The House on Willow Street. Cathy Kelly

opposite.

      ‘I’m going to be on a career break soon,’ Mara said blithely. ‘I gave in my notice earlier this week. Apart from a few waitressing shifts, there’s not much for me here, but it’s nice to have some time off. Plus, Cici and I are thinking of doing a fitness boot camp one weekend.’ Before Danae could get a word in, she added, ‘No, don’t say anything about how I’ve never done any exercise up to now!’ Then she laughed, a slightly harsh laugh.

      Methinks the lady doth protest too much, thought Danae. Speaking the truth harshly before anybody else did was an age-old defence mechanism. There was no point in explaining this to Mara, though.

      Instead Danae said, ‘That sounds lovely. I’ve always wondered what exactly a boot camp is. Is it military instructors yelling at you to do sit-ups on the spot?’

      ‘I sincerely hope not,’ said Mara. ‘I can’t do any sit-ups at all, and I’ll be able to do even less if someone is shouting at me when I’m trying!’

      They talked for a little longer, and then, claiming that she had to get ready to go out for the evening, Mara said goodbye, promising to phone her aunt soon.

      ‘You could come to Avalon for a visit,’ Danae suggested. ‘The feathered Mara would love to see you.’

      Mara laughed, a genuine laugh, at that.

      ‘I hope the poor hen hasn’t been dumped by her boyfriend, too.’

      ‘There’s no rooster here,’ Danae replied. ‘They only cause problems.’

      Mara laughed that harsh laugh again. ‘Ain’t that the truth! I’ll come soon, I promise.’

      Danae hung up, convinced that all was not well with her niece. But she would wait until Mara came to her. That was her way.

      Cashel Reilly was having breakfast on the thirty-fourth-floor terrace of the Sydney Intercontinental when he got the phone call. He liked eating on the balcony and staring over the harbour, watching the ferries cruising silently beneath him, passing the armadillo scales of the Opera House.

      He’d drunk his coffee and eaten his omelette, and was reading the Sydney Morning Herald, having skimmed both the Financial Times and the Strait Times. It was only half seven, yet the club floor was already busy with business people having meetings and making phone calls.

      Cashel disliked breakfast meetings. He preferred to enjoy his meal and then talk, rather than do both at the same time. His first meeting was at half eight in the office on George Street and his assistant had already left him notes.

      His business was varied and remarkably recession-proof. Not that he didn’t occasionally dabble in high-risk investments, but the bulk of capital was tied up in the nano-technology firm in California, the enzyme research here in Australia, the computer intel business that spanned the globe. Gifted with a mind that roamed endlessly, he invested in the future, forever seeking new angles and new business opportunities, and it had made him a very rich man.

      The plus of being so successful meant that any mild recession-led diminishment of his wealth was a mere ripple in the pond of Reilly Inc. He’d put the chalet in Courchevel up for sale not because he was strapped for cash but simply because he hadn’t been there in years. Rhona had been the skier. She’d loved nothing more than decamping to the chalet for weeks at a time, skiing all day and putting on her glad rags to party all night.

      Cashel had enjoyed skiing. He was strong and agile, which helped, but he couldn’t get worked up over it the way she did, endlessly pacing herself on black runs.

      It was one more thing that separated them. In the beginning, they’d happily told each other that ‘opposites attract’. By the end, they’d realized that opposites might attract but building a life together when you had so little in common was another matter.

      He still owned the house near Claridges in London, the apartment in Dublin, a penthouse in New York on the Upper East Side, and the apartment in Melbourne, an airy fourth floor apartment off Collins, where he would wake to the somnolent rattle of the tram cars. Melbourne with its trees and boulevards reminded him strangely of home. On the face of it, Avalon was nothing like the city, yet there was an inescapable sense of history that they both shared.

      Nowhere was that sense of history stronger than in the De Paor house.

      Cashel could vividly recall the first time he’d seen the house properly, as a tall, skinny nine-year-old accompanying his mother as she went about her work as a cleaner. He’d been there before then, of course. Climbing the crumbling De Paor walls was a rite of passage for the boys in Cottage Row, where he and his younger brother, Riach lived. The Cottage kids, as they were known in the local national school, were always up for mischief, some worse than others. Cashel remembered the time Paddy Killen’s older brother got himself arrested for breaking and entering. Paddy had been delighted with this infamy, but Cashel’s mother had sat her two sons down on the kitchen chairs and told them that if they ever did anything like that, the police wouldn’t need to lock them up: she’d have killed them first.

      When his phone buzzed, he answered without so much as a glance at the screen. Few people had his private number.

      ‘Cashel,’ said his brother’s voice.

      He knew immediately that it was bad news.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘It’s Mam – she’s dead.’

      Cashel felt as if his body was in freefall down the side of the giant hotel.

      ‘Tell me,’ he said hoarsely.

      ‘Massive heart attack in her sleep. Dolly found her.’

      Cashel paid for Dolly and three other nurses to take care of his mother. He’d wanted Anna to stay in her own home, even if the dementia meant she no longer recognized it. At least his money allowed him to do that much for her.

      ‘It doesn’t seem real,’ Cashel said to his brother. ‘Despite the dementia, despite everything, she was there …’

      His voice tailed off. Their mother had been so strong, so courageous, like a lioness protecting her sons. Their father had been a man with a penchant for the bookmaker and the local pub. His bad back meant he wasn’t in work often, and any money he got, ended up in the pub or the bookie’s cash register. Without Anna Reilly, Cashel knew that he and Riach would have had no warm house, no education, nothing.

      ‘I know,’ said Riach, his voice soft. ‘Not real at all. But we knew this day would come, Cashel, and it’s better for her. She’d have hated this half-life, not part of this world and not part of the next one either.’

      Cashel stood and leaned over the balcony, staring down towards Macquarie Park where people were walking, their lives untouched by his tragic news. He wanted to scream it out, to tell everyone what had happened. Cashel Reilly, once-divorced man of forty-six, regularly on rich lists and in financial columns for his business acumen, felt as if a part of him had been ripped out.

      ‘I’ll be home as soon as I can,’ he told his brother. One of the benefits of having a private jet. ‘Will you do the notices in the paper? We can talk about undertakers and all the rest when I get there.’

      He found himself shuddering at the word ‘undertakers’. The world of death was upon them with all its traditions and rituals. Cashel had a sudden vision of St Mary’s in Avalon, sitting in the pew beside his parents at Sunday Mass.

      ‘Don’t fidget!’ his father would hiss, and Cashel’s mother would put her hand – soft, despite all the work she did – into his and let him know that he hadn’t really done anything wrong, that a bit of fidgeting was normal.

      And now she’d be lying in St Mary’s in a big dark box. He’d be there mourning her without anyone to put their hand into his, and he knew how much that would upset her – how much it had upset her for so many years – that he was alone.

      Today, it upset him too. And it made him think about Tess