The Hollow Heart Part 8

The remainder of the evening was something of a blur. She remembered that Sean Grogan and a couple of men had come in for a few pints as she ate. He had nodded goodnight to her as she left, carrying Monty and her overnight bag. She had shuffled the few, short steps from the pub to the cottage door, noticed that the rain had stopped, and was glad of it. The cottage was warm and the candlelight soft. She remembered finding the bathroom, cleaning her face, pulling off her moleskins and throwing them on the bedpost. She had put Monty and the picnic rug at the foot of the bed, bade him goodnight and then everything went dark, very dark. The dark velvet warmth of a sleep without dreams, or at least dreams which had the decency not to show themselves in the morning. One of the best night's sleep she had in many, many months.

When she woke she did not know where she was, and then remembering, she slithered beneath the covers pulling the duvet over her face to lie completely still. The weeks stretched before her, like a row of precious jewels, linked only by the fact that one followed the other. She had nothing planned, nothing scheduled, no reason for any two days to be the same. There was no-one else to consider, nothing had to be done.

For once in her adult life, Marianne Coltrane was not on a deadline and this precious gift of time would be spent in Innishmahon, the little fis.h.i.+ng village sitting on the edge of the island bearing the same name. Perhaps the smallest dot on the map, nevertheless Innishmahon rose up out of the sea boldly, staring defiantly across the Atlantic with its sweeping cliffs turned upwards, seeming to snub the vast continent of America that lay across the swathe of ocean. Marianne had always loved the place.

She sat up, contemplating the time laid out before her, six whole weeks, a delicious indulgence. She had only been here one night and was already beginning to unwind. She had never admitted, even to herself, that after all she had been through over the past few months, few years, if she was honest, she desperately needed some s.p.a.ce, a bit of peace, time to herself. This six-week break was going to be perfect.

The electricity had returned mysteriously in the night and, standing by the kettle, her gaze crossed the stretch of green at the rear of the cottage. The little lawn led down to the lane and then onto scrub-gra.s.s, sand dunes and out to sea; a sea which s.h.i.+mmered purple-blue; white crests of waves, saluting her casually, as she watched. Oonagh had been right about the weather. It had changed overnight and though a stiff breeze greeted her when she opened the stable door of the kitchen to let Monty explore his new territory, the sun had a little heat in it. Pulling on a cardigan, she sat down on the small stone wall, sipping coffee and looking out to sea. It was already a grand day and she had only been awake for an hour.

She looked along the lane leading to the pub and village shop, with its fading name painted gold against midnight blue. It read, Maguire's Purveyors of Game and Quality Victuallers and on the other side it exclaimed, Stout, Whiskey and Quality Provisions; the repet.i.tion of quality, obviously an essential element of the marketing strategy. The gate of the neat, cottage garden was a mere dozen steps from the side door of the pub, the front of which swung to the right, curving onto Innishmahon's main street. Nothing had really changed in all the years since she had been there, a few satellite dishes, a couple of properties extended and renovated, but it all looked very much as she remembered from her childhood, familiar and safe.

To her left were two identical cottages, one painted duck egg blue, the other pale pink with rich dark green doors and window frames. The buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, smiling in the suns.h.i.+ne, positioned slightly back from the lane as if in deference to her gateway, proudly leading onto the pathway towards the pub. Both properties were larger than her cottage but neither had windows that faced the dunes and the sea - being built sideways - shunning the view and no doubt the weather. Weathervane, as her cottage was called, had no such qualms about its stunning location, embracing it head-on with a small garden, a terrace and a glorious gla.s.s conservatory, all facing seaward to make the most of the spectacular and constantly changing landscape.

The little conservatory was a jewel of an embellishment, featuring multi-coloured gla.s.s panes; it had obviously been added at a time of great prosperity. Among its treasures: a grandiose Spanish chandelier, a fine Persian rug, a tired but elegant tangerine chaise longue, a Victorian china cabinet bearing a crystal decanter empty but none the less appealing and an original 1950s radio, resplendent in its highly polished walnut case. The gla.s.s doors at the end of the conservatory opened out and backwards, lying flat against the gla.s.s walls, revealing a small terrace of local slate, down to a sweep of lawn, then the fence, the lane and on to dunes and out to sea.

Retrieving Monty from a very interesting sniff around the legs of an ageing cane chair on the terrace, she bundled him under her arm and closed the doors proprietarily behind her.

"Already a grand day," she announced, nuzzling his damp nose, "we'll unpack, have breakfast and make a bit of a plan."

Monty sat on the bed, chin resting on front paws, giving him the perfect position from which to adopt lookout. The bedroom window was across from the pub and gave an excellent view of comings and goings along the main road of the village. The ceiling in the room was very low; the top of the window was only waist-high on Marianne who was not tall by any stretch of the imagination. She could only see out of the window if she lay down beside him.

She followed his eye line. "You had better check this vantage point regularly, Monty, who knows what could be going on out there, we could easily miss something."

There was a loud creaking as Marianne heaved the suitcase onto the bed. The clasps clicked open as Monty watched her empty the contents she had so lovingly packed only few days before. What was that sound? She was humming. He half- turned so he could keep one ear on the lane and the other on his mistress who, almost merrily, was taking one garment after another out of the bag, shaking it, looking at it like a dear friend she had not seen for some time, then placing it in one of the drawers in the mahogany tallboy or draping it on satin covered clothes hangers, dangling in the lavender-scented wardrobe.

Marianne kept coming across Oonagh's thoughtful, feminine touches in the cottage: tissues, bath oil, a doggy placemat and special bowl for Monty, a box of dog biscuits in the cupboard, a large slab of chocolate in the fridge.

As she unpacked, Monty spotted some activity outside. He p.r.i.c.ked his ears, but his mistress had started unpacking footwear and this could take a while, as a complete army of shoes marched from the case: dancing shoes, beach shoes, town shoes, country shoes and, finally, boots. Monty moved his tail expectantly across the coverlet when he espied the boots. He had enjoyed many a long and, indeed, winding road with his mistress and these boots were a particularly good omen. She clumped them together in time with her humming.

"These boots were made for walking, and that's just what they'll do. One of these days, these boots are gonna walk all over you." She marched the boots, one in each hand, along the bed to trap his increasingly waggy tail beneath them. He pulled free and swerved expertly round to face her, making a playful, growling noise in the base of his throat.

"Great boots Monty, great boots for walking in. We'll do plenty of walking in these boots these coming weeks, fella me lad, you see if we don't." And then she yelped, dropped the boots with a clunk to the floor and fell on the suitcase. She pulled a plastic carrier bag bearing the logo of her aunt's favourite Dublin butcher aloft, and strewed the contents on top of the bed in a frenzy of excitement.

"Look Monty, oh look, Aunty Peggy's an old dote, she's smuggled a bag of goodies into the case. Look, sausages, a ring of white pudding and a great lump of ham. Fantastic, a feast, we'll think we've died and gone to heaven." She stopped, noticing her navy, Aran jumper oddly rolled at the far end of the bag, stuffed all round with socks and knickers.

"Aha." She lunged at the roll and laughed out loud as she pulled a litre bottle of whiskey from the wrappings. "And Uncle Michael's a bit of an old pet as well," she grinned, "we really have died and gone to heaven." She pulled on the boots and, hauling up her trove, stomped cheerfully downstairs, with Monty hot on her heels.

He had worked since early morning, all day and through the night. The words just seemed to flow. It had been like that ever since he had arrived on the island, the script flying off the pen, filling pages with vibrant pictures, scenes, dialogue. It was so much easier here, nothing to interrupt him, no phone, no email, no need to be in another place. It was such a relief to be somewhere he could not be reached, somewhere he was not known and hardly recognisable anyway, with stubble and greying temples. He had come to work, under his own steam, in his own time, to his own deadline. He needed s.p.a.ce - this was perfect - it was all going very well. He played the announcement of his intention to take a sabbatical on Innishmahon, back in his head.

"Totally selfish," she had scoffed, flouncing through the Manhattan apartment, "you tell me you want to break up, and then run away like a frightened animal. Leaving me to deal with the aftermath, the rumours, the press."

"For how long?" His agent had spat, horrified.

His response to both, quietly spoken, "I have to go. I don't know for how long."

As soon as he arrived, he got down to it, working every hour G.o.d sent. He breathed life into his characters as they leapt from scene to scene, sword fighting and sweeping up and down staircases with pa.s.sion and desire. They flaunted their personalities in his face, he smiled at their impudence, relis.h.i.+ng their right to be born, live their lives, play out their story. This was art. This was what being creative meant. He worked through the day and night. Going from pen to keyboard and back, sipping cold coffee and warm whiskey, in turn. Then finally lifting his head, he stretched, looking up to see the sky streaked with silver. A new day beckoned. He lay down his pen. This place had taken him to another place entirely.

He read through the sheets, scratched in a few notes, stacked them together and then, pulling on his battered leather jacket, lifted the latch, pushed open the half door of the cottage and strode out.

It was a raw, fresh morning, the smallest hint of heat in the sun. He stood by the water b.u.t.t, three-quarters full with rain and, taking a deep breath, pushed his head beneath its cold, glittering surface. He gasped, straightened up and shook like a dog, choking slightly.

"s.h.i.+t that's freezing!" Won't do that again, he thought and, heading towards the coastline, moved quickly, keen to increase blood flow before he started to s.h.i.+ver. He trotted off the tarmac and along the sandy track towards the beach. There was a stiff breeze off the Atlantic. He could just see the ocean. The sun was slicing through slate grey cloud, dappling the cliff that loomed before him. He followed the sandy path as it narrowed and disappeared. If you knew to keep going, it slid through a hidden ravine to reveal a sweep of bay, blond cool sand and a silver s.h.i.+mmering sea, breaking nonchalantly against the sh.o.r.e. He scrambled downwards, loose rocks and stones falling before him. Losing his footing, he tumbled, slid a little way on his backside and, grabbing a tuft of gra.s.s, steadied himself. Pulling himself back on his feet, he made his way gingerly to the beach.

Once there, he hit the ground running and, flinging his arms outwards, charged along the sand until he reached the water, and then ran the full length of the sh.o.r.e as fast as he could. Heart pounding, head bursting and lungs aching, he crashed to the ground at the water's edge. A small wave lapped at his feet. The second wave came up to his waist, the third over his head. He started to laugh, spitting sand; he was soaking wet; no point in moving now; he let another wave cover him from head to toe.

Monty was snuffling through the undergrowth, occasionally c.o.c.king his leg to make his presence felt. Marianne followed his wagging bottom, until it disappeared and, looking up, she realised she did not have a clue where he had gone. She called him. She could hear yapping in the distance. She shouted again, moving towards what appeared to be a solid face of rock. She spotted a trace of track and, moving quickly, was soon through the hidden ravine and out onto a ledge that looked down to a secret beach. She caught her breath, taking in the horseshoe shaped bay. She had never seen it from the sh.o.r.e, only ever from a boat out to sea when crewing with her parents. The discovery was thrilling, she felt like an adventurer. The sky had brightened, the sand glowed and the water sparkled up at her, beckoning. She could see Monty just beyond a gra.s.sy ridge. He was barking downwards, indicating that something required her urgent attention. She moved towards him, he was right on the edge of a sheer drop.

"What is it, boy?" She followed the sharp black eyes and gasped. There was a figure, outstretched, flat on its back at the water's edge; it lay there immobile as the waves rolled over it.

"Oh G.o.d, Monty... Is it drowning? Is it dead? Hey, hey..." She started to scramble down, deaf from the pounding in her ears. Monty slipped and slithered ahead, breaking into a gallop as soon as he landed on the beach, scampering towards the p.r.o.ne figure, now embedded in its own sandy imprint.

Ryan's reverie was broken with a different kind of cold and wet. He opened an eye. A s.h.i.+ny black nose nuzzled his. He smiled into the dog's face. The dog rubbed his chin against Ryan's stubble, tail wagging victoriously. Marianne fell to her knees, straddling him.

"Are you okay? Can you speak? What happened?"

Ryan pulled his hand to his mouth, wiping dog and water away.

"I'm fine. Nothing's happened." He struggled to sit up, pus.h.i.+ng her weight off him. "Do you mind?" He was annoyed.

She jumped up, shocked.

"Sorry, only it looked like you were in trouble, I thought you were drowning, washed overboard or something." She tried to brush sand and water from her jeans.

He drew himself up to face her. It was his turn to be surprised.

"Well I...wait I know you, don't I? Marianne, isn't it? What on earth are you doing here?" He shook water from his hair.

"Ryan O'Gorman. Well I could ask you the same question." It was her turn to splutter.

"I'm not here to answer questions, I'm here for a break," he snapped.

"Me too, as it happens," she snapped back.

They looked at each other for a long minute, neither one giving ground to the other.

Sean Grogan's one good eye watched the whole scene from the other side of the cliff. He recognised the people on the beach. He already knew who they were; the so-called actor and the woman journalist. There they were, charging around the sand like a pair of young pups, lying down in the freezing water, fully clothed, like they had never seen the sea before in their lives. People do an awful lot of stupid carrying on trying to find themselves, he surmised bleakly. f.e.c.king eejits, losing themselves in the first place.

An hour later they were sitting side by side outside the pub, a pint of apiece before them, Monty lapping his now expected saucer of milk. Ryan had changed out of his wet clothes, the cottage he was renting almost as close to Maguire's, as Marianne's. He was slightly more rotund then she remembered and the longer hair, streaked with silver, gave him a wild look, enhanced by week-old stubble, fast becoming a beard.

He thought she seemed smaller, thinner and sharper than when he had last seen her; her cheekbones accentuated by the hat pulled down over her ears; mouth taut, skin pale against the stray strands of copper hair. He avoided eye contact. They chose not to speak until they were halfway down their pints. Monty, having finished his milk, sat cautiously between their booted feet.

"What were you doing down there on the beach?" she asked, finally.

"Enjoying myself, didn't think anyone would try to save me from myself."

"Well it looked a bit odd."

"So?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interfere. I didn't even know it was you."

"Really, well why are you here?"

"I told you, I'm here for a break too."

"Sure." He sounded unconvinced.

"Small world as they say." She hated an atmosphere.

"Sure is." There was a tinge to his voice.

"Why here?"

"Used to come as a kid."

"Me too."

"Coincidence then?"

She thought for a second.

"My groupie days are long over."

He did not get the joke. She tried again.

"Someone after you?"

"Only my agent."

"Angelique with you?"

"No."

"How is she? I didn't get a chance to see her before I was discharged. She looks fabulous in the recent photographs I've seen of her, you know, in the women's magazines."

"Looks can be deceiving. Ah, to be honest I don't see that much of her." He bit his lip.

They each took a swig of their drinks.

"Anyone with you?" he asked.

"No, just Monty, here."

Monty gave his tail a swing at the mention of his name.

"You working?" Ryan slid her a glance. The penny dropped. He thought she was either a stalker or paparazzi, she did not know which was worse.

"No, taking a break, like I said. Been through quite a bit lately." She wished she had not said that. She finished her pint with a flourish. His gaze stayed fixed ahead.

"See you around then." She was on her feet. Monty followed, looking quickly from one to the other.

"Hopefully not, if this morning's carry on is anything to go by," he murmured.

"Charming," she said, and strode on to the cottage, annoyed that the chance meeting had brought discord to her previously perfect day.

Once inside Weathervane, she eyed the mobile phone plugged in, and charging, on the dresser in the kitchen. She checked it. No signal. Good. She lifted the receiver of the ancient Bakelite telephone in the hall. She listened, nothing, the line was dead. So even if she wanted to, there was no-one she could ring to announce that she had just met a self-obsessed weirdo who, scarily, was staying in the next door cottage. She flicked the kettle on.

"Arrogant t.o.s.s.e.r! And I thought he was quite nice when he wrote to me in hospital; obviously just PR at the time, probably wrote to everyone. I mean who the h.e.l.l does he think he is?" she asked Monty, angrily. Monty quickly disappeared under the table, pus.h.i.+ng his tail over his eyes, feigning a much needed sleep.

Chapter Eight .

Saving Grace

Marianne was determined to put her unpleasant encounter with someone she had previously admired out of her mind. Yes, the island was small but she was sure she could manage to avoid him, and if she did happen to see him, she would be civil and nothing else. If Ryan O'Gorman was arrogant and ignorant enough to imagine she had contrived to be on one of Western Europe's most remote islands, for weeks on end, to report on the behaviour of a barely C-list celebrity, well that was his problem. His was not the only soul in need of solace. After the heartbreak of losing George, the injuries and anguish following the bombing, and the stress of trying to maintain a career while nursing Paul, she had more than enough reason to take refuge in this remote and beautiful place. Who the h.e.l.l did he think he was, suggesting she would go to such lengths to snoop on him? Honestly, the vanity of the man!

If Ryan thought she, a mature professional woman of some standing, had nothing better to do than traipse around the wilds of Ireland in the hope of catching him kissing a colleen, picking his nose or scratching his a.r.s.e, well the whole idea was so baldly bizarre, it was depressing. Even more depressing that, should such nonsense be published, some poor sad soul somewhere might be remotely bothered to read it. She shuddered with contempt and, letting Monty out into the garden, unwittingly let Oonagh in.

"Hope I'm not disturbing you? Isn't a grand day altogether. Have you settled?" Oonagh filled the kitchen with her turquoise tracksuit, spotted sweatbands and matching trainers. She had the same manner of speaking as her husband Padar; statements and questions mixed and aired, no need for the listener to comment or respond. She leaned against the work surface, exaggerating breathlessness.

"A cup of tea?" Marianne offered, taking the hint.

"I've a terrible thirst on me, right enough," Oonagh's grey eyes swept the room.

"Something longer, fruit juice?"

"Something stronger!" Oonagh rooted around in the bizarre pink backpack she had slung to the floor following her entrance. With a flourish, she produced two bottles, one of very good gin, the other a slimline tonic, and a small parcel of tin foil, which she peeled back to reveal half a lemon, sliced. Marianne, impressed with her new friend's resourcefulness, took a couple of tumblers from the cabinet in the conservatory.

"That's what you fitness fanatics keep in those backpacks." She smiled as Oonagh dug ice out of the freezer compartment of the fridge with a bread knife.

"I always enjoy a gin after me power-walking," Oonagh caught Marianne's appraising look; she would have been described as comely, in another era.

"Ach, you should have seen me before I started on the fitness programme. I was huge, the size of a house. I've lost three stone and two to go."

They took their drinks out to the little terrace. The sun was streaked with iridescent afternoon clouds and the sliver of sea glinted lazily; it was pleasantly warm in the shelter of the cottage wall. The women sat side by side in ancient cane chairs, and c.h.i.n.ked gla.s.ses.