Page 57 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Sorry, sweetie. We’ll get you home.’ She turned back to Neil. ‘I should get going.’

‘Before you go.’ Neil had pulled the puppets off his hands and was looking down at them. ‘I was going to ring you, but now you’re here, I might as well…’

‘Might as well what?’ Beatrice asked.

All the confidence he’d shown in front of twenty boisterous children a few minutes ago seemed to have deserted him.

‘Ask you in person. Ask you whether you’d like to go for a drink sometime.’

‘A drink? With you?’

‘Or a movie. Or a coffee or whatever. See an art exhibition somewhere.’ He looked up from the puppets, met Beatrice’s eyes, then looked down again.

‘Like a date?’ Beatrice asked, and he nodded.

Beatrice thought again of her mother’s bedtime story: the same every time, apart from the minor differences and embellishments. Clearly, Neil’s mom hadn’t needed to tell just the one story, over and over again. She’d been able to give free rein to her creativity, knowing that her son had a family that was truly his.

Neil had roots: the grandfather he visited so often that he knew the ins and outs of his relationships with his neighbours. The Shabbat dinners the family no doubt had together every Friday. The lack of self-consciousness with which he was able to entertain a group of kids.

Beatrice longed for those things. All the material possessions her parents had given her, all the love they’d lavished on her, would never make up for that. And while Neil gave freely of himself, she was still learning who she herself might be.

Not Beatrice – the other girl. Aisling. The one who might have been Orla’s daughter, except Orla hadn’t wanted her and had given her away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not really looking to date anyone right now.’

She watched his face fall, then recover quickly. ‘No worries. It was worth a try.’

‘But maybe we could have lunch or something anyway,’ she added hastily. ‘You know, as friends.’

‘I’d like that,’ Neil replied. ‘I’ll ring you.’

Beatrice said goodbye and hurried away with the children. Later, while she cooked their dinner, her thoughts kept returning to him. Had she made a mistake, rebuffing him so abruptly? But he’d said he’d call her anyway. The thought made her smile, and she found herself hoping very much that he would.

THIRTY-SIX

15 SEPTEMBER 2005

Well. Beatrice has finally apologised to me. Last night, after dinner, she came up to my room and knocked softly on the door. I felt my senses prickle instantly to alertness and I pulled the cord of my dressing gown tight around my waist – as if it were armour, not a flimsy old cotton robe – before I opened the door.

Beatrice was freshly showered, her hair wet and hanging down her back. She wore no make-up and she looked young and vulnerable. To my surprise, I felt the urge to take her in my arms and assure her that I wasn’t angry, not any more.

But I sensed that an embrace wouldn’t be welcome, so I just waited, smiling encouragingly.

She politely asked to come in, and so I stepped aside and she entered, closing the door behind her. She was holding something in her arms – a pad of paper, close to her chest as if, like me, she felt the need for a shield.

I wanted to say sorry, she said. I’ve behaved terribly. I had no right to snoop through your things. There’s no excuse. It won’t happen again.

I said, Thank you, Beatrice. I appreciate your apology and I accept it. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did and I’m sorry for that.

And Maud, she went on. I shouldn’t have left her down there. You must have been worried.

She was perfectly all right. She would’ve been hunting quite happily in the dark.

I thought I heard a rat, she said. And that’s why I had to run away. I’d have tidied your paintings away otherwise.

Not out of respect, I thought, almost amused, but to conceal the fact that she’d been looking at them in the first place.

But I said, I’m frightened of rats, too. They horrify me.