Christopher Nicole: Her Name Will Be Faith

She sighed, as she spotted the 40-foot yawl; it had all been so different, then.

Owen Michael had seen the yawl too. “There’s Dad!” he shouted.

Michael Donnelly, junior, tall and powerfully built, waved to them, and hurried across the intervening decks. He jumped on to the pontoon and swept the kids up into his arms… then turned to Jo. She slid her hands round his back, feeling the warmth through his shirt. His arms hugged her, as his mouth found hers: whenever they kissed she felt dizzy with happiness.

“How did it go?” she asked, pulling her head back.

“Fucking awful,” he replied. “We had a failure.”

“Oh, no! In this weather? What happened?”

“A rigging screw went. Must have been faulty from the start. And it wasn’t flat calm all the way. There was a squall night before last. Quite a heavy one. Hell, Esmeralda can take it, so we weren’t bothered, then there was this sudden twang and the whole shitting boat shook, with wire flying all over the place. We damned near lost the mast.”

“So you retired?”

“Yeah. What a way to start the season.”

“You’ll get it right. Where’s your car? Can you leave now? Your folks are expecting us for dinner.”

“It’s at Sam’s place. But there’s no way I can come now.”

“Oh, but…”

“Listen, Angelface. We only just got in. There’s one hell of a lot of work to be done. And Sam of course had to go hustling off because Sally has a party tonight. So I have to put the ship to bed. And replace that screw and harden up the rigging; we sound like a banjo out of control in any breeze at all.” He was helping them across the other yachts as he spoke, and Owen Michael was hurrying ahead to gain the deck. “Mark Godwin is giving me a hand. You remember Mark, Jo?”

The boy emerged from the companion hatch. “Hi, Mrs Donnelly.”

“Is there so much to be done?” Jo asked. “I mean, you don’t race again for a fortnight.”

“Now, Angelface, you know the drill; the ship comes first.” Michael saw her disappointment, and kissed her nose. “Listen, I will try to get down tonight, but tell Babs not to wait dinner for me.”

“Oh, Daddy, we want to have you with us tonight,” Tamsin begged.

“Yeah, Dad. Say, why don’t you come with us now, and we’ll all come and help you fix her up tomorrow,” Owen Michael offered. “I thought we could have a little catching practice before dinner.”

“No way,” Michael said. “Work first, play after.” He bent and kissed the top of Tamsin’s head. “You hustle along now, and look after your Mommy.”

The dismal trio walked back along the pontoon in single file, and Owen Michael kicked viciously at a pebble as they neared the car, sending it skipping across another pontoon on to a boat’s deck.

“Owen Michael! Stop that.” Jo shook his arm.

“Leave me alone, can’t you!”

His mother said no more; she could understand his resenting being rated second to a piece of plastic. But then her pleasure at seeing Michael had also quickly dissipated into resentment. Even after ten years of marriage and living in New England she had not been able fully to accustom herself to the way Americans used obscenities as part of their everyday speech. But it was his attitude which was so shattering. Work before play, she thought bitterly. The fact was that he loved Esmeralda more than any of his family. And this was only the beginning of the season; for the next twenty weeks she was going to be the ultimate grass widow — even golfers at least came home for dinner. And it happened every year. What right did Michael have to abandon her and the children every summer for his yacht racing? Why should she always have to play the dual parent role? He never did. She felt like kicking a stone or two herself.

The square, white-painted, wooden-faced house stood tall and imposing, fifty feet behind a white rail fence bordering the sidewalk in the small rural Connecticut town. By New England standards it was very old, having been built in 1832, and from the moment that Big Mike and Barbara Donnelly bought it in 1971 they had taken endless pains to furnish it in its authentic period style. There were stained-glass panels on the inner door of the lobby, and beautifully laid tiles on the lobby and hall floors. Moldings on the door and window frames were faithfully copied throughout and Babs had spent months poring over books and magazines and haunting retail outlets before selecting the correct wallpapers for each room. The owners of every used-furniture saleroom knew her face well, and Big Mike had laughed repeatedly when, on returning home from his New York office, he was proudly shown some decrepit chair or worm-eaten table, the result of Babs’ — his wife’s nickname to all the family — latest successful expedition. The little town boasted an expert upholsterer and restorer, who gladly joined in Babs’ enthusiasm for ancient furniture, not least due to its profitability. The dining-room and sitting-room at Pinewoods were charming and immaculate from the gilt mirrors over the carved wood fire-surrounds and mantelpieces, fire baskets and brass-knobbed irons, and the paneled, interior folding window shutters, to the wood-framed settee, prim armchairs, dainty round coffee tables, and polished dining-table with its English silver candelabra, overlooked by oil paintings of sea scenes.

Big Mike genuinely admired the finished results, and was happy to show off the house to visiting friends, but his favorite room nevertheless was the big family kitchen in which they now sat watching the News. Authenticity was all very well in the other rooms, but it had been partially abandoned here. The tile-topped units, the cupboards, dishwasher, icebox and freezer were whitewood fronted, and the matching wall cupboards had leaded glass doors to display china and crystal. The bowed window ledges behind the kitchen sink and fitted dining area were filled with potted plants and flowers. Pictures and hand-painted plates hung on the walls beneath a collection of polished copper pans, and every size and shape of wicker shopping basket imaginable. Freestanding in one corner was an antique but highly efficient wood-burning stove, prettily painted enamel panels set in the dull grey metal sides. Next to it were two very comfortable armchairs. Big Mike was sitting in one now, shoulders hunched, greying black hair scattered thinly across his head, while Babs, tall and still blondely attractive, prepared vegetables.

Dale Donnelly breezed in, wearing shorts, throwing his tennis racket on to a chair. “Hi! Anything I can do to help, Babs? What’s for dinner?”

“Sure. Empty the trash can. The Robsons and roast rib-eye.” Babs tilted her face to receive her son’s kiss of greeting.

“Who else?”

“Michael and Jo. James and Suzanne will probably come too, but Jason is away.”

“Ugh!” Dale groaned; he was a languid young man who drifted from job to job, resolutely refusing to join his elder brother in the Wall Street firm. This lack of drive bothered his parents as much as the hash he enjoyed so much. “I suppose I’ll have to entertain them.”

“What’s the problem? They’re nice kids.” Big Mike lit a cigarette and fiddled with the remote control panel.

“James is a wimp. He agrees with everything I say.”

His father looked at him through a cloud of smoke. “Yeah? Well, in that case he’s gotta be a wimp.”

Dale grinned. “Okay. Okay.”

“Suzanne’s sweet,” Babs said.

“Are you putting me on?”

“No, I’m serious.” His mother turned away from the sink. “She’s very shy and nervous, but she does try…”

“Too hard. And I think she has something going for me. She follows me around like a tame dog, rolling her contact lenses and saying, ‘Yes, Dale,’ and ‘No, Dale,’ and ‘Can I fix you a cup of coffee, Dale?’ ”