Page 13 of The Elements

“I know from personal experience how that can happen,” she continued, growing more animated now.

“In our day, it didn’t matter who you told, they’d just tell you to stop throwing dirt on a good man’s reputation and send you away with a flea in your ear, but I thought things had changed in this country.

I really did. But it’s those men, Vanessa, isn’t it?

It’s those fucking men. They still run everything and look out for each other, no matter what.

I hate them. Don’t you? And it’s women like us who allow it to happen.

Because staying quiet is easier than causing a fuss, isn’t it?

Sometimes I think we’re just as bad as they are. Worse.”

She shook her head then, and there were tears in her eyes as she moved on.

I didn’t follow her. As with the conversation I’d had with Emma about the lock on her door, I blocked it out.

Was I being na?ve, selfish, or complicit?

Was I frightened of investigating this and finding an answer that would destroy us all?

I don’t know, is the truth, but this is what I’ve come to the island to ask myself.

We’d had an extraordinary conversation and, rather than following Peggy down the aisle and demanding an explanation, I went in search of the Green Isle frozen chips I liked. That seemed more important to me.

Later, I recounted the conversation to Brendan, who listened carefully and remained silent as he considered it, before finally asking at what time of day this had occurred.

“Around half past two,” I told him.

“She’s getting earlier, then.”

“Getting earlier at what?”

“Sure, she drinks, that one,” he said. “Did you not know that?”

“Peggy Hartman?”

“Oh yes. The poor woman has an alcohol problem. Seán told me all about it. I didn’t say anything to you because I know you don’t like gossip.

Apparently she opens her first bottle of wine around four o’clock and that’s it, she’s on it for the night.

But it must be getting worse if she was incoherent after lunch. ”

“I never said she was incoherent,” I said. “She was perfectly articulate. And she certainly wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“She knows how to hide it, then,” he replied.

“The alcos are great at hiding it. Trust me, she won’t have had the first clue what she was even talking about.

She’ll have had five stories in her head and been mixing them all up.

She’ll be lying on her sofa now, sleeping it off.

This time tomorrow, she won’t even remember having run into you. ”

I accepted this and asked no further questions.

And when, later that evening, he suggested that the four of us take a trip down to Wexford for a week’s holiday since the girls were on half term anyway, I said yes, great idea, and off we went, swimming in the sea every day because it was a fine spring week.

I put Peggy Hartman, her smoke, her fire, and her supposed drink problem, out of my head.

It was while we were in White’s that the phone call came.

Brendan and I were having a drink in the hotel bar when one of the waiters said he had a call at reception.

I wondered who might be calling him there, who even knew what hotel we had come to, and before he stood up, Brendan did something uncharacteristic.

Looking like a man about to face his executioner, he placed a hand on top of my own and held it there for a moment, as if we were courting for the first time all over again, and offered a sad smile before leaving the bar and making his way into the lobby.

I sat still, telling myself not to worry, that whatever it was would be something trivial. The call seemed to take an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes until he returned, looking excited and relieved.

“What was that all about?” I asked as he sat down, ordering us another round.

“The credit card company, that’s all,” he told me. “They wanted to check it was really me spending money here.”

“Right,” I said, wondering how they would have tracked him down if that was the case. Wouldn’t they have rung his mobile? We remained silent for a few minutes before Brendan spoke again.

“Is it just me?” he asked. “Or are holidays overrated?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “We rarely take any.”

“Sure haven’t we had five days here already?” he asked. “Maybe we’ll skip the last two, will we? Head back up to Dublin tomorrow morning? I might drop into work in the afternoon.”

“You’re going back?”

“It’s time, I think. We’ll tell the girls later, will we? Get them to pack their things tonight? If we set off after breakfast, we could be home by one.”

“All right,” I said.

Could I not have asked him then? Could I not have insisted on knowing the truth about that phone call and why he’d taken this sabbatical so unexpectedly, and then ended it without warning?

Could I not have said, Brendan, I know there’s something you’re not telling me, and you’ll say it now or I will ring the National Swimming Federation myself and find out? Could I not have done that?

I could have, of course, but I didn’t.

Why didn’t I? What was wrong with me? Willow would have demanded answers; Vanessa couldn’t even form the questions.

In the end, he didn’t go back to work the next day, or, indeed, for the next two weeks, because we woke the following morning to the sound of Rebecca knocking on our door to tell us that Emma wasn’t in her bed, that she’d been searching the hotel for her and could find her nowhere.

Neither Brendan nor I were particularly concerned—she was always taking herself off somewhere, and we assumed she’d just gone for a walk in Wexford town—but by the time I was dressed and downstairs, Rebecca was conspicuously anxious and, to alleviate her concerns, I said that we’d go look for her.

And that was when two Gardaí came through the door and made their way to reception to ask whether there was a Mr. and Mrs. Carvin in residence.

The woman behind the desk pointed us out, and the younger of the Gardaí, who didn’t look like he was long out of short trousers, turned around with an expression on his face that suggested the conversation ahead was not going to be a happy one.

When he caught my eye, he knew in that moment that I was the mother, and I knew exactly what he was going to tell me.

And even after that, I still asked no questions.

It’s women like us who allow it to happen . That’s what Peggy Hartman had said. Because staying quiet is easier than causing a fuss, isn’t it?