All That I Leave Behind (20 page)

Melissa had taken one look at him and yelled, ‘Mum,’ then bolted into the kitchen.

Mary-Pat had come out then, in her pink dressing gown. ‘Pius? What is it? What’s the matter?’

He hadn’t been able to answer. His lips had moved, but the words wouldn’t come out. He’d tried, ‘Thoughts,’ and then pointed to his head.

‘Your thoughts, I know,’ his sister had said soothingly and pulled him towards her, cradling his head as she hugged him tight. ‘You poor cratur. Poor Pius.’

And he’d sobbed then, great gulping wails that didn’t even seem to come from inside him. He’d been like an animal, moaning and wailing. ‘I’m finished, Mary-Pat, finished,’ he’d yelled, as she patted him and tutted.

‘Indeed and you are not. Now, let’s go inside out of the rain.’

He’d had to lay his head on her kitchen table then, the oilcloth cool under his cheeks, which seemed to be burning. He’d closed his eyes for a while, letting the murmurs between Mary-Pat and PJ roll over him. And when Mary-Pat had sat down beside him, the smoke from her cigarette reaching his nostrils, she’d said, ‘Pi? I think you need a rest. Would you go into St Loman’s for a few days?’

He hadn’t even lifted his head from the table, just nodded and said, ‘Yes.’ And when he’d come out again, six weeks later, he’d been quiet and had remained so ever since.

‘Ill? What kind of ill?’ Daphne was leaning towards him now, the red of her hair glowing in the sunlight from the kitchen window.

Pius shrugged. ‘Hospital ill.’

She nodded. ‘And you recovered.’ A statement, not a question.

‘You know, I don’t think I did. Not really,’ Pius said, getting up and gathering up the plates. ‘I just … returned, I suppose.’ As if he’d come back from some conflict, battered and bruised. From a war zone of his own making. And then, signalling that the conversation was over, he said, ‘Dara, let’s go and pick some veg for you and Mum to take home,’ and he extended his hand, enjoying the feeling when Dara slipped his hand into Pius’s. He squeezed it gently.

It wasn’t quite dusk and they were still in the vegetable patch when Daphne called from the house, her voice echoing down the garden. ‘Time to go home, Dara,’ Pius said, standing up and clutching the small of his back as he did so. Jesus, that hurt.

She was waiting for them both, leaning against the back doorframe, scratching her head through the hat, and he wondered if she knew just how horrible it was, and just how beautiful she looked in spite of it, with that pale skin and her eyes, which seemed to capture the light. ‘Rosie’s gone for a walk with Jessie,’ she offered. ‘I left her to it.’

‘Oh, right.’ There was a long pause, during which Dara ran around the side of the house in search of the hens again.

‘It’s not true you know,’ Pius said. She looked puzzled for a moment and he realised he’d need to elaborate. ‘What Daddy said. The trouble is, Rosie seems to believe it. She’s been like a dog with a bone. I can’t persuade her to leave it alone.’

‘Well, she needs to find the truth, and when she does, she’ll stop,’ Daphne said, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

Jesus, Pius thought, glaring at Daphne.

‘Look, it’s family stuff, Daphne, and you’re best off out of it.’

She just shrugged, her lovely red curls catching the light.

‘Family stuff,’ she said blankly. ‘Maybe you’re just blaming her for everything that’s happened in your family. It’s not her fault, you know.’

You’d be right, he thought, not that he’d give her the satisfaction. ‘Thanks for the psychoanalysis,’ he said shortly. ‘Will you see yourself out?’

‘Fine.’ She glared at him. ‘Whatever.’ She shouted into the garden. ‘Dara, time to go.’

They both stood there in complete silence, Pius thinking that if he ever had to see the woman again, it’d be too soon. But then she started cramming her gorgeous hair into that hideous hat and it made him want her all over again.

M
ary-Pat
peered in through the window past the Lotto stickers and the small ads written out on little cards, advertising cattle feed and baby-minding and Spanish lessons. She’d begun to come up every day and just sit there, in the Pajero, waiting for a glimpse of that puff of blonde hair, watching to see how the woman talked to the customers, if she was like that with all of them or only with PJ. Joking and laughing, a flash of teeth ringed with bright red lipstick, that peroxide blonde quiff bobbing up and down as she bent over the till or reached over to the cigarette machine to extract a packet of cigarettes for a customer.

Mary-Pat made sure that PJ didn’t see her, parking across the road from the shop so that he’d have had to look behind him to spot her, which he never did. Too intent on looking ahead, she thought, to what might be about to happen. Even so, when he appeared, as he did every day at a quarter to one, pulling up in front of the door in the little van and getting out, his big chunky frame far too big for the van, she’d duck down behind the wheel in case he might catch a glimpse of her. Because if he did and asked her what, exactly, she thought she was doing, she’d have struggled to find an answer. ‘I’m checking to see if you’re having an affair with that young one at the counter.’ No, it sounded too final, too bleak for her even to contemplate. It was bad enough thinking that he was making a point of going there every single day, before he came home for his lunch. That he’d arrive home to her barely fifteen minutes later, barrelling in the door in his Kildare jersey, a big smile on his red face, ‘Howya, love, what’s for lunch?’ And she’d want to punch him or to pick the plate of quiche and salad up and throw it in his face, with a yelled, ‘Here’s your effin’ lunch. Why don’t you shove it where the sun don’t shine?’ Oh, how she longed to do it: her fingers would itch as she handed him the plate, but because she was so used to keeping bad feelings at bay, she would no more have thrown a quiche at him than flown to the moon. It wasn’t her style. Instead, they’d both sit there, the drone of the one o’clock news in the background, and make polite conversation, the sound of forks and knives on plates punctuating the background chatter about burning the bondholders.

And the worst thing was, he was happier now than she’d seen him in a long time. She supposed she had Marilyn Monroe at the minimarket to thank for that. Until just three weeks before, PJ would have slunk into the kitchen, a wary look on his face, a muttered ‘Thanks, love’ as she’d hand him his ham salad or hard-boiled eggs, shooting her anxious glances as he forked the food into his mouth, but saying nothing for fear of upsetting her. Ever since the wedding, the poor fellah had been able to do or say nothing right. Now, though, he was positively chatty, regaling her with stories of crazy Hughie O’Leary and his order for half a ton of maggots, because he thought they’d make great fertiliser for his vegetable patch. ‘Can you imagine, MP, them all crawling over his tomato plants?’ PJ had nearly choked on his lunch, he’d been laughing so much, and it had been all Mary-Pat could do to raise a half-smile, to look as if she were enjoying the story when all she really wanted to do was to go upstairs and lock herself into her room and never come out. Oh, she’d been such a fool. A silly fool. She thought of the night he’d come back with the damned air freshener, and she felt it again, that hot blush of shame and rage.

She’d tried to talk to him once. She’d told him that she’d gone to see the doctor, deliberately waiting until he was watching
Grand Designs
before spitting it out, and being grateful that he only half-noticed. ‘Grand, love, that’s good,’ he said, his eyes fixed on a converted barn in Buckinghamshire. ‘Did she give you anything for the anxiety?’

‘She did – half a kilo of cocaine,’ she’d said, to see if he was really listening.

‘Oh, good, great,’ he’d said, continuing to look at the screen, patting her absently on the knee. ‘I’m sure it’ll have you feeling better in no time.’

She’d had to laugh then, a short bark of laughter, at which he’d turned and looked at her curiously. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Oh, nothing, love. I’ll stick the kettle on,’ she’d said and got up and left the room before he’d notice the look on her face. Fuck him, she’d thought as she filled the kettle and banged it down on the counter. Fuck him. I don’t need him. I can manage just fine on my own. Sure, isn’t that what I’ve been doing for the last while anyway?

How had it come to this, Mary-Pat wondered. How had they both gone from not being able to get enough of each other to ships passing in the night?

She could still remember the day he’d called up for her. It was burned on her mind. She was twenty-six and she’d thought her chance had passed for another life, that she’d be stuck here for ever. She’d been standing over Rosie, trying to coax some sums out of her, trying to resist the urge to clatter her around the head, when the doorbell had rung. She couldn’t imagine who would be calling to the house – no one ever called, apart from the postman – so she hadn’t even opened the door. She’d just yelled through the closed door, ‘Who is it?’

A throat had been cleared outside and a voice had said, ‘PJ.’

There had been a long pause while Mary-Pat had racked her brains, trying to remember who PJ could be, and then the voice had said, ‘From the tackle shop? You came over last week with an order for Pius.’

Christ almighty. Mary-Pat had done a little spin in the hallway, like a dog trying to settle in its bed, going round in a circle until she’d managed to calm herself, pulling off her apron and patting down her hair. She’d opened the door and he was standing there, in jeans and an open-necked shirt, the top of his chest burnt bright red from the sun. He’d clearly showered recently, because a smell of shower gel wafted across to her and his red-gold hair was still damp. He was holding a box in his hand.

‘I’ve some groundbait for Pius,’ he’d said. ‘He ordered it a while back, so I thought I’d drop it down. Special delivery.’ He’d smiled.

Mary-Pat had swallowed and had opened her mouth before realising that she didn’t know what to say. It was an unfamiliar feeling, because she wasn’t often lost for words, but something about this man made her tongue-tied. And when he’d asked her out, she hadn’t known what to say. No one had ever asked her out before. He’d blurted, ‘I wondered if you’d fancy the session going on in O’Dwyers?’

‘Oh, no,’ Mary-Pat had found herself replying, ‘I don’t drink at all. I’ve never been in one of the pubs down the town.’ It had been one of Mammy’s things. That they weren’t like the rest of them in this place, falling out of the pubs at all hours. By ‘the rest of them’ they knew she’d meant Daddy. Mary-Pat had stuck to it, even though, with Mammy not there, she could have done whatever she liked.

He’d blushed a bright crimson, sticking his hands in his pockets and examining his feet in their blue Gola trainers. And then he’d mumbled, ‘I actually meant the trad session. There’s one on a Sunday afternoon. You don’t have to drink. You can just have tea or coffee.’

‘Oh. Are you asking
me
?’ Mary-Pat had pointed to herself, as if there was someone else in the vicinity that he might be asking, someone lurking in the bushes. When he’d blushed and looked down at his feet, she’d felt sorry for having made him work for it. Are you cracked, Mary-Pat, she told herself. For God’s sake, say yes. ‘Because if you are, that’d be grand.’

He’d looked up then and a grin had split his freckled face. ‘It would? That’s great. I’ll be down so on Sunday. Around two.’

She’d shrugged then, as if she wasn’t that bothered, and had turned on her heel. ‘See you then,’ she’d said, in what she’d hoped was a casual voice, a voice that disguised her excitement, her disbelief that there was someone out there who wanted
her
.

And that was it. He was the man for her. The first time they’d done it had been in his place, on the sofa, just a week after that first date, bouncing up and down on the thing until she thought the springs would break. They hadn’t even bothered climbing the stairs to bed, just shedding their clothes and climbing onto the sofa. She’d never enjoyed herself so much. God, she’d thought after, collapsing into his arms, both of them succumbing to fits of the giggles, what the hell had she been missing? Why hadn’t she known about this before?

‘Mary-Pat, you’re a fantastic girl,’ PJ had said, burying his head in her breasts and making loud farting noises. ‘All that lovely soft flesh. I think I’m getting a hard-on again,’ he’d moaned.

She’d burst out laughing.

Later, when she’d discovered that she was pregnant with John-Patrick, she supposed they shouldn’t have, really. Didn’t that make her a bit cheap? But they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and anyway, PJ had every intention of making an honest woman of her. He was the one for her, and she’d known it the minute he’d turned up at her door, box of groundbait in hand.

And better than everything else, they made each other laugh. Great belly laughs as they watched re-runs of
Fawlty Towers
or comedy videos that his friend had got for him, bootlegs but the quality wasn’t bad. They’d watch them and fall around with laughter and then, if the fancy took them, just make love on the sofa, lying there after, telling each other stories.

It was that she missed the most, she realised now, the cuddles and the close times. And the woman she used to be.

She hadn’t breathed a word about PJ’s fancy woman to anyone, for shame. Not even to her therapist. She couldn’t even believe it, that she had such a thing, even as she’d thought the words: ‘my therapist’. It sounded like something Junie would say, something else she was prepared to waste her money on when she wasn’t having colonic irrigations and that kind of shite, pun not intended. His name was Graham and he was from England – at least, judging by his accent; he wasn’t from Naas, that was for sure. He was a slight man, whose outfits seemed to be composed of various shades of the colour beige.

He’d never mentioned where he was from, as it happened. Never said anything, in fact, or at least very little. It had taken her a while to get used to it, the way he’d just sit there, waiting, when she arrived.

He’d only asked her one really difficult question, at the very first session: ‘Why are you here, Mary-Pat?’ It was an obvious one, of course, but she’d been flummoxed. Why exactly am I here? she’d thought, as she’d examined the pile on his expensive-looking beige carpet. ‘Well, I’ve been having these panic attacks, at least that’s what the doctor calls them, you know, Jennifer on the Dublin Road …’ she’d begun, trying not to think of the huge wall of grey water that rose up in front of her, the feeling that she had that she was drowning, every time it happened. And it happened a lot these days. Eventually, three weeks after the wedding, she’d been able to bear it no longer and had trudged up to see Jennifer, mainly because she was new to the place, unlike Dr Meade, who knew every last thing about her. ‘And she thought it might be the stress, you know, what with Daddy – my father – in a home and the kids growing up and all that …’