Wide grins break across their faces as they scramble to their feet, eager to prove their worth. As I watch them, I’m struck by how quickly life can change; how strangers become friends and enemies turn into allies within a blink of an eye.
‘Right, I’ll make a call to your mum, make sure she’s all right with you being here and helping out,’ says James.
‘And all going to plan, we’ll see you both here first thing in the morning to start work. We’re a team now,’ I tell them.
Liam reaches out a flat hand and Finn puts his hand over it. I follow suit and eventually James places his on top. We’ve formed a tiny tower of hands. Which is about as official as you can get.
CHAPTER 27
THE CARAVAN
While James and the boys go off to tell their mother where they are, I debate my next move. I realise that this is my best chance to pay Moya a visit. But it’s risky. She has no idea who I am, and she certainly isn’t expecting me. While it would be far better for James or Dom to introduce us, that could take up even more time, and I know that if I don’t take a chance now, the opportunity could be lost forever. All the possible scenarios run through my mind – would she be pleased to see me or angry that I rocked up to her door unannounced? My heart races as I muster all the courage I have, hoping I’m ready for whatever reaction she might give me.
I walk up to her old-fashioned caravan, nestled in a secluded hollow, among the lush and wild greenery. The private spot seems perfect for someone looking for a quiet retreat away from the hustle and bustle of the everyday grind. The sun’s soft golden rays dapple on the caravan’s roof – a faded, weatherworn structure that echoes of simple times and rustic living. I can’t help but let a small smile grace my lips as I imagine my mother and Moya sharing a hot cup of tea within its confines, catching up on old memories and stories.
The tiny chimney puffs out a curl of smoke. I knock on the door, disturbing the perfect silence. Nothing but the birds seem to answer, with little twitters of laughter. A shiver runs through me – perhaps it’s the cold, or the anticipation of whatever conversation might unfold within. I start to run an impatient hand through my hair, but before I even have the chance to give the door a second knock, I hear it: the faint murmur of a radio playing inside the caravan. This and the smoking chimney tell me Moya must be home. Is she ignoring me? Would she if she knew I was here for my mother?
‘Hello? Moya? It’s… it’s Daisy Clarke. I’m Rose’s daughter?’ I call out, trying to keep my voice steady despite the million questions swirling in my mind. ‘I… I wanted to ask you about my mother.’
But there’s no answer.
My heart sinks – I’m left baffled and discouraged by Moya’s lack of response. Can she hear me? Is there a reason she doesn’t want to see me? I thought she and my mother were friends.
Desperation seeps into my soul, and I can feel the determination that drove me there slipping through my fingers.
‘Moya?’ I half-shout, half-whisper, my voice not sure what to do and how far to push. I don’t want to bother her, much less harass her, but I want to meet her. To try to see her face to face, even for just a moment… ‘If you don’t want to talk, I can come back later. I’ll be at the house every day, fixing it up.’
Nothing.
I can’t help but feel the weight of Moya’s rejection prickling my skin. Is she hiding something? Or is she just a hermit who’s lost all taste or tolerance for the outside world? And what does this all mean for my search for the truth about my mother?
The wind rustles the grass and tries to bolster my spirits, but deep down in the chambers of my heart, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve done to deserve such a cold shoulder from a woman sodear to my mother, even if it was such a long time ago. She may not even know that she’s dead.
My frustration mounts. I can’t believe Moya won’t answer the door. I came here because she was my mother’s friend, to learn more about their past together. I thought she could help me unravel the truth.
I pace back and forth outside the van, my mind filled with questions that confuse and disorientate me. My gaze flickers to the door separating us, and the empty pleas inviting me to leave. Now, the dilemma presents itself. Should I keep trying, keep knocking on that frustratingly stubborn door, hoping she’ll eventually open up? I could ask Dom for help – he’s closer to Moya, and she would trust him, listen to what he has to say. But would that be enough to get her to open the door?
An idea forms, and I quickly grab my notepad, scribbling down my thoughts. I can slip a note under the door and let Moya know that I come in peace. Once she reads it, perhaps she’ll let me in. Taking my chance, I scribble a note explaining myself and add my phone number on a scrap of paper, praying that Moya will respond. Decision made, I slide the paper under Moya’s door, softly knocking as I do, hoping to catch her curiosity.
With the note delivered, I leave her doorstep, my heart racing with a mix of anticipation and fear. I glance back one last time, and my breath catches in my throat as the door shifts ever so slightly. The knot in my chest loosens, replaced with a glimmer of hope that blooms into a gentle warmth. There’s a chance for the truth yet.
The thread that connects all of us – the stories that bind us together – they’re fragile, breaking easily. But I’ve learned they can be woven back together with the right intention at the right time. For now, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll keep pushing through, trying to connect with Moya until I’ve found the answers my mother left behind.
Though the heartbeat of anxiety remains, it’s tempered by a growing sense of optimism, like tiny embers from a dying fire. I may not have the answers yet, but I’m going to keep searching. Forward I go, further into the unknown.
CHAPTER 28
THE TEAM
The smell of freshly cut grass fills the air as I watch Dom meticulously supervise all repairs to the charming lakeside country house. He has all the tradespeople well organised. In the distance, I hear the boys laugh as they paint and repair what’s been left neglected for years. Kayla, with her trusty clipboard in hand, walks around, ensuring everything is in order. The sun radiates down, creating a picturesque glittering sheen on the lake beyond.
As I stand gazing at James, who enthusiastically tends to the garden or climbs the ladder onto the roof when needed while wearing a beaming smile, I feel the gentle warmth of the sun on my skin as it shines through a window. It’s in these moments that Innisfree feels familiar, a place where I truly belong and worth every moment of graft that we’re putting in every day. I yawn, my stiff limbs protesting my recent activities, as I stretch my arms towards the ceiling.
I wander downstairs, ready to tackle the next task on my checklist, kindly typed up, colour-coded and prioritised by Kayla – the project-managing dictator… I mean, director.
The past fortnight has been a whirlwind of crazy developments. Dom knows more about plaster than I knowabout life: he can mix it, apply it to the walls and smooth it out with ease, completely resurfacing the whole interior. I laugh now as I remember how my heart sank as I stepped into this dining room on day one; there was mess all over the floor, the walls were in such disrepair, chunks missing and patches of wallpaper peeling from them. They looked as if they’d crumble at any moment. I had no idea how we were going to make this place look habitable again. But then Dom arrived, with a wealth of knowledge, and suddenly I felt a spark of hope. He stumbled in wearing his work overalls, toolbelt slung across his chest, his two dogs at his heel, and instantly we could sense him taking charge. Any doubts I had disappeared as he spoke, explaining precisely what he’d do to tackle this seemingly insurmountable task.
Liam and Finn have become like part of our family at The Lake House. They watch everything Dom does, take the dogs for walks, grab supplies from town, haul water from the well, light campfires with twigs to grill up the fresh mackerel from the lake for lunch. Their mother appears to be pleased that they’re outdoors and that things are staying busy. We haven’t heard anything from Stephen McDonagh lately, which is probably for the best. They’re such wonderful boys with never-ending energy, playing outside for hours each day, chasing each other around the garden, their laughter ringing through the air. Their youthful playfulness is contagious, and I can never help but smile as I watch them run around, carefree and unburdened by the weight of the world. As it should be at that age.
