The Stone House (20 page)

‘Please, Romy!' her mother had pleaded. ‘Come home for a few days before you go off. I promise there will be no questions or upsets. We just want to see you.' She had hardened her heart, reluctant to put her travel
plans in jeopardy, and had instead flown to Sydney via Bangkok and London.

Australia suited her and in Sydney, the magnificent city on the sea, she found work in Molloy's, an Irish bar, serving pints of dark Guinness and traditional brown bread and fresh prawns to city businessmen and tourists and freckle-faced Irish students missing home. Living only a block from the beach at Coogee, life was almost perfect. Then after twenty months she'd been hit by wanderlust and had once again packed up her bags. Aunt Vonnie had been right about her when she was a kid, saying she was like a tinker that could settle no place and wanted to be on the road the whole time. Bussing it up to Brisbane she had discovered paradise in Byron Bay. Bypassing the temptation to join the hippie trail in Nimbi she had instead rented a one-bedroomed beach-front apartment overlooking the ocean. The place was packed with surfers and those searching for something more to life than wealth or position: writers, artists and researchers. Romy immediately fitted in. Bar work was plentiful and in a few weeks she had mastered the art of mixing cocktails and surf-speak and cleaning sand off the wooden floorboards and making tuna melts for the masses.

Rob Kane came into her life not long after. She had watched him often from a distance on the beach early in the morning, chasing the waves, envying his ability on a surfboard, and was surprised as hell when he had come over to watch her feeble attempts to barely stand on the second-hand board she'd borrowed off Marti, one of the girls she worked with.

‘You're doing it all wrong,' he chastised her, standing on the sand watching her. ‘The board knows you're afraid of it and it's just tossing you.'

‘The board knows I'm afraid?'

‘Have you ever ridden a horse?' he insisted.

‘Yeah of course, back in Ireland.'

‘Well did you let the horse know you were afraid?'

‘No, Paddy Ryan told us that the rider is always boss.'

‘Well the same goes for boards! You walk out a bit further. You're playing it too safe here, making it easy to fall off where it's shallow.'

She waded out further and further.

‘Good girl, climb on now!'

She looked like an ungainly seal trying to climb onto the slippy board, Rob suddenly holding it steady for her as she managed to right herself and, trying not to wobble, almost stood up.

‘Don't look down, only look up!'

Unbelieving, she had caught a gentle wave and actually stayed on the board for a few seconds before tumbling off again.

‘Not bad,' he praised, as dripping she stood up out of the water, her hair and face covered in sand. Mortified, Romy introduced herself.

Rob must have been a glutton for punishment as over the next week he seemed to miraculously appear just when she needed him, ignoring her pleas to just leave her be and ‘Go off and surf!'

One Saturday night he'd turned up in the bar with a crowd of friends. Romy waved to him and gave him a free beer in return for her lessons and was amazed when at the end of the shift he was waiting out on
the veranda for her and insisted on walking her home. They sat on the cold sand in the moonlight talking for hours, Romy hugging her knees as she told him about leaving home and all the places she'd been, Rob telling her about his Melbourne childhood, confessing his sole obsession was with the waves and where they ran. As the morning sun came up, she led him towards her lonely bed and they made love till they were both sweat-soaked and exhausted and Romy fell asleep in his arms. The next day he'd packed up his things – a computer and three boards – and moved in with her.

He worked designing websites – surf sites for boardies, mostly: places, resorts, best boards, surf gear, competitions. His dream, he confessed, was to create a surf game for non-surfers to enjoy.

He was easygoing and fun and very loving, working at night and the evening mostly on his own projects or as a programmer for the bank while she was busy in the bar, the days kept for the water. He had a huge group of friends, all sharing the same obsession, a gaggle of beach-babe girlfriends in attendance as they polished their boards and worked out a strategy for tackling each day's waves.

Month after month passed and Romy had never felt so relaxed and comfortable with her surroundings. Using her tools she had bought some silver and designed a few pieces based on surf and the crashing crescendo of waves on the rock and beach. She showed them to Tilda Gray, who ran a high-class jeweller's and gift shop on the Shore Road, and was pleased beyond belief when
Tilda put on her glasses and studied them, immediately ordering more.

‘Wow that's great!' shouted Rob, scooping her up in his tanned arms. ‘Now you've got your own business too.'

‘It's just a bit of silver work, that's all.' She didn't want to make too much of it or take on more work than she could handle.

‘If you want I can set you up with a website to sell your designs.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, maybe people who can't come to Byron Bay or to Tilda's might be interested in your designs and want to buy them?'

She hadn't even thought about it. It was too soon to think that way.

‘You don't have to do anything, Romy. I'll set it up for you and you can expand it and operate it any way you want in the future.'

On Christmas Day she had sat at a massive barbecue on the beach eating shrimp and steak, drinking chilled sparkling Australian champagne and thinking of Moya and Kate gathered around the Christmas tree down home, her mother fixing the stuffing and cranberry sauce for the turkey, her father throwing logs on the fire and making sure the booze cupboard was adequately stocked for the arrival of their cousins and friends. The scent of her mother's hot mulled wine would be filling the Stone House.

Overwhelmed with loneliness and homesickness she stared at the sun dancing on the waves as crowds of
holidaymakers took to the water, swimming and surfing and splashing around. This was such an alien landscape.

‘Happy Christmas!' yelled Carl, one of Rob's friends, wearing red Santa swimming trunks and a silly red hat.

Romy, trying not to cry, told him to ‘Feck off!'

In the New Year Rob and some pals wanted to go up north to Cairns and the Reef for a few days. Romy took holidays and joined the surf pack on the move. The Reef blew her mind, the colours, the shapes and the azure blue sky and tropical landscape like nothing she had seen before. She didn't need much persuading from Rob to don goggles and a mask and do some diving. After two weeks she had returned to her job and her commissions from Tilda's, unwilling to throw away her work to up sticks and move with Rob and his cronies to follow the surf further north.

The business grew and grew, Tilda taking almost as much as Romy could make, the rest orders from those who had seen her designs on the internet. She cut back her hours in the bar to concentrate on creating handcrafted pieces of silver and bronze. With ferocious intensity she had written a cheque to her father for the sum of one thousand pounds, returning his blood money with no note or letter.

Weeks turned to months and eventually Rob reappeared with a broken collarbone. Temporarily out of action, he was planning his next campaign. It was good to have him back in her life again and Romy promised herself that the next time, wherever he travelled she'd go too.

MOYA HAD AN
appreciation of things that were beautiful and balanced and as she and Patrick moved into their first home she endeavoured to surround herself with such things. Simple heavy glassware bought from the factory in Jerpoint, Stephen Pearce pottery and a classic Wedgwood dinner service. A Brian Bourke painting and a Bobby Ballagh print – small pieces but items that made her feel that the three-bedroomed home they'd purchased in Dundrum's leafy suburbs, a house like a hundred others, the garden a mass of builder's rubble waiting to be cleared, was something special.

Stretched across their enormous bed Moya pored over her brand-new recipe books to find interesting dishes to entertain their family and friends with, while Patrick tried his best to distract her.

Each weekday morning, Patrick dropped her off at Stephen's Green close to Taylors, the big art auction house where she now worked, typing up catalogues, talking to owners and checking details on paintings and sculptures and artefacts that they handled. Insurance,
delivery, security, as works of Yeats and Orpen and Louis le Brocquy – all the Irish and international art beloved by collectors – passed through their rooms. She loved to listen to the experts detail the brushwork, the influences, the studios where paintings originated as she dealt with the nitty-gritty mundane details essential in looking after such valuable works. Growing up, she had attempted to paint, to capture the beauty seen with the eye and transfer it to the canvas, but the results were disappointingly dead and flat and soon Moya realized that, despite Sister Angela's encouragement during art class, she would never be an artist. However, she had an ability to recognize and appreciate the work of others even if she could not emulate it and painters and their work continued to fascinate her.

At lunchtime she ran around to the shops buying steak or pork chops and selecting fresh vegetables from the greengrocer's in South Anne Street for their evening meal or, if she had time, browsed around the latest fashions in Brown Thomas. Otherwise she had lunch with a colleague or some girlfriends. Marriage was bliss. Night after night lying in bed with Patrick exhausted from lovemaking as they tried to conjure up new ways to pleasure each other, she realized that she had never been so happy and that being married suited her.

Within a year and a half Fiona Mary Redmond was delivered without any complications or fuss in Mount Carmel, a private hospital. Both sets of parents were overjoyed and had made the pilgrimage to see their first granddaughter.

‘She's absolutely beautiful,' declared her mother, ‘the very spit of you when you were a baby.'

Moya had to admit that Fiona was the prettiest baby by far in the nursery. Patrick and herself were mad about her and dying to get her home. Minding the baby and keeping the house running smoothly took up most of her time. Returning to work at the end of her maternity leave she found herself stretched trying to manage it all. Patrick was promoted and needed to work longer hours as he dealt with a portfolio of new clients and their investments, trying to stay on top of deal after deal, throwing a fit almost at the suggestion that he give her more of a hand.

‘For Christ's sake, do you want me to tell the senior partner I have to go home to mind a baby!'

Moya had to give up attending art exhibitions and lectures in the evening unless they were essential, not wanting to ask her childminder Denise to spend even more time with the baby. Friday nights meeting Patrick for a drink after work also went by the board as she rushed home to their daughter.

Patrick's parents led a busy social life and were unavailable to babysit but once every three weeks they invited them to Sunday lunch, where Annabel praised Fiona's progress and remarked what an intelligent and bright child she was. Kate helped out if she was really stuck but Moya knew her sister was uncomfortable in the house and preferred to avoid being around Patrick. Moya often wished for a return of the old closeness and fun that they'd shared, but suspected she'd hurt Kate too deeply for it to happen.

Fiona was just starting to walk and take her first steps when she discovered she was pregnant again, and nine months later their son Gavin was born. A long
lanky baby with his father's features, he was almost as good as his sister.

‘Maybe you should think about staying home,' suggested Patrick. ‘The childminding is costing a fortune and the two of them are such a handful, maybe it would be better if you concentrated on looking after them.'

His career had taken off and he was now travelling away at least once a month and couldn't even be relied on to be home. Looking at the big eyes and baby faces of her two small children, it was an easy decision for Moya to make and with few qualms she gave in her notice and stayed home with Gavin and Fiona.

She enjoyed motherhood and the freedom to do what she wanted once she didn't mind having two small people in tow. She met other young mothers in the same situation, as they mapped out meetings and lunches and play sessions and shared walks and trips to the park.

The growing family moved to an old house in Sandymount.

‘But it needs so much work!' she worried, looking at the builder's quote.

‘Listen, it's got Regency charm and is a lot closer to my office. Besides, even your father agrees we should double our money on it in a few years' time.'

Patrick was still working night and day and was rarely home, barking at the children and shouting at her when he did appear.

Hurt, she decided to surprise him. One night she arranged a babysitter and dressed up in an expensive black Joseph top and skirt and knee-high boots, joining
the throng inside the Shelbourne and searching for him in his regular spot, the Horseshoe Bar. She was talking to Gerry Gorman, a tax specialist, when she spotted Patrick up at the counter. Excusing herself to go and say hi, she had to almost push a pretty young woman in a grey suit who was flirting with him and hanging on his every word out of the way. Patrick, embarrassed by her arrival, introduced her to Jenny, one of the new graduate trainee accountants.

Moya pasted her biggest, widest smile on her lips and slipped in beside him as he ordered her a drink.

That night when they got home they had the biggest row they'd ever had since they got married, Moya accusing him of going off with other girls.

‘I swear to God, nothing has ever happened between us. It's just a few drinks and a laugh. It means nothing,' he insisted. ‘Moya, you know that you're the only one I care about.'