Читать книгу Past Secrets - Cathy Kelly - Страница 12

The next afternoon, Maggie’s suitcases arrived together on the carousel. They looked shabby among some of the classier travellers’ bags from the Galway to Dublin shuttle.

She hauled them off the belt with some difficulty, having murmured, ‘No thanks, I’m fine,’ to the man who’d leaped to offer to help the tall redhead in the trailing pale suede coat.

Her eyes were raw with crying and she kept her head down as she spoke, embarrassed by how she must look. The man probably felt sorry for her; thought she was one of those care in the community patients who rattled because of all the Xanax bottles in their pockets.

Maggie didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for her today. She felt sorry enough for herself.

The first piece of luggage was the heaviest, a wardrobe-on-wheels affair that was fit to burst, only a bright purple strap preventing its internal organs splurging out over the concourse. An orange ‘heavy item’ sticker hung from the handle. The second was a hard candy-pink case that was a dead weight even when empty.

Grey used to joke that it had been cursed by so many baggage people, it had probably developed magical powers itself.

‘If our plane ever goes down, the pink case will be the only survivor, you wait and see,’ he’d laugh.

Fresh misery assailed her at this thought of Grey and the fabulous holidays they had saved up for and shared before they’d bought the flat.

They’d never go away together again. Not when she’d be watching like a jailer every time he tipped a beautiful waitress or glanced at a woman on the beach. Only a fool would trust him again. Maggie was not going to be that fool. Last night she’d packed and said they’d talk later, trying to delay the inevitable argument in case she gave in.

‘Would you like me to sleep on the couch?’ Grey had asked, and she wanted to whisper: no, lie next to me and hold me. Tell me it’ll be all right, it was a mistake, that you’ll make it better.

‘Yes, sleep on the couch,’ she said, finding the strength from somewhere to say it.

We’ll try again, I know you love me, her heart bleated.

But her head had to do the talking. Leaving this way was easier, because if she stopped and thought about actually losing him, about not sharing her life with him, Maggie was afraid she’d relent. And her head told her that staying would destroy her, in the end.

Gulping back a fresh batch of tears, she grabbed Cursed Candy Pink and shoved it on to the luggage trolley behind Wardrobe, ignoring the interested gaze of the man who’d tried to help her. She wished he’d stop looking at her. Honestly, what was wrong with people? Couldn’t a person cry in public?

On top of the trolley, she dumped her handbag, a banana-shaped black leather thing that held everything, and cleverly deposited the most vital bits right at the bottom, thus deterring both purse-snatchers and Maggie from locating her money in shops.

She wheeled her trolley hopefully past the special mirrored section, holding her breath.

On those girls-only holidays to Greece, in the pre-Grey days, the others had always trooped through customs happily clinking contraband bottles of ouzo and Metaxa brandy, while she (the only one who’d actually read the customs bit of paper about only importing 200 fags and giving notice if they’d been loitering near goats) was the one to have to unpack her case in public.

Today, fortunately, the customs people behind their two-way mirrors resisted the impulse to go through Maggie’s blameless luggage.

Then she was out into arrivals, into the spotlight, where hundreds of eager people scrutinised and rejected her as they searched for whichever special person they’d come to meet so they could wave their welcome home placards, wobble their helium balloons and scream ‘hello!!!’

It brought home to Maggie that she had no special person any more. The person for whom she used to be special had cheated on her. God, it hurt.

Trying to look cool, as though she didn’t care, she was thankful when her mobile rang and she could busy herself answering it.

‘We’re home from the hospital,’ said her father happily. ‘Where are you, love? Are you nearly here yet? Will I boil the kettle? Your mother can’t wait to see you.’

Maggie felt the usual dual burst of affection and irritation reserved for conversations with her parents. The plane had only just landed, for heaven’s sake. She’d already given Dad the details and told him to add another fifteen minutes for normal plane delays. Unless Clark Kent was bursting out of his Y-fronts in a telephone box nearby in order to whisk her off home at supersonic speed, she wouldn’t reach Summer Street for another three quarters of an hour at least.

‘Not quite, Dad,’ she said, keeping her tone cheery. It was only because he cared. ‘I’ve just come through arrivals.’

‘Oh, right then. You’ll be here in…’

‘Less than an hour,’ she said. ‘See you then. Bye!’

She stuck the phone back in her jeans pocket and tried to ignore the feeling that the walls were closing in. She was back home. Back with nothing to show for five years away in Galway and the Maguire family clock – always at ‘Where were you? Why didn’t you phone? We were worried!’ – was ticking once again.

Maggie manhandled all her worldly goods towards the door and the taxis. It was too late for the if-onlys but she went through them all the same – if only Grey hadn’t screwed someone else, if only she hadn’t witnessed it, if only he’d realised how much he loved her and pledged undying faithfulness instead of saying he couldn’t help himself. If only she wasn’t so stupid to fall for someone like him in the first place.

That’s what it all came back to: her stupidity. An intelligent woman would have known that Grey, who could have had any woman, would one day stray. An intelligent woman would have got out before this happened. An intelligent woman would have made it calmly clear long beforehand that straying wasn’t an option and that if he did, their relationship was over. For such a woman, Grey would have agreed.

But not for Maggie. For all that he’d said she was special, that he didn’t want a pert blonde, he’d lied to her.

Now all she had to do was work out what to tell her parents. With luck, she’d have some peace on the ride home to adjust and get her story straight. They didn’t need her in tears right now, with her mother in such distress.

‘…So you see, what the politicians don’t realise is that if you have a system with toll roads, it’s the people like myself who are paying for it…’

‘Right, I see.’

The taxi driver’s monologue was only stemmed by having to negotiate the tricky box junction just before St Kevin’s Road. Since picking her up at the airport, he’d been talking at high speed about the price of property, chewing gum on car seats and now toll roads. Maggie hadn’t felt able to interrupt. It would have been rude and in the grand scheme of things, there was no excuse to be rude, was there? Her mother’s training had kicked in as usual.

Maggie was the one who got stuck with bores at parties, charity muggers in the street, and sweet bewildered people who wandered into the library for warmth and who ought to have been thrown out. She was too kind and too polite to say no or ignore people.

‘That’s what I said to that woman politician. I said: that’s my opinion, Missus, and if you don’t like it, don’t get in my cab,’ the taxi driver went on. ‘Was I right to say it?’ As with all the other questions he’d posed on the forty-minute trip, he didn’t pause for a reply. ‘I was right, you see. Nobody stands up to these people. Nobody.’

The taxi turned the corner, driving slowly past the Summer Street Café where people sat outside at the small tables, looking as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Mum and Dad loved the café, loved the buzz of meeting people there. Mum would listen to all the gossip and pass it eagerly on to Maggie, forgetting that she’d lived away for five years and didn’t know all the people they met.

Maggie, who didn’t know all of the people in her Galway apartment block and clearly didn’t know her boyfriend at all, had learned that the wild-eyed Mrs Johnson was off the sauce after failing the breathalyser test one night and losing her licence, that Amber Reid, the teenage girl who lived alone with her mother – lovely woman with a big job but never too busy to bake cakes for the Vincent de Paul fundraisers – was going to art college and would be a big star one day. Christie Devlin said she was a marvellous artist, and Christie would know, wouldn’t she? Look at those lovely paintings Christie had done for Una’s sixtieth. Maggie knew that the carrot cake muffins in the café were now sugar-free; oh, and she knew that Jane and Henry in the café had hired this lovely Chinese waitress.

‘Xu her name is, although we call her Sue, because it’s almost the same. Came all the way from China by herself, brave little thing, and not knowing anybody here. She’d put us to shame,’ Mum had said. ‘Learning English and working at the same time, and not knowing a sinner here. It must be terrible hard to leave your country and start again.’

Maggie loved the way her mother was so interested in people. Maggie used to be like that too, she realised, before she met Grey and became so wrapped up in him that she had no space or time left for anyone else. Yet how could she be totally involved with him and still not see the obvious? Love wasn’t just blind, it was lobotomised.

In the back seat of the taxi, her thoughts miles away, Maggie realised they’d passed the third of Summer Street’s maple trees and suddenly they were slowing down outside her house.

‘Number forty-eight you said?’ the driver asked.

‘Yes, thanks,’ she replied.

She scrabbled in her bag to pay him.

‘Cheer up, gorgeous,’ he said, beaming up at her from the window, ‘it might never happen.’

True to form, Maggie managed a smile.

‘See ya,’ she said. There was no way she was going to tell him it had already happened.

She turned and stared at number 48. Home. It was one of the 1930s houses, white with dark beams painted on the front gable and diamond-paned windows. Part of the house was covered by the bronzed leaves of a Virginia creeper that had science fiction film capabilities to regrow no matter how often it was pruned back to the roots.

Maggie felt the years shrink away. Home made her feel not entirely like a child again but as if still under the influence of all the old childhood problems.

Her father met her at the gate, dressed up in his going-into-the-hospital outfit of navy blazer and tie, but still comfortingly familiar. When he put his arms around her, Maggie snuggled against him like the child she once was, even though he was shorter than her and as skinny as ever.

‘It’s so lovely to have you home,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming. I know it’s a lot to ask, but thank you.’

‘How could I not come?’ admonished Maggie, pulling away briskly. If she let her reserve drop, she’d sob her heart out. Better to be brusque and not give them a chance to ask after Grey. She’d tell them later, when she – and they – felt stronger.

‘How’s Mum?’

‘Much better today.’ Her father’s face brightened. ‘She got an awful shock, you know. It was all so quick. One minute we were here, the next, she’d passed out with the pain. I thought she was dead, Maggie,’ he added, and he looked so forlorn that Maggie had to take a deep breath to steady herself.

‘Where is she?’

‘Where do you think?’

The kitchen at the back of the house was certainly the heart of the Maguire home. A cosy room which had been decorated at a time when there was no such concept in interior design as using too much pine, it was the room Maggie felt she’d grown up in.

Sitting in an armchair at the table (pine) with her plastered leg up on a kitchen chair (pine), watching the portable television that was perched on the Little House on the Prairie dresser (distressed pine), was Maggie’s mother, Una.

As tall a woman as her daughter, she was just as slender but with faded red hair instead of Maggie’s fiery curls. Their faces were very similar: perfect ovals with other-worldly cobalt-blue eyes and wide mouths that were always on the verge of a smile. But whereas Maggie’s smile was tremulous, anxious, Una’s was the all-encompassing beam of a woman who embraced life. Now Una sat listlessly in the chair, as if breaking her leg had taken the strength out of all her bones. Beside her was the crossword, nearly finished.

‘I’ve left the hard ones for your father,’ Una said, which was the standard and affectionate lie in the Maguire household.

Dennis was no good at crosswords. A champion at the Rubik’s Cube, and deeply sorry when that had gone out of fashion, he was marvellous with gadgets, figures and magazine quizzes where you had to work out which tetrahedron was the odd one out.

But words defied him.

‘What’ll I say?’ he used to beg Maggie when he had to write the only birthday card his wife didn’t write for him.

‘To Una, happy birthday, I love you so much, Dennis,’ was Maggie’s usual suggestion.

It was what she’d have liked written on a card to her. Grey, for all his eloquence, hadn’t been much good at cards either, although Maggie had kept every single one he’d given her.

Mum hugged Maggie tightly, then somehow managed a final squeeze and whispered in her ear: ‘We’re so glad you’re here, Bean.’

Bean or Beanpole was her nickname, so given because she’d been long and skinny as a child.

‘Like a beanpole!’ her cousin Elisabeth used to say joyfully.

Elisabeth, also tall but with Victoria’s Secret model curves instead of Maggie’s racehorse slenderness, was never called anything but Elisabeth.

While Dennis bustled off with Maggie’s suitcases, Una told her daughter that the osteoporosis was advanced.

‘They can’t believe I haven’t broken anything before,’ she said finally. ‘It’s a bit of a miracle, and at my stage, I could end up breaking bones with just a knock against a bookcase.’

Maggie was shocked. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said. ‘That’s terrible. Dad said it was osteoporosis but he never said it was that bad.’

They heard Dennis coming back.

‘I don’t want him to know everything,’ her mother went on. ‘It’d only worry him and what’s the point of that?’

‘He ought to know, Mum.’

‘Ah, why? It won’t be good for his heart if he’s watching me every moment worrying about me. I’ll be fine.’

Maggie’s father came back into the kitchen.

‘What’ll we have for dinner?’ said Una breezily. ‘I can’t wait for a decent meal. Your poor dad is doing his best but he can only do soup and rolls. How about a roast? I fancy beef.’

‘Roast beef? Is there beef in the fridge?’ Maggie asked.

Her mother looked blank. ‘I don’t know, love. I can’t get near the fridge. But look. Or you could go to the shops. The car’s there.’

At that instant, Maggie began to feel panicky. Everything was more serious than she’d thought.

Her father wasn’t exactly one of life’s copers. He’d never been able to cook, and viewed both the iron and washing machine as arcane specimens, beyond his ability. Her mother had done everything in the Maguire household.

And yet here she was, expecting Maggie, who had just arrived, to know what was in the fridge, not to mention to feel confident hopping into a car she had never driven before and going to the supermarket. Maggie had passed her driving test when she was a teenager but she’d never owned a car and could barely remember the difference between all the pedals.

Had breaking her leg broken something else in her mother too?

‘Mum,’ Maggie said, feeling horrendously guilty at not being able to do this simple thing in a family crisis, ‘I can’t drive. You know I can’t.’

She looked into the fridge. There were several big chill-cabinet cartons of soup, half a pack of butter and eggs. Nothing else. ‘We shop from day to day,’ her father added helpfully. ‘I’ll stay with your mother.’

Maggie shut the fridge. She was in charge. She wondered how this had happened. She was not qualified for this. Her mother was the one who was in charge.

‘You’ll be able to go, won’t you?’ Una’s voice quavered slightly.

With frightening clarity, Maggie saw that their roles had swapped. One cracked femur and she was the parent.

She had no option.

‘I’ll do a shop right now,’ she said firmly. ‘The mini supermarket will have everything we need. I’ll walk.’

Speedi Shop on Jasmine Row had been open from dawn to dusk since Maggie had been in infant school. More expensive than the proper supermarket a mile away, it was always busy but there were never any long queues at the checkouts, mainly because Gretchen, the owner, didn’t encourage chitchat. She was, however, an interrogator of Lubyanka standards and Maggie had always felt that Gretchen was terrifying. She didn’t smile much and when she did, her forehead and face remained static, as if filled with Botox, although it was hard to imagine Gretchen spending the money on such a thing. Beauty, a bit like politeness, was a waste of time in Gretchen’s book.

She was there behind the counter when Maggie arrived at the checkout, her basket spilling over with the makings of a roast dinner, shop-bought apple pie and ice cream for pudding.

‘Maggie Maguire, a sight for sore eyes. Long time no see. I thought you were living in married bliss in Galway.’

Maggie translated this bit of faux politeness in her head: fancy seeing you here, and is it true you’re not married at all but still shacking up with some fellow who clearly won’t marry you?

‘Home for a few days,’ said Maggie, aiming for the happily unconcerned approach. Had Gretchen X-ray vision? Could she see that Maggie’s man had cheated on her? It wouldn’t surprise her if the answer was yes. ‘And I’m not married, actually, I’ve a long-term partner.’

Translation: I am a fulfilled woman who has made interesting life choices and wouldn’t be bothered getting married when I could live the free life of a modern feminist unshackled by silly old wedding vows.

‘Right.’ Gretchen nodded appraisingly and began to scan Maggie’s groceries. ‘You remember my Lorraine, don’t you? You were in the same year in school. Lorraine’s living in Nice, married to this gorgeous French pilot, Jacques, with three kids and a live-in nanny. You should see their house: Jacuzzi, pool, bidet in every en suite, the lot.’ I don’t buy your story, said her eyes. Long-term partner, my backside. Now Lorraine, she’s a success story. She has it all: fabulous husband, children, everything money can buy. She’s not home with her tail between her legs at the age of thirty with no ring and no kids either.

‘How wonderful for her,’ Maggie said, adding a large bar of chocolate to the basket to comfort herself. ‘Lorraine always knew what she wanted, didn’t she?’ She snatched back her shopping and shoved it into a bag. Lorraine was a hard-nosed little madam and she was always keen on self-improvement without doing any actual work. Like stealing other people’s homework or hanging round with the class bullies.

‘Bye, Gretchen, have to rush.’

On her way home with the grocery bags weighing her down, Maggie passed the time by trying to remember who lived in the various houses on Summer Street. Many of them were still owned by the people who’d lived there when she was a child, like the Ryans, who bred Burmese cats and never minded the neighbourhood children coming in to coo over the latest batch of apricot-coloured kittens. Or sweet Mrs Sirhan, who’d looked eighty when Maggie had been small, and now must be unbelievably old, but still went for her constitutional every day, up the street into the café for a cup of Earl Grey with lemon.

There was a sign on the park gate: ‘Save Our Park’, written in shaky capitals on a bit of cardboard, and Maggie idly wondered what the park had to be saved from. But the sign-writer hadn’t thought to add that bit of information. Rampaging aliens, perhaps? Or people who didn’t scoop the dog poop?

The old railway pavilion was her favourite part of the park: she’d played in it many times during her childhood and it was easy to imagine it as a train station, with ladies in long dresses sobbing into their reticules as handsome men left them behind, sad stories behind every parting. There hadn’t been a train that way for many years.

The train tracks were long gone, too. Maybe that was the lesson she needed to learn: nobody cared about the past. Her misery over Grey would mean nothing in a hundred years.

It was ten before Maggie managed to escape to bed and to her private misery. She’d left her mobile phone unanswered all day and when she finally checked there were seven where are you? texts from Shona, along with two missed calls and one I am so sorry, please answer your phone text from Grey.

Yeah, right, Maggie thought furiously, erasing it. One lousy text and a couple of phone calls. What an effort that must have been. Feeling angry with Grey was easier than giving in to feeling hopeless and alone. If she let go of the anger, she’d collapse under the weight of the loneliness.

She unwrapped the giant bar of milk chocolate she’d bought and dialled the only person in the world, apart from Shona, who might possibly understand: her cousin Elisabeth. Despite coming up with the nickname Bean, Elisabeth was one of Maggie’s favourite people.

Elisabeth was tall, athletic, had been captain of the netball team and was wildly popular at her school, a fact that had often made Maggie wish they’d gone to the same one. She might have protected Maggie. She was now a booker in one of Seattle’s top model agencies and incredibly, despite all these comparative riches, she was a nice person.

It was eight hours earlier in Seattle and Elisabeth was on her lunch break, sitting at her desk with her mouth full of nuts because she was still doing the low-carb thing.

‘How are you doing?’ asked Elisabeth in muffled tones.

‘Oh, you know, fine. You heard about Mum’s accident?’

‘Yes, Dad told me.’ Her father and Maggie’s were brothers. ‘You don’t sound OK,’ she added suspiciously.

Elisabeth picked up tones of voice like nobody else. Certainly nobody else in the Maguire family, who all had the intuition of celery. ‘What’s up?’

‘I told you.’

‘I mean what else?’

‘You can hear something else in my voice?’

‘I spend all my life on the phone to young models in foreign countries asking them how they are, did anybody hit on them and are they eating enough/drinking too much/taking coke/ screwing the wrong people/screwing anybody. So yes, I can hear it in your voice,’ insisted Elisabeth.

‘I caught Grey in bed with another woman.’

Silence.

‘Fuck.’

‘I didn’t know you were allowed to say that outside Ireland any more,’ Maggie remarked, in an attempt at levity. ‘Everyone on your side of the Atlantic nearly passes out when they hear it, when here, it’s a cross between an adjective and an adverb, the sort of word we can’t do without.’

‘Desperate situations need desperate words,’ said Elisabeth, then said ‘fuck’ again followed by, ‘Fucking bastard.’

‘My sentiments exactly.’

‘Is he still alive?’

‘He has all his teeth, yes,’ Maggie said.

‘And they’re not on a chain around his neck?’

Maggie laughed and it was a proper laugh for the first time all day. Elisabeth was one of those people with the knack of making the unbearable slightly more bearable. With her listening, Maggie didn’t feel like the only person on the planet to have been hurt like this before.

‘No, they’re still in his mouth. I did think about hitting him but he was attached to this blonde fourteen-year-old at the time…’

‘A fourteen-year-old!’ shrieked Elisabeth.

‘Metaphorically speaking,’ Maggie interrupted. ‘She’s probably twenty or twenty-one, actually. Gorgeous, from the angle I was looking from. Which was really a bummer. I mean, if she was ugly and wrinkly, I might manage to cope, but being cheated on with a possible centrefold doesn’t do much for your self-confidence.’

‘Oh, Maggie,’ said Elisabeth and there was love and pity in her voice. She’d long since given up trying to boost Maggie’s self-esteem, although having a beautiful cousin with a skewed vision of her gorgeousness was perfect training for working with stunning size six models who thought they were too fat and faced rejection every day. ‘I wish I was there to give you a hug. What did you do?’

‘Dad phoned about Mum, so I left to come here. Ran away, in other words, which is what I’m good at.’

‘You haven’t told them.’

‘No. Couldn’t face it.’

Maggie heard muffled noises at Elisabeth’s end.

‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. Call me tomorrow?’

‘Sure.’

Maggie looked at her suitcases waiting patiently to be unpacked. It was hard to feel enthusiastic about moving back into her childhood bedroom. All she needed now was one of those big doll’s heads that you put eye make-up on, her old Silver Brumby books, and she’d be eleven again.

She’d read so much as a child, losing herself in the world of books because the outside world was so cruel. And yet she hadn’t learned as much as she’d thought she had: books taught you that it would work out right in the end. They never envisaged the possibility that the prince would betray you. They never pointed out that if you gave a man such ferocious power over your heart, he could destroy you in an instant.

She finished her bar of chocolate slowly.

If everything had been different, she’d have been at home now in her own flat with Grey.

Without closing her eyes, she could imagine herself there: sitting on their bed, talking about their day, all the little things that seemed mundane at the time and became painfully intimate and important when you could no longer share them. Like waking up in the night and feeling Grey’s body, warm and strong beside her in the bed. Like leaning past him at the bathroom sink to get to the toothpaste.

Like hanging his T-shirts on the radiators to dry. These things made up their life together. Now it was all gone. She felt betrayed, broken and utterly hollow inside.

She was back in her childhood bed with nothing to show for it.