Page 41 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Killed by a German bomb. Leaving his young widow over in Dublin. I don’t know what happened to her. I don’t know anything more about it, really – just that. We laughed and laughed about it at the time – it was the talk of the neighbourhood. You had to get your laughs when you could in them days.’

‘Can you remember anything else at all about them?’ Beatrice urged. ‘Their name, or where the house was?’

‘Course I can,’ the old man said. ‘Doyle, they were called. He was Gerald Doyle. I don’t recall the young lady’s name, if I ever knew it. And the house was over on Damask Square, just a short walk from here. It’s still standing today. Number five, Damask Square.’

TWENTY-SEVEN

I didn’t speak to Beatrice for the rest of the day after our encounter in Orla’s bedroom, and on Sunday, I went round to Emily’s place and had a barbecue with her and her housemates, returning late in the evening. As usual, Beatrice had already left for work when I got up on the Monday morning.

But although our paths didn’t cross, the sense of her presence in the house filled me with anxiety. The sound of her voice singing ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’ as she put on her make-up in the mornings woke me more reliably than my alarm clock. Only when I heard the front door click closed behind her at seven o’clock sharp could I feel myself breathe easily again.

I didn’t know what to do. I’d felt that the house on Damask Square was a safe place, a refuge created by Orla’s laughter, Luke’s smile and even the patter of Maud’s paws. Now, I didn’t feel safe any longer. I felt the same hyper alertness, almost fear, that I’d felt back when I was living with Samantha and Amanda, and it was a sensation I’d believed I had left behind forever – left behind the day I’d closed the door of my parents’ house to set off for university.

I’d been wrong then, and it seemed I was wrong again.

When I approached the house on Monday evening after work, I didn’t feel the lift of my spirits, the eagerness to walk into a place where I was secure and welcome, which I’d always felt before. I felt tense, on edge, unwilling to discover what would be waiting for me when I opened the front door.

But as it turned out, I didn’t need to open the door on that particular Monday – it was already open, held back against the wall by a brick, and Luke was emerging. He was shirtless, wearing a bright yellow safety helmet, his usual battered shorts and steel-capped work boots, carrying a sack of rubble in his arms.

The sight of him took my breath away, the longing to touch him sweeping over me.

His face lit up when he saw me. ‘Evening, Liv.’

‘Look at you,’ I said. ‘You look like the entertainment on a hen night. Sexy builder-o-gram.’

He laughed, tossing the sack into the skip as easily as if it was filled with feathers. ‘Not so sexy if you could smell me.’

I moved in to hug him, but he stepped back, shaking his head. ‘Seriously, Liv. I’m properly rancid.’

‘Do you think I care?’ But I only leaned in, kissing him gingerly without letting our bodies touch. I could taste the salt of his sweat on my lips, and to me he smelled delicious.

‘I’m just about done here. The sparks knocked off at four – they’ve got another week, they reckon, and then the electrics will be sorted.’

‘So we won’t have to worry about Orla electrocuting herself every time she switches the cooker on?’

‘Don’t know about that. Wiring or no wiring, that thing’s on its last legs. I’m going to grab a shower – want to sit out in the garden for a bit after?’

I hesitated. The thought of relaxing outside with him, the door to the kitchen standing open so I could wander in and out, helping Orla with dinner and chatting to her about my day, would normally have got my instant approval. But this evening I felt different. I wouldn’t be able to relax around Orla, knowing I was hiding something from her. I’d be constantly alert to the sound of Beatrice’s key in the door, the tap of her trainers on the floor, the rattle of the metal hardware on her handbag when she hung it up.

The silence that often followed before she entered the kitchen, when I knew she was waiting in the hallway, listening.

‘Let’s not go in just yet,’ I suggested. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

Luke opened his mouth as if to protest, then said, ‘Okay. Guess I’d better put a shirt on.’

‘No need to bother on my account,’ I teased. ‘Anyway, you look like you’re wearing one already.’

He grinned, glancing at his bare arm, his bicep flexing in a way that made me long to touch it. ‘Farmer’s tan. Thought I’d get rid of it by stripping off today, but it’s not shifting, is it?’

I shook my head, my heart fluttering with desire, and treated myself to a long look at his back view as he disappeared into the house.

Seconds later he emerged again, pulling his T-shirt over his head. ‘I’m good to go. So long as you weren’t suggesting we go to a fancy restaurant.’

‘Just a walk. I wanted to talk to you.’

I led him around to the far side of the square, used my key to open the gate in the iron railings and guided him over to one of the metal benches that stood at intervals around its perimeter. The sun was beginning to sink, the heat of the day giving way to evening. The chestnut trees in the centre of the square cast long, cool shadows over us. Behind us was a long bed of roses, which had been tended carefully all summer by a volunteer from the preservation society. Their blooms were all shades from ivory to crimson, petals scattered on the path like fragments of a sunset.

Forgetting his alleged sweatiness, Luke laid his arm along the back of the bench and I leaned back against it. We were alone in the garden and the noise of the city was muffled, the only distinct sound the trill of a robin somewhere in the branches.