The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (38 page)

“Cast off.”

“Cast off.” Father Gregory jumped from the quayside, onto
the boat.

The engine purred as Padar swung the gleaming vessel away
from shore, heading boldly out to sea.

Marianne watched Innishmahon slide into the distance. She
leaned across and squeezed Oonagh’s knee. Oonagh looked odd, makeup streaked
with tears she had shed uncontrollably on leaving Bridget and Miss MacReady,
and now she seemed both excited and anxious.

“Right, me hearties,” called Ryan from below deck. “Let’s
have a drink.”

“Thank God for that,” whispered Oonagh, “I’m terrified of
the water.”

“Bullshit!” laughed Padar. “The only water you’re terrified
of, is if there’s too much in your whiskey.”

“Let’s hoist sail, then we’ll have a drink.” Father Gregory
strode the deck, taking charge of the mast. “Ryan, grab that foresheet, let’s
get out there and see what this baby can do.”

There is no experience so sublime as creaming through the
water, wind billowing the sail with a fragrant breeze kissing your face, as you
turn to watch sparkling waves part in your wake, Marianne considered, as she
stretched out on the deck, basking in the bubble of tranquillity that
accompanies a blistering sail on a hot summer’s day.

She could hear the soft murmur of the men discussing charts
and equipment behind her in the cockpit, Oonagh snoozing with Monty in her
arms, the shrouds at the mast clanking a tuneless lullaby as gulls called
overhead, swirling through the cloudless sky. For all the movement and sounds
about her, she recalled it was sailing with her parents that she loved more
than anything else. The moment the sail took the wind and the boat with it,
only then would she become perfectly still and in one of the quietest, safest
places she had ever found.

Oonagh’s sleep, combined with the salt air, had revived her
and she refused to sail back on such a fabulous afternoon.

“Let’s drop anchor and have our little dinner party. It’s
perfect Padar,” she reassured her Captain.

And so they did, taking in the sails and lighting lamps
along the deck as Marianne and Ryan set to work in the galley, preparing
cocktails and food; laying the chart table with olives and stuffed peppers and
then the grand table in the salon with silverware, crystal and the candelabra.
The women giggled together as they donned jewellery and lipstick to join the
men for drinks, Marianne having pinned Oonagh into a party dress, now at least
two sizes too big. She said it was Padar’s favourite.

After Ryan’s horrendously strong cocktails, taken on deck as
the sun slipped slowly beneath the horizon, the five nestled comfortably around
the table while Monty slept, happily ensconced in a sail cover beneath the
cockpit. The meal could not have been more eagerly relished and once replete,
port and brandy were produced with cheese, and the obligatory tales of heroic
sea adventures ensued. Visibly tiring, Oonagh insisted they all hush up as she
begged Ryan to regale them with blow-by-blow accounts of his film making and
Hollywood hobnobbing.

“And what about Serene La Blanc, is she absolutely fabulous
in the flesh?”

Ryan glanced at Marianne who knew full well he had never met
the starlet. “Indeed.”

“And Rocky Vegas, how tall is he in real life?”

“So big,” Ryan demonstrated.

“And Vienna Ventura, how does she look these days?”

“Ah, much better.”

And on she went, barely able to keep her eyes open, her
husky voice no more than a harsh whisper as the candles burned and the night
wore on.

Father Gregory was the first to leave the table, weary and
slurring but able to kiss them all goodnight before he headed to his bunk.

“Terrible waste of a good looking man,” Oonagh told him as
he left.

“I’ve had my moments.” His eyes twinkled.

“I don’t think God expects us to be celebrate at all,” she
said, and they laughed at her misnomer.

“Looking at the human race, God’s expectations must be
pretty well shattered at this stage anyway,” Gregory told her.

“But not to have sex. Not to fall in love.”

“Who said anything about not falling in love? Sure that’s
the easy bit, it’s relationships that are the problem. I couldn’t do that and
my job. I leave stuff like that to you guys.” He kissed her again and she
blushed, closing her eyes until he had gone.

“Now,” she said, hauling herself upright at the table. “You
two, what’s the story?”

“Ah, Oonagh…”

“Padar quiet, I need to know.”

“I could say mind your own business.” Marianne placed her
hand over her friend’s.

“We love each other, Oonagh, we’ll work it out,” Ryan
interjected.

“When? Time’s moving on. Neither of you are spring chickens.
You don’t want a life wasted with regrets and ‘maybe ifs’. You have
responsibilities; you have a young son, a godchild, each other. You’ll all need
each other, that’s all I’m saying.” She struggled on the last words. Padar
passed her some water.

“C’mon to bed love, you’ll have a lovely rest in that big bed,
the sea rocking you to sleep.”

Oonagh did not argue. She pulled herself up and, after
kissing both Ryan and Marianne as hard as she could, Padar helped her down the
corridor and into bed.

Once they had cleared away, Marianne and Ryan moved the
table and made their bed up in the salon. Exhausted, they curled up together
and let the movement of the big boat slide them to slumber.

Dawn was breaking when
Marianne, turning in Ryan’s arms, thought she heard footsteps on the deck
above. He stirred and all went quiet. She did not hear the barefooted shuffle
of two pairs of feet heading towards the bow, or the anchor stealthily lifted.
The key to the engine was waiting to be turned, to purr into life and push them
away. If she had followed her instinct, she would have crept to the cockpit
and, looking out along the deck, would have seen two people embracing and then,
one helping the other crouch down onto the side, lowering them gently into the
water. But she was warm and comfortable, so she stayed where she was.

The engine started, the boat was moving, swinging about,
turning back to face the land, away from the swimmer; the person in the water.
But the person in the water was not swimming. Instead she was quite still,
bobbing calmly up and down. She lifted her arm and waved at the man standing at
the bow, his face wet with tears, his heart breaking behind his eyes. She
lifted her arm once more, a silver christening bangle glinted in her hand and
then, completely still, she slid softly beneath the surface, a halo of bubbles
bursting on the water as she disappeared from view.

Now fully turned about, the boat with the engine at full
throttle, sliced through the waves heading back to shore. The man at the helm
quickly blessed himself as the dog, aware of someone in the water, starting
running the length of the boat, barking a frantic warning back into the black
sea. Ryan was awake and up in an instant, taking the steps in two strides and,
as Monty neared the edge of the boat in a frenzy of panic, Ryan lunged and lifted
him up and back to safety. The sky was brightening. He looked from one end of
the boat to the other. Padar was standing at the bow, gripping the handrail,
rigid. Father Gregory’s face set grim at the helm, concentrating on getting
them all back as quickly as the engine would allow.

Marianne surfaced, and climbing on deck, took Monty from
Ryan. Still groggy with sleep, she was unable to take it all in at first. Then
an icy realisation began to creep along her spine, the hairs on her skin
lifting in horror. Her voice trapped at the top of her throat, came out as a
strangled squeak.

“What is it? Is it Oonagh?”

Ryan grasped her shoulders and turned her round, guiding her
back to the lower deck. She stopped, refusing to move.

“Padar, Padar, is it Oonagh?” she shouted, the wind whipping
her words away. She looked from one to the other. “Where’s Oonagh?”

The man standing at the bow of the boat did not hear, or if
he did, did not answer. He just looked down at the water; the water that had
taken his wife. Marianne turned to Ryan. He turned away, staring straight ahead
at the island. She sought out Father Gregory at the wheel. He too was
stony-faced, his gaze fixed on their destination.

“
Will you not even tell me what happened?”
she
screeched at them.
“Any of you, tell me what happened, tell me the truth!”

“She’s gone Marie, her way, her choice,” Ryan answered.

“Oh God.” Marianne pushed her hand into her mouth to stop
the scream.

The village closed ranks
following Oonagh’s disappearance. Official reports had been fudged, few
questions asked. There was a small memorial service in the church, conducted by
the priest who had been at the helm when it happened. A tragic accident, a
blessing in some ways, the poor girl was terminally ill anyway, the husband
devastated.

Marianne and Ryan returned to Weathervane after the service.
Bereft, they had eaten in silence, there was so much to talk through and yet
they had nothing to say. The air was filled with the slightly chemical smell of
softly burning peat – it mingled with the smoke from the single French
cigarette Ryan still allowed himself after dinner.

Marianne had just settled Monty in his basket for the night.
Making her way back to the sitting room, her pumps shuffled across the quarry
tiles, until the sound was muffled by the hearth rug and she sank to the floor
at Ryan’s knees. He struck at the peat with the poker, passing a squat glass of
amber to her over her shoulder. ‘
Lover Man’
played achingly in the other
room. Monty stretched and made a little puppy sound which belied his years.

Ryan put the poker down and twirled a strand of Marianne’s
hair idly through his fingers, watching the lazy flames from the fire soothe
the highlights of coppery brown. She turned a page of the magazine on the
floor, not really reading. The page brushed his foot. She followed the stroke
of the page with her hand along his bare brown skin, tanned by far sunnier
climes than this. His toes were long and straight, the nails white, hard and
shiny, the feet of a young boy. She put her fingers to her lips and then
pressed them against his toes in a kiss.

The telephone shrilled. The peace shattered like glass.
Monty lifted his head, and growled. It shrilled again, an old-fashioned ring,
urgent, demanding. Marianne grunted, pulling herself up.

“Who the..?” Ryan asked uselessly, as she padded out to the
hallway, where, despite all the modernisation, the black
Bakelite
link
to the outside world lay rattling in its lair.

“Hello, Miss MacReady, what can I do for you? I see. Wait.
I’ll fetch him.” Marianne was terse. It was cold out in the hallway away from
the fire. The wind threw a handful of hard raindrops against the solitary pane
in the hall door. He was standing when she went back to the room, head tilted,
listening.

“It’s for you. Long distance,” Marianne glared at him. He
frowned, touched her hand as he passed.

 “Be careful, Miss MacReady will be listening on the line.”
She hissed, in warning.

“Yes, thank you Miss MacReady. Angelique, hi, yeah fine.
What’s wrong?” Ryan sounded angry.

Marianne moved away from the doorway. Her stomach caught in
a clamp. She picked up the magazine, threw another briquette on the fire,
plumped up the cushions, put their whiskey glasses side by side on the mantel.
Ryan’s leather jacket slipped off the arm of the chair. She picked it up,
something dropped onto the flagstone. His wallet. It lay face down, open. She
picked it up and, turning it towards her, a beautifully fragile young face
gazed back at her. The clamp tightened.

 She snapped the wallet shut and rammed it back in his
pocket. She took a deep breath. It was not as if she had not seen him before.
It was not as if she did not know about him. She moved back towards the door.
Monty was listening too.

“I know,” Ryan was saying, “but I have things to do here. I
will be back next week. We’ll sort things out then. No, don’t do that...”

A pause and then the obvious softening of the voice. The
kinder, loving, missing you tone of a long distance father to child. A plea to
the heart.

“Hello my love, are you having a nice visit with your
mother? Is Larry there? Good.
Nanny?
Good. I’ll be home soon. Be a good
boy. Goodnight now.” She had never heard that tone before, that love and pain
and longing. “Oh God,” she thought, “I’ve lost him.”

The phone clumped in its cradle. He moved back into the
room, the former haven destroyed by tidiness, the atmosphere dissipated, left
clinging to the four corners.

She banged in the kitchen, drowning the dishes in the sink.
He picked up a tea towel. Annoyed at his attempt at normality, she whipped it
out of his hand.

“What does she want? How did she find you?” She held the
tremor out of her voice, her eyes burning.

“To discuss things. Sort things out. I’ve asked for a
divorce, she won’t listen, so Larry said he’d go and see her, tell her I’m
going for custody. He gave her the number. Marie, I need to go and sort
this...”

She scrunched the tea towel in her hands.

“Again, you need to go again...and you’ll always need to go
again. Wherever we are, whatever we are doing, the phone will ring. She will
call, and then the child or Larry or God knows who else, and you will need to
go, and sort this or that and I will be left, again.”

He moved towards her, pleading. She drew back, glaring.

“Marie, help me.”

“Ah, help yourself Ryan,” she blazed, “you’re not in a
bloody movie now, you spoiled, selfish brat. I was not put on this planet for
your bloody convenience, to dance attendance on you when you can spare me the
time or inclination. Enough! You’re not the only pebble on the beach, fish in
the sea or flea on the dog’s back!”