A Handful of Pebbles (13 page)

‘
Madam? They are for your use. Which is your scent?’ The woman stood quickly to be of assistance.

‘
That one.’ Liz pointed to a purple apple, and the lady handed her the bottle and turned to Sarah, who picked an elegant square bottle, which she regretted as it smelt like old women.

Back at the table
, wine had been poured for them and a small plate of food sat at their places.

‘
We took the liberty of ordering for you,’ Neville enthused.

And so the afternoon passed in polite
, elegant surroundings with much alcohol. Dinner followed, at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Douglas, and from there they went on to one of the nightclubs that Liz and Sarah knew far better than Neville and Laurence, who looked out of place standing stiffly at the bar in their suits.

Liz and Sarah insisted on being dropped off on the seafront, reluctant to spoil the illusions of fine living by returning to the narrow back street door that led up to their damp apartment.

‘Ladies, it has been a pleasure.’ Neville’s eyes were on Sarah and Liz’s eyes were on his cuff links. Opening her coat and pulling her arms back, Liz told him the pleasure had been all hers and as his gaze left Sarah’s face and fell on her cleavage he insisted that it had not. Laurence wished them both a good night, and just before he left, he asked Sarah if she could cook.

‘
Of course she can,’ Liz answered, and they went their separate ways.

At home, Liz brought out a full bottle of whiskey from her coat pocket with a ‘Ta ra!’ and poured out generous measures into unwashed coffee cups. Sarah went to the toilet and looked in the mirror, trying but failing to regain some reality. She swilled her face and returned to the sitting room.

‘
I have it.’ Liz was on her feet, dancing to no music with her mug in one hand and the bottle in the other. ‘I have a plan and it is a very Torin-type plan.’

‘
What?’ Sarah felt disinterested and tired, but the whiskey burned nicely.

‘
We join the golf club with the pretence of learning to play golf and bag ourselves some rich lawyer husbands. Brilliant or what?’ She spun around, still in her coat, which flew out like a cape behind her.

‘
Lawyer husbands?’ Sarah asked. The whiskey was doing the job like no other alcohol could.

‘
Yes! No more dead-end jobs, no more cheap clothes. No more empty whiskey bottles.’ Liz waved the full bottle by its neck. Sarah looked down at her clothes, which had felt cheap and ugly at the golf club. ‘Come on, what would you do with a regular, good income?’ Liz asked. Sarah shrugged but Liz was excited and they—or rather, Liz—talked through the night. Several times, she pointed out to Sarah that she was unlikely to find another love like Torin so she may as well marry for stability and comfort, and what else was she planning to do with her life anyway? Each time Liz said it, an emptiness grew inside Sarah, replacing the pain and distancing her from reality.

Dawn broke, they left the flat and walked as far as the gate on the ferry spit to see the sunrise. They were both unintelligible in their drunkenness and they shrunk from the piercing light as the sun lifted from the sea.

‘So it’s a deal then?’ Liz slurred, her face turned away from the new day.

Sarah nodded.

‘So in memory of the life of Torin Donohue, we make a pact that we will join the golf club and bag ourselves rich husbands. Shake.’ Liz thrust her hand out to Sarah. ‘So every minute of our lives will be in Torin’s memory,’ Liz rephrased, and Sarah shook.

Sarah surfaces from her thoughts. She is not sure why she is returning from Helena
’s house by the road rather than through the side gate and across the rough ground, but, seeing as she has forgotten to put on her watch, it is probably for the best if she goes straight back to prepare something for lunch. Finn and Laurence might return hungry. On the other hand, they might grab a bite whilst they are out. She should have brought her phone.

At the entrance to her lane
, she pauses. The bread is nearly gone, the feta definitely is. What will she give them for lunch if they don’t eat out? Laurence will not be having reciprocal thoughts. What must it be like not to have these thoughts about food two or three times a day? To be like him, to never think about food because someone else does? It must be so liberating.

Leaving the turning behind
, she continues on, heading for the corner shop.

‘
Hello.’ The
h
is guttural.

‘
Yia
Marina
.’ Sarah tries to add a Greek accent and, thinking she has been successful, she wonders if a tourist would mistake her for a local.

‘
Ti theleis
?’ Marina says and Sarah loses all illusions and stammers.

‘
Bread.’ She points to the corner of the shop where an area has been sectioned off and lined with shelves for the bread and eggs.

‘
Ah,
psomi
.’ Marina picks up a big loaf and mimes cutting it in half, but Sarah shakes her head; if the boys are hungry, they will eat the lot. She goes outside to the fridges, hoping to find ideas about what to serve them. Terra cotta pots are stacked on the bottom shelf. The content is white and solidified. Taking one, she tries to read the label pasted on the cling film covering, but it makes no sense—some of the letters are not even characters that she knows.

‘
What’s this?’ she asks Marina back inside.

‘
Yiaourti
,’ is the reply. Marina mimes eating. ‘Good, good,’ she says.

It looks like yoghurt and the name sounds like yoghurt
, so maybe it is yoghurt.

‘
Baaa, baaa,’ Marina says and laughs and Sarah realises it must be sheep’s yoghurt. Fresh bread, sheep’s yoghurt, and olives. Sounds good. She adds a bottle of wine. Marina bags it all up take the note proffered and hands her the change and says ‘
Ade ya
,’ as Sarah leaves. Sarah tries to memorise these words and as she crosses the road, she repeats them in her head. Passing the empty tables and chairs, she is only dimly aware of the chatter coming from inside of the kafenio.

‘
Deep in thought?’ She recognises Nicolaos’ voice and looks around. He is sitting on one of the benches at the edge of the square in the deepest shade of the palm tree.

‘
Yia
,’ she says smoothly.

‘
How did your mission go?’

It
doesn’t cross her mind to sit with him—it feels too exposed there in the square—but she steps into the shade and puts her bag down.

‘
Who knows?’ is all she can think to reply. Nicolaos shrugs. For a moment, there are no words. Sarah transfers her weight to her other foot and looks at her bag, thinking to pick it up again and go home.

‘
Great men are forged in fire, and lesser men light the fire.’

‘
What does that mean?’ Sarah looks from her bag to Nicolaos, who is grinning, his upper body bouncing with a silent laugh.

‘
No idea.’ The merriment breaks from him in a one-sound explosion. ‘Read it somewhere and thought it sounded good. Thought if I say it enough, it will fit somewhere, some time.’

‘
Oh.’ She would like to add ‘you prat,’ in a teasing way but doesn’t feel she really knows him well enough. ‘At least you are merrier today.’

‘
I have accepted the reality of how things are with my wife, I guess, now the papers have gone.’

‘
Oh my, are you okay?’ Sarah is not sure what to say. ‘That must feel, well I am not sure. How does it feel?’

‘
Final, I guess.’

‘
Well, it is, isn’t it?’

‘
Yup.’ He rubs his hands down his thighs to his knees and back. ‘So now the rest of my life begins, as they say.’ The words sound convincing, but he does not maintain eye contact.

‘
And what will that hold?’ She is not sure it is a good question to ask. What if he has no plans, no future, just a big gaping empty nothingness to look forward to?

‘
A boat.’ He stands and re-arranges his rolled-up sleeves. Sarah picks up her bag and they walk.

‘
A boat?’

‘
Yes, I have always dreamed of building a boat. Ever since I was a boy, and all the time I was in Australia, my dream has been that one day I would build a boat. That is my dream.’

Sarah tries to think what her dreams are
, but she knows she has none.

‘
How lovely to have such a dream.’ All she can think is that she enjoys being in nature. Maybe that will take form one day and become something important.

‘
Dreams are vital,’ he says with urgency. ‘We need our dreams and a chance of them coming true to give us a reason to get up in the morning. Something to strive for.’

Torin gave her reason to get up in the morning, and then Liz and her pushing got her up until Laurence and the boys took over, but imagine getting up with energy for the day because you want to fulfil a dream, that must be exciting.

‘When does fate take over our dreams do you think, and time corrupt our plans?’ The words glide out. She is not sure she even meant to say them. ‘Maybe it is too late for dreams,’ she concludes.

‘
Why is it too late for dreams?’ Nicolaos takes a string of beads from his pocket, holds some in the palm of his hand, and flips the rest back and forth over two fingers. ‘Who says there is a time limit?’

Sarah looks across at him. He laughs as he says these things
, but to her, what he says is no joke. The thought of there being no time limit, the thought that dreams are still possible is almost as scary as the thought that they are not. Her pace slows as they near the end of her lane.

‘
Some of the things you say really stir the pot, you know.’ She laughs, but there is tension in her throat.

‘
For the solution to everything, you just have to ask yourself one question.’

‘
And what’s that?’ Sarah waits for the punchline.

‘
Ask yourself "What’s real?"‘ He pockets his beads.

Sarah had prepared to smile at his answer and so she does, but the answer gives her no joy
. She is not really sure what he means.

‘
Well, I have to prepare lunch, and that’s very real so ...’ She would rather take a walk with him, spend longer talking, let time drift. He makes her feel like all problems are solvable. But she has her duties and so, trying to impress him, she recalls the words she just learnt from Marina at the corner shop and says, ‘
Ade ya
.’

Her eyebrows lift and his eyes shine.
‘
Ade ya
,’ he replies, and he moves away in a slow gait like he has not a care in the world.

‘
What’s real.’ She turns off the small sloping square to the dusty lane. ‘The sun’s real. The heat’s real.’ She looks at the sky. ‘The blue skies are real. But then, in England it’s grey, so that’s not always true and at sunset here, it burns orange red, so it is definitely not true. So what is real?’ Juliet’s cat comes running down the track towards her. It bumps its head against her legs. ‘You’re real, aren’t you, you little tiger?’

The car is not there, so they will almost definitely be grabbing a bite out. She could have gone for a walk with Nic
olaos after all, but he will be gone by now and she would never dream of running after him. There are two missed calls on her phone; one from Laurence and one from Finn, no messages. Slipping into her bikini, she takes the shopping bag to the pool side and with guilt and pleasure and no plate, she tears off hunks of bread from the loaf and uses them to scoop up yoghurt.

‘
Not happy with my life.’ She looks around her as she speaks. The words sound loud and hard. The darkness, the weight, the undefined sadness shifts inside her, making itself known, and she puts down the yoghurt and bread, her hunger lost. ‘That’s real,’ she whispers.

Sitting on the lounger
, she stares but sees nothing. The pool is a glass sheet of blue, the water seeping down the drainage grills in the flags around its edge. Her focus lands on an ant carrying a twig as it negotiates its way around the wet edge. It must be like a raging river to something so small and yet to her, it appears flat and still. The ant stops, puts down its twig, and remains motionless.

That
’s how she feels, like she is at the edge of a possible storm, a great raging river, but fear of the risks it might contain keeps her motionless on the edge, trapped in her unhappiness.

But what
’s on the other side anyway? Maybe she could cross it just to find more of the same, the same pointless existence, the same absence of dreams. The risk of uncertainty, the prison of who she is. But does it also hint at opportunity?

She takes a breath. What is her starting point, what is real right now? Her mother
’s house, that is real. The income it brings her, that is real. It’s not much, but it is real and it’s hers. What else? She reaches for the bread as she thinks. A noise from the lane tells her Laurence and Finn are back and she releases her grip on the bread. Putting everything back in the bag, she wraps a sarong around her and stands to take the food indoors to greet them.

‘
Mum, don’t you think that Pru needs to apologise to Helena?’

‘
Hello Finn.’

‘
Hello, but don’t you?’ He kisses her cheek.

‘
Finn, you sound like a teenager. Hello Joss. I didn’t know you were coming; is Pru here?’

‘
Hi, no.’ There are no hugs or kisses from Joss.

‘
Have you had lunch?’ Laurence asks. There is no hug or kiss from him either.

‘
Yes, you?’ Sarah says and Laurence nods, goes inside, and reappears at the door with a jar of coffee.

‘
You want one?’ he asks. She nods. ‘Boys, you want coffee?’ she asks. They both nod, almost in unison, and Sarah is reminded of when they were little boys being asked if they wanted squash. They sit with her at the table on the patio.

‘
Oh it is lovely to have you both here.’ Sarah takes their hands, one in each of hers.

‘
Mum, I have tried to explain to Joss that Pru needs to apologise to Helena.’ Finn retracts his hand. Joss looks old for his twenty-eight years, and rather bored. His boneless hand sits limply in her palm. She releases him.

‘
Oh Finn, I know you are upset by what has happened, but you are here now and I don’t get to see you both at the same time very often, or even ever these days, so can we not let the argument just smooth over and enjoy being together just for now?’

‘
Mum, are you not aware of what is going on? Helena has called off the wedding.’

‘
Yes, yes, I know, but I don’t think picking over an argument is going to smooth everything out. It will just start more arguments. Just let it be. I trust that you are not going to hold this as a grudge, either of you, because if you are, that is not the way I raised you.’ Sarah puts her hand up as a visor; her chair sits in an area unshaded by vines.

‘
But Helena has called the wedding off. Someone needs to do something and seeing as it was started by Pru, then Pru should put it right,’ Finn implores.

A part of Sarah cannot deny that she is just a little relieved that Finn can now see Pru the way she does
, but she quickly recognises this as a petty response and pushes the thought away and focuses on the needs of the boys.

Laurence reappears and puts mugs of coffee in front of everyone before sitting, putting the newspaper on his seat onto his knee.

‘Look Finn, I think Helena just has a case of cold feet. Just woo her a little, make her feel safe, and all this will blow over.’ She would like to add, ‘Besides there is no way Pru will ever apologise. It is just not in her nature,’ but suppresses the urge as it will do no good.

‘
Yes, cold feet. You should have seen your Mother back in the day. She had such a serious case of cold feet, I thought she was going to call the whole thing off,’ Laurence interrupts.

Sarah quickly shuts her mouth
, which has fallen open. Did he really think she had cold feet? The heat rises up her neck with the memory. She struggled the week before their wedding; it felt so wrong, like she was pulling a confidence trick, taking Laurence for a sucker. It was not cold feet so much as guilt and her sense of right and wrong. Liz kept on at her, repeating the pledge they had made, telling her it was a promise. Her whole life seemed so unreal, as if she might wake up at any moment and be back in Country Clare in the pub with Torin, no longer living the life of champagne and weekend breaks to far-flung places that was their norm back then. The wedding day was so vivid, it could have been yesterday. She refused to put on the dress, the dress that would have cost more than six months’ pay if she had bought it herself, the shoes slightly less. None of her family were invited. Liz hissed at her to seize the day until she finally made her reluctant walk down the aisle, lying to God and herself, condemning herself to a marriage in which she felt no love, not even much liking. Not from her side anyway.