Page 42 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure

Chapter Thirty-Three

O ne week before Christmas, on a cold and crisp Saturday morning, Mary was full of vigour as she put her plans in place.

Instead of her usual pre-festive lull in vitality as she raced around preparing for the big day, she felt energised.

It was the day of the Christmas Fair in Kindale, and, committed to working the tombola stall for a couple of hours, Mary needed to get a move on and head into town.

The children were weary from end-of-school-term activities, with Finn and Declan immersed in pantomime preparations and nativity play rehearsals all week.

Caitlin and Maeve’s teenage hormones were drained by project deadlines, assessments, and extracurricular activities.

With shorter days and colder weather, Mary felt that her offspring’s energy and mood had dipped, and she was happy for them to be relaxing in front of a movie that Saturday morning.

The siblings were snuggled close on the vast, comfy sofa, cosy in matching onesies, with their feet up while tucking into a tub of Celebrations chocolates.

‘Now be good all of you, and Caitlin and Maeve look after your brothers,’ Mary said. ‘Roisin is here if you need anything at all, but I want you to behave and not give her any problems.’

‘When’s Daddy coming home?’ Declan called out as he gripped his teddy.

‘He’ll be here when work is finished.’ Mary ruffled Declan’s hair and kissed his soft locks as Caitlin caught her eye.

Caitlin shrugged as Mary gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Mary made sure she had her phone as she packed her bag and made a mental note to text Conor to remind him that he was on parenting duties after work.

But she knew there was no need. Despite this agonising atmosphere between the two of them, Conor never let his children down in the spare hours he kept for them.

Busy dusting, Roisin looked up as Mary kissed all of the children goodbye. ‘Don’t worry, they’ll be fine,’ Roisin said. ‘I’ll keep an eye on them until you return. And I’ve got your number if we need you,’ she smiled.

Mary did a double-take as she tightened a scarf and slipped her arms into her Barbour. Roisin’s sharp retorts were no longer present, and recently, she’d gone out of her way to be helpful.

Sympathetic to Mary’s situation and difficulties, Roisin patted Mary’s arm. ‘Get yourself off and enjoy your afternoon.’

As she drove away, Mary wondered if the whole of Kindale was following the Murphy marital breakdown, agog for news to feed the gossip grapevine.

Mary knew that her elderly nosy neighbour, who hadn’t moved faster than a snail since they’d lived at Belvedere House, now had a sprightly step, glancing at the drive and over the fence like an arthritic ninja whenever Murphy family members stepped outside.

Una had told Mary that the Ladies’ Lunch Club had a new topic for their chinwag, and ‘Piecing Together the Murphy Drama’ was weaving theories as intricate as a best-selling thriller.

Finding a space to park her car, Mary hurried through the town. As she passed Murphy’s Auctioneers, she glanced through the window and caught the eye of whatever-her-name-is on reception. To Mary’s surprise, the girl grinned and waved.

Mary wondered if Conor was in his office or warming his hands on roaring logs in the inglenook fireplace in the lounge at Creek House. Before he left early that morning, they’d exchanged heated words.

‘Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ Conor had said.

He stood by the kitchen window, packing his briefcase, as Mary handed him a mug of tea.

‘Oh, it’s a perfect morning to be left hanging in the air, Conor,’ Mary snapped, folding her arms. ‘Nothing like dragging out your decision while your marriage is going down the drain.’

‘Dear God, don’t go on.’ Conor rubbed his forehead. ‘I told you. I’ll have an answer by Christmas.’

‘But will you?’ Mary snorted. ‘And what would you like under the tree this year? A divorce or a frying pan to the head?’

‘You’re impossible.’ Conor drained his tea, setting the mug down with a clatter. ‘I’ll be back at teatime to be with the kids.’

‘Oh, is that right?’ Mary shot back. ‘Why not send me a note by pigeon post to remind me, as you don’t communicate in any other way!’

Conor shook his head, then reached for his coat, and Mary remembered him leaving her standing alone, like a fool, as he strode out to his car without another word.

‘Who the hell does he think I am to be kept waiting?’ Mary muttered as she made her way to the market square. ‘The doting little wife who will follow whatever her disloyal husband decides?’ She balled her fingers in her gloves as she arrived with minutes to spare for her stint at the tombola stall.

Una, handing out tombola tickets, gave a thumbs-up when she saw Mary. Then, rolling her eyes, she nodded sideways to point out an elegant woman in a full-length white leather coat.

It was Lucinda, and she was handing out prizes.

‘Good morning, Mary.’ Lucinda glanced at her Chanel watch. ‘You’ve made it on time; that has to be a first.’

Mary was determined not to bark back, but Lucinda had some nerve. Not only was she sleeping with Conor, but she brazened it out as though nothing was wrong.

‘Happy Christmas.’ Mary smiled at Lucinda. ‘How’s my husband’s collection of unfulfilled promises working out for you?’ Mary took her position at the stand as an elderly couple held up a winning tombola ticket. ‘Did you manage to get the coleslaw stains out of your blouse?’

Lucinda glared as she handed the couple a box of scented bath cubes.

‘I did wonder if the caramelised onions that I glued to your hair would alter the colour,’ Mary continued. ‘But apart from needing your roots touched up, I see that you managed to wash the mess out.’

Lucinda’s hand flew to her head subconsciously, her fingers tracing the hairline.

The couple and Una joined two local ladies from the mulled wine and mince pie table, and leaned in. They looked encouragingly – from Mary to Lucinda – for the next comeback.

‘Conor always said he liked cold leftovers,’ Mary continued. She picked up a bottle of whisky and turned to look Lucinda up and down. ‘It’s good to see he wasn’t exaggerating,’ she said. Then, reaching out, Mary smiled at the couple and, to their amazement, handed them the whisky.

‘You can’t do that!’ Lucinda cried out. ‘Their ticket didn’t end with the number five!’

‘I can do anything I like,’ Mary replied and tucked a box of luxury chocolates in the couple’s shopping trolley. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she beamed.

‘And to you,’ the couple muttered and hurried away before the angry woman in white took back their stash.

‘We’ll run out of prizes if you carry on!’ Lucinda’s pale skin had reddened. Her aim was always for the tombola to raise the most money at the Christmas Fair.

Mary took a mulled wine from the adjacent table. She raised the steaming mug and smiled as she saw a sudden fear in Lucinda’s eyes.

‘Is there anything else you want from me, besides my husband?’ Mary asked. ‘Perhaps you’d like to share this mulled wine?’

Lucinda stepped away from the stall. She was aware that the dark, sticky contents of Mary’s mug might suddenly find themselves airborne, landing on the pure-white leather of her favourite coat.

‘I need to go; my office is busy,’ she countered. ‘Do make sure you do the decent thing and make some money for our charity, rather than give everything away.’

‘ I do the decent thing?’ Mary was incredulous. ‘Oh, bog off, Lucinda!’ she yelled.

Mary reached into her pocket to pay for the wine, but the ladies held up their hands. ‘With our compliments,’ they smiled as they watched Lucinda scuttle away. ‘Would you like a couple of mince pies too?’

A little while later, Mary headed back to Belvedere House. Her exchange with Lucinda had left her feeling flat. Despite her plans, Mary yearned to put her enemy in her place and knew Lucinda thought she had the upper hand, dangling Conor like a puppet on a string.

It was a ridiculous situation, and one Mary could never have anticipated. Once again, she wondered if she’d ever really known her husband and questioned how he’d become so unrecognisable as the man she’d loved for many years, his ambition now more significant than his marriage.

Driving along the beach road, Mary lowered her window to take in the sharp, salty tang of the sea. As the bracing air circulated, her phone began to ring, and Mary pulled into the beach car park to answer the call.

‘Hello, Dad,’ she said, suddenly grateful to hear his voice.

‘Hello, Love,’ Atticus said. ‘How are you?’

Mary was tempted to clear her throat and put on her most cheerful voice, but something in her father’s tone suddenly softened her resolve. Closing her eyes, she realised that tears were sliding down her cheeks.

‘Mary, are you there?’

‘Yes, s…sorry, I’m here.’

‘Are you crying? Mary, whatever is the matter?’

‘Oh, you know, things aren’t so great here,’ she replied.

‘My darling girl, whatever is wrong, tell me, and I’ll make it better.’

Mary choked back a sob as the warm, comforting sound of unconditional love poured through the airwaves. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ Atticus said, ‘just take your time.’

Mary did as she was told. Then, slowly, she explained her problem.

Her father listened patiently, and after she had given him all the facts, he asked if she’d made any decision about the future.

‘Yes, I have, but I could do with your advice. I’m not sure if I’m doing the right thing.’

When Mary had outlined her proposal, she paid attention as Atticus added thoughts of his own.

‘Would you like me to speak to Conor?’ Atticus asked .

‘No, Dad, it’s okay. Now that you and I have talked, let’s get on with my plans, as long as you’re sure you’re happy about it all.’

‘You have my full backing.’