Blood And Water (22 page)

Barbara sat down into one of the chairs at the table and listened stony-faced to the rant, shocked and more than a little bit fearful of the toxic tone in Ciara’s voice. It didn’t sound like Ciara; she had her characteristic penchant for drama of course but in all her years she had never exhibited this much vitriol towards her, towards anything in fact. There was no sign of the affectionate child, or the young girl turned immature woman who still craved love and emotion to the point of irritation. Could this be her response to the upset of her father almost dying or did something more specific happen to spark this tirade? And with a sizable measure of dread, Barbara wondered where the conversation was going.

Ciara was always too emotionally demanding for the detached Barbara who tended to steer away from her: never looking her in the eye, never holding her hand, never mothering her, never trying to demonstrate even the smallest bout of affection for fear that the girl would see right through her. And Ciara was right. She did treat her differently and, yes, she was an appalling mother. It was impossible to hide and absolutely true. She was never any good at concealing her true feelings and Ciara, despite her oftentimes histrionic behaviour, was an intelligent individual who would, Barbara was sure, eventually discover her for what and who she really was. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Ciara, or love her even – of course she did, in a way. No, Barbara’s indifference towards the girl was much more selfish and far less pleasant than she cared to admit, even to herself. She had done her best with her, really she had. She had tried very hard but obviously not hard enough.

Perched, legs apart, on the edge of the chair she let her elbows rest on her thighs, listening to Ciara who wasn’t yet done, letting the years of bitter disappointment spill over, impossible to hide the snarl in her sorrow.

“You sit there,” she ranted as if living out the days of her past, “pissed most of the time – even after Patrick died you couldn’t manage to step up and be a mother!” And as each statement escaped her lips the release worked to lift her shoulders. “You never held me then, you never even tried to tell me it would all be all right.”

Ciara had never spoken like this to anyone, having bottled it all up inside her for years. And now that the dam had been breached there was no stopping the deluge of suppressed truths that poured forth.

“Robert was right about you. You really are nothing but a selfish drunk.”

As Barbara listened she wondered at what point was it acceptable to stand up and fight back. It was the alcohol that tended to keep things quiet. Never an aggressive, troublesome drunk like one typically imagines, she didn’t get loud and bolshie nor did she morph into some obnoxious bitch. No, she was a quiet drunk: the precarious kind. The alcohol helped silence the voices in her head that oozed guilt, shame and abject disappointment, keeping the simmering honesty from bubbling over. But, having not had a drink in over twenty-four hours, she was sober and there was very little holding her back. She was in perilous and unknown territory. The more Ciara upbraided her, the easier she felt it would be to take a dose of whatever Ciara was on and simply let go. It was ironic that Ciara should feel so uptight, like she was the only one to feel anything. How selfish, like all these years were easy for her. Barbara had stopped listening to her, concentrating more on keeping her own mouth shut.

It was unsurprising that the tears had started to fall from Ciara’s eyes and she watched the translucent snot begin to escape unchecked from her nose. It was a cute little nose, so unlike her own and definitely not like William’s. In her mind’s eye she pictured herself standing up, slowly, with her chin held defiantly up and candidly blurting it out. She envisaged Ciara’s reaction, visualised the response, which she knew, of course, would be disbelief and contempt.

“I have no idea why Dad hasn’t thrown you out on the street,” Ciara’s confidence was fuelled by the emancipation of the harsh truth and feelings for her mother, “so you can live in the gutter, because that’s all you deserve. You don’t love him. You don’t love any of us. You just use us. You always have.”

She sounded so childish, Barbara thought, fighting through the daze, biting her tongue. How easy … consequences be damned …

“I don’t understand how you can live with yourself. How can you? Tell me, I’m intrigued?” Ciara spat, pointing and prodding the finger of accusation at her, standing now, goading her with the tightening of her jaw and stretch of her lips. “How can you live with yourself?” She gesticulated wildly.

Always impetuous, almost always hysterical, Barbara silently remarked, knowing for sure she didn’t get it from her.

Only then did she notice that Ciara was silent and standing, waiting.

Oh my God! Barbara thought. She actually expects an answer. What was the question? Oh right. How can I live with myself? Well, let me see ... She processed the question silently, taking only a few minutes, the words no longer willing to remain silent and lining themselves up to come out. Straight.

“How can I live with myself?” she repeated aloud. “Well, I’ll tell you how … Because you’re not my daughter, that’s how, and I’ve had to put up with you for years.”

There. It was out. She had been dumb for far too long.

The instant the words were out she felt a sense of relief, immediately followed by an urgent inclination to take them back. And just as quickly a realisation that, no, it was time Ciara knew the truth. The regret she felt was not for what she had said but more the fact she had to say the words at all. It was the truth. Ciara wasn’t her daughter. It wasn’t Ciara’s fault. She and William could claim that blame all as their own. They had committed their secret to silence so many years before and had managed to maintain that obligation, almost never mentioning it or discussing it, ever. But now that their proverbial dirty linen was laid bare it was likely to trigger a series of events that were unstoppable. Barbara meant no harm to Ciara, but even she had her limits. This situation was forced on her.

She thought of William and what this would mean to him. His fury was inevitable.

This is not my fault, she thought, justifying her actions. She should have been told sooner.

Between them they had assumed all those years ago that eventually events would naturally evolve to the exposure of the truth. But it didn’t happen that way and remarkably the question never arose. Barbara felt her cheeks burn with a rising sense of indignation. It
was
time the truth was told.
It was, really
. She watched Ciara’s reaction, or lack of it, as she waited for the words to sink in.

The moment after her response passed in slow motion. She saw Ciara’s jaw drop, her eyebrows lift and her eyes widen as she processed the words. Barbara watched the colour drain, drop by drop, from her cheeks. They had reached the point of no return and there could be no going back. And when Ciara’s mouth opened but no sound emerged, Barbara’s blood chilled, like she had been cloaked in a damp dense fog.

Silent shockwaves reverberated from Ciara’s body with ripples coming tight and fast, noiselessly emanating her disbelief, her horror and her loss. Turning on the spot, raking her hands though her hair, not knowing what exactly she was expected to do, she quietly melted into a drama that this time wasn’t imagined or misinterpreted. This drama, this time, was real.

For the first time in years, ever even, Barbara felt the need to protect Ciara: she didn’t deserve this. It shouldn’t be her burden. She really was the innocent victim. The secret that had destroyed Barbara, that she had allowed to fester and eat away at her, was no longer hers. She had passed it on, like a poisoned chalice, to continue its virulent journey. And she had given it to Ciara. A wave of regret and shame washed over her. And, unlike her fantasy, the release was nothing like she had imagined. She had so often dreamt of this moment: the relief, the weightlessness, the liberty of a burden removed. Barbara always assumed her liberation would be monumental, like it would make her better somehow, but right then she only felt worse. She watched as an almost hysterical medley of emotions passed over Ciara’s face in alarmingly recognisable succession: shock, confusion, realisation, acceptance and hurt.

Instinctively Barbara went to her. “Ciara!” she sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”

“Oh yes, you did. You meant every word.” Ciara took a step away, shaking her head. “So, if I’m not yours, whose am I?” she asked with mascara-tinted tears streaming down her flushed and burning cheeks, the uncharacteristic calm of her words unsettling.

It was a question that despite years of visualisation, years of imagining how it would sound and feel, she had no idea how to answer. It had always been about the truth but never the consequence. She knew the question would be asked but never, stupidly, considered what the response should be. Faced with it now, she didn’t have the courage to answer.

Chapter 20

By the time Barbara realised that William was bored at home and seeking solace and satisfaction elsewhere, it had gone too far. Unbeknownst to Barbara, amidst the joy of their first-born was Irene Philips with her voluptuous breasts, skinny waist and alluring blonde curls. She was the first and certainly not the last of many misadventures of the adulterous kind. After Irene came a pointy-nosed, cavern-faced brunette, Judith Hayes, to entertain his wandering eye and after that again there was Maureen Judge: Barbara’s bridge partner and supposed friend. And so the list grew steadily and, as the years passed, it became almost endless. He managed his women like he managed his politics: with dexterity and charm. Although rumours were hard to suppress, there was no one willing to put their own head on the line to expose him. He made sure to choose his women well – they each had as much to lose as he would: the house, the car, the kids, the holidays, the generous allowance … And inside the house, when Barbara wasn’t willing to satisfy his casual carnal needs, Lillian seemed willing to step in. In between Rian and Enya, just after they lost Emily, at a time when Barbara was at her lowest, Lillian arrived to replace a former nanny. Tall and slim with beautiful clear skin, bright-blue eyes and long straw-coloured hair she had an innocence that was almost irresistible. At eighteen, with already three years’ experience, her job was to help Barbara with the kids, not satisfy the man of the house.

Educated by the nuns in County Galway, she was a bright young thing with a promising future that at fifteen was extinguished the day her father ran away with a bottle of gin and their meagre savings, leaving Lillian with her mother and younger siblings, a boy and a girl, to fend for themselves. Lillian’s mother Maeve did what she could but, in the end, as the bills stacked up unpaid and intimidating, Lillian was left with no choice but to leave school and the rural safety of Roundstone to get a job. Her first family, the Mahoneys, weren’t that far away – only fifty miles separated them from her home – but even so she missed her family terribly and they missed her more. She did her best to get home to see them as often as she could but, with the constant tiring demands of her young charges, making the short trip home wasn’t as easy as it sounded and, soon, seeing them only once a month became the norm and something she could look forward to. A new job and a new country for Mr. Mahoney meant that Lillian needed to find a new position for herself too. Mrs. Mahoney and her three young girls begged her to go with them but America was so big and so far away a shy young Lillian said no.

Maeve was so proud of her when she’d called to tell her that she’d be working for a rich family in Dublin. It would mean she’d be home much less, but it was a good job and the salary meant her mum could give up her night shift at the hotel.

So Lillian moved into the house with the Bertrams, looking after the children alongside the listless Barbara who seemed to care less and less as each day passed. Lillian was amazed at how she could be like that, with everything she had: beautiful clothes, incredible children, amazing house, enough money to buy whatever she needed and a husband who, she thought, tended to her every need. How could she be so despondent? She didn’t understand her at all but knew what she’d do if she had all this: enjoy life, that’s what. And so she said to her mam during one of her visits.

“You just keep your head down and your remarks to yourself, young lady,” said her mam.

“Yes, Mam,” she replied, dropping her head.

“The last thing we need is for you to lose that job.”

And so, when William laid his hand over hers in the first of many intimate encounters, saying no didn’t even enter her head. She couldn’t let her mother down.

Ciara was born three and a half years after Cormac and almost two before Enya. For Barbara the shame of the pregnancy was worse than the humiliation of his indiscretion that apparently everyone knew about except her.

It was a day she would never forget: a wet Wednesday when she found Lillian crying and vomiting simultaneously. She didn’t need a doctor to tell her what was wrong with the girl but Barbara took her anyway just to confirm what she suspected.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bertram,” Lillian cried from the edge of her chair, wringing her hands and the hem of her dress into a knot.

“Well,” Barbara asked calmly “who is the father?” and when Lillian didn’t answer she stood over the quivering young nanny to demand, “Who is it, you stupid girl?”

But Lillian couldn’t bring herself to answer.

“Well,” Barbara informed her unsympathetically, “you can’t stay here – you’ll just have to go home.”

“Please, please no! Please!” Lillian cried. “I can’t go home . . . my mam …” The sentence didn’t need to be finished.

Barbara got it completely and, seizing the opportunity, looked down, almost smiling at the weeping girl. “Tell me who is the father and I’ll think about it.”

Lillian looked up at her, weighing up the options presented and spoke in a spontaneous instant without thinking about what she was doing.