Past Secrets. Cathy Kelly

bet you wouldn’t,’ her sister Ana had pointed out mischievously once, at the end of one long night on the small terrace in the garden when the wineglasses were empty and the conversation had turned to what-ifs.

      ‘There wouldn’t be a bit of dignity involved. I bet you’d stab James with your secateurs one night, bury him under the rhubarb and act delighted when it turned out to be a good crop!’

      ‘Ah, Ana,’ said James, feigning hurt. ‘Christie would never do that.’ He paused for effect, looking round the garden his wife adored. ‘The lilac tree needs fertilising, not the rhubarb. That’s where she’d bury me.’

      ‘You’re both wrong,’ said Christie amiably, reaching out to clasp her brother-in-law Rick’s hand. ‘I’m going to bury James right here, under the flagstones, then Rick and I are going to run off into the sunset together.’

      ‘As long as I get this house,’ Ana said, getting to her feet, ‘the pair of you can do what you want.’

      It was a beautiful house, Christie knew. One of the loveliest on Summer Street. Christie’s artistic talent had made it just as beautiful inside as outside.

      ‘If Mum and Dad could see this place,’ Ana said wistfully as the sisters hugged goodbye in the hall where Christie had black-and-white photos of the family hung alongside six watercolour paintings of irises of the kind that she used to sell to make money during the early days of paying the Summer Street house mortgage.

      ‘Dad would hate it,’ laughed Christie easily. ‘Too arty farty, he’d say.’

      ‘Ah, he wouldn’t,’ protested Ana, who at fifty-four was the younger by six years. ‘He’d love it, for all that it’s nothing like the house in Kilshandra.’

      Kilshandra was where they’d grown up, a small town on the east coast that was never a destination, always a place cars drove past en route to somewhere else.

      ‘No, it’s not like Kilshandra,’ Christie murmured and the fact that it was nothing like her old home was one of the best things about it.

      Thinking of the past made the anxiety tweak again. She didn’t want to think about the past, Christie thought with irritation. Get out of my head. She’d spoken out loud, she realised, as the dogs looked up at her in alarm.

      The dishes done, she poured a cup of coffee to take into the garden while she went through her list for the day. She had groceries to buy, bills to pay, some letters to post, a whole page of the by-the-phone notepad filled with calls to return…and then she felt the strange yet familiar ripple of unease move through her. Like a thundercloud shimmering in a blue sky, threatening a noisy downpour. This time it wasn’t a mild flicker of anxiety: it was a full-scale alert.

      Christie dropped her china cup on the flagstones. Both Rocket and Tilly yelped in distress, whisking around their mistress’s feet, their matching brown eyes anxious. We didn’t do it, we didn’t do it.

      Automatically, Christie shepherded them away from the broken china.

      ‘You’ll cut your paws,’ she said gently, and shooed them safely into the kitchen. Dustpan in hand, she went outside again and began to sweep up.

      Her whole life, Christie had been able to see things that other people couldn’t. It was a strange, dreamy gift: never available on demand and never there for Christie to sort out her own problems. But when she least expected it, the truth came to her, a little tremor of knowing that told her what was in another person’s heart.

      As a child, she’d thought everyone could do it. But there was no one in her deeply religious home whom she could ask. Something warned her that people might not like it. Her father prayed to centuries-dead saints when things went wrong, ignoring them when all was well, but he disapproved of the local girls having their fortunes told and hated the Gypsies’ gift of sight with a vengeance. Her mother never ventured any opinion without first consulting her husband. Opinions that Father didn’t approve of meant his black rage engulfed the house. So Christie had learned to be a quiet, watchful child. Her six elder brothers and her baby sister made enough noise for nobody to notice her, anyhow. And as she grew older and realised that her gift wasn’t run of the mill, she was glad she’d kept it quiet.

      How could she tell people she’d known the McGoverns’ barn was going to burn down, or that Mr McGovern himself had set fire to it for the insurance money?

      The first time she even hinted at her gift was when she was nineteen and her best friend, Sarah, had thought Ted, handsome with smiling eyes and a blankly chiselled face like Steve McQueen, was the man for her.

      ‘He loves me, he wants to marry me,’ said Sarah with the passion of being nineteen and in love.

      ‘I just have this feeling that he’s not being entirely honest with you. There’s something a bit two-faced about him,’ Christie had said. It was a flash of knowing that Ted didn’t love Sarah and that there was someone else Ted made promises to.

      ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Sarah angrily.

      Christie noted the anger: there was a lot of truth in the cliché about shooting the messenger.

      It transpired that Ted had indeed been seeing another girl, one whose family had money, not like Sarah or Christie, who came from a world of hand-me-down clothes and making do.

      ‘How did you know?’ asked Sarah when her heart was broken.

      ‘It sort of came to me,’ Christie said, which was the only way she could explain it.

      The closer the person was to her, the fuzzier it became. For herself, she could never see anything. Which was probably as it should be. Except that today, for the first time ever, she’d had a horrible feeling that the premonition of gloom was for herself.

      In the pretty kitchen with its bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling, a place where Christie always felt perfectly happy, panic now filled her. Her family. Something awful must be about to happen to them and she had to stop it. Yet, the feeling had never been like this before. She’d never, ever seen any harm coming to her sons or James.

      There was the day thirteen-year-old Shane had broken his collarbone falling from a tree, and Christie had been on a school trip to a gallery, explaining the gift of Jack B. Yeats to twenty schoolgirls.

      When the frantic St Ursula’s secretary had finally reached Christie, she’d cursed her own inability to see what mattered. How could she not have seen her own son in pain? What use was her gift if it only worked for other people?

      This morning, within ten minutes, Christie had phoned her two sons to say a cheery hello, she was thinking about them and her horoscope had said she was going to have an unfortunate day, and she thought it might extend to them, so not to walk under any ladders.

      Finally, Christie phoned James, whom she’d only said goodbye to two hours before as he headed off to the train station for a meeting in Cork.

      ‘Is everything all right, Christie?’ he asked carefully.

      ‘Fine,’ she said, not wanting to transmit the intensity of her fear to him. ‘I felt a bit spooked, that’s all. It’s thundery here.’ Which wasn’t true. The sky was as blue and clear as the single oval sapphire in her antique engagement ring. ‘I love you, James,’ she added, which was entirely true. And then the signal on his mobile phone went, the connection was severed and Christie was left with her feeling of terror still beating a tattoo in her chest.

      She left a message on her husband’s mobile phone: ‘I’m fine. Off shopping now, phone me later and tell me if you’re able to get the earlier train. I love you. Bye.’

      James worked for a government environmental agency and had worked his way up the ranks so he now held a senior position. He travelled round the country a lot, and Christie worried that the endless trips were getting too much for him. But James, still fired up wanting to be busy and to make sure that everything was done properly, loved it.

      By ten, Christie was on her way