What She Never Told Me (2 page)

Chapter Two

I’m a bag of nerves as I walk to the solicitor’s office. Since the funeral, I’ve thought of little but this meeting and what I pray I’m going to hear.

The will itself is straightforward. My mother has left me her entire estate, which consists of her house and about eighty thousand euro in a bank account. When Dermot died a few years ago, she sold the lovely, spacious house he had built for her, insisted on giving Angela most of the proceeds of the sale and bought a small two-bedroom cottage just outside Drogheda, on the south side of the river. She paid a lot for it. The Celtic Tiger was still roaring, house prices were going through the roof and people joked that, if you didn’t lock the gate behind you in the morning, you risked coming home in the evening to find that someone had built a new house in your garden.

The solicitor stands up and stretches out his hand, saying he has another appointment shortly.

‘Well, Louise, again, you have my condolences. She was a fine woman, your mother, always a pleasure to deal with. She knew her own mind. And at least she didn’t have a long-drawn-out illness. She didn’t suffer for too long.’

‘That’s it? With the will, I mean? There’s nothing else?’ I ask.

‘Were you expecting something else?’ He looks surprised by my question.

‘I thought she might have left something . . . like a letter.’

‘No, nothing like that. Everything is laid out in the will.’

I want to weep with disappointment and frustration. I had hoped that, before she died, she would at least tell me the truth about the one thing I wanted and needed to know – how to find my father.

*

We were very self-contained, more like friends than parent and child, although she never really confided in me, never told me whether she was worried about anything. Before I started school, I wasn’t exactly a lonely child, but I was desperate for a sister, someone who was just like me. I used to daydream about what life would be like if I had one. Would we look alike? Would she be older or younger? Where would she sleep? My room was just big enough to accommodate a small single bed, so we would have had bunk beds. I used to imagine the whispered conversations we would have in the dark before falling asleep, she in the top bunk, me in the bottom.

‘Mamma, why can’t I have a sister?’ I used to plead, and my mother would ask me why I wanted one. Weren’t we getting along very nicely as we were, just the two of us?

‘I want someone to play with!’

There was no answer to that. She could take me to all sorts of places and events – the zoo, the seaside, the circus, pantomimes at the Gaiety – but she couldn’t do anything to stop the envy I felt when I saw families laughing and playing together, parents and children calling out to each other as they climbed onto buses or spread out picnic rugs on the strand.

I wanted to know why we were different from other families, all of whom seemed to have fathers.

She explained that she hadn’t been married to my father and that before I was born he had gone back to England, where he was from.

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why did he go to England?’

‘He had to. I don’t remember why.’

‘Can we go to see him?’

‘No,’ she said. She didn’t know where he lived and it would be impossible to find him because his name was David Prescott and there were hundreds, maybe even thousands of David Prescotts in England.

‘Why don’t you know where he lives?’

‘I just don’t.’

‘Maybe he’ll come to see us some day.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, my darling, because he didn’t know you were going to be born.’

I was easily fobbed off. The questions remained in my head, but over time I asked them less often because I knew what her response would be.

At the same time, as I became more aware of how other families operated, I became ashamed of not having a father I could talk about. I knew that acknowledging this would set me far apart from the other children at school, so I learned how to navigate around the issue. I became adept at dodging the kind of questions that might have put me on the spot. I never told lies. I just didn’t tell the entire truth.

So if a classmate asked me something innocuous – like, ‘Where does your father work?’ – I would say I didn’t know, and then I would change the subject or ask her something about herself or her family. It always worked, and I learned at a very young age how easy it was to shift attention away from myself. Only Ursula knew the truth in those early days at primary school.

We lived in a rented flat above a chemist’s shop in Drumcondra. There was really only one proper bedroom – the one my mother used. What I had was little more than a box room. I can see it now, a tiny space that could just about accommodate my bed and a door that didn’t open fully because the bed was in the way.

I can still see my mother’s room in my mind’s eye, a red bedspread providing startling colour against the dark floorboards and wardrobe. I see her dressing table, her Coty lipstick and Max Factor powder compact, her necklaces and bracelets, the silver cigarette holder that she was never without.

And if I close my eyes and lift my head just the tiniest bit, I can smell the perfume she wore, Calèche by Hermès. I wear it, too, but on me it smells different, powdery, not at all like the citrusy, woody scent that lingered in the air long after she had passed.

*

There was just one fisherman at Clogherhead’s little harbour. He sat quietly immobile, like a statue in shadow under the setting sun.

We had been in the sea earlier, stepping carefully over the stones as the incoming tide washed around our ankles and then our knees, shrieking as the sea bed dropped away suddenly and we were beyond our depth, left momentarily flailing before we got the measure of the waves. We stayed long after all the other families, one by one, had gathered up their picnic blankets and baskets, disassembled their striped windbreakers and gone away, leaving the strand bare and quiet except for the sound of the waves.

‘I think we’ve missed the last bus, so we’re not going to get home tonight,’ my mother said, looking at her watch. ‘It looks like we’ll have to stay here.’

My eyes widened with excitement. ‘On the strand?’

‘No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. We’ll find a bed and breakfast. Now, will we have a walk down to the harbour before we go back to the village?’

We walked along the pier, my mother and the lone fisherman exchanging silent nods of greeting as we passed him. I broke away from her to peer into the bucket beside him. It was empty.

‘Did you not catch any fish?’ I asked him.

‘Louise! Don’t be so bold,’ she said. ‘Don’t mind her,’ she said to the fisherman. ‘She gets overexcited when we get out of Dublin.’

‘Louise,’ he said, addressing me. ‘That’s a very nice name.’

A long time later, when the sun had stopped shining and the water had turned from sapphire blue to granite, the man and my mother were still talking and I was beginning to regret that I had started them off on this long conversation. Eventually, my mother said it was probably time for us to go.

‘Off back to Dublin?’ the man asked.

‘Not until tomorrow. We missed the bus, so we thought we’d stay in a B & B tonight and have another day. It’s not often you get days like this in Ireland, is it?’

‘Indeed, it’s not. We’ve been long due a good summer,’ the fisherman said. ‘Have you got a B & B arranged already or would you like me to recommend one?’

‘It would be great if you could recommend one.’

I rolled my eyes upwards. I knew where this was leading. Men were always trying to talk to my mother, and she was always polite, always friendly, but gave them no real encouragement, told them nothing about herself. So I was a bit surprised when she let him drive us in his car to a farmhouse that he said took in guests. She had always told me not to talk to strangers and now here we were in a car with one.

They chatted on in the front of the car and I sat quietly in the back, looking out through the window at the change from coast to farmland, but keeping an ear on their conversation.

Eventually, the car stopped in front of a big farmhouse, whitewashed and thatched. A black-and-white collie raced around from the back of the house, barking excitedly as we got out of the car.

The front door of the house opened and a big, agricultural-looking woman wearing an apron came out.

‘Dermot, how are you? You’re looking well,’ she said, before acknowledging my mother and me. She gave us a funny look, I thought.

‘I’m grand, thanks, Delia. You’re looking well yourself. Now, this is Mrs Redmond and her daughter, Louise, and I’ve told them you have the finest rooms in Clogherhead,’ he said.

‘He’s full of
plámás
,’ the woman said, but her face was beaming, basking in the flattery.

Inside, the floor was made of big stone slabs and we had to walk down a hallway to get to the stairs at the back of the house. I wasn’t too impressed, but my mother said what a lovely old house it was and how marvellous that Delia hadn’t covered up the stone with linoleum or carpet.

‘You’re not from around here, then?’ Delia asked, picking up on my mother’s tone and neutral accent.

‘No,’ my mother said. ‘We live in Dublin.’

Another odd look from Delia. My mother didn’t seem to notice, but I did.

The room had sloping ceilings, a wardrobe and one big bed. The windows were low and set deep into the walls, and when I looked out, my heart leaped with delight at the sight of a donkey lazily cropping the grass in a small field at the back of the house.

‘It’s a lovely room,’ my mother said, sitting on the bed. ‘We’ll be very comfortable here.’

Delia handed my mother some towels.

‘Have you no bag with you?’ she asked. It sounded like a reprimand.

My mother laughed. ‘No. Actually, we just came for the day but missed the bus that would have got us back to Drogheda in time for the last train to Dublin.’

I could tell that Delia wasn’t impressed.

‘I’ll leave you to it, so,’ she said, turning to leave the room.

My mother took a comb out of her handbag and ran it first through her hair and then through mine. She stood in front of the mirror and put lipstick on. I wondered why she was doing that, but said nothing.

‘Come on,’ she said, taking my hand. ‘Let’s go.’

Delia was at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for us to come down. She rattled through the rules of the house. Guests were not admitted after ten at night, breakfast would be served at such and such a time and, as we were only staying one night, we would have to be out by eleven the following day.

‘That’s no problem,’ my mother said, all smiles.

I was put out to see that Dermot was still there. He rose from the chair he was sitting in when he saw us.

‘I’ll have them back to you long before you close the door for the night, Delia,’ he said.

He took us to a restaurant, stopping at a small shop on the way so that my mother could buy toothbrushes and toothpaste. The restaurant wasn’t in the village. It was a big place, set back from what seemed to be a main road. It was full of people, some of them dressed up, others wearing ordinary clothes. My mother and Dermot ordered steak. I wanted steak, too, but my mother said it would be too much for me, so I had to have fish fingers and chips from the children’s menu.

I spent the evening trying to ignore what I could see going on between them. They were drinking red wine and I noticed that her eyes were bright and dancing and that she and Dermot looked at each other a lot. I wondered what she saw in him. He looked a bit like her favourite film star, Paul Newman, and he was about the same age – old. He had a nice voice, though, and if I didn’t look at him and his wrinkly old face, he sounded much younger.

He took us back to the farmhouse and I thought, Good, that’s that. But then I heard him say he would pick us up in the morning and take us around the Boyne Valley, and I had a feeling that things were going to be different from now on.

Chapter Three

It’s my last night in Ireland and the family all turn up at Lizzie’s for an early dinner. I shouldn’t have favourites, but I can’t help it. Brigid is adorable, the sweetest little three-year-old you could imagine, but Ronan cracks me up with his naughty little face and the things he says and does. He doesn’t mean to be funny and gets cross when we all laugh. Now, he’s tired and starting to become tetchy, and Lizzie says she’ll put him to bed. She comes downstairs after a few minutes.

‘He wants you to tell him a story, Louise,’ she says. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Not at all. What’s he into these days?’

‘His current favourite is
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
. It’s on the top of the pile.’

Ronan is already tipping into sleep and struggling to stay awake for his story when I go into the room. I sit down on the side of the bed with the book. It won’t take more than a couple of pages before he’s out for the count. But he doesn’t want
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
.

‘Tell me about the Sandman, Auntie Louise,’ he says.

‘Wow, Ronan, how do you know about the Sandman? I don’t think I’ve told you about him before.’

‘Mammy told me.’

‘Well, let’s see if I can do as well as your mammy. Are you ready?’

He nods.

‘Now, you know how sometimes you wake up and you rub your eyes?’

He nods his head as vigorously as he can. It’s such an effort that I have to suppress an urge to laugh.

‘That means that the Sandman has been to see you.’

‘Why does he come?’

‘Because sometimes little boys and girls are far too excited to sleep, so the Sandman comes and sprinkles the finest sand into their eyes and they can’t help but fall asleep.’

‘Will he come to see me tonight?’

‘That will depend on whether you’re asleep or not. He might.’

‘Will the sand hurt my eyes?’

‘Goodness, no. It’s the finest sand you can imagine. It’s made of gold and it’s so fine you can’t even see it. And once the Sandman sprinkles it into your eyes, you’ll be asleep before you know it, and you’ll have the most wonderful dreams. What would you like to dream about?’

He doesn’t answer. He’s already fast asleep.

‘That was quick,’ Lizzie says when I go back downstairs. ‘He must have been really knackered.
Charlie
tends to keep him going a bit longer than other stories. I was afraid you might have been stuck up there with him for ages while he moidered you with questions.’

‘He didn’t want
Charlie
. He asked me to tell him about the Sandman. I was a bit surprised. I haven’t thought about that story for years.’

‘No, but I have,’ Lizzie says. ‘You used to tell it to us when you were babysitting for Ma and Da. It came into my head out of the blue a while ago and I’ve told it to him a couple of times. He’s fascinated by it. It’s the kind of story kids don’t get told these days.’

Rosie pipes up with her own recollections of the times I had looked after them as children. ‘Do you remember the time you took us to see Oliver Plunkett’s head, down in St Peter’s, and Ma was so pissed off? Weren’t you, Ma?’

‘I certainly was!’ Angela says. ‘Severed heads are no things to be showing small children, even if they belong to saints and are a few hundred years old.’

‘But they begged me to take them to see it! It wasn’t my idea.’

‘Sure, didn’t we all grow up lighting candles in front of it,’ Joe says. ‘And divil a bit of harm it did us, either. Did you have nightmares, girls? You did not.’

‘I have to admit,’ I say, ‘that it was the first thing I showed Sandy when I brought him here to meet Mamma and Dermot! I told him to close his eyes as we walked up the side aisle and count to ten before opening them – by which time I’d snuck away.’

The girls shriek with laughter and I join in. It’s a good feeling.

*

Angela drives me to the airport. It’s a beautiful day, cold and bright, and the watery light of the winter sun brings out the colours of the fields and farmland, the deepest greens, the darkest yellows. It’s the kind of day that makes you want to stay in Ireland forever.

As we pull up in front of the terminal, Angela leans across and hugs me and I disintegrate into tears. It feels like a severing.

She turns the engine back on. ‘I’m not leaving you here like this. I’m going to put this thing in the car park and I’ll come in with you,’ she says.

I hate goodbyes. Maybe it’s an Irish thing, the last-minute rush of emotion that never fails to hit as you realise you’re leaving yet again. I like to jump out of the car with a quick wave and rush into the terminal without a backward glance. But, this time, I’m grateful that she’s going to stay with me until it’s time for me to walk through the barrier.

We sit at one of the cafés on the departures floor and reminisce about my mother.

‘I have to admit it was a bit of a shock when my father called me in Liverpool to say he was getting married. I’d just come off a night shift at the hospital and I was exhausted, and there he was telling me he’d met a woman he was going to marry, and my own mother only a few years dead. I burst into tears,’ Angela says.

I smile. I hadn’t been too happy, either, when my mother told me she was going to marry Dermot and we were going to go and live with him.

‘And when I met her for the first time, I thought she was a bit too full of herself, a bit too expensive looking and far too young for my father. There was a good fifteen years between them.’

I can’t help laughing now. My mother
was
expensive looking. I didn’t know what style was when I was young, but she had it. She could buy a cheap scarf at Clerys or Arnotts and loop it around her neck in a way that made her look like a film star or one of those models you saw on the covers of magazines.

‘I was convinced he was making a big mistake,’ Angela says, encouraged by my laughter. ‘And I don’t think I was the only one. It was a lot for my father to take on, a single mother – we called them “unmarried mothers” in those days – and a ten-year-old child. But they made a great go of it. He was floundering after my mother died and Marjorie turned out to be the best thing that happened to him.’

‘He was good for her, too. He was lovely. I still miss him,’ I say, and the tears come back into my eyes. ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m such a mess at the moment.’

‘That’s not surprising,’ she says softly. ‘You’ve had a lot on your plate. First Sandy going and now your mother.’

‘Yeah, I know. But it feels like more than that. It’s as if I’ve lost everything that’s been keeping me on an even keel and I have nothing left inside. And after I saw Mamma’s brother the other day at the funeral, I kept thinking about all the things I should have asked her and won’t be able to now.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like what her life was like before she had me, for a start. Who her friends were. Whether she got on with her brother. And . . . well, you know . . . my father.’

Angela nods. ‘It’s a shame she never talked to you about all that.’

‘I used to ask her to tell me what he was like, what he looked like, but she always managed to make me feel I was being a pest, asking too many questions. I used to ask her where he lived and she always said she didn’t know.’

‘Maybe she didn’t.’

‘Maybe. But I never really believed her. I think she knew exactly where he was and just didn’t want me to have any contact with him. Anyway, you know how it is – you come up against a brick wall over and over again and eventually you give up. I just hoped she might have left something with the solicitor, a letter or even just a piece of paper with his address on it.’

‘It’s an awful pity my own father is gone. He might have been able to tell you a lot. I always had a feeling he knew much more than he let on. Of course, we all knew that your mother wasn’t married to your father, but it just wasn’t talked about. What about your uncle, though? Would you not think about talking to him?’

‘I don’t know . . . He did ask me to visit him, but I wasn’t planning to. I hardly know him. Do you think I should?’

‘I do. This has been on your mind for a long time, and now you have a chance to do something about it. Richard is your only blood relative and he’s not getting any younger. Maybe he’ll be able to fill in a few gaps for you. And you might even get to like him. He seems a nice man.’

‘I might go to see him when I come back.’

‘Good woman. Now, you’d better be getting yourself through the gate. God bless. And we’ll see you at Christmas.’

I walk through security and turn around to wave at Angela. She waves back but doesn’t move. I know she will stand there until I disappear from sight.

*

Back in London, it’s lashing rain and the streets are dark and empty. Threatening. Only a few hours ago, I had been surrounded by Keaveneys. Angela and Joe, their daughters, Lizzie and Rosie, and their husbands and children. The flat feels cold, as if no one has lived in it for a long time. It looks cold, too, like one of those short-term rentals that you stay in for a while and walk away from without leaving anything of yourself behind. And yet everything Sandy and I put into it is still here. The paintings on the walls, the floorboards painted white, the big blue linen-covered sofas in the sitting room, the bed that’s so huge we used to joke about inviting our friends over for a picnic in it. But there’s nothing left of him, not even the smell of the old-fashioned aftershave he wears, Antaeus. It’s as if there’s nothing left of us.

I don’t even take my coat off before I pick up the phone. He told me to call him when I got back. But his number just rings and rings and a feeling of desolation sweeps over me as I put the phone down. This is the way it’s going to be, I tell myself. I have to get used to being without him. But I can’t help wishing and hoping that something will change, that we’ll somehow get back to how we used to be.

In just a few weeks, it will be my forty-third birthday.