by Anita Notaro
The knock on the front door made me jump in fright, almost dropping my teacup, and then the letter box flapped open. ‘Antonia, are you in there?’
Betty. Mum’s oldest neighbour. I got up heavily out of the chair, wondering how on earth I was going to tell her what had happened. But of course, it wasn’t difficult. When I opened the door to her, she took one look at me and knew that something was badly wrong.
‘Oh, Betty,’ I wailed. ‘She’s gone!’
Betty pulled me into her arms. ‘Shush, shush, pet,’ she soothed, as she patted me on the back.
‘She had a heart attack and they had her hooked up to machines, but then she had a second one and they couldn’t bring her back,’ I sobbed.
‘You poor child, why didn’t you knock when you came home? I’d have come in and sat with you.’ She held me tight and tried to ease my pain by rubbing my back and murmuring that we would get through this. ‘I’ll look after you now, pet. C’mon, into the sitting room there and we’ll put on a fire.’
I shook my head. ‘No, Betty. I … can’t.’ I looked at the sitting-room door, now slightly ajar, and thought of Mum, in her chair, smiling as she watched the television, and of the way she’d been, the last time I’d seen her there.
Betty’s soft brown eyes were kind. ‘Of course you can’t, pet, what was I thinking? Let’s make a nice cup of tea, then.’
‘Thanks, Betty,’ I said, allowing her to lead me into the kitchen, feeling like a child. I didn’t want to tell her I’d already had a cup. ‘You must think I haven’t got an ounce of sense.’ I tried to smile at her.
‘No, not at all, love. You’re just in shock, it’s perfectly normal.’ She felt the kettle, nodded to herself, then refilled it, reaching up into the kitchen cupboard for Mum’s favourite willow-pattern teapot. Betty knew where everything was, because she spent so much time in our house. Herself and Mum had been friends since Mum and Dad had come to live in Glenvara, and had become even closer when Dad had died. I watched her quick, economical movements, and the swish of her purple tweed skirt and tight grey curls. She was barely older than Mum, and yet so full of life and energy.
The tea made, Betty came and sat down beside me at the kitchen table. ‘Antonia,’ she said, taking my head in her warm, wrinkled hands and tilting it towards her. ‘You have been the best daughter in the world. Your mum told me that a hundred times. She said they got lucky the day you came into their lives. You just remember that.’
‘Did she really say that?’ I was amazed.
‘She most certainly did, all the time, so you hold on to that now. And remember, I’m here for you, and so will all the neighbours be. Everyone loved your mother.’
‘Thanks, Betty, I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you here.’ I smiled.
Betty paused for a second. She’d taken her hands away to lift the teapot and fill our cups. Now she put it down and looked thoughtful. ‘You’d manage, my love.’
I wasn’t so sure at all. But then, I wasn’t sure of anything any more.
Later on, I remembered the time Mum had tried to discuss it with me. Managing without her. I’d been helping her out of the bath and she’d sat there on the edge, looking thoughtful, as I’d tied her bathrobe around her and combed her wet hair. ‘You know, Antonia,’ she’d said finally. ‘Sometimes I really do wish you had more of a life of your own. And I blame myself. I should have helped you to be more independent, to go out in the world and make your own way.’
I hadn’t understood her. ‘What do you mean, Mum? I manage to look after us both, don’t I?’ I’d smiled and tucked the label of her bathrobe in underneath her collar, patting her on her thin shoulders.
‘Oh, of course you do. No daughter could do more, But you know,’ she’d said, as I’d put my arm around her and helped her to her feet. ‘You were our little girl and, well, we only wanted the best for you.’
‘I know that, Mum,’ I’d replied, feeling a bit nonplussed. ‘I’m happy, you know, really I am.’
She’d looked at me for a long while, and then she’d said to me, ‘I know you are, love, but sometimes you have to find happiness on your own, do you know what I mean? It’s not always where you think it is.’
Of course, I’d just nodded my head, hoping she’d drop the subject, but now I began to see what she’d meant. It was nobody’s fault, really, but sometimes I felt that I was still the little girl who’d come to stay with Mum and Dad all those years ago.
The next two days passed in a daze, as Betty helped me to organize the funeral, phoning the undertaker and the local priest, making a list of all Mum’s relatives that needed to be contacted. There was so much to do, and I felt completely at sea. ‘What about food?’ Betty asked me.
‘Food?’ I looked at her, astonished. ‘What kind of food?’
‘For the people who’ll come back after the funeral Mass, love. There’ll be a big crowd, you know.’
‘Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.’
Betty tried to suppress a smile, and in spite of everything, I had to smile too. ‘God, Betty, you must think I’m useless.’
‘No, not at all,’ Betty said stoutly. ‘You just don’t have much experience organizing funerals. Thank God,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘Thank God for you, Betty,’ I said, and hugged her, pressing her tight grey curls to mine.
‘Ah, will you stop? Or you’ll set me off,’ Betty said, turning away from me and pretending to dry the cups and saucers on the draining board. And then she said quietly, ‘Will you be singing at the Mass, Antonia?’
I shook my head. ‘Oh, no, Betty. I couldn’t. Eithne and the choir will look after it. I just …’ I shook my head again. At the very thought of it, my stomach churned and my mouth felt dry.
Betty turned to me, the tea towel in her hand, and the expression on her face was one of pure disappointment. I wondered what on earth it was about me – first Billy now Betty, giving me that same look. ‘You know, Antonia, I can’t think of anything your mum would have liked more.’
‘I know, Betty, it’s just …’ I began, but then I looked at her again. ‘You’re right, of course. I’ll sing “Ave Maria” – she always liked that.’
Betty came over to me and squeezed my arm. ‘She’ll be up there now, happy, pet.’
And the funny thing was, Betty was right. It’s one of my big secrets, that I don’t share Mum’s passion for God and religion. I actually never did, even in my days in the orphanage. Perhaps it was because I couldn’t believe that if God existed, he’d take away my mum and dad from me and leave me alone. But of course, I knew better than to say anything, and when my new mum and dad adopted me, it seemed easier not to tell them, either. It would only have upset them, because their faith was so strong. I don’t think they ever really suspected, because I sang in the choir every Sunday, sometimes at two or three Masses – but I wasn’t going for the prayers, of course, but for the music and for the chance to sing, even if it was just hymns.
But in the days that followed Mum’s death, I knew, somehow, that she was up there, looking down on me. I could feel her presence everywhere, buoying me up: helping me to get through every minute and hour before her funeral; to deal with the undertaker and the flowers and the constant stream of people that called to the door, wanting to remember her, to tell me just how much she had meant to them. So, even though I missed Mum more than I would have thought possible, when I walked to the altar on the day of her funeral, I didn’t think about how I was standing in front of people we’d both known our whole lives, all packed into the tiny stone church in the village. Or that I was about to open my mouth in front of them and sing, something that would have made me sick with nerves just a few weeks before. I just cleared my throat and looked out at the congregation, packed into the tiny church, and knew Mum would be thrilled that so many people had come to say goodbye, and that I was among friends.
‘I’d like to say a few short words about Mum. As you all know, I came into her life when I was seven,
and I can truly say that no one could have had a better mum. I know that’s what everyone says, but it’s true.’ As I said this, people smiled and chuckled gently, nodding their heads in agreement. ‘Mum and Dad chose me to be their daughter, and always told me how special this made me. They didn’t give me a swelled head, though,’ I added, and there was another laugh. ‘But they made me feel that I was truly loved, and …’ My voice wobbled as I tried to compose myself. ‘And Mum was special to me, more special than I can ever say. So, in honour of her memory, I’d like to sing her favourite song, “Ave Maria”.’ There was a murmur of approval and heads nodded, and Bridget, of course, gave me the thumbs up from her position in the choir.
Eithne played the opening bars to the song, and I opened my mouth and let the notes come out, soaring into the church, over the heads of the congregation. And as I sang, I found my confidence growing, my voice getting stronger and stronger, as if it was guided by someone. As usual my nervousness just disappeared. And when it was over and the last few notes on the organ had trailed away, I could see great smiles on the faces of everyone in the congregation, and knew that Mum was there, with me, and I hoped that I’d made her proud. What I didn’t know then was that Mum’s death, the worst thing that could ever happen to me, was a turning point. That, in the space of a few short weeks, my life would change in ways I’d never have thought possible.
5
IT DIDN’T HAPPEN immediately though, but then I suppose that’s normal, when your whole life is about to change. People talk about overnight success, but it isn’t really like that. There’s a moment when you feel you’re on the edge of something, like you’re standing on top of a high diving board, before you decide to jump. And believe me, I spent quite a lot of time on that diving board. But then, I hadn’t even realized what it was I wanted, until it happened.
The month after Mum’s death passed in a blur, the only comfort being that I hardly had the time to feel lonely. And even though I knew I’d have to face it sooner or later, I was glad not to be alone. The doorbell and phone never stopped ringing, but I answered every time, sighing with relief at the distraction. I opened the door to every visitor, and rang everyone to thank them for their gifts of meals.
‘You’re coping very well, pet,’ Betty said to me one morning. She’d come over to help me wash and dry all of the casserole dishes, and was carefully labelling them with their owners’ names. She looked at me steadily as she said this, and I knew what she really meant. That I was coping too well. That I hadn’t given myself time to grieve. But the reality was, I felt numb, as if my feelings were wrapped in thick wads of cotton wool. I didn’t know how to explain this to Betty, so instead I just shook my head and tried to smile at her, but my smile didn’t reach my eyes.
‘I have to be strong, Betty, strong for Mum.’
Betty softened. ‘No, pet, you don’t. Nobody would blame you if you cried a bit. You’ve just lost your mother, after all. You know, you need to grieve, it’s normal. What do they call it? “Acting out”.’
I laughed, and Betty had the grace to look sheepish.
‘You’ve been watching too many American self-help shows on TV, Betty.’
‘Ah, sure, I know. They cheer me up, knowing that everyone else is a worse basket case than myself. But,’ she continued, giving me that look again, ‘they’re right. You can’t bottle it up, love, it’ll only do you harm in the long run.’
‘But I’m so … useless at life,’ I said, ‘that I feel it’s the least I can do: have a bit of dignity about it, for Mum’s sake.’ And then I took her hands in mine. ‘Thanks, Betty, I know that you’re trying to help. And I appreciate it, I really do.’
She tsked and shook her head before replying. ‘It’s all right, I suppose.’ And then her shoulders dropped and she put the tea towel down on the counter with a flick. ‘C’mon, we’ve a pile of letters to answer.’
We spent the rest of the afternoon sifting through the huge pile of letters and cards of sympathy from friends and family. Mum’s brother and sister from Australia had been at the funeral, but I hadn’t realized she had so many distant cousins and friends. There were cards from America, where she’d worked when she was young, as well as a hand-stitched card from her sewing group in Glenvara. It was good to know she had so many friends. As I turned the cards over in my hands, I couldn’t help wondering who would be there for me when I died – silly, I know, but I felt so alone right then. I wondered if anyone would really notice if I just wasn’t there any more.
And then I shook my head. What on earth was I thinking? That I wanted to die? No, it wasn’t that, it was just that I didn’t feel I had a life that mattered. I sighed. And whose fault is that, Antonia? I said to myself. You’ve been living like a nun in an enclosed order for the last few years. Is it any wonder you’re alone now, and you don’t feel you have a life? Get a grip, for God’s sake.
‘Everything all right, Antonia?’ Betty was giving me that look again. The one that said she was worried about me.
‘God, yes, I’m fine, Betty. It’s just …’ I said, waving a white letter in my hand. Unlike many of the others, it was addressed to Ms Antonia Trent, typewritten, with the logo of Celtic TV on it. Who did Mum know there? I wondered, slicing the envelope open with her silver letter opener. She loved things like that, Mum – letter openers and tea cosies. She was always ordering them from catalogues or buying them from a local country shop she loved, and it made me laugh. ‘Don’t you have about a dozen of them already?’ I’d tease her, as she filled in the order coupons for yet another knick-knack.
‘You can never have too many tea cosies,’ she’d smile back, signing the form with a flourish.
I turned my attention back to the letter, pulling the crisp white paper from the envelope and unfolding it.
The logo on the top of the letter was Celtic TV’s, and I scanned the lines rapidly, then re-read them, unable to believe the words.
Dear Ms Trent,
Thank you for applying for Celtic TV’s newest show, That’s Talent! We really value the fact that you took the time to contact us …
But I didn’t, I thought to myself, as I read on.
Even better, we’ve listened to your audition CD and we just love it! And we’d like to see more of you, Antonia. We’d like to invite you to the auditions for the show, taking place in Dublin on Friday 7 October at 9 a.m. Come early, as there’s bound to be a crowd!
I put the letter down on my knee, open-mouthed. The fact that it was seriously cheesy didn’t even register, because I was so … gobsmacked is the only word.
‘What is it, pet?’ Betty stood up and came over to me, pulling the letter gently out of my hand. She scanned the lines for a moment, her face gradually breaking into a smile. ‘But that’s fantastic, Antonia! I love that show. I didn’t know you’d applied!’ She shot me an admiring glance.
‘I didn’t,’ was all I could say.
‘You’ve probably forgotten, love, with everything else that’s been going on.’
I shook my head, adamant. ‘I didn’t apply, Betty, honest. You know me, it’s the last thing I’d do, sing on television. Do you seriously think I’d apply for something like That’s Talent!?’
‘Well, no …’ Betty looked thoughtful. ‘But someone did. I wonder who?’
I shook my head. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.’
Betty put both her hands on my shoulders and turned me around to face her. ‘Now you listen to me, young lady. You have a gift, and your mammy would want to see you make the most of it, do you hear me? You’re right. It doesn’t matter a damn who sent the CD in, what matters is this is a chance, can you not see that? A chance to change your life, pet. Don’t you think? Wouldn’t your mammy want that for you, after everything you’ve done for her?’
I nodded, not daring to say anything else. I’d never seen Betty so … vehement.
‘That’s more like it,’ she said, interpreting my silence as evidence that I was actually agreeing with her. Well, let
her think that, I thought, taking the letter from her and putting it carefully in the envelope. She doesn’t need to know, does she? I made a mental note to put the letter on the fire later.
I’d just got to the bottom of the pile of letters, having ushered Betty out the door a couple of hours earlier. I hadn’t even stopped to make dinner, throwing a frozen pizza in the oven instead, and eating a couple of slices as I thanked another person who’d been kind enough to remember Mum. Frozen pizza. Mum would have had a heart attack. She’d always insisted on home-cooked food, made with fresh ingredients. She’d haunted the farmers’ market in Ashford every Sunday, picking up fruit and veg and quizzing the stallholders about farming methods. She’d taught me to cook, and I wasn’t bad, actually. I could make the kind of wholesome food that we’d both liked. But I hadn’t got the heart for it now.
I was about to go into the kitchen with my plate when the phone rang. I debated for a bit whether to answer it – it was probably another of Mum’s friends wanting a chat – but I sighed and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Antonia Trent?’ It was a woman, about my age, by the sound of it, crisply efficient and remote.
‘Yes,’ I said cautiously.
‘It’s Dublin University Hospital here.’
At the sound of the name, my heart started beating faster and I felt my chest tighten. ‘Yes?’ I managed.
‘Please don’t worry, there’s nothing … amiss,’ the woman said. ‘It’s just that we’ve been, erm, finalizing your mother’s file, and we notice that we still have one of her personal effects.’
