The Truth Will Out Page 20

  ‘It certainly was,’ he lied, as the washbasin emptied. He put his clothes on in seconds.

  Plenty of practice, no doubt, she thought, watching him from the bed to which she had returned. He was gone in less than five minutes, and five minutes after that she was ordering from the extensive menu.

  Alfio was waiting in the car with two takeaway coffees, two Danish pastries and an Irish Times.

  ‘You’re a lifesaver.’

  ‘Beso mi culo, boludo!’

  Matt smiled. ‘I’ll give you that. Last night was not me at my most shining.’

  ‘Come mierda!’

  ‘You eat shit!’ Matt laughed.

  ‘They say that Argentinians are hot-blooded but I’ve never known a man to air his dick as much as you, Matt Delamere,’ Alfio said in disgust.

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘It wasn’t meant as one.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  It was after eight when Alfio turned into the long, winding driveway and passed the gatehouse, the stables, the training grounds on the way to the house. Matt got out and Alfio drove on to the car park. He had a full day ahead of him, breaking in a Californian thoroughbred stallion.

  Matt entered the house by the back door. Patsy Byrne, the housekeeper, was standing on a chair, cleaning out the presses. ‘You’d want to watch yourself, Patsy. That’s a broken hip waiting to happen,’ he said from the doorway.

  ‘Are you trying to say I’m old?’

  ‘No comment.’ He chuckled.

  ‘So help me down,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll get you a proper stepladder. Health and safety and all that. Maybe for your birthday.’

  ‘Charming,’ she said, pretending to be annoyed.

  An hour had passed before Matt left his home again, dressed in riding gear and with a large bunch of flowers he’d grabbed from the vase in the hall. He rode past the training grounds, the stables and the gate lodge, through Devil’s Glen and down the narrow road that took him to the graveyard. He tied up Shadow, his favourite horse, at the entrance and walked the rest of the way. It was just after nine thirty and the place was empty, save for an old lady hunched over a worn headstone.

  He made his way to the grave and rested his free hand on the stone that bore her name while clutching the flowers firmly to his chest. ‘Hi there, kiddo,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while, maybe even the full year. I was away at Christmas, I would have been here otherwise. I see Henry’s been, though, keeping the place tidy and the roses trimmed. He’s good, still going strong. I think he’ll outlive us all. Brendan’s good too. What’s that you used to call him – Dr B?’ He laughed, put the flowers into the vase on the grave and sat on the grass beside her. ‘He’s still living in the gate lodge. Can you believe it? He loves that old house and that old house loves him. He’s done a lovely refurbishment job on it. The old fella has taste. Look at me calling Brendan old. He’s fifty-six. I remember when Henry was fifty-five and we thought he was ancient. I turned forty-seven three months ago. My dad was forty-seven when … He was in Monaco, remember? We’d had that massive row before he left. You stopped me punching him. I was so annoyed with you … I’m sorry. Hey, remember the nights we spent by the castle looking up at the stars? I’d go back in a second.’ He sighed. ‘I swear I’d go back in a second.’ He held on tight to her stone. ‘Hey, Liv, I still love you.’ He stood up. ‘But don’t tell anyone, okay? It’s our secret.’

  He went to fetch some water for the flowers, then left her resting place as quiet and serene as he’d found it.

  Most of his day would be spent on the phone. Many of the calls he made would be transatlantic so he had until after lunch before his workday proper would begin. Brendan was sitting out in his garden when he passed on Shadow.

  ‘Brendan.’

  ‘Matt. Come in. Have coffee with me.’

  Matt dismounted and tied Shadow, who shook his head vigorously, to a low branch. He sat down and Brendan poured coffee from the percolator.

  ‘You’re expecting company?’ Matt asked, referring to the extra cup.

  ‘I was expecting you.’ Brendan smiled. ‘How’s our girl?’

  ‘Still gone, Brendan.’

  ‘Thirty years is a long time.’

  Words always seemed to fail Matt when Brendan talked about Liv. He never mentioned the baby; neither of them did. Matthew sat back in his chair. She’s thirty today. Happy thirtieth, Harriet Ryan. I wanted to call you Olivia after your mother. Olivia Delamere. Happy thirtieth, Olivia Delamere. He was miles away even as Brendan talked about his recent trip to Las Vegas.

  ‘Dusty place. I wouldn’t go again.’ He had liked San Francisco. In fact, he had liked it so much that he wished it had occurred to him as a younger man to get off his arse and move there, instead of hiding in a wood in Wicklow. It could have been so different.

  Later when Matt emerged from his haze he talked about his latest acquisition. They toasted it with fresh coffee and Brendan’s homemade muffins.

  ‘You could have been a baker.’

  ‘I could have been a lot of things.’ Brendan grinned and Matt laughed before they fell into a comfortable silence.

  ‘Are you free for dinner tonight?’ Brendan asked.

  ‘I’m seeing Clara.’

  ‘Ah, the lovely Clara! Are you serious about her yet?’

  ‘Jesus, Brendan, it’s only been three months.’

  ‘Three months can be a lifetime.’

  ‘We’ll see. She’s a nice woman. Ticks all the boxes.’

  ‘Such a romantic,’ Brendan joked.

  ‘You can talk!’ Matt retorted.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Brendan said, his hands in the air. ‘I give up. I haven’t a clue what I’m talking about.’

  Matt laughed. ‘We’re a right pair!’

  ‘We most certainly are. How about tomorrow? I’ll do a rack of lamb, we’ll break out the cards and make an evening of it.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Matt said, getting up. ‘I’ll see you around seven.’

  Brendan was left alone in his garden. He contemplated life and death and the passage of time. He remembered Liv and her sense, her strength, her stubbornness, her open heart and her inability to lie. He missed his young friend. What would you be like now? Would you still be a fighter? Would you have held tight to your beliefs? Would the world have worn you down?

  Four miles away, in a care home, Liv’s mother Deirdre sat in her chair by the heater under the large window that looked out on to the grounds. The gardens were separated by the long, winding avenue that led to the electric gate and out of the hospital. The gate was too far away to see from her chair, but when she closed her eyes, she could hear in her mind the motor whirr as it opened and closed. Her hands remained clasped in her lap. She didn’t have much use for them. She didn’t dress herself, or prepare food or drinks; she didn’t greet those who passed her, and when she spoke, which wasn’t often, she wasn’t animated.

  A nurse approached with tea, putting it on the windowsill by the old radio she had constantly playing. She liked talk radio. Ryan Tubridy was a great man for chat and in the afternoon she would listen to Joe Duffy. She used her hands to change the radio dial from Ryan to Joe and Joe to Ryan. And she used them to lift her cup so that she could drink her tea.

  It was a Tuesday, and Tuesday was hair-wash day. She kept her hair short and even. Although it was grey and she didn’t use much conditioner, it was still soft and a little flyaway. She didn’t like people touching her head. She didn’t like hair-wash day. She didn’t struggle or whine or moan, just cried a little. The tears flowed in silence. She wasn’t one for making much noise.

  ‘How are you feeling, Deirdre?’ Nurse Trisha asked.

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Are you ready for your medication, love?’

  Deirdre nodded. Trisha handed her the pills and Deirdre had them
swallowed before the nurse had time to hand her a glass of water.

  ‘I see you got some flowers,’ she said, but Deirdre was finished interacting. Instead she was staring out of the window at the gardener pruning a hedge.

  ‘By your bed,’ Trisha said, attempting to engage her again, but to no avail.

  For Deirdre, Trisha’s voice disappeared behind Ryan Tubridy talking with some woman about weddings and bad music and drunken fumbling while she watched the sun redden the back of the gardener’s neck.

  The nurse made her way down the corridor and towards the staff room. Maisie was making coffee.

  ‘Deirdre just got a serious bunch of flowers.’

  ‘No card,’ Maisie said.

  ‘No,’ Trisha confirmed.

  ‘He never leaves a card,’ Maisie said ominously, piquing Trisha’s interest.

  ‘Who?’ Trisha asked, intrigued – after all, it had been a slow morning.

  ‘Matt Delamere,’ Maisie replied, handing Trisha a coffee.

  ‘The horse trainer?’

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked – she was new to both the hospital and the area.

  ‘Did you ever hear about that girl who died giving birth in Devil’s Glen in the mid-seventies?’

  ‘Yeah. Very sad.’

  ‘Deirdre was the girl’s mother. Matt Delamere was the boyfriend.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So where was he when she was bleeding to death?’

  ‘Who knows? That GP, what’s his name, found her.’

  ‘Jesus. And no one knew she was pregnant?’

  ‘Well, if they did they certainly didn’t make it known. Anyway, back in those days you’d be sent off somewhere so I’d be surprised.’

  ‘He must have felt awful,’ she said.

  ‘Well, he hasn’t been paying Deirdre’s bills for twenty years for nothing.’

  ‘You’re joking me!’

  Maisie walked out of the room, leaving Trisha to ponder on a nice piece of gossip. People lived mad lives.

  Susan was looking through some catalogues in the front passenger seat of the car. ‘There’s some great stuff in here,’ she said to Harri, who was driving. ‘Do you think we could nip in? Bray is on the way.’

  Harri sighed. ‘All right, all right. Don’t get your knickers in a knot.’

  Susan had insisted on coming. As soon as Harri had mentioned she was taking the day off, Susan had known something was up and questioned, hounded and annoyed her until eventually she broke. Usually Harri could have escaped Susan but unfortunately, as her friend was camping in her sitting room, avoidance was not an option. They were on the road four hours later than she’d intended. An order of Valbonne distressed furniture had gone astray and Susan had spent most of the morning on the phone with the courier company while Harri had made excuses to the client. So much for a day off.

  ‘It will take less than an hour. We’ll be in, we’ll be out,’ Susan said, still flicking.

  ‘Fine,’ Harri said, slightly annoyed. I’m only going to visit my dead mother, no need to make it any kind of priority.

  ‘Great,’ Susan said happily. ‘We might stop for a bit of lunch too. I’m starving.’

  ‘You’re pushing it!’ Harri warned, and, judging by the look on her face, she meant it.

  Susan turned on the radio. Ryan Tubridy was talking about wedding bands. She laughed. ‘You know what mine was called?’

  ‘No.’ Harri sighed.

  ‘Mixed Grill.’ Harri couldn’t help but giggle. ‘Still, they were a ruddy good band.’ Susan’s smile faded – she’d reminded herself that her marriage was over.

  The day was bright and warm. The sun shone in a bright blue sky so Harri and Susan drove with the top down. The new motorway stretched before them and with it the promise of an adventure that neither woman felt fully prepared for. For Harri the questions that swam in her mind were simple. What lies ahead? Am I doing the right thing? Do I really want to open this can of worms? Could I even turn around if I wanted to? For Susan there was only one: What do I do if she falls apart? The car took the women towards Wicklow with the sun on their backs. They smiled at one another intermittently but mostly they kept their eyes forward and their mouths shut.

  Melissa would have loved to be with her friend on the first time she would celebrate her actual birthday – well, celebrate was an exaggeration of what she would do. Mourn was more accurate – or maybe not. After all, although she was visiting her dead mother, in reality she was merely visiting a dead stranger. Gloria was her mother and still very much alive. It was all a little confusing and hard to grasp, so much so that although she wanted to be with Harri during her time of need, she really hadn’t a clue what to say to her. ‘Chin up’ didn’t quite cut it, and neither did her other favourite, ‘Never mind, it could happen to anyone.’ Still, she would have liked to spend the day with Harri, not necessarily because she felt she could help, but because anything – even a trip to the grave of a seventeen-year-old who had bled to death – would be a break from the increasing demands her boss, her colleagues, her husband and her children were putting upon her. She was halfway through a presentation when the phone call came. She had asked not to be disturbed and poor Ellen was incredibly apologetic when she escorted her out of the meeting room and towards the phone at the front desk.

  It was Jacob’s teacher. ‘Jacob has a pain in his tummy.’

  ‘Is he pale?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has he been sick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, then, I’m sure he’s fine.’

  ‘He’s complaining of pain. I can’t ignore it.’

  Melissa sighed. ‘Sometimes he says he has a pain in his tummy if he’s doing something he doesn’t like doing.’

  ‘He’s doing what he does every day and likes it just fine, plus he didn’t eat his lunch and refused a chocolate biscuit.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’ Jacob never refused a chocolate biscuit. Why the hell hadn’t the woman started with that?

  Jim, her boss, met her in the cloakroom. ‘Where the hell are you going?’

  ‘Jacob’s sick.’

  ‘You’re halfway through a presentation.’

  ‘I know and I’m sorry but there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘Where’s your husband, your nanny, your mother?’

  ‘Where indeed? On a day off and retired in Spain.’

  ‘Melissa.’

  ‘Jim.’

  ‘This can’t go on. I depend on you. This firm depends on you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll sort it.’

  ‘What am I supposed to say to the client?’

  ‘Tell them I’m sorry. I’ll reschedule for whenever suits them.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ Jim said, shaking his head.

  ‘It’s the best I can do,’ she said, and left.

  She tried to call her husband four times from the car but each time his phone went to voicemail. She arrived at Jacob’s school a little after eleven. Jacob was waiting for her at the door.

  ‘I have a pain.’

  ‘I know, buddy. I’m going to take you home, we’ll put on Thomas and you can lie with Snuggles on the sofa.’

  The crèche rang as she was pulling out of Jacob’s school. ‘Carrie vomited.’

  ‘Oh, God. I’m on the way.’

  Carrie was asleep when she picked her up. She decided to bring the kids straight to the doctor. Jacob complained that she had promised him the sofa, Thomas and Snuggles, and the doctor’s surgery didn’t offer any of those. She cajoled him with promises of a new Thomas toy when he got better. After she’d spent an hour in the doctor’s waiting room, then gone into his surgery to receive his patented dirty look when she couldn’t tell him what her children had had for breakfast becaus
e she’d left home early this morning, he concluded that the ailment was viral and would have to run its course. One prescription for a kiddie pain reliever and sixty euro later she was back in the car with a now grumpy Carrie and a moaning Jacob. ‘My tummy still hurts.’

  The shopping-centre car park was jammed but she eventually found a space. Carrie was now crying and Jacob was rubbing his tummy and repeating, in a particularly annoying sing-song voice, ‘Sore. Sore. Sore. Sore. Sore.’ With Carrie in her arms and Jacob by the hand Melissa navigated the busy shopping centre until she reached the chemist. Despite her daughter’s wailing and her son’s persistent moaning, she acquired the prescribed medicine and, laden with children, near deafened and suffering from an overloaded bladder, she queued to pay.

  Her phone rang. It was her boss and she thought about ignoring the call but she, unlike her husband, whom she was contemplating battering to death, had never been able to ignore a phone. She dropped Jacob’s hand and held the phone to her ear. Her boss rather snottily reported on their client’s not so favourable response to her leaving mid-meeting.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Just a second, Jacob.’ Carrie was still crying. ‘Can I deal with this tomorrow?’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘In a minute, Jacob.’

  ‘I need your password. I’ve promised to send on your presentation notes. It’s the least we can do.’

  ‘Can I not send them on first thing?’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘I’d rather they had them now.’

  ‘I’d prefer to do it myself.’

  ‘Well, we’d all prefer that you do it yourself, Melissa, but unfortunately I’m here and you’re not.’

  She argued on that she wasn’t comfortable with anyone else going through her computer. Jim said he didn’t really care what was comfortable, bearing in mind that her abrupt exit could lose them a client. She sighed and absent-mindedly looked down towards where her son had been standing less then a minute before. He was gone. Initially she was not alarmed, but then she looked around and still couldn’t see him.

  ‘Jacob!’ she shouted into the phone. ‘Jacob!’ she shouted again. She was out of the queue and moving down the closest aisle.