All That I Leave Behind (12 page)

And then he said, ‘I have something for you. Wait a minute till I get it.’

He left her standing in the kitchen, the sounds of the wedding filtering in through the door. It was nearly dusk now and the room was filled with a rosy pink glow, the same kitchen in which she’d spent her whole young life, cooking dinners and drying clothes on the range, trying to bite back her impatience as Rosie tapped her pencil off her copybook, tilting her chair backwards so that, any minute, she’d fall and hit her head. Sometimes, Mary-Pat would throw the wooden spoon down with a clatter and go over and yank the back of the chair so hard it would squeak in protest, righting Rosie with a thump. ‘Get on with your bloody homework, will you?’ And then she’d slap back to the range and bash pots and pans about for another half an hour, before yelling at them all to come down for their tea.
She’d been so angry, she thought now, her skin prickling with heat and guilt. Such an angry young woman. She still was.

‘I’ve found it,’ Pius was muttering as he came back into the room, his head bent. He didn’t look at her but instead thrust a small package into her hand.

‘What is it?’

‘Don’t open it now.’ His hand on hers was firm. ‘Leave it till later.’

‘For feck’s sake, Pi, you’re scaring me. What’s in here – a bomb or something?’ She went to open the little parcel, picking at the Sellotape which stuck the brown paper together. The thing felt as light as air, as if there was nothing at all inside the package. She looked up at him and the expression on his face was one she’d never seen before. He looked anguished.

‘Mary-Pat.’ His tone was so firm that she looked up from her task. ‘Don’t. OK? Put it in your bag and leave it and we’ll go and get drunk and we’ll talk about it in the morning. I have a lethal punch which I spent three days making and which would knock an elephant stone cold.’

‘Thank God, I thought you’d never ask,’ she said, shoving the package into her shoulder bag, tucking it underneath her fags. ‘I’ll race you.’

They were heading towards the makeshift bar beside the henhouse when they heard the commotion, the raised voices, the loud shriek. Mary-Pat turned her head to see Rosie running down the garden, her hands pressed to her face, a look of horror on those tiny, pretty little features. She was barefoot and the daisies in her hair had formed into tight clumps, the red hair knotted around them, her mouth a big round ‘o’ of alarm.

‘Rosie!’ Mary-Pat called out to her as she ran past, extending a hand as if to catch her, but Rosie just shook her head and disappeared around the side of the house. What on earth …? Mary-Pat looked at the knot of people gathered at the pergola, the voices male this time, one of them clearly the Yank’s, that nasal twang that she couldn’t stand. ‘Couldn’t you leave her alone, old man? Couldn’t you let her be?’

Oh, shite, Mary-Pat thought, her step quickening as she hurried towards the pergola. I thought June was taking care of him. I thought he was out of the way.

She arrived in time to see Daddy, half-out of his chair, looking mystified. ‘But I only said—’ he was saying.

‘I know what you said, you old bastard.’ The Yank was leaning towards him now, his face a livid red, both fists clenched. His tie, unknotted, hung around his neck and his cream suit had grass stains on it. For a second, Mary-Pat was sure he was going to hit Daddy, and even while she put out a hand to stop him, the thought entered her head: Go on. Do it. Hit him.

The thought made her stop dead for a second, but then she pulled herself together and bustled in to the little group, clutching the handles of Daddy’s chair. ‘What’s the matter, Craig?’ Her voice was flat.

‘That bastard.’ Craig was gulping, trying to get enough breath into his lungs. ‘Could you not have kept him away from her?’

And then Daddy tried to stand up, that awful blanket falling from his knees. ‘But I only told her – it was for her own good. She had to know,’ he was saying, his voice shaky, the look on his face confused, as if he couldn’t understand for the life of him what had gone wrong.

Mary-Pat’s stomach lurched. ‘Told her what, Daddy?’ As she asked, she lifted a hand to silence the Yank, who’d been about to interject, his eyes bulging with rage.

‘That she isn’t mine.’

There was a deafening silence for a few minutes, during which Mary-Pat could hear the blood swishing around in her ears. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words would come out. For fuck’s sake, she thought. Could you not have kept your mouth shut after all this time?

And then Daddy added helpfully, ‘You see, I had to send her away then, that little knacker, I had to. I couldn’t have that. That child is not mine. No, no.’ He was shaking his head now, and then he looked at Mary-Pat. ‘Don’t you see?’

‘Daddy, you’re talking nonsense. You know who Rosie is: she’s your daughter. Your flesh and blood.’ And she tightened her grip on the handles of the chair, as if to drive it forward, away from here.

But then Daddy turned and grabbed her by the wrist, his black eyes locking on hers. The look on his face was so intense, it frightened her. She wanted to pull away, to run, to bolt for the safety of the car and home. She licked a bead of sweat from her upper lip.

‘She tried to pin it on me, you know, she tried to tell me that it was all my fault. Filthy bitch …’ And he shook his head. ‘Do you understand, Mary-Pat? I just couldn’t let it go on.’ And now his eyes filled with tears. ‘That woman tried to trick me, to make me believe that Rosie was mine, but it was all lies. You know, Mary-Pat, you know the truth.’ He spat the last word out, covering Mary-Pat’s face in a thin mist of his spit, and she had to fight the urge to vomit as she wiped it off with the back of her hand. She looked down at her arm, which bore the mark of his fingers. Her breath was ragged now, coming in short gasps, and she clutched her throat. She pushed him firmly, with all her strength, back into the chair, pressing his shoulders down as hard as she could until he landed on the seat with a thump. ‘Daddy,’ and her voice sounded like a cracking whip. ‘You’re not yourself. It’s time to go home now for a little rest. Let’s go.’ And she yanked the chair back into reverse, cursing as it caught in the gravel and tugging it harder. She didn’t dare look up to see the expressions on their faces. The dirty O’Connors, doing it again, lowering themselves.

‘Here, let me.’ Pius’s voice was firm in her ear as he took the handles from her, gently hauling the chair out of the gravel and across the grass, ignoring Daddy’s bleated, ‘But I was only saying …’ He simply pretended Daddy wasn’t there, throwing over his shoulder, ‘PJ, I’ll stick him into the back of the Pajero for you.’

‘Thanks.’ PJ’s hand on her arm was warm. ‘C’mon, love, it’s time to go.’

Where did you come from? she thought, as she said, ‘I can’t fucking get into a car with
him
,’ turning to PJ then, ignoring the snot streaming from her nose. ‘Did you not hear him?’

‘I heard. And he doesn’t know his mind,’ PJ said gently.

‘I told you this would happen if she came back – I knew it would happen sooner or later. I couldn’t keep it in for ever.’ The words were out of her mouth before she had time to edit them, and Mary-Pat clamped a hand over her mouth, to prevent anything else escaping. ‘I mean, I—’

But PJ didn’t seem to have noticed, thank God. His voice was low now, a soothing rumble. ‘Shush, shush, let’s go, MP, let’s go.’ He put an arm gently around her shoulder and tugged, and she found herself following him in the direction of the car, where she could see Pius wheeling Daddy up the ramp into the back, Duke trotting close behind.

‘Sorry, Craig, so sorry.’ Mary-Pat turned and extended a hand to him, which he threw off, a look of disgust on his face. ‘Your family,’ he hissed. ‘You’re all insane, do you hear me?’ and he mimed a ‘gone in the head’ expression with his hand.

‘Now, Craig, there’s no call for that.’ PJ was gentle, but firm. ‘He’s an old man who has Alzheimer’s; he doesn’t know what he’s saying.’ This was addressed to Craig’s back, as, muttering, he’d turned away and was striding across the grass to the house.

‘You take him back to the car,’ Mary-Pat said to PJ. ‘I’ll go and see how Rosie is.’ And she made to follow Craig back to the house, until he turned on his heel and yelled, ‘You stay away from her. Do you hear? Stay away from my
wife
.’ He was jabbing his finger at her now and his face was red with rage.

‘C’mon, love.’ PJ grabbed hold of her sleeve and tugged gently, and when she turned around, he was giving her that look, the one she knew meant that he was taking charge.

‘But she needs me …’ Mary-Pat began, but PJ was shaking his head. ‘No, let herself and Craig sort it out tonight. You can ring her in the morning.’

She allowed herself to be guided into the car, PJ clambering in beside her. ‘I’ll drop you all home and then I’ll leave Daddy in, all right?’

Mary-Pat nodded, not trusting herself to speak, her fists clenched tight on her knees. I want to kill him, she thought. I just want to finish him off. She shook her head, unable to believe that she could think such a thing about her own father. And yet, the words must be true, because they’d come from somewhere deep inside, from a place where you couldn’t lie.

The silence lasted all the way home, Mary-Pat not even turning to say goodnight to Daddy, just letting PJ carry him off into the night, going inside and letting Melissa make her a cup of tea and smoking three fags in a row. The light in the kitchen was too bright and so she turned it off and sat there in the dark, watching the moon rise, telling herself that she hadn’t really meant it, that dark thought that had pushed its way into her head on the way home from the wedding, and that just because Daddy had said what he’d said, it didn’t mean that anyone had to believe him.

She was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear PJ come back, keys jangling as he stood in the kitchen door. ‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’

At the sound of his voice, Mary-Pat jumped up and gave a little scream. ‘God almighty. You might have let me know you were there.’

‘Sorry.’ He looked sheepish, shifting slightly from foot to foot. He had a yellow can of air freshener in his hand, which he put gently down on the counter beside him.

‘Yes, well. Where have you been? It’s half-one in the morning.’ She looked up at the kitchen clock.

‘Ehm … well, I put Daddy to bed at St Benildus’s. The nurse said she’d give him something to help him sleep. And then I, ahm, I had to get something in the minimarket.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry?’ He looked startled.

‘What did you get at the shop?’

‘Oh. Ehm, we needed some air freshener.’ He nodded at the yellow can. ‘The car stinks. Must be the heat.’

‘Oh.’ Mary-Pat couldn’t understand why he needed to go to the minimarket in the middle of the night, even if it was open 24 hours. Could he not wait until the morning? But she was too tired to ask.

‘PJ, would you help me up to bed?’ she said quietly.

‘Sure, love,’ and then he was beside her, her big rock of a man, his arms around her. He gave her a brief, tight squeeze and then led her gently up the stairs to bed.

Only when they had closed the bedroom door behind them did PJ speak. ‘Love, you’ve had a shock, that’s all. You’re not to listen to him. He’s talking rubbish. It’s the disease. I’m just sorry that Rosie had to hear that. Even if it
is
a load of bollocks, she’ll still be wondering …’ he said, his voice tailing off when Mary-Pat didn’t move to contradict him. She felt a wave of intense exhaustion so strong it felt impossible to resist. She looked around at the bed and wondered if she could lie her cheek against the bedspread, just for a minute, and close her eyes and just drift away.

‘It
is
a load of bollocks, isn’t it?’ PJ caught her eye, and she knew that if she didn’t look completely blank, he’d rumble her – he always knew when she wasn’t being truthful.

She nodded again. ‘Utter and total bollocks. I’ll go and see Rosie in the morning and put her mind at rest.’

‘Good idea.’ The hand, when placed on her shoulder, was warm and heavy and full of quiet hope. When she made no move towards him, the hand was removed, and she heard him sigh gently, and she felt a wave of sorrow wash over her. But she couldn’t yield to him, she just couldn’t. If she did that, she’d end up blabbing, she knew she would. She had to be vigilant, for Rosie’s sake.

R
osie
had to use Pius’s bike in the end because she couldn’t run fast enough in bare feet. She’d tried, but the stones on the towpath had hobbled her, digging into the soft flesh on the underside of her foot, making her scream in pain.

She crept around the side of the house to where Pius kept an old racing bike, a tall narrow-framed Raleigh with the handlebars that curved under, like rams’ horns, bound with dirty white gaffer tape. Tucking her dress up into her knickers, she swung a leg over the crossbar, putting out a hand to steady herself on the gable wall. She’d have to be careful – she hadn’t ridden a bike in years.

She pushed on the pedals, gaining a little speed before removing her hand from the wall, gripping the handlebars as the bike moved forward with a wobble. Oh, Christ, she thought,
I’m going to come a cropper, but she kept pedalling until she was down the garden path and veering out onto the bank, where she managed to steer the bike towards town.

The moon was up now, a huge silvery ball which hung over the row of gloomy leylandii that marked the boundary to Sean O’Reilly’s chicken farm, the fishy smell of feed and chicken poo now floating over the hedge to her.

Her hair flapped around her face as she picked up speed, but she didn’t dare tidy it behind her ears with a hand in case she lost her balance. She just needed to keep going, not to stop until she got there. If she stopped, then she’d think and if she thought, then she would just turn around and go back home again. Home to her husband, curled up on the bed, his back towards her.

At first, he’d refused to utter one word to her. She’d tried: after everyone had gone home, murmuring and whispering and laying regretful hands on her shoulder. She’d trudged up the stairs to their bedroom to find him sitting on the bed, his back to her. He’d taken off the cream linen wedding suit jacket and his shirt was rumpled, a grass stain just above the left elbow. He was completely still. She knew that stillness. She’d witnessed it many times before. It didn’t bode well. When she’d put a hand on his shoulder, he’d whirled around, his face twisted into a snarl. ‘Don’t say a fucking word,’ he’d hissed. ‘Do not speak to me, do you hear?’