All That I Leave Behind (48 page)

They’d had plenty of time to chat, herself and PJ. Sure the sex had been over in about five minutes, the pair of them were in such a hurry. They’d taken their time later, but the first … well, it made Mary-Pat blush to think of it, the way he’d grabbed the cord of the dressing gown when she was halfway up the stairs and then, oh, it had been fast and furious and just fantastic. She’d got carpet burn on her rear end and this little person to show for it, she thought, rubbing her stomach. It was like starting all over again.

She hadn’t breathed a single word to PJ about the family stuff. She knew that it wasn’t probably in the spirit of their new start together, but she didn’t want to burden him with it. And because she knew that he really didn’t want to hear it. He’d pretend he did – he’d listen attentively and ask lots of questions, but she’d know that he’d be cringing inside, waiting for the latest revelation to be over. She knew this because he’d been in no hurry to ask her why she wasn’t on the phone to her sister gabbing the way she normally did. She’d rung June once, but the conversation had been stilted and she’d hung up after five minutes, not sure that they’d ever speak again. Not like they used to anyway. She didn’t power walk down to Pi’s either or make her daily visit to Daddy. Now, she went twice a week, on Wednesdays and Sundays, and if she felt guilty about it, she’d remind herself that she’d more than done her bit – and anyway, guilt wasn’t going to be the driving force in her life. Not any more. Daddy was safe and comfortable and as happy as any man could be in his condition. Imelda had let her bring Duke with her and Daddy found comfort in that, sitting in his armchair, hand resting on Duke’s head, before looking at her and asking for the hundredth time, ‘Are you Jim Brogan’s girl, Ailbhe?’

‘That’s right. That’s me,’ Mary-Pat would agree, the thought that, at last, he’d forgotten her name making her feel light-headed with relief. It was as if a weight had literally been taken off her shoulders. A yoke. Her family had been part of her life for far too long. It was time her marriage and her children took centre stage.

Anyway, the kids still needed her, at least a bit. They didn’t want her standing over them, but they still liked to have her around, to chat to, to tell her about their plans and to ask her advice and then to tell her she didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Melissa had announced that she wanted to be in a reality TV show the other day, which Mary-Pat had just said was lovely altogether, congratulating herself that she hadn’t torn a strip off the girl. And John-Patrick, well, he seemed to have found himself a bit more in the last month or two. He still liked the computer games, so that made him a bit of a nerd, she supposed, but that Swedish girl seemed to have cheered him up. God knows what they were getting up to, but she tried not to think about it too much, apart from telling John-Patrick to act responsibly. In fairness to him, he didn’t state the obvious.

She took another sip of her tea and looked at her watch, wondering if PJ had got stuck in traffic. He and Pi were driving up together with the kids to see the new little man because there was no way in the world she was letting her brother rattle into the car park in that heap of junk of his.

She was glad Pi was back, mind you. And glad that he’d made the first move. It was big of him, she had to admit. He’d appeared on her doorstep one morning after Easter in a smart-looking jacket and a new pair of jeans. ‘Well, will you look at himself,’ she’d said, trying to conceal her delight at seeing her brother. ‘Very debonair.’

He’d blushed then, and of course the penny had dropped. There could only be one reason why a man would look that happy – or dress that well. ‘What’s her name?’

He’d shuffled from foot to foot, muttering something about it being early days. ‘Ehm, it’s Daphne, you know, Rosie’s friend,’ and then he’d blushed to the roots of his hair, stroking Jessie’s silky ears to avoid making eye contact.

Christ almighty, Mary-Pat had thought. The girl was practically half his age. She’d had to use every ounce of her new-found self-control not to say it, though. ‘Come on in,’ she’d told him then. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

They’d chatted about everything and nothing, the way they usually did, both of them carefully skirting the topic of the family conference. She suspected that they weren’t ready for that yet. So she’d told him about the baby and he’d looked stunned, but only for a second, God bless him, and then he’d thrown his arms around her, giving her a tight squeeze. ‘I’m lost for words,’ he’d eventually admitted.

‘You’re not the only one,’ she’d said wryly, and they’d both had a laugh at that.

‘Actually, that’s why I’ve come.’ He’d cleared his throat, refusing her offer of a second cup of tea. ‘It’s Rosie. She’s, ehm, in the same condition,’ and he’d nodded in the direction of her bump.

Mary-Pat just couldn’t believe it. The shock of it. Out of force of habit, she’d looked around for any sign of her fags, but remembered then that she was off them. She’d have to cope with this news without them. Her baby sister, pregnant, and she’d never said a word to her. And Melissa, that madam, she
knew all along. That was why she was down there all the time…

Mary-Pat had felt the bitchy words forming in her throat, the hurt bursting out of her, but then she’d stopped herself. Was it any wonder Rosie had said nothing? Why on earth would she, after all that had happened? Poor little thing. ‘I’ll go down to her later.’ She’d stood up, pushing her chair back with a scrape on the kitchen floor. ‘She’ll be needing help with everything. Has she got a buggy, do you know? I think I have a spare one up in the attic—’

‘MP, sit down a second,’ Pius had said, placing a hand on her arm.

‘What?’ Mary-Pat had sat down on the chair.

He’d cleared his throat. ‘I think it has to come from her, MP. After everything, you know …’

Mary-Pat had felt her heart sink like a stone. ‘I suppose you’re right. But how will she manage? She’ll need me, I know she will.’

‘Well, she has Daphne, and me – I’ve been to two scans so far and an antenatal class,’ he’d chuckled.

‘Fair dues, Pi.’ Mary-Pat had managed a smile, and then she’d added, ‘Do you think you might show me the scan pictures the next time you come up? I know I shouldn’t without asking, but I just need to see them, do you know?’ I need to feel that I’m looking out for her, she thought, that I’m there for her, even if I can’t say it.

She’d paused then, toying with the sugar in the bowl, scooping it up with a teaspoon and letting it trickle back in. ‘I’m sorry about everything, Pi. It’s just … I was trying to protect her. I couldn’t see what good the truth would serve.’

Pi had shifted in his chair. ‘I know. I know you were, MP. And we were all guilty, if that’s any consolation. We all knew,
in various ways, and we said nothing, so we share the blame, whatever there is of it.’

‘Hmm.’ Mary-Pat had been silent then. ‘Do you wish you’d looked at the letters? I sometimes do,’ she’d said sadly.

Pi had looked anguished. ‘At one stage in my life, I’d have given my left arm to hear from Mammy. Just one word, that’s all. Something to let us know that she still loved us. That she still cared.’ He shook his head then. ‘Ah, sure what’s the point, MP, in going on about it now? What good will raking over the past do? We have to move forward. We have no choice.’

‘It might help us understand, I suppose,’ Mary-Pat had said thoughtfully. ‘Do you know I’ve been seeing a therapist? I know, who’d have thought it. Me?’ She’d laughed at Pi’s look of incredulity. ‘It really helps. I know it won’t bring her back or help me to understand why she left us like that, but it helps me to make sense of how I feel about it, if you see what I mean.’

‘We never will understand, will we, Mary-Pat?’ Pius said quietly.

‘No, that’s one of the things about it. Even if we ask her, she won’t tell us, I know that. At least, she won’t tell us the truth. Even if we send a message through the envoy up in Dublin,’ and she rolled her eyes to heaven.

‘You haven’t forgiven her, then,’ Pi had said softly.

Mary-Pat had thought of the phone call she’d made the previous week; the conversation that just seemed to peter out after a few minutes, with June finally announcing that she had a few things to do and Mary-Pat putting the phone down, wondering if she’d have been better off not having picked it up – maybe it was too early for either of them. ‘I’m probably being too hard on her, Pi, I know that. Maybe I’m just jealous that she got to talk to Mammy and I never did. I’d say that’s it, to be honest. I wish it had been me that Mammy had confided in, you know? I know that if it had been me, I’d probably have done exactly the same thing as June. I’d have kept it all to myself because I’d have been so thrilled about it.’

She could see from his face that he’d been surprised at that, at the honesty of it. ‘It’s true, Pi. Might not make me look very good, but it’s true.’ Mary-Pat had shrugged. And then she’d asked, ‘What about Rosie? Will she forgive us, do you think, Pi?’

He hadn’t said anything for a while. He’d got up slowly and had put his jacket on, pushing the chair gently back in under the table. Then he’d said, ‘Give her time, MP. Just give her time.’

He was a good man, Pi, and he’d been a rock to Rosie, that was for sure, Mary-Pat thought as she looked at her watch again. It was visiting time, so she hoped they’d get a bloody move on. She wondered then if that Frances O’Brien would turn up too. Maybe not. Mary-Pat wasn’t sure if Rosie had told her anything, and maybe it was best if she waited.

Mary-Pat had taken Duke for a little walk down to the woman’s place one morning after that bloody family conference, to fill her in, that her dark little secret was now out in the open. Mary-Pat knew it was cruel, but the woman hardly deserved to have her feelings minded, now, did she? But then she’d seen the look on the woman’s face, the way she’d gone as white as a sheet and clung to the doorframe, and she’d understood that it had probably brought it all up again for her. She wouldn’t see it as a fresh start, or a new life; she’d probably be remembering every bit of her own sad little story, and no amount of that praying she did could disguise it.

She’d almost felt sorry for the woman then, as the two of them had stood on the doorstep, Duke whining to get off the lead. ‘I have just one question,’ Mary-Pat had asked. ‘Why? Why did you leave Rosie like that? Why did you abandon her?’

Frances O’Brien had trembled then, her body shaking in her pink fluffy dressing gown. Eventually, she’d said, ‘She needed more than I could give her. She needed a family.’

Mary-Pat had waited, knowing that there was more. The woman had clutched the collar of the dressing gown tightly around her and bit her lip. ‘Do you remember we met that time in the supermarket?’

Mary-Pat had nodded. How could she forget? The sight of her in that big woolly jumper, looking like the loneliest woman in the world. The outcast.

‘Well, that’s what decided me. I was all alone and I had nothing. No family, no friends, no money. I had nothing to offer a baby. But you … you all had each other.’ The acid in her tone was hard to ignore. ‘I knew straight away that that was my only choice. To give my child what she needed.’

Mary-Pat wasn’t sure whether to believe her story, that she’d made the ultimate sacrifice for her child’s sake, but then, she’d never had to make that choice, had she? ‘And besides,’ Frances O’Brien had said then, as if anticipating Mary-Pat’s next thought, ‘I knew that everyone would blame me, no matter what. Nobody would blame John-Joe. I’d be the woman who ripped your family apart, not him. It’s always the woman, isn’t it?’

The bitterness was suddenly so strong, Mary-Pat could almost taste it. The woman was right, in a way. She’d been the Scarlet Woman, in spite of the fact that Daddy … Mary-Pat couldn’t bear to think of it any longer. And anyway, Daddy had lost everything too. He’d lost the only woman he’d ever really loved and, for him, that was everything. That was the irony: for all his messing about, Daddy only really loved Mammy.

‘That’s not quite right, Frances …’ she’d begun, but Frances had waved her away, her eyes glittering with tears.

‘Don’t tell me that I didn’t make the right choice, Mary-Pat. I know that I did and nobody can tell me otherwise.’

Mary-Pat had nodded then because nothing more needed to be said.

Frances O’Brien had hesitated for a second, clutching the chain of her reading glasses, and then she’d laid a chilly hand on Mary-Pat’s arm. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

Mary-Pat had shrugged. ‘Yes, well, what good does all of this do if we don’t learn from it? C’mon, Duke, let’s go,’ and she’d turned on her heel and marched back up the canal.

It was funny, Mary-Pat thought, that just a year ago she’d been in such a sweat about Rosie coming back. She’d felt as if her whole life was under threat, that with Rosie home it would all fall apart. And she’d been right. It had fallen apart, but somehow, miraculously, it had all come back together again, in a different way. And she was a different woman now, she knew that. It had sure shaken them all up. And if she thought to ask herself about June, she’d quickly remind herself that what her sister had done was unforgivable, even if somewhere, deep down, Mary-Pat would have to admit to herself that she was glad that the whole thing about Mammy was out in the open. There were no secrets any more. But still, it was easier not to fully forgive June – that way Mary-Pat didn’t have to think too much about her own actions. And anyway, some things could never be fixed, not properly anyway. Oh, well, Mary-Pat shrugged.
She’d better go and see if that midwife had managed to tidy her nephew up for his visitors.

She was about to get up and leave, putting her mobile into her handbag, when she felt a presence beside her, a cloud of that expensive perfume her sister wore, the one that always made Mary-Pat feel a bit sick.

She lifted her head slowly, and June was standing there, awkwardly clutching a large blue teddy bear, an ugly-looking thing that was nearly twice the size of her. Jesus, she looked like a train wreck, all angles, her hips too narrow for her jeans, with cheekbones that jutted out and big shadows under her eyes. Her hair looked a bit weird too, as if she’d dyed it some peculiar version of her usual expensive colour. She looked as if she’d aged ten years in the last few months. For a second, Mary-Pat felt sorry for her – she looked as if she’d been diminished, somehow, made tinier and more brittle by life.