Carmel Harrington - The Woman at 72 Derry Lane - A gripping, emotional page turner that will make you laugh and cry

She stood at her window, waiting to see if the robin returned. When a black crow swooped down and confiscated the crust, she thought, well there you go, the big bad guy wins once more.

She looked around her old kitchen. Oak cupboards with brass handles, with a tiny rose-bud flower engraved on the front, lined the walls. There were glass panels in the upper cabinets, filled with tea sets that were collected by generations of her family. The double Belfast sink that washed dishes, soaked stained clothes and had bathed her babies and herself too, once upon another time.

The kitchen was the heart of her family home. Her childhood home. She knew that she was lucky. Not many got to live somewhere that held so much personal history. She closed her eyes for a moment as she pulled from her memory bank the voices of her past: her parents, her sisters, laughing, teasing, living.

She didn’t have to try hard to see her Mama kneading bread as her Papa shared his wisdom with his children around the large round kitchen table, recounting tales of the olden days. Oh how she loved her parents so. She had no fear back then.

She opened her eyes, sighing, and ran her arthritic hands along the weathered surface of her kitchen table. Arthritis, another recent gift from age, that old bugger. Her fingers traced a long groove in the wood that Luca had made one day with a knife. He was in a temper because she wouldn’t let him go out to play. She had good reasons too, but when you’re twelve it’s hard to understand a parent’s point of view. It was late and rumours had been rife that a white van was out and about with a faceless predator ready to snatch children.

Luca was fiery and, as far as he was concerned, he was untouchable. But the thing with Luca was, his temper always disappeared as quickly as it flared. He was a good boy really, always had been.

‘I’m so sorry, Luca,’ she whispered. ‘I should never had said all those things to you. I don’t blame you for anything. You did nothing wrong. Forgive your mother. She’s a silly old fool.’

She’d write to him. Tell him that. Back then, when she was full of grief, consumed by it, she couldn’t see straight. He was the first to leave, to start a new life and because of him, they all left too. She was angry, but of course it wasn’t him she was angry with at all.

‘We have to let him live his life,’ George said when Luca announced he was emigrating.

‘I can’t bear to lose him.’

‘If we don’t let him go, we’ll lose him anyhow,’ George replied. He was right, of course. So they wept tears privately, but smiled brightly when they waved Luca goodbye through the departures lounge. She couldn’t be selfish, she couldn’t keep him by her side forever. And he thrived over in Perth, Western Australia. Soon his weekly letters reduced to monthly ones and the phone calls became more sporadic.

‘It’s a good sign,’ George declared when she fretted. ‘He’s having fun.’

Too much fun, because as was always the way with Elise, within twelve months she declared that she was going out to visit Luca.

‘She won’t come back,’ Rea ranted to George.

‘Elise is our little home bird. She’ll come home to her mama,’ George said, but his face looked doubtful.

‘See you in a few weeks. Don’t miss me too much!’ Elise said, hugging them both tight.

Rea clung to those words. It was only for a few weeks; she’d be back.

She did come back, but it was only to say goodbye. She loved it downunder and was going to stay with Luca. Rea took no joy in being right. But this time, when they went to the airport, neither of them could hold back their tears as she walked out of their lives.

Both her children went to the other side of the world to live new lives. They had dreams, new loves and passions that didn’t include her any more, or their father. Not that they didn’t care. Of course they did; they were good children. They loved her and George and begged them both to come out to visit. They promised they would and planned a long holiday after Christmas.

But that was then and this was now. George went to Australia alone. She might as well accept it. Her family were all gone. She was the lone keeper of memories and secrets that seemed to matter years ago, but were meaningless now.

Elise. Luca. George . How she missed them all with every fibre in her body. Rea longed to return to that sweet sleep of dreams, but this time she didn’t want to wake up. She was of no use nor ornament to anyone any more. Her body felt alien to her and she had become a prisoner in her own home.

Enough was enough. She was ready to die. If she just willed it, maybe her body would just give up. She moved to the couch in her living room and lay down, closing her eyes.

The shrill ring of the doorbell startled her. It was eleven am, maybe it was the postman. He’d be doing his round by now. ‘I’m in no humour for company,’ she thought. Her curtains were still drawn, so whoever it was could feck right off. Hopefully they would assume she was still in bed.

The smell of her overfull, rancid bins reminded her that it might be bold Louis Flynn, the Scarlet Pimpernel himself. She seeks him here, she seeks him there and if she finds him, she’d seek his arse and give it a good kick. She skipped along the hall, kicking the air as she went. It cheered her up a little.

She made a cup of tea and wondered if you could order online a potion that would kill you. You could get most things delivered door to door in under forty-eight hours. It was a sin to even think such a thing. Ah, but look where being good all her life had gotten her.

Rea pulled open her curtains, thinking that if she let some light into the house it might help her mood. The girl from next door was walking by. God, she was as pale as a ghost. Moving slowly, like she was in pain. Her eyes followed her until she stopped and leaned against a tree. Then she turned back towards her house again.

A few minutes later she saw her heading up her drive. She’d never come to her door before and for the life of her, she couldn’t work out why she was walking her way now. Was she cross that she called the Gardaí? She straightened her back up, ready to do battle if she needed to. Someone had to fight for this girl if she had no want to do so for herself. She watched the young woman, waiting for her to make her move. She kept looking over her shoulder every few seconds. Her face was pinched with fear. A kid on a skateboard whizzed by, the wheels rattling on the path. The poor woman near jumped out of her skin.

The poor pet. What a way to live. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Rea opened the door. She stood back as a blast of warm June air hit her in the face.

Well, she’d best see what she wanted. Maybe dying could wait.

Her side had turned purple. Still tender to touch, but at least she was up and walking again. The pain kept at bay with the help of paracetamol. Matt had spent the past couple of evenings working late, electing to eat out. She knew he was keeping out of her way until things smoothed over. He’d work late for a few weeks or so, then he’d arrive home with gifts. Flowers, jewellery, clothes, vouchers for spa trips. Words would drip from his mouth, lies, telling her that he’d never lay a hand on her again. And as the bruising disappeared, the ugly reminder of a brutal marriage, they’d start to move forward, pretending that it never happened.

Three days had passed since his last attack and today she’d managed to get dressed. But Stella was restless. She wasn’t physically able to do much, but days spent lying in bed or on the couch had tormented her. She liked to be active.

When the doorbell rang, she jumped, yelping at the sound. She peeked through the front window and saw the An Post van parked outside. Pulling her mother’s comforting cardigan around herself, she forced a smile on her face, opening the door to Richie. He was a terrible gossip, loved passing on news about all of the neighbours.