All That I Leave Behind (11 page)

‘Here we go, kick-off,’ John-Patrick said beside her, as the tinkling formed itself into the wedding march. Mary-Pat turned her head to see her little sister walking up through the small crowd on the lawn to the gazebo on Pius’s arm in that lovely dress. She felt a lump in her throat, which she wilfully swallowed. She was not about to bawl at her sister’s wedding. They’d think she’d gone soft. Her sister walked slowly up the path to the gazebo, to gasps of appreciation, and Mary-Pat had to rummage in her handbag, pretending to look for a tissue, so that PJ wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

He nudged her in the ribs. ‘You OK, MP?’

‘I’m fine,’ she barked back at him. ‘I just have something in my eye.’

‘Right.’ He sounded as if he was trying to smother laughter and she wanted to hit him a belt. She wanted to keep her feelings to herself, not blurt them all over Monasterard. Was there really any harm in it?

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur of affirmations of love. Father Naul, that new priest, who looked a bit like Sam Shepard, just did a bit of praying and handwaving, because they’d got married in church the day before, with only the Yank’s parents, Daphne and Pi in attendance. Mary-Pat told herself that it didn’t hurt, that, sure, she wasn’t a Catholic anyway, not like her baby sister, for reasons Mary-Pat had firmly blocked from her mind, but it
did
hurt. It made her heart feel heavy in her chest, like a stone.

The priest and the church had been the Yank’s idea, as his family were devout Catholics and Rosie had gone along with it because, even though Mary-Pat was sure the girl hadn’t been to Mass since the day she’d insisted on making her Holy Communion, it mattered to him. ‘It’s a compromise, MP, and that’s what marriage is all about,’ she’d told her.

And what would
you
know? Mary-Pat had wanted to ask, but hadn’t. Instead, she’d just nodded her head and bitten her tongue. She’d had to get used to that, with Rosie back. The new and improved Rosie, who didn’t seem to need any help with anything. Oh, she’d thrown them a bone with the dress fitting, but apart from that, she had it all ‘under control, thanks’. She’d given Mary-Pat an apologetic look then, a ‘what can you do’, spreading her hands wide, and Mary-Pat hadn’t been able to hide the hurt that her sister had excluded her from her biggest day. More than that, she’d have to admit that she was surprised that her sister could manage such a thing. Time was, Rosie couldn’t manage to get out of bed and get a breakfast into her without a palaver. Mary-Pat could still see her standing at the door on her way to school, humming a little tune to herself, half a slice of toast in her mouth. Her eyes were ringed with the previous night’s mascara and she was looking at her books as if she didn’t quite know what they were for. And that coat – that godawful specimen she’d insisted on wearing constantly, just to give me a hard time, Mary-Pat thought. To punish me for having brought her up the only way I knew how.

Of course, Rosie didn’t need her any more. She was a grown-up now: she’d been gone for ten years, and during that time something seemed to have happened to her. She looked smooth and sleek, as if she’d grown some kind of shiny outer shell; she wore expensive-looking clothes and her hair tied back in a knot at the nape of her neck, not that fuzzy halo around her head that she used to have. And that bling-ring. Mary-Pat couldn’t help wondering where her little sister had gone.

But still, couldn’t she let her do this one thing? That was what mothers were supposed to do, wasn’t it? And then she’d had to remind herself that she wasn’t Rosie’s mother. Just her sister, and what’s more one who had tried to get rid of her, to shove her away ten years before. And now here they were, a ‘normal’ family at a lovely summer wedding.

Who would have thought it? We don’t look as if we have a hole blasted right through the middle of us, a huge, empty, mother-shaped gap. Maybe that’s the way with all families, that they look normal on the outside to make you think that’s what a family should be. But who knew what things were really like on the inside?

It was such a bleak thought that Mary-Pat didn’t notice that the bride and groom were kissing and hugging and the little gathering was getting to its feet. She felt as if she were in a daze, standing up to join in the applause, the whistles and cheers from the good-looking young friends of her sister’s, who seemed so smart and bright, so self-confident. She had no idea Rosie still had so many friends in the village – how had she managed to keep in touch with them all these years, when she’d hardly spoken to her sisters. Her eyes darted to Daddy, who seemed to have fallen asleep under the tree, his mouth open, head tilted back, looking like a small, wizened child. Her heart lifted then with relief. Please let him wake up when it’s all over. Please, God.

She started when PJ snaked an arm around her waist and gave her a gentle squeeze. ‘Brings back happy memories,’ he said and winked at her, then leaned towards her and brushed her cheek with his lips. She tried to smile back, but all that her mouth did was form itself into a watery grin. She wanted to tell him that she remembered, that it had been the most wonderful day of her whole life, walking along the seafront in Bray, hand in hand, the pair of them tucking into a big bag of salty, vinegary chips, the swell of her stomach just enough to push out the fabric of the pink dress she’d bought with June in Arnotts.

They’d got married in the register office in town, with June and Gerry as witnesses, even though PJ’s mother said she’d disown him if he didn’t do the decent thing and get married in church. ‘She’ll get over it,’ had been his only comment. He’d known that Mary-Pat couldn’t get married in church – sure she hadn’t even been christened. And she’d known then, as if she hadn’t before, that PJ was the man for her. They’d got the train to Bray, all four of them, herself and PJ trying not to laugh at Gerry’s carry-on. He was sulking because they’d chosen chips and the seafront over his preferred choice of lunch at Guilbaud’s. They weren’t ‘lunch at Guilbaud’s’ kind of people.

PJ and June had gone on the dodgems, but he’d made her sit down on a bench with Gerry and watch, putting a big, meaty hand onto her tummy and rubbing it briefly, flashing her a grin as he did so. They hadn’t told anyone else about John-Patrick because they’d wanted to hug the secret to themselves for a bit longer. And so she’d watched June throw her head back and laugh as she crashed into everyone – PJ making a point out of reversing into her more than once – thinking she’d never been as happy. Not even Gerry and his peevish nonsense about the chips being soggy and his suit being ruined by sitting on a damp bench could spoil it.

PJ wanted her to acknowledge him now, she knew that from the anxious look in his eyes, but she just couldn’t. The words she wanted to say got stuck in her throat and even though she willed her hand to move, to grab hold of his and squeeze it, it just wouldn’t. I love you more than ever, she thought, but somehow I just can’t say it.

She followed everyone to the trestle tables that had been laid out against the gable wall of the house and filled with platters of cold meats and salads, all made by someone else, served on artfully mismatched china. It looked like a magazine article for a country wedding, Mary-Pat thought, as she helped herself to a big pile of coleslaw, not the real thing. But it was lovely all the same, just lovely.

‘I thought you were looking after Daddy?’ Mary-Pat looked over June’s shoulder as her sister appeared, all linen and rattly jewellery, her dark curls expensively blow-dried. She looked gorgeous, slim and lovely and about ten years younger than her forty-one years. But there was something about her that just didn’t seem right … Just showed you, you could have everything and still not be happy.

June looked briefly over to the willow tree, before waving her hand. ‘Oh, he’s fine. He’s having a little snooze … I think,’ she said vaguely. ‘Oh, pâté! Yum,’ and she helped herself to a great big slab of it. Mary-Pat’s mouth watered. If she ate pâté, she’d put on a stone before the stuff had hit her stomach. She pushed the coleslaw around on her plate.

‘Isn’t it just lovely?’ June was saying, taking in the crowds and the lovely wedding outfits and the mismatched china. ‘So tasteful. Rosie has really done us all proud.’

‘Us?’

‘Yes, well, you know what I mean. Herself. She’s done herself proud,’ June added hastily, before looking carefully at Mary-Pat. Mary-Pat knew what that look meant: you weren’t very nice at that wedding place, were you? You had your chance and you blew it. She was right, Mary-Pat thought. ‘She seems so capable and grown-up, doesn’t she? Who’d have thought it,’ June said.

Mary-Pat opened her mouth to say something sarcastic, but before she could cut her sister down to size, she felt a little hand on her shoulder. ‘How are my two favourite sisters?’ Rosie kissed each sister on the cheek. Her lips felt chilly, Mary-Pat thought, like one of those marble statues. ‘Thank you both for being here; it means a lot to us, it really does.’

Mary-Pat turned around. ‘For Christ’s sake, Rosie, we’re your—’

‘You’re welcome, Rosie,’ June interrupted. ‘Sure, we wouldn’t have it any other way, would we, Mary-Pat?’

‘No. No, we wouldn’t.’ Mary-Pat managed to push the words out.

‘We’re so proud of you, Rosie,’ June was saying. ‘And look what you’ve done with the place,’ she trilled. ‘You’d hardly recognise it, isn’t that right, Mary-Pat?’

‘That’s right.’ Mary-Pat knew that she sounded like a robot, but she didn’t trust herself to say anything further. How dare Rosie treat them like guests. How dare she.

‘Are you sure you’ve both had enough to eat and drink?’ Rosie said, an arm on each of their shoulders. ‘The canapés are organic, would you believe. Craig has a thing about it,’ and she smiled in that composed way she had now.

‘Melissa told me all about it,’ Mary-Pat blurted, and of course, at the expression on Rosie’s face, she knew that it hadn’t come out right. It had sounded sarcastic and hurtful. But it was far from the kind of ‘organic’ they’d been reared on and she wondered if Rosie remembered crying for three days when they’d had to wring Denise the hen’s neck and put her in a pot. But she felt June’s hand on her arm then, a steady, firm pressure, and she forced herself to say, ‘It’s lovely, very tasty.’ And, yes, they had everything they needed, thanks, and, yes, they’d help themselves to more, then they both watched their sister dance off into the crowd, where she was pulled into an embrace by a young man with a flaming red beard, a stranger to them both.

June snaked an arm around Mary-Pat’s shoulder. ‘That’s your work, Mary-Pat.’ June squeezed her shoulder gently. ‘She’s a credit to you, even if she doesn’t know it.’

‘Oh, I’m not so sure, Junie,’ Mary-Pat said and she just couldn’t help the note of bitterness that crept into her voice. ‘I can’t help thinking that our Rosie’s put a lot of thought into herself all the same.’

June looked puzzled and Mary-Pat thanked God that her sister could be a bit slow on the uptake and wouldn’t grasp what she’d been trying to say, that her sister wasn’t the same Rosie that had stomped onto that bus ten years before, and that it wasn’t the normal change that growing up brought – it was something that made Mary-Pat feel uneasy, something not quite real. But she didn’t want to be bitter and nasty on her sister’s wedding day. She really didn’t, and so she patted June on the hand. ‘Thanks.’

‘If only Mammy could see her now.’ June sighed. ‘She’d know just what a good job you’ve done, MP.’

Mary-Pat felt that there was something just beyond her reach, something she didn’t quite get, and she looked at June, who was biting her lip. She was about to ask her, but then June said, ‘C’mon, let’s go and get drunk and make holy shows of ourselves.’

Mary-Pat nodded vaguely, scanning the crowd. ‘In a minute. I need to find Pi. You go on and pour me a drink … a large one,’ she called out to her sister’s retreating back.

He was in the kitchen, filling the old tin bath with the contents of a plastic bag of ice. His back was turned to her, but she could see that he’d scrubbed up well. That awful bush of hair had been tamed into something halfway presentable and he was wearing a smart-looking shirt and slacks that she’d never seen before and that looked as if they’d cost actual money. ‘Pi?’

He turned around, a look of shock on his face. ‘You gave me a fright, MP.’

‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’ve been avoiding me this last week.’ She knew that she was bullying him a bit, using ‘that tone’ of voice, arms folded across her chest, but she couldn’t help it.

She was almost glad when he blushed and put the bag of ice down in the sink. ‘Ah, no, it’s just that I had a big long list of things to do for the wedding, and the garden needed a bit of tidying, you know.’ He shrugged. ‘And then Rosie dragged me into Mullingar to some men’s shop. It wasn’t my kind of place – full of half-naked men waving aftershave in the air – but I did it to please her.’

Mary-Pat felt it again, the jealousy pushing up inside her, making her throat constrict. For fuck’s sake. She’d just swanned back here after ten years and taken over. Where was Rosie when he’d needed to go into that awful place, when he’d had to put his head in her lap and bawl his eyes out like a baby while they were waiting to see the shrink? Where was she when he couldn’t dress himself without bursting into tears, or eat without herself or one of the kids sitting with him to make sure he took even just a few mouthfuls? She wasn’t there, not for that whole long year when he’d hardly been able to set foot outside the house, when PJ had had to take him and Jessie for ‘little walks’ down by the canal, him shuffling along like an old man. She hadn’t been there when it really mattered, and now she was taking him to boutiques and doing him up like he was some kind of a doll.

Mary-Pat folded her arms across her chest, feeling a trickle of sweat slide down into the neck of her dress. She wanted to yank the awful thing off and throw it into the garden. ‘Haven’t I been on at you for years to tidy yourself up? Much good it did me.’

‘I know. I suppose I just needed a bit of a push, by someone … you know, someone outside the family, I mean, someone who hadn’t seen me for a while, that’s it.’ He stood there at the sink, his arms folded across his chest, and she was suddenly struck by how like Daddy he looked, with those lovely fine features, those flashing dark eyes. The bloody Judas.