The One I Love Read online

  “I love you, Jane.”

  “I love you too, girly girl.” Jane turned out the light and left Elle under her duvet.

  Jane always called Elle “girly girl” when she was being affectionate. It was a term she’d given Elle when she was a toddler and Jane was a teen. Their father had died suddenly, their mother was on medication so Jane had cared for her sister. She’d pick up after her, play with her, feed her and put her to bed. She’d read her stories and tell her things about their dad.

  “Where is he, Janey?”

  “He’s in heaven, girly girl.”

  “Where’s heaven?”

  “Far away up there in the sky.”

  “Daddy doesn’t like heights, Janey.” Elle had remembered the day her dad had got dizzy and fallen from a ladder while trying to retrieve her ball from the eaves.

  “It’s okay,” Jane explained. “He likes heaven.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s great.”

  “Why is it great?”

  “Because God’s there.”

  “So?”

  “God is really cool. Everybody wants to be with God.”

  “I don’t. I’d rather be here with you,” Elle had said.

  And Jane had been a mother to her sister since then.

  Chapter 7

  Chocolate Eyes

  Ran out of hope, ran out of faith,

  ran out of milk about quarter past eight

  I gave up on dreams and regrets,

  well I quit smoking but not cigarettes.

  Jack L, Broken Songs

  March 2008

  When Elle woke up in Leslie’s house in the country to the sound of birds, they were strangely loud, angry and without melody. She sat up, rubbed her eyes and looked towards the window, which was open. Two crows were on the sill, screeching at one another. She got out of bed, stretched and closed the window. So engrossed were they in their dispute that her action went unnoticed.

  She could hear Leslie pottering in the kitchen. She had the radio on and was listening to two DJs make a crank call to some unsuspecting dentist. The house was a bungalow. The guest bedroom’s walls were paper thin so Elle’s bed might as well have been in the centre of the kitchen.

  She pulled on her dressing-gown and joined Leslie, who was kneeling on the counter by the sink and cleaning the window. Elle poured herself a coffee and picked up a croissant from the basket in the centre of the table.

  When Leslie’s father died he had left the house to her mother. When she died she had left it to her three girls. When Nora died the house had been Imelda and Leslie’s and when Imelda died the house was Leslie’s alone. She had maintained it over the years, and although she travelled to it on average every eight weeks she rarely stayed more than two days because the echoes of a tragic past haunted the place. This was the first time since Imelda’s passing that she had stayed longer than a few days, and with Elle for company, she was actually enjoying herself. Elle had been working hard on the exhibition since she had returned from her break, and when Leslie mentioned that she had to make a trip to check on her family home, she had begged to be allowed join her: a change of scenery would inspire and invigorate her. She had been working hard to make up for lost time and Leslie could see that painting the faces of the Missing was taking a toll on her. She seemed to be absorbing their tragedies, and the pain, suffering, hope and hopelessness imbued in her work was also imbued in her. She was quieter than when they had first met and she seemed older. In the few months they had known each other, Elle had gone from being a playful puppy to a sleepy old girl content to sit on the porch.

  As it turned out, the town was playing host to a week-long traditional music festival, which initially served only to annoy Leslie. But the first night they had walked into town to a restaurant that Leslie hadn’t visited in ten years and they had a pleasant time eating pasta, drinking wine and listening to a young man play the piano accompanied by a girl on the violin and a boy on guitar. Even though neither woman was a fan of traditional music this little group was less thud-thumping, toe-tapping, feet of flames old-school Irish and more new-age folk, mellow and enchanting. The music elevated Elle into a happy place, and since then her mood had continued to lift ever so slowly but noticeably. As part of the festival, every restaurant, bar, park and street corner was playing host to musicians of all ages, and because their first evening had been such a success Elle and Leslie had got into the spirit of the event and by day three they were really enjoying themselves. Leslie’s long self-imposed seclusion and new-found joie de vivre meant that every day there was a great new discovery, or rediscovery, to be made. An old woodland that she had played in as a child made a beautiful place to walk and talk, and the new coffee shop, which served takeaway hot chocolate to sip and hug as they walked, made it even pleasanter. Leslie had forgotten how beautiful her little town was. She’d forgotten the way the sky looked through the trees and how the light hit the water in the evenings and how friendly the people were when she actually engaged with them.

  “So what’s the plan for today?” Elle asked, between nibbles.

  Leslie turned and smiled at her, took off one of her gloves and scratched her nose. “Well,” she said, “I was thinking we’d get in the car and drive to the coast this morning. We can have lunch in this little pub that Simon and I used to go to – it has the best fish in the country. Then we could get back around five and eat here or go out, depending on how you feel, and then there’s a band on in Mahon’s that could be interesting.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll just get showered and dressed and we can go.”

  Leslie put her glove back on and resumed cleaning the window.

  Elle finished her croissant as she walked back into her room. She picked up her bag and headed down the hall into the bathroom, stripped off and got into the shower. It was while the water was tapping at her head that she realized a weight was lifting and felt her heart begin to soar.

  Elle and Leslie spent a lovely if finger-numbing morning walking along the coastline, then stopped off at the pub for their fish lunch. Elle ordered the salmon and Leslie a fish platter, and when Elle saw it she was sorry she’d gone for the salmon but there was plenty for them both so the women shared the assortment of fish and Elle agreed it was the best she’d ever tasted. She asked Leslie to tell her a little about Simon, and Leslie argued that her relationship with him had been so long ago that it was hard to remember much of it.

  “You must remember it!” Elle said.

  “There was so much going on back then.” Leslie was referring to the sickness that had overtaken her world for so long.

  “What did he look like?” Elle said, pushing for an answer.

  “He was tall and thin and he had big blue eyes the size of side plates. His hair was sandy and he had freckles.”

  “Was he nice?” Elle asked.

  “He was very nice. He was bright and kind and he put up with a lot from me.”

  “Did he love you?”

  Leslie sighed, and thought about it for a moment. “Yes,” she said, and she remembered the day eighteen years earlier when she had just turned twenty-two, her sister Nora was dying and she herself had been diagnosed with the cancer gene.

  Simon had been waiting for her when she came out of the doctor’s surgery. He was pale and his big blue eyes were glassy. She walked towards him and he stood up. She sat down because her legs could no longer carry her and tugged at his hand and he sat again and faced her, and she didn’t have to tell him because her face said it all. He put his face into his hands and he wept right there in the middle of the waiting area. Listening to the pain that was so evident in every wail, she knew she couldn’t put him through watching her slow and painful death. And so, right there and then, she had ended their three-year relationship. Even when he attempted to contact her intermittently for six months, and although she missed him more than she could say, she was steadfast in her decision and, deep down, she knew that Simon was grateful.

&
nbsp; “I think you’re brave,” Elle said.

  “Thanks. Most would say I was stupid.”

  “Bravery and stupidity are the same thing. It just depends on the outcome and it’s not over yet.”

  “No, I suppose it isn’t.” She considered telling Elle about her plans to have surgery in July but decided against it because they were having such a lovely day and she didn’t want to think about it too much. Another time. I’ll tell her another time. And as she was thinking that, Elle’s face changed and Leslie turned to see what she was staring at. A tall man with curly brown hair and big brown eyes was standing with a blonde woman. He was wide-eyed and staring back, obviously uncomfortable and unsure. Leslie watched Elle maintain eye contact with him and the man hesitatingly making his way towards her, leaving the blonde at the bar.

  “Elle,” he said, and Leslie detected a shudder in his voice.

  Elle didn’t have to introduce him. Leslie knew it was the prick who had broken her new friend’s heart.

  “Vincent,” Elle said.

  “How weird is this?” He raised his hands in the air. “Of all the gin-joints in all the towns …”

  “Funny old world,” she said. “How’ve you been, Vincent?”

  “Good – you?”

  “Great,” she said, but it was unconvincing. Neither of them mentioned the car-burning incident and subsequent pay-off. The blonde remained at the bar.

  “This is Leslie,” Elle said, looking beyond his shoulder at the blonde. “Who’s your friend?”

  Vincent turned to the blonde and called her over with a nod. She seemed slow to approach so he made the head movement once again. She came across and stood slightly behind him. “This is Caroline.”

  Caroline smiled. She seemed familiar, but Elle couldn’t work out how she knew her face.

  “Nice to meet you,” Caroline said nervously. “I love your work.”

  “Thanks,” Elle said. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m an actress.”

  Elle nodded. “Of course you are,” she said. She looked at Vincent and shook her head. She remembered where she’d seen her before. It had been at one of her own exhibitions. The photographer had made them stand together for a press shot. That exhibition had been just before China.

  Vincent attempted to disguise a gulp by clearing his throat. “We should go,” he said to Caroline, who seemed more than happy to move on.

  “You should have gone a long time ago,” Elle said.

  Vincent grabbed Caroline’s arm and escorted her out of the lovely pub, which served the best fish in Ireland, before they’d even had a chance to glance at the menu.

  Leslie looked at Elle, who seemed lost in thought. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m more than okay,” Elle said. She sighed and grinned a little.

  “You are?”

  “He was screwing her all that time.”

  “And that’s okay?”

  Elle nodded. “It must be, because I can’t seem to make myself care.”

  Leslie smiled at her young friend and squeezed her hand and Elle’s heart soared just a little higher.

  Rose had been throwing up all week. She was steadfast in her refusal to seek medical attention but eventually, when Jane witnessed her doubled over, holding her stomach in severe pain and throwing up in her kitchen bin, she’d had enough of her mother’s stubbornness and made the call to their family GP. She was flying to London for the Jack Lukeman gig that evening.

  Dr Griffin arrived at ten as promised and, knowing he hated making house calls especially to her mother, Jane met him on the steps of her home. Together they made their way to the basement apartment.

  “How’s she behaving?” he asked.

  “Same as ever.”

  “Still experiencing mood swings?”

  “Dr Griffin, what you call her mood swings we call her personality.”

  She smiled but Dr Griffin just shook his head. He’d been the Moore family’s practitioner for years and really cared for the girls and Kurt but Jane was aware that Rose Moore was his worst nightmare. She opened the door and could see him bracing himself as he stepped inside.

  Rose was in the sitting room, asleep in a chair. Jane and Dr Griffin looked at one another, both silently acknowledging that it was time to wake the beast.

  Jane approached gingerly. She slowly and gently laid her hand on her mother’s arm and shook it ever so gently. “Rose.”

  Rose stirred a little. Jane backed off.

  Rose’s eyes opened. She focused on her daughter and the doctor. “What?”

  “Rose, I’m here to give you a check-up,” Dr Griffin said.

  “Did I ask you to come?”

  “No,” he said, and sighed audibly.

  “Well, then.”

  “Rose, you’re sick,” Jane said, in her most forceful tone, “and I’m not going to let you rot down here so let the doctor examine you.”

  “How charming of you, Jane, but you’re forgetting about a little thing called free will and if I am rotting and I wish to continue doing so that is my business and my business alone.”

  “Don’t make me hold you down, old woman,” said Jane.

  “You can try.”

  “Okay, ladies,” Dr Griffin said, holding his hand up in the air. “Rose, please just let me examine you. I won’t take longer than three minutes.”

  “You have two,” she said.

  A minute later Dr Griffin was pressing on Rose’s stomach and she was trying not to scream, but one press too many and she couldn’t help but grab his ear and drag him off her. He called out, and Jane extricated him from her mother’s closed claw. He stumbled back, rubbing his reddened and bruised lobe.

  Rose grasped Jane’s hand, squeezed it as hard as she could and pulled her in close. “Don’t you dare bring that man in here without my permission again!” she hissed. Tears sprang to Jane’s eyes. Rose let go and Jane backed away, rubbing her hand, much as Dr Griffin had his ear.

  Dr Griffin packed his bag before turning to Rose. “Your stomach is inflamed and that’s what’s causing the pain and vomiting. I’ve no doubt you’re suffering from recurrent diarrhoea and possible pancreatitis. And I know for sure that, however uncomfortable you are now, it will only get worse.”

  “Well, thank you for your medical opinion, Dr Griffin. You know where the door is.”

  “Stop drinking, Rose,” Dr Griffin said. “If you don’t you will die.”

  “I’m an old woman, doctor. It would be incredibly focking odd if I didn’t die. Don’t you think?”

  Rose loved to curse. She loved to pepper her sentences with the word “fuck” but her accent ensured that it sounded like “fock”, “focker”, “focking” or “focked”. She liked that; it meant she was devilish enough to curse but not coarse enough for it to be instantly recognizable.

  Jane and Dr Griffin left her alone. She flicked on the TV, then took a bottle and a glass from the cabinet beside her chair. She opened the screw cap and poured the wine into an unwashed glass. She took a sip and rested it back on top of the cabinet, all the while mumbling to herself, “Stop drinking or you’ll die. Who does he think he is? I’m seventy-one years old and I haven’t died yet, more’s the focking pity.”

  Dr Griffin followed Jane up the steps and into the main house. In the kitchen she made him tea and for the hundredth time he went through the kind of gastrointestinal damage her mother was doing to herself.

  “What can I do?” Jane asked.

  “Ban the booze,” he suggested, as though it was the first time he’d said it.

  A frustrated Jane shouted, “I can’t! She’s got her own money, she’s perfectly capable of buying her own and she’s got friends who bring her presents of it. They don’t think she has a problem, she doesn’t think she has a problem. My sister seems to think that, just because she’s not in bars or clubs doing shots till four a.m., I’m insane to even suggest she has a problem, and my son thinks she’s hilarious. When she falls asleep with the grill on it’s old
age, when she falls in the shower it’s her arthritis, and when I dare to address the problem I’m deemed to be hysterical at best and a ‘focking bitch’ at worst!”

  Dr Griffin laughed at Jane’s impression of her mother, then became serious again. “Rose has been a functioning alcoholic for over thirty years but time is running out and her body is slowly giving up.”

  Absentmindedly, Jane scooped out sugar from the bowl, then poured it back in. “I’m doing my best.”

  “I know.”

  “Can I have her sectioned?”

  “Your mother isn’t mentally ill.”

  “I know that, you know that, but how long would it take for them to realize that?”

  Dr Griffin grinned. They sat in silence for a minute or two, drinking tea.

  “It’s simple, Jane. If she doesn’t stop soon, her health will deteriorate to a point where she’ll have to be hospitalized and then she’ll be forced into sobriety. Whether or not it’s too late to save her is anyone’s guess.”

  “Sorry about your ear,” Jane said, changing the subject.

  “Does Rose behave violently towards you a lot?”

  “No,” Jane said, laughing the matter off. “I think you inspired the violence.”

  “Well, if it gets too much you’ll let me know.”

  Jane nodded. “It’s a pity because when she’s in good form she’s almost fun to be around.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Dr Griffin said. It had been a long time since he’d seen the pleasant side of Rose Moore, he thought. In fact he could pinpoint the year: it had been the spring of 1983, three months before she’d called him to the house to declare her husband dead. The doctor stood up and fixed his jacket to signal his desire to exit. Jane waved him off and closed the door behind him. Her ring felt tight. She tried to take it off but, following her mother’s attack, her finger was swelling fast, making its removal difficult.

  The phone rang, and it was Tom wanting to know if she wished to share a taxi to the airport. She agreed because she was running late and she wouldn’t have time to leave the car in the long-term car park. The gig was a late show. They had decided not to fly out until six that evening, which was a blessing because she still had a full day’s work ahead of her.