Read The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Online
Authors: Adrienne Vaughan
“That’s the plan.” Marianne grinned at the couple.
“I knew it. I knew you’d come home. Welcome, welcome, Marie.
My heart is lifted. I’m delighted. Thanks be to God.” Oonagh was waddling
gleefully towards Marianne.
“She’ll have the Rosary out in a minute,” Miss MacReady
strode through the bar, tartan poncho flying, wellington boots thwacking on the
stone flags. She stopped and took Marianne’s hands in hers; birdlike eyes
scanning her face.
“I’m not a bit surprised to see you and, I too, am
delighted if you’ve decided to make Innishmahon your home. We need women like
you. We’ve a few battles to fight.”
“Well, I’m here to help.”
“Good. And no doubt you’re well out of this?” She slapped a
magazine on the bar, stabbing at the cover with a blood red finger nail. The
main photograph was Ryan O’Gorman and Angelique de Marcos, smiling in the
sunshine. Angelique wore a flowing wedding gown, twists of orange blossom in
her hair. She was wreathed in smiles, and holding her bouquet aloft. She was
obviously pregnant. Ryan wore a crisp Asian style collarless shirt; they were
both covered in rose petals and the headline read: ‘Superspy Star Weds Actress
in Secret Ceremony.’
Oonagh picked the magazine up slowly and then dropped it
back on the bar as if it had bit her.
“I knew nothing of this,” she exclaimed, “and I was on the
website only yesterday. They certainly kept this under wraps.”
Miss MacReady handed Marianne the magazine. Marianne scanned
the cover, desperately trying not to appear shocked, hoping it was only she who
heard the brittle crack as her heart shattered. She placed her feet slightly
apart to prevent the ground from shifting any further. There was a loud
whooshing in her ears. Her throat went dry.
Miss MacReady retrieved the magazine from Marianne’s
tightened fingers.
“I’ll have a large whiskey, Padar, and so will Marie.”
Padar ferreted under the bar and plonked a new litre bottle
on the counter. He unscrewed the top and threw it on the fire, pouring them all
large whiskeys. As if he smelled the free drink, Sean Grogan slid through the
door. He cocked the one good eye at Marianne, and addressed Miss MacReady.
“It’s back then, is it?”
“For good. Buying the cottage next door.”
“Didn’t know it was for sale.”
“Sure everything’s for sale, Sean. Especially since the
storm. Who wants to come here with no bridge?”
“We’re better off without a bridge, only brought trouble.”
“You do talk through your arse, Sean,” Padar poured them all
another good measure of whiskey.
In a matter of hours, news
of Marianne’s return whipped round the island, and the next day, Father Gregory
called at the cottage, quickly followed by Sinead and Phileas from the
pharmacy, bearing apple cake and wine to add to Father Gregory’s gift of a
potted aloe vera; renowned, he said, for both healing and survival.
Marianne busied herself with repairs and renewals for her
new home, which seemed sadly neglected in the few short months she had been
away. She agreed what was a fair price with the Quinns, and promised to have
the funds transferred swiftly from her Dublin bank account, once the sale had
been completed on Oakwood Avenue. Oonagh said she was pleased the cottage had
gone to a good home, laughing almost hysterically at her own joke, and then
bursting into tears of gratitude, telling Marianne she did not know how she
would have managed with the baby coming and business so dire. They were sitting
in the deserted pub, looking at curtain fabrics.
“I think we’ve saved each other,” Marianne said quietly,
returning the latest copy of
The Biz
, Global Communications newly
launched celebrity magazine, featuring yet another ‘world exclusive’ of Ryan’s
wedding. She noted the author of the piece was none other than her erstwhile
colleague, Paul Osborne. She had also noted Larry Leeson and his sister Lena
Leeson were among the guests, together with Franco Rossini, the bride’s
‘beloved’ uncle, and producer, of Ryan’s film. Speculation regarding the unborn
child’s parentage had also been resolved for the purposes of the eight-page
full colour photo-spread.
It read…
’the bride and groom (twelve years older than his
beautiful new spouse) are both happily awaiting the birth of their first child.
Ryan has one son, the musician, Mike O’Gorman, from a previous relationship,
who, with his model wife Zara, is said to be delighted that his father has
found true love at last. Mike and Zara have a baby daughter, a ready-made
playmate for the newest member of their extended family.’
“You’ve read it, then?” Oonagh noted her friend’s empty
look.
“Hey, I have a new home, new life, and a hell of a bridge to
help build.”
“You’re throwing your weight behind it then?” shouted Padar
from the cellar.
“Yep! All eight stone of it.”
“Don’t forget the power of the pen!” He smiled, head popping
up through the trap door.
“Good woman,” called Miss MacReady from the doorway, where
she was hammering in a notice with a gold platform boot. “There’s a committee
meeting this evening. I’ll see you there, so.” And she left, hopping into the
street on the one boot, the other still in her hand.
“Must be a very important meeting tonight, she didn’t even
have a drink,” Padar bemoaned, as Marianne read the notice and announced she
was off too. “The meeting had better be here, or we’ll all be out the door with
the poverty.”
Oonagh did not comment, deciding instead, to take a nap,
rather than make lunches that nobody wanted.
All the great and the good
were on the committee. Father Gregory was Chairman, with Vice Chairman, Padar
Quinn, secretary, Miss MacReady, and newly-appointed communications officer,
Marianne Coltrane. The initial ten-million euro allocated by the Dublin
Government for the reconstruction of the bridge and repairs to the roads, had
been halved, due to the economic climate, leaving little enough to reinstate
the roads, let alone the bridge. Father Gregory explained that the committee
would have to apply to the EU for top-up funding, and this would not be easy.
With the ferry access reinstated, Innishmahon was no longer considered a
priority case.
“The few hundred islanders here are hardly a swayable force
in the scheme of things,” he told them in his pulpit voice, “with so much of
the storm damage affecting areas with large populations where allegiance will
make a difference to a political party, we have little voice and if we can’t
come up with something radical our small community won’t even be heard, let
alone listened to.”
Marianne was fully aware that Father Gregory and Miss
MacReady had already done the best they could with limited funds and even less
experience, but once the imminent danger had passed, the media spotlight had
moved away from the island. There was no hope of raising the cash, without
raising the island’s profile.
After the meeting, which to Padar’s relief, was in the pub,
the inhabitants of Weathervane cottage lit the fire and settled in for the
night. The sea mist, sitting off shore all day, had come in quickly at dusk,
and now rain swirled restlessly against the window.
Marianne worked late into the night, tapping away at her
laptop, Monty snoozing peacefully at her feet. She was just putting the
finishing touches to her ten-point proactive PR strategy, when there was a loud
rap on the cottage door. It made Marianne jump, and Monty growl. It was late
for callers, even on Innishmahon. Miss MacReady stood in the porch, a leopard
print turban rammed on her head, crystal earrings shimmering in the lamplight.
Marianne beckoned her in, shutting the door quickly behind her.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late, Marie, but this came
today, and I didn’t want to give it to the postman. Thought it best if no-one
but you saw it.” Miss MacReady drew a long, thin airmail envelope from inside
her floor-length wax coat. Marianne caught her breath, the writing on the front
was a splodgy mess; she could barely make out her own name.
“It’s been forwarded from England but the postmark is
Mauritius.” Miss MacReady gripped Marianne’s hand as she handed her the letter.
“There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, as the old saying goes, Marie.”
Marianne looked at the older woman quizzically.
“Meaning there can be many ups and downs before the final
outcome is reached, and sometimes you think something is over when it’s really
just beginning, but in a different way.”
Marianne stared at the envelope, dying to rip it open, yet
dreading to. She heard the door close as Miss MacReady left. Taking a deep
breath, she began to read.
‘My darling Marianne,
This is the only way I could think to let you know what’s
happening, my emails and mobile are constantly monitored. There’s no other way
to say this except to come straight to the point. I am writing to let you know
I’m marrying Angelique, quickly and in secret. It is, without doubt, a marriage
of pure and utter convenience and, believe me, if there was any other way I
could deal with this dreadful set of circumstances, I most certainly would.
Suffice to say, I have no choice, there’s more than myself and my feelings to
consider at this point. And then there are your feelings, my darling. I don’t
know what to say, or what to write, or how to express my sorrow at dragging you
into this mire.
I’m not even sure of your feelings, our time together has
been so fleeting, yet so precious. Rest assured, plans to extricate me from this
are in place and, as soon as I possibly can, I’ll be with you to explain
everything, please, please trust me.
I’m praying this reaches you before the story breaks, but
if it has, you most probably loathe and detest me and would prefer never to
have anything to do with me ever again. Please believe me, it was never my
intention to hurt you and, whatever happens, I love you, and when all this
madness is over, I want to be with you more than anything, and I am hoping
against all hope you will still feel the same. Yours for ever, Ryan.’
Marianne’s knees buckled. She felt as if someone had punched
her in the stomach. Sinking to the sofa, Monty jumped up beside her, his
inquisitive nose snuffling the discarded sheets. She stood up, folded her arms,
walked across the room, came back to the sofa and sat down. Picking up the
letter, she read it again more slowly. Monty was watching her intently.
Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around the little bundle of fur, squeezing him
till he squirmed to be released. She let him down and caught sight of herself
in the mirror. She stopped, surprised at her reflection, because despite
everything she had just read, and was desperately trying to assimilate, she
found herself with a strange look on her face, a crooked half-smile, her eyes
bright.
“Well, you never know, Miss MacReady could be right, and you
know what they say, it ain’t over till it’s over,” she told her bizarre
reflection.
It was a beautiful morning. Marianne
made a breakfast of sausage and white pudding sandwiches, followed by a brisk
walk along the sunlit cove as gulls glided through the air, the waves hardly
breaking. The woman and the little dog stood still for a long minute, taking it
all in.
“Let’s never take all this for granted, Monty. Let’s make
that promise to each other right now and forever.” She bent down and ruffled
his fur. He wagged his tail, intelligent eyes looked straight into hers, before
he trotted off to continue his usual diligent beachcombing. She had worked
through the night on plans for the campaign to reinstate the bridge to the
island.
Fired with passion, having read Ryan’s letter, or a desire
to make a mark in this, her newly chosen homeland, she was not sure which, but
something had ignited deep within her and it felt positive and powerful. As a
journalist, Marianne had always been a campaigner. It felt good to have a new
campaign to feel passionate about.
Marianne needed to run her proposal past Father Gregory and
Miss MacReady at lunch. There was no time to lose. The deadline for the first
bid for funding was approaching, and they had to have a strategy in place to
even be considered for the match fund programme being offered by the EU.
Despite some enthusiastic bucket-rattling and badge-selling to any visitors who
had made the trip to the island since the storm, the ‘Reinstate the Bridge’
fighting fund, invested safely in the Post Office, was so meagre it would make
little impact on the huge task they had set themselves. Major investment was
needed; a carefully planned campaign, the only way forward.
She marched back to the cottage, so absorbed she did not
notice the figure on the cliff, camera lens trained upon her. Monty looked up
and twitched his nose, he had picked up that scent before. He eyed his
mistress. She did not break her stride. He had to canter to catch up.
The news they had crossed
the first hurdle and the ‘Bridge Too Far’ campaign had been added to the list
for European funding, was celebrated in true Innishmahon style, with a proper hooley
in Maguire’s. Father Gregory made a speech, praising the committee and,
Marianne, in particular. The campaign had begun in earnest.
Phase Two was to invite everyone who had been born on the
island or who had ever visited for whatever reason, to return for one weekend,
to start the foundations of the bridge-building by hand. Marianne had been
inspired by the church at her childhood convent. The nuns had longed for a
replica of the Grotto at Lourdes. It was during ‘the emergency’, as the second
world war had been referred to by some in the Republic; there was no money or
materials for so-unnecessary a building project, but the local men, came
together as a working party and, barrowing the stone from nearby mountains,
hand-built a grotto for the community. The Bishop had been so impressed by
their efforts he had sent beautiful life-sized statues of the Holy Virgin and
Saint Bernadette. They had even replicated the spring at Our Lady’s feet, with
some ingenious and discreet plumbing.