He watched her eyes widen as they read down the page. ‘Writing workshop,’ she read aloud. ‘Have you always wanted to unlock your creative potential through the power of words? Work with professional writer Colette Crowley to achieve your ambition. Whether you feel you have a novel inside you or a book of poems, work with other writers to achieve your goal through constructive criticism and a focus on the craft of writing. Classes are ninety minutes and cost £8 and will start on Wednesday, October 10, at 7:30 p.m. in the Community Centre.’ Izzy looked up at him. ‘But what’s the “workshop” bit?’

‘Oh, I think it’s just a fancy word for a class. But it’s good for the town, especially with the winter coming in. Something for people to do.’

‘And you think people will go to this?’

‘Apparently she’s very talented. She’s published books all over.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she’s talented but . . .’

‘But what?’ he said. ‘Maybe you should give it a chance.’

‘Oh really? And are you going?’

‘Ah no – a priest can’t be showing up to that sort of thing. It’d put people off. They wouldn’t be able to be open or honest. They’d feel like they were at confession but without the grille.’

He heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and turned to look out the window.

‘Who’s that coming?’ Izzy said, thrusting the piece of paper back at him.

He recognised Mrs Mallon’s ancient silver Ford Escort as it slowed to a stop in front of the house.

‘Oh, for feck’s sake, what’s going on now?’ she said, heading out to the hallway.

Mrs Mallon got out of the car and a few seconds later someone stepped out of the passenger side, a school bag on their back, wearing an anorak with the hood up. Voices carried to him from the doorstep but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The door slammed and then Izzy appeared in the hall, prodding her son in the back until he stepped into the kitchen. Niall looked up at him from under the brim of his hood, his eyes filled with shame, his face swollen from crying. A bruise blossomed in the corner of his eye.

Chapter 5

Izzy sat in her car staring at the county coat of arms painted on the side of the Community Centre. At least she felt fairly certain that’s what it was; the shield striped with green and gold, the Donegal county colours. But she’d never really looked at it closely before, at the mangy-looking bird perched on top and the red cross in the middle, and had no idea about the meaning of the Latin emblazoned on the banner beneath. When first she’d reached the Centre, she thought she might just keep driving, follow this road back onto the main road and head straight home. She could take the spiral-bound notebook and pen she’d bought that afternoon in the newsagent’s, and place them in the cupboard with the sketchpads and brushes and half-full tubes of paint from the art class she’d attended last winter. But she did not want to go home and there was nowhere else for her to be.

When James had returned from Dublin, she’d continued to ignore him. She stayed in bed in the morning and waited until he’d left for his office. Most evenings she put Niall’s dinner in the oven, and was gone from the house before James got home from work. If they happened to be fighting during the summer months it was easy enough to avoid him. The days were so long then that she could leave the house in the evening and play a full round of golf before it got dark. She could drive to Lough Eske and spend hours walking the forests, mithered by midges. Mostly, she parked at the strand in Mountcharles and listened to the radio while she read. And always on those nights, as she observed the failing light and watched sea and sky bleed together, she would will herself to wait just a bit longer – an hour, two hours. James was a worrier, and it gave her some satisfaction to imagine the conclusions he’d reach – that she’d crashed the car, that she’d driven off and left him, that she’d parked at the beach and walked into the tide. But always, before it got too late to cause him any real concern, she’d start the engine and begin the drive home.

In the winter months, however, it was necessary to be indoors in the evenings, and if she were to stand any chance of avoiding her husband, she often had to take up classes that she had little interest in. She had once joined a knitting circle with women twenty years her senior, and had spent her time making garments that no one would ever wear. Her jumpers were posted to her sister Majella, in Galway, to finish the sleeves and the hem. And while a creative writing class held some attraction for her, the most appealing thing about it was how much her attendance would bother James. An art class was one thing, painting landscapes and bowls of fruit, but words were harder to hide behind – he would be anxious about what she might reveal to their neighbours.

She reached to turn the key in the ignition and drew her hand away. She looked around the car park – there were only a few cars, not so many that there would be a crowd inside but enough to suggest she wouldn’t be alone, and she reasoned that if she felt uncomfortable, she could make up some excuse to leave.

She pushed open the door to the Centre and the wooden frame juddered. The building largely consisted of a low-ceilinged concert hall with a stage at the far end, and from this direction she heard hushed, reverential voices fall silent. The group seated there was lit only by a floor lamp so all but the corner they occupied was in darkness. Izzy was conscious of the noise of her heels against the wooden boards as she crossed the room. There were maybe ten seats in a circle but only a handful were occupied. Colette’s smile widened as Izzy drew closer.

‘Hello, Izzy, how are you?’ she said.

‘Hello, Colette,’ she said.

‘Sit wherever you want, you have your choice of places this evening.’

Izzy sat down on one of the red plastic chairs and took her notebook and pen from her little white canvas bag.

‘I was just telling the group, Izzy, that we’ve been instructed by the caretaker to tidy up after ourselves and leave the place as we found it – they’ll be hosting bingo in the hall tomorrow night. Anyway, you may have noticed that we’re not very well set up this week. I do hope that next time you come we’ll have a table, and that we’ll get the heating sorted before the winter really sets in.’

Izzy looked around her at the group – Eithne Lynch, Fionnuala Dunleavy, Thomas Patterson, and the only person who was not from the town, Sarah Connolly. She didn’t know the Connolly woman but she’d been pointed out to her on a number of occasions as the wife of Tony Connolly, a hotelier who owned businesses all over the northwest. Izzy had never failed to be surprised by the dour countenance of the woman. Izzy knew there were those whose disapproval of Colette was so great it would forbid them from coming. But she had wondered if pure nosiness would make it impossible for some not to attend, to get a good look at her, to see what was going on so they could report back to others on the sordidness of the whole thing.

‘Tonight,’ Colette said, ‘is just an opportunity for us to get to know each other and to have a little chat about what we write, the ways we want to improve our writing, and the kinds of things that we might do together over the next few months – and maybe we’ll try a few exercises to get us started.’

Izzy watched Colette cross her legs and clasp her hands at her knee. She wore a long skirt and the sleeves of her jumper were pushed up past her elbows so that they ballooned at her shoulders. Her slender arms flashed white in the darkness. She held herself so proudly; her face so expressive – Izzy thought she was the most confident person she had ever seen.

Thomas Patterson cleared his throat. ‘That’s a very interesting word you’ve just used, Colette – “exercises”. Would you mind telling us a bit more about what you mean?’

A retired doctor who had lived in the town his entire life, Thomas was known to be of an artistic bent. He was an amateur photographer who’d documented the town’s development over the decades and displayed his work at various self-mounted exhibitions that locals then felt obliged to attend. He had been her family doctor and Izzy had always thought him to be pleasant enough, although as an educated man who was used to being listened to, he was also prone to delivering every statement with a certain weight and bombast.

‘Well, Thomas—’

‘Because when I hear the word “exercise”, I think of aerobics or calisthenics or some kind of activity that gets the heart rate going.’

‘Well, Thomas, the kind of exercise I’m talking about is not entirely—’

‘Surely you’re not comparing writing to a brisk walk?’

‘Will you let the woman speak. She can’t answer your question if you keep talking over her all the time.’ Fionnuala Dunleavy had buckteeth and every word sounded like it was spat out of her mouth. She sat with her hands crossed on her stomach; her breasts perched on top of her round belly like a coconut shy.

‘Thank you, Fionnuala,’ Colette said, and Izzy saw how the corners of Colette’s mouth flickered like she was trying not to laugh, and she had to suppress a laugh herself. She imagined retelling all of this to James, then remembered she was not speaking to him.

‘I’m sorry, Colette,’ Thomas said. ‘Please continue.’

‘Well, to answer your question, Thomas—’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Colette,’ Eithne said. ‘But you mentioned that there was a problem with the heating and I was wondering when that might be fixed?’

Fionnuala tutted.

‘I’m going to mention that to the caretaker, along with the tables and a bit of extra lighting. Hopefully it’ll all be sorted out by next week.’

‘But could you ask that he doesn’t turn the heating up too much – it’s even worse when it’s too hot. The heat from those radiators would suck the air dry. You’d be parched by the time you’re leaving.’

‘I can mention that, Eithne.’

Eithne Lynch was an ageing hippie who lived in a thatched cottage on the outskirts of the town that made Izzy shiver every time she drove past it. Izzy thought she would have been happy with whatever residual heat she could get.

‘But to get back to your question, Thomas, about this idea of “exercises” – I like to think of writing as a skill or a craft. Maybe the exercises are not ways of raising our heartbeat but they are ways of limbering up for a difficult task. Stretches, if you will.’ She smiled at Thomas when she said this. ‘People often feel that they have an idea or something to say but they don’t quite know how to put pen to paper, and I hope that some of the exercises we’ll do together will get us over that particular hurdle – the fear of the blank page.’

‘Well now, that’s the bit I struggle with, Colette,’ Eithne said. She was holding both hands in the air, rubbing her fingertips together like she was summoning spirits. ‘Because I feel all the time like I’m inhabited by ideas and voices that I need to find a way to channel but when I actually come to articulate those ideas, they evade me.’ She was clenching her fist then, shaking it at the air.

‘Well, hopefully these workshops will help with that,’ Colette said. ‘And this is another term you might not be familiar with. I was first introduced to the idea of a creative writing “workshop” when I did a residency in Sacramento. Americans are more into the idea of writing as a craft, a skill you can develop. I want us to get rid of the idea that writing is a God-given talent and start to think of it as something we can all learn to do. I hope that by working together on something that is dear to us, and sharing our work, and offering each other constructive criticism – that is, criticism that’s helpful and respectful – we’ll all become better writers. And I hope I’ll learn something from you as well.’

It was extraordinary, Izzy thought – she seemed to mean every word she said, and yet there was no conviction to it. They were never what she would have called close friends, but Izzy always made a point of speaking to Colette whenever she saw her. Just chatting to Colette for a few minutes was like sliding into a current of warmth and charm and good humour. Colette’s eyes held a keenness and intelligence that had a way of taking you in and absorbing you entirely, and Izzy would leave her company feeling heartened. But today Colette’s words sounded rehearsed, like she was reading from a script. And every smile that passed across her face did nothing to lift the dull gleam from her eyes.

‘And don’t think that just because I’m a poet you have to write poetry.’ She threw her hands apart and brought them together. ‘If you feel compelled to write prose, then write a short story or start a novel. It’s about finding the correct vehicle to convey whatever story you want to tell. And the only stipulation is that you have to do a little bit of work at home every week and present it in class. Going off and writing by yourself and making time for it in your day is also part of what it means to become a good writer.’

‘But Colette—’

‘Ah-ah-ah,’ Colette said, raising her hand to Thomas. ‘Before we have any further questions, I’m going to get you to do your first exercise. Now I want you to try some stream-of-consciousness writing.’