her skin.
Finally someone answered and Elizabeth turned her back on the mirror to stand to attention. Back to business.
‘Hello, Baile na gCroíthe Garda Station.’
Elizabeth winced as she recognised the voice on the phone. ‘Hi, Marie, Elizabeth here… again. Saoirse’s gone off with the car,’ she paused, ‘again.’
There was a gentle sigh on the other end of the phone. ‘How long ago, Elizabeth?’
Elizabeth sat down on the bottom stair and settled in for the usual line of questioning. She closed her eyes, only meaning to rest them briefly, but at the relief of blocking everything out she kept them closed. ‘Just five minutes ago.’
‘Right. Did she say where she was going?’
‘The moon,’ she replied matter-of-factly.
‘Excuse me?’ Marie asked.
‘You heard me. She said she was going to the moon,’ Elizabeth said firmly. ‘Apparently people will understand her there.’
‘The moon,’ Marie repeated.
‘Yes,’ Elizabeth replied, feeling irritated. ‘You could perhaps start looking for her on the motorway. I would imagine that if you were heading to the moon that would be the quickest way to get there, wouldn’t you? Although I’m not entirely sure which exit she would take. Whichever is more northerly, I suppose. She could be headed north-east to Dublin, or, who knows, she could be making her way to Cork; perhaps they’ve a plane that can take her off this planet. Either way, I’d check the motor—’
‘Relax, Elizabeth; you know I have to ask.’
‘I know.’ Elizabeth tried to calm herself again. She was missing an important meeting right now. Important for her, important for her interior design business. Luke’s babysitter was standing in as a replacement for his nanny, Edith. Edith had left a few weeks ago for the three months of travelling the world she had threatened Elizabeth with for the past six years, leaving the young babysitter inexperienced to the ways of Saoirse. She had rung her at work in a panic… again… and Elizabeth had to drop everything… again… and rush home… again. But she shouldn’t be surprised that this had happened… again. She was, however, surprised that Edith, apart from the current trip to Australia, was still turning up to work every day. Six years she had been helping Elizabeth with Luke, six years of drama, and still after all her years of loyalty, Elizabeth expected a phone call or her letter of resignation practically every day. Being Luke’s nanny came with a lot of baggage. Then again, so did being Luke’s adoptive parent.
‘Elizabeth, are you still there?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes shot open. She was losing concentration. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘I asked you what car she took.’
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and made a face at the phone. ‘The same one, Marie. The same bloody car as last week, and the week before and the week before that,’ she snapped.
Marie remained firm, ‘Which is the—’
‘BMW,’ she interrupted. ‘The same damn black BMW 330 Cabriolet. Four wheels, two doors, one steering wheel, two wing mirrors, lights and—’
‘A partridge in a pear tree,’ Marie interrupted. ‘What condition was she in?’
‘Very shiny. I’d just washed her,’ Elizabeth replied cheekily.
‘Great, and what condition was Saoirse in?’
‘The usual one.’
‘Intoxicated.’
‘That’s the one.’ Elizabeth stood up and walked down the hall to the kitchen. Her sun trap. Her heels against the marble floor echoed loudly in the empty high-ceilinged room. Everything was in its place. The room was hot from the sun’s glare through the glass of the conservatory. Elizabeth’s tired eyes squinted in the brightness. The spotless kitchen gleamed, the black granite counter tops sparkled, the chrome fittings mirrored the bright day. A stainless steel and walnut heaven. She headed straight to the espresso machine. Her saviour. Needing an injection of life into her exhausted body, she opened the kitchen cabinet and took out a small beige coffee cup. Before closing the press she turned a cup round so that the handle was on the right side like all the others. She slid open the long steel cutlery drawer, noticed a knife in the fork’s compartment, put it back in its rightful place, retrieved a spoon and slid it shut.
From the corner of her eye she saw the hand towel messily strewn over the handle of the cooker. She threw the crumpled cloth into the utility room, retrieved a fresh towel from the neat pile in the press, folded it exactly in half and draped it over the cooker handle. Everything had its place.
‘Well, I haven’t changed my licence plate in the past week so yes, it’s still the same,’ she replied with boredom to another of Marie’s pointless questions. She placed the steaming espresso cup on a marble coaster to protect the glass kitchen table. She smoothed out her trousers, removed a piece of fluff from her jacket, sat down in the conservatory and looked out at her long garden and the rolling green hills beyond that seemed to stretch on for ever. Forty shades of green, golds and browns.
She breathed in the rich aroma of her steaming espresso and immediately felt revived. She pictured her sister racing over the hills with the top down on Elizabeth’s convertible, arms in the air, eyes closed, flame-red hair blowing in the wind, believing she was free. Saoirse meant freedom in Irish. The name had been chosen by their mother in her last desperate attempt to make the duties of motherhood she despised so much seem less like a punishment. Her wish was for her second daughter to bring her freedom from the shackles of marriage, motherhood, responsibility… reality.
Her mother had met her father when she was sixteen. She was travelling through the town with a group of poets, musicians and dreamers, and got talking to Brendan Egan, a farmer in the local pub. He was twelve years her senior and was enthralled by her mysterious wild ways and carefree nature. She was flattered. And so they married. At eighteen they had their first child, Elizabeth. As it turned out, her mother couldn’t be tamed and found it increasingly frustrating being held in the sleepy town nestled in the hills she had only ever intended to pass through. A crying baby and sleepless nights drove her further and further away in her head. Dreams of her own personal freedom became confused with her reality and she started to go missing for days at a time. She went exploring, discovering places and other people.
Elizabeth, at twelve years of age, looked after herself and her silent, brooding father and didn’t ask when her mother would be home because she knew in her heart that she would eventually return, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and speaking breathlessly of the world and all it had to offer. She would waft into their lives like a fresh summer breeze, bringing excitement and hope. The feel of their bungalow farmhouse always changed when she returned; the four walls absorbed her enthusiasm. Elizabeth would sit at the end of her mother’s bed, listening to stories, giddy with delight. This ambience would last for only a few days until her mother quickly tired of sharing stories rather than making new ones.
Often she brought back mementoes such as shells, stones, leaves. Elizabeth could recall a vase of long fresh grasses that sat in the centre of the dining-room table as though they were the most exotic plants ever created. When asked about the field they were pulled from, her mother just winked and tipped her nose, promising Elizabeth that she would understand some day. Her father would sit silently in
