by Maeve Binchy
“Why should I be?” Her fists were clenched.
“I don’t know, but Nan seemed to think you were.”
How dare they talk about her. How dare they, and whether or not she was upset.
With tears stinging at the back of her eyes, Eve walked like a robot to the foot of the stairs where hung a picture of a small dark woman, with eyes and mouth so like her own she felt she was looking in a mirror.
She must have so little of her father about her, if there was so much of Sarah Westward there already.
Sarah had her hand on the back of a chair, but she didn’t look relaxed and at peace. She looked as if she were dying for it all to be over so that she could get away. Somewhere, anywhere.
She had small hands and big eyes. Her dark hair was cut short, like the thirties fashion would have dictated. But looking at her you got the feeling that she might have preferred it shoulder-length and pushed behind her ears. Like Eve’s.
Was she beautiful? It was impossible to know. Nan had only said that she was in order to let Eve know that she had seen the picture.
Nan. Nan had walked around this house, as a guest.
“Has Nan been back here since then?” she asked.
“Why do you say that?”
“I just wondered.”
“No. That was the only day she was at Westlands,” he said.
There was something slightly hesitant about the way he said it, but yet she knew it was the truth.
Out in the kitchen they were getting a grudging afternoon tea ready. Eve thought that the food they were eating this day would never end, but Heather was loving it and it would be a pity to spoil it for her now.
Eve admired the pony and the way Heather had cleaned its tack. She admired Clara’s puppies and refused the offer of one as guard dog.
“It would be good to look after your property,” Heather tried to persuade her.
“I’m not there often enough.”
“That’s all the more reason. Tell her, Simon.”
“It’s up to Eve.”
“I’m hardly ever there. Only the odd weekend. A dog would die of loneliness.”
“But whoever is there could walk him.”
Heather held an adorable little male puppy up for inspection. It was seven-eighths Labrador, she explained, all the best, but with a little of the silliness taken out.
“No one but me, and Mother Francis from time to time.”
“Does she sleep there?” Heather asked.
“Heavens no. So you see no need for a guard dog.”
She didn’t think to ask why Heather supposed the nun might sleep in her little cottage. She just assumed it was part of Heather’s continuing ignorance of convent life. And she didn’t notice any change of expression in Simon’s face.
Mrs. Walsh came to tell them that tea was served in the drawing room.
Eve walked in to meet her grandfather for the second time in her life.
The grandfather that Nan Mahon had told everyone was so charming and such a wonderful old man. She felt herself pushing her shoulders back, and taking those deep breaths that Nan said were so helpful if you had to do something that was a bit stressful. As if Nan would know!
He looked about the same. Possibly a bit more alert than on the previous occasion. She had heard that he had been taken ill on Christmas Day, and that Dr. Johnson had been summoned, but that it had all passed.
It was touching to see Heather, the child who had grown up with him and who loved him as part of the only life she knew, sit beside him nestling in to him and helping him with his cup.
“No need to cut up the sandwiches for you today Grandfather. They’re absolutely tiny. It must be to impress Eve.”
The old man looked across at where Eve sat awkwardly in a hard-backed and uncomfortable chair. He looked at her long and hard.
“You remember Eve, don’t you?” Heather tried.
There was no reply.
“You do, of course, Grandfather. I was telling you how good she’s been to Heather, taking her out of school …”
“Yes, yes indeed.” He was cuttingly distant. It was as if someone told him that a beggar on the street had once been a fine hard worker.
She could have just smiled and let it pass. But there was something about the way he spoke which went straight to Eve’s heart. The temper that Mother Francis had always said would be her undoing bubbled to the surface.
“Do you know who I am, Grandfather?” she said in a loud, clear voice. There was a note of challenge in it that made them all look at her startled, Heather, Simon and the old man. Nobody helped him out.
He would have to answer now or mumble.
“Yes. You are the daughter of Sarah and some man.”
“The daughter of Sarah and her husband Jack Malone.”
“Yes, possibly.”
Eve’s eyes blazed. “Not possibly. Definitely. That was his name. You may not have received him here, but he was Jack Malone. They were married in the parish church.”
He raised his eyes. They were the same dark almond-shaped eyes that they all had, except that Major Westward’s were smaller and narrower.
He looked hard at Eve. “I never doubted that she married the handyman Jack Malone. I was saying that it is possible he was your father. Possible, but not at all as definite as you believe …”
She was numb with shock, the words filled with hate seemed to make no sense. His face, slightly lopsided, was working with the effort of speaking clearly and making himself understood.
“You see, Sarah was a whore,” he said.
Eve could hear the clock ticking.
“She was a whore with an itch, an itch that many handymen around the place found it easy to satisfy. We lost so many good grooms, I remember.”
Simon was on his feet in horror. Heather sat where she had been, on the little footstool, the one with beaded trimming at her grandfather’s feet. Her face was white.
He had not finished speaking.
“But let us not think back over unpleasant times. You may indeed be the child of the handyman Jack Malone. If you wish to believe that then … that is what you must believe …”
He reached for his tea. The effort of speaking had exhausted him. His cup shook and rattled against the saucer.
Eve’s voice was low, and because of that all the more menacing.
“In all my life there has only been one thing I was ashamed of. I was ashamed that my father used a religious occasion, the funeral of my mother, to call down a curse on you. I wished he hadn’t chosen a graveyard by a church. I wished he had more respect for the people who had come down to mourn. I even thought that God might have been angry with him for it. But now I know he didn’t curse you hard enough, and his wish wasn’t answered. You have lived on full of hate and bile. I will never look on your face again. And I will never forgive you for the things you said today.”
She didn’t pause to see how the others took her departure. She walked straight out of the door, and through the big hall into the kitchen. Without speaking to Mrs. Walsh or to Bee Moore she let herself out of the back door. She got on her bicycle and without a backward glance cycled down the rutted avenue that led from her grandfather’s house.
At the window of the drawing room Heather stood, tears pouring down on her face.
When Simon came to comfort her she pummeled him with her fists.
“You let her go. You let her go. You didn’t stop him. Now she’ll never be my friend again.”
Dearest Benny, dearest, dearest Benny,
Do you remember those shaking tempers I used to get at school? I thought they had passed over like spots do, but no. I was so desperately and hurtfully insulted by that devil in a wheelchair out in Westlands that I am not normal to speak to, and I’m going back to Dublin. I haven’t told Mother Francis about the row, and I won’t tell Kit, or Aidan. But I will tell you when I’m able. Please forgive me for running off, and not meeting you tonight. I’ve asked Mossy to leave this note in to y
ou, but honestly it’s the best thing.
See you on Monday.
Love from a very distraught Eve.
When Mossy handed her the note, Benny first thought it was from Sean Walsh, that it was some kind of threat or instruction to back off her investigations.
She was deeply upset to hear of a row bad enough to send Eve away in one of her very black moods. Sorry, too, because that nice child would be caught in the middle of it.
And selfishly she was sorry, because she had hoped to spend the evening telling Eve all about her ever-growing belief that Sean Walsh had been salting away money and to ask her advice about where they should look for it.
When Eve let herself into the house, Kevin Hickey was in the kitchen.
“Not out, wowing the girls on a Saturday night Kevin?” she said.
She had promised herself that she would be a professional. This was her job, this house her place of work. She would not allow her personal anger to rub off on the guests.
Kevin said, “I did have a sort of a plan, but I thought I’d hang around.” He nodded with his head, indicating upstairs toward Kit’s room.
“She’s had some bad news apparently. Her old man died in England. I know she hated him, but it’s a shock all the same.”
Eve came into the dark room with two cups of tea and sat beside the bed. She knew Kit would not be asleep.
Kit lay, head propped up by pillows and cushions, smoking. Through the window the lights of Dun Laoghaire harbor were glinting and shining.
“How did you know I needed you?”
“I’m psychic. What happened?”
“I’m not sure. An operation. It didn’t work.”
“I’m very sorry,” Eve said.
“She said it was very unexpected the operation, that he had no idea that there was anything wrong with him. That if ever he were to die she was to ring me and say he had no idea there was anything wrong.”
“Who said all this?”
“Some landlady. He had given her fifty pounds in an envelope and said it was for her.”
Eve was silent. It was all curious and complicated and messy, like everything Joseph Hegarty seemed to have touched in his life.
“What’s worrying you Kit?”
“He must have known he was dying. That’s why he came back. He must have wanted to spend the last few weeks here. And I didn’t let him.”
“No, didn’t he make a big point about that. He didn’t know.”
“He said that because of the insurance.”
“The what?”
“Insurance policy. He’s done what he never did in his life, he’s made sure I’m provided for.”
Eve felt a big lump in her throat.
“They’re going to bury him in England next weekend. They’re extraordinary over there. Funerals aren’t the next day. It’s at a weekend so people could get there. Will you come with me, Eve? We could go on the boat.”
“Of course I will.”
Dear Heather,
I have to go to a funeral in England. Kit’s ex-husband died. She needs me to go with her. That’s why I won’t be there on Sunday. Nothing to do with other things See you the weekend after. Maybe Aidan will come as well.
Just so that you know it’s urgent, otherwise I’d come.
Love, Eve.
Heather read the letter silently at breakfast. Miss Thompson, who was the only nice teacher in Heather’s opinion, looked at her.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes.”
Miss Thompson shrugged and left her alone. You couldn’t push adolescent girls for confidences they didn’t want to give.
She’s never coming again, Heather said to herself over and over. She said it during morning prayers, during mathematics and during geography. Soon it became like the refrain of a song you can’t get out of your mind. “She’s never coming again.”
Miss Thompson didn’t remember about the letter, but she did say that she had noticed Heather was extremely quiet and withdrawn during the week. And she went back over it all, as they all had to on Friday night when Heather Westward didn’t turn up for supper, and couldn’t be found anywhere on the school premises. And she had not turned up at home. It had to be admitted by all those who didn’t want to believe it, that Heather had run away from school.
SIXTEEN
As soon as Simon had heard that Eve Malone had gone to England he said that was where they would find Heather.
Eve had not acknowledged his note of apology and explanation that his grandfather’s hardening of the arteries made him unstable and unreliable and therefore someone whose opinions and views were best ignored.
Simon wondered had the note been too formal. He had told Nan about it, and to his surprise she had been critical of him. Normally she had been so cool, unruffled and giving so little of herself and her views.
“Why was it such an awful letter?” he had asked anxiously.
“Because it sounds icy, like your grandfather.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to be low-key, to try and bring down the temperature.”
“It did that all right,” Nan agreed.
On Friday when the school had been in touch he rang Nan.
“You know what you were saying about the letter … do you think that’s why she took Heather?”
“Of course she didn’t take Heather.” Nan was dismissive.
“So where is Heather then?”
“She ran away because you were all so awful.”
“Why don’t you run away then?” He sounded petulant. “I like awful people. Didn’t you know?”
The schoolgirls were frightened. Nothing like this had ever happened before. They were all being asked extraordinary questions. Had they seen anyone come into the school, had they seen Heather leave with anyone else?
Her school coat was gone, her hated school beret left on the bed. Her pajamas and sponge bag had disappeared, her book of pressed flowers, her snaps of the pony and Clara and her puppies. They were normally on display beside her bed where other girls had pictures of their families.
Heather’s classmates were asked had she been upset. They hadn’t noticed.
“She’s very quiet really,” said one of them.
“She doesn’t like it here,” said another.
“She’s not much fun. We don’t take much notice of her,” said the class bully.
Miss Thompson’s heart was heavy.
There had been no sign of Heather on the bus. Mikey said he knew her well. A big thick lump of a child as square as a half door. Of course he’d have noticed her.
She would have had eleven shillings at the most, and possibly a lot less. Heather was known to spend a few pennies on sweets.
By the time Simon arrived at the school they had called the Guards.
“Is it really necessary to have the police?” he said.
The headmistress was surprised. “Since she hadn’t gone home and you could throw no light on anywhere she might be …”
Miss Thompson looked at Simon with some dislike.
“And we have assumed that there was nothing for her to run home to apart from her pony and her dog, and she didn’t go there anyway, we thought you would have wanted us to call in the Guards. It would be the normal thing for anyone to do, the normal thing to do.”
Simon looked at her miserably. Until now he hadn’t realized how far from normal poor Heather’s life had been.
He would make it up to her, when they got her back from England, which was undoubtedly where Eve had taken her.
At the guesthouse in Dun Laoghaire, the Guards and Simon found three students holding the fort. Mrs. Hegarty had gone to England to a funeral. Eve Malone had gone with her. Yes, of course they had left an emergency number where they could be contacted.
Mrs. Hegarty had said she would ring anyway next morning to see if they had managed their breakfasts.
It was now eleven o’clock on a Friday night. The mail boat would not yet have arrived at Ho
lyhead. Mrs. Hegarty would not be in London until seven in the morning. She and Eve would take the mail train to Euston.
There was a discussion about telephoning the Guards in Wales to look for Heather.
There was some doubt on the part of the two Guards who were busy taking down details.
“You’re absolutely sure this is where your sister is, sir?” they asked again.
“There’s nowhere else she could be.” He was sure of that.
“Did anyone see Mrs. Hegarty and Miss Malone off at the boat?” one Guard asked.
“I did.” The boy who said he was Kevin Hickey, veterinary student, was spokesman.
“And were they accompanied by a twelve-year-old girl?”
“You mean Heather?”
Simon and the Guards had not explained the purpose of their inquiries.
“Was she with them?” Simon asked.
“Of course not. That’s the problem. Eve was worried because she was going to this funeral. She was afraid Heather wouldn’t understand that she simply had to go away.”
Eve had left a box of chocolates which she had instructed Kevin to deliver to the school on Sunday, with a note from Eve.
“Could you give them to her, if you’re connected?” he asked Simon.
They asked to see the note.
It was simple and to the point.
“Just to show I haven’t forgotten you. Next week, you choose where we go. Love Eve.”
Simon read it and for the first time since his sister’s disappearance had been discovered tears came to his eyes.
On Saturday morning there could hardly have been anyone in Knockglen who didn’t know about it. Bee Moore had done her fair share of telling, and Mr. Flood, who had been one of the early recipients of the news, had been out consulting with the nuns in the tree, but finding to his disappointment that there was no heavenly message about Heather.
“I had hoped she might have been in heaven. Well, her kind of heaven,” he said, remembering that he mustn’t lose sight of the fact that the Westwards were Protestants.
Dessie Burns said there’d be a fine reward for anyone who found her, and mark his words she was kidnapped, and what’s more kidnapped by someone in the know.
