Page 10 of Coming Home to Inishbeg Cove

Chapter 7

Penny

Every day in the village seemed to last an eternity. Lucy woke early each morning and I took her down to the cove so she wouldn’t wake Mam and Dad. We would run along the sand together or play with her bucket and spade underneath the indigo sky as the sun rose over the Atlantic. Then, as the sky transmuted to shades of blue, we would return to the house, where Mam and Dad would just be getting up, and we would all eat breakfast together. Somehow, we had slotted into this routine over the last few mornings.

I still hadn’t heard from Joe. I decided that I would give him a week to get his head together and then – well, I wasn’t sure what I would do. I was willing the days to pass until the interminable wait had ended. I hated being in this limbo state. I desperately wanted to talk to him, to know what was going on inside his head, but I had to give him space. He’d been under a lot of pressure lately. His last piece had failed to meet the reserve at auction, and there had been a scathing write-up afterwards in the Culture section of the Sunday Times titled ‘Joe de Paor – Creative Genius or Emperor’s New Clothes?’. He claimed he never listened to the critics, but I could tell he was wounded. I knew how fragile an artist’s ego could be – especially his. The review in the Times had really knocked him, and he had been moody and distant ever since.

Rogue thoughts infiltrated my mind as I lay awake at night: what if after a week he decided that he needed more time? What would I do then? But I pushed the worries out again as quickly as they entered. However he felt about me, he would surely need – and want – to see Lucy, wouldn’t he? I willed the days to hurry past until it was Saturday – exactly a week since I had left.

It worried me how quickly Lucy had stopped asking about her father. She was in great form, and I was relieved to see she was oblivious to the worries that clouded my head. She was loving her stay in Inishbeg Cove and the attention being heaped on her by her doting grandparents. I marvelled at how happy and settled she had become there in just a few short days. She adored our morning trips to the beach or to Greg’s ice-cream parlour. Sometimes Mam and Dad would bring her to the swings beside the village hall in the afternoon. It was as if she didn’t notice Joe’s absence at all. How I wished I could feel the same. I hated the unknown, I hated Mam delicately asking me whether everything was okay as she poured me another cup of tea, and having to lie to her and say yes, everything was fine. My parents were in their sixties: they had spent enough years worrying about me growing up. I was an adult now; they didn’t need me to be a burden on them.

∞∞∞

Somehow, Saturday finally arrived. That morning, after Lucy and I had eaten breakfast, I went down to the bedroom and rang Joe. The breath snagged in my chest as I waited for him to answer.

I couldn’t believe he had made no effort to contact me. He hadn’t even texted to see how Lucy was doing. I had thought he would have had a change of heart by now. I had expected him to beg me to come home because he missed us after only a couple of days. Could he really switch off from his own flesh and blood so easily? Being apart from Lucy for more than a few hours made me anxious; I certainly couldn’t go a day, let alone a week, without an update on how she was. But then, what did I know about being an artist? Maybe the ability to shut out all other distractions – even the people you loved – and focus on your art was how you summoned up the creativity you needed to make a masterpiece.

Finally, he answered. My stomach felt as though it was tumbling around inside a washing machine.

‘So, how’ve you been?’ I began. My heart was hammering so loudly inside my ribcage that I was sure he would hear it on the other end of the phone.

Was I imagining it, or did I hear a frustrated sigh down the line? I could picture him frowning.

‘Up and down,’ he said after a long pause.

I felt a sinking feeling deep in the pit of my stomach; he wasn’t in a good mood, and this didn’t bode well for our conversation.

‘Have you had time to think?’

There was silence on the other end, and I instinctively knew that whatever Joe was going to say next wasn’t good news.

‘I need more time. I think I’m all out. I feel the well is dried up.’

‘But it’s unfair on me and Lucy!’ I protested. ‘You’ve forced us out of our home, Joe.’

‘You can come home any time, Penny. You don’t have to make everything so dramatic. I can sleep at the studio.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘When will you ever begin to understand how all-encompassing this job is? It’s not an office job where I clock in at nine and out again at five – it’s in my head all day, every day. There’s no escape from it!’ His voice was agitated.

‘Joe, I know your job isn’t easy,’ I reasoned, ‘but it’s not life or death if you don’t paint. So what if you can’t create anything for a few months? We’ve plenty of savings – we’ll survive. I can even go out and get a job to help take some of the stress off you. Don’t let the pressure get to you. Maybe what you need is to free your mind and then the creativity will come—’

‘What the hell do you know about art, Penny?’ he spat.

That stung. He was frustrated and angry, and he was using me as his punchbag. I know people say that we hurt the people we love the most, but I was sick of justifying his mood swings.

The thing with Joe was, I never knew which version of him I was going to get. His moods were so erratic. Some days I woke up to calm Joe and all was fine, but there were many days of distant Joe when he seemed so far out of reach, as if there was a glass partition between us. Of course he could be loving too; on those days he was kind and attentive and made me feel as though I was the only woman who understood him, as if I was essential to both his life and his art. That I was the only person on Earth who could complete him. When Joe was focused on me, it was the best place in the world to be. It was like sunshine warming my skin on a summer’s day. But I was sick of walking on eggshells around him. I had feelings and needs too; Joe de Paor wasn’t the only person in this marriage.

I took a deep breath, and the words I had wanted to say for a long time tumbled out: ‘I might not know anything about art, but I do know about being a loving, caring wife, and I’m a damn good mother. I’ve always tried to understand your ways and give you everything you need to create, but I can’t deal with any more of your moods, Joe. Take all the time you need. Lucy and I are staying in Inishbeg Cove!’ Then I ended the call and stood stock still in my bedroom, in shock. I couldn’t believe I had done that. Me. I had hung up on Joe.

‘Who was that?’ Mam asked, coming into the bedroom, her eyebrows raised. She had obviously been earwigging on our conversation.

‘Joe.’ I sighed, sitting down on the side of the bed, still in shock. Had I really just uttered those words? I had effectively told him I was leaving him. The whole thing felt surreal.

‘Is everything okay, Penny?’ She sat down beside me. ‘You don’t have to put on a brave face for me, y’know?’ Her voice was soft and warm, like a blanket, and there was something about her words and us sitting on the side of my childhood bed that brought me back to being a little girl again. I remembered when I was five years old and Mam had comforted me after I had fallen off my bike, or when I was eight and had a fight with Michelle O’Dowd in school. She had comforted me in the same way, and I needed her just as much now as I had then.

‘Come here, a ghrá,’ she soothed as tears came spilling out of me. I couldn’t stop them. Mam didn’t ask any questions; she put her arm around me and stroked my hair so that I breathed in the floral notes of her perfume, mixed with her comforting smell.

‘I think my marriage might be over, Mam,’ I whispered.