Page 68 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure
‘I promise I’ll sort things out by Christmas,’ was all Conor would say.
Turning away from an angry Mary, he buried himself in the TV and games room with the children whenever he was at home.
In truth, Mary barely knew what she wanted anymore. Conor had made a laughingstock of her at the office, and, for fear of gossip, she hadn’t had the nerve to show her face at the Ladies’ Lunch Club at the golf club. Preferring to keep well clear of the gym in case she ran into Lucinda, Mary didn’t want the local paper to run a headline: ‘Murdered with a Kettlebell!’ if they met. But the way she was feeling, nothing would have given Mary more pleasure than to throw a steel ball at Lucinda and wipe the smug smile off her face.
Una’s suggestions varied from cutting up Conor’s boxers and socks to placing a billboard in Kindale with Conor’s image that read:Missing! Conor ‘Cheating’ Murphy – If found, please return to reality!
Mary was at a loss.If Conor still wanted to be married, should he stay on the condition that he had nothing further to do with Lucinda? Did she want her marriage to work, and would she ever be able to trust Conor again?
In her heart, Mary knew that she still loved him.He was the father of her kids, for goodness’ sake, but could she live with the shame? And would the children soon learn of their father’s affair throughthe school grapevine? What if Conor really wanted out? What would she do then? Could she embrace being a part-time parent and sharing custody?
Mary felt certain Conor would fight to see his children as often as possible, but she knew that their parting would break the children’s hearts. Declan and Finn were too young to have their little lives in turmoil, and Maeve and Caitlin’s teenage hormones were like a roller coaster – up and down, unpredictable, intense, and at times overwhelming.
Putting her feelings aside, Mary couldn’t imagine that Conor would do this to his children.What was more important: life with Lucinda or his family?
Mary could barely think straight. She changed her mind by the hour.
Cursing him one moment, then crying with grief for her loss the next. Days and nights merged into one as she kept busy, going through life’s motions – running around after the kids, fetching and carrying them in the car, and turning up at events, sports matches, and after-school classes – while all the time her heart felt like it had cracked into a thousand unhappy pieces as her world turned upside down.
Large glasses of wine didn’t help but, for a while, dulled her feelings, and Mary felt powerless as her self-control slipped away. Reaching constantly for the comfort of the biscuit tin, she survived on custard creams.
Most days, she thought of her dad, and when she had a spare moment, she curled up with a cosy blanket in her chair by the window to flick through his Instagram account, which now had over thirty thousand followers. He wasalways out and about, discovering and photographing the delights of Spain. The Travelling Grandad, an inspiration to so many, had become quite the travel guide.
One day, he might be perched on Mount Benacantil at Santa Bárbara Castle in Alicante, posting images of the historic fortress and panoramic views of the city and the Mediterranean Sea. The next, he could be at the fascinating Cuevas de los Rosales, making video reels of the hidden underground gem, a place that seems to be home to unique crafts and artists.
‘You’re quite the traveller,’ Mary whispered.
Mary continued to study the photos and could see that a blonde woman often appeared in the images.Had her dad fallen in love?The woman was attractive and probably younger than Atticus by a few years.
‘Don’t get hurt, Dad,’ Mary said, gently tracing his handsome face on the screen with her finger as he smiled into the lens.
Her brother’s words rang loud in her ears. Only last night, Mungo had ranted and raved that their father was making a fool of himself and was being taken for a ride. ‘If they weren’t all careful, he’ll make the mistake of marrying this minx, and where would the family be then?’ In Mungo’s estimation, it would all come to a sticky end.
In their text messages, Atticus told Mary that the woman was called Britta. She was Dutch and lived in a little cottage on the beach. Britta was a talented artist who worked in the beach café.
‘Heavens, it soundslike a Netflix romcom,’ Mary said when they spoke. ‘Struggling artist meets wealthy older man and falls in love.’
She’d laughed with her dad at the time, but on reflection, Mary realised that Atticus’s situation was exactly as Mungo described: a younger, possibly impoverished woman stealing the heart of an older, well-off man. Mary didn’t have the energy to argue with her brother, and since Mungo never asked, she hadn’t told him about her marital problems with Conor either.
Butifthings worked out between her and Conor, Mungo need never know that her marriage was crumbling or that her whole world felt as though it were falling apart.
Forcing herself to be cheery when she spoke to her dad, she didn’t want to burst the happiness bubble that Atticus was enjoying. If things with Britta did go suddenly wrong, there would be plenty of time for discussion when Mary knew what she was dealing with.
‘I’ve enough problems of my own,’ she sighed as she stared out the window. The garden was under assault from an oncoming storm, and once-vibrant plants were now bedraggled, their leaves strewn across the muddy path like confetti from a forgotten celebration. The overcast sky was as gloomy as Mary felt, and the howling wind seemed to echo her pain.
‘Good luck, Dad,’ she whispered, placing her phone in her pocket and casting her blanket aside in preparation for the school run. ‘At least someone is having the time of their life.’
In the shed at the bottom of the garden at Shirlarth Cottage, Arthur, cosy in his bob hat and scarf, sat in his rocking chair beside a stack of carefully packed boxes. Standing nearby, with his laptop open on Atticus’s Instagram page, Jake reached for a kettle and began to make tea. Outside, the wind howled, shaking the flimsy walls and sending shivers through the wooden planks. With each gust, the old shed creaked and groaned in protest, while rain beat against the roof.
‘I feel like we’re in a ship, navigating a stormy sea,’ Jake said as he poured boiling water on tea bags in two chipped mugs. ‘Each gust is trying to drown us.’
‘You watch too much online nonsense,’ Arthur replied. ‘With your imagination, you should be writing books.’ He nodded as Jake held up a bag of crusty sugar. ‘Three lumps before the milk.’
Stirring his tea, Arthur smiled. He loved the smell of damp wood and earth, mingling with a faint scent of rusting metal and aged compost. He enjoyed the cosiness of his shed, where the power of nature outside could be observed from a safe distance.
‘So, what’s in all the boxes, and what do you want me to do?’ Jake asked.
‘You’ll find Shirley’s Christmas gnomes,’ Arthur replied. ‘It’s time for the little folk to come out of hibernation and make a display on the driveway and in the porch.’
