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‘Yes. Nola,’ Georgie said shortly, as if even the mention of Nola irritated her. ‘I thought I might bump into her on the plane. She is coming, isn’t she?’
‘Of course,’ Iris said with more conviction than she actually felt. ‘Apparently, she has an audition in Dublin for some new sitcom. It all sounds very promising, so she’s stopping over there before she takes the train down. I’m collecting her tomorrow morning if you want to come along to meet her too?’ Even as she offered it, Iris sincerely hoped she wouldn’t. At least driving into town for a few minutes on her own would provide some respite from pretending everything was fine.
‘We’ll see. I’m quite tired; it’s been a long week…’
‘Of course,’ Iris said, trying not to sound too relieved.
*
Arriving at the airport, the familiar journey home, even the lasting aroma of her father’s pipe in the car… It was the cloying familiarity of it all that stopped Georgie in her tracks. Nothing had changed, and yet, with the loss of her father, the very fabric of the place would never be the same again. She tried to be composed about it, but even seeing Iris, standing there at the arrivals gate, had been a shock. Georgie had stomped about looking for a woman who didn’t exist anymore. When she’d pulled up in front of Iris, it had taken a moment to register that it was her sister beneath that gaunt frame, pasty pallor and those slightly dead eyes. Iris was prematurely grey. She had somehow allowed herself to become an old woman – not in a wrinkly, twinset sort of way, but in something deeper, as if the life had been faded from her. Perhaps that’s what comes of getting your heart’s desire…
Or had she? Thinking back to the awkward exchange they’d just had, Georgie had a feeling that Iris was no more content with the life she’d left behind in London than Georgie was herself. At the same time, there was a measured composure about her, as if she had made up her mind that there would be no silly arguments this time. It was only at the mention of Myles that she sensed a tension driving between them that she could tell Iris was trying very hard to avoid. She had not been her usual biting self, who couldn’t take so much as a comment without having a meltdown and accusing them all of wanting Myles for themselves.
So, Georgie decided, in that sticky moment as they drove, that would be the last mention she’d make of Myles until their father’s funeral was well behind them. It was a relief that he had not travelled over; they should leave it at that. It was time to think about her father, not about the petty squabbles that had worn away at the relationships between his daughters until there was barely anything left. Georgie sent up a silent prayer, promising her father that she would try to be good and not provoke any more arguments.
It occurred to Georgie that their father’s death was almost like a final loosening of whatever ribbons still joined the sisters together. She experienced the thought as a weight being removed from her shoulders, and then felt immediately guilty. How had things got so bad? Georgie’s eyes shot across to Iris when she spoke of Nola and she could feel it, writ large between them. Nola hated both of them and even if Georgie and Iris managed to rub along together until this ordeal was over, Nola was quite a different matter.
Georgie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. When Georgie thought of Nola she had to admit that her feelings for her youngest sister were complex. There was always a hint of jealousy. Everything seemed to come so easily to Nola. She gathered up friends as effectively as Georgie pushed the chance of any away. She sighed deeply, elbowed her way further down in the passenger seat and pretended to sleep for the rest of the journey home.
The sun was dipping low, just peppering spots between the grey clouds behind Soldier Hill House as they drove up the avenue. Georgie felt a sting of tears well up in her eyes. She scrunched them closed and pretended to wipe the sleep from them, yawning loudly at the same time. Everything looked so perfect, as if beyond the familiar front door life as it had been when they were children might just carry on as usual.
‘God, this place hasn’t changed at all,’ Georgie said as she got out of the car. ‘I had expected…’
‘That without him the whole place would feel different?’ Iris smiled sadly. ‘I know what you mean. It feels as if he should be coming back across the fields from the distillery at any moment.’
‘It does look a little tired, maybe?’ On her occasional weekend visits here, Georgie never took much notice of anything beyond her father. They would both work all day, him pottering about the distillery and her glued to her laptop. In the evening, they’d sit down for dinner together and drink aged whiskey in the sitting room and talk until the fire died in the hearth.
Today, in truth, Soldier Hill House looked as though it was being held together by wisteria branches and trellis. Mind you, it was very old, almost three hundred years in places. The first Delahaye had settled on this patch of ground after landing in Killala Bay with the French. The intention had been to spread the breaking down of barricades to the furthest reaches of Europe, but of course, the uprising had been quickly trampled down. Legend had it – or at least, her father’s story was – that the first Delahaye had stood here, put down his bayonet and decided he would not go another step. Instead, he bought the land and put down roots. The house then grew with each generation that came after him, until it resembled a rambling hall any of the English gentry would have been proud to call a bolthole.
‘We probably should order something from the village for dinner and—’ Georgie started.
‘Oh, no, it’s all organised, a roast with all the trimmings—’ Iris said as she pushed open the front door and Georgie pulled her bag into the hall.
‘Really, you shouldn’t have gone to so much bother,’ Georgie said. The last thing she wanted to do was sit around the kitchen table and pretend to play happy families with Iris.
‘I didn’t. Father has kept the housekeeper on until everything is settled, apparently.’ Her tone was chilly, but then she turned, looked towards the photograph of both their parents on the wall and took a deep breath. ‘But I do think it would be good for us all to catch up… After all, we have just lost our father and whether we like it or not, that grief is something that bonds us together – for a while longer, at least.’
She turned away and headed for the staircase, and Georgie stood for a moment and remembered back to when they were children, one on either side of the wide sweep, racing each other as they slid down the banister. In that moment, she almost thought she could hear their whoops of laughter echo out in the belly of the old house. It sent a small, reluctant shiver through her and she heard herself say, ‘Fine, that will be lovely. I’m on wash-up.’ Then she climbed the stairs behind Iris, preparing herself for the little room that had been hers at a time when everything in life had seemed to be far simpler.
An hour later, dinner was proving to be just as uncomfortable as she had expected. At least the housekeeper had had the good sense to set them up in the kitchen rather than the more formal dining room that reached too far back into happy memories of Christmas lunches and family parties than Georgie suspected either of them could stand.
‘So?’ Iris looked at her. It seemed to Georgie every possible topic of conversation she could think of was off limits.
‘So,’ Georgie replied because she wasn’t sure where the invisible boundary between politeness, cordiality and the danger of breaking into another civil war lay.
‘The pudding is good,’ Iris settled on in the end.
‘Yes.’ Georgie nodded and wondered how long they could squeeze out of a conversation around rhubarb and raspberry pie. ‘I might take a walk tomorrow morning. I have a key, so you don’t need to worry about letting me in again, if you have plans to go out.’ It was a stab at marking out an hour’s freedom for them both, maybe longer if they dawdled.
‘Aren’t you coming to collect Nola with me at the train station?’ Iris asked, but it felt like she was throwing down a gauntlet.
‘Of course. I forgot about collecting Nola. Absolutely, I’ll go along too,’ Georgie managed through gritted teeth and a tight smile.
*
The train station, like everything else in Ballycove, had hardly changed since last time she was here. If anything it was even more like itself than before, although Georgie wasn’t sure that made sense. It was only when she spotted the little plaque put up by the tidy village committee that she realised she was actually right. The rough local stone had been washed and repointed. A proliferation of heathers sprouted from large planters on the platform. It was as much as you could depend on for the winter months to brighten up the place. The brasses gleamed in the absence of any great sunshine overhead and the arrival of anything less than a full steam engine felt as if it might be completely out of step with the whole atmosphere of the place.
One thing that had changed was the arrival time. Or rather, the fact that it arrived on time; as far as Georgie could remember that had never been the case in the past. They waited as the train disgorged its few passengers. Ballycove was literally the end of the line.
