‘Who are you?’ I heard Madame Bowden’s imperious voice from behind us. She was standing in the doorway that led back to the parlour. I hadn’t heard her come in and I had to fight the urge to hug her for her impeccable timing. She held her walking stick more like a weapon waiting to be wielded than a support.
‘Another friend of yours?’
Oh God, don’t say it like that.
‘Th-this is my husband, Madame Bowden.’ I was shivering all over. I didn’t think anything bad would happen while she was there, but I couldn’t be sure.
‘Husband? Good grief, you kept that quiet!’
I wished she would shut up. She was making everything worse. I was immobilised. The past and the present were colliding in the front room and no one seemed to understand how terrifying that was. They continued to exchange barbed pleasantries and I just stood there, my mind racing to nowhere. I found myself wishing that Henry was here.
‘Well, we’d best be off,’ Shane said, walking towards me and taking me by the arm. I remembered this. How it looked normal because no one could see him digging his fingers into my skin.
‘Oh, where are you off to? Somewhere nice? Bewleys do a lovely lunch menu—’
‘Back to Sligo. Martha’s mother is in the hospital, so I’m taking her home.’
Madame Bowden looked genuinely sad, although I couldn’t tell if it was sympathy for me, or for the fact that she would have to make her own breakfast. She was unpredictable in her moods at the best of times – kind and gentle one minute, cold and uncaring the next. I couldn’t rely on her to get me out of this.
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said, her eyes lowering to where his hand grasped my arm.
‘I have to pack some things first,’ I croaked, my voice breaking.
‘There’s no time for that now, we have to beat the traffic.’
‘I said I’m sorry to hear that because Martha can’t possibly leave today. No, I’m afraid I have a very important supper this evening and I cannot do without her. I’m quite sure she can make her own way there in the morning. We have a very reliable public transport system,’ she added, enjoying how he visibly squirmed at her interference.
‘Her mother is seriously ill, I think that’s more important than your supper or whatever.’
I looked from one to the other. I didn’t know what to do.
‘I would like to hear Martha’s opinion on the matter, if you don’t mind.’
She was giving me breathing space and I had to grasp it, at least until I could find out for myself what was going on.
‘Um, I’d better stay here for tonight anyway,’ I said, despising the pleading tone in my voice. Five minutes with Shane and I was already back to the frightened girl hiding in a wardrobe. I hated him for making me this way, but I hated myself too. Why couldn’t I be stronger?
He shook his head and widened his eyes in disbelief. ‘Nice to see where your priorities lie.’
‘It is my job, Shane. I’ll call home tonight and be on the first bus down in the morning.’
‘There, you have your answer,’ Madame Bowden said, stepping in front of me.
‘Don’t call the house, there’s no one home, obviously.’ It seemed as though he was giving up. What else could he do with her there? He took one last look around the place, then filled his mouth with saliva and spat on the floor before walking out and slamming the front door. My lungs exhaled and I realised I’d been holding my breath for who knows how long. The relief of his absence was spoiled only by the embarrassment I felt in front of my employer.
‘I’ll clean that,’ I said, reaching into my apron pocket for a cloth and walking away quickly so I could hide my tears.
‘Martha Winter, you’ll do no such thing!’ she commanded. ‘I think it’s time you told me what exactly is going on.’
Chapter Twenty-One
HENRY
‘I’m following a new lead.’
The sigh on the other end of the line was not open to interpretation.
‘I’m just wondering, is all of this really worth it?’ said Isabelle.
I gave my own version of the frustrated sigh. She had no idea. How could she? I’d been cryptic about my research for so long that she’d lost interest in asking.
‘It’s worth it to me.’
‘Fine. Well, I suppose there’s no point in me saying that I miss you, it hardly seems relevant to you.’
‘Of course it’s relevant, I really miss you too, Issy.’ And there it was. My first lie. Or rather, the first lie that I was blindingly aware of, like staring into the sun and seeing the worst part of yourself eclipsed. I didn’t want to be the kind of person who simply told someone what they wanted to hear, but I didn’t know what the truth was any more. Or maybe I did but I didn’t know what to do about it. I was stalling. Did that make me a bad person?
‘Your mother called.’
‘What? My mother called you?’
‘Yes, Henry. She is going to be my future mother-in-law. If we ever get married, that is.’
I gulped.
‘She said your father’s checked himself into rehab.’
I’m not sure how many seconds passed by.
‘Henry? Are you there?’
I cleared my throat. It felt thick with something I was determined to suppress.
‘Yep, I’m still here.’
‘Well, aren’t you going to say anything?’
This was typical of my mother – using someone else to deliver the news she should have told me herself. I hated her and pitied her at the same time. She was always hiding behind someone or something. Perhaps she was ashamed of the whole thing. I know I was.
‘What is there to say? Am I supposed to be impressed? He’ll sober up for a fortnight, maybe three weeks at a stretch, then just when we’re starting to believe that he’s changed, he won’t come home one night and that’ll be the last we hear of him for another few years. It’s always the same.’
‘Oh, okay. I’m sorry.’
I made a fist of my hand and smacked my forehead. What was I thinking, saying this stuff to her?
‘No, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be caught in the middle of this. I’ll have a word with Mum. And I’ll be home soon. I promise.’
I spent twenty minutes trying to schmooze the archivist at Princeton University on the phone. （My definition of schmoozing was leaning heavily on my British accent and hoping that made me sound important.） As it turned out, my schmoozing skills were either rusty from lack of use or highly overestimated. By me.
‘Sir, you are welcome to visit the reading rooms here. Simply make an appointment—’
‘Yes, I understand that, it’s just not fiscally feasible to make that kind of journey at the moment,’ I said for the third time. As much as I would have loved a trip to New York, I could hardly afford the bed and breakfast as it was. ‘Is there any chance you could, you know, have a little look through Sylvia Beach’s letters for any correspondence with an Opaline Carlisle?’
‘So you want me to drop everything I’m doing and do your research for you, is that correct, Mr Field?’
‘Now when you say it like that—’