The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (16 page)

“I wasn’t going to.” She pushed her hands further into the pockets
of her jacket. “Good night and thank you. I had a great evening.”

“Me too,” he said, leaning forward and speaking softly into
her hair. “Night, night, Marie.” He strode away as best he could against the
squall.

She closed the door behind her, leaning against it, smiling.
Monty appeared, tail wagging. She slid down the door to the floor to kiss him.

“Oh Monty, I’ve had the most fabulous night, really
fabulous. I’ve changed my mind, he’s gorgeous and he just called me Marie, only
people really close to me call me that, as you know, but he just said it as if
it was the most natural thing in the world,” she slurred, and started crawling
up the stairs, humming.

This is good, surmised Monty, wisely bringing up the rear,
this is happy-pissed, happy-pissed is a good thing. She stood up when she
reached the top, missed the last step completely and, losing her balance, went
flying. Luckily the door was open and she landed flat on her face on the bed.

Monty was restless. He had been all
night, moving from the rug at the side of the bed, to the chair in the corner
and finally to the eiderdown near the footboard, where he could rest his chin
and peer out of the bedroom window as dawn broke. The storm had howled and
railed against the building unceasingly; roof tiles lifted and thrown to the
ground; the gate at the end of the tiny garden ripped off its hinges and
Marianne’s underwear long since disappeared with the washing line, into the
dark.

His ears twitched at muffled voices, drowned to murmurs by
the wind, the odd shout signalling an instruction. His black eyes flicked from
the window to the bundle under the duvet, which had flopped and twisted a few
times but had not acknowledged any of the impact of the storm. His mistress had
to all intents and purposes, been dead to the world. Monty on the other hand
had spent most of the night fretting.

He stretched his chin further to watch, beneath the grey
swirl of water spiralling off a broken drainpipe, a gaggle of sou’westers and
sailing jackets, bent in formation, as the inhabitants sandbagged doorways and
portals against the water rising along Innishmahon’s main street. An alarm was
wailing intermittently, the warning light flashing as it outlined feverish
activity further along the road towards the Post Office. Everywhere else was in
darkness. Monty growled. Someone was banging on the door. He placed his cold
wet nose in his mistress’s left ear and sniffed loudly. It always had the
desired effect.

She groaned. The banging continued. Monty snuffled her hair.
She reached out from under the duvet.

“What the..?”

He yapped, nipping sideways to avoid her upwards serve. The
banging persisted. She opened an eye.

“If that’s in my head, I’ve had it,” she surmised, then
twisting to place her feet on the floor, she hoisted herself upright to stagger
towards the stairs. Monty led the way, unsure if she would remember where the
front door was. It flew open and a bundle in a blue and yellow Musto fell in.
Padar emerged from under the hood, his eyes swept over her.

“Don’t tell me you’ve bloody well slept through this lot?
The bridge is down. No power and the water’s rising. Are you alright? I need to
check everyone is okay.” The blast of rain that hit her in the face as he burst
through the door, brought her round a bit.

“Fine Padar, we’re fine. What about everyone else? Anyone
injured? Anyone on the bridge?” She struggled to get a grip on the situation.

“Don’t know yet. They’re trying to sort the power out. In
the meantime, Oonagh’s got the old stove on the go up at the pub. Soup and
sandwiches. The men are bringing anyone down who could get into real trouble if
they stayed put. Could you go up and lend a hand?”

“Of course.” She took her shoulders back and smoothed down
her hair. “Shall I go now?”

“Well it is sort of an emergency.” Padar turned to leave.

“Has anyone checked on Ryan? Is he okay?”

“He’s out here with us, has been since this thing started to
take hold.”

She felt wretched. Wretched with a humungous hangover and
wretched that she had slept through what seemed to have been a devastating
storm, and so far she had been neither use nor ornament to man nor beast. With
pounding head, she ran upstairs to dress.

Oonagh was working like a demon. The debris from the
previous night’s revelry a mere echo of the music and dancing that had rattled
the rafters in quite another way. The inside of the public bar was lit with
candles and every surface shone. The huge oak door to the private quarters was
propped open with a stone flagon on the quarry tiled floor and Oonagh appeared
to be stirring soup with one hand and buttering soda bread with the other. She
managed a half smile of acknowledgement as the street door opened and a gale
force blast of air swirled Marianne through the portal. She pointed the bread knife
at a large, metal tea pot.

“Make tea will you, Marie. They’ll be here soon enough.”

“Was this forecast?” Marianne asked, as she filled the
kettle.

“Bad weather was predicted alright, but nothing like this.
We’ve had some storms, but never lost the bridge.”

True to her word, Marianne was just setting mugs and a
variety of cups and saucers on the scrubbed table, when the door opened and a
steady stream of bleary eyed locals, attired in an array of wet weather gear,
overcoats over pyjamas and raincoats over housecoats filed in. They shuffled in
wellingtons, stout Sunday shoes and trainers to huddle by the log burner Oonagh
was enthusiastically feeding with fuel. Laying down the bizarre assortment of
belongings they had quickly gathered: pillows, cushions, a blanket, toothpaste
- one elderly gentleman was still clutching a remote control - they stood in a
bemused queue while Marianne and Oonagh served them. With a couple of sips of
tea and slurps of soup inside them, the murmuring started to become discernible.

“Have they gone as far up as Mrs Molloy yet?” one elderly
lady with hair in pins under a rain hat asked.

“God, would be a struggle up to her in this,” commented a
young woman, with a sleeping infant wrapped in a blanket against her.

“Padar and the film fella were taking the best truck up to
see if they can get to her. Sure she’s little enough up there, without this,”
said a frail looking man with a shock of standing-on-end white hair. He nodded
at the baby. “Sleep through anything.” Marianne looked up from her tea pouring,
relieved he had not meant her.

The pub door opened again and a family of six poured in.
Joan Redmond and her five children, two girls and three boys, aged between five
and nine. The Redmond’s had two sets of twins. The nine-year-old boys were each
holding a mongrel puppy. The eldest girl, seven-year-old Cicely, had a basket
with a cat in it. Both the five-year-olds, Molly and Milly, were sobbing
softly.

“What’s wrong?” asked Oonagh of the girls; gently feeding
them cheese and pickle sandwiches. “Come on now, don’t be crying, it’ll be
alright.” She put her spare arm around them.

“But Mammy won’t let us bring the ponies,” snivelled Molly,
“and they’ll be swept away and drowned.”

Oonagh caught Joan’s eye.

“Not at all, sure they’ll have gone further up the hill till
the storm’s over.”

“Mammy said you won’t let them in the pub.” Milly glared.

“Ah sure, ponies hate the pub, it makes them very
claustrophobic, no they’ll have gone further up the hill, you see.”

Joan smiled at her frowning daughters, who seemed to have
jointly decided that the big word Oonagh used sounded far worse than being
drowned. They sat down and ate their sandwiches in silence.

“How bad is it?” the white-haired man asked Oonagh. She
turned the corners of her mouth down, though she had still managed a flash of
tangerine lipstick.

“Ah sure, we couldn’t know yet,” she said. “No electricity
anywhere, but Kathleen MacReady has the Gardaí and the Coastguard on the radio,
so she’s told the mainland anyway.”

“Sure they couldn’t get across in this. The ‘copters
couldn’t even fly. Where is she?” The man asked.

“Ah, you know well enough she wouldn’t leave her post for
the Second Coming! She told Padar she’d a bottle of whiskey and she’d be grand
till that ran out. The worrying thing is, if anyone is injured or sick, they’d
have to be airlifted out of it.”

“What about the Lifeboat?” He asked.

“Too far from us and stretched to capacity along the
coastline, I shouldn’t wonder.” Oonagh said.

“Should never have closed the surgery,” grumbled a woman in
curlers, “Bloody holiday homes, I ask ya?”

Marianne raised an eyebrow at Oonagh.

“I didn’t realise there’s no doctor on the island, but I
suppose with the bridge that’s not too much of an issue?” They were in the
kitchen, washing up at the old Belfast sink.

“If we had a bridge,” Oonagh said grimly, “Padar always says
Innishmahon has a lot in common with seaside towns everywhere, not quite a
holiday resort and a barely functioning fishing village. That’s why the bridge
is so important to us, it makes it easier to get to and away from, for locals
and visitors alike. The doctor’s surgery was that fine double fronted house,
above the main street, you know the one with the big gates.” Marianne nodded.
It was the grandest property on the island. “Well, three generations of Dr
Maguire’s lived there. The family originally owned the pub too but Padar’s
father bought it when he came back from overseas and wanted to settle down.
Anyway, the last Dr Maguire was a bachelor who mysteriously left the island without
so much as a ‘by your leave’. Not long after that, the property was sold to an
English stockbroker. I’ve only seen the stockbroker twice. It’s such a shame,
that beautiful house just stands there on its lonely hillock shuttered and
closed.” Oonagh was gazing wistfully into the washing up bowl.

“So what happens if anyone needs medical attention
urgently?” Marianne asked.

“Ah, we’re very lucky Phileas and Sinead Porter have the
pharmacy attached to the main shop. Phileas is a pharmacist and Sinead’s a midwife.
I believe they met at medical college, Sinead still works three days a week on
the mainland, at the cottage hospital in Newtownard. They moved here from Cork
a few years ago. She’s lovely, but he can be a bit moody at times. When they’ve
had a row, Sinead comes in on her own for a few glasses of wine, God love her,
and her job must be very stressful at times.”

“I hope there are enough medical supplies on the island for
what we need at the moment.” Marianne was folding tea towels.

“We can’t do without the bridge, not now,” Oonagh said
firmly, as they headed back into the pub to see what else they could do for
their gaggle of guests.

Marianne was making the third pot of tea when the three men
came in, climbing over sandbags in the doorway. Padar pushed the hood of his
sailing jacket back. Ryan’s baseball cap was sodden and rammed onto his head,
but the last man, the tallest, was hatless. His short greying hair sent drips
down his forehead and along the sharp line of his nose, bright blue eyes darted
around the room as he moved swiftly among them, nodding and smiling
reassurance.

“Gregory, a cup of soup?” Oonagh pushed a mug into his hand.
He unzipped the top of his jacket to reveal a clerical collar, his badge of
office. Oonagh took a step back, it was unusual for Father Gregory to wear it,
everyone in Innishmahon knew who he was and his modern, laidback style when
performing his priestly duties was like a breath of fresh air after the hell
and damnation of the previous incumbent.

“Official business?” Oonagh whispered, concerned.

“Mrs Molloy’s in a bad way. Fell down the stairs in the
dark. Padar fetched me and Mrs Walsh, while Ryan resuscitated her. Mrs Walsh is
with her, but when she first came round she wouldn’t have a man near her. She’s
very distressed, but neither of them should be left for very long. Sinead’s on
her way, Padar’ll take her and see if we can make her comfortable till Miss
MacReady has news of the Coastguard.”

“She needs the hospital?”

Gregory nodded, relieved it was not the undertaker required
at this stage.

Sinead arrived, swathed in waterproofs, a doctor’s bag
clamped under her arm. She moved quickly among those gathered and once assured
no-one needed immediate administration, nodded to Padar and headed for the
door. Ryan put his cup down to go with them.

“We should be okay,” Padar said.

“No way, what if you get stuck, the road’s nearly washed
away.”

In a flash, Father Gregory was at Ryan’s side.

 “C’mon, the more the merrier.”

Ryan grabbed the basket Oonagh had prepared for Mrs Molloy.

“Good luck,” Marianne whispered, as he passed.

He touched her arm. “You okay?”

She smiled, relieved for some reason. “Absolutely fine.”

“The little fella?”

“Over there with the rest of the menagerie.” She indicated
the pile of puppies and children on the floor in the corner, Monty in the midst
of them, having the best of times.

“You take care,” she told his back, as he left.

Father Gregory turned at the door.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy
Ghost, God bless us all. Amen.”

“God Bless, Father. Amen,” they murmured back at him,
crossing themselves as the makeshift rescue team disappeared.

There was no let up. Even the oldest resident had never seen
anything like it. The torrential rain coupled with gale force winds had not eased
in nearly twenty-four hours. The roads in and out of Innishmahon were
impassable. The new black tar of the European Union funded thoroughfares,
awash, as the land alongside, unable to bear the force of the water, broke
banks and gave way; rocks, trees and livestock were swept down towards the
village, which clung precariously to the sea wall. A section of the new bridge,
only two kilometres from the village centre, had cracked and split in the night
and crashed, hardly discernible above the howling of the storm, into the bay
below. The last non-residents leaving after the session at the pub, had driven
over it, barely half an hour ahead of its collapse. It was a miracle no-one had
been killed.