Chapter 1

 

The lashing wind and rain of the previous night had moved away and it was a calm, quiet day outside. Claire lay for a moment looking round her room, unusually tidy, almost bare, in the dim morning light. Most of her clothes were already packed into the huge suitcase which stood, already locked, over by the door. Her hand luggage lay open on the armchair, awaiting last-minute bits and pieces. Last minute – if only it was! If only she could be safely in the plane crossing the Irish Sea to England!

She opened the casement window and breathed deeply. The sharp stench of seaweed was softened by the damp, dank scent rising from the earth. Storm over – outside, at least, Claire reflected. But no doubt there’d be a few bumpy moments indoors today. Why was it she could never get away from home without all this hassle?

Leaning well out of the casement window, regardless of the dizzying drop below, she watched the sea gently heaving on to the bone-white sand which was bordered by banks of smooth green turf. Who, in their right mind, would want to leave it all?

She would; she’d been ready to leave for the past three weeks. Life at the Leonmohr Hotel in high season was anything but a holiday, with Mammy nagging her into family visits and shopping trips and Da pretending he needed her to help him check the wine stocks, walk the grounds, look at the trout ponds. It was surprising how much she missed her nursing colleagues at St Ag’s, as the medical staff still called the new Brassington Royal Hospital. Although she’d known them only a few months, they seemed closer, more important to her than anyone in Donegal. Especially Student Nurse Jan Buczowski.

She smiled dreamily at the thought of Jan, who had shared so much of last term with her. He was now spending his holiday with a group of fellow refugees in a camp in the wilds of Norfolk, she remembered, guiltily, whilst she was being cosseted in a luxury hotel. She sighed, partly missing Jan, mainly at the effort needed to get through one more day of hotel – and  family – life.

A tap on the door reminded her of both.

“Come in,” she called, without turning.

“Will you be wanting tea now, Claire?” asked Bridie, the chambermaid. “I was just passing with the continental breakfasts and I thought to myself, I did, that it’s the last time you’ll be getting morning tea brought to you now, isn’t it?”

“Don’t bother yourself, Bridie.” Claire didn’t turn round. “I’ll be taking a shower in a moment.”

“Ach, it’s no trouble at all. If you get yourself into the shower, I’ll bring up your tea. Your mammy’s down there in the kitchen pacing away, you know how she is on a day like this.”

“No tea, thank you, Bridie,” Claire said firmly. “Tell Mammy I’ll be down right away.” She moved off into her bathroom, cutting short any further offers.

But even over the hiss of the shower she could hear Bridie moving about the room, chatting away as if Claire was in there with her. That damned Blarney stone had something to answer for, she thought, scrubbing viciously. When she heard the bedroom door slam she stood still under the stinging jets, relishing the feeling of being left alone again.

Turning off the shower, she hugged herself in one of the three fresh towels on the warm rail – one advantage of living in a hotel – and took another back into her room. She sat by the window, squeezing the long tendrils of her already-curling hair and relishing her last quiet moment of the day.

 

* * *

 

“The Dublin Gearys arrive mid-morning, and then Granda, Uncle Will and Auntie Moira with the cousins from Sligo. And Cousin Patrick flew over yesterday; he’ll cause a stir, I dare say.” Claire’s mother was standing in the middle of the hotel kitchen, ticking off a list. “We’ll be thirty for lunch and most of them still here for afternoon tea.” She moved past the central “island” of hot-plates and gas burners, totally preoccupied with thoughts of food.

“Good morning, Mammy,” Claire said loudly “Who’s Cousin Patrick and why will he cause a stir?”

Her mother looked over her notes, and over the little half-spectacles she’d taken to recently. “Oh, Claire! Down already – good girl!” she said, either forgetting the questions or ignoring them, Claire noted. “I was thinking of giving Jean-Paul a ring to come up and do your hair this morning.”

Claire shook her head, scattering drops on to the stainless steel all round her. “Thanks, Mammy, but it’s all right as it is.”

Her mother looked doubtful. “Jean-Paul’s a better hairdresser than anyone you’ll find over there,” she said. “You surely can’t nurse with a mop like that?”

Claire sighed. “I keep telling you – we’re just ordinary students most of the time. Uniforms for ward placement, that’s all. And this term I’ll have my St Ag’s cap – I’ll just pin up my hair and fix the cap in front.”

Her mother ignored that piece of information. She wasn’t interested in details of hospital life; so far as she was concerned Claire’s nursing was just a rebellious phase and it would pass.

“I assume you’re going to get out of your jeans in time for your farewell party?” The tone was amused, teasing, but the question was rhetorical; Mrs Theresa Donovan assumed obedience from staff and family alike.

Claire scowled: this lunch wasn’t her farewell party, it was her mother’s. The whole idea of a family party had been her mother’s; she had arranged the menu, brought in the staff, sent out the invitations – even the guest list was filled up with Gearys, members of Mammy’s own family who hardly knew Claire.

“I’ll wear a dress and do my hair,” Claire promised.

“Don’t wear your blue,” her mother commanded. “You wore it for the summer festival.”

Not that anyone noticed, thought Claire wryly. But she mentally ran through the clothes left in her wardrobe and decided on the dark green tartan.

“Shall I get us both some breakfast now?” she suggested.

“It’s all in the staff dining-room,” her mother answered briefly. “But I must be getting on.”

Claire left her mother counting and check ing lists and crossed the tiled corridor into a small, bright room with a long wooden table in the middle, bordered by a dozen dining chairs. Only one was occupied.

“Morning, Da!” She greeted the big man sitting at the end of the table.

“Claire! And how’re you today, my lovely one?”

In spite of her forebodings, Claire smiled; no one could help smiling when Gerry Donovan turned on the full blast of his charm. “I’m fine, Da; and you?”

He groaned and ran a huge hand through his bristly grey hair. “I’d be feeling better if your mother would let high season fade gracefully away.”

She put an arm around his broad shoulders and hugged him. “Never mind, Da,” she said. “Soon be over.”

He turned to look up at her, ice-blue eyes troubled. “And that’s no consolation, now, is it? Sooner the party’s over, the sooner you’ll be gone again.” He pressed her hand on his shoulder, holding tight, fixed for a moment.

Oh, lord! Tears any minute now; Da was so sentimental! Claire pulled her arm away and moved round the table. Ignoring her father, she took the cereal, fresh fruit salad and cream and reached for the copy of the Irish Times that he appeared to have abandoned. No time for arguments now; no reproaches, no recriminations – well, hardly any. She poured her coffee and settled into the silent meal both she and her father usually enjoyed so much.

“Last peaceful minute of the day,” he often said as he pushed his chair away from the table and prepared to start the working day.

Today he said more. “Last chance to change your mind, Claire.” He drained his coffee cup. “Why not take a year out and think it over? Go to France or out to the Caribbean.” He had contacts in the hotel trade all over the world – his world. “I mean, it’s not as if you’ve done so well at the nursing, now, is it?”

Claire scowled. He was right, of course; even she’d had second thoughts when she’d seen her biology results. But this session would be different, she promised herself. For a start, there was more practical work and longer ward placements. With a bit of luck she’d get a few days a week in a really busy medical ward with the chance of real nursing; better than days in college any time. But there was always Jan to help her with college work.

The thought of Jan brought a flush to her face. Claire propped up the newspaper and hid behind it.

“Da, we’ve been into all this – now leave it, will you, please?” And she took a huge spoonful of cereal in the hope of preventing further conversation.

“Ah,” sighed Da. “You’re a hard woman, Claire Donovan!”

She smiled at him. They both knew she was not. That was something else that worried her: according to last term’s reports she was too soft and oversensitive. A bit like her father, really, she suddenly realized.

“Mammy’s the hard one,” she reminded him. “Especially on a day like today.”

“And don’t I know it!” He rubbed her damp hair affectionately. “I’d better get down to the cellars,” he said. “They’re a hard-drinking lot, those Dubliners!”

For some reason that reminded Claire of the question her mother had ignored.

“Who is Cousin Patrick?” she asked her father.

He scowled. “Well, there’s one that did get away – and a lot of good it’s done him,” he said.

“Cousin Patrick ran away?” she asked.

“No, not Patrick. It was his father, your Ma’s cousin Liam. Didn’t exactly run, either.” Da stood for a moment gazing into space.

“So how did he get away?” asked Claire, intrigued by anyone who’d managed to get away from the tentacles of family life.

“Married,” said Da, shortly.

“Married? I’d have thought that meant settling down rather than running away.”

“Not when you marry an Englishwoman, it doesn’t. Settled over the water, hardly kept in touch; died earlier this year, we heard. I wonder what’s bringing young Patrick over here just now?”

“Maybe he’s reversing his family tradition and coming to settle in Ireland,” Claire grinned.

Her father’s face clouded again. “He could do worse,” he said. And he turned abruptly and left.

Sighing, Claire pushed her breakfast away. She really couldn’t face more than coffee today.

“More coffee?” Bridie, now in her tiny black skirt and startling white blouse, sidled her way through the chattering guests and brandished a tall silver pot somewhat dangerously above Claire.

“Oh, thanks.” Claire sipped the strong, black, unsweetened coffee. “Just right, Bridie; I’m really ready for this!” She’d hardly tasted her lunch – salmon trout, game pie, baby potatoes, multiple salads – all local produce; all accompanied by “good crack” – loud and uproarious conversation which never flagged in spite of the vast quantities eaten.

Bridie waited a moment, then topped up Claire’s half-empty cup and moved off among the guests, quite aware of the stir she caused amongst the assorted Donovans and Gearys.

“Rum-looking lot, our family, don’t you think?” A cool English voice interrupted her reflections.

Claire looked up at a young man with the sharp, wintry features of her mother’s side of the family.

“Patrick,” he announced. “Your long-lost and very distant cousin.”

“Ah yes, I’ve been hearing about you, Cousin Patrick,” she smiled.

“Nothing bad, I hope?”

“Nothing at all, really,” she admitted. “Nobody seems to know much about you.”

“Not surprising,” he said. “I hardly know anyone here myself.”

“Not even the Dublin folk?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, my father settled in England. He would never come back, not even for holidays. You know how it is.”

She didn’t but he obviously wasn’t going to tell her. She knew very little about her mother’s side of the family. Da’s family was all around; he had dozens of relatives in Donegal, always popping in, driving foreign guests in from the airport, sweeping her off to great Donovan gatherings up in the mountains. But the Gearys were Dublin folk, who rarely ventured up to the wilds of the north. And Cousin Patrick wasn’t even a Dubliner; nor was he a first cousin, she realized with interest. He was brought up in England, presumably – heavens, she didn’t even know where! Couldn’t think of a tactful way of asking, either.

“So you flew over yesterday,” she said brightly.

He nodded. “I had business in Belfast anyway; a mere flip from Brassington airport – but of course you’ll know all about that.” He sat down beside her. “You’ll be flying to and fro like a sea-bird these days.”

“But not as often,” said Claire firmly. “Only for holidays.”

He caught her drift. “You’re not at all homesick then?” he enquired.

“Ach no!” Claire realized her reply was rather too forceful; the Gearys were terrible gossips. “Well, I don’t really have time to brood,” she went on hastily. “I’m on a tight schedule, being a student nurse.”

He laughed and turned his cool grey eyes on her. “Oh, I understand,” he assured her. “I’ve always been happiest away from home. Maybe it runs in the family?”

“Running away from the family, you mean?” Claire laughed.

He joined in her laughter, holding her gaze for a moment, and she noticed the gleam in the pale grey eyes, just like her mother’s, amused but cold.

“Well, I’ve done that in my time,” he admitted. “But it’s different now; I’m going to catch up on the family connections I never made.”

“You mean the Gearys?”

“Well, the Gearys aren’t that keen – except for Aunt Tess. It was good of her to invite me here to meet everyone, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, Mammy likes to gather all the family round her,” Claire told him. Privately she wondered why her mother had asked him over after all this time. Presumably as a gesture of reconciliation after his father’s death. Or was it merely to annoy the rest of the Gearys?

“You’re training at Brassington Royal, aren’t you?” Patrick interrupted her thoughts. “I’m often up there on business. Maybe we could meet?”

Claire blushed. But why? There was surely no harm in meeting up with a cousin – well, second cousin, then. “Maybe we could,” she agreed.

“I’ll give you a ring when I’m up there,” he promised. “You’ll be living in?”

“Kelham House,” she told him. She was about to give him the telephone number when her mother drifted by.

“Patrick Geary, are you dating up with my daughter? You should be after persuading her to stay with the family business, not encouraging her gallivanting over the water.”

Mammy had drunk enough wine to make her dangerously amusing, Claire noted. Any moment now the light banter could turn sharp.

Patrick seemed to sense this; perhaps it was a Geary trait? “She’ll be safe enough with me, Aunt Tess,” he soothed. “I’ll take good care of her; you can count on that.”

“Yes, I’m sure you will.” Claire’s mother smiled at Patrick and put a hand on his arm. “We must have a good talk later when all these people have gone,” she said in an intimate tone.

Patrick smiled down at her and nodded. “I’d like that,” he said.

In profile they looked remarkably alike, thought Claire. The same pointed nose, high forehead, clear, grey eyes; the same intent expression, as if measuring each other up. . .

Suddenly her mother turned. “You should be circulating more, Claire; you’ve not met half your guests.”

“I have too, Mammy,” said Claire defensively. “But they’re wanting to catch up on all the family gossip, and after six months away, I don’t know any. They’re better off talking to each other.”

Her mother sighed. “Well, heaven knows when we’ll all be together again.”

Patrick looked at her and smiled. “Claire’s homecoming perhaps?” he suggested. “I’ll bet you have a right old shindig when she qualifies, Aunt Tess.”

Claire felt her mother’s eyes on her, as if she was reading her mind. “I’m not banking on that,” she said flatly, and moved off. “Now, don’t forget our chat, Patrick; we have lots to talk about.”

“I won’t forget, Aunt Tess,” he promised.

He stood and gazed after his aunt with that same intense, almost calculating expression. A Geary expression, Claire thought. Cousin Patrick was obviously closer to at least one of his new relations than he realized.

She stood up. “I’d better go and listen to everyone’s forebodings,” she said. “You’d think I was off back to a mission in darkest somewhere instead of just being a student nurse in Brassington.”

He was very tall and had to lean towards her to touch her cheek. “Brassington can be darkest somewhere,” he said. “I’ll ring you.”

Mammy was “not too well” next morning, so Da drove Claire to the airport. There were hold-ups into the city but, as always, the airport was well organized and efficient. Claire was glad they were rather late for check-in; less time for farewells, no time for recriminations.

“ ’Bye, Da,” she said, hugging him hard, trying to ignore the tears that were already on his cheeks.

“ ’Bye, Claire, me love. Take care of yourself. Come back as soon as you can – I’ll always send you the fare, you know.” He sniffed hard and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“I know, Da, but I must get stuck into the work. I don’t find it easy, you know. . .”

“But you never give up, do you?” Claire couldn’t tell whether his tone was accusing or admiring.

He chucked her under the chin and kissed the end of her nose. “ ’Bye, love! Gate Seven, is it? God bless!”

Claire felt him watching her all the way into Departures. She turned to wave and felt an almost uncontrollable urge to run back to him, cling to him, tell him he was right, that she wanted to stay at home. He stood quite still, seemingly waiting for her.

She turned and walked swiftly through the lounge and down the corridor to Gate Seven, feeling the invisible cord between herself and her father stretching out behind her, pulling her back. But by the time she was settling into her seat on the plane, the cord had snapped.