Then it clicked. ‘I knew I knew your face from somewhere, Luke. I used to see you everyday when I went to school with Barry.’
‘You went to school with Barry?’ he said, surprised.
‘Yeah, school was fun with Barry,’ I laughed.
Luke narrowed his eyes, ‘Well, I didn’t see you there.’
I started laughing. ‘Well, of course you didn’t see me, you silly sod,’ I said matter-of-factly.
Chapter 2
Elizabeth’s heart hammered loudly against her chest, as, having slipped on another pair of shoes, she paced the long maple-floored hall of her home. With the phone pressed hard between her ear and shoulder, her mind was a blizzard of thoughts as she listened to the shrill ring tone in her ear. She stopped pacing long enough to stare at her reflection in the mirror. Her brown eyes widened with horror. Rarely did she allow herself to look so bedraggled. So out of control. Strands of her chocolate-brown hair were fleeing from the tight French pleat, causing her to appear as though she had placed her fingers in an electric socket. Mascara nestled in the lines under her eyes; her lipstick had faded, leaving only her plum-coloured lipliner as a frame, and her foundation clung to the dry patches of her olive skin. Gone was the usual pristine look. This caused her heart to beat faster, the panic to accelerate.
Breathe, Elizabeth, just breathe, she told herself. She ran a trembling hand over her tousled hair, forcing the wild hairs back down. She wiped the mascara away with a wet finger, pursed her lips together, smoothed down her suit jacket and cleared her throat. It was simply a momentary lapse of concentration on her part, that was all. Not to happen again. She transferred the phone to her left ear and noticed the impression of her Claddagh earring against her neck. Such was the pressure of her shoulder’s grip on the phone against her skin.
Finally someone answered and Elizabeth turned her back on the mirror to stand to attention. Back to business.
‘Hello, Baile na gCroíthe Garda Station.’
Elizabeth winced as she recognised the voice on the phone. ‘Hi, Marie, Elizabeth here… again. Saoirse’s gone off with the car,’ she paused, ‘again.’
There was a gentle sigh on the other end of the phone. ‘How long ago, Elizabeth?’
Elizabeth sat down on the bottom stair and settled in for the usual line of questioning. She closed her eyes, only meaning to rest them briefly, but at the relief of blocking everything out she kept them closed. ‘Just five minutes ago.’
‘Right. Did she say where she was going?’
‘The moon,’ she replied matter-of-factly.
‘Excuse me?’ Marie asked.
‘You heard me. She said she was going to the moon,’ Elizabeth said firmly. ‘Apparently people will understand her there.’
‘The moon,’ Marie repeated.
‘Yes,’ Elizabeth replied, feeling irritated. ‘You could perhaps start looking for her on the motorway. I would imagine that if you were heading to the moon that would be the quickest way to get there, wouldn’t you? Although I’m not entirely sure which exit she would take. Whichever is more northerly, I suppose. She could be headed north-east to Dublin, or, who knows, she could be making her way to Cork; perhaps they’ve a plane that can take her off this planet. Either way, I’d check the motor—’
‘Relax, Elizabeth; you know I have to ask.’
‘I know.’ Elizabeth tried to calm herself again. She was missing an important meeting right now. Important for her, important for her interior design business. Luke’s babysitter was standing in as a replacement for his nanny, Edith. Edith had left a few weeks ago for the three months of travelling the world she had threatened Elizabeth with for the past six years, leaving the young babysitter inexperienced to the ways of Saoirse. She had rung her at work in a panic… again… and Elizabeth had to drop everything… again… and rush home… again. But she shouldn’t be surprised that this had happened… again. She was, however, surprised that Edith, apart from the current trip to Australia, was still turning up to work every day. Six years she had been helping Elizabeth with Luke, six years of drama, and still after all her years of loyalty, Elizabeth expected a phone call or her letter of resignation practically every day. Being Luke’s nanny came with a lot of baggage. Then again, so did being Luke’s adoptive parent.
‘Elizabeth, are you still there?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes shot open. She was losing concentration. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘I asked you what car she took.’
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and made a face at the phone. ‘The same one, Marie. The same bloody car as last week, and the week before and the week before that,’ she snapped.
Marie remained firm, ‘Which is the—’
‘BMW,’ she interrupted. ‘The same damn black BMW 330 Cabriolet. Four wheels, two doors, one steering wheel, two wing mirrors, lights and—’
‘A partridge in a pear tree,’ Marie interrupted. ‘What condition was she in?’
‘Very shiny. I’d just washed her,’ Elizabeth replied cheekily.
‘Great, and what condition was Saoirse in?’
‘The usual one.’
‘Intoxicated.’
‘That’s the one.’ Elizabeth stood up and walked down the hall to the kitchen. Her sun trap. Her heels against the marble floor echoed loudly in the empty high-ceilinged room. Everything was in its place. The room was hot from the sun’s glare through the glass of the conservatory. Elizabeth’s tired eyes squinted in the brightness. The spotless kitchen gleamed, the black granite counter tops sparkled, the chrome fittings mirrored the bright day. A stainless steel and walnut heaven. She headed straight to the espresso machine. Her saviour. Needing an injection of life into her exhausted body, she opened the kitchen cabinet and took out a small beige coffee cup. Before closing the press she turned a cup round so that the handle was on the right side like all the others. She slid open the long steel cutlery drawer, noticed a knife in the fork’s compartment, put it back in its rightful place, retrieved a spoon and slid it shut.
From the corner of her eye she saw the hand towel messily strewn over the handle of the cooker. She threw the crumpled cloth into the utility room, retrieved a fresh towel from the neat pile in the press, folded it exactly in half and draped it over the cooker handle. Everything had its place.
‘Well, I haven’t changed my licence plate in the past week so yes, it’s still the same,’ she replied with boredom to another of Marie’s pointless questions. She placed the steaming espresso cup on a marble coaster to protect the glass kitchen table. She smoothed out her trousers, removed a piece of fluff from her jacket, sat down in the conservatory and looked out at her long garden and the rolling green hills beyond that seemed to stretch on for ever. Forty shades of green, golds and browns.
She breathed in the rich aroma of her steaming espresso and immediately felt revived. She pictured her sister racing over the hills with the top down on Elizabeth’s convertible, arms in the air, eyes closed, flame-red hair blowing in the wind, believing she was free. Saoirse meant freedom in Irish. The name had been chosen by their mother in her last desperate attempt to make the duties of motherhood she despised so much seem less like a punishment. Her wish was for her second daughter to bring her freedom from the shackles of marriage, motherhood, responsibility… reality.
Her mother had met her father when she was sixteen. She was travelling through the town with a group of poets, musicians and dreamers, and got talking to Brendan Egan, a farmer in the local pub. He was twelve years her senior and was enthralled by her mysterious wild ways and carefree nature. She was flattered. And so they married. At eighteen they had their first child, Elizabeth. As it turned out, her mother couldn’t be tamed and found it increasingly frustrating being held in the sleepy town nestled in the hills she had only ever intended to pass through. A crying baby and sleepless nights drove her further and further away in her head. Dreams of her own personal freedom became confused with her reality and she started to go missing for days at a tim
e. She went exploring, discovering places and other people.
Elizabeth, at twelve years of age, looked after herself and her silent, brooding father and didn’t ask when her mother would be home because she knew in her heart that she would eventually return, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and speaking breathlessly of the world and all it had to offer. She would waft into their lives like a fresh summer breeze, bringing excitement and hope. The feel of their bungalow farmhouse always changed when she returned; the four walls absorbed her enthusiasm. Elizabeth would sit at the end of her mother’s bed, listening to stories, giddy with delight. This ambience would last for only a few days until her mother quickly tired of sharing stories rather than making new ones.
Often she brought back mementoes such as shells, stones, leaves. Elizabeth could recall a vase of long fresh grasses that sat in the centre of the dining-room table as though they were the most exotic plants ever created. When asked about the field they were pulled from, her mother just winked and tipped her nose, promising Elizabeth that she would understand some day. Her father would sit silently in his chair by the fireplace, reading his paper but never turning the page. He was as lost in her world of words as she was.
When Elizabeth was twelve years old her mother became pregnant again and, despite the new-born baby being named Saoirse, this child didn’t offer the freedom her mother craved, and so she set off on another expedition. And didn’t return. Her father, Brendan, had no interest in the young life that had driven his wife away so he waited in silence for her in his chair by the fire. Reading his paper but never turning the page. For years. For ever. Soon Elizabeth’s heart grew weary of awaiting her mother’s return and Saoirse became Elizabeth’s responsibility.
Saoirse had inherited her father’s Celtic looks of strawberry-blonde hair and fair skin, while Elizabeth was the image of her mother. Olive skin, chocolate hair, almost black eyes; in their blood from the Spanish influence thousands of years before. Elizabeth resembled her mother more and more with every passing day and she knew her father found that difficult. She grew to hate herself for it, and along with making the effort of trying to have conversations with her father, she tried even harder to prove to her father and to herself that she was nothing like her mother – that she was capable of loyalty.
When Elizabeth finished school at eighteen she was faced with the dilemma of having to move to Cork to attend university. A decision that took all her courage to make. Her father regarded her acceptance of the course as abandonment; he saw any friendship she created with anyone as abandonment. He craved attention, always demanding to be the only person in his daughters’ lives, as though that would prevent them from moving away from him. Well, he almost succeeded and certainly was part of the reason for Elizabeth’s lack of a social life or circle of friends. She had been conditioned to walk away when polite conversation was started, knowing she would pay for any unnecessary time spent away from the farm with sullen words and disapproving glares. In any case, looking after Saoirse as well as going to school was a full-time job. Brendan accused her of being like her mother, of thinking she was above him and superior to Baile na gCroíthe. She found the small town claustrophobic and felt the dull farmhouse was dipped in darkness, with no sense of time. It was as though even the grandfather clock in the hall was waiting for her mother to return.
‘And, Luke, where is he?’ Marie asked over the phone, bringing Elizabeth swiftly back to the present.
Elizabeth replied bitterly. ‘Do you really think Saoirse would take him with her?’
Silence.
Elizabeth sighed. ‘He’s here.’
The name Saoirse had brought more than something to call Elizabeth’s sister by. It had given her an identity, a way of life. Everything the name represented was passed into her blood. She was fiery, independent, wild and free. She followed the pattern of the mother she could not remember, so much that Elizabeth almost felt as though she were watching her mother. But she kept losing sight of her. Saoirse became pregnant at sixteen and no one knew who the father was, not least Saoirse. Once she had the baby she didn’t care much for naming him but eventually took to calling him Lucky. Another wish. So Elizabeth named him Luke. And once again, at the age of twenty-eight, Elizabeth took responsibility for a child.
There was never as much as a flicker of recognition in Saoirse’s eyes when she looked at Luke. It startled Elizabeth to see that there was no bond, no connection at all. Elizabeth had never planned on having children – in fact she had made a pact with herself never to have children. She had raised herself and raised her sister; she had no desires to raise anybody else. It was time to look after herself. But at twenty-eight years old, after having slaved away at school and college, she had been successful in starting up her own interior design business. Her hard work meant that she was the only member of the family capable of providing a good life for Luke. She had reached her goals by being in control, maintaining order, not losing sight of herself, always being realistic, believing in fact and not dreams, and above all applying herself and working hard. Her mother and sister had taught her that she wouldn’t get anywhere by following wistful dreams and having unrealistic hopes.
So now she was thirty-four years old and living alone with Luke in a house that she loved. A house she had bought, and was paying for, all by herself. A house she had made her haven, the place she could retreat to and feel safe. Alone because love was one of those feelings that you could never control. And she needed to be in control. She had loved before, had been loved, had tasted what it was to dream and had felt what it was to dance on air. She had also learned what it was to land back on the earth with a cruel thud. Having to take care of her sister’s child had sent her love away and there had been no one since. She had learned not to lose control of her feelings again.
The front door banged shut and she heard the patter of little feet running down the hall.
‘Luke!’ she called, putting her hand over the receiver.
‘Yeah?’ he asked innocently, blue eyes and blond hair appearing round the doorpost.
‘Yes, not yeah,’ Elizabeth corrected him sternly. Her voice was full of the authority she had become a pro at over the years.
‘Yes,’ he repeated.
‘What are you doing?’
Luke stepped into the hall and Elizabeth’s eyes immediately went to his grass-stained knees.
‘Me and Ivan are just playing the computer,’ he explained.
‘Ivan and I,’ she corrected him, and continued listening to Marie at the other end of the phone arranging to send a garda car out. Luke looked at his aunt and returned to the playroom.
‘Hold on a minute,’ Elizabeth shouted down the phone, finally registering what Luke had just told her. She jumped up from her chair, bumping the table leg and spilling her espresso onto the glass. She swore. The black wrought-iron legs of the chair screeched against the marble. Holding the phone to her chest, she raced down the long hall to the playroom. She tucked her head round the corner and saw Luke sitting on the floor, eyes glued to the TV screen. Here and his bedroom were the only rooms in the house she allowed his toys. Taking care of a child had not succeeded in changing her as many thought it would; he hadn’t softened her views in any way. She had visited many of Luke’s friends’ houses, picking him up or dropping him off, so full of toys lying around, they tripped up everyone who dared walk in their path. She reluctantly had cups of coffee with the mothers while sitting on teddies, surrounded by bottles, formula and nappies. But not in her home. Edith had been told the rules at the beginning of their working relationship and she had followed them. As Luke grew up and understood his aunt’s ways, he obediently respected her wishes and contained his playing to the one room she had dedicated to his needs.
‘Luke, who’s Ivan?’ Elizabeth asked, eyes darting around the room. ‘You know you can’t be bringing strangers home,’ she said, worried.
‘He’s my new friend,’ he replied, zombie-like, not moving his eyes from the beefed-up w
restler body-slamming his opponent on the screen.
‘You know I insist on meeting your friends first before you bring them home. Where is he?’ Elizabeth questioned, pushing open the door and stepping into Luke’s space. She hoped to God that this friend would be better than the last little terror who had decided to draw a picture of his happy family in magic marker on her wall, which had since been painted over.
‘Over there.’ Luke nodded his head in the direction of the window, still not budging his eyes.
Elizabeth walked towards the window and looked out at the front garden. She crossed her arms. ‘Is he hiding?’
Luke pressed Pause on his computer keypad and finally moved his eyes away from the two wrestlers on the screen. His face crinkled in confusion. ‘He’s right there!’ He pointed at the beanbag at Elizabeth’s feet.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she stared at the beanbag. ‘Where?’
‘Right there,’ he repeated.
Elizabeth blinked back at him. She raised her arms questioningly.
‘Beside you, on the beanbag.’ Luke’s voice became louder with anxiety. He stared at the yellow corduroy beanbag as though willing his friend to appear.
Elizabeth followed his gaze.
‘See him?’ He dropped the control pad and stood up quickly.
This was followed by a tense silence in which Elizabeth could feel Luke’s hatred for her emanating from his body. She could tell what he was thinking: why couldn’t she just see him, why couldn’t she just play along just this once, why couldn’t she ever pretend? She swallowed the lump in her throat and looked around the room to see if she really was missing his friend in some way. Nothing.
She leaned down to be on an even level with him and her knees cracked. ‘There’s no one else but you and me in this room,’ she whispered softly. Somehow saying it quietly made it easier. Easier for herself or Luke, she didn’t know.
Luke’s cheeks flushed and his chest heaved faster. He stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by computer keypad wires, with his little hands down by his side, looking helpless. Elizabeth’s heart hammered in her chest as she silently begged, please do not be like your mother, please do not be like your mother. She knew only too well how the world of fantasy could steal you away.