All That I Leave Behind (42 page)

‘Yes, I am,’ she agreed, taking a seat in the chair Imelda had gently pushed across towards her.

‘I’ll leave ye to it,’ she said quietly.

‘Thank you,’ he said gaily, waving at Imelda. ‘What’s your name?’

‘It’s Imelda, John-Joe,’ she said, as if it was the first time he’d asked her and not the hundredth or more.

‘Imelda,’ he repeated. ‘And what about you, love?’ He turned his bright gaze to Rosie. ‘How are you settling in here? You know, my mammy and daddy are from Donegal,’ he continued. ‘They’ve been roaming the roads for as long as I can remember.’ And then his face creased in a frown. ‘Where have you come from?’

‘Oh, just up the road,’ Rosie said vaguely. ‘Have you been watching the horseracing?’ She nodded at the television.

He looked at her blankly. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Gambling’s the work of the devil, that’s what Mammy says.’ At this, he seemed to grow agitated, pulling at the hair behind his left ear and shifting in the chair. ‘The work of the devil.’ It seemed so unfair that he couldn’t remember, she thought, one of the things that had given him such pleasure, and her too, sitting up beside him, licking the pencil and marking the pink slip with the each-way bet. ‘Will we be lucky today, Rosie?’ he’d say. ‘What do you think?’

He paused now and looked upset. ‘They’re all dead now. All of them.’

‘All of whom?’

He looked irritated, swatting her away with his hand. ‘Oh, the whole lot of them. Everyone always leaves in the end, but then you know that.’

Yes, I do know that, Rosie thought. Even you, Daddy. And all the questions I have to ask you will go unanswered. I can see that now. She reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘How about a little song?’

He sat up straighter in his seat and looked pleased with himself. ‘Sure why not?’

‘Imelda tells me you’re a great singer.’

He nodded enthusiastically. ‘I like a tune.’ But then he’d looked anxious. ‘The thing is, sometimes, I can’t remember …’

‘I know. I’ll help you. Do you know “The Rose of Tralee”?’

He sat up straight then and looked thoughtful before launching into it, his fine tenor voice floating over her out into the room. He could remember every word, and as he sang, Rosie thought that it was beautiful and she wondered how such beauty could come from someone so … ‘bad’ wasn’t the right word. He wasn’t evil, just foolish and selfish and deluded, a man who had let his impulses dictate his life. She stroked the baby in her belly and wondered why it was that the people you loved most in the world could turn out to be for ever a disappointment, no matter how much she’d wish it otherwise or how long she waited for things to be different. And she could let it crush her or learn from it, to try not to make their mistakes, to try to do a little bit better for the baby inside her.

When he finished, there was a scattering of applause from the few elderly people sitting around in the bright room. ‘Good man, John-Joe,’ a tall, upright man with snowy hair said. ‘Good man.’

At the praise, Daddy beamed, delighted with himself, and as she looked at him, for a second, the old Daddy was there, face alive with pleasure, a twinkle in those dark eyes.

‘Is it time for lunch?’ He looked hopefully at the hatch from the dayroom into the kitchen, from where clattering and banging could be heard, the over-stewed smell of boiled cabbage wafting in. Rosie felt her stomach turn. ‘Yes, time for lunch,’ and then she squeezed his hand again. ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the song.’

‘See you, love,’ he said, continuing to look in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Come back soon.’

I’ve completed my list now, Rosie thought the following week as she lay on the examining table, Margaret’s broad hands feeling her bump, shaping it like a baker shapes a loaf, identifying first the head, digging around in Rosie’s pelvis with surprising force.

‘Your blood pressure’s very low,’ Margaret said. ‘Been feeling dizzy?’

‘I have actually,’ Rosie admitted.

‘Hmm. Any idea whether Mum had low blood pressure during her pregnancy?’ Margaret was looking away from her, making a series of cryptic scribbles on the file and, when Rosie didn’t answer, looking up. ‘Oh dear,’ she said when she saw the tears. ‘Oh dear. Tea and sympathy.’ And then she got up and left the office, leaving Rosie sniffling, looking around for a tissue. I thought I could do this, she thought to herself. I thought I was strong, that I could manage by myself, but
look
at me. She was distracted by a rustling behind the door, after which it swung slowly open and a large foot appeared, followed by Margaret clutching two mugs, which she placed gently on the table, before handing one to Rosie. ‘Here.’

‘Thanks,’ Rosie said. The tea was hot and too sweet and tasted like nectar. And it wasn’t that dreadful wee-like green stuff either, the stuff Pi kept making her drink because it was good for her.

‘You’re welcome.’ Margaret leaned back in her seat and eyed Rosie narrowly. ‘Rosie, do you want me to contact social services? They can help, you know.’

‘No, God, no!’ Rosie half-yelled, pulling herself into a standing position, then sitting back in the chair. ‘Sorry, I mean, no. It’s fine, really. I have my brother and his … friend, they’re helping.’

‘What about Dad?’

Rosie thought she meant Daddy for a second, but then she understood. ‘Oh. He’s abroad. And before you ask, no, I don’t think he has the right to know. It’s complicated,’ she managed. She knew that she sounded defensive, and her face reddened with shame, because he did have a right to know, of course he did. And she had no real right to keep it from him, except that she felt somehow that she had to – she told herself that it was because she was angry with him, that he hadn’t told her he was going until it was too late. That he’d let her fall in love with him all over again and then he’d just left her, but really it was because she just couldn’t make him come back, not after all the years he’d spent waiting for her here. His life had only begun and she wasn’t going to take that away from him. Not yet.

Margaret put her hands up then in surrender. ‘That’s fine. I’m not pushing you – I just want to help, that’s all.’ She looked a bit miffed.

‘I know, and thanks.’ Rosie cleared her throat. ‘I’ll ask … my mother about the blood pressure.’

‘Good,’ Margaret said, making a note on the file, a cross look on her face. Then, ‘And take care of yourself, will you?’ Her expression softened, and Rosie thought again of Mary-Pat, longed to have her beside her, giving Margaret a piece of her mind.

She decided to phone Frances O’Brien this time. It wasn’t hard to find her number because she was on the town council, beaming out from the council website in her shiny Sarah Palin suit. Rosie didn’t want to arrive on her doorstep and be turned away.

Frances O’Brien answered in a kind of a trill, a telephone voice, and Rosie felt the oddest desire to laugh.

‘It’s Rosie O’Connor. Please don’t hang up,’ she said.

There was a long pause at the end of the line and Rosie had to say, ‘Are you still there?’

‘I’m here.’ The telephone voice was gone.

‘Look, I need to ask you something. Can I come and see you?’

‘No!’ It was nearly a shout, then more softly, ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

Rosie tutted with impatience. ‘Listen. My sisters have told me everything.’

There was another long pause before Frances said, ‘I’ll see you in the Moran Arms tomorrow at 12,’ and then the phone went dead.

‘Nice chatting to you too,’ Rosie muttered, pressing the red button on her mobile. Her hands were shaking.

I need to calm down, she told herself, deciding to take a cup of tea outside to the garden, the spring sun warming her face, and she sat on one of the brightly coloured chairs Pi had bought in the garden centre to put under the pergola. His garden was really taking shape now, the bright tulip buds pushing up through the soil, the fronds of the wild grasses blowing in the breeze. It looked lovely, and Rosie closed her eyes and listened to the rushes on the canal and felt her baby move inside her, a ripple of movement across her stomach, the shape of a foot or elbow pressing against her skin. She was going to be a mother now, too, a good one, she told herself. Even if she never found out another thing about herself, she knew that: that her son or daughter would be loved.

Frances O’Brien was sitting by the fire in the hotel in an electric blue suit, her hair sprayed into oblivion, those glasses on the chain around her neck. The expression on her face was forbidding, a tight granite mask, and when Rosie walked across the lobby towards her, her expression remained hostile. And then she saw Rosie’s bump and her expression changed. It softened, and she gave a smile which made her look twenty years younger, a glimpse of the girl she’d once been on those hard features.

Frances O’Brien stood up, put a hand on Rosie’s arm briefly, before taking it away. ‘I had no idea … congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’ Rosie didn’t say anything further, just sat on one of the comfy velvet armchairs, sinking into it, her bump pushing her down into the squashy centre of the chair.

‘Tea?’ Frances O’Brien was saying, waving the menu at Rosie, her glasses now perched on her nose. ‘They have herbal tea, if you prefer it.’

Rosie wrinkled her nose. ‘No thanks,’ and Frances O’Brien gave a small laugh. ‘I don’t blame you. Awful stuff.’

‘You don’t like it either?’ Rosie asked.

Frances shook her head. ‘Builder’s tea is the only one for me.’ Then, as if this amounted to some kind of admission, she rearranged her glasses on her bosom and folded her hands on her knee. ‘You wanted to see me.’ Her tone was businesslike and Rosie felt a stab of irritation.

‘I’ve been having antenatal appointments and the midwife wanted to know whether there was any family history of low blood pressure.’

Frances O’Brien put a hand to her throat, and when she spoke it was barely a whisper. ‘Oh.’

‘I’m sorry to ask, it’s just …’

‘No, no, it’s fine … ehm …’ Her eyes filled with tears and she began to rummage in her handbag, producing a packet of tissues, from which she extracted one, blowing her nose. ‘I do suffer from low blood pressure, that’s true.’

‘Right.’ If Rosie had been expecting some admission, some emotional outpouring, it suddenly dawned on her that there would be neither, that she was wasting her time: whatever she’d wanted from her mother, whatever she’d been expecting, something she’d been unable to put into words, would not be forthcoming.

‘I’m not sure really if I can help you any further …’ Frances O’Brien said.

Rosie shunted forward in the seat, putting a hand out on either side to push herself up to a standing position. ‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘You’ve told me what I need to know. Thank you for meeting me.’

Frances O’Brien made no move to help Rosie, and she had to turn herself sideways to lever herself up. ‘Don’t get up,’ she said pointedly. She turned and walked towards the door.

‘Wait.’ Frances O’Brien’s voice was suddenly loud, compelling Rosie to turn around. ‘Wait,’ she said more softly. She walked towards Rosie. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t give you what you need, Rosie,’ she began.

‘I don’t
need
anything,’ Rosie said, thinking as she said the words that they were true. She had what she needed, even if, until now, she hadn’t realised it. She had a family who loved her, even if none of them was speaking to each other and she wasn’t speaking to them, Pi excluded. She knew that and that everything they’d done for her had been out of love. They had a funny way of showing it, but it was still love. This woman, her mother, was just a stranger.

‘I told you. I just wanted to ask you a question for the midwife. That’s all. And if it’s all the same to you, I need to get on,’ she said briskly, about to turn on her heel.

‘Your mother was a remarkable woman, Rosie, did you know that?’ Frances’s expression was wistful, and she twisted the chain of her glasses in her hand. ‘Extraordinary. There was no way in the world I could have offered … a baby anything like what she could give. I just didn’t have it in me, that strength. And I never wanted a baby. I just wanted love. That was all.’

‘Well, thank you for clearing that up,’ Rosie said blankly.

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, it hadn’t been in my plans. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I just saw what you had, your family and, well … I wanted some of it for myself. I never really had it growing up,’ Frances said sadly. And she gave Rosie a look as if to say, ‘Is that really so bad?’

When Rosie didn’t reply, Frances continued, ‘And then I had no one to support me when it did happen. I was all alone. My family had disowned me and I had to go to the nuns and it was just awful, an awful place.’

And you want me to feel sorry for you, Rosie thought, remaining perfectly still. I’m not sure I really can. I don’t think I have it in me.

Frances’s voice was almost a whisper now. ‘They wanted to take you away when you were born. That’s what happened in those days: they took babies away and they sold them to rich people in America. But your mother … she said no, that she’d take you, so you see she really saved you. If it wasn’t for her, neither of us would be here.’ She allowed the words to hang in the air for a while. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, I really am.’ The woman was trembling now, all vestiges of Sarah Palin gone. Her mascara had smudged and there were silver tear marks in her foundation.

‘You don’t need to apologise,’ Rosie said, trying to picture Frances O’Brien in her mind; what it must have been like to have no one to turn to, not one single person, how frightened she must have been. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to understand, because then she wouldn’t be able to hang onto this righteous anger she felt. And then she thought of Mark and she wondered if history was repeating itself. If she would be telling her son or daughter about him in a few years’ time, trying to explain why she’d made the choices she had, expecting them to understand why she’d deprived them of a father. Would her son or daughter feel the same way she did, that she’d never really known who she was? And then she thought, but I do know who I am now. The mystery is over. And it hasn’t really changed a thing.