She scans our faces in turn, her gaze lingering longer on mine. ‘My name is Marianne McDonagh. It’s so lovely to meet you!’ Her voice is soft like the ticking of a clock, with an Irish accent.
‘Thank you so much, Marianne. We’re sorry for being so late and for arriving in wet clothes. Unfortunately, we don’t have any dry clothes to change into as our bags never arrived in Dublin!’
‘Well, well, you have had quite the journey, but not to worry – you’re here now. I’ll gather some nice warm clothes for you.’ She looks down at Kayla’s stiletto boots. ‘I can’t claim that they’ll be high-fashion designer items – but they are clean and comfy and practical, so that’s the most important thing!’
After a few minutes, Marianne reappears with an armful of clothes and leads us up to our room.
‘The clothes should fit you fine – there’s a bathroom just down the hall if you need it. I’ll leave you to get changed and settled in. Tea will be ready in the kitchen whenever you come down.’
As Marianne leaves us to our own devices, we walk up the soft, carpeted stairs of the guest house and open the door to our shared bedroom. The room is from another time, with flowery wallpaper and a mountain of crochet cushions on the four-poster bed. There’s a vase of fresh wildflowers on the dresser and a basket of fruit next to the bed.
Kayla throws her arms up in joy, jumping onto the bed and laughing as she grabs a handful of colourful pillows. ‘Home sweet home!’ she exclaims as she turns around in circles.
She rips off her wet clothes and pulls on the antiquated flannel nightdress and bulky woolly cardigan that Marianne has left out. The oversized pink nightdress drapes over her petite frame, and its sleeves fall well past her hands, the fabric billowing out at her sides like a sail in gentle wind. Neither of us can stop laughing – she looks like Grandma Wolf, straight out of‘Little Red Riding Hood’. A hilarious make-under for a girl who always dresses to impress.
She sinks her feet into huge fluffy slippers, making it look as if she’s shuffling forward on two tufts of cloud as she walks over to the window and pulls the curtains. The night sky is dark and starless; all that can be heard is the occasional bark of a dog in the distant night air. Everything is so different here from what I’m used to back home – not just in appearance, but in feel too. It’s like stepping into a world sealed from the ravages of time.
‘Are you coming downstairs to have tea with Marianne?’ I ask.
She shakes her head no. ‘I’m exhausted. All I want to do is get into bed and snuggle up for a good night’s sleep!’
With that, Kayla climbs into bed and shoves her slippers out from beneath the covers. ‘I’m going to buy these from Marianne! Nothing so comfortable has ever graced my feet!’ Kayla waggles the giant sheepskin fluffballs and gives a little giggle.
I quickly shimmy into my comfortable fleece pyjama set, with a cute cow emblazoned on the front that says ‘moo-tiful’ and admire the stunning photographs of countryside vistas on the wall and the exquisite bedspread with its embroidered pink flowers. A swell of happiness surges within me as I realise that we have successfully reached Innisfree. We’ve made it, and that’s something to be proud of.
‘You’ve read this, right?’ Kayla says, holding up her phone to show me an e-book cover on her Kindle with the titleInto Your Depth.
‘Self-help? I don’t do self-help, Kayla. Since when do you do self-help? I thought you only read erotica and baking books.’
Kayla raises her hands defensively. ‘I know, I know – but this is different! I’m doing the social-media campaign for a client – she’s an influencer and wants to seem deep, so she’s paying me to read it and post ideas on her takeaways.’
I shake my head. ‘So instead of a body double, you’re a brain double.’
Kayla replies, ‘That’s exactly what I am. What can I say? Everyone wants a piece of this.’ She puckers her lips and blows me a sassy kiss. ‘Anyway, thought you’d be proud that all of your reading lessons are finally paying off! I never read anything more than a take-away menu before I met you… it’s not like I’m about to get a Nobel Prize or anything, but I know I can do it and that feels good… thanks to you.’
‘And how’s it going? Any big, deep viral #insights yet?’
‘Yes, actually, Little Miss Cynical. It’s about how we need to change along with change – nothing is as it was, we are not the same. What other option do we have but to adapt?Into Your Depthis a guide for our times. Read it and believe me, you’ll never look at life in the same way again.’
I take the phone from her and scroll to read the blurb. It’s written by Nami Zen, a renowned academic whose TED talks have gone viral. ‘Let yourself really feel your feelings.’ I can’t think of anything worse than having to sit here feeling all my feelings. ‘Your triggers are your teachers.’ And what if ‘teachers’ are actually your triggers? As in you get yelled at for no reason or told off publicly because your PE kit isn’t exactly linen-fresh because you share a washing machine with forty other parentless teenagers. I hated school, I couldn’t wait to leave, so I don’t think Nami Zen’s words are going to change my life after all.
I hand the phone back to Kayla. ‘Thanks but no thanks.’
‘Suit yourself. Nighty night for me, Daisy,’ Kayla says with a yawn. ‘I’m wrecked and this bed is sooooo comfortable… I’m turning in. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?’
‘Of course – you sleep. Goodnight.’
She’s already curled up under the covers, breathing softly, her eyelids slowly blinking, the swirl of her dark hair againstthe pillow. I carefully fold the edges of her blanket, making sure it’s snug around her. My fingertips brush against her soft skin, memories of our time together at the children’s home flooding my mind: chatting into the night, waking each other in time for breakfast in the morning, sneaking in snacks and treats, especially when there were tears, disappointments and DIY ear-piercing disasters. Without her, I would never have made it this far – family may not be something you can choose, but thank goodness for friends like Kayla.
I’m too buzzed by the day’s events, especially meeting Jacinta and Fintan – they knew everybody! Including my mother! They’re the first people I’ve ever met that knew her from here in Ireland. They said she was lovely. No scandal attached. And the landscape as we travelled down – exactly as she’d painted the scenes in our bedtime stories. I can’t help it, I feel close to her here. I feel like she could be in the next room. Just out of sight, just next door, just popped out; not gone, not forgotten, not erased. And that feels wonderful to me. So wonderful that I don’t have the vocabulary I need to express it fully. That’s where art comes in for me. Easier to express in shapes and colours and textures – in ways that can’t be put into words. Without my art supplies, I have no other option than to attempt to capture as much of the landscape as I can in quick sketch form. My fear is that some of the details will evade me, that I won’t get a chance to fully capture what I’m seeing on paper, and that this opportunity might slip away from me. I’m eager to make the most of every opportunity, both for my art and for my research into my mother’s past. I don’t want to squander any chance or clue that comes my way.
Jacinta has already kindly given me a name, a contact – Moya Collins, who lives in a caravan by the lake. Moya might be the only lead I ever get, so I’ll chase her up. I have a month to uncover all I can and then I’m back to London, most probablynever to return to Innisfree. I can’t see any reason why I would – the house will be sold, and I know Ash will have no interest in coming here – he’s much more of a Maldives kind of guy – sea, sand, open bar and being waited on hand and foot. I can’t picture him roughing it on the bumpy bus from Dublin and then languishing in the Irish countryside getting excited about old pubs and local history – a little too much peace and quiet and spontaneous bursts of thunderclap for him.
But at the same time, despite my desire to get answers, Fintan’s solemn warning reminds me that I have to tread carefully or I’ll ruin my chances of learning anything about my mother. Rather than being too direct and intrusive, I need to take a subtler approach. I know that if I’m going to get any useful information, it’s best to stay cool and collected. Settle in, spend some time here, getting to know the locals and the place before I start ruffling feathers by asking questions about people and events from decades ago. By paying close attention, some of the secrets surrounding my mother’s past could slowly reveal themselves, without me having to disturb too much earth in the process.
I’m wide awake. All the perplexities of Mick Kennedy, Moya Collins and James O’Connor in Innisfree are rolling around in my head; I need to take some time to process all of this information. It’s best I don’t keep Marianne waiting so I make my way down to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
CHAPTER 18
