Don't Be Afraid (13 page)

 

Isabel

I tried again to take my medicines. Twice. And again they ended up down the sink. But I was telling everyone I was taking them, and the deception was killing me inside.

My father's voice was stronger than ever.

Sometimes I think of those terrible stories of children being hit, abused, and my heart goes out to them: my father never laid a hand on me, and still he damaged me more deeply than I can ever say.

“So, what's the plan for this morning?” Clara asked softly, shaking me out of my thoughts. Once again I was sitting at the kitchen table, my medication laid out in front of me. I jumped at the sound of her voice.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I'm fine. I'm okay. Just a bit . . .”

I put all the medicines away. The liquid in the little bottle was going down steadily, and the blister pack was nearly empty – it was time to get some more – but none of it was ending up in my body.

“I think I'm going to do some work on
Chrysalis
,” I said. I didn't meet Clara's eyes as I hurried upstairs into my studio.

I knew Clara could sense that something was off, but she couldn't tell what – yet. Something told me that she would soon begin to suspect I wasn't taking my medicines, if she didn't already.

 

Torcuil

It was a Saturday morning, and Leo and I had dropped in to La Piazza to visit Margherita, who was working. Lara was, as she often was now, hanging out with her new friends from school. Lara had felt isolated and misunderstood in her school in London, so when she'd moved up here it had been a relief for her and her mother that she got on so well with the local kids. She also often spent time with my cousin, Inary, with whom she shared a passion for writing.

Things had changed for me too in the past year – life had turned upside down with Margherita's arrival, in a way I couldn't have imagined. For the better, in every way. In the past, on a Saturday morning I wouldn't have been just sitting and chatting – I would have been rushing about with a long to-do list. I was on a hamster's wheel, but, looking back, it was me who couldn't stop. Now I was even busier with my work and the riding school, and Ramsay Hall was now open to the public, not to mention living with a four-year-old whom I loved dearly – but everything was
calmer
. I could just sit and watch the flames in my fireplace, in silence, because Margherita was at my side and grey thoughts and sad memories were kept at bay. Yes, she had changed my life.

“You okay?” she asked me suddenly.

“Yes, why?”

“You were staring at me.”

‘Sorry,” I said, and looked into my coffee cup. I wasn't about to start gushing in front of Debora. But Margherita must have read my thoughts, because she smiled. And then, her face became serious again.

“Did he call this morning?” I knew who she meant. Angus and I had spoken nearly every day, since Izzy . . . since she'd done what she did.

“No . . .”

Kate, Aisling's sister, cut in. “He hasn't called for two days now! I'm in bits.”

I was dumbfounded. “Sorry?”

“Kate, Margherita wasn't talking about Pablo,” Debora explained patiently.

“Oh, I thought you'd want to know if he'd called. Well, I'll let you know all the same.”

I stifled a laugh. “So how are things with you two, Kate?”

“We broke up. Last time we broke up we were back together by the evening, so now I'm worried,” she said, looking at the phone she carried in the pocket of her apron. “It's when you know he's the one . . . When you know he's your destiny . . . that's when things become complicated. You have to treat your love like a precious flower,” she said solemnly, and this time I couldn't help laughing openly.

“Kate. You are sixteen,” Margherita said.

“Juliet was a teenager when she fell for Romeo,” she replied.

“Juliet ended up dead in a crypt. Now clear those tables, Kate,” Debora called from the counter, a twinkle in her eye.

“Anyway,” I continued. “No, we didn't speak this morning. I'll phone him later.”

“Okay, let me know what he says, if there's any news. I need to go back to work, I'm up to my eyes here! I'm catering for a wedding and my filo-pastry brie tartlets just burnt to a crisp,” she said. She looked unfazed, though. Margherita seemed to be always chilled, whatever the circumstances. “Come with me to the kitchen.”

A sudden thought came into my mind. “I was hoping you'd write a recipe for me,” I said, following her through the back.

“Sure,” she said, taking a sweet-scented tray of meringues out of the oven. “Anything in particular?”

“Apple and cinnamon cake. Isabel loves it when you send it . . . I was thinking maybe she and Clara could make it. But don't worry if you're too busy.”

“Not at all,” she said kindly, and grabbed a pad with a shopping list and some notes on it. She scribbled the recipe on a fresh page, tore it off and gave it to me. “For her eyes only. Burn after reading. It's a secret recipe.”

“Is it really?”

“Of course not! Let me know how she gets on.”

“Thanks. I'm off then. I'll phone Angus and give you a ring if there's any news.”

“Of Pablo, you mean?” she said, and giggled the way she does, like there is so much to laugh and smile about in this world.

Margherita had the sun in her heart.

I went to Peggy's shop with Leo and bought the ingredients listed in the recipe, but she didn't have any apples, so I walked back to Ramsay Hall and drove to Kinnear. There I bought some apples and then, at the post office, a cardboard box and some twine. I put all the ingredients and the recipe in the box, tied it with the twine and left it in front of Debora's house, so Clara would find it, with a little note:
For
Isabel and Clara
.

Like opening a little umbrella in the middle of a typhoon.

But it was something. It was all I could do, these little things that lay between being looked after and being forgotten.

 

Isabel

Once again, Angus was away in Glasgow. I remember at our wedding a friend of his, Margaret, joked that you should never marry a musician – you'd end up being a sort of widow, losing your husband to music. It was a bit late to warn me, considering I had just pronounced my vows and was standing in front of her in my white, lacy dress, a bouquet of yellow roses in my hands, tipsy with champagne and happiness.

I was unafraid, then – there would never be a time when I resented his work, his passion, because he'd never resent mine.

I would have never thought, back then, when I was strong and independent, that I would feel so lost whenever he went.

But that cold, cold morning, I only had a moment to be sad as he pulled away from the driveway, because Clara arrived with a big smile and a cardboard box, her silver earrings swinging as she walked, a bright-red scarf around her neck.

“Look what I've got!”

“Oh, what is it?”

“Come and see,” she said, placing the box on the kitchen table.

“Oh, it's food . . . There's a note!”

Clara read it out to me: “
All you need to
make apple and cinnamon cake.
”

“There are all the ingredients . . . Look . . . Apples, flour, eggs . . . She even put in a little bag of cinnamon sticks with a tiny grater!” A little spark of joy ignited in me. “Okay. I'm not the best at cooking, but I swear I'm going to do my best,” I said. “What about you?”

“Not a clue about baking either . . . but we'll make it.”

“My mum was the same,” I said, and there was a little silence.

“What do you mean?”

“She hated cooking, or so I was told.” I shrugged. Talking about her was hard, and at the same time so sweet. “My sister said that once she gave us hot chocolate and marshmallows for dinner. My dad was furious – he was all for stodge, you know, a roast dinner and that kind of thing. But I think it must have been so much fun. If only I could remember . . .”

Clara was quiet for a little while.

We spent a wonderful hour, laughing and cooking together. It was one of those moments when, miraculously, I forgot all about my predicament and I was just . . . myself. It happened very rarely, that I could forget what was going on in my head and stop listening to the constant panicked inner dialogue. When it did, it was like a precious gift.

I thought of Margherita and how thoughtful she'd been.

“Margherita always has these little gifts for me,” I said thoughtfully. “I'd like to paint a picture for her.”

“That's a lovely idea. But it wasn't her, this time. Debora told me it was Torcuil.”

Torcuil.

It was my turn to be quiet, now. And then, as I switched one of the gas rings on to melt some sugar for the caramel topping, the flame fizzled and danced so high it nearly burnt my fingers.

“Ouch!”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I'm fine.”

“We need to ask Dougie to fix this ring,” she said. “It burns all wonky.”

“Maybe it just needs cleaning,” I replied hopefully.

The idea of having someone other than Angus or Clara in the house horrified me. I would put it off as long as I could.

We just worked together and I wanted nothing to break the spell . . . but just as I was putting the cake in the oven, Clara's phone rang.

“It's Debora,” she mouthed. “Yes? Oh, that's wonderful news! And how is she? Great. Thanks for letting us know. That's absolutely wonderful. I can't wait to see them. Yes. Bye!”

She pressed the red button. She was beaming. “Aisling had a baby boy. They called him Eoin.”

“Oh, congratulations . . .” I said. To my surprise, my mood had clouded over all of a sudden. I forced a smile. “That's wonderful! Babies are not for me, though,” I said, trying to sound flippant.

“But why? Having a child is wonderful, Isabel, and it's all ahead of you!” she said, and I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. It was such a cliché. Having a baby was wonderful – for other people. And it certainly wasn't a remedy for all ills.

I closed the oven door, maybe a bit too forcefully.

“No, you don't understand. I can't
possibly
have a baby.”

“There is no reason why you can't—”

“Because then I'll leave it, like my mum did.” I shrugged, and the cruelty of those words, and the truth of them, cut deep.

“I think you'd make a wonderful mum, Isabel. And however you feel about your mum, it doesn't mean you'll be the same,” she said gently.

“My mum was wonderful.” I defended her. I couldn't help it. “Too wonderful for this world,” I said, and all the sadness in the universe was weighing on my heart.

“That looks good,” Clara said calmly, gesturing to the cake baking in the oven. “Angus will love it. If there's any left by the time he comes home!”

That was Clara. When sadness threatened to overcome me, she didn't fall into the hole with me – she offered me a hand to climb out of it.

“Maybe we can send a few slices to Margherita. So she can see what we've made out of her parcel,” I said.

“That's a lovely idea. I bet it's as good as the ones she makes.”

“We can make it again. We can try new recipes . . .”

“Yes. I'd love that,” she said, and the darkness, somehow, seemed to have been diffused once again. Strange, how Clara seemed to have that effect on me – like a candle in the darkest of nights.

 

 

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

I
'm back. It was just five days but very eventful
. India is incredible; you have to go. Anyway, straight to
the point. I met someone.

And he came back with
me to Ireland!

This is how it happened. I was
coming down from the stage, holding Donal's hand as
usual, when I tripped! Poor Fatina tried but there was
nothing she could do: she even yelped – you know
the way she never barks, she is such a quiet
dog – but she got a fright, and so did I
. But someone was there to get me! And so we
ended up going to dinner and then to his hotel
room, but we didn't do anything. I mean, we
just kissed. He's French. It looks like maybe I
won't need Plan B – you know, the way Donal
and I decided that if we are both single by
the time we are thirty, we get married. Michel plays
the piano, thank God, because when I was going out
with Innes I swear I thought my ears would fall
off! Remember those bagpipes? Lord Almighty, losing my hearing as
well as my sight, now that would be fun. But
the most exciting thing of all: there were lots of
musicians there from all over the world, and they all
went back to their own countries, but not Michel. He
changed the tickets and came to Ireland! He is staying
with me now. It's all very passionate and romantic. Donal says
it won't last, but he is always so pessimistic
when it comes to my boyfriends.

And you? What have
you been doing while I was away?

Yours,

In love
,

Emer

 

And me? What have I been doing? Pretending to take my medication and instead pouring it down the sink, sitting at the window too zonked out to do anything, reading the same stupid books over and over again to stave off anxiety.

I was in quicksand, to sum it up. Sinking slowly. I concocted a quick reply that didn't give away the extent of my distress, but didn't send it and switched the computer off. I pondered other people's lives. I pondered if mine was always going to be this way.

But wait. I had some good news, after all. I'd started painting again. That was worth telling.

 

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

Well, I'm still stuck in
the house. But I started painting again. It feels all
weird, I'm so rusty, but it's progress. I
don't know how I ever stopped. I missed it
so much.

Bell x

 

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

Oh, Bell, that's the
best news ever! No wonder you missed it! I don'
t know what I'd do if I couldn't
sing and play. I would be lost.

I'm so
delighted! What are you working on?

 

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

I'm supposed to
work on some illustrations for a book on Scottish Legends
. But I'm doing something myself. It's a story
called
Chrysalis
. Remember I told you Angus made a sort
of indoor garden for me? Well, it's about a
little blue butterfly . . . But it's not finished yet.

 

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

Oh, I can't wait for you to tell me
more about it. I wish I could see what you
do. I mean, you can hear my music, but I
can't see your work . . . but you can tell me
about it, can't you? I can just picture you
in your studio again. It smelled of wood and paint
and you were so happy there. I don't know
how to ask this, Isabel, but . . . does this mean you'
re making progress?

 

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

I don't know, to be honest
with you. I still can't contemplate going out. I
'm still scared all the time. But I'm painting
. I don't think I can ask for more, at
the moment.

No, that's a lie. I want more
. I want to get out of this house and have
a normal life.

 

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

You'll be fine again; you'
ll be yourself again.

I believe in you.

And then
I can come and see you or you can come
and see me and you can tell me all about
your colours.

Emer xxx

 

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

Hi Angus! Just to say, I can't
wait for our gig in Manchester. Spend a bit of
time together, catch up . . . Today it was so frantic! Everybody
says you're doing great. I think you're going
places, Angus. You have so much talent: I'm in
awe of what you do. And how is Isabel?

See
you soon,

Bibi x

 

From [email protected]

To [email protected]

Hi Bibi, I'm looking forward to
Manchester too. Yes, Bell is still a bit under the
weather but she'll be fine very soon.

Angus