Читать книгу Cathy Kelly 3-Book Collection 2: The House on Willow Street, The Honey Queen, Christmas Magic, plus bonus short story: The Perfect Holiday - Cathy Kelly - Страница 19

Danae’s routine on a Saturday morning rarely varied. She’d collect her shopping basket and walk down Willow Street into the town, stopping at various places to buy food for the weekend and occasionally pass the time with some of the other shopkeepers. Nothing too personal, just talk about the weather, a subject which enthralled everyone.

‘Will it rain, do you think?’

‘The forecast said gales, but you can’t trust what they say. Always wrong. My husband’s cousin has a pig that always predicts the weather – goes into his pen if it’s going to rain, stays out if it’s fine, and if frost is due, he runs to the back door and tries to get in.’

There was always something to be discussed when it came to weather and it made the perfect subject for someone like Danae: you could talk all day about it and never reveal a thing about yourself.

One of her favourite stops was the new wool shop, where she’d go in and touch the beautiful silky skeins of wool and wonder what she’d make next. She loved knitting, loved the meditative quality of hearing the needles clicking together, feeling the wool slide through her fingers in the age-old tradition.

Avalon’s wool shop, Rudi & Madison, was on a cobbled lane off the square and it was painted a pretty lavender colour that drew the eye. The owner, Sandra, who was gentle and kind, had named the shop after her two dogs. Anyone who loved dogs that much was a good person in Danae’s eyes. Danae felt she could be friends with Sandra, but she was anxious about getting close and saying too much. She wasn’t good with people: it was safer to stand back, wasn’t it?

‘Morning, Danae,’ said Sandra, as the shop bell tinkled over the door. ‘How are you, pet? We’ve got some new silvery speckled pure wool, lovely for Christmas cardigans or things like that, and gifts, too – you could make beautiful scarves. Or imagine a lovely Aran sweater with sparkles in it; wouldn’t that be a great gift for a friend?’

‘Yes,’ said Danae, smiling. It was a genuine smile, even though there were few people in the world she called friend, and what Christmas presents she gave went to her family, who were probably quite sick of knitted things. Nevertheless, she dutifully went over and looked at the beautiful wool. It was indeed a lovely shade of pewter grey with little silver flecks running through it.

It would suit Mara; she could knit a lovely, lacy scarf for her, a small present that would be sitting on her bed when she arrived. She was happy that Mara was coming, but now that her arrival was imminent, Danae was feeling a little anxious. She wasn’t used to living with anyone for any length of time and Mara hadn’t said how long she’d stay. Probably not for long, Danae decided. She’d be off looking for work somewhere – Dublin, London or Australia: that’s where the young people were going. No need to worry, really.

A scarf would be a nice gift for her. Mara adored clothes. The girl was a veritable magpie when it came to all that vintage stuff. Things Danae used to call second-hand, back in the day. She had bought plenty of second-hand clothes herself over the years. There had been a time when all her clothes came from the Lifeboat Shop round the corner from her and Antonio’s flat, ekeing out the few pennies to keep herself dressed so that nobody would know she had so little money in her purse.

‘Isn’t it lovely?’ said Sandra again, reaching out and touching Danae, as if she could sense her pain.

Danae jumped. She wasn’t used to being touched. Quickly, she pulled herself out of the past.

‘Gosh, yes,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll make a scarf, a couple of scarves. My sister-in-law, Elsie, might like one too. Although maybe in a different colour. Do you have any soft lilac shades?’

As she watched Sandra pack the wool into a bag, Danae thought how small her Christmas list was: something for her brother, Morris, a gift for Elsie, something for Stephen, their son, and for Mara, and then a gift for Belle. That was it: that was her circle of friends and family. Without them, she’d have nobody. Morris and Elsie were so lovely to her, always asking her to stay with them in their pretty house in Dublin for Christmas, but Danae had never gone. She had her hens and Lady to take care of, she explained, making sure to let them know she was grateful for the invitation and that she considered it an honour to be asked. Truthfully, she’d have loved to spend Christmas with them, but she always found it such a sad time of year and she didn’t want to inflict her sadness on them.

Christmas was a time of extremes, she felt. If you were happy in your life, the world reflected that back to you and you felt only happiness and joy in the festive season. If your life was lonely and sad, then you felt it ten-fold, because all around you were smiling people, while you stood there in your sadness, not a part of it all, feeling like the loneliest person on the planet.

Belle usually asked her to the hotel for Christmas dinner, but Danae had gone a couple of times and found it an uncomfortable experience: she was too used to remaining on the outside of things to get into the madcap camaraderie of the hotel’s holiday dinner. There were silly hats, crackers, charades, and at least one person commandeering the microphone to sing what would turn out to be a mournful song about the old days. Then Danae would feel as though she was going to cry, and she’d leave, wishing she’d stayed home in front of the fire with Lady.

‘There we are, all packed up,’ said Sandra cheerfully. ‘I hope we’ll see you for the turning on of the Christmas lights the first Wednesday in December.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Danae, when in fact she was sure. She wouldn’t go.

She left the knitting shop with her purchases in her bag. There was only one more thing on her Saturday-morning agenda, and that was to drop into the Avalon Hotel and Spa to meet up with Belle. They’d become friends many years ago when both of them were new to the town. In those days some of the older folk had looked upon newcomers as blow-ins who wouldn’t properly be part of Avalon until they’d been there at least thirty years.

‘We’re nearly there,’ Belle used to joke, ‘eighteen and counting. Another ten and they won’t call us newcomers any more.’

After a time, though, it ceased to bother her. ‘I don’t really care what the aul ones think, do you?’ she’d said to Danae recently. And Danae had laughed.

‘You know full well I don’t care what anyone thinks,’ she said. ‘They all think I’m mad anyway.’

‘Oh, that’s for sure,’ Belle had replied, ‘you’re the hermit lady who runs the post office and lives up high at the end of Willow Street. Sure, you have to be mad. No husband, no child – I was going to say “no chick nor child” but I’d be wrong there. Goodness knows, you’ve enough chickens.’

Danae had felt a stab in her heart when Belle said it. ‘No, plenty of chickens,’ she’d replied bravely.

She loved that Belle said what other people were afraid to say. Nobody else would voice the thought in her presence, though she was sure they all considered her odd, living way up there with only her animals for company.

Saturday mornings the two of them would share a quiet cup of tea and a scone in Belle’s office. They’d chat about their week and Belle would usually try to persuade Danae to come out somewhere over the weekend.

If it was a trip to the cinema or a meal out, just the two of them, Danae would generally agree to it. But she didn’t like anything that involved going out with other people. In the early days, Belle had thought it was because she was shy. ‘How can a shy person run the post office?’ she’d demanded. Belle liked to get to the bottom of every mystery.

‘I’m not shy,’ Danae had said. ‘I like my own company, that’s all. I’m not good in crowds. I don’t like lots of friends.’

‘I love loads of friends,’ Belle had said. ‘Friends are what keep you going, Danae. When poor Harold died, I’d have gone mad if it wasn’t for my friends telling me it was all right to be angry with him for leaving me. Telling me it was all right to want to spend days in my nightie, staring at the television, eating biscuits like there was no tomorrow. Friends get you through stuff like that. How can you say you don’t need friends?’

‘I didn’t say I don’t need friends,’ Danae had said, a little sadly. Harold sounded so lovely: no wonder Belle missed him. ‘I said I’m not good with lots of people.’

It had taken eighteen years, but Belle had got the hint. Now the pair of them went out perhaps once a month to the cinema and then to dinner afterwards. Belle had given up trying to make Danae meet new people. When Danae had told her the whole story – well, most of it – she’d understood why her quiet, dark-eyed friend was happiest on her own.

‘Well,’ said Belle, when they were sitting down in her office with tea and beautiful scones in front of them, ‘what’s the gossip? Any wild excitement in the post office this week?’

‘Nothing really,’ said Danae. ‘I told you Mara’s coming to visit in a few days?’

‘Yes, that’s great,’ said Belle, who was truly delighted. She’d only met Mara a few times, but she thought it would do her friend good to have someone staying.

‘And I heard that Anna Reilly passed away,’ Danae went on.

‘I heard that too,’ said Belle, who heard all that happened in Avalon within moments of it happening. ‘Poor Anna,’ she said. ‘She was a great woman – strong.’

‘True,’ said Danae. She’d both liked and been slightly nervous of Anna Reilly. Before she’d succumbed to the dementia, Anna had always struck Danae as one of the few people who might discover her secret. There had been something in the way Anna looked at her with those shrewd, blue eyes, as if to say, What’s your story? What’s your sadness? Tell me.

Danae found people like that unnerving. She didn’t want to tell anyone her secrets. She merely wanted to live in peace and forget about the past.

‘I met her daughter-in-law, Charlotte, yesterday evening,’ said Belle. ‘God love them, they’re all very upset, even though Anna had long since ceased to be of this world. Dementia really is the long goodbye, God rest her. But it’s always a shock when someone dies.’ Belle’s own eyes got misty and Danae leaned over and put a comforting hand on hers.

‘How about we go out tonight, to the cinema?’ Danae said, and Belle looked at her in astonishment.

‘Mother of God and all the saints!’ she declared. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever suggested going out. Danae Rahill, what’s wrong with you? Do you have a temperature? Is it the change of life?’

Danae laughed. ‘I’ve gone through the change of life already, darling,’ she said. ‘No, I think it might be good for the two of us to get out so you’ll stop thinking about dear Harold.’

‘True,’ said Belle, ‘it’d be lovely to get out. But is there anything decent on? I only like thrillers if there are handsome men in them. And no weepies, either. Fun or gorgeous men, that’s what I like.’

‘Ah, there’s bound to be something on in Arklow that’ll fit the bill,’ Danae said. She didn’t let many people into her life, but when she did, she took good care of them. And she was going to take care of Belle. ‘We’ll look it up in the paper now and book it, right?’

The driver was silent. He’d tried idle chit-chat as they’d driven away from Cashel’s Dublin house, but Cashel had told him that he’d be working in the back, making phone calls and reading papers, and the man had got the hint. In reality, Cashel had made his few phone calls half-heartedly. He didn’t want to speak to anyone today. His assistants in the offices in Dublin, London, New York and Sydney had told people that he’d be out of contact for a couple of days. He had papers to read too. He’d long ago learned to read in the back of cars and limousines as he’d sped around the capital cities of the world. Driving had been something he enjoyed, but it was rare that he had the chance. Cashel Reilly’s time was too precious to waste driving himself anywhere; instead, other people drove while he worked. Other people did everything for him. It was, he thought with amusement, only a matter of time before some genius came up with a system whereby captains of industry could get someone else to work out for them in the gym too, while they concentrated on making yet more money.

After a while he gave up trying to work, put his papers down and looked out the window at the changing landscape as the sleek, black car left the motorway and joined the road that would take them through Avalon.

Cashel felt, as he always did, the years peeling away. Nothing seemed changed here, and yet everything was changed now his mother was gone.

He and Riach had spoken on the phone early that morning:

‘You’ll stay with us,’ Riach had said. ‘Charlotte has a room ready.’

Normally, when Cashel went to Avalon, he stayed in his mother’s house. The luxury home he’d bought for her in the town; a far cry from the cramped, damp-ridden cottage he’d grown up in. He’d wanted to build her a mansion – no, better than a mansion – but she’d laughed and said, ‘Cashel, love, I’d be rattling around inside a place like that! No, a nice little house with proper central heating and no damp, that’d suit me.’

And because his mother was the one person he listened to, no matter what, Cashel had gone along with it. She’d had her little house, a lovely place with a beautifully landscaped pocket back garden, so she could indulge her love of flowers and plants in a way that she had never been able to in Cottage Row. There, all they’d had was a communal back yard lined with coal sheds and dustbins, where kids kicked balls around when they got into trouble kicking balls around on the street.

It seemed strange not to be staying in the new house tonight, but he didn’t want to stay there without her. Tonight he wanted to be with his brother and Charlotte and their two beautiful children.

The driver came to a fork in the road and turned right, as Cashel had instructed. There were two ways into Avalon from this direction: the winding road along the coast, and the road that came over the hill. Cashel preferred the hill road with its view of the town, spread out like a cloak, and the beauty of the horseshoe bay with its white gleaming sands shining up at them. In the distance, on the hill, was the old De Paor estate and the beautiful woods surrounding Avalon House.

Cashel gazed at it for a few minutes. He didn’t know who was living there now, who owned it, who’d renovated it. He knew nothing. He didn’t want to know. His mother had known better than to raise the subject and then, in the last few years, she hadn’t been able to. What did he care about Avalon House anyway? What did he care about the bloody Powers? Suki and Tess, who between them had managed to rip his heart out all those years ago. No, he didn’t give a damn who lived there. That house was bad luck, bad luck to anyone who had anything to do with it.