“Alas, Mademoiselle, I think it is already too late.” She moved her head sadly.
“Mon dieu, quelle horreur!” shrieked Sévérine. Covering her cheeks with her hands, she produced a violent hysterical fit followed by an Oscar winning storm of crocodile tears. The doctor they had called arrived at top speed, and simply confirmed the death of Frédéric. Shaking his head, he declared, “It was only a matter of time. It could have happened at any minute.” He covered the distorted face with the silken sheet.
She had bided her time and taken her revenge on the man she had hated ever since he had almost killed her at the swimming pool all those years ago. Frédéric Moret had unwittingly created with his arrogance and heartlessness a monster worse than himself. But it had always been too late for him to correct his mistake or change his daughter.
It was already half past midnight when Sévérine decided to go to bed. She glanced at the date on her clock: it was the 17th of January, the anniversary of that cursed swimming pool incident, a date so bitterly engraved in her memory.
“It took twelve whole years, but you’ve finally paid, you old bastard! You almost did for me but I’ve done for you now!” she gloated in spine-chilling pride in the half-light. She sat on her bed and went over everything in her mind to make sure that no detail could betray her. She turned abruptly and switched off the light beside her, the only one still burning in the mansion.
And then she burrowed into her luxurious silk bedclothes with a triumphant smile on her lips. She was master of her fate and so it would be.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
First Stop: Roodebeek – Keith
After an unusual dry spell even the annoying drizzle was welcome. It had begun well before the first light of dawn and kept on steadily until midday. Shortly after noon, the thick, low cloud began to lift and break up, revealing scattered pieces of blue sky. It was unusually mild and stuffy for November.
Keith arrived at the remote and normally deserted Bodenstown cemetery a little after lunchtime. He parked on the muddy lay-by and from the boot of the car took two large plastic bags stuffed with rags, detergents, secateurs, brooms and a small vacuum cleaner. He carried them all carefully to the eastern corner of the cemetery where all the dead of his family rested beneath a coppice of old beeches.
He rolled up his sleeves and without delay, set vigorously to work. It was the Day of All Souls when Roman Catholics remember their dead and tend their graves. Keith had taken leave from his office for his regular appointment which he kept unfailingly every year with those who lay under the fertile soil of County Kildare: his parents, his dear grandmother, Maura, her husband and her brother.
Methodically, he swept dry leaves from their graves, and energetically scraped decaying moss from the granite tombstones. With rags and brushes dipped in bleach and detergent, he scrubbed off the stains of birds, dust and the ubiquitous mould of the damp countryside. Finally, he pruned the trees whose branches had grown rampant over the graves. After three hours or more of these sweaty labours, he took a break and, holding his aching back, he emptied thirstily the small bottle of water in his bag.
He stood contemplating from a distance the pleasing results of his hard work, then remembered that he had brought fresh flowers. They were still in the car; he was about to fetch them and fill the vases which were standing clean and empty over the four graves.
All at once he felt a powerful presence nearby. He turned in surprise and smiled; a huge Irish Red Setter was sitting next to him on the grass, staring at him with perfectly round brown eyes wide open, full of canine devotion. Its huge, plumy tail waved amiably, rubbing back and forth on the wet earth beneath it. It was so like Ginger! Suddenly it was thirty years ago, on another Day of All Souls, a festival whose Halloween celebrations the night before had been much more interesting to a ten-year-old. Nana Maura was adamant; they must visit his parents’ graves, even though he never even knew them. But she let Ginger come along, and she and little Keith romped among the gravestones and monuments while Maura dealt with the leaves and bird droppings, and perhaps shed a tear for her daughter and son-in-law.
Now here was Ginger in reincarnation, though no longer a puppy – well, neither was Keith.
“Who are you, mate? How did you get here? Where’s your master?” Keith asked the dog, stroking the large head. And as if it took courage from the greeting, it responded with a resounding bark. It had no collar but was freshly brushed and well cared for. “Must be from one of those nearby farmhouses,” he thought. He looked around but nobody in the vicinity seemed to be the dog’s owner or taking any interest in it. He shrugged.
“Well, since you’re on your own, stay awhile with me! Come on! Let's go and fetch the flowers!” he said. The dog followed him without hesitation to the car parked near the entrance to the cemetery, offering occasional friendly barks. People were coming and going by car and on foot, like him, honouring this very special day for the Irish dead. They walked softly and spoke in whispers in the weedy lanes of the cemetery, carrying the traditional flowers and other offerings. Keith took his flowers carefully from the back seat of his car and glanced at the dog standing a breath away from him, still looking him straight in the face with huge eyes and bursts of warm breath. A large, rather muddy paw was raised and offered; they solemnly shook hands. Just like Ginger... This could well be one of her descendants, come to think of it. Her pups had been given to homes here and there in the village.
“Come on, mate, we’ll just fix the flowers and we’re done!” His new friend replied with two or three canine encouragements. “I wonder if animals feel pain when their beloved person dies? Sense this most devastating loss of life?” he thought as he trailed slowly after the huge dog, who seemed to know by heart the path to his family graves. “They must do; one hears stories about dogs mourning on their masters’ tombs... Didn’t Maura tell me once about a dog she knew who began howling when its owner was killed in the war? Hmm...”
He came to a sudden halt. An old man with thick white hair had appeared at the graveside. Leaning on a cane, his back was so bent over by grief, or osteoporosis, at the newly cleaned tomb, that upright, he must have been several inches taller. His posture was eloquent of weariness, even despair. It was obvious that he had to put a special effort into holding his head up. Clutched tightly in his hands was a bouquet of fresh white roses. Perhaps in the sad confusion of senile dementia the stranger had made a mistake and was hanging over the wrong grave. Keith was unexpectedly moved by the pathetic spectacle before him.
Not knowing how to react, he turned towards the dog beside him. But his new four-legged friend had disappeared as if swallowed by the earth, as suddenly and magically as it had appeared. Startled by the mysterious disappearance of the dog and the apparition of the old man, he tried discreetly to hear what the old fellow was saying.
He was amazed; there was no doubt that the unknown was addressing his dead grandmother. He had not mistaken the grave. Keith heard him clearly.
“Oh, Maura Donnelly, I cannot rest until you forgive me, Maura Donnelly,” he was chanting, almost ritually. Keith strained his mind to identify this old man with some distant relative, an old neighbour or family acquaintance. A futile effort. This grand-da looked like nobody he knew, nor could he think of anyone of the right age. Puzzled, he made a cautious approach.
Slowly and painfully, the old man lowered his frail body to his knees before the grave. “Maura Donnelly, send me a sign of forgiveness.” He said these words tonelessly, as though reciting them. He clutched his cane for balance as he continued to repeat the words, “Maura Donnelly, send me a sign...”
“I beg your pardon, sir.” Daring to interrupt him, Keith inched closer, with misgivings about disturbing such a personal moment. Deeply engrossed in his dreary monologue, the elder did not hear his words.
“Pardon, sir,” Keith repeated, raising his voice. “Were you acquainted with Maura Donnelly?”
At this, the unknown old man flinched and made a clumsy ef
fort to climb to his feet, losing his balance. He staggered onto the granite stone and eyed Keith fearfully, dropping the bouquet he held to the damp earth. “Who… who are you?” he faltered.
Now Keith recalled reports from some of his neighbours in Sallins who visited the village cemetery; they would find impressive bouquets of white roses at Maura’s tomb-side with no card, and no one ever knew when they had arrived or who was responsible. At first he had been taken aback by this story, but after a while, it had almost become a joke – Maura’s ghostly admirer had dropped in again. Could this be...?
“I'm Keith MacFarland, Maura’s grandson.”
“Mother of God!” The gaffer’s reddened eyes rolled as he crossed himself. He stared at Keith as if he were seeing a ghost. He opened and shut his mouth and tried to speak. But the words would not come. He was trembling, on the point of collapse. It was obvious that his legs would not hold him up. Keith took him by the arms and gently sat him down on the newly washed tomb of his grandmother, the nearest available place. The stranger stared at Keith, bewildered.
Keith sat down beside him. “Did you know my grandmother?” he persisted, aware of a deep sense of pity.
The old man trembled. “Your grandmother is dead because of me. I killed this woman. I will burn in hell.”
“What?” Keith asked, stupefied. What could this pathetic old codger possibly mean? “They said it was an accident! Killed her? Why? She never did any harm!” He was babbling in shock.
“I never had the honour to meet her. But ever since I found out the name of Maura Donnelly, I keep coming here to beg her to forgive me,” said the old man in despair.
Keith continued looking at him, trying to make sense of this. The old man’s head had dropped forward. He was mumbling something. “I was late for a business appointment and I was speeding... The streets were all slippery from the morning drizzle... light dim... fog... the bike jumped out in front of my car from nowhere! I lost control of it... No time to react... a terrible moment... a terrible wrong... Since I discovered her name I’ve come regularly to the tomb to ask her forgiveness… but she never… I n-n-never drove a car again.” With great effort he continued, “I am so sorry for what I did to you! Sorry! I'm sorry... You can’t know how much I regret the pain I caused you and your family!”
Keith was silent for a moment. “It was an accident, then? You didn’t mean to kill her?” The old man lifted his head. “Are you mad? But I am guilty of her death all the same. Father O’Connor doesn’t understand. I have confessed again and again, but he cannot absolve me. It was a crime. I have been punished, yes. But there is no forgiveness.” He was staring into a depthless abyss.
“Who on earth are you? I don’t understand...”
“Fitzgerald, Sean Fitzgerald.” Keith jumped. Who was this man? He’d only known one Fitzgerald. “Since I learned the name of Maura Donnelly I keep coming here to beg her to forgive me,” repeated said the old man. “First my daughter... Oh yes, young man, there is justice in heaven. He grinds exceeding small, as they say. She was smashed to pieces in a speeding car... and then her mother’s heart was broken and…” He could not go on. His voice was choked with tears.
Crouching on the granite tombstone, his wrinkled face streaked with tears and lowered in shame, the old man went on: “I have paid in the same coin... my daughter, my only child Maeve, only twenty-two... she was coming to pick us up, her mother and me, from the airport, and she was a little late for the appointment. There’s justice! Just like me... they found the wrecked car in the bushes by the motorway... our little girl gone forever... it was unbearable! Better I had been hanged as a murderer.” His deep sigh came from him as a moan from hell, tearing apart the tranquility of the cemetery and with it Keith’s heart.
“And then I lost her dear mother, my wife whose heart was broken, just a few months later. I have been alone for twenty years, alone with my guilt and the bitterness and loss of my only child, which I deserved, I deserved!” His voice faded into gasping sobs.
Keith stared at him, dumbfounded by the astonishing words trickling feebly from the old man’s mouth. They seeped into his mind like the poisonous water of a contaminated spring.
He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. So this was the conscienceless driver who had taken the life of his grandmother! This was the callous brute that had run Maura down, in all her strength and courage, with all her wit and vitality and wiped her from the face of the earth! He had imagined the confrontation for many a year – but not like this. All the harsh words he had prepared for years to hurl at the culprit dissolved in compassion for this pitiful human ruin sobbing at his feet.
Nor had he yet quite grasped the fact that this man, this killer of innocents, was the father of his beloved Maeve. “But how is it possible?” he thought in stupefaction. “What inexplicable and tragic games fate plays with us! My God!” He could only stand silent, unable to express this violent rush of contradictory thoughts and emotions exploding in his mind, as the old man hunched over in hopeless despair and resumed his monotonous chanting.
At last Keith managed to speak. “Maeve?… Fitzgerald? Maeve Fitzgerald’s father? You… I… oh, this is impossible!” His hands were icy as he rubbed his eyes. He managed to stutter, “M… Maeve... I knew your daughter... I knew her…”
The reddened eyes of the old man flashed in surprise. “You knew her? You knew my Maeve? Ah... forgive me, my lad, forgive me for the wrong I did to you and your family!” he begged once more. The face of sweet Maeve rose in Keith’s mind; looking closely for the first time at the tormented face of the old man, through the lines of suffering and tearstains, he could discern the resemblance. It was amazing, once he perceived it. But it was her father, who would have been his father-in-law.
His feelings overwhelmed him; unwittingly he dissolved in silent tears. Seeing him weeping, the old man resumed his chant, punctuated by gasps for breath. No longer hesitant, Keith crouched down and hugged him and their awkward masculine sobs mingled in bizarre chorus. Keith did not say to the murderer of his dear Nana what he had been rehearsing for so many years. All his rage at the wrongful death of his grandmother had melted away. The tears of the old man flowed on warmly, thoroughly soaking Keith’s cotton shirt. He remained there gently stroking the white head.
Finally, Keith summoned the strength to articulate. “Maeve... I knew her very well... I knew her… I loved her. I still love her with all my strength, with all my soul... And I forgive you! Let you be absolved! May God ease your remorse! I am sure that my grandmother has already done so; she was a very forgiving woman.” These words of forgiveness came straight through from the depths of his soul. And he felt immediately eased for the death of his grandmother, released from the bitter and malicious thoughts that had haunted him for years.
The old man’s sobbing had died down upon Keith’s words of forgiveness. He looked up with eyes still shining with tears, but now with a faint gleam of hope. Keith touched his forehead. “You're forgiven!” Keith repeated slowly and loudly, making sure he was heard. “Ego te absolvo, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit...” Where was that coming from? He was no priest!
It may have been blasphemous, but the light that seeped into the weary grey eyes as guilt and shame drained away made such a thought seem frivolous. Such a vivid glow of joy, the very look of his sweet Maeve lit the face of the old man, who heaved a deep sigh of gratitude and rested his head gently on Keith’s chest, who stroked his hair again.
Feeling the weight, after a few minutes he tried to raise him up; there was no reaction from the old man. Keith shook him gently. No response at all. With some effort Keith lifted his head and discovered with horror that the light had faded from the wide-open eyes which had rolled back in his head, leaving them white and expressionless. His grandmother’s killer stared at him sightlessly. With trembling hands, Keith closed the lids over the empty eyes and went on caressing the lush white hair. “God, forgive this tortured soul! Let him rest at last!”
he prayed.
He must summon official assistance, call for help; there were a few locals visiting the scattered tombs, but he could not produce a sound. Then a sudden current of chill air went right through him as he went on stroking the lifeless head, as if the soul of the unfortunate old man was being dragged forcibly towards the west. At the same moment, a small flock of crows took to the air from their refuge in the tall beech trees above the grave and flew off noisily in the same direction towards which Nana Maura had prayed every night, pleading with the Lord for one more day of life, keeping death at bay for many decades.
Finally, he managed to find his voice. “Help!” he shouted hoarsely. “Quick! Someone call 999! Get the Guards! And an ambulance!” he shouted again, knowing full well that no ambulance could help the old man now, no matter how it hurried...
Some of the passers-by were running towards him.
****
Forty minutes later, sitting on an ancient leather chair in the small Garda Síochána station of Sallins, Keith read over his personal deposition about the shocking incident at the cemetery for the young duty officer. He had explained in full detail the amazing story of the long-ago accident and Sean Fitzgerald’s confession over the grave of his grandmother. “After all this time you can close the file on the death of Maura Donnelly,” he added with a sigh, adding an outsize signature to his statement. “One less unsolved mystery file for you.” His clumsy effort at a joke elicited a hesitant smile from the duty officer, who nodded compassionately, as if to confirm an agreement. He began to rummage in the stacks of papers on the untidy desk, searching for his official seal, and eventually unearthed it from beneath a stack of folders and documents. He could now formalise the document closing the case of Maura Donnelly’s tragic death. He stamped the paper with a loud bang, sealed it and got up from his desk. Keith, too, rose immediately from his chair. His business at the police station had been formally completed. Without speaking, the police officer pulled a thick folder from a metal cabinet and leafed through it. He hesitated over certain pages, curiously eyeing Keith who was able to distinguish clearly the words on the cardboard folders, words typed long ago on an old-fashioned machine: “UNSOLVED; Maura Donnelly, widow, April 24th, 1996, Sallins-Naas Road, County Kildare.” With a thick felt-tip pen, the policeman crossed off UNSOLVED, wrote: CLOSED, and replaced the file.
The Next Stop Page 16
