My Husband's Wives (3 page)

‘Hi, everything all right?' In her mind's eye, she was back there. In that big cold farmhouse, the whitewash no longer white, ignored since long before her father died. She could smell the inescapable smell of damp, dust settled stubbornly in corners best avoided and the ceilings moved just a little closer to the floor with each passing year.

‘Oh Grace.' It was Clair who answered and she never got upset. She was much too flaky for that, a small angular girl with deep blue eyes and a leaning towards bad men. ‘We've been trying to track you down for days, its Ma… she's…' Clair didn't have to say the word. Grace could picture her, standing against the dripping kitchen sink, her drawn face chalky pale, and her hand shaking. She was eight again, the news of their father hitting home.

‘How? When?' It was all Grace could manage; the last thing she expected, and yet, not unexpected after all. Mona had been intent on dying for almost twenty years. She'd taken to bed after their father was buried. Effectively, she'd abandoned them then, fallen into a ravine of mourning and left Grace to get on with running the house and raising the girls, although she was little more than a child herself.

‘You have to come and help us get things sorted. Ma would want you to take care of the funeral.'

‘Of course. I was away for…' There was no point explaining. It would only be another thing for Anna to throw back at her. ‘I'm on my way, sorry you couldn't get me. I'll leave straight away.'

‘Well, get here as quickly as you can. There's so much to be done.' Clair put the phone down, in her usual absent-minded way.

Grace left a message for Paul, something insanely short about not being able to meet him because her mother had just died. She didn't expect him to come, didn't imagine that he would feel the need to get involved. Then, there he was, his car outside her flat, waiting to bring them both home and she wondered, for a minute if he'd even made it back to Evie.

‘You really don't have to do this…' She dreaded the uncomfortableness of having an outsider among their dysfunctional family.

‘I wouldn't let you go through this alone, Grace. It hasn't hit you yet.' He smiled at her. Soon they were leaving Dublin behind, heading towards the open road. The flattened midland bogs swept by her, a maelstrom of brown, purple and tawny green patches toiled large across the central plains. Then the land began to narrow, centuries of subdivision where farmers cut their hands on stones to mark out their hard-won sod of turf, heralded their arrival in the west. Here the rocky land prevailed long after Boycott and the Leaguers fought their wars and lost so much along the way. Grace had a feeling that all you could do was capture it in the briefest moment, commit it to a painting and hope to match the meanness with the majesty. She murmured the thought aloud. ‘My father could have done justice to that; he could have painted it in his sleep.' She believed she'd never be as good as him, never have his touch.

‘Your father was the artist? Everyone has heard of Louis Kennedy,' he said as the car purred along the uneven westbound roads. ‘Tragic, is the word most people call to mind when they think of him, tragic and brilliant.'

‘He was an odd mix of both. He was a quiet man, who spent more time painting than he ever did with us, but my mother adored him. He made her existence worthwhile. Does that sound strange?'

‘No, I can imagine how you could fall beneath the shadow of someone so talented.' He stared ahead, thoughtful, his silence as loaded with more clever comprehension than any words could convey.

‘She married above herself – that's what she felt, and I suppose it's what people made her feel, and when he died, well, it was as if she became a shell.' Her mother's response to her father's death was one of the reasons Grace had long since decided she would not live in someone else's shadow. Husbands and children were definitely off the radar. She was making an exception for Paul – but, after all, he wasn't
her
husband.

In the end, Grace read the eulogy – a three-stanza set of lines, with unequal rhyming, clunking language. Mona wrote it, before she lost all hope, verses of autumn and moving on. She was a poet once, but that was long ago. Grace stood at the top of the small church, the only dry-eyed one among them. She wasn't one for weeping at weddings or funerals, she'd leave that to Anna. She hadn't cried for her father, and knew she wouldn't cry for her mother. It wasn't natural, was it?

They buried her mother next to her father in a small plot on the mountainside, gazing across the vast undulating countryside. The county spread in a hazel bog before them, purple heather punctuating the tawny land. Overhead, grey skies conspired to cap any more emotion on the day; it was a Louis Kennedy landscape begging to be captured. She hadn't visited the grave in over a decade. She pulled her dark cloak closer to her and was glad of Paul's steadying hand on her back.

The funeral was all her mother would have wanted. The house filled with tea drinkers and near-professional mourners. Grace sat amongst them, listening to their stories, looking at the house, a faded apparition of a place she once knew well. The dresser seemed smaller, the paintwork scruffier and the chintz more faded. On the mantelpiece, there was a family photograph – the last one taken. Happier times, when they were all together. She got up to make more tea. It was the only way to cope here. Keep moving. Stay busy. Paul poured tea or whiskey, depending on the request, then turned his hand to dishwashing after charming first her sisters and then the neighbours with his winning bedside manner. They would probably remember him more than her for the day.

*

For two more months, life breezed along for Grace. Painting consumed her and Paul was pleasingly attentive. Had it not been for the fact that he told her about Evie, she'd never have believed he was married. Mistresses were meant to feel they were second on the list, weren't they? Then one night, as they clinked glasses on her little sofa, everything she'd eaten for a week threatened to come rushing back up her throat. She raced to the bathroom just in time to catch the nauseous feeling. It returned like an avalanche when she glimpsed in the cracked little mirror. She seemed different, peaky, bloated, yet she was in top health, her face flushed with what she thought was happiness. The sudden feeling of gaseousness had nothing to do with her stomach and everything to do with the tampons she held in her hand. She'd bought them before the funeral, before the trip to Paris. They lay on the shelf still unopened.

Next day, she bought a test. It took less than three minutes for her world to numb, spiking her completely so she couldn't paint, couldn't think. She was aware that Paul called her sometime after most people had lunch. By five, he'd rung four times. She knew she'd have to answer him sooner or later. It turned out she didn't need to; he was standing at the door of the studio, phone in hand waiting for her to let him in. He spotted the test before he managed to switch on the kettle. It had become a bit of a habit; he stopped by on his way home from the hospital, and they shared the day's events over a pot of strong tea and biscuits.

‘Oh my God.' His eyes danced, his voice was a little shriller than usual. ‘I can't believe it, how long?' He was trying to do the maths, but he couldn't stop smiling, his hands an uncoordinated knot of giddy action. ‘I really can't believe it – I'm so happy!' He took her in his arms, and if he didn't notice her own shocked response immediately, it didn't take too long. ‘Are you okay?' he said, holding her at arm's length for a moment, searching deep in her green eyes for some kind of hint of how she felt.

‘I'm just a little…' stunned was probably the best word, but she managed, ‘surprised…' They'd never talked about children – well you didn't, did you? Not when he had Evie, and she wouldn't dream of asking why it never happened years ago, before her.

‘But you're happy, right?'

‘I don't know, not yet, it's too soon, it seems too soon.' She heard her words faltering; she wasn't going to ruin it for him. ‘It probably needs some getting used to.' All sorts of things were flying through her brain. Funny, she'd often think as things went on, never once had she thought of getting rid of it. The nuns had done a good job on her, ingrained the Catholic guilt so well, she didn't even realize it was there anymore.

‘Move in with me?' he said.

‘And Evie?'

‘No, we can get a place together… She'll understand.' His eyes darkened for a second and she knew; it would be hard to tell Evie that he was moving on so quickly, so utterly, so finally.

‘I…' Perhaps it was shock, but something made her stop.

‘Isn't it what you want?' She wanted to kick herself for causing the hurt that lingered in his face.

‘It's just, I suppose,' she wasn't sure what to say. She had planned things, but Paul had changed all that. ‘I can't imagine life without you; it's probably just the shock – the surprise.'

‘You haven't answered me.'

‘No,' she said simply. ‘No, I haven't answered you, have I?' She needed time to think. ‘Let's get through the next few days first, get used to the idea?'

*

The next days and weeks took on a surreal quality for Grace, as though she was living outside the action of her own life. Paul was great; he took it all on, seemed to be on hand whenever she needed him. He picked up brochures, narrowed down places they could live. ‘For a while, until we get settled and decide what we want,' he told her reassuringly, as though there was a greater agreed plan. She still hadn't settled on the idea of living together just yet – it was all too sudden. She hadn't told her sisters about Evie, but now there seemed little point in holding back any of the finer details.

‘Well, he's either in or out,' Anna said with her usual no-nonsense attitude. ‘He can't have his cake and eat it. He's either with you or he's not.'

‘It's not like that. Besides, you know how I feel about getting married.'

‘Grace, don't be such a dunce. You're pregnant. In some ways, it doesn't matter if he's married to you or not. What matters is if he's married to her. He has to choose.' The words hung in the air long after Grace ended the call.

Once the thought was planted, like a seed in her brain, it took root and she couldn't let it go. It was in a leafy suburb in Drumcondra that she broke the news to him. He took her to see a red-brick, four-bedroom house.

‘I can't live with you, Paul, not like this.'

‘We can look at other houses,' he said, clearly thinking the fault was with the property. ‘I can look at taking out a mortgage, if that's what you want.'

‘No.' Grace moved towards a bay window. ‘No, Paul. I can't live with you while you're married to Evie. It doesn't seem right, not with a baby.'

‘But Evie won't mind. She'll be happy for me.' He reminded her of a wounded Setter. ‘We can set up here, I'll support you, Grace, you know I will. Nappies, bills, the lot. I'm ready for this, really up for it.'

‘You don't understand, Paul. For me, for the baby, it has to be all or nothing. I love you, but you need to cut the ties with Evie before we can have a future together.' This was harder than she thought. She knew she was taking an almighty gamble. What if he chose Evie? On the other hand, she had to know the spectre of his first wife could be in the past.

‘I see,' he said.

‘You will have to tell her, anyway. That will be the worst. The rest, well, it's probably not going to be so bad.'

‘Yes, of course. I'll tell her tonight.'

‘And, then we'll see…' Grace bit her lip, didn't want him to see how much it really meant to her.

‘Are you proposing to me?' The sadness was replaced for just a moment by that lingering joke they shared since they first met.

‘I might do that some day, when you're free to accept – or maybe you'll propose to me? Properly.' When he put his arms around her, she knew she had nothing to worry about.

*

Evie was sorted within the month; a quickie divorce, the upside of marrying abroad. Paul wasn't even sure how legal their union had been all these years.

‘Why didn't you ever tell me?' Grace knew there was much he'd never get around to telling her. She had a feeling he knew what he was doing. There was a time when the mention of marriage, good or bad, would have scared her off. ‘You're a very wise man; have I mentioned that before?'

‘No, but we have a lifetime ahead of us and I suppose it's the kind of thing I'll never tire of hearing.' He pulled her close and they made plans for a simple ceremony. He didn't want anything splashed across the celebrity magazines, it wouldn't be fair to Evie. Grace agreed although it set her teeth on edge a little, the idea that Evie Considine might still dictate her future. ‘Don't be like that, we have so much to look forward to and she…' Would it always bother her that his sentences never ended when he spoke of Evie, as though there was still unfinished business between them?

*

Malta was perfect. If she'd been the kind of girl to think about a white dress and the man of her dreams, she couldn't have come up with anything better. Paul booked the best hotel on the island. It was off-season; and the small church, which Grace couldn't be sure was Catholic, was idyllic. ‘Does it really matter?' he asked her, and in that moment, it hadn't mattered. Whitewashed stone, aged timbers and soft tones from Debussy filled the air as they exchanged their handwritten vows. She hoped Paul forgot about Evie for the day. Maybe, a small sliver of guilt raised its head after he said, ‘I do.' Grace wondered if the other woman realized that Paul was no longer hers. Had he felt for her what he now felt for Grace? She quickly cast aside the lingering whispers, drank in the clear blue skies, and lightly scented breeze. He was hers. Everything had subtly changed between them in a way she hadn't imagined it would. Sure, that was just stupid, wasn't it?