haven’t damaged the paintwork,’ she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder and picking up her stride again. ‘Wouldn’t want to have to get Kerry to send you the bill for a respray.’
I wait until she reaches the car before I move off. ‘I thought I’d have heard from you by now,’ I say, ensuring there is no concern attached to the words.
‘Getting jittery, are you?’
‘Jittery? No. Not at all. More like bored.’
Roisin gives a laugh. ‘Well, you should be,’ she says. ‘Getting jittery, that is.’
‘Over a photograph. I don’t think so.’ I’m holding my nerve so far in this game of brinkmanship.
‘Yes, but this isn’t any old photograph, is it? No, this is a very special photograph. One that my brother hid away because if anyone saw it and read what was on the back, then your sordid little secret would be out.’
The word ‘sordid’ is the trigger.
‘There was nothing sordid about me and Niall.’ I’m crowding her space, but she doesn’t flinch. ‘We loved each other.’
‘Oh, please. Do me a favour…and yourself.’ She takes a step closer. We are inches apart. ‘You were a couple of young teenagers. It was puppy love. Do you really think my brother was going to stay with you once he had gone off to university?’ Her smile, full of derision, turns to a sneer. ‘Did you really think getting pregnant on purpose was going to keep him?’
‘You’ve no idea what you’re talking about. What do you want, Roisin?’
The smile returns and her shoulders relax. She side-steps round to her car, blipping the remote to unlock the car. ‘Ah, now we’re getting to the point.’ Opening the door, she drops her bag onto the passenger seat, closes the door and turns to face me. ‘I want to know the truth about what happened to that baby.’
I wonder how much she knows and how much she is fishing for. I study her while I decide how to answer this.
‘There was no baby,’ I say, after a few seconds.
‘Well, you see, Erin, I don’t believe that. And I’m going to make it my business to prove it.’ She opens the door and slips into her seat, pausing with her hand on the handle. ‘By the way, I hope your dad recovers soon from his accident.’ She slams the door shut and starts the engine before I can react.
I bang on the glass. ‘What do you mean by that?’ She smiles, but says nothing, before driving off.
I’m left standing there, watching the car disappear out of the car park, leaving behind a foreboding, which settles around me like a shroud.
The next morning I’m up early and out for a run. I need to burn off the nervous energy that has been building inside me since I came back to Rossway. After the spat with Roisin last night, the reassurance that she can’t do anything to cause trouble evades me.
I breathe deeply as I jog onto the estuary footpath, towards the village, the fresh sea air fills my lungs, the saltiness of it settles on my lips. This is perhaps one of my happier memories of living in Rossway: the freshness, together with the seagulls squawking in the sky and the sound of the tidal river churning in and out of the estuary.
As I near the bike shop, I find myself looking up towards Kerry’s flat. I squint against the glare of the morning sun, realising someone is at the window. It’s Kerry.
He has obviously seen me as he puts his hand up. I jog on the spot, not quite sure whether he is trying to get my attention or just waving. Kerry opens the window and leans out.
‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ he calls. ‘Like staying in bed?’
‘You clearly haven’t,’ I call back, feeling myself smile broadly. ‘Anyway, lie-ins are for wimps.’
‘You saying I’m a wimp?’
‘You’re the one who looks like they’ve just got up. Me, on the other hand, I’ve been up for a couple of hours and now I’m out exercising.’
‘Hmm, a bit of jogging around the village and you call that exercise?’
‘It’s more than a bit of jogging, I’ll have you know.’
‘Pah, anyone can jog!’
‘Oh really? Get your backside down here and let’s see what you’re made of!’ I can’t help giggling. I’m enjoying the banter.
‘I tell you what, you get your backside up here and then I’ll show you what I’m made of.’
I laugh and look away for a moment while I try to think of a suitable reply. ‘I asked first,’ I call back, thinking what a crap response that was. I hope my face is red from running to disguise the blush that I feel race up my neck. Time to go. I look back up at him. ‘Anyway, would love to stop and chat, but I’m a busy lady.’ With that I sprint off, ignoring the cries of ‘chicken’ that follow me.
A pang of guilt shoots through me as I think of Ed. I increase my stride as if increasing the distance between myself and the bike shop will also push thoughts of Kerry away. I cross the road and run parallel with the estuary wall. The water looks calm today, the early-morning sun beginning to stretch its sparkly fingers across the sea with promises of a nice day ahead. A good day for friends, wine and lunches in pub gardens.
Unchecked, my thoughts return to Kerry and the invite to the barbecue tomorrow. Bex had been so easy to talk to the other day it really is a tempting offer. Bex is refreshingly unchallenging and we ended up having a long chat, catching up on the last ten years of both our lives and those of the Rossway folk. It’s nice having a good old girly chat, I’ve been left thinking a few hours in the company of the Wright family might not be such a bad thing after all.
As I consider the prospect, I leave the footpath and head for the woods that cup the edge of Rossway. They aren’t natural woods, but a man-made windbreak, about fifty metres deep, stretching the length of the village. Within ten minutes I’ve reached the end of the trees and, hopping over the stile, I realise I’m now in Corkscrew Lane.
I make my way up the lane past a variety of bungalows and houses scattered along the way. About halfway along, I notice the crystals and lanterns hanging from an apple tree in one of the front gardens. ‘That has got to be Apple Tree Cottage,’ I puff to myself. What had Kerry said? Bohemian? Was this boho chic? That, together with the two motorbikes, an orange-and-white VW Campervan and a battered old blue Fiesta parked in the driveway, means I don’t need to read the sign hanging from the gate to confirm it’s where Joe and Bex live.
Pushing myself harder, I manage to negotiate the uneven gravel track and am thankful to reach the end of Corkscrew Lane, a winding road that curls round the back of the village and into the High Street. I check my watch. I have enough time to have a quick shower before opening the café up at nine.
I have spoken to both Mum and Fiona about the opening times, suggesting that opening later and closing earlier at weekends wouldn’t do the business any harm. The early-morning rush is a weekday occurrence, usually tradesmen on their way to work. None of them came in over the weekend. Neither had protested at my suggestion.
‘Ah, sure, close the café early,’ Mum
