Reckless (40 page)

‘Mummy says he just had this unhappiness in him.’

‘Yes. I think it had been hard for Kitty for some time.’

‘You were a good friend to her, Hugo.’

‘I adored her,’ said Hugo.

This simple statement pleased Pamela. It was so heartfelt.

The restaurant was bright and cheerful and reassuringly expensive. The maître d’hôtel clearly knew Hugo, and greeted him by name. They were given an excellent table. Hugo asked after the day’s specials in the kitchen, and offered to order for Pamela, and studied the wine list with a frown of concentration on his boyish face, and quizzed the wine waiter before deciding. All this was a side of Hugo Pamela had not seen before: the successful man, comfortably in command of the good things in life.

‘They have a truffle risotto, with fresh white truffles. We’re in truffle season, so really we have no choice. And I’ve ordered a big bold Barolo. You’ll like it. Oh, and how would you like a glass of Asti to start?’

As they sipped the fizzy wine, Pamela smiled at Hugo across the fresh linen and the sparkle of silver cutlery.

‘What are you thinking?’ he said.

‘I’m thinking about you,’ she said.

‘What about me?’

‘About how you were going to marry me and you promised to wait for me.’

He smiled, touched that she remembered.

‘So I did.’

‘But you didn’t wait.’

‘No. How fickle of me.’

‘You married Harriet.’

‘Yes. Apparently I did.’

‘I wonder why.’

He raised his eyebrows at that, and didn’t answer at once. Then he said, ‘Is it so very surprising?’

‘I don’t know. She’s just a different sort of person to you, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ said Hugo, looking down. ‘She is a different sort of person to me.’

‘Of course,’ said Pamela, ‘she’s not well.’

‘No,’ said Hugo.

He drank the rest of his Asti all at once.

‘I’m not as good with her as I should be,’ he said.

‘Why do you say that?’ said Pamela. ‘Everyone knows you’re the perfect husband. You’re always so gentle with her. You really take care of her.’

‘Like an invalid, you mean.’

‘Well, she obviously has some sort of illness.’

‘Not one the doctors can find,’ said Hugo. ‘So you see, I’m not really the perfect husband at all. I do what I can, of course I do. But it’s not the way it was.’

Pamela said nothing. There was no need.

‘When I first knew her, she was so adorable. She was so sweet to me, I couldn’t help loving her. We used to play a game—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Sorry. I’ve no idea why I’m telling you this.’

‘No, go on. About the game.’

‘It was Harriet’s game. We’d hold hands and close our eyes and guess things about each other, just little things, like each other’s favourite colour or the animal we’d be if we had to choose. The thing was, we both guessed right most of the time. Harriet used to say we were like one spirit in two bodies.’

‘You were in love,’ said Pamela.

‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Oh, God. I’m about to say something terrible. No, I won’t say it.’

‘About being in love?’

‘No. Please. We mustn’t.’

That
we
sent a thrill through Pamela.

‘I don’t want to be disloyal.’

‘The last thing you are is disloyal, Hugo. You’re the most dutiful husband in the world.’

‘Well, duty, you know. That’s a matter of upbringing. I know how to do the right thing, I hope.’

‘Not everyone does,’ said Pamela. ‘Believe me.’

She spoke feelingly.

‘Some chap been giving you the runaround?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Don’t stand for it, Pammy!’ He sounded almost angry. ‘What right does any chap have to mistreat you? I hope you’ve told him where he can get off!’

‘I don’t see him any more.’ ‘I should think not!’

So Hugo was only doing his duty by Harriet.

Pamela thought then of what Stephen Ward had said to her.
There is no life after marriage. That’s the happy ending
. He had spoken with such a bitter edge. She hadn’t paid his words much attention then, and she didn’t want to believe them now.

‘I want to believe marriage can be more than duty,’ she said. ‘I suppose what I really mean is I want to believe people can fall in love and it can last.’

‘I’m sure it happens,’ said Hugo.

‘Do you know any marriages like that?’

‘Kitty and Larry.’

‘But not my mother and my father.’

‘Not Larry’s first marriage, either.’

‘So there you are,’ said Pamela. ‘Everyone should get their first marriage out of the way as quickly as possible, and then settle down to a happy second marriage.’

They ate the aromatic risotto and drank the rich red wine and shared the sensation of physical well-being that comes with a fine dinner. For their main course they had veal escalopes in Marsala sauce. Hugo’s gaze rested on Pamela throughout the meal, and the expression on his face was often pensive. Pamela believed she knew what he was thinking. She too was allowing herself to play with thoughts she had not taken seriously before. She was meeting a different Hugo this evening: a Hugo who was more grown up than she had thought him to be. He was kind, and above all he was moral.

He had loved her mother.
I adored her
, he’d said. He had been much younger than her mother, of course. And he was much older than herself. She guessed at the age gap. Twenty years? Bronwen Pugh had married Billy Astor, who was twenty-three years older than her.

This train of thought caused her to smile. Hugo smiled back across the table at her.

‘What?’

‘Silly thoughts running in my head.’

He didn’t ask her what silly thought she was having; which in itself was interesting.

‘You have no idea what pleasure it gives me to be sitting here with you,’ he said.

‘Me too, Hugo.’

‘Really? I should have thought you’d find me far too dull.’

‘You’re not dull at all.’

‘I mean, after your smart friends.’

‘They’re not really my friends,’ said Pamela. ‘That’s not my world. I’m much happier in my own world.’

‘What’s your own world?’

‘People like us. People I’ve known all my life.’

He topped up her glass, and then his own. He raised his glass and she raised hers.

‘Here’s to people like us,’ he said.

They clinked glasses.

Returning in a taxi Pamela had to restrain herself from snuggling up against him. Then as they entered the house, she realised she wanted Hugo to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her as she had seen him kiss her mother.

He went ahead of her into the kitchen, saying, ‘I’m going to drink a glass of water before going to bed. Always drink water after wine.’

She followed, and came to a stop just inside the kitchen doorway.

‘That was a lovely evening, Hugo.’

‘Wasn’t it just?’

He drank his glass of water.

‘You’re a lovely girl, Pammy.’

‘Come and say goodnight.’

The devil was in her. She felt her power. He came as she commanded.

‘Kiss me goodnight.’

He took her in his arms, at first with his hands on the backs of her shoulders, as you might an old friend. She leaned in to
him. His hands moved, to hold her more closely. His face came down to hers. He kissed her, a real kiss, on the mouth.

Pamela imagined herself as a child again, out in the hall, seeing through the kitchen door: two grown-ups locked in a kiss.

He moved back from her.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I think we’d better just pretend it never happened. I apologise. I just couldn’t stop myself.’

‘It does take two, you know.’

‘I’m the responsible one here. I’m simply taking advantage of you, a guest in my house, the daughter of an old friend. My behaviour is unforgivable.’

‘So is mine,’ said Pamela.

‘Don’t, Pammy.’ He waved a hand before his face, as if in doing so he could erase the effect she had on him. ‘You mustn’t encourage me. I’m no good for you. You could have any man you wanted. You’re simply the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.’

Helplessly, pitifully, his eyes implored her for mercy.

‘Darling Hugo.’

‘No, Pamela, don’t look at me like that. I’m only flesh and blood.’

‘I don’t know how else to look at you,’ she said.

‘If it wasn’t for Harriet, and Emily, God knows … ’

He pushed his hands wildly through his hair. ‘It’s all right,’ said Pamela. ‘I understand. You have to look after Harriet.’

‘You do see that, don’t you? She needs me.’

‘Of course. You’re a sweet man, Hugo. I love you for that.’

She kissed him again, but this time chastely, on the cheek. Then she went up to her room.

On that Monday evening in Kilnacarry a soft drizzle filled the air, beneath an overcast sky. Mary Brennan, flanked by Father Flannery on one side and her brother Eamonn on the other, made her way down the hillside path to Buckle Bay. The beach was packed with silent pilgrims, for all the damp weather. They wore scarves over their heads, and hoods, and wool hats. They had been waiting patiently for an hour and more.

As Mary came in sight a rustling murmur passed through the crowd, and all eyes turned to see her. She was walking fast, her eyes cast down, her hair hidden beneath a scarf tied under her chin. Those in the crowd who remembered her from the time of the visions were shocked to see that she had become a handsome woman. Their voices murmured as she passed by.

‘Will you look at her now? She’s the Madonna herself!’

‘God bless you, Mary Brennan.’

Some dropped to their knees, and all crossed themselves, their eyes tracking her across the beach, down the strip of wet sand that had been made for her to pass. It was like an aisle in a crowded church, and the stone marker was like the altar, and the sea and sky beyond was the great west window.

One or two of the pilgrims tried to reach out to touch her, but the priest and Eamonn brushed their hands away. When she
got to the marker the crowd flowed back over the sand and the aisle disappeared. She was not a tall woman, and now surrounded on three sides she could barely be seen.

‘Will you stand on the stone, Mary?’ said her brother gently.

He helped her up with one strong arm. As the people in the crowd saw her pale face appear above them, against the fading light of the sky, they fell silent and waited for her to speak.

Mary had prepared what she wanted to say. But now, seeing that mass of humble faces gazing up at her, she didn’t know how to begin. It was borne in on her for the first time that her own truth was of very little importance here. And yet she had nothing else to give them.

After the silence had gone on so long that she knew she must speak, she said, ‘Well, I’ve come back.’

This was met by a wave of laughter. The laughter was affectionate. Voices called, ‘Welcome home, Mary.’ She waved as if she was on the deck of a ship coming into port. They all waved back. It was funny, and very touching.

‘I’ve been away so long,’ she said, ‘because I didn’t know what to say to you. And I don’t know what to say now. All I know is, I’ll not lie to you. The child who stood on this beach all those years ago is gone. She won’t be coming back. Instead, all you’ve got is myself, and I’m just nobody at all.’

When she had been thinking about what she would say, Mary had been frightened at how the pilgrims might receive it. She thought they might be angry with her for letting them down. But now, looking round from one rocky slope to the other over this mass of listening faces, all she felt was love. She could hear the soft exclamations, saying, ‘God bless you, Mary,’ and ‘I’m praying for you, Mary.’ There were many she knew in that crowd, and many more she had never seen before. Father Flannery had told her there would be newspaper men there, and cameramen. They had been asked to show proper respect, and not to intrude on her return to Buckle Bay.

‘If you’re hoping I’ve come to see visions tonight,’ she said, ‘then I’m going to disappoint you. Whatever I saw all those years ago was meant for the eyes of a child. I’ve seen no visions since then. I’ve heard no voices. I don’t even know anymore what it was I saw and heard back then. It’s like a dream to me. So there’s no need to listen to what I say any more, or to try to touch me. I’m just Mary Brennan from Kilnacarry, Eileen Brennan’s little girl. My da died at sea the year I was born, there’s many of you know that. My sister Bridie had the measles so bad it nearly killed her. My mam makes pinafores, or she did until the arthritis got to her fingers. I wasn’t much of a student at school, though I did like it when Mr O’Donnell read us poems in that fine voice of his, and I’ll never forget the taste of my first cigarette, given me by Brendan Flynn.’

A hand went up in the crowd.

‘Oh, you’re here, are you, Brendan?’

The crowd laughed. Mary felt as if she had now come home.

‘So here I am, come to let you all take a good look at me, twenty-nine years old and neither married nor earning my own bread, and God help me, I’m not even a nun.’

The laughter rolled like waves over the twilight beach.

‘You’ve no call to listen to me anymore. But I’ve not forgotten the words I spoke when I was a child. All I can do tonight is speak those words again. Love each other, and love our Father in heaven.’

She had no more to say. She looked down and saw Father Flannery smiling up at her and nodding. She reached out her hand for Eamonn to help her down. Then a voice called from the crowd.

‘What about the warning, Mary?’

‘I’ve no warning to give you,’ she said.

‘When will the great wind come?’

‘I know nothing,’ she said. ‘I’ve come home because it was wrong of me to hide myself away. But I’ve no message for you.’

She then jumped down from the stone, and protected by Eamonn and the priest she made her way back across the beach. The newspaper men now came pushing forward, and asked her questions.

‘You say you’ve no message, Mary. But why come back today?’

‘No reason at all,’ she said. ‘One day is as good as another.’

‘Will you be walking on the beach alone, Mary?’

‘Little enough chance of that,’ she said.