‘And do you regret that?’
‘Oh, I could have fought a bit harder I suppose, but I was worn out. I’d just given birth.’
‘No, I don’t mean that – I mean . . . you stayed at home to look after your children, that’s the most important work you can do.’
She sighed. ‘I would not have been the first mother who went out to work. I was just so in love with my new daughter. I wanted her to have everything.’
‘But what you gave her was more valuable – your time and your presence and your attention. You made a full, unadulterated commitment to the role of being a mother and you didn’t—’
‘Like Colette Crowley?’
He withdrew a cigarette and pushed it back into the pack. ‘Sometimes people come to me looking for spiritual guidance and—’
‘She’d need a bit of that, all right. Was that the first time you’d met her?’
‘Yes. She’d left the parish by the time I arrived.’
‘God, she’s a good-looking woman,’ Izzy said.
There was bitterness in her tone, he thought.
‘Sometimes all people need to hear is that they’re forgiven, and that they need to forgive themselves.’
‘It’s that easy, is it? So if you leave your children and husband to go off with a married man, your penance is to read at mass – that’s a good one. I should try that myself.’
‘I do not know the particulars of what she did and did not do. Anything I know of the woman is—’
‘Oh, give me a break. It seems to me that some people are able to behave however they want and still go around like they haven’t a care in the world.’
‘Do you really believe that?’ he asked.
She slumped forward and crossed her arms on the table as though the last of her energy had left her all at once.
‘That woman lost a child,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that’s something you ever really get over.’
‘I don’t doubt that she’s suffered,’ Izzy said.
‘I think it’s a good thing she’s back. Someone artistic and musical like her is an asset to a community. From what I’ve heard she used to be involved in everything – the choral society, the drama society. And she came to me with this.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer. He unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to her. ‘She wants me to put that in the parish newsletter.’
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.
