Still You

by Claire Allan

  “Does it make you feel awkward, when I talk about her?” he asked one evening, as they sat in the darkness, lit only by candles on the table on the terrace.

  She looked at him. His eyes were searching her face – scared almost of her answer. It was almost as if he feared her saying yes, saying that she felt uncomfortable talking through all the memories of the woman he loved so much – even if she was Áine’s sister.

  Áine reached her hand out to his face, caressing his cheek – feeling the roughness of his evening stubble scrape against the softness of her skin. It was a sensation which she loved. “Jack, it would feel awkward if you didn’t talk about her. I know you loved her. I know you probably still do – and I know she loved you so much. I could no more expect you to stop talking about her than I could expect you to stop breathing and still be okay.”

  “What I feel for you …” he started.

  “You don’t have to put a name to it,” Áine said, “not yet.”

  “But I do have to tell you,” he said. “It’s different. It’s not more or less – it’s different. I wanted you to know that. It’s very special to me, Áine. I didn’t think I ever could find happiness again but you are making me happy.”

  “You are making me happy too,” she said softly, reaching across to kiss him.

  As she pulled back she thought of how handsome he was, and how vulnerable, and she wanted to do everything in her power to fix him back together again.

  “How do you think the children will react?” he asked.

  Áine shrugged. “I don’t know but I think we should be careful. Let’s not hurt them any more than they have already been hurt. We might be able to understand what is going on – but to them – they might not understand.”

  “I don’t want to pretend not to have feelings for you,” he said.

  Áine thought how much she would love to be open with everyone about what they were feeling but still something held her back. “Then don’t. Not now anyway. Not at night. Not when we have time together just the two of us. Let’s figure out where we are going before we tell people.”

  He sighed. “I know you’re right,” he said. “It hurts me to say it, but you are right.”

  They fell into a routine of sorts. Once Áine and the children had returned to Ireland – Áine having to resist the urge to cling to him at the airport and tell him how she would miss him – Jack resumed visiting as often as work would allow. Between those visits he would write to the children and occasionally slip an extra envelope with a message just for her in it. When he did visit they would do all in their power to hide their attraction and the increasingly easy way they were with each other from Rosaleen and the children. They talked about the future, from time to time.

  As more time passed they became more sure of each other and Áine would often imagine what it would be like to spend more time away from the dreary autumn and winter weather in Ireland and more time under the Tuscan sun. If she was honest, though, she spent more of her time dreaming simply of what it would be like to spend more time with Jack. Letters held their own comfort but they were not the same as the touch of a hand. She of course spent time with Jack and the children on their days out together but she had to make sure to give the children the time they needed on their own with their father. She also had to make sure not to slip up in their presence – not to reach for his hand or wrap her arm around his as they walked together. She had to be careful not to laugh too loudly or brightly at his jokes, or slip too big a portion on his dinner plate lest she be accused of playing favourites. She had to make sure never to straighten his tie or close her eyes in pleasure if he happened to brush too close to her. It wasn’t easy and their routine wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but it worked in its own way. They made it work because the more time Áine spent with Jack or thinking about Jack, the more she realised she never wanted to be without him.

  But as the anniversary of Charlotte’s death approached, Áine noticed her mother falling back into her old moods. She tried her best to maintain appearances in front of the children but, when the house was quiet at night, Áine could hear her crying in her bedroom. She had taken to carrying a picture of Charlotte with her from room to room, placing it in her eye-line at all times. She found it more difficult to get out of bed in the morning so there many occasions when it was Áine alone who got the children ready and out to school, telling them that Granny just needed a wee rest.

  “Is she sad because of Mamma?” Emma asked. “Is it because Mamma is dead and not coming back?”

  “Yes, pet, but you know it’s okay to be sad sometimes. And she was Granny’s baby. You know that, don’t you? Whatever age you grow to be, you are always your mammy’s baby.”

  “Except when your mammy is dead,” Jonathan said, sadly. “Then you are no one’s baby.”

  “You have your daddy, don’t you? And me, and Granny. We all love you very, very much.”

  “But it isn’t the same,” Emma said. “Not the same as your very own mammy.”

  “No, nothing’s the same as your very own mammy,” Áine said, feeling her heart sink, realising she had been inadvertently insensitive. The poor children – would they even remember their mother when they were older?

  She wished she could take away their pain – but she never could – not fully. She could love them, and spoil them. She could raise them but she could never be Charlotte.

  “Do you think she has forgotten us?” Emma asked, her voice solemn. “If heaven is as much fun as the most fun place in the world with everything you need to make you happy, then she might be too busy as an angel to remember us.”

  “No, your mammy looks down over you. She minds you and will always look out for you.”

  “I s’ppose so,” Emma said, scraping her shoes along the ground as she walked. “I just wondered, if she is watching over us and looking after us so much, why is Granny still so sad? If she knows Mamma is close by?”

  “I suppose she would like very much to give her a real cuddle,” I said. “And it’s sad that we can’t.”

  “Granny told me as long as she lives she will never stop missing her,” Emma said. “I went into her room last night. I know I shouldn’t have. I know you tell us that when Granny goes to bed early to let her get her rest to help her old bones and all, but I could hear her crying and I was scared.”

  Jonathan listened wide-eyed – horrified that his granny would be crying in her bed.

  “I just wanted to see if she was okay. I thought she might need her medicine or something. Sometimes I get a tummy ache when I’m in my bed and need some medicine. But she was really sad, Auntie Áine. She said she was crying because she missed my mammy and she felt all alone. She said she was scared we would all leave her one day and she would be alone in the big house by herself. I told her I wouldn’t leave her because my mammy would have wanted me to take care of her. She was still sad, Auntie Áine, but she didn’t seem quite as sad any more.”

  “You’re a good girl, Emma,” Áine said, trying to fight the sinking feeling in her stomach. “But you know Granny will always be looked after.” She knew her mother was grieving, and that she was particularly close to Emma, but she should have been more careful about what she said to her. Emma was just a child – she didn’t needed to worry about her grandmother’s fears about what the future would bring. “You’re very good to watch out for her, pet.”

  “Would Mamma be proud of me?”

  “Of course she would.”

  “And would Mamma be proud of me too?” Jonathan asked.

  “Of course she would.”

  Jonathan looked at the ground and slowed down his step beside his aunt. She turned to see if he was okay and saw two fat tears run down his face.

  “Jonathan, pet, what’s the matter?” Áine asked, crouching in front of him.

  “I’m not so much worried about Mamma forgetting us. I’m afraid of forgetting Mamma …” He broke into heaving sobs and Áine pulled him close into her arms.


  “Oh pet, we will do everything we can to make sure you always remember her and remember how much she loved you.”

  “I used to be able to close my eyes and hear her voice,” he said with a sniff. “I can’t hear her voice any more. Sometimes I think it’s her voice but it turns into you and Granny and not my mamma.”

  Áine felt her heart ache. There wasn’t much she could say that would reassure him. She had to settle for making some cack-handed attempt at comforting him. “There was more to your mamma than her voice. You have to hold onto all the other bits and pieces as tight as you can. You know that?”

  Jonathan nodded, sniffing and gulping back tears.

  Áine felt a wretchedness come over her and she tried her best to shake it off.

  “How about we go for ice cream after school?” she said.

  “But it’s winter time and we’ll get a dose of cold,” Emma said, though her eyes were bright at the prospect of such a special treat.

  “Sure we will wrap up warm all the way home and sit in front of the fire as soon as we get there so the cold won’t have time to catch us.”

  Though they were both still shaky and Jonathan seemed reluctant to move his hand from his aunt’s, they both smiled brightly at her.

  “I’d like that,” Jonathan said.

  “And maybe we could bring some ice cream home for Granny?” Emma said.

  That night when the house was quiet, Áine was sitting in her usual spot in the kitchen marking her schoolbooks but her mind was not on her work at all. It had struck her that this time of year was bringing back painful memories for her mother and for the children. She wondered if, hundreds of miles from where she sat, it was bringing back painful memories for Jack. If it would change things. Grief does strange things to you, she told herself. Maybe, she thought, in the way that you think in the middle of the night when you are tired and emotional and feeling unsure of yourself – maybe Jack was thinking of his wife – and missing her voice and her touch. Maybe he was wishing, as hard as he could, for just one more day with her. She ran her fingers through her hair and tried her hardest to remember Charlotte’s voice herself – but it wouldn’t come to her either.

  When Jack next came to visit, it was all she could do not to run to his arms before the children had the chance. She wanted to see the reassurances he had offered her in the written word before her – in his eyes, in the way he reached for her, in the way he kissed her. She wanted so much to know that they were doing the right thing and that they could make this work. They had kept their distance – they needed to bridge that gap now. But of course she couldn’t reach for him. She had to smile and greet him in the reserved manner appropriate for a sister-in-law seeing her brother-in-law again, while the children rang rings around him in their usual high-spirited manner.

  It was only much later, when the house was finally quiet that she had the chance to be close to him and she delighted in the fact that he reached for her before she had the chance to make the first move. He pulled her first into a kiss that told her just how much he had missed her, pushing his body against hers so that she could feel the weight of him on her. Before she had time to think, his hands were in her hair and her hands were in his, pulling his face closer to hers, kissing him as deeply as she could. They had barely spoken. She wasn’t sure what she would say to him even if they did. She just knew that she needed him – she needed him to make her feel loved and needed in a way that no one else could. When she eventually pulled away from him, reluctantly, and just because she wanted to look him in the eyes, she whispered that she loved him and he answered that he loved her too. She watched him intently as he bent to kiss her again, his faced filled with a longing that she shared.

  That’s when she heard it. The squeak of the bottom stairs and, to her horror, the sound of footsteps running back up the stairs as if they had seen something they never wanted to. She froze in horror, pulling away from Jack. Instinctively she made to run up the stairs – to run after whoever had seen. But what if they hadn’t? What if it was nothing to worry about? She turned back to Jack, who looked as stricken as she was. This was not how anyone was supposed to find out. This was not how it was supposed to be. Them losing the run of themselves, passionately kissing in the kitchen, making declarations of love. This was not how it was supposed to be and she didn’t know, she had no clue at all how she should handle it. How could she even begin? Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach – all these efforts to be discreet – everything, for nothing. And now, of all times, when Rosaleen had become increasingly beside herself with grief at Charlotte’s anniversary.

  She returned to the kitchen.

  “What should we do?” Jack said.

  “You should go,” she said. “I’ll deal with it. I’ll sort it out.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “We’re in this together. It’s okay. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  She stopped and looked at him. Suddenly afraid her legs would give out from under her, she sat down and wrung her hands. “I need to go upstairs. I need to know who it was. I need to explain. I need to let them know it’s okay.”

  But, before she could gather enough strength to stand up again, the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs left her under no illusion. They had been seen. The secret was out and she would have to deal with whatever would come.

  Chapter 32

  Present Day

  I sat in the stillness of my living room. It was still warm outside, but I couldn’t stop myself from shaking, even as I sipped from a cup of tea which had already started to turn cold. I had texted Sinéad earlier and asked her to pick the girls up and bring them to hers for tea. She was the kind of friend who knew when to push me and when to back off and give me space. Thankfully she had just picked up the girls and promised to mind them till bedtime. Perhaps she thought I was off on a hot date – the thought brought forward a fresh flurry of tears. My head hurt and I took two paracetamol, glugging some cold tea to swallow them. I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything, despite feeling my stomach rumble a little. I knew that if I tried to eat I would be sick – my stomach hadn’t settled all afternoon. My phone sat silent beside me – nothing from Jonathan. Not that I expected to hear from him. He was busy dealing with matters in Temple Muse – matters that he had made very clear he didn’t want me near.

  Despite knowing, in my gut, that he would not call to my house that night, my heart still leapt a little when my doorbell rang just after eight. Taking a deep breath I stood up, straightened my clothes, and walked to the door. What I wasn’t expecting to see when I opened it was Matthew – his mouth set in a firm line which let me know he wasn’t happy about something.

  “When were you going to tell me?” he asked as he stepped across the threshold.

  He didn’t say hello. He didn’t ask if the girls were home. He just walked into the living room and waited for me to follow him.

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Oh please, Georgie. Please don’t take me for a total eejit. Although, to be fair to you, you’ve been doing a pretty good job of that already, haven’t you?”

  “Matthew, I’m really not sure what you mean,” I said, rubbing at my temples. My headache had not yet lifted and if anything it was on its way to getting a lot worse.

  “You – and Jonathan ‘high and mighty’ Hegarty? A big romance in the making by all accounts.”

  I stared at him open-mouthed – not sure what to say. Not actually sure at that moment what there was to say.

  “You looked very cosy out for dinner at the weekend apparently. Holding hands, sharing kisses. It was quite the date, I’m told.”

  “Matthew –” I began.

  “Save it. You had the gall to act all pious when I started seeing someone else – telling me to be careful, to be sensitive to your feelings, to the girls. But you didn’t see fit to take your own advice. I am assuming the girls know – or is he your sordid little secret?”

  If I’d had an ounce of e
motional energy left in my body I would have slapped him hard across the face – but I didn’t. I felt empty. Completely void of the strength to fight back. “Matthew, not tonight, please,” I said.

  “Why? Have you a date? Is he on his way here now? You who cried about how much you loved me and how much you didn’t want our marriage to end? You didn’t waste much time.”

  There was so much I wanted to say to him – so much that was running through my head.

  “It wasn’t like that,” I said.

  “It’s never ‘like that’,” he sneered. “Do you know how humiliating it was to hear this from a third party? That my wife was seeing someone else?”

  “Ex-wife,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “Your ex-wife, Matthew. I’m your ex-wife. You made that decision.”

  “But,” he said, “you should have told me – you owed me that.”

  I slumped to the chair. “Matthew, I can’t deal with this now. I just can’t. I can’t deal with you and your hurt feelings now. You walked away. You said I wasn’t enough any more. You told me to move on.”

  “But I never expected you would,” he muttered as he sat down beside me and took my hand. “I never thought it would really be over. No matter what I said.”

  I looked in his eyes, their sadness mirroring my own. There was a time when I wouldn’t have hesitated to comfort him. When seeing that sadness would have been like a knife through my heart. There was a time when he was everything to me and then some. But everything had changed. And it couldn’t change back.