Past Secrets Page 27

  The next hour and a half passed in a flash, but when Maggie wound up the meeting everyone had been allocated a useful task to perform before they reconvened. Maggie herself was to try to interest several politicians in their cause.

  When everyone was gone, Maggie and Xu, who’d stayed behind to help and make coffee, tidied up.

  ‘I hope you weren’t bored out of your mind listening to that,’ Maggie said to Xu.

  Now that they were alone, she hoped Xu might talk to her.

  ‘It was interesting,’ Xu said. She had a low sweet voice and perfect English. ‘We do not do this in my country. If the authorities want to pull down a building, they pull it down. It’s very different.’

  Maggie stopped collecting cups and sat down. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me how you came here and what you’d like to do and what your country’s like. I’d love to hear.’

  She’d never seen Xu give anything other than a shy smile that was more defence mechanism than emotion, but now Xu really beamed at her.

  ‘I never asked before because I was afraid I’d insult you or something,’ Maggie admitted. ‘You’re very brave to come here on your own.’

  ‘Brave is the only way in China,’ Xu shrugged. ‘My mother is much braver than me. This is nothing compared to what she suffered during the Cultural Revolution. I only had to get on an aeroplane and learn another language so I could go to college here. I can make choices in my life—she could make none.’

  ‘Will your mother come here too?’ asked Maggie, not wanting to upset Xu now she’d got her talking.

  ‘Maybe. She loves China, it’s her home. I’d like her to visit. But she doesn’t speak English.’

  ‘And will you go back?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘I don’t know. I love China but I feel at home here. We are very alike, the Chinese and the Irish. We love our families.’

  ‘Your English is fantastic. When did you start learning?’

  ‘Nine months ago,’ Xu said casually.

  ‘Nine months ago! You’re so fluent. I can’t imagine being that good in such a short length of time.’

  Xu laughed so loudly that her curtain of thick dark hair shimmered. ‘Chinese people know how to work.’ She grinned.

  They sat talking for an hour, whereupon Xu said she ought to go home and Maggie said the same, because she knew her mother would be sitting up waiting for her to hear how the meeting went.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll come out with me sometimes?’ Maggie asked Xu. ‘To see a film or something?’

  ‘I would like that very much indeed,’ Xu replied.

  On the way down Summer Street, Maggie reflected that if a girl from a small town in China could travel thousands of miles to a strange land where she knew nobody to start a new life, then she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life being afraid of what happened to her when she was a schoolgirl.

  ‘Well, how did it go?’ demanded Una, when Maggie got home. Her mother had been mad to go to the meeting, but since she wasn’t on the committee, she couldn’t.

  ‘Marvellously,’ said Maggie, still astonished at how she’d stood up in front of a room of strangers and handled it well. ‘Everyone had loads of ideas and we’ve all got various jobs and I think we have a really good chance.’

  ‘I’d like to be involved though,’ said Una.

  ‘Of course you’re involved,’ Maggie placated her. ‘It was your idea in the first place, don’t forget that. But you do need to rest.’

  ‘Ah, rest, schmest,’ muttered Una. ‘I’m sick of resting. I want to do something.’

  ‘Well, I need to make appointments to see three local politicians and you could come with me to see them,’ Maggie said, thinking that she’d be braver with company.

  ‘Marvellous,’ Una said, satisfied. ‘I better get my best suit out. Don’t want to go stalking the corridors of power looking like some mad old dear in a bobbly cardigan, do I?’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The following morning, Christie phoned Maggie to ask her round for coffee.

  ‘You can fill me in on the meeting,’ Christie said. ‘I couldn’t make it, although the Summer Street grapevine has already broadcast the fact that you’re in charge.’

  Maggie laughed. ‘The lunatics have taken over the asylum,’ she said. ‘But yes, I’m in charge. I’d love a coffee.’

  When she arrived, Christie hugged her and rushed back into the kitchen to take scones out of the oven.

  Maggie took the chance to stop and admire the paintings in Christie’s hall, marvelling at the intricate watercolour strokes that brought delicate plants to life.

  One wall was covered with lily paintings, interspersed with tiny Klimt prints in antique gold frames and black-and-white family photographs. On the other were displayed exquisite paintings of herbs, from the lacy froth of sweet cicely to the fire-red flowers of bergamot. There were herbs Maggie had never heard of, like comfrey, lovage and feverfew, alongside the soft purple of French lavender and sleek, slender chives, so well drawn she could almost smell their tangy scent.

  ‘These are beautiful,’ Maggie called into the kitchen where Christie was brewing coffee. ‘You’re so talented.’

  ‘I love herbs and foliage,’ Christie said. ‘So many artists only want to paint flowers, but plants and the history behind them are fascinating. They have incredible medicinal uses and we’ve lost that, sadly. I try to put herbs from my own garden into my cooking. And if you haven’t tasted proper fennel and lemon balm tea, you haven’t lived.’

  A lovely sense of warmth and comfort emanated from the Devlins’ house. It was partly due to the scent of Christie’s white tea roses with their tightly furled buds, and a burning candle that filled the downstairs with a citrus scent. But there was something more, more than the sum of its parts. It was a house of peace and security. Maggie felt as if nothing truly bad could ever happen as long as there were people like Christie in the world to make sense of everything and to offer her home as a refuge.

  Finally, with the dogs scampering ahead, she wandered into the kitchen. Christie had laid coffee cups and the scones on a tray.

  ‘You carry this into the garden,’ Christie said, ‘and I’ll be out in a moment with the coffee.’

  Christie had been thinking so much about Maggie and Faye lately that it was no surprise to wake up that morning with Maggie again in her mind. Only today, as Maggie stood there, holding out her arms for the tray, Christie had a moment of seeing exactly what had hurt the younger woman so much.

  Sweet, tall, kind Maggie, who should have had lots of confidence, but didn’t. Lovely Maggie, who’d been bullied when she was at school.

  Lying in bed, listening to the birdsong and the rising and falling of James’s breath the past came flooding back. Hers and Maggie’s. It was easier to think about other people’s problems than focus on her own. She’d tried to put Carey Wolensky out of her mind, but hadn’t managed it. He loomed large in her fears.

  So she made herself remember Maggie starting at St Ursula’s almost twenty years before: shy and lanky, falling over her own feet all of the time. She was clever and good fun, so it was hard to work out why bullies had picked on her. Sister Aquinas, who had been headmistress at the time, had talked in the staff room one day about bullying in general and the fact that young Maggie Maguire appeared to have been targeted by a particular coterie of little madams in her year, led by a really nasty piece of work called Sandra Brody.

  ‘We’ll just keep an eye on it for the moment,’ said Sister Aquinas, who was a great believer in not rushing into things. Girls needed more backbone, she felt. Sister Aquinas had spent twenty years in the field in Africa and was of the opinion that Irish girls could do with a little hardship because, compared to the children in the townships, they hadn’t a clue about life.

  Christie hadn’t thought too much about it because Maggie hadn’t been in one of her art classes, but she’d seen her sometimes at lunch. Maggie was so often on her own, reading, when everyone else was out playing
tag or netball, or sitting in little groups discussing boys and the unfairness of life.

  When Maggie went into the fifth year, the leader of the gang of bullies, Sandra Brody, left, although Christie couldn’t recall why, and her gang fell apart without their natural leader.

  But it seemed obvious now that the damage had already been done where Maggie Maguire was concerned. There were lots of naturally quiet, shy people in the world, but Christie now felt that Maggie hadn’t been one of them when she’d arrived. It was as though she had found that keeping her mouth shut and blending into the background was the easiest way of survival.

  Having taken the jug into the garden, Christie poured coffee into the cups and proffered scones.

  ‘This is lovely here, a little oasis,’ sighed Maggie, sitting back and looking around her. She wondered what Christie wanted to talk to her about. Perhaps she was going to help with the Save Our Pavilion campaign, which would be wonderful. Christie would be great at getting people to return her phone calls.

  So it came as a total shock when Christie asked: ‘Were you bullied at St Ursula’s?’

  Maggie’s head shot up and the colour drained away from her face.

  ‘What? How…?’

  ‘I didn’t know at the time,’ Christie said apologetically. ‘You weren’t in any of my classes and I hardly knew more than your name then, but it suddenly made sense to me. It’s your secret, isn’t it? The thing that holds you back.’

  Maggie could only nod silently.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I was there and if I’d really been aware…’ Christie said. ‘Your mum doesn’t know, does she?’

  This time, Maggie shook her head, biting her lip to make sure she didn’t cry. This was so unexpected, like the ground being pulled away from her feet.

  ‘I couldn’t talk about it because—’

  ‘—Because you thought she should know without you having to say it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  Tilly leaped up on to Maggie’s lap, circling slowly on delicate paws, before lying against her. Maggie clung to this soft comfort, stroking the pansy-soft fur, grateful for a creature to hold. And she felt her shock subside slowly.

  Christie leaned across the table and touched Maggie’s hand gently, a touch that helped even more, filling her with peace.

  ‘It’s all right to talk about it,’ Christie said. ‘The people we love often don’t see our pain, and that’s one of the hardest things in the world to cope with. We think they should see, they should know. If they don’t, we feel as if they’ve failed us somehow and we have to deal with it all on our own.’

  Maggie nodded. Mum hadn’t seen what was going on and that had made Maggie lonelier than ever. Home hadn’t been her refuge: it became a place where nobody understood her and what she was going through. Her parents’ lovable idiocyncrasies had become irritating, their cheerful innocence annoying. If only they’d been more observant, they’d have understood.

  ‘It’s not their fault,’ Christie said. ‘It was St Ursula’s fault. Bullying shouldn’t have been tolerated. And it was Sandra’s fault.’ She noticed how Maggie winced at the mention of her tormentor’s name. ‘You were not to blame.’

  ‘I thought I was,’ blurted out Maggie. ‘Something about me that was weak or odd.’

  ‘Nothing I could see, though we all have weaknesses. But that’s no excuse for their behaviour. You were just someone to pick on, nothing more.’ Christie paused. ‘Have you ever seen Sandra since?’

  ‘No, although…I’ve been thinking about it a lot,’ Maggie admitted. ‘Since I met Faye and you, and Faye has had to face her own demons, I keep thinking I should face her. Stupid, I know. I haven’t seen her for years.’

  ‘Not stupid at all. You last saw her as a child. As an adult, you could put it all behind you, lay the secrets to rest.’

  ‘Yeah, but who knows where she is.’ Maggie couldn’t even bring herself to say Sandra’s name. ‘What are the odds on her walking back into my life now?’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Christie thoughtfully. ‘You’re thinking about her and talking about her. You’re ready to meet her again. That’s happened for a reason. Life is never random: I always find that, don’t you?’

  Maggie was on a late shift at work which meant she started at noon. As she walked towards the library, she went over what Christie had said to her.

  Christie seemed to think that seeing Sandra Brody would allow the past to settle into the past, but it wasn’t that easy, was it?

  And Maggie had quite enough on her plate right now, anyway, what with being chairwoman of the campaign, getting over Grey and trying to get her life back on track.

  She could face most things, but not Sandra Brody.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  That afternoon, Christie went into St Ursula’s and found that overnight, almost the entire teaching population had plunged headfirst into exam anxiety. June was fast approaching and on the third of the month, the state exams would begin, the culmination of years of hard work distilled into a dozen two-and-a-half-hour exams spread out over three tortured weeks.

  ‘It’s like an incessant headache pounding away,’ said Mr Sweetman, thinking of the third years’ still-limited interest in As You Like It and how a small section of the English sixth-year class had still only half read Pride and Prejudice and were using one of the movie versions as their guide instead of the actual novel.

  ‘C’est vrai,’ sighed Mademoiselle Lennox, who was reciting Guy de Maupassant in her sleep because of how many times she’d read out passages to her beloved girls in 6 and 6A.

  ‘We must be positive, for the girls’ sake,’ boomed Ms Ni Rathallaigh, the sports teacher, who didn’t care much because the fifth-year netball team had won the league.

  Everyone in the staff room glared at her.

  Everyone except Christie, who was finding it hard to concentrate on worrying about the exams because of how much she was worrying over Carey Wolensky and his trying to track her down. She hadn’t returned the strange phone call asking her to get in touch, and during the day, she left the answering machine off in case James came home early and heard another message on it. Nobody, she hoped, would phone in the evenings, would they?

  In the meantime, mentions of Carey were everywhere. The arts section in one of the Saturday papers had carried a review of his work, accompanied by photographs of three of his paintings. Thank heavens there wasn’t a picture of him, Christie thought with relief. She couldn’t have coped with seeing his brooding eyes gazing out at her from a photograph.

  Instead she had to look at one of his trademark wildly furious landscapes, and two of his rare—and infinitely more valuable—paintings of a dark-haired woman. In one, she was lying between the paws of a predatory stone tiger in a crumbling Greek temple, and in the other, she stood in the centre of a Turkish bath, where other women chattered and bathed, and she was alone, staring out, hair partly covering a face that was never completely shown in any painting.

  ‘It is his uncanny ability to bring new meaning to traditional themes that makes Wolensky a master,’ raved the article. ‘His moody landscapes are imbued with energy, but it’s his Dark Lady paintings that elevate him to another level. They are his masterpieces, but the identity of the lovely Dark Lady remains one of modern art’s most fascinating secrets.’

  Those words made Christie break out in a sweat. She’d spent long enough studying symbolism in art to understand that the dark-haired woman in Wolensky’s paintings was always slightly beyond his reach, and by obscuring her face, he wanted her to be beyond everyone’s reach. If he couldn’t have her, nobody else could, either.

  Her naked body was womanly, complete with the not-so-pert breasts and stretchmarks of childbirth. He’d painted his first Dark Lady some twenty-five years before and she was no figment of the imagination, the art critics reckoned.

  Wolensky had lived in Ireland round about then, the article went on, and this was his first trip back with this triumphant exhibi
tion. Christie thought of Carey Wolensky back in her city, living, breathing only miles away in some classy city centre hotel, and felt sick.

  If only she could really see the future and know what was happening, then she could deal with it all. Tell James, if that’s what it took. Face his pain. Whatever was required.

  But the waiting and not knowing was killing her.

  Ana hadn’t mentioned Carey again, which was something, but still Christie couldn’t think of anything else. How she’d betrayed James and Ana in one fell swoop.

  Suddenly fed up with the stuffy staff room and everyone’s moaning, she left early for her next class. At least she’d have a few moments of peace before the lesson started.

  In the blue-painted corridor that led to the art room, a pile of papers lay scattered on the floor. Bending, she slowly gathered them up and as she did so a white feather fluttered out from underneath, lifting in the gentle draught, drifting away.

  White feathers were a sign of angels passing by, her mother used to say.

  Christie looked down at the papers. They were exam notes, several scrawled sheets of foolscap with a small bit of paper sandwiched in the middle. She pulled this out. It was a flyer for a market where stalls promised second-hand books, antiques at prices nobody would believe, plants, home-knitted sweaters, a coffee shop and there, at the bottom, almost as an afterthought, were the words, fortune-telling.

  Things happened for a reason—wasn’t that what she’d told Maggie only the other day? This flyer and the white feather had come to her for a reason. She folded the flyer up and put it in her pocket. She’d think about it later.

  That evening, she and James were supposed to go to a party at the house of some neighbours. The Hendersons had lived on Summer Street for fifteen years and they had been good friends with James and Christie for most of that time. Tommy Henderson, the husband, was a motorbike aficionado and while James had never had the funds for a bike, he loved standing in Tommy’s garage watching him take apart the latest model, discussing the merits of the new BMW versus the classic Norton.