‘She did.’

‘Crying?’

‘Bawling.’

‘And who organised the workshop?’

‘Who do you think? Colette Crowley.’

James’s eyes widened. ‘And what did you write about?’

‘I wrote a poem about what a bastard you are.’

He laughed. ‘I’d say you did, all right. And was it any good?’

‘Oh, it was brilliant – everyone loved when I read it out loud.’

‘But tell me this – did it rhyme?’

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘I can’t wait to hear it.’

‘Oh, I’ll read it to you this evening in bed.’

He swilled the remains of his tea around in the cup. ‘I heard she’s living up the Coast Road.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘She’s renting the cottage from Donal Mullen.’

‘Colette? Are you sure?’

‘That’s what Tom Heffernan told me anyway.’

‘This time of year? Jesus, you’d freeze to death up there. Does that place even have running water?’

‘It does not,’ James said. ‘Sure she washes out of a barrel.’

‘What!’

‘She collects rainwater in a barrel and she washes out of it.’

‘She does not, James.’

‘I’m telling you. Tom Heffernan said she collects rainwater in a barrel and she uses it to wash.’

‘Ah, she’s probably recycling the water, using it for something else, you know what those artistic types are like.’

‘Yes. Well, that’s what poets do,’ he said, in an arch tone that made both of them laugh.

Niall came into the room, hauling his school bag onto his back.

‘Will we go to the hotel for our tea tomorrow evening, Niall?’ Izzy asked. ‘Would you like that?’

Niall looked from her to James. The poor child, she thought, waking up every morning not knowing whether his mother and father would even be speaking to each other.

‘And Orla will be home from school tomorrow so I’ll book a table for the four of us,’ she said. ‘Something to look forward to.’

And with that, Niall and James departed and Izzy was alone at the kitchen table and she became aware of the low mumble of the radio, the hum of the fridge, the ticking of the clock on the wall. But separate to all of this was a silence so complete it was like another room she could step into. Her notebook lay in front of her on the table. She placed her palm against the cover, felt the coolness of its surface, the smoothness of the paper. She opened it and reread the lines she had written the night before, in that scrawl discernible to no one but herself, and closed the book again.

Chapter 6

Donal was taken aback by Colette’s friendliness when she answered the door – the broad smile on her face, the openness in her expression.

‘Donal? How are you? Come in,’ she said, pulling the door wide open.

He hesitated before crossing the threshold, wary of being welcomed into his own property like a guest.

‘I just wanted to say hello,’ he said. ‘And to give you this – it was dropped off at ours by mistake.’ He handed her an envelope – grey, marbled, and with a Dublin postmark. She took it in both hands. The smile vanished from her face.

‘I thought maybe you’d come up to get rid of this,’ she said, showing him behind the door where the four slatted sides of a child’s cot leant against the wall. ‘I’ve asked Dolores a few times about having it moved.’

He stared down at the dismantled cot. She’d even gone to the trouble of placing all the screws in a little plastic bag and taping it to one of the sides.

‘There was no need to take it apart,’ he said. ‘I could have just carried it down to the garage as it was.’

‘It was no bother,’ she said. ‘It was taking up space in the bedroom and it’s small enough in there.’

But it would be a bother for him to put back together and more awkward now to carry, and he was cross with Dolores for not having said something before Colette had had time to take the thing apart. But Dolores had been almost entirely silent on the subject of their tenant. Even when he’d said to her that he’d bring the letter up to the cottage and introduce himself, she’d turned to the sink and said nothing, picked up the grill and started scrubbing furiously at it.

Two weeks since Colette had moved in and he’d been putting off this visit. He knew when she was around because her car was parked at the front of the cottage, and if they happened to spot each other leaving the house she’d raise a hand to him. But he had only a vague awareness of who she was – an artist of some kind, married to a rich man, but a rich man who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. They were separated – that much he knew – but what exactly she was doing living in his cottage was unclear to him. Still, the place would have lain empty until the summer, and with another child on the way the money would come in handy.

‘I’ll go and get the van,’ he said. ‘Bring all of this down to the garage in one go.’

But he could tell she wasn’t listening to him. She’d seated herself at the table and opened the letter and was already engaged by whatever was written on those pages. The torn envelope lay discarded on the table and he noticed she’d put a new oilcloth on it, with a pattern of yellow pears. The place was hers now. Photos stuck to the fridge and books stacked everywhere, on chairs and on the sideboard. He thought she might air the place a bit to get rid of the smell of cigarettes. The floor too could have done with a good sweep, and there were a fair few empty wine bottles standing beside the bin.

A cold draught passed through the room and the envelope skittered across the table.

‘How’s the heating?’ he asked. He stepped towards the radiator and touched the cool metal. It hung on the wall just beside the window looking out across the bay. The tide was high, almost up to the sand dunes, straining to draw the coastline in, then falling back on itself, exhausted.

‘You’d never get bored of that, would you?’ he said.

‘What?’ she asked, laying the letter down. She placed her feet upon the chair in front of her and her long woollen skirt slid up her shins. She flexed her toes. He watched her touch her fingertips to her bottom lip like something very tender was held there.

‘The view – you’d never get bored of looking at it.’

‘No, Donal, you certainly wouldn’t,’ she said.