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Sheltering Rain, Page 28

Jojo Moyes

  "Do you ever stop going on?" she said, with a smile, to try to take the sting out of her words.

  "Going on?"

  "I just don't eat meat. I don't want a fight about it."

  "Point taken."

  He had looked up at her from under his lashes, the faintest flicker of embarrassment showing on his face. From behind him, the waitress, who had stacked shoes and too much makeup, dropped a glass of Coke heavily onto the table.

  "So how's the old man? I hear he's on his last legs."

  "He's all right." Sabine felt strangely defensive. "How come you're so interested in my family, anyway?"

  "I told you, London girl. Here, we like to know everything about everyone's business."

  "Nosy."

  "No, just efficient gatherers of information. Knowledge is power, you know."

  "I'd rather have money."

  He paused, rubbing his hand through his hair. "Actually, I asked because I wanted to know when you'd be going back to England."

  Sabine paused, her fork halfway to her mouth.

  "Well, common sense says that if he--well, if you're here to help look after him, and he--well . . . I heard you'd probably be heading off soon."

  Why should you care? Sabine wanted to ask him. But it seemed too forward.

  "He's not dying, if that's what you're saying."

  "So you'll be around awhile. I mean, your mam's not dragging you home with her."

  "My mum doesn't have any say over what I do," said Sabine, pertly, skewering a piece of mushroom on her fork. "I could stay here forever if I wanted."

  "You don't miss London too much, then?"

  Sabine thought for a moment.

  "Actually, apart from a couple of my mates, I don't really miss it at all."

  It got easier after that. Bobby's manic conversational dueling eased off, and he seemed to relax, so that talking to him became more like talking to one of her friends. He still mugged at her, and did too many silly voices, and was a bit what Mrs. H would call "excitable," but he looked at her in a nice way, and she decided, as they drove home, that if he tried to stick his tongue in her mouth she probably wouldn't hit him or anything. Not too hard, anyway.

  "So, where's your dad?" he said. They had been singing to one of his tapes, which had just paused, while it turned itself over.

  "My real dad? I don't see him."

  "What? Not at all?"

  "Nope."

  "Did he and your mam have a falling out, or what?"

  "Not really." Sabine traced her finger around the steam on her window, writing her initials in curly lettering. "I don't think they were together very long before I came along. And I think he didn't really want to be a dad, and she didn't really want him involved anyway. Plus, she wanted to live in England." This was the official version, the version her mum had told her back during her early teens, when she had been briefly fascinated by her origins.

  "You don't mind?" Bobby looked incredulous.

  "Why should I mind? I've never met him. If someone didn't want to be my dad, I'm hardly going to go chasing after him, am I?"

  "Do you know who he is?"

  "I don't know his name. I think my mum did tell me, but I've forgotten. I think he was an artist, though."

  Sabine wasn't being purposefully vague; her paternity, to her, genuinely wasn't a big deal. In London, there were loads of people her age who didn't have any contact with their real dads. The only times it had bothered her had been when she was much younger, and had wondered why her family wasn't like the ones in her books. She had thought about him a bit, since coming to Ireland; it was inevitable when you knew that he lived somewhere nearby. But it was like she said: She had far too much pride to go chasing after someone who had never been particularly interested in her. Besides, she knew such reunions didn't often work out: She had seen the talk shows.

  But she didn't tell him the other bit. The bit her mum had told her when she was a bit tipsy; that they had gotten together when she had been his artist's model. The only other boy she'd confided that to had gotten all unnecessary and started going on about topless shots, and whether her mum was "a bit of a goer." Sabine didn't think Bobby would do that, but she didn't know him quite well enough to be sure.

  Bobby was silent for a minute, checking the mirrors as he indicated and headed toward Ballymalnaugh. It was nearly a quarter to eleven, according to the clock on his dashboard. She hoped no one was going to get funny about it when she got home.

  "Dads are a right bore, anyhow," he said, looking straight ahead. "You're probably better off without one. Mine's always on my case about stuff. Too much aggro, you know?"

  Sabine nodded as if she did. She knew he was being kind because he felt bad for her. But that was okay.

  The other date was not going quite so smoothly. In fact, it would not have been entirely inaccurate to say it was not going at all. Kate, having stood in front of her reflection in her room for some three quarters of an hour, had decided that she could not go out to dinner with Thom. There was Christopher, for a start; he was due back this evening and, the moment he discovered her plans for the evening, would be proffering barbed comments and declaiming indiscreetly to Julia that it was only to be expected of her. There was her mother, whose discovery of Kate "going below stairs" as she would no doubt see it, could make their already cool relationship only frostier. She hadn't liked it when she had gone out with Thom as a teenager; she was unlikely to like it any better now. It was probably not the done thing to go out with men, anyway, when your father was supposedly dying. She should really be sitting by his bedside looking pained. But that would displace Sabine, who already spent most of her time up there and seemed to get irritated whenever she offered to help. And Kate had to admit to being secretly relieved that no one seemed to want her to spend any time with him; they had hardly spoken since she left home, and he had made it clear that that was not likely to change.

  But it wasn't just that this date was inappropriate, in so many ways. More important, it would just reaffirm all the worst beliefs that she increasingly harbored about herself: that she was incapable of functioning without a man, that she seemed to seek out the unsuitable, that she allowed herself to be so much flotsam and jetsam on the great, turbulent sea of romance. It's time I took charge, Kate told herself, eyeing her complexion, which had begun to dry out in the cold. It's time I learned to live on my own. To put my daughter first. To be a responsible adult, whatever that means.

  What would Maggie do, she had wondered (a question she had increasingly asked herself, and one that had prompted the premature ending of her relationship with Justin--not that he had seemed unduly devastated by it). She would have canceled, she concluded, refusing to acknowledge the tiny sting of disappointment that Virtual Maggie's verdict invoked. She would definitely have canceled. In fact there was no way that you could look at it, no single approach, and not end up with Maggie canceling. She knew; she'd tried. Kate took a deep breath, pulled another jumper over her head, and went out into the yard to find Thom.

  "I can't come." It was a little balder than she had intended.

  Thom was stringing up a hay net in one of the stables, under the watery light of a flickering electric bulb. Behind him, the big gray horse that she had seen that wet day in the copse ran an inquiring, rubbery muzzle around the remains of his feed bucket.

  Thom didn't look round. "Why?"

  "Because . . . it's a bit difficult. I've got to look after Sabine."

  "Sabine's out on a date."

  He finished tying a knot in the hay net, twisted it a couple of times, and then, with a slap of the horse's rump, walked out of the stable, bolting the two locks behind him. The yard, which was now dark and almost empty, echoed under his footsteps.

  Kate stood, her mouth very slightly ajar.

  "You didn't know? She's gone out with one of the McAndrew brothers. He's a good lad. You don't need to worry."

  Hurt, fury, and humiliation impacted themselves upon Kate like a car crash
, mangling her confidence and self-possession. Sabine hadn't even mentioned this boy to her, yet the whole house evidently knew she was going out with him. How did it make her look, to be her mother, and yet the last person to know? What had she done to Sabine to make her want to wound her so?

  Worse, she had shown her up to be a liar.

  Thom walked on to the next stable, so that despite her wrong-footedness, she was forced to follow him. He opened the next stable, peered in, and then pulled out a half-empty water bucket.

  "So why else can't you come?" he said, using his good arm to sluice the remaining water down the drain.

  Kate looked at him, trying to determine whether there was any anger in his tone. There didn't seem to be.

  "It's just too complicated," she said, briskly.

  Thom picked up the bucket and placed it back inside the stable, shutting the door behind him. He stopped for a moment, leaning against the metal covering that ran along the top.

  "Because . . . ?"

  His eyes were soft, hinting at amusement. His short, dark hair was sprinkled with hayseeds, like the pelt of an animal. Confined in her pockets, her hands itched silently to rub at it. Don't make me do this, Kate pleaded silently. Don't make me start going through the reasons.

  "Thom . . ."

  "Look. It's not a big deal. It was just a bite to eat. I thought you were looking fed up, and I know your family isn't the easiest lot. It was just meant to give you a bit of a break. Don't worry about it."

  He turned, and walked on to the next stable, leaving her behind him in the yard.

  "Another time, eh?" he shouted over his shoulder. Cheerfully.

  Kate stood, overwhelmed by a feeling of stupidity. She had misread it; he had just been offering a friendly couple of hours away from her family. Like her brother said, why did she assume the world revolved around her? She shifted her weight on her feet, aware of a growing numbness in her toes, yet unwilling to disappear into the house.

  Go on, a silent voice urged her.

  Don't you dare, said Virtual Maggie.

  "Thom?"

  "Yup?" He was in the tack room now, stuck his head out as she drew nearer. His expression was blank, friendly.

  "I could murder a drink, though."

  He paused, and again she felt that same disoriented sensation as his gaze settled on her face.

  "Fine."

  "So, you'll come? We can just have a drink?"

  "I'll meet you at the Black Hen. You remember where it is?"

  He was laughing at her. It was the only pub in the village.

  "At about . . ."--he checked his watch--"seven-thirty, then. See you up there."

  Kate walked up the unlit road toward the pub, playing with her glasses in her pocket, placing them back on her nose, and then just as swiftly removing them and placing them back in her pocket. It was a less stationary repeat of her performance an hour earlier, when she had sat in front of her dressing table, trying to tame her hair, alternately putting on and rubbing off her makeup, and wondering whether, in some immensely subtle way, she had just been outmaneuvered. He had seemed genuinely unbothered whether they went out or not, which meant that this was obviously not a date date. But it still wouldn't have looked good on paper: RECENTLY SEPARATED MOTHER ARRIVES HOME, FATHER ON DEATHBED, GOES OUT WITH GOOD-LOOKING MAN WITHIN TEN DAYS OF ARRIVAL. Everyone else would assume it was a date.

  And even if she knew it wasn't, she really didn't like the thought of having to go out with her unflattering glasses on.

  Off, she had decided. Even if it wasn't a date, there was no reason why she shouldn't look attractive. After the Justin debacle, her self-esteem needed all the padding it could get. On, she thought, as she found herself walking gently into a hedge. Off, she decided, as she reached the door of the Black Hen. And pushed the wrong side of it for some moments before it was opened from the inside by someone making his way out.

  Because her eyesight was so inept, Kate's hearing was finely tuned to pick up the subtle, but distinct lull in conversation as she walked into the warm, fuggy atmosphere of the pub. But the other advantage to not being able to see properly was that it made one remarkably impervious to what other people thought. Kate, unable to make out the interested expressions on the faces of those around her, often culminating in the odd murmur of recognition, moved more confidently through the smoke-logged bar than most women walking into such an establishment on their own (and in the Black Hen, there was not much in the way of competition).

  There were disadvantages, however: namely, that one tended to trip over unmarked steps, career into those drinkers precariously transferring their rounds from the bar, and find it near impossible to locate in the dim light the person one was seeking. And one was left with the Thomy question of whether to admit defeat and pull out one's glasses (thereby publicly admitting one's vanity) or carry on regardless, squinting as one tried to negotiate the blurry boundaries of table and body.

  "I'm sorry," she said, clutching at a man's elbow, after she had knocked most of his pint over his shoes. "Please let me get you another one."

  "No, let me," said a voice, and through the dim light and cigarette haze, Kate gratefully made out the shape of Thom's face.

  "I'm over here," he said, steering her through the tables toward his own. "Sit down and I'll get you a drink."

  Kate sat, trying to determine whether to pull her glasses from her pocket. In this darkened pub, her usual struggles to see what was around her were made even harder. But those glasses were so unflattering. She was still haunted by Sabine's expression of derision when she had seen her wearing them.

  Thom placed the glass of white wine on the table in front of her.

  "I can't vouch for its quality," he said, lifting his orange juice to his lips. "They keep only the one bottle in here, and that has a screw top. I'll get you something else if it's like vinegar."

  "What are you having?"

  "Oh, this. Orange."

  She looked at him inquiringly.

  "Haven't drunk really since my racing days. I worked out I'm one of those people--what do you call them?--who can't have one without having ten."

  "Addictive personalities."

  "Something like that."

  "You don't seem the type," she said. "Too careful."

  She could just make out his smile.

  "Ahh, Kate Ballantyne. That's because you haven't seen me for almost half my life."

  The wine did taste like vinegar. It made her pull in her cheeks, as if sucking on rhubarb. He laughed, and bought her a pint of Guinness. "It's meant to be different here," she said, feeling an irrational need to keep the conversation neutral. "But not being a Guinness drinker at home, I couldn't tell."

  His hand was resting on the table in front of her. It didn't fidget, like Justin's had, restlessly moving from car keys to cigarette packet, thrumming out irregular rhythms on the tabletop. It just rested, broad and spade fingered, its darker hues beaten out by the weather. She wondered if it felt rough, from working outside all the time, and fought the urge to touch it.

  "So, have you sorted things out with Sabine yet?"

  Kate felt the familiar stab of pain.

  "Not really," she said. "I mean, she doesn't get so angry with me as she did in London, but she just seems to act as if I'm a bit of an irritant. Even a bit irrelevant."

  "She seems happier," he said.

  Kate's head shot up.

  "Than what?"

  "Than when she came."

  Kate stiffened.

  He paused, raised an eyebrow. "I didn't mean anything by it."

  "I'm sorry. I guess I'm a bit oversensitive about it all."

  She took a swig of the Guinness. It tasted dark, reassuringly iron-y.

  "I told you, I like her. I think she's great."

  "She likes you. I think she tells you more than she does me."

  "Is this you feeling sorry for yourself?"

  She smiled, feeling her face relax for the first time. Her shoulders, she r
ealized, had risen up around her ears with tension. "I guess I'm just jealous. Of you. Of my mother. Of anyone who can get Sabine to be relaxed, and happy. Things that I don't seem to be able to do."

  "She's a teenager. She'll come around."

  They sat in silence, listening to their thoughts above the gentle clamor of the people around them.

  "She looks like you," he said.

  Kate looked up, wishing suddenly she could see the expression on his face.

  Suddenly, from her right: "Is it Kate? Kate Ballantyne?"

  She swiveled around, to see the face of a young woman, stooping slightly from her standing position to greet her.

  "It's Geraldine. Geraldine Leach. We used to go out riding together."

  Kate summoned up a vague picture of a plump girl with plaits so tight that they left red welts above her ears. Nothing else. Disconcertingly, she couldn't make out the girl's face now.

  "Hi . . . ," she said, holding out a hand. "Nice to see you."

  "And you, and you. Are you back for good, or just visiting?"

  "Oh, just visiting."

  "You live in London, don't you? Oh, I'd love to live in London. I live over at Roscarney. It's about four miles away. You should stop by if you've got time."

  Kate nodded, trying to look both grateful and noncommittal.

  "It's a bit chaotic. I've got three kids now. And Ryan, that's my husband over there. The biggest kid of the lot. But you'd be more than welcome. It'd be good to catch up. I haven't seen you in--what is it? Must be twenty years. God . . . doesn't that make you feel old?"

  Kate nodded and smiled, not wanting to feel quite that old.

  "You look just the same, you know. All that lovely red hair. I would have killed for your hair when I was younger, you know? In fact, I still would. Look at this gray coming through! Do you have kids yourself?"

  "Just one," said Kate, who was aware of Thom's silence, on the other side of her.

  "Ahh. Grand. What did you have, boy or girl?"

  "Girl."

  Geraldine seemed to show no inclination to move on.

  "I'd love a girl. What is it they say? You keep a boy till marriage, but a girl you get for life. I'd kill you for your girl. Mind you, my boys will be with me till they're thirty, the home comforts they get. My own fault, I never trained their father properly."

  She bent low, so that Kate caught a whiff of scent.