Aisling Gayle (2 page)

There was a pause.

“So you’re rehearsing again tonight?”

Oliver made towards the bedroom door. “I don’t know why you’re surprised – didn’t I tell you last week?” He blew a kiss in her direction from the bedroom door. “I’ve got my key, so don’t feel you have to wait up.”

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

Aisling pushed the tray with the unfinished tea and toast over to Oliver’s side of the bed. She swung her legs out of the other side, and then moved to the window. She drew back the curtains and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. She looked out into the large, flower-filled garden, the tending of which – like her romantic novels – gave her an escape from thoughts of her crumbling marriage.

What a waste
, she told herself.
What a waste!
All those moments – of diverting her thoughts from the lie she was living – had grown into hours. And the hours into days. And the days into months. And it all added up to years of her life – wasted. Wasted on a shallow, hopeless charade of a marriage in which she was trapped.

For there was no future for her in her marriage with Oliver. And there was no future for her – out of her marriage – in Ireland.

To think of it hurt. It hurt badly, for she had loved Oliver once. She had loved him very deeply. That’s why she had almost slept with him before they got married, why she had almost allowed herself to get carried away, risking the wrath of both her family and the Church. When she realised what she had done, she used all her powers to coax him into marriage. And a hard job that was.

In all fairness to him, Oliver had warned her. He had told her that he didn’t know if he could live his life with one woman. And he told her that few women could live with his restlessness. But Aisling didn’t hear his warnings, because she was convinced that she could change him.

She wanted him, and she got him. But on Oliver’s terms.

At the time it had all seemed worth it. Aisling was positive that when they were married, and had started their family, he would settle down. But she was wrong on both counts. So far, there were no signs of a family, and there was no sign of Oliver settling down at all. She knew now that she would never have the life with him that she had dreamed of. But what else was there to do?

Of course she could leave him. Leave him and their sham of a marriage. How many times had she gone over the scene in her head, telling Oliver that she was leaving him, and then – the impossible part – telling her parents? How could she?
How could she?
It would kill her mother. Maggie Kearney couldn’t take any more local gossip about the family.

There had always been the jokes and sneering remarks about Charles – Aisling’s older brother. Just because he didn’t operate the same way as the other local fellows, and wasn’t remotely on their wavelength – or at times, anyone else’s – even in the family. But mainly because he preferred to keep company with the characters in his books than sit and have a pint with another man. And because he was thirty-one years old, and as yet had never been seen in the company of a woman.

And then there was the real cause for gossip. Aisling’s younger sister, Pauline, had been brought back home from England three years ago. Unmarried and with a baby daughter. Maggie had never been the same since.

The whole family had never been the same since.

They had picked themselves up and dusted themselves down, but the fact was they were now marked in the eyes of the townspeople. They had joined the ranks of the fallen. Maggie’s well-to-do farming background, and Declan’s grocery shop on the outskirts of Tullamore town no longer gave them immunity from the gossips. Even the fact that Maggie had a brother who was a priest and Declan had two sisters who were nuns, cut them no sway with the Catholic moral majority. Nothing the Kearneys now did would lift them back into that comfortable, privileged little niche they had enjoyed.

Not even the fact that Mr and Mrs Kearney were planning a trip to America in the summer would impress their customers. They would forever be haunted by veiled – and not-so veiled – references to Pauline’s situation on a regular basis.

Three years of getting their own back with little digs was nothing to customers who felt they had been overcharged by the Kearneys for the last twenty years – customers who didn’t care or understand about overheads in running a business.

“And how is poor Pauline and the babby getting on?” Maggie would hear each and every day from women clutching loaves of bread and bags of cooking-apples. Their kindly smiles would never hide the dark reminder behind the words.
Poor Pauline and the babby.

Maggie heard that question so often that she often woke up in the night
saying it to herself.

And it wasn’t just Maggie and Declan and Pauline who suffered from the fallout of Pauline’s indiscretion. Even if Aisling was a teacher and living in a fine big farmhouse with modern furniture and a bathroom and running water, she still had a loose sister with an illegitimate child.

And though Aisling could rise above it, being younger and more open to the modern ways of the world, and Declan – being a man – could shake his head and say, ‘What’s done is done, there’s no good in looking back, you have to look forward,’ Maggie was bowed over by the shame of it all. There was no consolation in any words about ‘what’s done is done’ for her.

What Pauline allowed to be done to her should never have been done at all.

Aisling knew this only too well. And knew what it all meant for her. One daughter who had brought shame on the family was enough. To have another daughter home with a failed marriage would be just too, too much.

So Aisling plodded on. Her vague, ‘if the worst comes to the worst’ plan of one day just disappearing to England to live with Pauline had been well and truly smashed when her sister and baby returned home. Aisling had no means of escape – and daily was becoming as good an actor as Oliver was in his local, amateur dramas.

A tide of sorrow rose up in her now, and she closed her eyes tightly to hold back the tears. There was no time for crying or feeling sorry for herself. She had to get dressed and get ready for school.

Eventually, when the tears had dried, Aisling opened her eyes to stare out over the garden. Out over the trees, and out to the fields which surrounded their house. Then, her gaze shifted down into the garden again. A movement on the path caught her attention. She looked closer now, and recognised a small bird. It was a goldcrest – a tiny, yellowy-green thing. It was hopping aimlessly. First in one direction, and then another.

Without realising it, Aisling smiled. It was a young bird, obviously learning to fly. She watched intently as it hopped a few inches into the air, wings flapping, only to descend again back to the ground.

For several minutes she watched, until she was rewarded with the sight of the bird taking itself several feet up into the air. It then disappeared into the depths of a small fir tree. Aisling smiled and clasped her hands together in pleasure.

A few moments later she turned from the window, a thoughtful look on her face. She picked up her dressing-gown and made for the bathroom. A few minutes later she sighed out loud with annoyance when she realised that Oliver had used up most of the hot water. Thankfully, she had bathed and washed her hair yesterday morning in the hotel. Her long, thick hair took ages to dry, and she had to get up a good half-an-hour early on schooldays when she washed it. She filled the bath a third of the way up with the barely lukewarm water and got in. At least it was a warm, early summer morning. There had been many winter mornings when she’d shivered in the freezing cold, after Oliver had gone off early, leaving a grate full of ashes and a tank of cold water. It would rarely cross his mind to stack the fire up before he left. Aisling did all that before setting off for school. There was no room in the house for two sets of vanity. Oliver’s vanity took all that space up for him alone.

Later, as she towelled herself dry, a small seed of an idea started to grow in Aisling’s mind. A seed sown by her mother a few weeks ago – buried and forgotten but now brought to life again after Oliver’s behaviour this morning, and further nurtured after watching the little bird’s determined attempts to fly.

Aisling Gayle was going to fly. She was going to rise up and leave her home. She was going to fly – far, far away. Even if it was just for a short time. She was going to leave Oliver – and everyone who pitied her for being his wife – a long, long way behind. She was going to join her parents on a trip to attend a wedding in a sunny, beautiful place. A place with a beautiful name: Lake Savannah.

She made up her mind as she rubbed the towel vigorously over her firm, attractive body.

She was going to fly away to America.

She was going to fly to Lake Savannah.

Chapter 2

“
Surely you can do better than that?” Oliver said, an encouraging smile on his lips. “Surely you can do a better deal than that? An’ me an oul’ Dub like yerself.” He put his wavy black head to the side, and a finger to his lips. He was putting on a good show, knowing that Fergal, the young salesman at the back of the shop, was listening to every word, and possibly the two women who were through the side door in the ladieswear department. “Now . . . what if I was to take three dozen of the ties and the hankies, would you do me a good deal on the scarves and the braces?”

“I would!” the salesman said, slapping a hand on the counter. “Begod, I would.” He went back to his case, which lay open on the counter behind him. “Now, these new long-johns. I’d say they’d go down well with the farmers round here. They’re a new make – just over from the States . . .”

Oliver shook his head, and tried to conceal his amusement. He had already knocked the fellow down half-price with the fancy ties and hankies, and anything further would be a bonus. “Oh, you’re some man,” he said, clapping him on the back. “You speak the same language as meself.” While the commercial traveller checked some sheets on a clipboard, Oliver turned and winked over at the young sales assistant, delighted with his victory.

That was the great thing about Oliver Gayle. He could bend either way. Sideways, up or down. It didn’t matter to him. He could speak the language of the farmers or the gentry, the young and the old. As long as he got what he wanted, and was paid a fair price. And people loved him for it. That was why Gayle’s Drapery was the prosperous business that it was. Whether he was buying stock from salesmen or selling underwear to customers, Oliver Gayle enjoyed every minute of it. Oliver just enjoyed people generally. The more the merrier. And particularly the females.

It’s just a pity that Tullamore town wasn’t Dublin city. A town like Tullamore could never provide enough life or excitement for the likes of Oliver Gayle.

So Oliver had to provide the excitement for himself.

And he did. Almost every day at work. On his good
days – which were often – he brought energy and enthusiasm in abundance to all who worked in his shop.
He was good-natured and fair, jokey and flirtatious with staff and customers alike.

On his bad days, his dark mood was like a hurricane
blowing through the shop. Wreaking havoc with everybody’s
nerves, and making them pray that he would
disappear off for a lunch-break which would extend well into the afternoon. Which he often did.

“Now, Fergal,” he said to the thin, younger man who was training as an under-manager in the shop, “did you pay close attention to that little bit of business? Did you see how I managed the fellow?” He smiled, and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Oh, I did, Mr Gayle,” Fergal said, nodding his gingery-coloured head. His eyes were wide with admiration. “I was watching you and learning – just like you said.”

“Good man,” Oliver said, giving him a jovial punch on the shoulder. “Now, that’s exactly what you should be doing.” He motioned Fergal over into the corner of the shop, out of earshot of the women. “Now, Fergal,” he said in a more serious manner, “I’m off out on a bit of business, which means you’re in charge. I could be gone well into the afternoon . . .
I’m not sure when I’ll get back. Are you up to it?”

“Oh, I am, Mr Gayle,” Fergal assured him quickly. “I’m up to it all right. I’ll make sure that everything’s just grand. There’ll be no long dinner-breaks or anythin’ like that. It’ll be just the way it is when you’re here.”

“And if anybody phones or calls to the shop looking for me?”

“You’re out on business, and can I take a message for you,” said Fergal, proving he was no slouch at picking up his boss’s commands.

“And young Dymphna?” Oliver raised his eyebrows, waiting to hear proof that Fergal had been paying good attention when he had last brought up the subject of time-keeping with the staff.

“Don’t be worryin’ about Dymphna,” Fergal said, straightening his tie in an important manner. “I’ll see she’s back in good time – and on her own. I won’t be slow in remindin’ her to leave her friends outside the door.”

“Good man!” Oliver said, going over to lift his car keys from the sales desk. “You’ll make a great manager some day.”

“Thanks, Mr Gayle,” Fergal beamed, as his boss made his departure through the front door.

Chapter 3

“Isn’t Oliver a great man that he doesn’t mind Aisling having a month away in America, without him?” Sister Concepta said, beaming around the group of teachers congregated in one of the classrooms for their tea and sandwiches.