Chapter 23
GARETH DROPPED BY THE FOLLOWING MORNING. ‘Let me know,’ he said, ‘if you’ll have any bit of garden at all in Dublin. Even if it’s just a tub on a balcony or a couple of window boxes. I can harvest some seeds and send them on.’
‘I’d love that. I won’t buy a place without some kind of a garden.’ She was planning a nice big one, with the funds she’d have at her disposal. ‘I’d love the wild primroses.’
‘I’ll steal some more in the spring,’ he promised, ‘if the house is gone by then. What other favourites have you?’
‘They’re all my favourites. Once I get a place, we can see how much I can fit in. I can send you pics, or you might come up and have a look.’
‘I could do that. OK if I still drop over here after you’ve gone? Just to keep it looking well until it’s sold.’
‘Actually’ – she may as well go public – ‘I’ve gone sale agreed. He’s American.’
‘That was quick. He must have put in a good bid.’
‘He did.’
‘That’s great.’ He swept an arm around the garden. ‘This is your legacy, you know. This will go on when you’re far away in Dublin, assuming the American doesn’t want to dig it all up and put in a giant swimming pool – I might have to kill him if he does.’
He grinned, but her eyes filled with tears. What was she doing? How could she leave it?
‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ he said, and she forced a smile and told him to blame the baby hormones.
She walked him out. ‘I won’t say goodbye,’ he said, ‘because you’ll be back in a few months showing off your baby. You’d better let me know when you’re coming, or else.’
‘I will.’
‘Hug,’ he said, and she walked into his opened arms.
On Sunday she went to second Mass, and accompanied Father Phil back to his house afterwards for the lunch he’d invited her to.
‘So,’ he said, tossing the salad he’d made to accompany the vegetarian lasagne he’d admitted to picking up in the supermarket, ‘you won’t feel it now till you’re a city slicker again. ’
‘No.’
‘Looking forward to it?’
‘I . . . well . . .’ She couldn’t pretend with him. ‘It’ll be hard to leave.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ve made friends here. It feels like home. And’ – she took a breath – ‘Damien is here.’
‘You’re not leaving him behind,’ he said. ‘He’ll always be with you.’
She knew that – and still it hurt.
His embrace as she left was warm. ‘It’s not goodbye, it’s au revoir. Safe travels, Lydia. See you soon.’
*
On Monday morning, her last full day in Chance House, Greta arrived empty-handed. Had she forgotten the elderflower cordial she’d promised to bring for Lydia to take back to Dublin? Maybe it was still in her car.
She stood on the doorstep, unsmiling, which in itself wasn’t remarkable, but today there was an odd light in her eyes. They glittered with – what?
Anger? Was she angry?
‘Greta,’ Lydia said, ‘come in. Is everything OK?’
Greta didn’t move. ‘I have heard,’ she said, ice in her voice, ‘of your plans.’
‘My plans?’ Lydia’s back ached. It ached pretty much all the time now. ‘Greta, I could really do with sitting down. Come into the kitchen.’ Without waiting for a reply she went back inside, and Greta followed. What on earth was wrong with her?
She didn’t sit. She stood glaring down at Lydia. ‘How could you do this to us?’ she demanded.
Lydia stared back at her. ‘Do what? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Won’t you please sit down?’
Greta didn’t move. ‘He was in McMonagles last night,’ she said.
McMonagles, the larger of the village’s two pubs. The conversation was making no sense to Lydia. ‘Who was?’
‘Your buyer.’ The word practically spat out. ‘He was buying drinks for everyone.’
‘What?’
‘You thought,’ Greta swept on, ‘that we would not hear until you had left. You thought he would not tell.’
‘Tell what? I haven’t a clue—’
‘The shopping mall,’ Greta said loudly, ‘that he is going to build here. The giant shopping mall that is going to replace Chance House. The one you were so happy to hear about.’
Lydia thought she might faint. She gripped the table edge. ‘What? That’s not true, he’s not planning – he never told me—’
But Greta wasn’t listening. ‘He is giving jobs to everyone, he says. Good jobs in his shopping mall. We will all be employed there.’
‘Greta, please sit down,’ Lydia repeated. Her heart was pounding. She felt under attack. ‘Look, this is the first I’ve heard of a shopping mall.’
Greta dropped into a chair. ‘May I ask,’ she said, cold and quiet now, her eyes boring into Lydia’s, ‘how much this American is willing to pay you?’
Lydia felt a drop in the pit of her stomach. ‘Will you please let me explain? He didn’t say anything about—’
‘How much?’ Greta demanded.
‘A lot,’ Lydia was forced to admit, ‘but if I’d known for a—’
‘A lot,’ Greta repeated, nodding grimly. ‘He is paying you so much that you cannot see the destruction he will bring to this community.’
‘You’re not even letting me—’
‘So much money it allows you to shut your eyes to the disaster he wants to bring about. It allows you to pretend it’s for the best, so you don’t have to feel any guilt.’
Lydia became aware then of her own rising anger. Greta’s confrontational tone amounted to nothing less than bullying, and she was not going to be bullied in her own home.
‘Greta, hang on,’ she said, her voice quavering with emotion. ‘You have no right to speak to me like that. I’m trying to tell you I didn’t know what his plans were – but even if I did, this is my house, my decision.’
Greta sat back, her face still like thunder.
‘So this is how you repay everyone,’ she said.
‘All those who welcomed you when you arrived, who came here to sit with you after Damien died, who brought you food, who left fuel at your door, who did everything they possibly could to help you. This is how you repay them, by destroying their village?’
‘Of course not! I just told you I didn’t know—’
‘And Brendan, whose heart was broken too, but who came back to finish the work his son had asked him to do, to honour his son’s wish – you think it’s fine to allow all his work to be bulldozed, just because you were offered a lot of money? I cannot believe it.’
‘For God’s sake, would you ever—’
Greta rose to her feet. ‘I was wrong about you,’ she said.
‘I thought you were a good person. I thought you knew what was important, and what was right, but I see now that I was wrong. It is better that you go back to Dublin.’ She swept from the apartment, leaving Lydia badly shaken.
No front door slammed: Greta hadn’t bothered to close it after her.
Could it possibly be true, what she’d said about the shopping mall? Was that awful man really planning to demolish Chance House? She could just see him perched on a bar stool, ordering drinks for all while he played the big businessman, promising jobs for everyone, bragging about his plans.
A shopping mall. Concrete and bright lights, piped music that would smother the sound of the sea.
Diggers ploughing up Gareth’s flowers and shrubs, his labour of love for his lost friend.
A wrecking ball toppling the stone shed that Noel had painstakingly restored – she could still see him sitting on the half-built wall with his flask.
Old trees chopped down to make way, nothing spared.
No wonder her buyer had shown scant interest in the beach. When he’d stood at the upstairs window he wasn’t admiring the view, he was seeing how big he could make the car park, how many customers it would cater for.
Or maybe the cars would park in an adjoining field that he would buy too. Maybe the shopping mall would take up the entire grounds.
And could he actually have told people that Lydia was happy with this plan?
Could he have uttered that barefaced lie?
Of course he could. People like him didn’t care about the truth.
In all probability, his family connection with Chance House didn’t exist. She guessed he’d never heard of the place till he’d seen it on the property website.
She dropped her head into her hands and thought of the friends she’d made here, Marian and Tom and Susan and Gareth and Father Phil, and Andrew who’d helped out so often, and who’d given her driving lessons for nothing, and who wouldn’t take a cent either for the photos he was to deliver – and yes, Greta too. Greta was a friend – or had been.
She thought of Marge who’d done her hair on her wedding day, and Denny who’d come with his two cameras, and the support and kindness of Doctor Avril.
She thought of all those who’d called to her in the wake of Damien’s death, and all her yoga students, and all who’d come to see the finished house just a few weeks ago and brought her gifts, and told her they were sorry she was leaving.
She couldn’t bear the idea of them hearing of the shopping mall, and thinking that Lydia was perfectly happy with it going ahead.
She saw the main street behind her closed eyelids: Greta’s café, Andrew’s shop, the hardware store, the chipper, the chemist, Marge’s salon, the church and the presbytery.
She saw the wonderful farmers’ market, with stalls full of fresh produce, and homemade bread and cakes, and local honey and eggs.
How could they compete with the lower prices in a big supermarket?
Jobs for everyone – except that nobody would want them. Nobody, she was certain, would willingly leave the village street to move into an anonymous mall.
Her heart sank when she thought of Brendan, who had returned to finish the renovation of Chance House, even after Damien was gone. Toughest job I’ve ever done, he’d said, the day they’d finished – and now here was this despicable man prepared to smash it all into pieces, just to make money.
She yearned for Damien. She wanted him to be alive again, to fix this. She conjured up his laughing face, Damien who’d loved surprises, who’d always seen the bright side, who’d made her laugh every day, who would have been the best dad in the world.