The One I Was (17 page)

‘And I’ll post this.’ He picked up a foolscap-sized white envelope.

‘Oh yes.’ She sounded flat.

‘If you’re sure?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Want to talk about it some more?’

‘I know you’ve explained it to me before.’

Andrew was looking from one of them to the other, eyes creased up into a frown.

‘He’s made her sign something,’ he said, when we were alone together on the landing upstairs. ‘I don’t know what, but it’s something to do with this house.’

‘His school idea, perhaps.’

Andrew’s frown became a scowl.

Cathal brought in two carrier bags of groceries when he returned. Mum hobbled into the kitchen while he was unpacking. I was sitting at the table eating a piece of bread and butter I’d helped myself to for tea.

‘Foie gras?’ She examined a tin in one of the bags. ‘For Christmas Day?’

‘I thought we’d have it tonight. On toast. Delicious.’

He pulled out a bottle of olive oil. Mum looked at it. She seemed more awake now. Earl Grey tea, Bath Oliver biscuits, Stilton, a tin of white peaches, lobster bisque, a bar of plain chocolate. I didn’t even know what some of these foods were.

‘Did you buy milk and bread?’ She peeped inside the second bag. ‘Eggs?’

‘I’m sure I can go back if necessary.’ He sounded more clipped than normal.

‘We’re short on rice as well.’

Cathal slammed a can of smoked oysters onto the table. ‘I was trying to buy you some treats. To tempt your appetite.’ His face was white. ‘Do you want me to drive back through the ice now and get the damn milk and bread? Is that what you want?’

Mum blinked. Perhaps it was the first time she’d seen Cathal’s rapid changes of mood. ‘I was just saying …’ Her cheeks were pink now. ‘Look, you’ve been doing all the work. Sit down and relax.’

He allowed himself to be fussed over, Mum hopping round the table on her good leg and bringing him one of Granny’s best china cups, brewing a pot of Earl Grey and putting out the Bath Oliver biscuits on a plate.

I slipped out and went up to Mum’s bedroom. It was neat, the bed made. I opened the wardrobe, breathing in the sandalwood scent, and took out the wedding dress, laying it out on Mum’s bed. I undid the plastic film and turned the dress over to look at all the little buttons up the back.

When Mum had worn this dress she must have felt safe, beautiful, cherished, as though nothing bad could ever happen, as though she were a Disney princess who’d been rescued. And some of that hope must have transmitted itself to the dress. Happiness must still be woven into its fine silky threads.

I stroked the front of the dress as though it were a cat. My fingers were small, pink invaders of the pure white surface. I was trespassing on my mother, on the private part of her life that Cathal hadn’t yet invaded.

I snatched the dress up from the bed and rewrapped the plastic round it before closing it up in the wardrobe. I was on my way out when I was drawn to the little shrine on Mum’s dressing table. Tempting to light one of the candles, but the shrine was Mum’s special place, where she found the strength to get well and cope with all the bad things that had happened to her: Dad leaving, Granny dying, Smithy walking out. And Cathal? But Mum probably still regarded him as a good thing.

I resisted the candles, but couldn’t promise myself that I wouldn’t succumb in the future. The little pill bottle was empty when I shook it. How long had Mum not been taking her pills? I tried to remember when she’d last gone to the hospital to see the doctors as she was supposed to do regularly. Since Smithy had left I’d found it hard to remember the day of the week. It must be four days until Christmas. Three. Or perhaps five. Funny, only this time last year I’d known exactly how many hours there were until we’d open our stockings.

I was still standing there, empty pill bottle in hand, when a creak behind me made me look round.

‘If I didn’t know you better, Rosie, I’d think you were snooping on your mother.’ Cathal smiled a smile that lit his denim-blue eyes very briefly and walked away.

‘Please,’ I begged the photograph on the shrine, ‘please make him leave.’

*

‘She needs to see what he’s really like,’ Andrew said. It was the following morning and we were standing at the frozen lake. He threw a stone at the ice. ‘He’s got her under a spell or something. And she doesn’t care about us any more. It’s nearly Christmas, and do you think she’s even bought us a single present?’

Andrew threw another stone and it cracked the ice around it, splintering it into dozens of pieces so that it no longer reflected the pale sunshine.

‘Mum does care about us.’ I tried to inject conviction into my voice. ‘She’ll get presents.’

‘She does what
he
wants.’

‘It’s not her fault.’

‘He wormed his way into here and he can worm his way out.’ Andrew was frowning. ‘What did she say when you told her?’

I explained about my failed attempt to talk to Mum by herself, how Cathal had interrupted us. ‘And they were making … noises in Mum’s room,’ I said.

Disgust washed over his face. ‘We need to show her what he’s really like,’ he repeated. ‘Then she’ll listen.’

I tried to think of how this might be achieved.

‘I’ll think of something,’ Andrew said, touching my shoulder lightly. He was a self-contained boy, rarely showing emotion or affection, but I knew then that he was feeling what
I was feeling, wanting to show me reassurance, wanting to be the big brother. His eyes narrowed. ‘Look.’ He nodded over my shoulder. ‘He’s going out.’

I turned to see Cathal walking down the drive. Probably going down to the shop.

‘Let’s have a look upstairs, shall we?’

Cathal slept in Mum’s room, as we knew, but kept some of his possessions in a bedroom on the second floor. We found a plastic carrier bag and an old brown suitcase underneath the bed.

‘Bottles,’ Andrew said, opening the bag. ‘Vodka and gin. So much for him not drinking.’ He pulled the suitcase out and tried to open it. Locked. Andrew gave a grunt of annoyance. But I’d seen something.

‘What’s that?’ I pointed at bright blue fronds protruding from the side of the case, like a fringe. ‘A feather. A
peacock
feather.’

We looked at one another. I tugged the fronds and little by little the eye became visible.

‘There are more.’ Andrew pointed at the tip of another feather now protruding underneath the lid. ‘So he did fill that vase to bait Smithy. And then took the feathers out to make her feel stupid.’

‘But how? We searched the whole basement. He wasn’t down there. And he couldn’t have got back up the steps without you seeing him.’

‘He went out through the basement door to the garden.’

I must have looked puzzled.

‘That old door that’s kept locked, remember?’ he explained. ‘There’s a key somewhere. Bet he’s got it now.’ Andrew stiffened at the sound of someone climbing the steps to the front door and shoved the suitcase back under the bed. ‘Quick.’ We took the feather we’d pulled out of the case and went downstairs, managing to get to the kitchen
before Cathal came inside. Andrew hid the feather in the cupboard under the sink, where Smithy had stored the washing-up bowl and spare rubber gloves.

*

An outsider wouldn’t have known Andrew was plotting. His expression was as impassive as ever. At lunch we sat in the kitchen. Cathal drank his soup, his eyes on Mum.

‘The grey jumper would go better with that skirt,’ he said.

‘This one is easier for me to put on.’

‘I’ll help you put on the grey one after lunch.’

‘I’m happy with this one, thank you.’

Cathal’s features remained unmoved, but I saw him clench the soup spoon.

When we’d cleared the table Cathal asked Andrew to carry in logs from the woodshed to charge the stove in the drawing room. Andrew folded his arms.

‘I’m tired.’

Mum stared at him.

‘We’re all tired, sonny.’ Cathal looked amused. ‘We only need an armful.’

‘You do it, then.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ Some of the joviality fled from Cathal’s face.

‘I said
you
could bring the wood in.’

Cathal stood up. ‘We need to talk. Outside, Andrew.’

Andrew looked at Mum. She said nothing.

‘No.’ Andrew sat back in his chair, folding his arms. Part of me wanted to cheer him; the other was horrified.

‘Outside with me now, please.’ The sharpness must have worked well when Cathal was a school-teacher.

Andrew ignored him.

‘I’m asking you for the last time.’

Andrew shrugged.

The blow fell so quickly that it took me a second to realize that Cathal had hit my brother with the back of his hand. A red mark already throbbed on Andrew’s cheekbone. Andrew put a hand to his cheek, not seeming to understand why it hurt. Nobody was looking at Cathal.

I jumped up and ran the drying-up cloth under the cold tap. I’d seen Smithy do this before, when we’d been younger and had bumped into things or fallen.

‘Hold this over it.’ I pressed the wet cloth against my brother’s cheek. Still nobody else had said anything. ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ I told Cathal, voice shaking.

Dad had smacked us on the back of the legs once or twice when we’d been smaller. Rarely. Nobody in our family had ever hit anyone around the face. Never.

‘How dare you?’ Mum’s words were like little splinters of ice. I wanted to cheer. She pulled herself up and hobbled round to Andrew. ‘Let me.’ She took the drying-up cloth herself and held it to his cheek. ‘Fill the washing-up bowl with cold water and bring it over here, Rose.’

Cathal’s mask of easy confidence crumpled for a moment when he heard her. Then, just as quickly, it returned. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I lost my temper. Unforgivable. Can I tell you how sorry I am, Andrew?’

Andrew was silent.

‘Leave us,’ Mum said.

Cathal hesitated. What would happen now if he refused? Mum was unable to walk at more than a slow, painful pace. Andrew appeared stunned by the blow. That left me. I knew I couldn’t make Cathal Pearse, with his height, his strong hands and broad shoulders, leave the kitchen.

But he walked out.

‘Tell her, Rose,’ Andrew hissed. ‘Tell her now.’

I explained about the hospital, how I’d seen Cathal there, how he’d listened in to our conversation. I worried that Mum wouldn’t believe me, that it would sound like one of those memories that aren’t really memories at all, but things you think of afterwards that seem to fill in the gaps in a story. She sat speechless as she pressed the cloth to Andrew’s cheek. I couldn’t read her expression.

‘Go out to the telephone table. Look in Granny’s address book. Smithy’s niece is called Marcy Edwards. Ring Smithy. Tell her I need her. Ask her if her nephew will drive her over.’

I went into the hall, listening out for Cathal. The old burgundy-leather address book was in the drawer underneath the Bakelite receiver. I found the number and dialled it. I hadn’t used the telephone much to ring adults, apart from Dad. Ordinarily I’d have felt awkward, but today it felt normal. A young woman answered the phone. I asked for Miss Smith.

‘She’s taken my little one to Santa’s grotto,’ Marcy told me. ‘Who’s speaking?’

When I’d explained, Marcy promised that Smithy would come to the house. She was saying goodbye when the call ended abruptly, as if she’d put the phone down without meaning to. I returned to the kitchen and reported back to Mum.

‘Good girl.’ She removed the cloth from Andrew’s face. ‘The worst of the swelling has gone down. Thank God he didn’t break the skin. I’d like to …’ She stopped. ‘This is the
end now. Cathal has to leave.’ She frowned. ‘I think I know now why I always feel so tired. It’s not just the tablets the psychiatrist gives me, it’s sleeping tablets.’

‘I didn’t know you took those as well.’

‘The doctor gave me some when Granny died. I didn’t use them all. Cathal brings me a hot drink before I go to bed at night. I think he puts the tablets in the drink to make me feel woozy. Sometimes I know there are things bothering me, but I can’t drag them out of my brain.’ She rotated the sprained ankle. ‘But last night he didn’t notice that I hadn’t drunk the cocoa. I think he’d been drinking. He says he doesn’t touch alcohol, though.’

‘He does.’

We told her about the bottles under the bed.

‘There are other things I need to know,’ she said. ‘Calls we need to make. Rose, go and fetch the telephone directory.’

I brought it in. She flicked through the pages. ‘Here’s the solicitor’s number.’ She pointed at a name with a manicured finger. ‘But I need to make the call; you can’t make it for me. Can you take a chair out to the telephone so that I can sit down out there?’

‘I’ll do that.’ Andrew stood up. The mark on his cheekbone still glowed, already taking on different hues. But when the chair was taken through and Mum sat down and picked up the black receiver she scowled.

‘The line’s dead.’

I remembered how my call to Marcy had ended so abruptly.

‘He’s cut the wire,’ Andrew said. ‘He must have gone outside to do it.’

Her eyes widened and she seemed to lose all colour from her face.

‘There’s a phone box outside the village shop,’ she said. ‘I’m going to write a number for you to call, Rose.’ She tore a page from the telephone directory and scribbled it down, along with some other points.

‘Ring him and tell him to expect a letter from me in the next few days. I know it’s Christmas the day after tomorrow, but tell him it’s important. In the meantime, ask him to find out anything he can about Cathal Pearse. Say he’s been violent towards us and I don’t want to go through with the college plan for Fairfleet.’ She looked at me. ‘Andrew will have to stay here, Rose. He’s …’

Bigger than you,
she meant. Andrew’s voice had already broken and he was tall. Not large enough to pose a real challenge to Cathal, but more of a threat than I was.

Something about her decisiveness now told me that this morning’s events hadn’t come as a complete surprise to my mother. She was wearing a thick cardigan. I bent over her arm and rolled up the sleeve.

‘Rose …’ She tried to stop me.

On her arm I saw bruises. They were still red: fresh. I recalled Cathal’s fury when he thought Andrew had been rude about him in the schoolroom, his anger when the chalk had snapped, and all the other instances I’d not paid attention to.