The House on Seaview Road

by Alison Walsh

Genres: Siblings; Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

The House on Seaview Road is a story about first love, growing up and about the enduring bonds of sisterhood. Perfect reading for fans of Joanna Trollope and Maggie O'Farrell. Marie Stephenson has decided that it's her last summer in Seaview - just a few months left before she can break free of her suburban home, go out into the world and make her mark. If only it weren't for the promise she made to her dying mother. This promise, to look after her younger sister, is one she has always kept, even though Marie sometimes feels that the cosseted Grainne doesn't deserve it. But then the sudden appearance of intense, rebellious Con on Seaview Beach one afternoon changes everything. As her innocence comes to a sudden and shocking end, Marie must make some choices about her future. But will she find the courage to become the woman she was meant to be?

Release date: September 1, 2016

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 384

Sample

La Grande Résidence pour la Royaux Famille

12 Juillet 1975

Chère Marie

Don’t worry – I’m not going to write the rest of this letter in French – I know how much you hate French! But I thought a little joke at the beginning might make it easier to write what I’m going to write.

I am sitting up on the bed in the bedroom and I can hear you and Grainne in the garden. You’re not fighting, the two of you: instead, you are patiently explaining the rules of German Jumps to her. I can hear you telling her where to put her feet and how to hop over the elastic when it’s around your knees – you’re so kind to her, Marie, and it breaks my heart. Before all of this nonsense – I refuse to call it ‘illness’ or to use that horrible word, ‘cancer’, because that would be to dignify something so baffling and downright silly – all the two of you did was fight! Do you remember those lovely fur-lined gilets that Mick and Biddy bought you in Dunnes Stores? Grainne took yours because she thought the colour was much nicer. And then there was the Communion money that Aunty Peggy sent all the way over from Chicago, a wad of dollar bills stuffed into a brown envelope. I can still see you both, sitting on either side of the coffee table in the drawing room, Grainne watching you as you dealt them out – ‘one for you, one for me’ – in case you cheated. I know that you gave her an extra two dollars. I saw you put them to one side.

That’s our Grainne. She always wants what she hasn’t got and it’s hard to resist her. You’ll need to be strong, Marie, but I know that you will be. Just remember what I taught you.

Very soon, you’ll only have each other, my two lovely girls. Of course, you’ll have Dada too, but it’s not the same for him as it is for the two of you. You have a bond that not even Dada or I share with you. Remember that. And you need each other so much … Dada is a grown-up and even though it will be very hard for him, he will know what it all means. You will need to help your sister with that, because she won’t be able to understand it. Some things are just too big for her to comprehend.

Marie, I want you to remember me as Mum – lover of music, cake and all things French – not as this shrivelled old walnut on the bed. It is so hard to say goodbye to you, to say goodbye to life, but I know that I must, because it is all saying goodbye to me. It’s not fair and I was very angry about it before, but I’ve made my peace with that. I’ve been so lucky in my life, to have you two eejits and Dada and Mick and Biddy, even Granny Stephenson, the old bat. I have loved, Marie, and that’s all I could have asked of life, even if I’d lived to be a hundred.

I need to ask you something now, love. Look after your sister. I know that you already do and I also know that it hasn’t always been fair – ‘just’ as Dada would put it – but she needs you, love, more than you know. So, promise me, will you? I can go off happy then.

And now, I can hear that Grainne has just yelled at you that you’ve cheated and you’ve yelled back that she should just follow the bloody rules, and she has told you that ‘bloody’ is a rude word. I can lean back on my pillow and laugh, because order has been restored. Be good, Marie, be clever, as you are, be funny and be strong.

All my love,

Mum



A sudden breeze wafted in through the window, carrying on it the tang of salt and suncream. The sun was obscured by a sheen of thin cloud, but it was sticky and warm, as it had been all summer, and the crowds had already gathered at the beach across the road down the steep hill to the sea. Marie could hear them through the open window as she lay on her bed, feeling sorry for herself.

She could still see the stupid make-up palette on the dressing table, beside Mum’s old hairbrush and comb set, and as it caught her eye, it seemed to rebuke her. Look at how silly you are, it seemed to say. Do you think you’ll ever become a foreign correspondent and travel the world if you spend all your time learning to apply make-up?

Buying that set had been her summer project, to do something about being a complete hick. She’d had enough of being the butt of that Queen Bitch Imelda’s jokes, so she’d saved up a whole six weeks’ pocket money for it, when she could have bought that second edition of The Female Eunuch that she’d spotted in Greene’s bookshop instead. Mrs Brogan, in the chemist’s, had had to order the set in ‘from London, so that’ll take three weeks’, she’d said as she’d written the order into her ledger, shuffling the carbon paper in between the sheets and handing Marie a copy.

Six weeks and ten whole quid, to look just like herself, with her long face, straight nose and narrow forehead, dark brown eyes set just a little bit too closely together for her liking – herself, only with make-up. What would Queen Bitch Imelda have to say? Well, she’d never find out now anyway, because of Grainne, Marie thought angrily.

She’d planned to begin with the make-up, moving to clothes and then thinking about how to behave. She had to try to look bored and superior, like Imelda. She flicked her hair and tapped ash from her cigarette expertly onto the ground – and everyone would think she was amazing, even though she didn’t have a single sensible thought in her head. Marie didn’t really want to be amazing – she wanted to be substantial – but she also wanted to fit in. ‘Be yourself, love,’ Mum had said once. ‘There’s nothing more important in life.’ But Mum wasn’t here any more and Marie had found that there were more important things in life – like not being a complete social outcast.

She closed her eyes as she thought of the ruined palette, which Grainne had dug big lumps out of, seemingly with a pickaxe, because she wanted to ‘test out the blue and purple together’. Grainne always ruined everything, but still, Marie supposed that she hadn’t needed to yank out a big clump of her sister’s hair, sneaking up behind her on the landing and grabbing a big fistful in her hand. She didn’t know where the rage had come from. Maybe it was because, at the same time as ruining her make-up, Grainne had also been wearing Marie’s one and only fashionable item – a ra-ra skirt in blue that Aunty Sheila had brought her back from Miss Selfridge in London – which Grainne had stretched out of shape, her big tummy straining against the elastic waistband. Grainne ruined everything she got her hands on and nobody ever told her off, because she was Grainne and therefore allowed to do anything she liked. Marie wasn’t clear why – she knew it had something to do with Grainne having spent six months in hospital when she was a baby – something about meningitis – but she wasn’t sick now, was she?

The look on Dada’s face when he’d had to pull them both apart on the landing, Marie with a lump of Grainne’s red hair in her hand. She felt a hot wave of shame wash over her now. He hadn’t said a word, but she knew how it would go. His study door would remain closed for the rest of the afternoon, but every time Marie would pass it, she’d be able to feel his presence seeping through the door, underneath the gap where it met the carpet. If she could have seen it, it would have been like a kind of green smoke, she thought, something that crept into every crevice, that snuck into every little corner, filling the house with a thick atmosphere. The green smoke had always been part of Dada, but when Mum was there, she could change it with a laugh or a joke, and then the whole house would fill with light again. But now that she wasn’t there anymore, that she hadn’t been there for nearly seven years, it just hung around the place, never really lifting.

Sighing, Marie reached into her bedside locker and pulled out a locked wooden writing box, pulling it onto the bed and fumbling under the locker for the key, which she kept taped there. She opened it and sat back, pulling out the travel books and the map of Australia, the names of the places she’d visit highlighted in yellow – Ayers Rock, Darwin, Warrimoo, Binalong – names that she’d roll around on her tongue, imagining harsh desert and hot sun, inhaling the dust and the heat as she read. And then she was there, walking the roads, the shimmering heat rising around her, the baking earth under her feet …

She was on a remote sheep farm in the desert when Grainne crashed into the bedroom. ‘Mar?’ She had her floral toilet bag in her hand and her hairdryer, with its hundred attachments, in its little case. ‘Time for the make-over.’

‘Jesus, Gra, do you ever knock?’ Marie shoved the books hastily under the bedspread. She’d forgotten that, as part of the truce brokered over egg salad in the kitchen at lunchtime, she’d agreed to let Grainne do her make-up. She had to admit that her sister was better at these things: God knows, she spent enough time in front of her bedroom mirror, admiring herself, puckering up her lips and scrunching up her freckled face under its halo of frizzy red hair. But it was also because Marie wanted Grainne to forgive her – she couldn’t bear another one of her baby-seal looks, all big, sad eyes and downturned mouth. Miss Meningitis.

‘You can’t take the Lord’s name in vain. It’s a sin,’ Grainne said now, her blue eyes flicking over the box. Marie could see her lips part, one of her stupid questions about to come out, but Marie silenced her with a look. ‘Can you come back later? I’m reading.’

‘Oh, but I’m dying to make you look nice, Mar,’ Grainne said, putting the case down on the bed. ‘And it’s so boring around here at the moment. There’s nobody at the beach either. I’ve been down three times already. Please?’

‘Oh, all right,’ Marie grumbled. ‘What do I have to do?’

Grainne gave a little squeal of delight and sat on the bed beside her. ‘Turn around and I’ll start with your hair,’ she instructed.

An hour later, Marie had a crick in her neck. ‘Are you finished yet, Gra?’ she said hopefully. Who knew that making yourself look nice could be such a production?

‘Give me one more minute,’ Grainne said, her tongue poking out of her mouth as she worked. ‘I have to make your eyes more widely spaced. You’re very pretty but they’re too close together.’

‘Thanks for the compliment,’ Marie said dryly, but she let her sister continue, dabbing at her face with a damp cosmetic sponge. She closed her eyes, but she could hear Grainne’s breathing; she always had a blocked nose and she sounded like a pig. Marie was forever telling her to breathe through her mouth so she wouldn’t make that awful racket, but Grainne usually forgot.

‘You know, I’ve forgiven you now, Mar,’ Grainne said suddenly.

‘That’s good,’ Marie said quietly. ‘Thanks, Grainne.’

‘I’m not sure about Dada though,’ Grainne added. ‘I’d say he’ll need to pass judgement.’

‘I know.’ That was the way Dada did it. He was a judge, so he was used to sitting up on the bench, banging his gavel, and he did the same at home, summoning whichever of them had done something wrong into his study for sentencing. All he was missing was the big black cloak and the horsehair wig. ‘Can I remind you, Marie, that you are responsible for your sister?’ he’d said earlier. As if I need reminding, Marie had thought bleakly.

‘I’m sure it won’t be that bad, Mar. I told him that you didn’t really mean to pull out a lump of my hair, it was just …’

Just what? Marie thought bleakly. Just that Dada likes you more than me? Marie might have Dada’s dark brown eyes, the same thick, black hair, but Dada loved Grainne more. Marie could have got six As in the Leaving Cert or undertaken a solo flight of the Atlantic, but none of it would matter. Dada might struggle to talk to Grainne, wrinkling his forehead at some of her sillier sayings, but he would always love her more. Marie knew that.

‘So, what’s the story at the beach these days?’ Marie said, changing the subject to avoid having to think about her fate.

At this, Grainne brightened. ‘Oh, it’s great. They’re all there, Marie. Imelda O’Brien and John and David Crowley. You should come.’ She looked a bit guilty then, because she knew what Marie thought about Imelda.

‘Hmm,’ Marie said. She had gone a few times, but the ordeal of being watched as she walked all the way along to join them, her beach-bag banging clumsily off her hip, had put her off, and anyway, if Queen Bitch Imelda was there – no way. She wasn’t ready for the humiliation.

‘I don’t think so, Gra. You know I don’t like the water.’ And I don’t like Imelda, she added to herself, or David Crowley. She’d only ended up with him that time in the canoe club because he’d pretended he’d liked the book she was reading. She might have known that The Well of Loneliness wasn’t his kind of book. But she’d been so stupid, when he said he really admired Radclyffe Hall she’d actually believed him, when all he’d wanted was a shift.

‘But you could just sit there and talk and listen to the radio. We all make requests for Radio Dublin. Imelda gives them to me and I run up to the house and phone the station. And then by the time I’ve run back down to the beach, I can hear the request on the radio. It’s magic.’ She laughed.

‘I’ll think about it,’ Marie said.

‘You could meet my new boyfriend that way,’ Grainne said, as she swept a brush over Marie’s cheekbones.

Marie’s eyes had been closed, but they flicked open now. ‘What new boyfriend?’

‘His name is Con O’Sullivan and he’s a friend of Maccer’s … I think. Anyway, he’s in college. Can you imagine, Mar? I’m going out with a student!’

What on earth was she talking about? Marie thought, sitting up on the bed. Grainne had never had a boyfriend in her life. Marie knew, because she’d watched her like a hawk to make sure that none of the local lads came sniffing around. Grainne was sixteen, a year younger than Marie, but she behaved like a thirteen-year-old. She wouldn’t be able for a boyfriend and everything that went with it. She was far too naïve, and far too eager to please.

‘I’ve never been so happy, Marie. I think I might be in love with him.’ Grainne clasped her hands together and blushed.

Uh-oh. ‘Maybe I will come to the beach with you after all, Gra.’

‘Great – I’m going in a few minutes.’ Grainne beamed, getting up and putting all of her stuff into her toilet bag, winding the flex of the hairdryer round and round the handle, even though Marie had told her not to a hundred times. ‘You can meet him yourself!’ And then she turned to Marie. ‘You won’t embarrass me by being all bossy, will you, Mar?’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Marie said. How on earth would she manage this, she thought to herself, suddenly filled with a sense of dread. ‘I’ll just go and get my swimming togs.’

‘Get your nice navy blue ones, will you? Not Mum’s old black ones – they hang off you.’

‘Thanks for the fashion advice,’ Marie snapped.

‘You’re welcome!’ Grainne grinned. ‘See you at the beach!’

Not so fast, Marie thought. ‘Wait a sec and I’ll come with you. I just need to change into my shorts.’ Marie hated shorts and there was no way she was going to reveal her horrible legs to half of Seaview, but she thought it would give her a second to pull herself together. She got up off the bed, catching a glimpse of herself in her dresser mirror. I’ll have to wash that stuff off first, she thought.

Grainne made a face. ‘I can go by myself, Mar. I’m perfectly well able.’ She was quoting Mrs Delaney, their housekeeper, who always said that Grainne was ‘perfectly well able’ to clean up after herself and tidy her bedroom, which was always a complete mess.

‘I know but––’

‘You can follow me down – I’ll save you a place on my towel.’ And then Grainne was gone. Five minutes later, Marie heard the front door open, and she watched her sister walk down towards the pedestrian crossing on Seaview Road, hoping that she’d wait for the cars to stop, sighing with relief when she did. She knew that Grainne wasn’t a baby any more, but she couldn’t help it – keeping an eye on her had become a habit at this stage. She watched her sister’s broad back in her favourite Snoopy T-shirt, disappear down the steep hill to the beach, her beach bag bumping off her hip. She wasn’t wearing sun-cream – Marie could tell, because her pale skin had already begun to burn above the collar of her T-shirt – and she was wearing a pair of blue Levi’s that were two sizes too small for her. They’re bloody mine, Marie thought. Wait till I get hold of her.

She selected Pride and Prejudice from her bookshelf and stuffed her swimming togs and a towel into her rucksack, just in case, then she went over to kiss the picture of Mum that sat on her dressing table, as she always did before she left the house. Mum was sitting on a bench at the tennis court, in a pair of blue shorts and a sweatshirt, her arm around a black cocker spaniel. She was squinting into the sun and smiling and the dog, Frank, was looking dignified. Mum had used to joke that she loved Frank more than any of the rest of them. Marie ran her finger over the picture. ‘I’m looking after her, Mum – don’t worry.’ She kissed the picture, then put it back on the table, before running into the bathroom for the suncream.

She was closing the front door when she heard Mrs Delaney’s voice behind her. ‘Marie, is that you? Will you come back and eat your––’ The rest of her words were swallowed up by the banging of the door. Marie threw, ‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ over her shoulder, then raced down the path, out the gate and onto Seaview Road.

She looked back at the house then, towering over Mrs O’Keeffe’s and Mr Byrne’s seaside bungalows, Mrs O’Keeffe’s with a riot of garden gnomes and bird tables in it; Mr Byrne’s with carefully pruned rose bushes and gravel. Claire said that it looked like a giant Hansel and Gretel house, and it did look a bit like that, with its pointed gable with maroon trim, a huge, red chimney pot that leaned to one side and an expanse of shingled roof, the shingles now bleached a pale grey from the sea air. It was completely unlike all of the other pretty seaside cottages, with its ugly pale-pink pebbledash and rash of tiny windows, and Marie remembered how much Mum had hated it: the size of the garden, with its fraying palm trees and dusty tennis court, the warren of badly partitioned rooms inside, the drafts that snaked under every doorway: in the winter, they usually had to retreat to the back of the house, where it was warmer – but Marie thought that it was probably because she’d been raised in a small farmhouse on the Aran Islands – ‘’Twas far from Victorian splendour I was reared,’ she’d often joke.

Marie could hear the squeals of children as she came towards the traffic lights that marked the pedestrian crossing on Seaview Road and felt the thin chill of the sea breeze. She hated Seaview beach. That horrible green water, that sludge at the bottom. Dada took a morning dip there every single day before work, winter and summer. He’d tried to teach her to swim one hot sunny Sunday, that last summer when Mum was still alive. Marie could still see Mum in her black bathing suit, sitting on a rock, her hand shielding her eyes, watching, as Dada had guided Marie through the water. It was cold and the waves kept slapping against her, and she’d stood there on her tippy-toes, teeth chattering.

‘Right,’ Dada had said, standing in front of her, hands on his hips. His skin was darkly tanned and glistened with drops of water and his black hair was slicked back off his face. ‘At the count of three, you put your arms out in front of you like this –’ he’d lifted his arms then joined his hands to form an inverted ‘v’ ‘– then push up on your toes and glide towards me. Don’t worry, I’ll be here to catch you.’

Marie had looked at him doubtfully. ‘You have to catch me, Dada.’

‘I’ll catch you, don’t worry.’ And then he’d tutted, ‘C’mon, Marie, the sun’s gone in and we’ll freeze.’

Marie hadn’t wanted to glide, or swim, she’d just wanted to get out and sit beside Mum on the beach towel and eat an ice pop from the kiosk. ‘I don’t want to,’ she’d begun to moan.

‘For God’s sake, Marie, just get on with it, will you?’ Dada had made a movement, as if he were coming to get her. With a yelp, Marie had pitched herself forward, forgetting to point her arms anywhere. She’d sunk like a stone, the brown silt of the seabed rising up to meet her as the freezing water had covered her. Her body had felt heavy, her limbs unable to move, a dead silence filling her ears as she dropped to the bottom. It was like she imagined a grave would be, dark and cold and silent, and then she’d felt a sharp tug on the back of her swimming costume and she was being lifted into the air, the sounds of the beach, the bright shrieks, the ding-ding of the ice-cream van seeming suddenly loud after the muffled silence below. Marie had taken in a huge breath, and then coughed and spluttered so much she’d retched, vomiting up a wave of horrible sea water.

Dada hadn’t said another word to her, just half-pulled her back to the safety of the rocks. She didn’t dare look up at him in case she’d see the expression on his face.

Mum had been waiting, her arms open. ‘You poor thing,’ she’d murmured. ‘You know, you looked just like a little mermaid, dipping down beneath the waves. How amazing is that?’ She’d smoothed Marie’s hair and wrapped her in a towel and sat her on her knee to warm up, Marie’s teeth chattering. Mum’s body had been warm beneath hers, and as she’d sat there, the sun had come back out and she’d begun to warm up, the heat of it making her limbs unfurl, relax.

‘Cormac, why don’t you take Grainne for a swim?’ Mum had nodded at her sister, who was building a huge sandcastle, her face fixed in concentration. Dada had stood there for a few moments, saying nothing, before turning and walking over to Grainne. ‘Grainne, fancy a swim?’

Grainne had jumped up and reached out for Dada’s hand, and the two of them had walked down to the water, Grainne dragging him along, her red hair flying. When they reached the edge, she’d hopped up and down in the waves for a few moments, before throwing herself in, head first. She was like a seal, Marie had thought, gliding through the water.

‘Do you know what I think?’ Mum had said. ‘I think that you will be a fantastic poet or painter. I can just get a sense of it. You’re so creative. And creative people need ice-cream.’ She’d smiled, pressing her lips to Marie’s salty cheek. ‘C’mon, let’s treat ourselves to a Choc Ice.’

*

Marie shivered at the memory and at the cold. She wished she’d worn a jumper over her CND T-shirt. She looked down at it and it suddenly seemed so embarrassing – a big, black sack that drooped over her from neck to backside. But then, that was the idea, to conceal, to shroud. Maybe she’d go back and change, she thought. She went to turn around, but then turned back again. For God’s sake, Marie, who are you trying to impress, she chided herself. Go and find your sister, before she does something silly.

Crossing at the traffic lights, Marie shuffled down the steep hill to the beach, which was jammed with people. It was called a ‘beach’ but really it was a large cobbled pier that jutted out into the sea on which people perched on towels and the odd deckchair. A few people had brought transistor radios and there was a clashing blare of pop music from a radio that had been placed on top of the wall surrounding the steps by a group of boys, who were all standing around now in their swimming togs, towels slung around their necks, and another, blasting out traditional Irish music, at the bottom.

Christy Dolan was there, in his wheelchair, wolf-whistling at any girls he fancied as they passed and commenting on their swimwear. ‘Nice bikini, love,’ he’d yell, from his perch. ‘Great pair of tits!’ Everyone tried to ignore him. His dad pushed him down to the beach every day during the summer and there he’d stay, embarrassing half the population of the town and turning a shade of tomato red in the process, until his dad came back for him at five o’clock. Sometimes, if the tide came in very fast, a group of lads would pull his chair further back, but no women would ever help him. Served him right.

The whole beach seemed to be filled with strangers, a sea of faces, pale and tanned skin, bottles of sun lotion, towels, noise. Marie scanned the shoreline for any sign of Grainne’s red hair, but she couldn’t spot her. A tight knot of anxiety began to form in her stomach. Where was she?

And then Marie saw the gang of boys and girls, a big crowd over by the rocks at the far end of the beach. She swallowed and clambered down the steps. She walked the hundred yards or so to the group, feeling her skin flush as she trudged along. She wanted to fold her arms across her breasts: even though they could hardly be called that, so minute were they, she still felt the impulse to cover them as she walked in that stupid T-shirt of hers, as her feet slapped along in her flip-flops.

As she got closer, she caught sight of David Crowley and her heart sank. Could it get any worse? He spotted her and nudged his friend, who whispered something in his ear – they both laughed. Marie wanted to turn and run, but instead, she kept on walking, feeling ten pairs of eyes fixed on her as she stumbled along.

Imelda was right in the middle of the group of twelve or so, Queen Bee that she was, wearing a neon green mesh vest and black leotard, her hair piled on top of her head, a pair of very expensive Ray-Bans perched on her nose. She looked like a popstar. John was sitting behind her, smoking. Like his on/off girlfriend, he looked like a pop singer or a movie star, Marie thought, in his faded blue Levis and white T-shirt, a pair of navy espadrilles on his feet. Marie didn’t know any other boy who wore espadrilles. There was something rakish about them, like those posh 1930s English writers, all loose white shirts and linen trousers. She bet Christopher Isherwood would have worn espadrilles. She wondered if John was wearing them for effect. He liked to flirt with that kind of thing, to give off false signals and then feign ignorance of what he was doing. That was why she didn’t like him, Marie decided. Because he was manipulative and because he was lying to everyone – and to himself – about who he really was. But she supposed they all were. Oh, how she longed to have her best friend Claire by her side, to laugh at them all and to take the likes of Imelda on. She’d make some clever remark that would put Imelda in her place – something that Marie never had the nerve to do. But Claire wouldn’t be back until the first of September, so she’d have to manage.

‘Didn’t expect to see you here,’ Imelda said, as Marie approached. ‘Aren’t you afraid of the water?’ She didn’t get up or make room for Marie to sit down, and so Marie stood there, like a lump, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her.

‘The word is “hydrophobic”,’ John snickered.

Marie blushed and tried to think of something witty to say in response, but then a voice said, ‘Marie, over here.’

Marie nearly cried with relief. Maccer was sitting at the edge of the little crowd, along with a boy she didn’t recognise, with very dark hair and a gloomy look on his face. They weren’t close, but she liked Maccer – he had red hair and freckles and a sunny personality to match. And he was nice. Just plain old nice, interested and polite, not arrogant like so many of the St Philip’s boys, and with ‘lovely manners’ as Mrs D said.

Marie also liked Maccer because he’d called around the day after Mum died, on his bike, leaning off the saddle to press the bell, and, when Marie had answered, he’d blurted, ‘I’m sorry your mum’s dead.’ He’d said it in a big rush and bolted off then, but Marie had stood on the doorstep, feeling that there was no longer a big, deep chasm between her and the rest of the world. They’d never spoken about it since, but they’d had that ease that came with understanding each other. Marie was grateful for that.

‘How’s your summer been?’ he asked now, moving over on his towel to let Marie sit down beside him.

‘Oh, God, endless,’ she said, sitting down beside him. ‘Interminable, insufferable and countless other -ables. I haven’t done one single interesting thing for the past two months.’

‘That good? Maybe you should have come down here sooner and hung around with the gang.’ He grinned. ‘You could have had some excitement, living on the edge, posing and talking about how bored you are.’ He laughed. ‘Still, beats school. Can’t believe it’s nearly over and that we’ll be in sixth year in two weeks’ time. Scary.’

‘I know,’ Marie said bleakly.

‘I’m not ready to be a grown-up,’ Maccer added. ‘Imagine, this time next year, I’ll be in AIB on O’Connell Street, asking old biddies if they want me to stamp their pension book.’ He shook his head at the unfairness of it all. Maccer’s dad worked in the bank and he’d already found his son a place on the trainee scheme. All Maccer had to do was get two honours in his Leaving Cert and the