All That I Leave Behind (43 page)

I
have to hold Rosie’s hand really tightly because there are so many people milling about. I’m scared that I’ll lose her or that she’ll get taken by some stranger: you hear about that kind of thing all the time. Her hand is warm in my own, warm and damp, and when I look down at her, her little face is red beneath her bonnet and coat. It’s too hot in Dublin for both of them, but it was still chilly when we set out, a damp mist on the canal, and I didn’t want her to catch a cold. She has asthma and the slightest chill makes her wheeze dreadfully.

My hands are shaking as I push the 50p into the slot, but when I look down, Rosie’s humming a tune to herself, happy in her own little world. I’ve promised her that if she’s very good, I’ll take her to the amusements in Bray. She hasn’t a clue what they are, but she can tell by my tone that they are something to get excited about. ‘The Musements’, she calls them. I’ve asked Maeve to meet me beside the waltzers. I feel like someone in a Le Carré novel, but I can’t risk John-Joe knowing where I am. God knows what he’d do.

I can see the phone ringing now in Prendergast’s. I’ve rung there because I know that’s where he’ll be. If the world was about to end, he’d nip in there for a quick one. Eoin Prendergast answers, a muffled roar in the background, and when I ask for John-Joe, he mutters something unintelligible into the phone and I can hear him yelling John-Joe’s name. There’s a long wait, and I panic when I hear the beep-beep of the phone telling me that my money is running out. I shove a handful of coins in just as I hear his voice.

John-Joe isn’t the beaten dog this time, slinking around the place, waiting for me to forgive him. His voice is loud, confident, the anger clear. ‘Where the fuck have you gone, Michelle?’

‘What do you care?’ I hiss.

‘I care because you have taken my child. I don’t give a tinker’s curse about you, but if you lay one finger on my child’s head, I swear to God—’

‘She’s safe,’ I say quickly. ‘I’d never harm her, you know that.’ There’s a long silence and I blurt, ‘She needs me, John-Joe. You don’t want her.’ And I need her too, I think. Without her, I have nothing. She’s the only thing I have left.

His voice is low now, a hiss into the phone. ‘For Christ’s sake, have you lost your fucking mind? It’s kidnapping. She’s not yours and it won’t be hard to prove, Michelle, I can assure you. Bring her home to me and I’ll say nothing more about it. But if you attempt to keep her, I won’t be responsible for my own actions.’

‘But I’m her mother—’ I begin, and then I stop, realising what I’ve said. There’s a long silence and for a moment I wonder if he’s there, and then he says, quietly, ‘Bring her home, Michelle. This is where she belongs.’

I haven’t lost my marbles completely. I know that she’s not mine, but I need to protect her. I need to make sure that she doesn’t suffer because of everything we’ve done. She is the innocent party here.

‘What about the kids?’ John-Joe is saying, a sly tone in his voice. ‘Are you going to abandon them too?’ He’s playing his trump card, but I’m not going to weaken, not now.

‘I have to go, John-Joe, but I’ll be back for them, they’re my children. They belong with me.’ And before he can say anything else, I put the phone down. And then I squeeze my daughter’s hand, my voice shaking, and I say, ‘Are you ready for the amusements?’

‘Musements,’ she squeals, jumping up and down on the spot.

‘That’s right, Rosie-boo. Musements.’

It never occurs to me to leave her, not until the very last moment, until Maeve has the ticket booked for Holyhead, the onwards train to London Euston. I know that we’ll arrive at the crack of dawn, that the station will be quiet and that the two of us will slip away, onto the Tube and under the streets of London. By this time tomorrow, I think, we’ll be far away from here, somewhere where John-Joe can’t find us.

We make our tea in silence, and we eat buttered bread and jam, the way we used to when we were teenagers, our feet up on the old range in her kitchen, and we listen to the six o’clock news, the two of us having used up all of our talk in the previous hours. I’d told her things I hadn’t told another living soul, not even Bridie. Maeve had just listened, her round face creasing in sympathy, and not once did she ask me if I thought I was doing the right thing. She just nodded and said that, whatever I wanted, she’d try her best to help me. What would I have done without Maeve?

The weather forecast is on, the man telling us both that a front is coming in from the Atlantic, when Maeve clears her throat. ‘Michelle, I need to ask you something.’

I look up at her, wary.

‘Are you serious about Rosie?’

‘What do you mean?’ The bread feels suddenly like rubber in my mouth. I try to swallow, but it won’t go down. I feel as if I’m going to choke, my eyes watering, and it’s all I can do not to spit it up into my napkin. Maeve is a great believer in napkins.

‘About taking her,’ Maeve says quietly.

I choke the bread down, taking a slurp of hot tea while I try to think. Eventually, I say, ‘Of course I am. How on earth could you think that I’d abandon my own chi—’ I don’t finish the word, and it hangs in the air between us. And then Maeve puts her hand on mine and gives it a squeeze and, for the first time since this whole thing happened, I allow myself to cry. And once I’ve started, I can’t stop. I howl and I roar for what seems like hours, even though it could only be a few moments, and Maeve pats my hair and says, ‘There there,’ and she just lets me cry. At that moment, I don’t think I could love anyone more than I do her.

Then she says, ‘Michelle, I’ve listened to your story and I haven’t said a word. I haven’t judged, because it’s not my place, and God knows, you don’t need it.’ She hesitates. ‘But your children need you. Don’t abandon them.’

I shake my head sadly. ‘I can’t be a mother to them anymore, at least, not the kind of mother they need. I’m so … useless to them, so … toxic. You see, I used to think that John-Joe was the problem, Maeve, but now I know it’s me. I just seem to poison everything around me. Don’t you see?’

‘Oh, love, that’s nonsense. You’re not thinking straight. It’s all the stress. You’re their mother. They only have you, can’t you see that?’

I nod silently, clutching my damp napkin. But I don’t see. Not at all. I can only see how they’d be able to breathe again without me. Without me, they’ll be free.

Maeve’s talking again now, a low murmur, and at first, I only half-hear her. ‘You need to leave Rosie here, Michelle.’

‘No!’ I yell, getting up so suddenly my teacup falls to the floor and rolls around, a thick puddle of hot tea steaming up from the carpet. Rosie lifts her head, her eyes wide with shock, but then her eyelids droop again and she’s asleep. ‘No,’ I say more softly. ‘That is not going to happen.’

Maeve shakes her head sadly, reaching out and dabbing at the tea with her napkin. She keeps her gaze on mine. ‘If you take her, John-Joe will come after you, you know he will, and so will the authorities. It’s kidnapping, Michelle, because she’s not your daughter,’ she says softly. ‘You understand that, don’t you, love?’

I think for a moment. I’m her mother. It says so on those pieces of paper, but I know that they are a lie. ‘I understand that, Maeve,’ I say bitterly. ‘Don’t you think I know? It’s just … she’s all I have,’ I wail. ‘Without her, I have nothing left.’

‘So go and find something,’ she says softly. ‘If that’s what you want. If the only thing you can do right now is go, go. For God’s sake, haven’t I helped you?’ she says ruefully. ‘But leave the baby. It’s the right thing to do, you know that. She belongs here, with her family.’

And suddenly, the final barrier between me and the world has fallen. Maeve was my only support, my only ally, and now she’s gone. The only way in the world I could have done this, picked Rosie up in my arms and taken her with me, was if Maeve was behind me, supporting me. But she’s not. And the reality is, I’m completely alone.

‘I’m not her family,’ I whisper, as if I have only just realised.

‘No. No, love, you’re not.’

Maeve asks Alan to drive me to the boat, with my single battered suitcase, because she says she just can’t bear to watch me go. We both know that we’ll never see each other again. And as she stands in the doorway, I remember the two of us on the steps of the church on Maeve’s wedding day, both our lives just beginning. When I told her that I was only going to Kildare, not to Timbuktu. I might as well, for all the distance between us since I left. And I feel sorrier about that than I can say. To wish I could rewind the years to that day and start again would be to wish my life and my children away, and I don’t want that. They are the only good thing to come out of this. Them and my darling Rosie. Maeve is standing there, waving, when Rosie appears behind her, her hair tousled from her nap, her eyes sleepy. For a moment, I weaken and turn to run to her, but I stop myself. No, Michelle, I tell myself firmly. No. Instead, I blow her a kiss and she catches it, the way I’ve taught her to, a puzzled look on her sleepy little face. Then I turn and go, and I don’t look back, not even once. If I look back, I know that I’ll stay. And if I stay, my life will be over.

J
une
and Gerry were sitting on the end of India’s bed, waiting. India was curled into a ball on her pink duvet that Mary-Pat had bought her for Christmas when she was seven. She was facing the wall, her back towards them, her shoulders heaving with sobs. She hadn’t said a word when they’d both appeared at the door, just leaving it open and throwing herself onto the bed, a dramatic gesture which would have been worthy of her sister.

‘India, we need to talk to you, love,’ Gerry was saying and when there was no response he shot June a look over the top of his glasses. She made a face and shrugged to show that she was no wiser than he.

‘India, we can’t help you if you won’t talk to us,’ June tried.

‘Go away,’ India said, her back set, her voice thick with tears.

Without needing to speak, the two of them silently agreed to wait it out, sitting at the foot of their daughter’s bed just as they’d done when she was a child and they’d come back from some glamorous charity ball, and the girls would be waiting to hear every detail. Where had the years gone, June thought as she sat there, the spring sun streaming in through India’s bedroom window. How had her daughter grown up like that, before her very eyes? She’d always thought there was plenty of time: plenty of time to get around to playing with them or bring them to the beach, plenty of time to sit down in front of the TV with them and watch cartoons, plenty of time to play tennis with them in the back garden. Except it turned out that there wasn’t. Her time was almost up, and she’d wasted it. She wouldn’t get another chance at it, she understood. It was gone.

And then India turned around, her face streaked with tears. ‘OK, you win. I’m just a slut. There, does that make the two of you any happier?’

Gerry sighed heavily, taking his reading glasses off and looking tired. Tired and old. ‘Love, we’re not here to judge. We just want to listen to what you have to say. And whatever it is, we won’t get angry, I promise.’ June looked at him in wonder. Where had he learned to be that diplomatic? He was so protective of the girls and she’d fully expected him to rant and rave and that she’d end up having to calm two people down.

Mrs Delaney had told them the bare bones of it, her sharp features surprisingly gentle as she’d invited them into her pristine office at St Concepta’s. She’d told them that their daughter, who had never so much as got a detention, who had never once turned up late for school or got anything lower than a ‘B’ in her tests, had succeeded in plastering her naked body all over the Internet. ‘You may not be aware, but it happens a lot.’

‘I know,’ June had said, a hot flush spreading over her chest and up her neck. ‘I’ve just read an article about it …’ She cleared her throat. ‘Will we have to involve the guards?’

Mrs Delaney had twisted her necklace in her hands. ‘Quite honestly, yes. Distributing child pornography is a criminal offence.’

‘But she’s the victim,’ Gerry had protested.

Mrs Delaney had sighed heavily. ‘Of course, but I’m inclined to call Sergeant O’Malley at the local garda station, to be proactive about it.’ And when she saw the look of horror on June’s face, she said, ‘It’s a safety issue here at the school. India isn’t the only girl this has happened to. We need to stamp it out. And, hopefully, if we put the fear of God into them, it’ll save other girls being put through the same thing. In the meantime, you need to get specialist help to delete the photo from the various, ehm, platforms.’ She gave a bleak smile. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve had to learn about all of this, so I’ll give you some names. And I’d contact a solicitor, just to be on the safe side …’

June had looked at Gerry then. His face had been chalk white, but he’d nodded briefly and managed to stay calm. ‘We’ll sort it, thank you, Mrs Delaney. You’ve been very helpful.’

Mrs Delaney smiled briefly. ‘How is India?’

‘Too embarrassed to come to school. She thinks everyone’s looking at her and thinking about what she looks like … undressed,’ June whispered.

‘I know,’ Mrs Delaney said quietly. ‘But my recommendation is that she come back into school and face them down. We’ll be here to help her.’

June had felt a hot wave of shame wash over her. I’ve failed her, she’d thought. I didn’t teach her right from wrong. I spoilt her and took her on outings and bought her clothes, but
I didn’t teach her what really mattered. And Gerry hadn’t been any better in his own way, coming down on them like a ton of bricks if they stepped out of line even a tiny bit.

‘We
should
ask the boy to leave, of course,’ Mrs Delaney said, ‘given the circumstances …’ here, she’d blinked. ‘And given how generous you’ve been to the school in the past …’

Oh, I see, June thought. For services rendered.

Gerry had pulled himself upright in his chair. ‘That boy needs to accept the consequences of his actions, fair and square. Do I make myself clear? And as for India, we’ll talk to her, won’t we, June?’