Every Time We Say Goodbye
Colette Caddle lives in Dublin with her husband and two sons. She is the author of the bestselling
Too Little Too Late
,
Shaken and Stirred
,
A Cut Above
,
Forever FM
,
Red Letter Day
,
Changing Places
,
The Betrayal of Grace Mulcahy
,
It’s All About Him
,
Between the Sheets
,
The Secrets We Keep
and
Always on my Mind
. Visit her at www.colettecaddle.com or contact her on Facebook.
Praise for Colette Caddle:
‘If you like Marion Keyes, you’ll love
Colette Caddle’
Company
‘Will have readers laughing and crying
every step of the way’
Irish Times
‘An engaging, warm slice of life
with which all women will be able to identify.
Highly recommended’
Publishing News
‘A warm, irresistible Irish author for all ages.
Heaven knows how they do it, but they
have that special magic’
Bookseller
‘Caddle seems to know instinctively what
women readers want’
Ireland on Sunday
‘Skilfully written, by an accomplished
Irish author, the characters are intriguing
and the story is deftly paced . . . you will
enjoy this one!’
Irish Independent
Also by Colette Caddle
ALWAYS ON MY MIND
THE SECRETS WE KEEP
BETWEEN THE SHEETS
IT’S ALL ABOUT HIM
THE BETRAYAL OF GRACE MULCAHY
CHANGING PLACES
RED LETTER DAY
TOO LITTLE TOO LATE
SHAKEN AND STIRRED
A CUT ABOVE
FOREVER FM
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2012
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Colette Caddle, 2012
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc.
All rights reserved.
The right of Colette Caddle to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
‘Lines Written on a Seat on the Grand Canal’ from
Selected Poems
by Patrick Kavanagh reprinted by permission of Peters Fraser & Dunlop (www.petersfraserdunlop.com) on behalf of the Estate of Patrick Kavanagh.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN TPB: 978-1-84737-811-8
ISBN EBOOK: 978-1-84739-964-9
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
This book is dedicated to my Twitter friends, who are habitually irreverent, sometimes irascible, frequently indiscreet, occasionally irrational, often impertinent but . . . always interesting.
Acknowledgements
I was quite sceptical when I joined Twitter. I had a preconceived idea that it was a medium where so-called celebrities tweeted about what they’d had for breakfast. Instead, I found a wealth of articles, stories, art and photos and much humour and I was converted.
A writer’s life is a solitary one, but my once one-way relationship with readers is now two-way. Within seconds they can tell me exactly what they think of my books and . . . they do. But my interest is not confined to literary matters. I chat daily with people about many things and I love to follow news stories as they unfold, some of which are most definitely stranger than fiction.
Twitter has also turned out to be a wonderful research tool and I am indebted to all those who helped me when researching this book, though some deserve a special mention.
For guidance on legal issues and unravelling the unnecessary red tape I tangled myself in, my thanks to Gwen Bowen, Tom Baldwin and Eddie Murphy. Any errors are entirely my own.
Thank you to Shirley Feehely for the excellent advice on nutrition and health and Jim Montgomery for the insight into criminal investigations.
I am deeply grateful to Dr Joanna Cannon for patiently answering my many questions on all things medical.
At one stage. I couldn’t see the wood for the trees and for her cool, calm, clear mind when I was losing mine, I am grateful to Carol Hunt.
For honest and constructive criticism always delivered with humour, thank you, Mandy James.
All the characters in the book, forename or surname, are named for the people I have met through Twitter.
Contents
Chapter One
Marianne Thomson tossed the handful of earth into the grave, flinching as it hit her husband’s coffin. Kate let out a strangled sob and Marianne pulled her daughter closer. Her son had wrapped himself around his grandmother’s leg and was crying noisily. Dot gently extricated herself, dipped her hand into the container the priest held out to her and, stepping forward, let the dirt fall from her fingers.
‘Oh, Dominic,’ she whispered, stony-faced.
Andrew stopped crying and lunged at the priest. ‘I want to do that.’
‘No,’ Marianne gasped.
‘Let him, love.’ Dot kept a hold of her grandson’s shoulder as he moved nearer the grave, a generous mound of earth in his hand.
The five-year-old balanced precariously on the edge and hurled it in.
Marianne looked down into Kate’s dark, solemn eyes; she looked so much older than her nine years. With an almost imperceptible nod her daughter stepped forward to take her turn before shrinking back against her mother. Marianne put her other arm around Dot, Andrew between them, and they stood in a tight huddle as the priest finished the service. Mourners swarmed around them afterwards, murmuring condolences before drifting back across the grass towards the cars.
‘Come on, let’s go and have a nice cup of tea,’ Helen Sheridan said.
Marianne looked at Dot who was still staring vacantly at the grave. ‘You take the children,’ she told her friend, ‘we’ll be with you in a minute.’
‘Wanna stay with you,’ Andrew wailed.
She crouched down to hug her son. ‘Me and Granny are just going to say one more prayer. You go to the car, sweetheart; I promise we won’t be long.’
He reluctantly took Helen’s outstretched hand and Kate followed them in silence. Marianne’s gut twisted as she watched the two forlorn little figures walk away. She turned back to her mother-in-law and linked her arm through Dot’s. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘My only son is dead; just threw his life away. No, love, I’m far from okay.’ Dot wiped her eyes. ‘Why wasn’t I able to help him?’
‘There was nothing more you could have done,’ Marianne replied. She had said the words so many times over the last few days and knew she would say them many times more. She didn’t suffer the same torture that Dot did. She had stopped feeling guilty, or feeling anything at all, a long time ago.
‘I loved him, in spite of everything.’
‘Of course you did; Kate and Andrew could do nothing that would stop me loving them.’
Dot patted her hand. ‘This can’t be easy for you, everyone feeling sorry for Dominic.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘If you want to tell them all the truth—’
‘No, of course not, Dot, we agreed that the children must come first; it’s hard enough that they’ve lost their dad . . .’
‘Oh, I wish this bloody day was over. I don’t want to see or talk to anyone; do we have to have them all back?’
‘It’s all arranged, but don’t worry. If ever there was a day you could get away with sitting in a corner and saying nothing, this is it.’
Dot nodded and with one last look at her son’s grave she let Marianne lead her away. ‘It’s a happy release for you at least, love.’
Marianne said nothing. It was true, of course, but still a shocking thing for her to say about her only son. The poor woman; how cruel life was. ‘It’s all over now and hopefully Dominic is at peace. Try to remember the good times; there were plenty of them.’
Dot squeezed her hand. ‘You are such a good girl; what would I do without you?’
‘You’ve done a lot more for me than I’ve ever done for you so, today, let me take care of everything; let’s do this properly.’
‘Right so,’ Dot agreed and, arm in arm, they strolled back across the grass to join the other mourners.
The day seemed to drag on and on. Marianne was hugged and kissed, her hand squeezed, her shoulder patted. She smiled, inclined her head, and murmured her thanks but her eyes were constantly seeking out the children and her mother-in-law. Andrew was in the garden with Colm, Helen’s son, and some other kids kicking a ball around, but Kate wouldn’t join in. Marianne suggested that she and Joanna’s daughter, Rachel, go upstairs and listen to music but Kate just shook her head and continued to drift between her mother and grandmother as if frightened that they too would disappear. Dot sat in a corner surrounded by a few close friends, a cup of cold tea untouched in front of her.