Next day Ginty couldn’t remember exactly what they had talked about, but she felt as though Nell’s affection had stacked cushions of reassurance around her. They’d swapped e-mail addresses and promised not to lose touch again. But now she’d gone, along with all the other guests, the musicians and Gunnar himself, leaving Ginty alone with her mother.
They were sitting under the cedar at the edge of the lawn, having lunch. Sunday was Mrs Blain’s weekly day off, so Ginty had made sandwiches from some of the leftover beef, layered with asparagus and dollops of cold Béarnaise sauce sharpened with extra lemon juice. Trying to think of everything her mother might want, she had brought out an ice bucket with a bottle of fizzy water and a half-drunk bottle of claret from the pantry.
‘Tell me what happened to you out there,’ Louise said, tilting her head back against the padded head-rest of her chair to look up through the dark layers of the tree. Her left hand trailed against the grass, occasionally rising to stroke the icy glass of water.
‘Why do you think anything happened?’ Ginty heard herself sounding defensive and wished she had more self-control. Her mother’s question wasn’t that different from Nell’s, however critical it had sounded. Ginty tried to see kindness rather than judgement in her mother’s face, and failed.
‘Because you’ve changed, even since Easter. I was watching you at the party last night. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so confident. Happy, even. Are you in love again?’
Ginty thought about the days when she’d still brought boyfriends to Freshet and watched them elegantly demolished by one parent or the other. Sometimes, looking back, she thought she might have been able to make it work with one or two, if she hadn’t been made to feel an undiscriminating fool for even liking them.
‘No. I still see a bit of Julius, but we’re only friends these days.’
‘Just as well. He’s not reliable, I’m sure, and all that exaggerated charm! Rather cheap, really.’ Louise shuddered delicately. ‘So it must have been something that happened to you out there in the refugee camps. Tell me about it.’
Ginty described a little of what she’d seen and heard, always watching for signs of boredom. Louise listened carefully, but made no comment, so Ginty ploughed on.
‘And he sat there in the room where he’d clearly been torturing the man I saw as I arrived, explaining to me that the things his men did to women were perfectly normal.’
Louise sipped her water and watched Ginty over the rim of the glass. Ginty had no idea what she was thinking.
‘So I suppose if I do seem tougher, it may be partly because I finished the interview, in spite of being such a hopeless coward.’ She paused, not sure whether she wanted denial or compliment. She didn’t get either. ‘And partly because he made me so angry.’
‘Angry about the beating you nearly witnessed, or about what they’re doing to those women?’ Louise’s voice was different now, almost breathless. Of course it was very hot, even under the tree. Ginty picked up the bottle of Vichy to refill her glass, but there was still plenty there.
‘All of it,’ she said. ‘But particularly the rapes. In fact I was on the radio yesterday, talking …’
‘About date rape. I know. Mrs Blain came running upstairs to tell me you were on. I heard most of it.’ Louise’s voice was hard. ‘You think that talking about “date rape” diminishes victims of “the real thing”.’
‘Don’t you?’
There was silence as they both stared out at the faintly blue distance. A heat haze was making the air shimmer. The cedar above them smelled heavily spicy. Ginty brushed a passing fly off her damp forehead and bent to pick up her glass, resting the cold wet surface against her forehead. It soothed the ache.
‘Ginty?’
‘Yes?’
‘You ought to know that date rape isn’t so trivial.’
Surprised at the thinness of her mother’s voice, Ginty turned. A muscle was fluttering under the slack skin beneath her mother’s left eye. She swallowed, then coughed as though there was no saliva in her mouth. Her lips parted, but she said nothing. She licked her lower lip, then coughed again.
‘Ginty …’ There seemed to be a plea in the sound. Unprecedented.
Oh God, Ginty thought, far too late: it happened to her. But how could I have known?
‘I’m sure it’s horrible,’ she said carefully, wanting to make peace without giving in yet again. ‘But it can’t ever be as bad as what’s happening to the women out there.’
‘Maybe not.’ Louise pulled a clean handkerchief out of her trouser pocket and wiped her dry lips. ‘But it can have repercussions. Serious, damaging repercussions that last for ever.’
‘I …’ They had never discussed anything messily emotional, and Ginty had no idea how to deal with this. But she had to say something. ‘I’m getting the feeling that this conversation is turning rather personal.’
Louise said nothing. Ginty drank for courage. ‘I had no idea you might ever have … If I’d realized, I’d …’ What would I have done? she wondered. Not raised the subject here, anyway.
Louise swung her feet to the ground so that they were face to face. ‘I know,’ she said quickly. ‘You’ve never been prurient or gratuitously unkind.’
There was a sudden sharp pain in Ginty’s calf. She brushed her trousers, felt something move under the cloth and pulled it up. A huge horsefly flew off her skin, leaving a swelling red patch and a spreading ache beneath.
‘Ugh,’ Ginty said. ‘A cleg. Sorry, but I think I’m going to have to put something on this.’
‘Yes, you’d better. Stay there; I know where the Sting Relief is. I’ll get it. Don’t put your leg up; that makes it worse. Leave it there. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Louise ran towards the house so fast that her hat dropped behind her. In spite of the pain in her leg, Ginty was grateful to the horsefly for ending the impossible conversation. By the time her mother came back the sharpness had gone from the bite, but the ache it had left was throbbing still. The swelling was now nearly three inches across, raised like a boil.
Louise subsided gracefully on to her knees in front of Ginty and began to anoint the bite. It was strange to feel those long fingers caressing her skin through the salve.
‘There!’ Louise sat back on her heels as she screwed the top back on the neatly rolled blue tube. ‘I hope that’ll help. I’m sorry it took me so long to find. Someone must have moved it.’
‘That’s fine. It’s much better.’ Ginty smiled to show that she wasn’t going to ask any more questions about the date rape, but her mother had already turned away.
‘I’d never intended to tell you anything about it,’ she said as she lay back in her chair. This time her eyes were closed. ‘But now I’m not sure. Ever since I heard you on the radio, sounding so authoritative, so condemnatory, I’ve been thinking perhaps … Perhaps you do need to know.’
‘Don’t say anything if you’d rather not. I’m not …’
‘No. I think it’s time.’ Louise opened her eyes and let them slide sideways so that she could look at her daughter. Ginty couldn’t see any hint of affection or even tolerance in them.
‘Pour me some wine, will you? I don’t think water will be enough to get me through this.’ Louise sipped the richly tannic claret. She looked utterly in control, but she said: ‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘Perhaps with what happened, and how,’ Ginty suggested, noticing that her voice was as calm and polite as usual. Odd that, with the feelings battering at her. ‘If you really do want to tell me.’