What She Never Told Me (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I see Sheila every Tuesday and Friday morning at nine o’clock. We talk, me lying back on the couch, saying whatever comes into my head, although ‘whatever’
still doesn’t include Declan. Sheila listens and occasionally interjects with a comment or question, quietly helping me to explore my mind and my feelings.

How do we really remember things? I want to know. How much of what we tell about our childhood is real and not just a set of tableaux, like a series of film stills, borrowed from the memories of others? I am learning just how unreliable our memories are.

I pour all this out to Sheila, and I wonder what she makes of it. I don’t know if the sessions are helping me, but I like her calmness. I like knowing that, when one session ends, I’ll see her in just a few days, and I like the fact that I’m doing something to discover what has been happening to me and why.

We talk about the postbox memory and whether it has become more vivid. It hasn’t, because I haven’t allowed it to. Every time it starts to come, I’m afraid it will merge with my breakdown – I call it that because I don’t know what else to call it – in Walter Square and bring back those feelings of terror.

‘So you deliberately suppress it. How do you do that?’ Sheila asks.

‘I just fight it. I force myself to think about something else. Do you think that’s not a good idea?’

‘I don’t think it’s necessarily a
bad
idea, but that memory is trying to come out and you’ve probably been suppressing it unconsciously for years.’

‘You’re going to suggest hypnosis again, aren’t you?’

‘Only if, and when, you feel ready,’ she says.

So much of me wants to reject anything that will push me deeper into that strange memory, potentially opening up something that will make me wish I’d never embarked on this psychotherapeutic journey. But I want to end the craziness of the past few months and get to the bottom of this huge box of horrors that my mother’s death has opened. And it’s autumn now, the time of year I’ve always seen as a time of new beginnings, after the long summer.

‘I’m ready,’ I say. ‘When can we do it?’

*

I’m to undergo hypnosis today. I’m apprehensive, nervous, anxious. No, I’m much more than those things. I’m utterly terrified. I trust Sheila, but, as I walk up the path towards the white-stuccoed house, I think that my trust in her is not unlike that of a child in its mother. And, as I know only too well, mothers are not infallible. Nor can they always be trusted to do the right thing.

The temptation to turn away is strong, but my need to dig deep for the truth about my recurring memory and the connection with that postbox in Walter Square is even stronger, and I climb the steps and press the doorbell. As I wait for Sheila to open the door, I look around me at the trees in bloom, at the houses on the other side of the leafy street, at everything, taking it all in so that I’ll know, when I leave, that nothing has changed, except perhaps me.

Sheila smiles as she opens the door and we walk silently to the room she uses for psychotherapy sessions. We never converse on this part of our journey. We save that for the room at the back of the house. I’ve come to know that small room intimately, its walls painted a light warm grey, the blue Persian rug that covers much of the floor. There are no paintings on the walls, but there’s a window that frames a tree directly outside and, as the sunlight penetrates the dense foliage, there’s a kaleidoscopic effect that I find quite calming, almost meditative. I wonder how it will change in winter, when the branches are bare.

I lie down on the couch and start chattering about anything and everything – the time it took to drive here, how difficult it is to find shoes that are both stylish and comfortable, how agitated I’ve been in the humid weather.

And then, gradually, I settle down and hardly notice that Sheila is talking more than she normally does, telling me how it’s possible to relax by thinking oneself into a beautiful garden.

I think about a garden I visited once in Ireland, the garden at Kilruddery in County Wicklow, in the shadow of the Little Sugar Loaf. I had been to a concert in the Orangery and, during the interval, the rain stopped and a rainbow stretched across the sky and everything was bathed in an extraordinary watery light, tinted by the lapis and purple shades of the mountain. Richard’s garden comes into my mind, too, with its feel of the Mediterranean and the views that made me think of the Bay of Naples and the French Riviera.

She asks me to imagine walking down steps into a garden where I will feel quiet and peaceful, to think about the flowers and plants in it. So I think about sitting on a wooden bench, surrounded by roses in shades of white and pink, and by oleander of the deepest red, intoxicated by the scent of jasmine. In this garden, spring and summer blend into one.

And then, when I’ve become comfortable and dreamy in this imagined sunken garden, Sheila takes me to another place, the garden in the middle of Walter Square. What is it like? Are there flowers in it? Trees? Yes, there are some trees. But there are no flowers because it’s winter. Are there people in the garden? Children? No, no one; it’s quiet and empty.

Perhaps it’s time to walk for a little while outside the garden, Sheila suggests. How many gates are there? Four, I say. Metal gates, with railings. So I choose a gate and walk through it. It’s becoming dark now and I shiver, because it’s getting colder. I’m walking now around the square, past the houses with their curtains closed and their lights on. I’m running, running, and now I see the postbox, the green postbox, only now I stop skipping because there’s someone there, someone I can’t see. I want to run away, but I can’t. Terrified, I start to scream.

Sheila puts her arms around me, the first time she has ever done so.

‘It’s all right, Louise, you’re safe,’ she tells me.

But I don’t feel safe. I’ve walked towards a dangerous place in my mind and have gained nothing.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

David Prescott calls with some information he has been able to glean from Jill Tomlinson about the O’Connors, who lived at 10 Walter Square.

‘You told me that, according to this young woman who now lives there, the house was sold to Thomas O’Connor in 1975, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Joannie told me she presumed the brewery sold it to him then because that’s when his name appeared on the deeds.’

‘Well, this is where it becomes interesting, because the brewery didn’t sell the house to Thomas O’Connor. It gave it to him, which is very generous, even for a company like Tennyson’s. All the other houses were gradually sold, over the years, to the workers who lived in them, at prices well below market value. Except this one.’

‘Was Jill able to find out why?’

‘No. There’s no background documentation other than the record showing that ownership of the house was transferred to Thomas O’Connor.’

‘What do you make of it?’

‘I’m mystified, as is Jill. When I transferred from Dublin, I had no contact with the business there. It was a separate entity. And when Marjorie left me, I forced myself to forget about Ireland, have nothing to do with it. I doubt whether there’s anyone still alive who might be able to explain it. But as to the question of whether any of this has anything to do with Marjorie—’

‘It
does
have something to do with her. That address and the name O’Connor were on the envelope I found in the house,’ I cut in.

‘That may just be a coincidence. Marjorie may have got to know them during the time she worked at the brewery and was still in touch with them. As for the house . . . Perhaps Tennyson’s felt that the O’Connor family needed help, for whatever reason, and gave it to them. But it does seem unusual. And the lack of documentation makes me think that the decision to give the house to the O’Connors must have been made at the highest level, perhaps by the Tennyson family.’

‘Are you telling me there’s no point in pursuing the connection with the O’Connors?’

‘No, not at all. But I don’t think you should raise your hopes that these people – assuming you track them down and they’re willing to talk to you – will be able to provide you with all or even any of the answers. You want to know who your father was. You may never know the truth about that. But, at the moment, it’s much more important for you, and for me, to find out why you have on your birth certificate the name and date of birth of my daughter. And that’s something I don’t think you’re going to be able to do by just getting in touch with people here and there who may or may not be able to provide you with little pieces of information that you hope will solve the mystery. It may be time to consider involving the authorities, both in Ireland and in England, to bring in professional help.’

‘Ursula, for what it’s worth, thinks we should hire a private detective.’

‘In this instance, I think your friend Ursula may be right.’

I can’t think of any reason not to hire a private investigator at this stage. But I’m still reluctant to take that step. And I want to talk to Liam O’Connor before I commit to anything else. So I suggest that we leave it just a little while longer, giving me time to go to Ireland, before we embark on the private-detective route.

‘That’s fine,’ David says. ‘Just don’t leave it too long, though. I won’t be around forever.’

‘I’ll go to Ireland in the next couple of weeks,’ I tell him, adding, ‘You’re welcome to come with me, of course.’

‘No, my dear, it would be lovely to go back to Dublin, visit old haunts, see Richard again after all these years. But I’m too old now to travel. All the airport hassle is too much for me, these days. And, to be quite honest, I think I might find it rather too unsettling. I’m sure the place has changed for the better, in many ways, but I prefer to remember it as it was when I lived there.’

‘I can understand that. Sometimes, when I go back, I’m bewildered by all the things that have changed and keep changing. If you did go back to Dublin, you’d be shocked. You wouldn’t recognise a lot of it. The landmarks are still there – the GPO, Trinity, Christ Church and so on – but they’ve knocked down and redeveloped an awful lot. Even during my time.’

‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,’ he says. He pauses for a few moments and I wonder what’s coming.

‘Was Marjorie happy? I’ve often wondered, over the years . . .’

How should I answer? I can tell him I always felt there was some regret in her life, and maybe that will satisfy him, but it won’t be true. Even now, when I look back and scrutinise the near past and the distant past, I have no memory of her having displayed any mood or emotion that suggested the smallest bit of unhappiness. I tell him the truth, or at least the truth as I know it.

‘I think so. She had a nice life with Dermot. You might say he was a rung or two below her family, on the social scale. He was a draughtsman who started his own construction company. But by the time she met him, I don’t think that mattered to her. I think maybe she’d reached the point where she didn’t want to cope all by herself any more. I think she wanted someone for herself and a father for me. But he wasn’t a consolation prize – he was a good-looking man and he was clever and musical. They got on brilliantly.’

‘And was he a good father to you?’

‘Oh, yes – though more like a favourite uncle. He always stood up for me when my mother was cross with me.’

I can almost hear a smile in his voice. ‘Ah, yes, Marjorie cross could be very formidable. I presume Dermot had a very relaxed approach to life?’

‘He did.’ I laugh. How well David knew my mother! ‘Actually, now that I think about it, he was rather like you in a way that I can’t quite explain. He gave out a sense of calmness and reliability, I suppose.’

‘I’m not entirely sure I can be described as calm and reliable, but if that’s a compliment, I accept it.’

‘You
are
calm. And I think you’re reliable,’ I tell him. ‘And . . .’ I pause for a moment before I am able to continue. ‘I really do wish you were my father.’

I hadn’t planned to say that, but now that I’ve come out with it, I am half-expecting him to say that he, too, wishes he was my father. So when he simply says, ‘Thank you, Louise,’ and ends the conversation, I’m conscious of something like disappointment.

And there’s something else bothering me, something he did say, but I can’t, for the life of me, remember what it was. All I remember is that, whatever it was, it struck me as vaguely puzzling in that fleeting moment I heard him say it.

Chapter Thirty

It’s October already, but we’re having an Indian summer. I’m sitting on the left side of the plane and, as we descend over Dublin Bay, I can see all the way through the clear evening sunlight to the Wicklow Mountains. I think enviously of Richard and his garden with its glorious views, imagining him pottering about among his plants. I should call him and arrange to go to Dalkey. I’ll call him from Drogheda.

My first task, though, will be to find Liam O’Connor. I could drive down to Kenmare on spec, but if he no longer lives at the address I have for him, it would be a long way to go for nothing. And if he is still living there and sees a complete stranger on his doorstep, he may not welcome the intrusion. I have an idea. Maybe Joannie can help me. I call her when we land.

‘Joannie, I’ve just arrived at the airport. I need a huge favour from you.’ I explain that there’s a phone number for Liam O’Connor, but it’s ex-directory. Maybe she could ask her boyfriend to call directory enquiries, explain that he’s the estate agent who sold the house in Crumlin years ago and needs to contact the seller because something valuable has been found in the house. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s all I could come up with.’

‘Yeah, it does sound ridiculous all right.’ She laughs. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’

An hour later, I’m in Drogheda, turning the key in the front door. The house,
my house
, is bright and warm, so different from what it was when my mother lived here. And yet, despite all the work we’ve done, all the changes we’ve made, I have a sense that she still inhabits it in some ineffable way. Her clothes are gone and the old dark wardrobes and chests of drawers have been replaced by light, modern equivalents. But when I close my eyes for a moment, I see her walking through the house, examining everything we’ve done and pronouncing it to her liking.

I call Angela, who’s expecting me to join her and Joe for dinner, and tell her I need half an hour to get my act together. Just as I end the call, the phone rings again. It’s Joannie. She sounds pleased with herself.

‘I have a number for you,’ she says.

‘I’m stunned. How did you manage that?’

‘I have my ways. Let’s just say I can be very persuasive when I want to be.’

We both laugh.

I stare at Liam O’Connor’s number. I have no idea what I’m going to say to him. If I tell him too much, he may think I’m a complete nutter. If I tell him too little, he may be suspicious of me, anyway.

A woman answers the telephone. She’s probably his wife.

‘Hello?’ is all she says, but from that single word, the way she elongates the second syllable and curls it up into a question mark, I can tell that her accent is pure Kerry.

‘Hello. I wonder if I can speak to Liam O’Connor,’ I say, trying to sound calm and confident.

‘And who are you?’ she asks, the sing-song lilt changing in a flash to something cooler and darker, overladen with suspicion. It takes me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting to have to get beyond such a fierce gatekeeper.

‘You won’t know me,’ I begin, searching in my head for the words that will convince her to let me speak to Liam O’Connor.

‘Are you from the papers?’ she cuts in, her voice now as sharp as a razor blade, even as it moves up and down chromatically through several tones.

‘No, no, I’m not from a paper or anything like that,’ I tell her quickly. ‘I’m a teacher, a music teacher. I’m from London.’

‘You don’t sound like you’re from London.’

‘What I mean is, I live in London. I’ve lived there for years. But I’m from Drogheda. And Dublin, originally,’ I say, adding, for no particular reason, ‘Drumcondra.’

‘And what is it you want with Liam?’

At this point, I realise that I have no hope of maintaining any control over this conversation or of getting to speak to Liam O’Connor, so disconcerting has been the intensity with which she has thrown questions at me.

‘To be honest,’ I say, faltering, all of the intended confidence replaced by weariness, ‘I’m not sure. It’s to do with his mother and my mother.’

I’m half-expecting her to put the phone down, but, to my surprise, her voice falls back into the softer lilt and she tells me to ‘Hang on for a minute.’

Several minutes go by and I start to wonder whether she has cut the line. But eventually I hear the sound of low voices coming nearer, the sound of movement through whichever room the phone is in. There’s a clattering sound as someone picks up the receiver, and then a voice.

‘This is Liam O’Connor.’

The voice is deep and low, the accent unmistakably Dublin. But it’s the rougher sound of the inner city, rather than the well-modulated tones of the wealthier southern suburbs.

‘Thanks for taking my call,’ I say.

I’m buying time, still searching for the explanation that will persuade him to see me. But I’m sure now that he’s the son of Mary O’Connor, because the woman didn’t correct me.

‘How did you get this number?’

‘I . . . I got it from directory enquiries.’

‘We’re not in the directory. They shouldn’t have given it to you.’

‘They must have made a mistake. I’m sorry.’

Silence. I’m expecting him to put the phone down, but he starts speaking again.

‘So what is it you want?’

He is much more polite than his wife, but he makes me nervous.

‘My name is Louise Redmond and I live in London, but I was brought up in Drogheda. Well, Drogheda and Dublin,’ I say, groaning inwardly as I listen to my inane repetition. How stupid and irrelevant this must sound. What does it matter where I’m from? I need to find a way of telling him why I want to see him.

He waits, says nothing.

‘I . . . I’m sorry, but it’s really difficult to explain on the phone. I’d like to come and see you.’

‘I’m not going to see you unless you tell me why. You told my wife it was something to do with your mother and my mother. Who’s your mother?’

‘Her name was Marjorie Redmond.’

‘That name means nothing to me. My mother is dead now, and she never mentioned a Marjorie Redmond. So why do you want to come down here?’

‘Look, your wife asked me if I was a reporter. I swear to you I’m not. The reason I need to see you is because I found your mother’s name and address in my mother’s house. My mother died a few months ago and I never heard her mention your mother’s name, so I don’t know what the connection was between them, but there must have been one. My mother left things in a bit of a mess and I’m trying to sort them out. All I’m asking is that you see me for even just fifteen minutes. Please.’

‘What age are you?’ he asks.

‘Forty-three,’ I answer, before I have time to think that his question is an odd one.

‘Where are you now? In London?’

‘No, I’m in Drogheda. I came over this evening.’

Silence.

Then he asks, ‘When were you thinking of coming down?’

‘Could I come tomorrow?’

‘No, I’m busy tomorrow. The day after will be okay. Have you the address?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll see you then, so.’

The strange conversations with Liam O’Connor and his wife play over and over in my head as I drive to Angela’s. Why would the wife have thought that I might be
from the papers
? Why would a newspaper be interested in them? I stop the car and tap
Liam O’Connor, Kenmare, Kerry, Dublin, Crumlin
into a Google search box in several different combinations, but come up with a confusion of results, none of which offers any clue as to why Liam O’Connor would be worthy of newspaper gossip.

Angela and Joe have never heard of Liam O’Connor, but Angela is broadly supportive of my plan to go to see him.

‘It’s good that you’re doing things, checking them out. But don’t be upset if you drive all the way down to Kenmare – and it’s a very long drive – and come back with nothing very much at all.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m prepared for the trip to be a waste of time, but I have to do it. It’s something I have to tick off.’

Joe makes the point that I’ve already established in the telephone conversation with Liam that my mother’s name rings no bells. ‘So I don’t understand what more you can get out of him by driving all the way to the wilds of Kerry,’ he says.

‘I don’t know, either. But I’m going to ask about Tennyson’s and about his family. Maybe he met my mother but didn’t know her name. There are loads of questions I can ask.’

‘Well,’ Joe says, opening a second bottle of wine, ‘as herself says, don’t be disappointed if it all comes to nothing.’