Intentions

by Muriel Bolger

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Three People . . . Beatrice Cullen - the beautiful, career-driven Dubliner. So far she hasn''t met anyone who has made her want to give up her independent lifestyle and freedom. Until she encounters . . . Damien Doyle - the charismatic Dean of Students in a medical school in Dublin. But Damien is destined to travel to India for the summer to oversee a charity project in Mumbai. Once there, he is reunited with a former student . . .. . . the passionate young doctor Iswara Singhanid who is determined to go against her parents'' wishes for her marriage and her career. As Damien and Iswara work together in the intense heat of Mumbai, Beatrice writes to Damien with news from home. But then tragedy strikes and all three find themselves irrevocably joined as tensions, prejudices and long-held traditions surface. Damien finds himself torn between responsibility and love, friendship and duty. From the leafy city parks of Dublin to the crowded streets of Mumbai, Intentions is an intricately drawn story of love and commitment and of the choices we all have to face.

Release date: May 3, 2012

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 300

Sample

IN A QUIET SUBURB IN BOMBAY, THREE-YEAR-old Iswara ran in and out of the spray from the lawn sprinklers, an indulgence permitted only sometimes before breakfast by her ayah. She chased the arcs and shrieked with laugher when she managed to catch up with their random spurts. Her older sister Rekna, who was five, thought this was silly.

In the pillared front porch a manservant shook the doormat before starting to sweep up the garden debris that had blown in during the night. In another corner a gardener was picking flowers for the house. The metal gates swung open slowly to admit her grandfather’s car. He waved to Iswara and she waved back. She’d had enough of this game. She ran to her ayah who wrapped her in a towel and brought her in through the back entrance to get her washed and ready to join the family for breakfast.

When Iswara and Rekna reappeared on the veranda, Iswara ran to her mother for a kiss. Daya tucked a stray tendril of glossy hair behind her daughter’s ear as she escaped to give her father and grandfather a hug. ‘She’s a very bright child, just like her big sister, eh? She’ll go far, I promise you. I am so very proud of both of you,’ their grandfather said to the older girl as he patted her on the head. Rekna smiled back as Iswara scrambled onto a chair on his other side and the kaamwali started to serve them.

Grandpapa arrived every weekday morning to have breakfast with his son, Raj, and his family. This pattern had developed since he had lost his wife ten months earlier. It had seemed a logical thing to do as they both worked at the clinic he had founded some years earlier and he passed by his son’s house on the way there.

The unconditional love of his little granddaughters set him up for the day and the visits also gave him the chance to discuss patients and life in general with his son. It also meant he arrived at work in a better frame of mind than he would have done had he eaten a solitary breakfast and sat in the back of his car with only his thoughts, as his driver got him to the hospital or to his rooms in time for another day.

Raj picked up the newspaper that lay beside his plate. He did this every morning. He always read The Times of India. Daya had long since stopped protesting about his reading at the breakfast table. It was one of the few battles Raj has chosen to win.



Almost 5,000 miles away in Ireland, ten-year-old Damien Doyle was bossing his sister, Rachel, around. She was younger and was often a pest, but she had her uses – like now.

They were spending the summer holidays at Brittas Bay, in County Wicklow, as they did every year. Their family had a mobile home there, and like those others who’d been going there for years, they still referred to them as caravans, but the newcomers to ‘the field’ talked about their ‘mobile homes’ as though they were great ancestral piles. Well, the long-termers conceded, they did have all mod cons like showers and inside flushing loos, which eliminated the need to bury the contents of the Elson in a hole. The matter of whose turn it was to do this offending job prompted regular family rows. When the Doyles had upgraded, they’d still referred to their swanky new, L-shaped summer home as ‘the van’.

Damien was in his element in Brittas, with its high sand dunes and meandering paths. In those dunes he was king of his universe. He could be anything he chose and he chose to be everything from a bionic warrior to Superman, an astronaut to a dirt-track rider. Today he was a bounty hunter and his sister was the tent pole – holding up the makeshift structure with a broken spade handle. A siege was underway in the rough terrain outside. Damien had just rescued a hostage, a neighbour’s child called Irene, from the enemy. She was Rachel’s friend and was still tied up. He set about undoing the knots with bravado.

He knew Rachel was happy to be included with the older children. Although they were only three years apart, at ten and seven that was almost a lifetime. He neglected to tell her the game was over but he knew she’d figure that out when the shouts and scuffles on the other side of the crumpled tarpaulin stopped, letting her know that she could let go of the handle and rest her arms. But all activity ceased abruptly when they heard the whistle: two short bleeps. This was the call their mother used to muster them for meals or when their cousins arrived from Dublin to visit. The whistle had been his idea. The van next to them used one long whistle and Irene’s parents called her in with four short ones. All the parents had complied with his scheme. He’d even called a meeting to inform them and his mother had served coffee and scones while he handed out the instructions. It made sense, they agreed, instead of running all over the place looking for their children.

The game was abandoned, and as they’d already eaten, Damien headed the race back to see who had arrived.



In Ringsend in Dublin, the compact terraced house was unusually busy. There were aunts and uncles, neighbours and several people little Beatrice Cullen had never seen before, all crowded in. When she caught their eyes, they seemed to be looking at her, pityingly. Several remarked on her white-blonde curly hair. ‘Just like her daddy,’ they said. ‘She’s a Cullen all right.’ Of course she was a Cullen. Didn’t they know that? Wasn’t her name Beatrice Cullen? But she said nothing.

‘And she’s so young, the poor wee mite. How old are you now?’

‘Five and a half,’ she replied proudly.

‘Ah the half is very important, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Beatrice.

She had just come back from her neighbour’s house. Mrs Murphy had taken her for the morning. Her house had smelled of warm baking and she’d been invited to help. The old neighbour had tied an oversized apron around Beatrice’s waist and had allowed her help cut the tops off the fairy buns that were cooling on the kitchen table. She had never seen so many sandwiches or cakes in anyone’s kitchen before. She watched as Mrs Murphy deftly spread them with homemade raspberry jam. Then she spooned whipped cream into the cakes, always the exact same amount, before showing her how to top them off with the pieces she had trimmed earlier.

‘Now, Beatrice, you’ve learned how to make butterfly cakes. Your mum will be so pleased with you,’ she said, putting them carefully on to trays. ‘I think you’ve earned one too, don’t you, pet? We’ll bring the rest around to your house.

It hadn’t quite registered what her dad dying really meant. He’d been a shadowy figure at best and seemed to have been in hospital for a long time. Beatrice felt loved and cherished by her mother and liked it when there was just the two of them together. When her dad had come home from hospital at Easter she had really resented him being there because she couldn’t make noise, have her friends from two doors down over to play, or jump on her mother’s bed. And she had had to whisper all the time.

Now her mother was sad. She kept opening packets of tissues and putting them down, then not being able to find them again.

‘Why did Daddy have to die?’ Beatrice had asked her Auntie Joan, who replied, ‘Holy God must have wanted another angel in heaven.’

She thought this over for a minute and then asked, ‘Why couldn’t he have just made another one?’ That had caused her aunt to go into a flurry, offering her cake and rushing off to make more tea for everyone.

Uncle Joe told her she had to be Mummy’s special friend now. ‘You have to take care of her, work hard at school and make her proud of her little girl. Give me your word now, won’t you?’ She promised she would and he gave her fifty pence, which she put in her moneybox when everyone had gone home. Her grandfather gave her a pound and told her she had to be brave and look after her mama now. She adored her granddad with a love that only exists between grandparents and grandchildren and would do anything for him, so she gave her word again and was determined to honour it.

Life hadn’t been easy for Mary Cullen since her husband died, but she’d gone back to work and this helped her cope with her loneliness. However, she’d had to decide whether the nice pay cheque that went with her job as a PA in a food distribution company was worth the worry and guilt of having her only child minded in after-school care until whatever time she could escape, or whether it would be better all round if she took a more tedious position with less money but more suitable hours. She felt guilty about so much those days, but especially because her little girl’s father was no longer around and her daughter never seemed to want to talk about him. Her father had been a rock for her and Beatrice. He was retired and a widower and was always happy when asked to babysit or collect Beatrice from school if Mary had to work late.

When she was ten, Beatrice’s grandfather came over to have his dinner with her and her mother, sat in his winged chair and never got up again. Beatrice was inconsolable. Since her father had died, she’d had difficulty trusting people. Now she saw her mother go through grief again, and felt she had to hold things together for her, again. Her grandfather was always around and always a big part of her life. She couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

Shortly before this shock, Mary had met a man through work and he’d asked her out a few times. His name was Ray and she liked him, but when her father died, she didn’t know whether she liked Ray because he was kind and understanding, which was just what she needed, or because she really cared for him.

Mary married Ray when Beatrice was twelve, but not without agonising for three years over what effect it might have on her child.

She told Ray, ‘Beatrice never seems to miss her father and if she did she never showed it to me. Sometimes she comments on the framed photo of our wedding, but she’s asked very few questions about how we met or about her dad and his life. It is as though she has shut him out of her memory or had never known him.’

‘It’s hard to tell with kids, you never really know what they are thinking.’

‘I know that, but I’ve always felt a duty to keep him alive in her mind.’

‘And that I can understand perfectly,’ he said. ‘You did a great job on her so far, and I’ll be here from now on.’

When she had introduced Ray to her daughter, there had been none of the expected awkwardness, and there had been much relief all around when she’d whispered, ‘I like him – he has kind eyes.’

‘So do I,’ laughed Mary. ‘He has a kind heart too.’

Beatrice accepted Ray but only after she’d told him, ‘You needn’t think you can be a replacement for Granddad, because you’re not.’

‘I’m only sorry I never met him, but from what your mum and you tell me about him, I’m sure I‘d never measure up.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ she agreed.

Mary, Ray and Beatrice soon became a close-knit unit. Beatrice was a curious child who sailed though school with little difficulty and made friends easily. She continued to shine at school and she headed the debating society and always loved a good argument. At college, she decided to specialise in developmental studies. It seemed inevitable that she would probably end up abroad somewhere when she qualified, working on some humanitarian project or other, and her mother was resigned to this when she headed off every summer to some far-flung corner of the world.

IT WAS A GREY FEBRUARY DAY AND BEATRICE could see that the queue had already formed on the street outside the Department of Foreign Affairs offices on St Stephen’s Green where she had been working for the past six years. It was always the same on Monday mornings.

It had been her mother who had spotted an advert in the daily paper for two vacancies in the visa/passport department and had urged her to apply. Having undertaken fieldwork for eighteen months after graduation, Beatrice was not sure that that was where her future lay, but to please her mother she had applied. She was surprised when she was offered the job and decided to give it a go. Once she’d settled in to regular office hours, she found she actually enjoyed what she was doing and quickly found herself working with real cases and real people, many naturalisation applicants, and had worked her way up to a supervisory position in the appeals area. The second position had been taken by Irene. They started work on the same day, novices in a bureaucratic world, both unsure. It was inevitable that they would become friends, and they did. They often socialised together, ate lunch, made each other coffee, shopped in Grafton Street and sat in St Stephen’s Green together. They discussed their boyfriends or lack of, and followed each other’s romances with interest, sympathy and encouragement.

‘They must be frozen waiting out there,’ Beatrice said to one of her colleagues as she sat down at her desk. ‘I’ve just walked from the Dart station and my fingers and toes are numb.’

Her job was challenging, but over the years she’d worked there she soon got to recognise the scam artists from the genuine cases. However, they all agreed that things had became more and more frustrating when, despite the legislation and all the new best practices that had been introduced, marriages of convenience, having babies on Irish soil, bigamy and all sorts of other deceptions were used so successfully to obtain Irish citizenship or a stay of execution, while some applied for naturalisation. Those same laws often excluded needy and legitimate cases on technicalities. It was an imperfect system, one which she and her colleagues often talked about. It often dehumanised real people with real problems, but it was the best they had and they had to work with it. She had genuine compassion for those who were trying to begin again in a safe environment and she never minded working extra hours to reach satisfactory conclusions.

Then there were the cases that were genuine, but where desperation had clouded better judgement. She had been presented with forged documents, falsified references, bank statements and other paperwork, all carefully and expensively acquired, to try and ensure a safe passage through the whole bureaucratic maze. Such measures were never looked on favourably, and Beatrice knew that sometimes the families being deported had a much more valid reason for never returning to their homelands than many who had slipped though procedures without detection.

She made coffees in the tiny kitchenette and brought them through to their pod. She was just putting a cup down on the adjoining desk when Irene’s phone rang. She heard Irene mutter a slow ‘Well good morning, Damien’ as she rolled her eyes skywards, twisting a strand of hair around her fingers. Beatrice put her own cup down, ripped open two little tubes of sugar and poured them into Irene’s coffee with a grin. She stirred them in with a wooden spatula. Damien’s phone calls were always long, convoluted and most urgent. Irene rustled through some faxes on her desk. ‘Yes, Damien, I have them here. Now what’s the problem, this time?’ she asked affably.

Beatrice knew that Irene was going out with Daragh, had been for a while now, but there seemed to be a real bond between her and this Damien guy. They’d known each other since they’d been kids and she was still friends with his sister, Rachel.

Damien was a Dean of Students at one of the medical faculties in the nearby university. He’d made the headlines when he was appointed, headhunted from HR in one of the IT multinationals to become the youngest faculty member at barely thirty-three. He often rang for advice when an overseas student had got into trouble with the law, or became ill, or when a family needed to be sent for: his quickest route to finding solutions was to call Irene. Beatrice was used to hearing Irene’s conversations with him range from intense to flirtatious, sympathetic to dismissive, but they were seldom brief. She sat down at her desk and clicked on her computer.

She’d only met Damien quite recently, when he strode in to the department. Irene had been in Morocco with Daragh. He had created a fuss in the foyer, and Beatrice had noticed his impatience. He was an imposing figure, tall, toned and casual, and his presence suggested that he usually got his way. He ignored the queue and demanded to see someone. Beatrice had kept walking but one of the ushers had followed her, asking what he should do, and Beatrice told him to tell Damien that he could have an appointment for the following week.

Damien had moved towards them and heard that exchange. ‘This can’t wait. It’s matter of extreme urgency. I demand to see somebody in authority.’

Beatrice had remained silent, giving him the once over before continuing upstairs to her office. The usher had tried to explain that every case they were dealing with was of the utmost importance and that, as there was a queue, it was only fair that he wait his turn like everybody else.

‘I’ll write to the minister about this.’

‘As you wish, Sir, I’m just doing my job,’ the usher had replied.

When Damien didn’t leave, the usher had rung Beatrice and put Damien on the line. It was only when he’d given his name that she realised who he was. She’d explained that if there was a real emergency, a death, a murder or some such crisis, they could make an exception.

‘This is an emergency. One of our final-year students needs a re-entry visa – urgently.’

‘I can understand your concerns. Leave me your number and I’ll get back to you,’ she’d offered.

‘Make sure you do – this afternoon,’ Damien had said. ‘There’s a lot riding on this.’

Manners might get you a little further, she’d thought as she put the phone down. She’d called him later that day to tell him that she could see him the following day at eleven. His attitude had still been brusque and she’d formed an opinion of a short-tempered, self-important man with an attitude problem. Someone who thought he could just lift the phone and everyone would jump. However, Beatrice also knew a genuine case when she came across one, and, much as she was prepared to do battle with this arrogant man, she’d found herself nonplussed when she saw him again as he seemed quite different.

The following morning everything had gone wrong. She’d been running late and hadn’t had time to buy her usual latte, and she hadn’t brought anything for lunch. Paul had been doing her head in and she’d left him snoring away. She’d missed having Irene around.

When Damien had come in, his manner was not as abrupt as it had been on the phone On closer inspection, she’d decided his dark-blond hair was overdue for a trim. He’d worn an open-necked cream shirt, a lived-in corduroy jacket and faded jeans. He’d been carrying a battered leather briefcase, and he’d plonked it down on her desk before retrieving some documents from it. And then he’d apologised.

‘Thank you for fitting me in,’ he’d said, disarming her. ‘It’s very good of you. I am sorry about yesterday. I’m inclined to be over-protective of my students. Unfortunately, Abdul, the man in question, is not with me. He had a bereavement and had to go home to Libya. Now with the unrest there, he’s not able to process his exit papers and we are trying to sort things out at this end for him.’

Beatrice had been prepared to be brusque and put Damien in his place; instead she’d found herself offering him coffee before they began dealing with the matter.

‘What effect will it have on his career if he can’t get his visa renewed?’

He’d sat up ready to attack, but she’d forestalled him, ‘I only ask because I like to be the devil’s advocate here. Let’s look at the worst-case scenario and work back from that and see what, if any, possibilities are open to us.’

‘I was dealing with Irene and she is aware of all these facts. When will she be back?’ he’d asked.

Was he implying she was useless? she’d wondered. Did he think she was incapable of handling this task? She’d felt herself get angry again and had said, ‘Not for two weeks.’

‘Very well,’ he’d said with a sigh. ‘This is a human life we are talking about. This student is taking his finals in a few months. His family have made enormous sacrifices so that he could study medicine here and now he’s been offered a postgraduate place in endocrinology, which is what he wants to be his speciality, but if he doesn’t take his interviews in the next few weeks he’ll lose that place and the opportunity will go to someone else. Winning one of these placements is almost as rare as winning the Lotto. This guy is a grade A student. If he’s forced to drop out now, in all probability he’ll never get the chance to qualify or to practise medicine, never mind specialise, and all his years here will have been wasted.’

Beatrice was used to such requests, though they came in many guises and permutations. Some were bogus, and very cleverly presented, but in her experience most she had come across had been totally genuine. She had no reason to doubt the validity of this one.

‘Let me have a look at the paperwork first and we’ll proceed from there,’ she’d said, as he produced photocopies of Abdul’s passport, his Garda National Immigration Bureau certificate, which was now invalid because he had left the country, his student records, exam results and other relevant documents.

They’d spent a good deal of the morning trying to sort out the problems and by lunch-time they’d done all they could. Damien looked at his watch.

‘Do you take a lunch break? I’m starving and I need sustenance. What about a quick bowl of soup and a sandwich?’

She’d declined. She’d been behind in her own work and this case really should not have fallen to her. She also admitted to herself that she was not prepared to spend time with another whimsical man. She had enough going on with her boyfriend.

‘Well, maybe another time,’ he’d said.’ I’ll look forward to hearing from you, and thanks again.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ she’d promised. He’d stretched out his hand and shaken hers before leaving.

When he’d gone, Beatrice had remembered that she hadn’t brought in any lunch. She knew she’d never survive the afternoon on more instant coffee, so she’d headed to a local pub for a quick bite to eat. As she’d squeezed through the crowd, balancing her food, she’d heard her name being called. Then she’d seen Damien indicating a space at a bar table in the corner, so she’d joined him.

‘I normally bring my own lunch and eat at my desk but my boyfriend and his mates cleaned me out over the weekend. I only remembered when my stomach started complaining. So it’s got to be dubious catering soup today.’

‘It’s always dubious soup in here. I think they just toss a few different packets in the pot together and call it whatever they like, but I’m a sucker for their spiced beef and pickle sandwiches. Irene and I grab lunch together the odd time.’

Beatrice knew Damien and Irene had known each other since they were children, but spiced beef and pickles together? She’d have to ask Irene about that some time. Perhaps they’d been an item at some stage. They’d made small talk and he never mentioned Abdul’s case. She’d admired his restraint and respected him for that.

Back at her desk she’d spent the rest of the day trying to reach the relevant authorities in Tripoli, grateful that the time in Libya was only two hours ahead of Dublin. Cases were often really hampered by differences in time zones and it often meant working late, or very early, to synchronise calls. Despite modern technology and telecommunications, these were still an occupational downside.

It had been after seven when Beatrice had headed home, stopping at a convenience store to stock up on some quick food. She’d changed her mind when she’d realised that apart from a few slices of brown bread and the soup, she’d had nothing all day, so she’d bought steaks and some salad instead.

Paul had already been there when she got home, and had been happily working his way through the bottle of wine she’d had in the fridge. He’d been sprawled out in front of the television giving his own commentary on a rerun of the first Irish match in the Six Nations Championship.

‘Hi, babe. You’re late. How was your day?’ he’d asked, not getting up to greet her.

‘Busy, tiring – and yours?

‘Great. I just heard I’m getting the gig to go to Australia and New Zealand for the rugby test series in the summer. I’ll be away for a few weeks.’

‘And you call that work?’ she’d laughed. Paul was a sports commentator with the outside broadcast unit for national television and radio. As such he ate, slept and even dreamed about sport in all its forms. He could get equally excited about the Cheltenham Gold Cup, the schoolboys’ rugby, the Tour de France or the local under-11s match.

Beatrice was athletic in her own way, and she loved hockey and kept fit by running along the strand every day. But as she had been brought up in a house with just her mother, the most sports coverage they had ever indulged in was the total immersion of Wimbledon every year, accompanied by large bowls of strawberries and cream and little bottles of Prosecco. In secondary school, and after her mother had remarried, rugby became a passion. Her stepfather, Ray, had played for a local rugby team when he was younger, so it had been difficult to escape the euphoria and the despair as their fortunes had fluctuated. He had taught Beatrice the intricacies of rucks, mauls, scrums and conversions, and she could now hold her own in any après match discussion.

Paul had said, ‘I’ll be able to look up some of my friends out there. We had such a blast during the Lions Tour in South Africa last year. Probably meet up with some of the guys we worked with too.’

Beatrice’s sixth sense had tuned in – she’d heard a lot when he’d come back, too much even, about an Aussie commentator called Candy, but she refrained from asking about her. Instead she’d told him, ‘I spent my day trying to get some poor medical student back into Ireland so he can sit his final exams. His father was injured in an accident and he did a mercy dash back home to be with him when he died. Now we don’t want to let him back in and the Libyans don’t want to let him out! It’s a mad old world, isn’t it? And there’s you flitting off all over the place to watch matches and being paid for it too.’

‘Yeah, great isn’t it?’ he’d laughed.

‘Terrific.’ Her sarcasm was lost on him as his eyes swivelled back to the plasma screen, which was not big enough by his calculations. He thought, and often told her, that she ought to buy a larger one and install it over the fireplace.

She hated big screens because you couldn’t ignore them, no matter where you sat. When she’d got her flat, she’d furnished it with only her tastes in mind, minimalist with soft feminine shades and not too much clutter. The television had certainly not been on her priority list. Music was her passion and the first thing she always did when she came in was put on something classical that suited her mood. She’d got that from her mother who used to sit at the piano for hours, if she hadn’t got Lyric on, playing everything from Scott Joplin to Haydn. She loved opera and together they’d been to Verona to see La Bohème. It never failed to lift Beatrice’s spirits. She played the disc when she felt tired, when she was in a good mood and when she wanted to relax. Since she’d been with Paul that didn’t happen so often, and it certainly happened less and less as he’d taken over her life in the sixteen months they’d known each other. He wasn’t fond of classical music and hated opera.

Beatrice went through to the kitchen and turned on the pan. She chopped a few courgettes, onions and peppers and tossed them and the steaks in olive oil, before placing t. . .