don’t suppose you know where the key would be or even if there’s a spare one?’ I ask half-heartedly.
Fiona gives a wry smile. ‘You know what Dad’s like. Top-secret information that is.’
‘I’ll have a look round when I’m at the flat,’ I say. Much as my feelings towards my father are stifled, the thought that someone mugged him is not nice.
‘To be honest, that’s the least of our worries at the moment,’ says Fiona.
‘Yes, you’re right.’ I force myself to conjure up the compassion I know should be there. I change the subject to divert this uncomfortable acknowledgement. ‘How are Molly and Sophie?’
‘The kids are grand,’ says Fiona. A smile spreads across her face at their mention. ‘Molly is coming up to the last term of nursery. She goes off to school in September. She’ll be in junior infants, and Sophie will be going into fifth year of senior infants.’
‘So, two more years and then secondary school.’
‘I know, I can’t believe how the time has flown,’ says Fiona. ‘Remember when Sophie was born, she was such a scrap of a thing. All that red hair against her lily-white skin.’
‘She looked like an alien,’ I say, thinking back. A lump makes a bid to establish itself in my throat. I feel Fiona’s hand cover my own and hear her soft words.
‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘It’s been a long day. Don’t go upsetting yourself, now. You can’t change anything. It will all be fine. I promise.’
When I go up to bed shortly afterwards, I stop and peep in the open door of Molly’s bedroom. The five-year-old is fast asleep, her fair curls fan the pillow like a golden starburst. Molly has been lucky to inherit her mother’s colouring, but not so lucky with the curse of the Hurley curls.
I can’t resist looking in on Sophie, who is snuggled down under the duvet. Admittedly she doesn’t have the Hurley curls, but she most definitely has the ginger colouring, or auburn, as Mum likes to call it.
I touch my own hair, the colour I have grown to love, a dark-orangey brown, the curls haven’t quite won the same affection and, every day, I’m grateful to whoever brought hair-straighteners to the mass market. I can remember the absolute relief I felt on my fourteenth birthday when Fiona gave me a set as a present so I would no longer have to use the household iron in an attempt to banish the unruly curls. The ironing effect didn’t quite have the staying power and by lunchtime my hair had usually sprung back up into its familiar coils, much to the amusement of my classmates.
Fiona has always made things better. Right from making cakes when I felt fed up, taking me to the cinema to see the latest film, walking me to and from school when no one would walk with me because I’d fallen out with Roisin, to helping me fill in an application form for college and helping me find student digs.
Muffled footsteps on the carpeted landing bring me from my thoughts. Fiona appears at my side.
‘I was just looking at them. Fast asleep. Oblivious,’ I whisper.
‘Oblivious to everything,’ she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. ‘Is everything all right? Apart from the obvious…Dad.’
I feel my resolve weaken. I want to tell her about Roisin. Fiona will know what to do. She always has and before I can check myself the words are out.
‘Fiona, there’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Aha, and what’s that?’ says Fiona, unhooking her arm and pulling the bedroom door closed. She stifles a yawn.
Fiona looks tired. Even her hug had the air of exhaustion around it. Now isn’t the time to burden her with news of the email.
‘I’m glad I came back,’ I say quickly.
She gives a smile. ‘I’m glad as well. So is Mum. And Dad will be too.’
I don’t challenge this. It’s my turn to give out the hugs now.
I walk round on to Beach Road and the familiar parade of shops greets me on one side and the Irish Sea on the other. The fishing boats are tied up on the shore and the tidal waters of the estuary slop back and forth.
Seahorse Café is on the end of the parade of shops. The buildings that make up the parade are stone-built to echo the traditional style of the area, as are the small-paned windows and wooden doors. Above the shops is the living accommodation. My parents’ flat, my childhood home, stretches over four shop premises. Along the parade is a paper shop, hairdresser’s, a charity shop and Seahorse Café, my father’s pride and joy. The village road runs adjacent to the shops and on the other side is ‘Wright’s Motorbike Servicing & Repairs’.
My dad’s car is parked in the bays outside the café. I have the keys, so I can use it while I’m here. Sean is sorting out the insurance for me. I’m not sure what my dad would say if he knew. He’d probably be horrified. The car is old, but you wouldn’t think so. My dad has cared for that car like it was his own flesh and blood. I give a small laugh at the expression and correct myself. He cares for the car more than his own flesh and blood.
Crossing the road to the bike garage, I take a deep breath before entering. I have no desire whatsoever to come here, but Fiona is taking the children to nursery and school so it’s down to me to collect the keys to Mum’s flat. I’ve yet to call Roisin, but I’ll do that once I have the keys, then I can let myself into the flat and phone her in private.
I hope it will be only Kerry there and I won’t have to see Jody Wright, his cousin. With any luck Kerry won’t even remember me, our paths had only crossed a couple of times in our teenage years. However, I’m sure Jody won’t have forgotten me, after all, we had been at school together.
Another feeling of disquiet settles over me. School days bring no comfort or feeling of nostalgia to me. I breathe deeply and exhale slowly, blowing away the dark memories from my mind.
A bell tinkles above the doorway as I open and close the door. It’s a small reception area with a coffee machine in one corner that has seen better days. Either side are two chairs and a small table with a selection of bike and motoring magazines, all looking well-thumbed and dog-eared. The sound of a radio filters through into the reception area from the open doorway behind the counter, accompanied by the sporadic sound of some sort of power tool and the clanking of metal against metal. Obviously, the workshop. I stand at the counter patiently, hoping Kerry will appear.
After a minute or two I call out a ‘Hello!’ trying to time it with a lull in the noise. It appears an unsuccessful tactic, so I decide to go round the rear of the building to the workshop entrance.
Picking my way through a couple of oily patches in the courtyard, to avoid any stains on my white trainers, I head towards the open double garage doors.
‘Hello,’ I call out as I enter the building. The smell of oil and petrol, mixed with a dirty, greasy sort of smell, hits me, catching in the back of my throat. There are a number of bikes in the workshop, all in various states of repair. One looks like it has been stripped right down to the frame; there are bits of motorbike lying alongside. I assume
