there, Chris was getting out of the other armchair, his face a mixture of hope and apology.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked. He had been crossing the room to greet me, but the abruptness of my question made him stop.