A Letter From America

by Geraldine O'Neill

  Fiona blinked furiously now, then looked over at Angela and Bridget. Their eyes were cast downwards, and she guessed they were thinking the same morbid thoughts as herself. She suddenly felt that if she didn’t distract herself she was going to start crying in a way that she would not be able to stop. Her legs felt weak and she imagined she might even fall.

  “I’m glad everything is white,” she suddenly heard herself say. “Daddy always loved the snow.” She leaned forward to look at Angela and Bridget, smiling brightly now – too bright and forced. “Do you remember how he used to wake us up every winter the first morning when it had snowed?”

  “Yes.” Bridget smiled back at her. “And do you remember us going sledging on the small hill behind the house? I used to love it when he pulled us along and pretended he was going to let us go.”

  “There was one morning,” their mother said, “when he got up early and built a snowman in the front garden for you. And then he laughed because I gave out hell to him when I saw he had used a cashmere scarf I had bought him out of Switzer’s for tying around the neck.”

  Their quiet laughter mingled with tears.

  “He was a good husband and father,” Nance said. “He adored all three of you.”

  They walked along, trying to find more remembered little incidents to give them comfort as they got closer to the dark hole that lay ahead. At one point Fiona noticed how quiet Angela was and, when she glanced over at her, she saw the tight look on her sister’s face and the guarded look in her eyes. It dawned on her that while she and her mother and Bridget had endless stories about their father and the snow, her middle sister had not joined in because she had not been part of those memories. Although she had been home most Christmases, she probably had missed the first snowfall while still in hospital in Dublin and, of course, Fiona now thought with a little pang, she wouldn’t have been able to do things like sliding and sledging. Angela, she realised, had not joined in with reminiscing because she had nothing to say.

  Eventually they reached the graveside and the burial rites began.

  Then, as the coffin was lowered into the ground, the snow stopped and the winter sun came out.

  Afterwards, as they all walked back to the waiting funeral cars, Fiona noticed that everything around her in the cemetery grounds – the trees, the headstones, the shrubs and grass – was covered in a sparkling brilliant white.

  She thought it was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen, on the saddest day of her life.

  Chapter 11

  The funeral cars all pulled up in front of Tracey’s Bar which was now open for the first time since the landlord had died. Caterers and waitresses had been hired from a local firm to provide the main mourners with hot dinners of chicken and ham, or roast beef, and a variety of vegetables.

  As Fiona and her mother and sisters came out of the car and started walking towards the door of the bar, their mother turned to them and said, “We just have to get through this last bit now. People have been good and everything, but after this we need to all go home to a bit of peace and quiet. I don’t think I’m fit to take much more of talking and meeting people.”

  Fiona put her arm through her mother’s. “You’ll be fine,” she said. “You had hardly any breakfast – you’ll feel much better when you’ve had something to eat.

  Angela suddenly felt she had to say something before she went into the bar. She touched Fiona’s elbow. “Before we go inside,” she said, looking straight at her mother, “I’ve asked Aunt Catherine and Joseph.”

  Her mother’s face stiffened and she turned her head as though staring down the street, without speaking.

  Angela turned towards Fiona and Bridget. “I’d like to think they will be made as welcome as any of the other relatives and neighbours.”

  All three girls looked at their mother.

  Eventually, Nance angled her body towards them, although she did not meet their gaze. She shrugged. “That’s fine.” Her voice sounded hoarse. “We wouldn’t expect anyone to come all the way from Dublin and not have something to eat.”

  Angela felt her heart starting to pound. She often did what she wanted without any discussion, but this time it was not about her, and she was determined that the right thing should be done. “I think they should sit with us,” she said, sounding determined. “She’s our only close relative on your side.”

  Nance took a deep breath and then pursed her mouth tightly as though trying to prevent her thoughts from forming into words.

  “Whatever differences there are between you,” Angela said, “it’s got nothing to do with the rest of us. I’m speaking for myself, but I think Fiona and Bridget feel the same. We all like her and Joseph and we don’t want them to think we’re taking sides against them. Aunt Catherine has always been good to me, and spoken fondly about everyone, and whatever is behind all this, I’m certainly not prepared to snub her and Joseph today of all days.”

  Her mother’s eyes suddenly flashed. “Well, you’ve certainly made your point, Angela. And I’m not one bit surprised you would take your aunt’s side. I know you see her regularly in Dublin and no doubt you have a great time talking about me there, running me down.”

  Fiona’s throat tightened. This was the last thing they needed the day of the funeral. She looked at her sister and her mother, wondering if she should step in now. Angela was of course in the right, she thought, but their mother didn’t look as though she was going to be able to cope if any more was said. If things escalated any further she might refuse to come in to the reception, and that would be a total disaster.

  “This is not the time or the place,” Angela said quietly, “for us to talk like this. All I will say is that if you ever came with me to Aunt Catherine’s house, you would see that we don’t sit there running anybody down. She’s not that sort of person. She’s kind and nice. Any differences you have with her are nothing to do with me. But, I do think that it’s time you talked to her and sorted it all out.”

  Tears suddenly came into her mother’s eyes. “There are things you don’t know about Catherine...” She went into her coat pocket for a hanky. “Things that none of you know about...”

  “I think it’s obvious there’s a lot we don’t know,” Angela stated quietly. “And I’m not saying you need to sort those things out today. I’m just saying that I’m not prepared to see her and Joseph being snubbed again.”

  Bridget came forward now and put a hand on her mother’s shoulder and the other hand on Angela’s. “Look, the priest and everyone are going to be waiting for us. Let’s go in now and leave all this business behind.” She looked from one face to the other. “And when we go inside now, I’m sure nobody is going to be snubbed. Daddy wouldn’t have wanted anything like that. It wouldn’t have been his way at all.”

  “We’re all in agreement,” Fiona said in a low voice. “Aunt Catherine and Joseph will be made welcome the same as anyone else, and the rest of the afternoon will go the way it should.”

  “That’s all we want,” Nance said. “We want your father to have the same dignified send-off he gave to everyone else.” There was a pause. “And you can all be assured that this afternoon I’ll be civil to anyone who is civil to me.”

  Then, one by one, they all gathered themselves together and walked into the bar. Patrick and Mrs Mooney were just inside the door waiting for them and, before they got a chance to say anything, the housekeeper led them to a table over by the fire set for six people.

  As they made their way through the crowds, acknowledging people and having a quick word as they went, Fiona noticed that all the tables had white damask cloths on them and small vases with pink carnations.

  “I didn’t know who you might want to sit next to you,” Mrs Mooney said, “but I have your sister and Seán’s brothers and sisters already seated at a table behind you, and have their dinner orders taken.”

  “That’s good of you,” Nance Tracey said. “It all looks very well.”

  Mrs Mooney leaned over the tab
le and spoke quietly. “Father McEvoy and the curate are in the snug now chatting to the other priests – maybe you might like them to sit here beside you?”

  Nance looked at her daughters and held her hands out, leaving the decision to them.

  Angela turned to Fiona and Bridget. “That might be best if the priests sit with us,” she said. “Nobody else is going to mind.” She had already glanced around the room and noticed that her aunt and Joseph were just a few tables away from them and looked to be well settled and in a deep conversation with Jimmy Tracey.

  No one said anything, but Fiona felt that there was a sense of relief.

  “Everything looks very nice,” Fiona said, as they sat down. Her gaze wandered round the tables and the groups of people who were still to be seated, and eventually she saw where her aunt and Joseph were and gave them a wave and a smile.

  “It does look well,” Nance said, “it must be the caterers who have sorted it, because I didn’t order flowers or anything.”

  Fiona could tell her mother was really making an effort to sound normal, and she felt a small wave of sympathy for her. She just knew that her mother was seeing the bar through different eyes now that their father was gone. Fiona understood this, because she could feel it herself. Everything was changed.

  Patrick and the others who were helping him behind the bar seemed to all be managing perfectly well. Everything was running as it should, the food, the service. People were mixing, beginning to relax and chat more now that the most serious business of the church and burial was over. But, there was no denying that the atmosphere in the bar was different without Seán Tracey. On funeral days his presence added something more to the occasion – something Fiona found difficult to describe. It was as if the master at the helm of the ship had gone and everything now seemed mildly afloat.

  Mrs Mooney went into the snug and informed the parish priest and the curate that their meal would be served with the Traceys’, and the priests came to join them. Father McEvoy, having had several whiskeys to warm him up after the cold cemetery, was talkative and told Nance and the girls how glad he was to have been available to conduct the funeral. Had it been the following week, he explained, he would have been away on a week’s holiday to Scotland. He reassured them that the more serious and abstemious curate, Father Fahy, would have done a fine job with the Mass in his absence, but he said that Seán Tracey was one parishioner whose funeral he would not have liked to miss. A few more exchanges were made between the priests and Nance about the unexpected nature of Seán’s passing and how much the town would miss him.

  Just then Patrick came with a bottle of red wine and glasses for the table. The wine had been a prior arrangement made by Nance the night before for all the clergy in attendance at the funeral.

  Father McEvoy poured himself and Nance a glass, then he looked over at the curate. “Will you break out and have a glass of wine with your meal?”

  “No, thank you,” Father Fahy replied, giving a small smile. “I’m fine with water.”

  Father McEvoy held the bottle aloft looking around at the girls, to see if anyone else would like to indulge. Fiona, aware of her mother’s disapproval of young people drinking, and Bridget, who had no interest in alcohol, both said they were happy with a mineral. But, to Fiona’s surprise, Angela held her glass out.

  “Good girl!” the priest said. His voice was a mixture of surprise and approval. He leaned across the table and poured her a glass. “It’s Angela, isn’t it?”

  “It is, Father,” Angela said, used to people not being sure of her name.

  Fiona’s saw her mother’s eyebrows rise at the thought of Angela drinking alcohol in front of the priest, but she said nothing.

  “How is life treating you in Dublin?” Father McEvoy asked.

  “Fine,” Angela said. “I like the city.”

  “And you’re working and everything?”

  “I am,” she said. “In an office in the city centre, near Leeson Street.”

  “You’re a great example,” he said. “Getting out there and on with your life. There are people I know, perfectly able-bodied, who wouldn’t have half the go you have. You’re to be admired – you’ve never let the affliction with your leg hold you back. And you always dress well, better than many a girl in the town. All praise to you now.”

  Angela lifted her wineglass and took a drink from it, then she turned away to look in the direction of the snug as though the priest had never spoken.

  Fiona’s heart had missed a beat at the patronising comment. She saw a slight shifting in their seats from her mother and Bridget, and wondered if they were uncomfortable with it too. In the following silence, the curate lifted his glass of water and took a sip from it.

  Fiona watched then as her mother bent down to lift her handbag from the floor, then open it and rummage inside as though searching through lots of things for something important buried at the bottom. Her handbags, unlike Fiona’s own casual bags, were always very organised. Mam only believed in carrying the essentials: her lipstick and powder, purse and a hanky or tissues. The gesture made her realise that her mother too felt awkward at the tactless remarks, and rather than saying anything was just trying to look distracted as though she hadn’t really heard.

  Fiona turned to Angela then, to raise her eyes to the ceiling to indicate how clumsy and insensitive she thought the priest was, but Angela was not looking in her direction. She had a sudden urge to put her hand on her sister’s and give it a little squeeze, but something prevented her from doing it. For one thing, the family rarely showed physical signs of emotion unless it was something very serious and, secondly, she knew the priest was oblivious to the fact that his comment about doing so well in spite of her “affliction” might be perceived as anything other than a compliment.

  There was a silence and Fiona noticed that her mother had taken a hanky from her bag, and was now turning it over between her hands almost like she did with her rosary beads.

  Then, as if summoned to fill the awkward gap, a waitress appeared at the table holding two plates with roast beef. Anticipating her question about who had ordered what, Father McEvoy moved his knife and fork further apart to allow her to place one of the plates in front of him. The waitress then looked at Nance, and said, “Roast beef?” and when Nance nodded she placed the other in front of her. Within seconds, two other waitresses followed with plates for Father Fahy and the girls, and then they were all served and the conversation moved to observations about the meal. How floury the potatoes were, how tender the beef was, and how nice the chicken and stuffing looked.

  When everyone was more or less finished eating, Nance, who had only picked at her meal, looked at Father McEvoy and said, “You said earlier that you were travelling to Scotland next week, Father? Whereabouts will you go?”

  Fiona was surprised that under the circumstances her mother might be in any way interested in the priest’s plans, and then she thought that she was deliberately bringing the conversation back to a safer subject to prevent any further blunders from the priest.

  Father McEvoy took a mouthful of wine, then sat back in his chair, smiling. “I’m actually going to visit an old seminary friend, who is the parish priest in a small mining village called Cleland,” he told them. “Nice parishioners, most of them from Irish stock who had worked in the mines over here – the Carlow and Portlaoise areas. Their grandfathers would have left Ireland in the twenties and thirties to work in the Lanarkshire mines. It’s a grand little village, and very handy as it has a train station and all, with trains running straight to Edinburgh and Glasgow. “

  Bridget sat forward now, her hands clasped in front of her on the table. “Do you travel much, Father?”

  “Whenever I get the chance,” he said. He turned and placed a hand on Father Fahy’s shoulder. “And when I know the parish is well taken care of in my absence.”

  Nance smiled and nodded her head in the curate’s direction.

  “I love to get over to my friend in Scotland
at least once a year and down to an uncle of mine who is in a retirement home for clergy in Manchester. And I enjoy travelling out to places like Rome and Malta for the church conferences. If I can plan it, I like to have a few days to tour around the cities, and catch a bit of the sun.” He indicated the curate. “Father Fahy here is more of a home-bird, aren’t you?”

  Father Fahy smiled and nodded. “Flying wouldn’t appeal to me at all. I feel it’s unnatural. If we were meant to fly we would have wings.”

  Fiona noticed how Angela caught Bridget’s eye and they both smiled.

  “Well, for shorter journeys there’s always the boat,” Father McEvoy said, “unless of course you have a phobia of travel altogether. A psychological problem with it.” When Father Fahy sat back in his chair and said nothing, he continued. “I think travel broadens the mind. I think it’s good to see how people in other countries live.” He looked around the group. “Don’t you agree?”

  “Indeed,” Nance said, her tone distracted.

  The others around the table nodded in quiet assent.

  Then, just as Fiona had dreaded, his gaze settled on her and she could almost predict what he was going to say.

  “Ah, Fiona – the last time I spoke to your father, God rest his soul, he told me you were heading off to New York, that you had work all arranged out there.”

  Fiona nodded. “Yes, Father, I did.” Her eyes flickered over to her mother for a second and she saw the tight look on her face.

  “Now there’s a lively city – New York. I visited a cousin there a few years back. And when were you to go?”

  Fiona felt her cheeks flushing. “Next week,” she said, feeling very uncomfortable. “But with everything that has happened, I’ve postponed things for the time being...”