Sowing The Seeds Of Love Part 37

Aoife gathered up the bemused musicians and found some chairs, which they arranged in a semi-circle on the lawn. They had two guitarists, a traditional flautist, a guy with a set of uillean pipes, a fiddle-player and a Finnish woman with a bodhran. Once the band members had got over their initial shock, they entered into the spirit of things. The music began, hesitantly at first, as Aoife walked back to the stalls, a very definite swing in her step. She'd secretly brought her tin whistle along. She was itching to play it but didn't want to come across as the plastic Paddy. Still, they had a Finn with a bodhran. Maybe later. Right now, she was too busy.

She was back at the soup station, currently manned by Joyce and Emily. Joyce was in her element. 'The soup's going down a treat,' she said.

'I'm not surprised. I tasted some and it's beautiful. You were right to roast the parsnips first. Gives a much better flavour.'

Joyce tried to look modest. 'Oh, you don't get to my age without learning a trick or two, my dear.'

Aoife turned to Emily. 'It worked out.'

'What did?'

'The musicians.'

'Oh. Yes.'

'What's wrong?'

'Nothing.'

'Then why the glum face?'

'It's silly, really. It's just that n.o.body's eating my sourdough bread.'

Aoife looked down into the bread baskets. There did seem to be a higher proportion of sourdough left. Admittedly, it was quite forlorn and lumpen. 'It's only because sourdough doesn't rise as much as the other breads and they don't know what it is. They probably think it's normal bread gone wrong. It just needs some advertising.'

She wrote a sign in Magic Marker: 'Get the last of the sourdough bread.'

'Write that it's made with genuine rain water,' said Emily.

'What?'

'Aoife.'

She swivelled at the sound of her name. It was Seth. She smiled in relief.

'I haven't seen you in ages.'

'No. It's going well, isn't it?'

'Brilliant.'

'h.e.l.lo, Aoife.' Megan stepped out from behind Seth. 'Good to see you again. You know, Kathy never stops talking about you and Liam. We'll have to make time for a proper chat one of these days.'

'I'd like that.' What she didn't like was the knowing way that Megan was looking at her.

'This is Siobhan, by the way.'

Aha. The other woman.

A voluptuous brunette emerged from Megan's shadow. She nodded at Aoife.

'Anyway,' said Megan, 'we won't keep you. It's clear you're up to your eyes. Come on, Kathleen.'

Aoife started at the name. She was surprised to see Kathy, whom she hadn't noticed before, running to her mother's side and taking her hand. 'Kathy's name is Kathleen?' she said.

'Yes.' Megan gave her an odd look.

'You know, all this time I a.s.sumed it was Katherine. I don't know why.'

'I suppose Katherine is more usual. No. I named her Kathleen after my grandmother.'

'I see.'

'Anyway, talk to you soon, I hope.' Megan threw a furtive look behind her to see where Seth and Siobhan were. They were standing a few yards away, Siobhan listening intently while Seth pointed at the herbaceous border. She leaned into Aoife. 'You've got a good man there, you know. Hang on to him. Unfortunately, he had one too many p.e.n.i.ses for me. Come on, Kathy! Let's take a look at this little hut.'

And off they went. Aoife's eyes followed them up the path towards the sukkoh. It was packed out, all the chairs occupied, people talking and laughing and eating clearly taking the welcome sign at face value. Her eyes wandered across to the lawn where the musicians were in full flight. A woman she'd never seen before was leading the children in a session of Irish dancing. Liam was the only child doing his one-two-threes backwards. She allowed herself a smile and a moment to relax. If somebody told her this was heaven, she wouldn't be disappointed.

'Aoife.'

'Yes.'

'The Portaloo's blocked again.'

Mrs Prendergast was enjoying herself. Of course, she had no intention of admitting this to anyone. She was in the kitchen, wiping breadcrumbs off the counter.

Lance came in. 'Can I do anything to help?'

'No, thanks. It's all in hand.'

'Can I get you some soup? It's nearly all gone, you know.'

'No. It's all right, darling. I'm not hungry yet.'

'It's going well, isn't it?'

'Yes, it is.'

'I'm glad you didn't sell the garden to developers, Mum. You did the right thing.'

She stopped what she was doing and looked up at her son. 'Thank you for saying that, Lance.'

They smiled at each other. Then he came to her, put one long arm about her shoulders and hugged her to him. 'See you outside.'

''Bye, Lance.'

Alone again, she was surprised by the p.r.i.c.kling sensation at the back of her eyes. 'Stupid old woman,' she said to herself, and resumed her cleaning.

When the kitchen was spotless, she went out to the hall. Imagine her surprise to find Pearl, Mothers' Unionist, floating down the stairs, her head turning this way and that, oblivious to Mrs Prendergast's presence.

'What do you think you're doing?'

Pearl nearly stumbled down the last few steps. 'Oh, Lord. I didn't see you there, Myrtle.'

'Clearly not.'

'I was just looking for a toilet.'

'Something wrong with the Portaloo?'

'Yes, actually. It's blocked.'

'Oh. Well, there's one at the end of the hall. Downstairs,' she said, with emphasis.

'Oh, thank you so much.'

Mrs Prendergast watched her, making sure she was going directly to the loo and making no detours. Honestly. Bunch of nosy, incontinent old biddies. She must have been mad agreeing to all this.

But then she went outside and her heart lifted. She could never have imagined such a thing. In her garden. Well, it wasn't technically her garden any more. But her garden. Her home. And she was part of it. Part of something really good. She felt the p.r.i.c.kle at the back of her eyes again. She'd have to get that checked out. Probably glaucoma.

She stepped into the sun and into the milling throng. It was good to feel anonymous. She meandered along the path, humming slightly, her hands behind her back.

'h.e.l.lo, Marnie.'

She stopped. She wanted to believe she was hearing things but she knew she wasn't. She turned and looked up at him. 'h.e.l.lo, Martin.'

'Long time no see.'

'Indeed.'

'You're looking well.'

She didn't reply. She was too busy taking him in. Same frame. Less meaty now. Same features craggier than before. Same blue eyes, a little faded but still Martin. He still had most of his own hair and teeth by the look of it.

'It must be...'

'Forty years.'

'Is it that long?'

'I've been keeping count.'

He smiled and she was back in the jazz cellar in Soho, barely twenty years old, her blue felt skirt swirling around her, about to be swept off her feet.

Her sum knowledge of Martin up to now had been that he was still alive. Lance saw him from time to time but she didn't ask questions as she didn't want to know. The memories kept popping up, one after another, like a slide show. Her eyes grew cold.

Myrtle held the blade to Martin's throat. n.o.body moved. It was like some gruesome still life, her standing above him dramatically, him down on one knee, his neck twisted awkwardly. The clock ticked on the wall. A dog barked in a neighbouring garden.

'Now don't do anything stupid, Marnie.' Martin's voice was calm and cajoling.

'I've already done something stupid,' she said. 'I married you.' Then she grabbed a handful of hair on the top of his head. 'And don't. Tell me. What to do.' She tugged his hair roughly, several times, to emphasize her words. The blade dug deeper into his throat each time. A drop of blood trickled down his neck and fell on to the collar of the white shirt she'd ironed for him the night before. He felt the wetness.

'Oh, Jesus, Marnie. Please don't. I'm sorry. Truly I am.'

She was amazed at how calm she felt. How strong. She, Myrtle. Holding a man twice her size and breadth at her mercy. She knew it was partly luck she had him in such a position that, at the smallest move he made, she could slit his throat wide open. Like a horrible great gaping red grin.

She felt as if she were outside her own body, looking down on herself. Amazed at the bloodthirsty thoughts of the woman below her and the level of hatred she felt for her own husband. But not appalled. Never appalled. It was just. This was justice. She looked at Lance. He was hiding under the table, his head in his hands. He couldn't see. Just as well.

'Now, you listen to me and you listen to me carefully, Martin Prendergast. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't slit your throat right now.'

'Because I'm your husband.'

'Hah! Not good enough.' She tugged his hair another three times. Martin whimpered as the blade bit deep. She could have laughed. What a coward. All this time and she'd never known.

'Please don't, Marnie.'

'I may decide to spare your life but I have my conditions.'

'What? What are they? Anything.'

'Anything?'

'That's what I said.'

'You're to leave this house immediately. You're to go directly to your solicitor and tell him you're transferring this entire property, including the garden, into my sole name. Then you tell him you're giving me a divorce on the grounds of your unreasonable behaviour. If my terms are unacceptable to you, I have some fresh bruises that the police might be interested in. Not to mention a very sympathetic doctor who will be more than happy to give me a detailed medical report going back years. Now. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes.'

'Is everything all right?' It was the gardener. He was standing at the back door, a turnip in each hand, his face incredulous.

'Yes, thank you, Paddy. Mr Prendergast was just leaving.'

She released him. He sprang to his feet and faced her, backing away, rubbing his neck.

'Mad b.i.t.c.h,' he murmured.

She crossed her arms in a fishwife position. 'Leave your keys on the counter, please. You won't be needing them any more. And I'll have you know that the locks will be changed this evening so don't get any funny ideas.'

Like a man who'd seen a ghost, Martin dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and backed towards the door. When he reached it, he looked at the gardener, one last time at Myrtle, then turned and left. Only when he was out of view did Myrtle collapse on the floor, the knife clanging on the tiles beside her. She began to shake.

'Jesus Christ. I'm calling the police,' said Paddy.

'No, don't. Please. He won't be back. Lance, come here, my darling.'

Lance didn't move. Myrtle crawled under the table. 'Lance, it's all right. It's over. He's gone.'

Lance lifted his head and looked around. Then he threw himself into his mother's arms and they rocked together until they'd both calmed down.