The Hollow Heart Part 2

She had boarded at a good Dublin girl's school while her parents travelled with their work. Her father, a marine biologist, and her mother his research a.s.sistant. Her special memories were their summers together, spent sailing off the coast of their favourite island, Innishmahon, a mile out to sea from Westport in County Mayo. Her parents, the Coltranes, had made sure she had a good education. She studied English Literature and then after a stint at a national newspaper, left for England to take up an interns.h.i.+p at a magazine group before moving to Chesterford and the Chronicle.

Her parents were proud of her, they told her, and they met up briefly whenever their schedules allowed. But they had both died relatively young, first her father with cancer and then her mother, succ.u.mbing to seemingly nothing specific, within months of each other. If Marianne were romantically inclined, she would have said her mother died of a broken heart, as she and her father had been inseparable all their adult lives.

George sighed and squeezed her hand when she had finished her potted history. Topping up her gla.s.s, he said: "And what of your birth parents, darling girl? What do you know of them?"

Marianne flashed him a look.

"Nothing. Why would I? I was put up for adoption. No contact ever made. No mention. Weirdly, there's a black and white photo of me as a new born baby attached to my adoption certificate, which the solicitor gave to me when mother died, but that's it, that's all there is."

He handed her the drink, sitting a little distance away to look her directly in the eyes.

"Not curious? Not bothered?" He kept his tone light.

"Not at all, I'd feel disloyal to my parents. They brought me up. They are my mother and father." She lifted Monty onto her lap, wrapping her arms around him.

"But you're an investigative journalist, I wondered if you were looking into your own background when you came upon the 'Babies for Sale' scam?"

"I was just doing my job, Jack Buchannon came up with the lead anyway, his wife Isabelle knows a social worker who came across a girl who was convinced her child had been stolen. I'm not a story, George." She turned her attention to the puppy. Subject closed.

George, on the other hand, could tell stories about himself and his family ad infinitum. He adored his parents, long gone, and was part of a large, rambling, flung-across-the-globe family. He had three brothers and one elder sister, all talented, liberal and bohemian, yet differentially conservative. His parents would have loved her, he often said.

"Ahem..." He coughed bringing them back to the present. "Well, I'm sure the idea of us getting married is all a bit of a surprise, no doubt. So why don't you take your time and have a think about it? Don't want to fling everything at you all at once darling girl, but when you know something's right, no point hanging about, so to speak." He tweaked her nose and then the puppy's. Marianne kissed George on the chin and carried the little bundle into the kitchen for some warm milk. George followed, humming, 'How much is that doggy in the window?"

Later, after supper, the three of them lay sprawled on the sofa. Marianne cuddled the little dog, burying her nose in the s.p.a.ce between his ears. She inhaled him, a wonderful, indescribable puppy-baby smell. Montgomery and marriage? A future with George and Monty. An instant family. Someone else to think about, care about, someone to love. Marianne looked from one to the other, desperately hoping she was not being blinded by Christmas lights, yet at this particular juncture, she considered the whole idea an extremely appealing combination.

A few days later the three of them were having sausages for supper on Christmas Eve.

"Oh George, hurry up, Monty's starving." Marianne laughed watching the puppy run excitedly between George's legs as he a.s.sembled the meal.

"Well, you hurry up and jolly well give me an answer," he told her. "And then this poor little chap will know where he stands, who his folks are and won't fret so much about where his next meal is coming from."

She went to stand beside him.

"George, there's something I need you to know."

He carried on frying the sausages.

"I did want to marry someone a long time ago. It would have been a terrible mistake, I was young, foolish. It ended badly."

"I know," he replied, turning the gas off.

"You know?" she was shocked.

"Of course I know, I'm a politician, I want to marry you, if there are any skeletons in the closet I need to know about them, so we can face things together." He pulled her to him, giving her a huge George hug. "Anything else you want to tell me?"

Marianne sat down at the breakfast bar; George poked the sausages around a bit.

"It was not long after my parents died. I was feeling pretty low and my boss gave me a commission for a series of articles on young Brits living in Paris. I fell madly in love with Paris and everything about it, stepping out with a well-known celebrity photographer. You may have heard of him, Claude Dubec?" George nodded to her to continue.

"Well, it was a typical whirlwind romance. My parents had left me a small legacy and my glamorous new boyfriend liked the high life, so it was fun, for a while, sort of a rebellion thing, I guess. My folks had been totally work-orientated, convinced their research would ultimately be for the good of the planet, and I had always been such a well-behaved, dutiful daughter. But they'd have spun in their graves, if they had one, if they'd known I frittered a good chunk of my inheritance on s.e.x, drugs and rock 'n' roll and a very inappropriate partner." She smiled wryly.

"No grave?" George was surprised. "Your parents I mean, no grave?"

"Oh, the a.s.sociation with convents doesn't mean we're staunch Catholics, or anything like that. It just usually means things are done properly, particularly where education is concerned. My parents were eco-warriors before there was such a thing, so I scattered their ashes in the sea off Innishmahon, the island where we used to holiday when I was young."

"We should go there one day you, Montgomery and I, would you like that?"

But Marianne was not listening.

"George, my relations.h.i.+p with Claude, do you know everything? How it ended and everything? What it meant for me, how I can't..." Her voice cracked.

He went to her, taking her face in his hands, there were tears in his eyes.

"Yes I do, and it's you I love, you I want. If I have you and Monty I have everything I need." He kissed her softly on the mouth, "Put it this way, we don't have to make love in the dark on my account, unless that's because you can't bear to witness my man b.o.o.bs and wobbly tummy in the fles.h.!.+"

"Oh George, stop it," she said solemnly, "You're alright about it then? All of it?"

"Are you?" he asked. She stood up and returned his hug.

"I am now."

"Good, because we're starving." He laughed, releasing her to serve the food.

She said yes the following morning, still in her pyjamas, squeezing George and Monty together as tightly as she could. She knew she wanted every Christmas to be special from now on.

Christmas and New Year melted into spring as she, George and Monty made plans. They had a new home to find, George in particular wanted a large house, with a study for himself, and some sort of area they could turn into a library-c.u.m-music room for Marianne. He played the piano badly and hoped Marianne would accompany him on the violin she had started to learn as a school girl but had not touched for years. Monty joined in too, making a strange yet tuneful snuffling noise.

"Watch out Britain's Got Talent!" George regularly p.r.o.nounced.

To the amazement of her colleagues and the amus.e.m.e.nt of Marianne herself, she had taken her foot off the career accelerator to focus on building a life for the three of them, even taking owed holiday to house hunt and shop for furnis.h.i.+ngs. Sophie, one of Marianne's oldest and severely neglected friends, was thrilled at the news her career-driven chum was finally settling down to some semblance of domesticity. She was also delighted to be roped in to help, as she was particularly adept at internet research, being toddler-bound and freelance.

It was all coming together nicely, and although George was under an enormous amount of pressure at work, the three of them were having a lovely time, with Monty making the final decision about anything they could not agree on. This was achieved by Marianne laying cuttings from magazines or swatches of material in front of him and saying fetch. He would always grab something and head off to his basket triumphantly. Once retrieved, this would then be deemed their selection.

It was a fabulously bright May day. It had rained earlier, so everything looked freshly washed, the sun was quickly warming the tarmac and there were spots of glimmering heat haze as George headed north along the M1 towards home and a well-earned weekend. He was trying to put a particularly h.e.l.lish morning behind him, having endured a series of very tense meetings with civil servants and academics, relating to a report he was working on, followed by a barrage of emails from locals opposed to a new Chesterford planning application.

He was longing for home. The relatively new home he shared with his gorgeous fiance and their adorable West Highland terrier. The home that smelled of fresh paint and Chinese takeaways, and stood curtain-less before the world, yet wrapped itself around him in a comfort blanket of chaos, clutter and love. As he turned the music up, his mobile rang; he answered speaking into his 'hands free' microphone beside the sun visor above the windscreen. No answer. The new-fangled instrument was always playing up. He checked his phone, it displayed the discreet code that was the Prime Minister. He grabbed it, punching the answer b.u.t.ton.

He did not see, in the split second it took the car in front to slam on its brakes, the lurch of the juggernaut with a foreign number plate, as it tried to avoid a pheasant wandering in the slow lane. But he heard the slam, like the boom of a cannon, as the car in front plummeted into the undercarriage of the truck and, hauling at the wheel to avoid it, he swerved towards a coach that should not have been in the fast lane at all.

He registered the spin of the car as the phone, flying out of his hand, smacked the dashboard, bouncing back, cracking against his brow bone, just before a large four-wheel drive hit him side on, pus.h.i.+ng him into the rear of the coach. The steel frame of his ancient vehicle groaned piteously. George gripped the wheel and, holding his breath, rammed his foot against the accelerator, impulse telling him to get out of this as fast as he could. He hit the crash barrier as the 4x4 ploughed into the driver's door, and the coach slammed on its brakes forcing the pa.s.senger side of George's beloved car to be concertinaed inwards. He clung to the steering wheel, rigid as he gripped, holding on, determined not to let go.

All movement stopped, it was dark, the air about him filled with the thickest silence. George desperately searched for his voice inside his crushed chest, he could not move, or see anything, he was starting to panic and then he found, deep within, a tiny voice. His joy knew no bounds, he could say his words, just a few words, he would wait, hang on until someone was there to hear them.

He did not know how long he had been holding on, but just as the darkness was merging to grey and there was brightness in the distance, he heard something beside him, the clunk of machinery, a shout. He groped around inside his chest for breath and found just enough to say his words, as loudly as he could.

"Tell my darling girl, always with her, I'll always be with her." Then the light ahead turned from glowing golden to searing white and George was free. He released the steering wheel, slumping backwards, a tiny slash of red on his brow, the slightest smile on his white lips.

The paramedic at his side p.r.o.nounced him dead at the scene, he was sure George had felt nothing, it was instantaneous, over. Later, when he was told that the body in the unrecognisable cla.s.sic car had been an MP, quite well-known, he remembered he had said something, he was sure of it. Something about my darling girl but he decided not to repeat this, it had been a nightmare of a day, the worst he had seen in nearly ten years in the job, what good would it do? The man had died, along with the others, just another statistic, a wasteful, senseless end.

Paul spotted the RTA report as it flashed up on a computer screen in the newsroom. He was pa.s.sing through on his way to deliver Marianne a sludge-coloured coffee from the machine. He stopped dead in his tracks at her office door when he heard her repeat the words 'cla.s.sic car' in a deadpan voice. She had been toying with wording for the wedding invitation on her laptop. It was to be a small, informal affair, with jazz, real ale and a fish and chip supper. She dropped the phone, accidently hitting the delete key.

Now, sometimes she woke in the middle of the night, thinking she could feel his fingers in her hair, his breath on her cheek, as he whispered his special goodnight. But George had gone. His darling girl seemed to miss him more as time pa.s.sed, not less.

Jack touched her shoulder as he squeezed into the pew beside her. George's sister, Catherine, stood shoulder to shoulder with Marianne, Catherine's husband, Frank, beside her. Catherine took Marianne's hand, Marianne tried to focus, beneath the broad-brimmed hat, almond eyes stared at her, eyes that looked just like George's, except these eyes were dead, eyes with the lights switched off.

The service pa.s.sed over her quite gently. Frank's address to the packed a.s.sembly was warm and anecdotal, even raising the odd appropriate t.i.tter. A chief whip in the Conservative Party spoke of George's generous and, indeed, selfless dedication to duty. One of George's oldest friends and a leading light in the Jewish community, together with a Muslim colleague, read funeral prayers from their respective Holy Books. The Reverend Pollock concluded by asking everyone to pray for George's soul and his family, sister Catherine, brother-in-law Frank and especially his fiance Marianne.

Marianne looked up at the mention of her name, half-remembering why she was at a large, formal gathering without George. In her head she was in the newsroom, it was noisy, anxious voices, bad accident on the M1, six-car smash, fatalities, juggernaut, school bus, vintage car. Silence. The opening bars of Stairway to Heaven started up. It was George's funeral.

She was going to be without George for the rest of her life. She felt a sharp pain in her chest, as if she had been stabbed with a knitting needle. She let out a strangled squeak and her knees buckled. Paul, in the pew behind, steadied her. Jack propped his hand in the small of her back. Together, they eased her back into her seat.

"Oh Marianne," Catherine whispered, squeezing her hand. Marianne sat perfectly still, white-faced and dry-eyed.

"Oh George," she said, desolate at the realisation of what had happened. She felt as if the life had been sucked out of her and a cavernous vacuum remained. "Poor George," she shook her head, clearing it of images. "How can I tell Monty? How will he know?" She started to sob, quietly.

The three months since George's funeral flashed by, yet Marianne seemed to be dragging body and soul through treacle in slow motion. Unsure how she had arrived there, she found herself sitting in the gloom, in the garden of the home they had shared. She had been thrilled to discover a rundown town house at the end of a Georgian terrace and, once George agreed it was perfect, they moved in and immediately started work, adding a gracious new garden room to the gable end of the house. She was sitting under the oak tree looking back at the large hole in the wall the builder had made for the French doors, still covered in thick polythene. It had been knocked-through the week George had died. It had been like that ever since. It was the beginning of September, George had died in May.

Early autumn draped the garden like a shroud. She watched motionless as Monty's constantly wagging tail and white bottom disappeared under piles of leaves hunting for anything he could chase, catch and obliterate. Even as dusk was settling, she could see the garden was badly in need of attention. A bit like herself she surmised, delicately wiping a drop of snot off the end of her nose. Monty, sensing the mood withdrew from the pile of debris and busied himself at his mistress's slippered feet, pus.h.i.+ng at her ankles with his damp nose.

"Oh Monty stop!" she said grumpily, and then looking into his soft brown eyes, felt immediately guilty and swept him up in her arms, half-squeezing the life out of him. She buried her face in the spot between his ears, sniffing deeply. He still smelled like a puppy, like the very first time she had laid eyes on him. Monty wriggled in her arms and she smelled him again. The garden gate made a dry, rusting squeak as it pushed open.

"How long have you been sitting out here?" called Paul, as Monty jumped from her lap to greet him. It was quite dark, she could hardly make him out as he strode up the path towards her, Monty trotting merrily at his heels.

"Not sure," she answered, standing, smoothing her skirt. A couple of sheets of paper fluttered to the ground. He stooped to pick them up, she had already started back to the house.

Once inside the newly refurbished kitchen, she automatically flicked on the kettle. Paul, reaching for mugs hanging from the dresser, noticed how strained she looked under the electric light. She pulled a fleece from the back of a chair onto her shoulders, aimlessly opening and closing cupboard doors.

"We don't seem to have any biscuits..."

"You never seem to have anything these days." As soon as he said the words, he regretted them. She gripped the back of the chair, he pa.s.sed her a tissue; she ignored it.

"Sorry," he offered. She turned blank eyes on him, saying nothing.

"You don't fancy Ronan's leaving do tonight then?"

She had completely forgotten they had been invited to a drinks party for Ronan O'Keefe, a star turn in the Art Department, off to pastures new. Ronan and Marianne had joined the Chesterford Chronicle on the same day.

"I just don't feel..." She sat down heavily.

"That's okay. No problem. Wish you'd phoned though."

Paul had been saying okay, no problem, for quite a while but he considered that the time had come to suggest ever so gently, Marianne should start to get back into the swing of things.

In fairness, her work could not be faulted. She had the odd day when she just could not function, so either stayed in bed with a hot water bottle and daytime telly or took Monty for a punis.h.i.+ng walk, drank the best part of a bottle of whiskey, and crashed. But generally, since George's death, Marianne had pulled on a semblance of a suit, dragged a comb through her hair, made a stab at the makeup and turned up at the office, still managing to meet her deadlines with a more than half decent piece of work.

Socially though, it had been far more difficult. Apart from a couple of drinks with Paul and a quick supper at Jack and Isabelle's, she had stubbornly refused to prise herself out of number seventy four Oakwood Avenue.

Even her close friend Sophie, who was totally disorganised and generally hopeless at the best of times, had tried to encourage her to attend to the ever growing pile of cards and letters on the hall table. But the suggestion Marianne respond to her phone messages, personal emails or texts was met with the same blank look. Why? The world beyond her automated performance in the newsroom, did not register, did not concern her or matter.

Paul pushed a mug of tea in front of her. He pulled out the sheaves of paper he had gathered from beside the bench, placing them on the table before her.

"Anything important?" he asked. She ignored the tea.

"Catherine phoned. Wanted to know why I hadn't been in touch, only picked the message up because she kept asking me through that b.l.o.o.d.y machine. Wanted to know when I was going to collect my things. I didn't know what she was on about. She asked me if I had heard from Snelgrove and Marshall."

Paul looked quizzical.

"You know George's lawyer. Catherine became quite insistent. I rummaged through the pile on the table, found the letter and, well, you see, George has left me everything; his half of his parents' estate, even his half of his mother's jewellery." She twisted the ruby and diamond band George had selected from his mother's treasure trove to be her engagement ring. He had presented it on New Year's Eve, the day they 'officially' announced their engagement. It was too big so Marianne had padded it out with tape until it could be properly sized, so determined was she to wear it on the night.

"Wow," Paul put his cup down. "Good old George. How does Catherine feel about it?"

"Couldn't be nicer, I called her back and apologised for being so lax. She laughed, said George knew I didn't have a mercenary bone in my body, she said that's obviously why he wanted to take care of me."

"Well he's certainly done that. You'll probably never have to work again, well not really hard anyway."

"But how organised, so sorted. He'd dotted all the i's, crossed all the t's. Not entirely George. I said to Catherine, 'He didn't know he was going to be killed in a car crash on the b.l.o.o.d.y M1'." She stopped. The room was completely silent, apart from the ticking Grandfather clock in the hall. "But he did know he was going to die from a congenital heart condition, runs in the family, she said he'd known it was on the cards for some time. He'd only told Catherine."

"And me," Paul pulled his chair closer to her, "he wanted to a.s.sure me you'd be okay."

Her eyes flickered. She turned to look at him, pink spots of fury rapidly dotting her cheekbones.

"He told you? Why on earth would he tell you?" she spat, "why was I the last to know? Why wasn't I told what he was going through? The selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" She threw the mug across the room, smas.h.i.+ng it against the polished chrome range. Paul flinched, then found his voice.

"You know why. He loved you, literally loved you more than life itself. He'd have told you at some stage, but not until he had to. That was George. Why spoil things before they were going to be spoiled anyway?"

Marianne would not be placated, she was beside herself. She banged the table.

"But I loved him, I'd have taken care of him. I didn't need to be protected, not to know how ill he was, not to be allowed to help."

"Wasn't to be," Paul shrugged, keeping his tone level, bending to pick up the pieces of china, mopping the spilt tea with kitchen towel.

"But why keep it a secret, he deceived me, I can't believe he's done this to me..." Her fury bounced off the walls.

Paul moved towards the door.

"Call me later when you've calmed down," Paul's tone had changed, he was brusque. "When you can put things into some sort of perspective, George was only doing what he thought best. No, you're right, he didn't know he was going to die in that hideous car crash on the M1, but he did know he was going to die some time soon, so he did his best to take care of the one thing he really loved, you. Turns out, George really was a good bloke, but you Marianne, you're behaving like a spoiled brat." He closed the door gently as he left.

"Well, I..." Marianne plonked herself back at the kitchen table, hands at her cheeks as if she had been slapped.

The sound of crockery smas.h.i.+ng had long since signalled Monty to his bed. Marianne sat still in the brightly lit silence until dawn.

Chapter Three .