Sheltering Rain (38 page)

“I could murder a drink, though.”

He paused, and again she felt that same disoriented sensation as his gaze settled on her face.

“Fine.”

“So, you'll come? We can just have a drink?”

“I'll meet you at the Black Hen. You remember where it is?”

He was laughing at her. It was the only pub in the village.

“At about . . .”—he checked his watch—“seven-thirty, then. See you up there.”

K
ate walked up the unlit road toward the pub, playing with her glasses in her pocket, placing them back on her nose, and then just as swiftly removing them and placing them back in her pocket. It was a less stationary repeat of her performance an hour earlier, when she had sat in front of her dressing table, trying to tame her hair, alternately putting on and rubbing off her makeup, and wondering whether, in some immensely subtle way, she had just been outmaneuvered. He had seemed genuinely unbothered whether they went out or not, which meant that this was obviously not a
date
date. But it still wouldn't have looked good on paper:
RECENTLY SEPARATED MOTHER ARRIVES HOME, FATHER ON DEATHBED, GOES OUT WITH GOOD-LOOKING MAN WITHIN TEN DAYS OF ARRIVAL
. Everyone else would assume it was a date.

And even if she knew it wasn't, she really didn't like the thought of having to go out with her unflattering glasses on.

Off, she had decided. Even if it wasn't a date, there was no reason why she shouldn't look attractive. After the Justin debacle, her self-esteem needed all the padding it could get. On, she thought, as she found herself walking gently into a hedge. Off, she decided, as she reached the door of the Black Hen. And pushed the wrong side of it for some moments before it was opened from the inside by someone making his way out.

Because her eyesight was so inept, Kate's hearing was finely tuned to pick up the subtle, but distinct lull in conversation as she walked into the warm, fuggy atmosphere of the pub. But the other advantage to not being able to see properly was that it made one remarkably impervious to what other people thought. Kate, unable to make out the interested expressions on the faces of those around her, often culminating in the odd murmur of recognition, moved more confidently through the smoke-logged bar than most women walking into such an establishment on their own (and in the Black Hen, there was not much in the way of competition).

There were disadvantages, however: namely, that one tended to trip over unmarked steps, career into those drinkers precariously transferring their rounds from the bar, and find it near impossible to locate in the dim light the person one was seeking. And one was left with the Thomy question of whether to admit defeat and pull out one's glasses (thereby publicly admitting one's vanity) or carry on regardless, squinting as one tried to negotiate the blurry boundaries of table and body.

“I'm sorry,” she said, clutching at a man's elbow, after she had knocked most of his pint over his shoes. “Please let me get you another one.”

“No, let me,” said a voice, and through the dim light and cigarette haze, Kate gratefully made out the shape of Thom's face.

“I'm over here,” he said, steering her through the tables toward his own. “Sit down and I'll get you a drink.”

Kate sat, trying to determine whether to pull her glasses from her pocket. In this darkened pub, her usual struggles to see what was around her were made even harder. But those glasses were
so
unflattering. She was still haunted by Sabine's expression of derision when she had seen her wearing them.

Thom placed the glass of white wine on the table in front of her.

“I can't vouch for its quality,” he said, lifting his orange juice to his lips. “They keep only the one bottle in here, and that has a screw top. I'll get you something else if it's like vinegar.”

“What are you having?”

“Oh, this. Orange.”

She looked at him inquiringly.

“Haven't drunk really since my racing days. I worked out I'm one of those people—what do you call them?—who can't have one without having ten.”

“Addictive personalities.”

“Something like that.”

“You don't seem the type,” she said. “Too careful.”

She could just make out his smile.

“Ahh, Kate Ballantyne. That's because you haven't seen me for almost half my life.”

The wine did taste like vinegar. It made her pull in her cheeks, as if sucking on rhubarb. He laughed, and bought her a pint of Guinness. “It's meant to be different here,” she said, feeling an irrational need to keep the conversation neutral. “But not being a Guinness drinker at home, I couldn't tell.”

His hand was resting on the table in front of her. It didn't fidget, like Justin's had, restlessly moving from car keys to cigarette packet, thrumming out irregular rhythms on the tabletop. It just rested, broad and spade fingered, its darker hues beaten out by the weather. She wondered if it felt rough, from working outside all the time, and fought the urge to touch it.

“So, have you sorted things out with Sabine yet?”

Kate felt the familiar stab of pain.

“Not really,” she said. “I mean, she doesn't get so angry with me as she did in London, but she just seems to act as if I'm a bit of an irritant. Even a bit irrelevant.”

“She seems happier,” he said.

Kate's head shot up.

“Than what?”

“Than when she came.”

Kate stiffened.

He paused, raised an eyebrow. “I didn't mean anything by it.”

“I'm sorry. I guess I'm a bit oversensitive about it all.”

She took a swig of the Guinness. It tasted dark, reassuringly iron-y.

“I told you, I like her. I think she's great.”

“She likes you. I think she tells you more than she does me.”

“Is this you feeling sorry for yourself?”

She smiled, feeling her face relax for the first time. Her shoulders, she realized, had risen up around her ears with tension. “I guess I'm just jealous. Of you. Of my mother. Of anyone who can get Sabine to be relaxed, and happy. Things that I don't seem to be able to do.”

“She's a teenager. She'll come around.”

They sat in silence, listening to their thoughts above the gentle clamor of the people around them.

“She looks like you,” he said.

Kate looked up, wishing suddenly she could see the expression on his face.

Suddenly, from her right: “Is it Kate? Kate Ballantyne?”

She swiveled around, to see the face of a young woman, stooping slightly from her standing position to greet her.

“It's Geraldine. Geraldine Leach. We used to go out riding together.”

Kate summoned up a vague picture of a plump girl with plaits so tight that they left red welts above her ears. Nothing else. Disconcertingly, she couldn't make out the girl's face now.

“Hi . . . ,” she said, holding out a hand. “Nice to see you.”

“And you, and you. Are you back for good, or just visiting?”

“Oh, just visiting.”

“You live in London, don't you? Oh, I'd love to live in London. I live over at Roscarney. It's about four miles away. You should stop by if you've got time.”

Kate nodded, trying to look both grateful and noncommittal.

“It's a bit chaotic. I've got three kids now. And Ryan, that's my husband over there. The biggest kid of the lot. But you'd be more than welcome. It'd be good to catch up. I haven't seen you in—what is it? Must be twenty years. God . . . doesn't that make you feel old?”

Kate nodded and smiled, not wanting to feel quite that old.

“You look just the same, you know. All that lovely red hair. I would have killed for your hair when I was younger, you know? In fact, I still would. Look at this gray coming through! Do you have kids yourself?”

“Just one,” said Kate, who was aware of Thom's silence, on the other side of her.

“Ahh. Grand. What did you have, boy or girl?”

“Girl.”

Geraldine seemed to show no inclination to move on.

“I'd love a girl. What is it they say? You keep a boy till marriage, but a girl you get for life. I'd kill you for your girl. Mind you, my boys will be with me till they're thirty, the home comforts they get. My own fault, I never trained their father properly.”

She bent low, so that Kate caught a whiff of scent.

“He's a miserable so-and-so if he doesn't get things how he likes them. I always say he was born two drinks behind, you know what I mean? No coincidence he ended up working for the tax . . .”

Kate's smile was becoming fixed.

“Well, I won't keep you,” said Geraldine, eyeing Thom. “Sure you've got lots to catch up on. You make sure you come over, now. It's fifteen Black Common Drive. You can find me in the phone book. We'll have a grand time.”

“Thanks,” said Kate, as she left. “That's very kind.”

She took a long draft of her drink, trying not to look around to check that Geraldine Leach had definitely returned to her spot behind the bar.

“I could leave now,” said Thom, grinning.

She raised her eyes to his.

“Don't you dare.”

They both laughed.

“Where were we?”

Kate looked down at her glass.

“I think we were talking about Sabine.”

“So, let's talk about you.”

Kate looked up. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel transparent. “I don't think I want to. I'm not very interesting at the moment.”

Thom said nothing.

“Whenever I tell people anything about my life, I feel like I'm just repeating the same old chain of disasters. I bore myself, just talking about it.”

“Are you happy?”

“Happy?” It sounded like an extraordinary thing to ask. She thought for a minute. “Sometimes, I suppose. When Sabine's happy. When I feel like . . . oh, I don't know. When does anyone feel happy? Are you happy?”

Thom paused.

“Happier than I was. I guess I'm content.”

“Even being back here?”

“Especially being back here.” He smiled at her again; she could tell by the white of his teeth. “Believe it or not, Kate, this place was the saving of me.”

“My mother, the guardian angel.” Kate laughed, bitterly.

“Your mother's all right. You two just see the world through different eyes, that's all.”

“Easy for you to say,” she said.

“Sabine managed it. And she and your mam were at each other's throats to begin with.”

There was so much she didn't know about her own daughter's life, sometimes it felt overwhelming. Kate mourned her little girl, who would rush from school into her arms, stumbling over her words in her frantic attempt to tell what she'd done, who she'd seen. She could still feel the weight of her, snuggled under her arm as they sat on the sofa, watching children's programs, exclaiming over the day's events.

“Can we not talk about my family? I thought you were taking me out to cheer me up.” Don't let them spoil this, she thought. Don't let them intrude on every part of my life. She wanted, she realized, to have him entirely to herself.

He held up his glass, as if considering whether he could make it last until she had finished her Guinness. “Okay. We can't talk about you. We can't talk about your family. How about religion? That's always one to get the blood going. Or, what's changed in Ballymalnaugh since you left? That should be good for—well, some minutes.”

She laughed, grateful for his neutralizing of her darkening mood. There was something about Thom that invariably made things seem better.

“Kate?”

She turned on her stool, to where a middle-aged man was leaning heavily toward her, clutching a pint.

“Stephen Spillane. I don't know if you'd remember me. I used to work at the big house. Y'all right there, Thom?”

“Fine, Stevie.”

Kate squinted, trying to distinguish the features in this huge, ruddy face.

“I saw you from over there, on the other side of the bar, and I says to myself, ‘That looks like Joy Ballantyne's girl.' Well, I didn't know if I was right or not till I got up close—it's been, what is it? Ten years?”

“Nearly seventeen,” interjected Thom.

“Nearly seventeen years. Well, now, and here you are again. And are you here for long?”

“No, I—”

“Is that young Kate Ballantyne?” Another man, one Sabine didn't recognize, had arrived at her shoulder. “I thought I knew that face. Well, if that isn't a turn up. A long time since we've seen you here.”

“Now, Kate. You remember the priest, Father Andrew.”

Kate smiled and dipped her head, as if she did.

“Not that you were a great one for the Sunday service, now.”

“The young people have other things to think about these days, Father.”

“And not just the young people, Stevie, eh?”

“Did you move to London?” Stephen Spillane had now pulled up a chair next to her. He smelled of rolling tobacco and, peculiarly, bleach. “Are you anywhere near Finsbury Park? You remember my boy Dylan? He's living in Finsbury Park. I should give you his number.”

“I'll bet there's a lot changed around here since you last came home, eh Kate?”

“I'm sure Dylan would be glad to take you out. He's a great one for the pretty girls. Are you married now?”

“Oh, look, here's Jackie. Jackie—do you remember Kate Ballantyne? Edward Ballantyne's girl. Over from England. Jackie—get us a drink there, will you?”

Whether it was being frequently interrupted, or unable to properly make out the faces of those she was talking to (or, perhaps, the fact that she really wanted to be alone with Thom), Kate found maintaining what passed for polite conversation exhausting. No, she said, she was not here for long. Yes, it was lovely to come back again. Yes, she would pass on his good wishes for her father's speedy recovery. Yes, she was sure the old hunt hadn't been the same since he'd stopped as Master. And, worst, yes, it would be lovely to say hello to some of those people she hadn't seen for sixteen years, who remembered her as a teenager. Oh, so there they were, on the other side of the bar. Of course it would be great if they came over to the table. What else could she say?