by Tara Heavey
‘You know, come to think of it, I don’t think she’s even at home. I saw her heading off about half an hour ago. Probably doing her weekly shop.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity.’
The two women looked so disappointed that Aoife almost felt sorry for them, but she was under strict instructions from Mrs Prendergast not to let them anywhere near the house. Her exact words had been ‘If you let either of those nosy old bags within ten yards of my home, I’ll set Harriet on them.’
‘What’s she going to do? Fart at them until they’re both completely asphyxiated?’
‘Don’t be so cheeky, my girl. I mean it. If you let them anywhere near me I’ll cancel the whole thing. Let me remind you that I’m still the owner of this garden.’
Mrs Prendergast had shaken a crooked finger at Aoife. There was a glint in her eye, but Aoife knew she was serious. She’d seen the telltale twitch of the bedroom curtain when the women had first arrived, and imagined their reedy voices floating to the uppermost reaches of the house, where Mrs Prendergast was waiting, watching, checking.
To Aoife’s frustration, Seth had insisted on following them. She knew that he knew she had meant him to stay put. Typical. She gave him a look and he grinned back.
The three women chatted as they walked. It came as no surprise to Aoife that Joyce and Pearl were retired teachers.
‘What’s going to happen on the day?’ asked Joyce.
‘Well, I thought we’d have a stall selling fruit and veg and that I could make some soup.’
‘What kind of soup?’
‘Parsnip. We’ve got a glut at the moment.’
‘I’ve a wonderful recipe for honey-roasted parsnip soup I can give you.’
‘I already have –’
‘Now. Bread.’
‘What about it?’
‘You have to have some homemade bread to go with the soup. Would you like us to make it?’
‘Um. Maybe. I’m not sure. Can I get back to you on that?’
‘Fine. What else?’
‘I hadn’t really thought much further than that.’
‘What about a cake stall?’ This from Seth.
‘Excellent idea!’ Joyce beamed at him. ‘We can use some of the fruit from the garden. Pies, flans, crumbles. That sort of thing.’
‘And jams,’ said Seth.
‘Oh, yes. Jams, jellies, chutneys. I must say, you’re full of wonderful ideas.’
‘Oh, he’s full of it, all right.’
If Aoife didn’t know better, she’d have sworn Joyce was flirting with Seth.
‘Now.’ Joyce was striding with great purpose towards Emily’s sensory garden. ‘This lavender. I know it’s past its best but it’s hanging on in there. I’m sure we could put it to some use. Soaps. Lotions. Scent.’
‘What about the roses?’ said Seth. ‘They’re shedding their petals right now. Could you make something out of them?’
Joyce clasped her hands as if in ecstasy. ‘Yes! Your husband has such wonderful ideas,’ she told Aoife.
‘My what?’ She could hear Seth snorting with laughter behind her.
‘Oh, I do apologize. I assumed you two were married.’
‘Um. No.’
‘Where shall we put the vicar?’ Pearl seemed quite oblivious to the conversation going on around her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘For the ceremony.’
‘What ceremony?’
‘For the harvest festival.’
‘Right. I think we may have got our wires crossed. It’s not going to be a religious event. At least, not a Christian one. We hope to have many people here from all sorts of different faiths. We wouldn’t want to alienate anyone.’
Pearl looked most put out.
‘I’m sorry if we’ve misled you,’ Aoife continued, ‘and of course the vicar is very welcome to come along. I’ll understand if you don’t want to participate in the circumstances.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Joyce. ‘Of course we do.’
Pearl didn’t look so certain.
When their visit was over, Seth and Aoife went with the two women to the gate. Seth walked ahead with Pearl while Aoife dawdled with Joyce, who stopped every now and then to admire some plant, invariably calling it by its Latin name.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Aoife said abruptly.
‘Of course you can, dear.’
‘Why did you think Seth and I were married?’
Joyce giggled. ‘Sorry about that. I don’t know, really. Something about the way you are with each other. I think it was the mixture of familiarity and contempt.’
36
By now Prendergast Construction Ltd was considered one of the premier building companies in the capital, testament to Martin’s hard work and charm. He’d just been awarded another government contract, which meant that Myrtle didn’t see much of him. It suited her fine. She and Lance got on very well with their lives without him.
She had infinite time to spend with Lance, since Martin had insisted upon hiring a housekeeper and a gardener as befitted his new status of master builder. She drew the line at a nanny – although the housekeeper suited her well enough: Myrtle’s talent had always been in picking out exquisite items, not in keeping them clean. The garden was a different issue. They’d done little to it since moving in, the project seeming too monumental. It was a sprawling acre surrounded by high brick walls and dominated by weeds. The only plants of any account in it were a few old apple trees.
So a gardener was appointed and things started to happen. Myrtle watched in daily fascination as order was created out of chaos. Four quadrants were created. A pond was constructed in the centre and gravel pathways enclosed each section. And then there was the planting, which was where the real fun started. The gardener, a generous man in his fifties, allowed Myrtle to participate. They pored over catalogues together and made their selections.
Martin was equally delighted with developments. On his rare days off, he would help with the digging and the carting around of topsoil. Myrtle guessed it reminded him of his childhood on the farm, but she didn’t ask. She didn’t care about him any more. It mattered only that he was sober and leaving her alone.
But it was winter now and there was not much work to be done. The garden lay sleeping, and, inside the house, Christmas decorations were going up. Martin was due back from a junket in Amsterdam. A few days after that, his mother and brother Séan were coming to spend their first Christmas in Dublin. There was a lot for Myrtle to do but she was as happy as she could be.
Lance flew into his father’s arms the second he got home. ‘What did you get me?’
There was chocolate, of course.
‘And this.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s an angel for the top of the Christmas tree.’
It was small and ceramic, blue and white.
Martin and Lance looked at Myrtle.
‘It’s lovely,’ she confirmed.
Martin lifted up Lance and he placed the angel at the top of their little fir tree. Then they turned on the lights and had the best Christmas ever.
For her birthday that spring, Martin bought Myrtle her very own camera because he was still trying hard to please her. And she was pleased.
‘Come on. Let’s test it outside.’
The three trooped out and found the gardener. ‘Would you mind?’ said Martin, showing him how to use the contraption. ‘A family portrait, I think.’
They stood in front of the apple trees, the entire Prendergast family. The gardener clicked.
‘Wonderful.’
The time capsule was Martin’s idea, enthusiastically hijacked by Lance. They buried it the following week, on the very day the first batch of photos was developed. They spent a magical afternoon in the garden, the entire Prendergast family, discussing what to include and where to bury it.
That night Martin had a glass of Johnnie Walker. Just a small one. He deserved it after being so good for so long.
It began again, the old familiar dance. First came the smell. He tried to hide it but her sensitivity was heightened. She didn’t say anything. Then came the late nights. Then both factors increased with intensity. Still she didn’t say anything. She didn’t see the point. There was such a dull inevitability to it all. A cycle as natural as the seasons. As winter followed autumn, so drunkenness followed sobriety. He still came home some nights and played with his son. The two adored each other and, thus far, Lance had never seen his father drunk. Didn’t even know what drunk was, thank goodness. Although he did comment once: ‘What’s that smell, Daddy?’
‘Toothpaste.’
‘No, there’s something else too.’
Martin had rapidly excused himself.
Then the insults started, insidious at first, becoming more obvious. The names. The slaps, the kicks, the shoves. Nothing serious. Base-level stuff. Stuff that by now she felt she deserved. At least he was good to Lance. He never lifted a finger to him, and as long as that continued, she could put up with anything.
It became worse – the drinking, the violence. She wondered how he continued to get away with it in the outside world. But at the same time, she was aware that to the outside world he was charm personified. It added to her sense of isolation, her desperation, the understanding that she alone knew the truth and that if she tried to share it she wouldn’t be believed.
One evening he came home early. The housekeeper was ill so Myrtle was seeing to the dinner. The gardener had brought in some vegetables for the stew she was making. They had chatted a while about some new planting schemes while Lance did a jigsaw on the kitchen floor. She hadn’t been expecting Martin until much later. Her spirits drooped at the sound of his voice.
‘Daddy, Daddy!’ Lance ran to his father and clung to his leg. For once he was ignored.
What Myrtle saw on Martin’s face filled her with fear. He glared at the gardener, who beat a hasty retreat.
‘What was he doing here?’ he spat. It was clear he was mouldy drunk and looking for a fight.
‘Lance, darling, why don’t you go upstairs and play with your trains?’
‘I said, what the fuck was he doing here?’ he roared, and slammed his hand down on the counter.
Out of the corner of her eye, Myrtle saw Lance jump out of his skin, then stare at his father in wonderment and fear. He’d never seen him like this before.
Myrtle struggled to keep the tremor out of her voice. Even she’d rarely seen him so bad. ‘He was bringing me some vegetables. Mary’s off sick and I’m making the dinner.’
‘What were you talking about?’
‘The garden. We –’
‘You’ve always got your heads together. Are you fucking him?’
‘Martin, please! Don’t be so stupid – he’s old enough to be my father.’
‘Don’t you dare call me stupid, you fucking whore!’ he bellowed.
‘Lance, go upstairs. Now!’
‘Are you making a fool of me, woman?’
He had her by the throat now, squeezing hard, the back of her head rammed up against the fridge.
‘Stop it, Daddy! Stop it!’ Lance was screaming now and pummelling Martin’s legs with his balled-up fists. Myrtle wanted to tell him to stop but she couldn’t utter a sound. It was all she could do to breathe, with Martin’s hands tightening by the second. She pulled at them to no avail. She stared back into his murderous eyes and registered with horror the manic spittle on his lips. If she ever got out of this…
‘Mummy!’ Lance was hysterical now, running at his father and ramming into him with his head.
‘Stop it!’ roared Martin. But he wouldn’t until Martin let Myrtle go, whereupon she collapsed in a heap. Then Martin launched himself at Lance and slapped him so hard across the face that the boy was knocked back several feet. He descended on the child and started to shake him. ‘You little shit!’
‘Take your hands off him.’
And suddenly all was silent, all was still.
Myrtle held a kitchen knife to Martin’s throat.
Neither of them doubted her capacity to use it.
37
The weeks drifted by and all was suspiciously quiet. Neither Uri’s nor Mrs Prendergast’s lawyers had heard a peep out of Lance. Enquiries were made and the reason became abundantly clear: Lance had checked himself into rehab.
How was Mrs Prendergast to react? With relief that Lance was getting help for his problems? Or shame that her son had sunk to such depths? Either way, it was a difficult and emotional issue for her. She had to go and see him, of course. How could she not? Although part of her would find it difficult to forgive him for the way he’d behaved, he was still her one and only son and she his only mother.
She’d never been to a rehabilitation centre before and it was nicer than she’d expected. She’d had a vision of peeling paint, terrible lavatories and junkies lining the corridors, needles sticking out of their arms. But it was calm. Dignified. It reminded her of an active retirement centre she’d visited once.
Lance was sitting at a table, his back to her. The shock was physical: he looked so much like his father from behind. She realized he was now older than Martin had been the last time she’d laid eyes on him. The identical hairline. The broad expanse of his shoulders.
She sat down quietly beside him. He looked at her and promptly burst into tears. She didn’t know where to put herself. Mother and son had always been in the habit of hiding their weaknesses from one another. Stiff upper lip and all that. She hadn’t seen him cry since he was a teenager and she didn’t know how to react. She felt overwhelming sympathy and compassion but she wasn’t sure how to express either. She settled for a swift pat on the arm. This seemed to make him worse, whether because her action was too much or not enough she couldn’t say. But Lance was clearly at the point in his treatment that made him cry like a baby at the tiniest thing.
Eventually he was able to get a few words out. ‘I’m sorry.’ He sniffed.
For what? For blubbering all over her? Or for breaking her heart?
‘I’ve been such a shit.’
While she had no intention of actively agreeing with him, she couldn’t bring herself to deny it either.
‘How can you even look at me? After everything I’ve done. Everything I’ve said.’
‘Oh, Lance.’ She put her hand on his. ‘I’ll always love you no matter what you do. I’m your mother. I can’t help it.’
This at least made him laugh. They’d always shared the same sense of humour. Dark. Ironic. Gallows humour, Martin used to call it. She surprised herself by thinking of him for the second time that day. Normally she was quite successful at blocking out such thoughts. She’d certainly needed gallows humour living with him.
‘I take it this means you’ll be dropping that ridiculous lawsuit?’
He nodded sheepishly and rubbed his eyes with the balls of his thumbs. ‘Sorry.’
‘So you should be. I mean, if you needed money, Lance, you should have come and asked me for it, instead of going about everything in such an underhand way.’
‘I know, I know. I was ashamed.’
‘Of what exactly?’
‘Of how I lost my money.’
‘You mean by gambling?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Uncle Roger told me.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes. Oh.’
‘Did he tell you the rest?’
‘You mean about the drinking and the cocaine?’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ Lance was mortified. And amazed. He looked at his mother in wonderment. ‘How do you know about cocaine?’
‘How could I not know? I didn’t come down in the last rain shower. I read the papers. I watch the news. I saw Trainspotting. I know you think I live a sheltered life, but I’ve got eyes and ears.’
‘And you’re not – shocked?’
‘Well, I am a little. You don’t expect these things right on your doorstep. And from someone who’s had the be
nefit of a private education. But…’ She paused. How to say this the right way? ‘I think a part of me always wondered if it would come out in you. Your father was an alcoholic and, from what I can gather, so was his father before him. You have an addictive personality, Lance. I’m sure if cocaine had been available in their day they would have been shooting it up too.’
‘Snorting it, Mother.’
‘Don’t contradict me. You’re in enough trouble as it is. Anyway, the point is, you didn’t get it from my side. The strongest thing my parents ever drank was coffee. I don’t have an addictive personality. Some would say I have no personality at all.’
‘I wouldn’t.’
They were both smiling now, each with a tremendous sensation of relief.
‘So.’ She sighed. ‘Are you all right for money now?’
‘Yes. Uncle Roger bailed me out. He’s paying for this too. But you probably know that already.’
‘He may have said something.’
‘He’s been unbelievably good to me.’
‘Yes, well, he’s always felt a certain amount of responsibility towards you. He thinks of himself as a kind of surrogate father figure.’
Roger had turned out to be a bit of a genius when it came to business, building up several successful companies and selling them on for enormous profits. He spent most of his time now in semi-retirement, in his townhouse in Maida Vale, with his third wife, Anthea, who was twenty-five years his junior.
‘There’s something I need to ask you,’ said Lance, his face darkening. ‘I had what they call a breakthrough in group therapy the other day.’
God, thought Myrtle. It all sounds so appallingly American. ‘I’m listening,’ she said.
‘And ever since then I’ve been having these – I don’t know what you call them. Memories. Flashbacks. Almost like dreams except I’m already awake.’
‘Go on.’ Part of her knew what was coming.
‘Did…’ He faltered. ‘The day Dad left, did something happen?’
She sighed, her limbs suddenly leaden. ‘What do you remember?’
‘Did he hit me?’
She nodded.
‘Jesus Christ. I must have been blocking it out all these years.’
