Chapter 11 #3
‘That is true,’ he replies. ‘Back then, I was a little bit crazy… I think it was having all those siblings, and being in the middle. I had to do some pretty serious shit to get noticed in the Byrne family. Amazing I survived. Though I’ll have you know I don’t do those things anymore.
I’ve become much more risk averse. Can’t even remember the last time I went on a roller coaster, never mind skateboarded off a chimney. ’
Part of me is sad that he has grown up. Sad that I have too. We were so carefree and reckless back then.
‘Yeah,’ I say, wiping crumbs from my mouth. ‘I have it on good authority that these days, you’re super dull and brain-numbingly boring.’
His eyes widen, and then he laughs, deep and hard, the sound impossible to resist joining in with. It washes away that undercurrent, and leaves him just looking… happy.
‘At a guess, then, I’d say you’ve met Bella?’
Much as I’m enjoying making small talk with Liam, I’m aware that we are both treading carefully.
There is the banter, the familiar sense of mocking each other and challenging each other verbally, but we are both avoiding any subjects that might upset the delicate balance.
And now, I know I have to do exactly that – it’s why I’m here.
‘I have. Look, can I talk to you about her? And is her mum here, or still in Dublin?’
A shadow falls over his face, and the smile falls from his full lips. He blinks once, slowly, as though trying to control his reaction, and nods. I’m guessing he has had to do a lot of talking about Bella with other adults.
‘Come with me,’ he says, ‘and bring your coffee. I’ll show you my hidden compartment.’
I follow him up the wide staircase, seeing that the upper floors aren’t anywhere near as finished as below.
I spot a can of paint and a room covered in dust sheets, and assume that’s what he was working on when I disturbed him.
Ralph gallops ahead and tries to lick a paintbrush, until Liam pulls him away.
Dogs are so stupid. Maybe that’s why I love them – they make me feel less stupid myself.
I might make mistakes, but at least I don’t lick paintbrushes.
‘You know, Liam, I have to say I’m surprised to see you doing manual labour. You always loved your computers and your technology. I’d have expected you to have invented a robot servant to do all of this for you by now.’
‘Ha! Don’t think I haven’t tried… I suppose I just figured out that I like doing this kind of stuff.
I did a few years after uni working for a big tech firm in Sydney, but I was working on my own projects too.
Websites initially, then apps when the technology was there.
That’s how I made my money, and how I managed to buy my first property.
Another run-down place, but in Bondi, and significantly younger than this.
Eventually, as my business expanded, I had a whole division set up for property development. ’
‘A whole division? Who are you, J.R. Ewing?’
Bernadette was obsessed with Dallas when we were growing up, and we absorbed her watching it on repeats in the background. When we were little, we’d act out famous speeches from the show, doing terrible accents.
‘Better than being Lucy Ewing, which I seem to remember you made me act on several occasions…’
I laugh at the memory. ‘I know. I’m sorry. In my defence it was funny, so that makes it okay. So, you have a whole property division?’
‘I do. That’s part of the business, but I also like to do projects myself. My work is all mental, but the refurb is physical – it’s a nice balance. And these days, I’m all about the balance.’
‘I don’t believe it – Liam Byrne, all about the balance? Mr Daredevil?’
He pauses on the next flight of stairs, which is much narrower and maybe leads to an attic. ‘Well, believe it or not, Ellie, some of us have changed over the last twenty-odd years.’
He’s not kidding. Looking at Liam now and remembering Liam then, it’s like the Before and After shots of Captain America.
He continues on up, and I find myself staring at his jean-clad backside in a way that feels strange inside.
Yes, he’s changed, in all kinds of ways.
He fills out a pair of Levi’s very nicely for a start.
I shake my head and tell myself off. They’re only passing thoughts, but I still don’t like them – I am with Tyler.
Liam is married and a father of three. And anyway – didn’t I learn my lesson about all of this years ago?
Liam has never seen me in that way, and that is absolutely fine.
I’m only flesh and blood, so I’ve noticed the way he looks, but that is where it stops.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask. ‘Outer space?’
‘Do you still make Uranus jokes?’
‘Of course I do! The day I tire of Uranus, I tire of life…’
He laughs and shakes his head, then opens a creaking door at the top of the narrow stairs.
I follow him through, and gasp in delight when I see that we are in one of the house’s turrets.
It’s obviously a place he spends time, set up with a two-seater sofa and a dog bed for Ralph, as well as a mini-fridge.
The couch is covered in a multi-coloured blanket that I recognise immediately as Bernadette’s handiwork.
Speakers have been put up in the tiny alcoves, and a laptop sits on a small desk.
There are framed photos of the children and a stunning blonde woman I assume is his wife, and a stack of books.
Some are guides to restoring heritage properties, one is a history of the local area, and another seems to be a self-help manual that helps you find inner peace through carpentry.
I flash back to when he was stroking that wood panelling, and the genuine enthusiasm in his voice when he talked about the renovations. Being hands-on with this is obviously his version of baking. Meditation through action.
I don’t mention that book. How Liam finds his inner peace, and why he needs to search for it, are his business. On top of the pile is a paperback copy of a crime novel, which seems like safer ground.
I pick it up and look at the blurb. A serial killer terrorising a small town, and a maverick cop trying to take him down. I pull a face. ‘Gruesome stuff.’
‘Yeah. I can’t take risks myself anymore, so I read this kind of thing. Also, reminds me how good my life actually is. No serial killers.’
‘That we know of.’
‘True. I’ve always had my suspicions about Doris though. So, this is my office-slash-man-cave…’
The quirky room is not big, but when he pulls open the curtains, I see what makes it so special. It is the breathtaking panoramic view.
Liam rolls the small sofa on its wheels, and turns it to face the window.
It’s obviously something he does a lot, and it fits perfectly.
I sit down and stare in wonder at the vista in front of me.
I can see the woodlands tumbling down the hill past the bungalow, and the road winding into St Tilda.
The little buildings curve around the village green, their rooftops dusted with snow.
I see the smoke curling from the chimney of the inn, and vivid flashes of colour that mark out the bay – red and gold rock faces, yellow sand, the blue and white ripple of the waves.
After that, infinity – the Atlantic Ocean in all her splendour.
Endless and glorious, the unknowable space between my two homes.
I sigh at how beautiful it is, and how far it stretches – not just our little corner of Cornwall, but the whole coastline, curving around as far as the eye can see, a jumble of church spires and green fields and clifftops.
It melts me, and any tiny scrap of reserve I had left disappears.
I feel tears spill from my eyes, the weight of this moment swallowing me whole.
My childhood. The way it abruptly ended.
The break with Liam, which now seems so juvenile but for so many years has been emotionally choking.
It’s as though sitting here with this man, looking down at this magical landscape, somehow unblocks it all – and there is no way to stop those tears. I am crying me a river.
He glances over but says nothing. Just reaches out and holds my hand.
It is so perfect, exactly like something he would have done all those years ago.
He lets me cry, but gently strokes my fingers, letting me know that I am not alone.
After a few moments, when I finally pull myself together, I look up at him apologetically.
‘You all right, teenage dirtbag?’ he says, infusing his words with the same mock-aggressive tone we used to use when we were kids. When taking the piss was the way we communicated our affection towards each other. That song was like our theme tune.
‘Yeah, all good, pimple-face. Just… it’s weird, but I feel homesick.’
‘For New York?’
‘No. For St Tilda. Even though I’m actually here. It’s like this is all some weird out of body experience and I’ll wake up in Brooklyn.’
He nods and doesn’t call me a nutter – which is a sign of how mature we are these days.
‘Nutter,’ he says firmly, making me laugh. ‘But yeah, I get it. I moved around a fair bit, and it gives you a kind of whiplash, not being sure where you’re from and where you belong. Growing up in Ireland, then here, then Australia, then briefly Denmark, then Dublin.’
‘Denmark?’ I repeat, having not heard that part before. I suppose there’s an awful lot I haven’t heard before. I wipe my tears with the back of my hand, and it gives me the excuse to disentangle my fingers from his. It was starting to feel too natural.
He stares out at the view and is silent for a moment. Did I not say it out loud, I wonder?
‘Anna, my wife, was Danish. She wanted to go home.’
‘I suppose we all do, in our own way. It’s just about figuring out where that is. What was it like, Denmark?’