The Girl Who Lied(8)

Funny how Fiona regards it as coming home, whereas I look on her return as leaving home. To me, home means a place of love and fond memories, a feeling of being safe and cared for. Coming to Ireland is not coming home for me.

My thoughts turn to Roisin’s email again and my stomach lurches as the fear that has pitched up and taken residency gives another kick. I had thought I’d tell Fiona about it but now I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I can get this sorted without her knowing. She has a lot on her plate at the moment, what with Dad and Sean’s mother. I’ll tell her only if I have to. I’m sure I can handle this. At least, I hope I can.

Fiona’s mobile phone cuts through my thoughts. From this side of the conversation, I guess it’s Sean. I busy myself with making another cup of tea while she wanders off into the living room for more privacy.

She returns a few minutes later.

‘Sean’s going to call by the hospital at some point in the night to check on Mum and Dad.’

‘What exactly happened? How did Dad end up falling down the steps?’ I ask.

‘I’m still not entirely sure. Apparently, Mum was in the café tidying up at the end of the day and Dad went upstairs with the day’s takings to put them in the safe for the night. When he didn’t come back down, Mum went out to look for him and found him at the foot of the stairs.’

‘Was there anyone else there? Did they see anything?’

‘No, just Kerry from the bike shop across the way.’

‘What time did all this happen?’

‘Soon after six,’ says Fiona after a moment’s thought. ‘That’s what time he always puts the takings in the safe. Of course, we’ve no way of knowing if that’s what he did.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mum can’t find the key for the safe, so we can’t check to see if Dad fell before or after he went upstairs. There was no bag beside him.’

‘You don’t think he was robbed, do you?’

‘We just don’t know,’ says Fiona. ‘It’s all a bit worrying.’

‘Doesn’t Mum know where the key is so we can check?’

‘No. She can’t remember,’ says Fiona. ‘I tried to ask but she was so distracted with Dad, I didn’t like to push it.’

‘I don’t suppose you know where the key would be or even if there’s a spare one?’ I ask half-heartedly.

Fiona gives a wry smile. ‘You know what Dad’s like. Top-secret information that is.’

‘I’ll have a look round when I’m at the flat,’ I say. Much as my feelings towards my father are stifled, the thought that someone mugged him is not nice.

‘To be honest, that’s the least of our worries at the moment,’ says Fiona.

‘Yes, you’re right.’ I force myself to conjure up the compassion I know should be there. I change the subject to divert this uncomfortable acknowledgement. ‘How are Molly and Sophie?’

‘The kids are grand,’ says Fiona. A smile spreads across her face at their mention. ‘Molly is coming up to the last term of nursery. She goes off to school in September. She’ll be in junior infants, and Sophie will be going into fifth year of senior infants.’

‘So, two more years and then secondary school.’

‘I know, I can’t believe how the time has flown,’ says Fiona. ‘Remember when Sophie was born, she was such a scrap of a thing. All that red hair against her lily-white skin.’

‘She looked like an alien,’ I say, thinking back. A lump makes a bid to establish itself in my throat. I feel Fiona’s hand cover my own and hear her soft words.

‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘It’s been a long day. Don’t go upsetting yourself, now. You can’t change anything. It will all be fine. I promise.’

When I go up to bed shortly afterwards, I stop and peep in the open door of Molly’s bedroom. The five-year-old is fast asleep, her fair curls fan the pillow like a golden starburst. Molly has been lucky to inherit her mother’s colouring, but not so lucky with the curse of the Hurley curls.

I can’t resist looking in on Sophie, who is snuggled down under the duvet. Admittedly she doesn’t have the Hurley curls, but she most definitely has the ginger colouring, or auburn, as Mum likes to call it.

I touch my own hair, the colour I have grown to love, a dark-orangey brown, the curls haven’t quite won the same affection and, every day, I’m grateful to whoever brought hair-straighteners to the mass market. I can remember the absolute relief I felt on my fourteenth birthday when Fiona gave me a set as a present so I would no longer have to use the household iron in an attempt to banish the unruly curls. The ironing effect didn’t quite have the staying power and by lunchtime my hair had usually sprung back up into its familiar coils, much to the amusement of my classmates.