Page 3 of The Elements

Of course, it’s only my vanity that makes me assume he’s interested in me, for I am accustomed to being admired, but then I go to the bathroom and, while washing my hands, examine my face in the mirror and continue to be surprised by the changes I see there.

The brutal haircut, for one. The skin beginning to dry out now that I no longer apply a succession of daily serums and moisturizers.

A decent body, yes, but it’s hidden beneath my various layers.

There’s no particular reason why any man would look at me twice, other than out of loneliness.

But, again, I’m not looking for passion from the new pub, just a sandwich and a bowl of soup.

I’ve only been on the island a week when I am stopped in the street by a man who introduces himself as Fr.

Onkin but who invites me to call him Ifechi.

May God forgive me, but the first thing I think when I see him is that this man is as black as the ace of spades, a phrase my mother always used but which I have more sense than to say aloud now.

He’s no islander, that’s for sure, but he has a smile that warms me and the most perfect set of teeth I have ever seen on a man.

He’s young, no more than thirty, and seems genuinely pleased to make my acquaintance.

“And you’re Mrs.…” he asks, raising an eyebrow, and I almost say the name from which I have unshackled myself but catch myself in time.

“Miss Hale,” I tell him, aware how spinsterish this sounds, like a lady’s companion in an E. M. Forster novel. “But please, call me Willow.”

“What a beautiful name,” he says.

“As is yours,” I tell him. “Ifechi. I’ve never heard it before.”

“It means the light of God,” he replies.

“Appropriate, then.”

“Yes, although it was not my choice, of course. My parents’, naturally.”

“And, if you don’t mind my asking, Ifechi,” I say, “where do you come from?”

He tells me that he was born in Nigeria, in a place called Benin City, the traditional home of the Edo people.

I don’t know who the Edo people are and think that I might look them up on Wikipedia when I get back to the cottage, but then remember that I have no Wi-Fi.

Perhaps I will search on my phone the next time I’m in the old pub, assuming the promise of a connection there is true.

Curiously, the new pub has none. Although it does have a pool table.

“You’re new here,” he says, half a question, half a statement, and I admit that I am. “We don’t get many new people.”

“No, I wouldn’t imagine so. I suppose everyone is gossiping about me.”

“Everyone and their mother,” he replies, then breaks into a cheerful laugh, which makes me laugh too. He is a comfortable presence and I like him. “Will we see you on Sunday, Willow?” he asks.

“In the church? I’m afraid not, Ifechi. I’m not that way inclined.”

I don’t tell him that I’ve met three popes.

“Of course,” he says, and, to my relief, makes no attempt to convert me.

“But should you ever feel like a few moments of peace and quiet, the church is open throughout the day and mostly empty. It can be a good place to catch one’s thoughts, away from the world.

You can talk to God, talk to yourself, or talk to no one at all.

If you feel so moved, you can even have a snooze in the pews.

” He laughs at the rhyme, but this time I just smile.

I feel it’s a rehearsed line, often repeated.

The truth is, I’ve never been religious, although I was brought up a Catholic and Brendan insisted that we attend Mass every Sunday when the girls were young.

I was happy enough to do so—everyone else did, after all—and stood and knelt at the right moments, shaking hands with neighbors and incanting prayers while never, for even a moment, thinking about the words.

Brendan, on the other hand, liked to feel that he was not just part of the community but one of its leaders.

Occasionally, he read the lesson on a Sunday, and it could be embarrassing how much effort he put into the nuance and characters of the Bible stories, adopting ridiculous voices that made the girls blush in mortification, and regularly served as a minister of the Eucharist, dispensing Holy Communion to parishioners when the church was too full for the priest to feed us all on his own.

The church, I might add, was on the grounds of Terenure College, an all-boys school that had, for generations, presented itself as a bastion of rugby and Catholicism.

Brendan did not attend that school as a child, but he liked to be seen there on a Sunday morning.

He was friends with the school librarian, Fr.

Odran Yates, and invited him over for dinner from time to time, the pair of them sitting in our good room talking about rugby and swimming and GAA as if I wasn’t even present.

If we’d had a son, he would doubtless have been a student, but, fortunately for the child, we did not.

The school must feel a debt of gratitude to my husband.

Across the last year, he has pushed it off the front pages.

Still, despite my lack of religious scruple, perhaps I will call into Ifechi’s church some day. He makes it sound welcoming and it’s not as if I have a busy schedule. We shall see.

“You’ve made quite the sacrifice,” I say before we part, and he looks at me quizzically.

“Sacrifice?” he asks. “I don’t understand.”

“Living here,” I tell him. “In such an isolated spot. And, of course, there’s the celibacy issue too.

That can’t be easy.” I pause. Why I’m interested in the poor man’s sex life, or lack thereof, is anyone’s guess.

“Forgive me,” I say. “I don’t know why I said that.

It’s none of my business. I’ve only just met you. ”

“Celibacy is a curse,” he says, reaching for my hand, and I allow him to take it.

His palms are soft, and, for one strange moment, I wonder how it might feel for them to move across my breasts or between my legs.

“But you must understand, there is only one thing in the world that I love more than women.”

“And what is that?” I ask.

“God.”

“But God won’t keep you warm in your bed at night, will he?”

Later, when I too am alone in my single bed, I wonder whether God is looking over me and, if He is, what punishment He will send my way next.

A dead daughter. A husband in jail. My family’s reputation shattered.

An entire country convinced that I was complicit in all of it. What more can He do to hurt me?

“Are you there, God?” I whisper into the darkness, remembering a book title from many years ago. “It’s me, Willow.”

But, of course, it’s not Willow at all. I can call myself Willow Hale till the cows come home but, underneath, I’m still Vanessa Carvin. I just can’t let anyone know.