by Faith Hogan
‘I wouldn’t let you go through this alone, Grace. It hasn’t hit you yet.’ He smiled at her. Soon they were leaving Dublin behind, heading towards the open road. The flattened midland bogs swept by her, a maelstrom of brown, purple and tawny green patches toiled large across the central plains. Then the land began to narrow, centuries of subdivision where farmers cut their hands on stones to mark out their hard-won sod of turf, heralded their arrival in the west. Here the rocky land prevailed long after Boycott and the Leaguers fought their wars and lost so much along the way. Grace had a feeling that all you could do was capture it in the briefest moment, commit it to a painting and hope to match the meanness with the majesty. She murmured the thought aloud. ‘My father could have done justice to that; he could have painted it in his sleep.’ She believed she’d never be as good as him, never have his touch.
‘Your father was the artist? Everyone has heard of Louis Kennedy,’ he said as the car purred along the uneven westbound roads. ‘Tragic, is the word most people call to mind when they think of him, tragic and brilliant.’
‘He was an odd mix of both. He was a quiet man, who spent more time painting than he ever did with us, but my mother adored him. He made her existence worthwhile. Does that sound strange?’
‘No, I can imagine how you could fall beneath the shadow of someone so talented.’ He stared ahead, thoughtful, his silence as loaded with more clever comprehension than any words could convey.
‘She married above herself – that’s what she felt, and I suppose it’s what people made her feel, and when he died, well, it was as if she became a shell.’ Her mother’s response to her father’s death was one of the reasons Grace had long since decided she would not live in someone else’s shadow. Husbands and children were definitely off the radar. She was making an exception for Paul – but, after all, he wasn’t her husband.
In the end, Grace read the eulogy – a three-stanza set of lines, with unequal rhyming, clunking language. Mona wrote it, before she lost all hope, verses of autumn and moving on. She was a poet once, but that was long ago. Grace stood at the top of the small church, the only dry-eyed one among them. She wasn’t one for weeping at weddings or funerals, she’d leave that to Anna. She hadn’t cried for her father, and knew she wouldn’t cry for her mother. It wasn’t natural, was it?
They buried her mother next to her father in a small plot on the mountainside, gazing across the vast undulating countryside. The county spread in a hazel bog before them, purple heather punctuating the tawny land. Overhead, grey skies conspired to cap any more emotion on the day; it was a Louis Kennedy landscape begging to be captured. She hadn’t visited the grave in over a decade. She pulled her dark cloak closer to her and was glad of Paul’s steadying hand on her back.
The funeral was all her mother would have wanted. The house filled with tea drinkers and near-professional mourners. Grace sat amongst them, listening to their stories, looking at the house, a faded apparition of a place she once knew well. The dresser seemed smaller, the paintwork scruffier and the chintz more faded. On the mantelpiece, there was a family photograph – the last one taken. Happier times, when they were all together. She got up to make more tea. It was the only way to cope here. Keep moving. Stay busy. Paul poured tea or whiskey, depending on the request, then turned his hand to dishwashing after charming first her sisters and then the neighbours with his winning bedside manner. They would probably remember him more than her for the day.
*
For two more months, life breezed along for Grace. Painting consumed her and Paul was pleasingly attentive. Had it not been for the fact that he told her about Evie, she’d never have believed he was married. Mistresses were meant to feel they were second on the list, weren’t they? Then one night, as they clinked glasses on her little sofa, everything she’d eaten for a week threatened to come rushing back up her throat. She raced to the bathroom just in time to catch the nauseous feeling. It returned like an avalanche when she glimpsed in the cracked little mirror. She seemed different, peaky, bloated, yet she was in top health, her face flushed with what she thought was happiness. The sudden feeling of gaseousness had nothing to do with her stomach and everything to do with the tampons she held in her hand. She’d bought them before the funeral, before the trip to Paris. They lay on the shelf still unopened.
Next day, she bought a test. It took less than three minutes for her world to numb, spiking her completely so she couldn’t paint, couldn’t think. She was aware that Paul called her sometime after most people had lunch. By five, he’d rung four times. She knew she’d have to answer him sooner or later. It turned out she didn’t need to; he was standing at the door of the studio, phone in hand waiting for her to let him in. He spotted the test before he managed to switch on the kettle. It had become a bit of a habit; he stopped by on his way home from the hospital, and they shared the day’s events over a pot of strong tea and biscuits.
‘Oh my God.’ His eyes danced, his voice was a little shriller than usual. ‘I can’t believe it, how long?’ He was trying to do the maths, but he couldn’t stop smiling, his hands an uncoordinated knot of giddy action. ‘I really can’t believe it – I’m so happy!’ He took her in his arms, and if he didn’t notice her own shocked response immediately, it didn’t take too long. ‘Are you okay?’ he said, holding her at arm’s length for a moment, searching deep in her green eyes for some kind of hint of how she felt.
‘I’m just a little…’ stunned was probably the best word, but she managed, ‘surprised…’ They’d never talked about children – well you didn’t, did you? Not when he had Evie, and she wouldn’t dream of asking why it never happened years ago, before her.
‘But you’re happy, right?’
‘I don’t know, not yet, it’s too soon, it seems too soon.’ She heard her words faltering; she wasn’t going to ruin it for him. ‘It probably needs some getting used to.’ All sorts of things were flying through her brain. Funny, she’d often think as things went on, never once had she thought of getting rid of it. The nuns had done a good job on her, ingrained the Catholic guilt so well, she didn’t even realize it was there anymore.
‘Move in with me?’ he said.
‘And Evie?’
‘No, we can get a place together… She’ll understand.’ His eyes darkened for a second and she knew; it would be hard to tell Evie that he was moving on so quickly, so utterly, so finally.
‘I…’ Perhaps it was shock, but something made her stop.
‘Isn’t it what you want?’ She wanted to kick herself for causing the hurt that lingered in his face.
‘It’s just, I suppose,’ she wasn’t sure what to say. She had planned things, but Paul had changed all that. ‘I can’t imagine life without you; it’s probably just the shock – the surprise.’
‘You haven’t answered me.’
‘No,’ she said simply. ‘No, I haven’t answered you, have I?’ She needed time to think. ‘Let’s get through the next few days first, get used to the idea?’
*
The next days and weeks took on a surreal quality for Grace, as though she was living outside the action of her own life. Paul was great; he took it all on, seemed to be on hand whenever she needed him. He picked up brochures, narrowed down places they could live. ‘For a while, until we get settled and decide what we want,’ he told her reassuringly, as though there was a greater agreed plan. She still hadn’t settled on the idea of living together just yet – it was all too sudden. She hadn’t told her sisters about Evie, but now there seemed little point in holding back any of the finer details.
‘Well, he’s either in or out,’ Anna said with her usual no-nonsense attitude. ‘He can’t have his cake and eat it. He’s either with you or he’s not.’
‘It’s not like that. Besides, you know how I feel about getting married.’
‘Grace, don’t be such a dunce. You’re pregnant. In some ways, it doesn’t matter if he’s married to you or not. What matters is if he’s married to her. He ha
s to choose.’ The words hung in the air long after Grace ended the call.
Once the thought was planted, like a seed in her brain, it took root and she couldn’t let it go. It was in a leafy suburb in Drumcondra that she broke the news to him. He took her to see a red-brick, four-bedroom house.
‘I can’t live with you, Paul, not like this.’
‘We can look at other houses,’ he said, clearly thinking the fault was with the property. ‘I can look at taking out a mortgage, if that’s what you want.’
‘No.’ Grace moved towards a bay window. ‘No, Paul. I can’t live with you while you’re married to Evie. It doesn’t seem right, not with a baby.’
‘But Evie won’t mind. She’ll be happy for me.’ He reminded her of a wounded Setter. ‘We can set up here, I’ll support you, Grace, you know I will. Nappies, bills, the lot. I’m ready for this, really up for it.’
‘You don’t understand, Paul. For me, for the baby, it has to be all or nothing. I love you, but you need to cut the ties with Evie before we can have a future together.’ This was harder than she thought. She knew she was taking an almighty gamble. What if he chose Evie? On the other hand, she had to know the spectre of his first wife could be in the past.
‘I see,’ he said.
‘You will have to tell her, anyway. That will be the worst. The rest, well, it’s probably not going to be so bad.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll tell her tonight.’
‘And, then we’ll see…’ Grace bit her lip, didn’t want him to see how much it really meant to her.
‘Are you proposing to me?’ The sadness was replaced for just a moment by that lingering joke they shared since they first met.
‘I might do that some day, when you’re free to accept – or maybe you’ll propose to me? Properly.’ When he put his arms around her, she knew she had nothing to worry about.
*
Evie was sorted within the month; a quickie divorce, the upside of marrying abroad. Paul wasn’t even sure how legal their union had been all these years.
‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’ Grace knew there was much he’d never get around to telling her. She had a feeling he knew what he was doing. There was a time when the mention of marriage, good or bad, would have scared her off. ‘You’re a very wise man; have I mentioned that before?’
‘No, but we have a lifetime ahead of us and I suppose it’s the kind of thing I’ll never tire of hearing.’ He pulled her close and they made plans for a simple ceremony. He didn’t want anything splashed across the celebrity magazines, it wouldn’t be fair to Evie. Grace agreed although it set her teeth on edge a little, the idea that Evie Considine might still dictate her future. ‘Don’t be like that, we have so much to look forward to and she…’ Would it always bother her that his sentences never ended when he spoke of Evie, as though there was still unfinished business between them?
*
Malta was perfect. If she’d been the kind of girl to think about a white dress and the man of her dreams, she couldn’t have come up with anything better. Paul booked the best hotel on the island. It was off-season; and the small church, which Grace couldn’t be sure was Catholic, was idyllic. ‘Does it really matter?’ he asked her, and in that moment, it hadn’t mattered. Whitewashed stone, aged timbers and soft tones from Debussy filled the air as they exchanged their handwritten vows. She hoped Paul forgot about Evie for the day. Maybe, a small sliver of guilt raised its head after he said, ‘I do.’ Grace wondered if the other woman realized that Paul was no longer hers. Had he felt for her what he now felt for Grace? She quickly cast aside the lingering whispers, drank in the clear blue skies, and lightly scented breeze. He was hers. Everything had subtly changed between them in a way she hadn’t imagined it would. Sure, that was just stupid, wasn’t it?
*
The weeks seemed to rush past her then. They settled on a house, not too big, but close enough for Paul to get in and out of work easily. It was probably no more than a stone’s throw from where he lived with Evie, but they both liked the area and Grace never mentioned it. It wasn’t a permanent home. ‘Plenty of time for all that when we’re a family,’ he told her, so for now they rented and it felt temporary despite the paintings she hung about the rooms to make them feel like hers. Paul was only interested in one room. In her second trimester, the morning sickness got worse instead of better.
‘You might well be expecting an elephant calf,’ Patrick told her drily one morning. He dropped chocolate-covered Kimberley biscuits into his steaming mocha; even the smell of mocha made Grace feel wretched these days.
‘I’m certainly big enough.’ It was true; she had morphed into one of those enormous pregnant women you saw on seventies American TV series. She was, she knew, living proof that they actually existed.
Then, out of nowhere, it struck her. Had their childlessness been the cause of Paul and Evie’s break-up? He wouldn’t be drawn on any details. Nothing. She cast aside the thought quickly. Hormones? Within a few short weeks, Grace Kennedy-Starr had become a stranger to herself.
‘It’s easier to mind the little one now,’ one of the midwives told her on her final visit to the clinic. As though lumbering about with permanent heartburn could be better than having it all over with. Grace knew she was trying to comfort her, perhaps she knew what it was to feel so overwhelmed by pregnancy. ‘Any day soon and it will all be worth it.’ She’d been trying to console her about being bigger than Meatloaf. She resolved on the journey back from the hospital that this was her first and last pregnancy; never again. Marriage and children had never been part of the plan anyway, but then, she hadn’t met Paul Starr when she promised herself that. Sometimes she wondered if she’d change her mind so totally when the baby arrived too.
At about four the following morning, she ran out of time. Her labour pains came hard and fast. Luckily Paul was home; he soothed and steadied her until they got to the hospital. There, it hit her, as immediately and forcibly as the smell of disinfectant and the squeak of rubber shoes on shined floors – panic. She was not ready for this, not for labour, motherhood, or any of it, and it didn’t matter if her body thought different. The fear consumed her, seemed to swallow her whole. She felt her breath constrict in her chest and then those awful pains would blow it out of her. A marionette, scared and vulnerable, she kept her expression neutral while she could. ‘You won’t leave me, will you?’ she asked, her eyes pinned on him.
‘Of course not, darling.’ He gathered her hair back from her face and whispered, ‘never. I’ll never leave you or the baby.’ He drew her close and held her until she couldn’t breathe and needed to pull away. She had a feeling he didn’t understand her; this time she was on her own.
‘First one?’ the midwife said soothingly; she was nice, motherly, born to make babies. ‘You could be here a while. It takes time for everything to get up and running first time round. Second time’s a charm though.’ She left them in a private room with a TV and an uninspiring view of the car park.
‘So this is where it all happens.’ Paul smiled at Grace.
‘I guess so,’ she said weakly.
‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see.’
‘I suppose.’ Grace was terrified. It was all well and dandy for him to sit there and tell her she’d be fine. He just had to hold her hand while she did all the work.
‘When this is over, we’ll do something nice.’ He took her face in his hands. ‘Maybe go somewhere, just get away, the three of us together.’
‘The three of us?’ She felt a pulverizing contraction and cursed silently as he nodded at her, assuming she was confirming his plans. But of course, she hadn’t been counting the baby as one of them. Even with her body wracked with pain that felt as if it might tear her in two, she wasn’t thinking of the baby as real. He’d furnished the spare room – the nursery, as he insisted on calling it. It was the only room he’d taken any time over. She shivered every time he said it, as though there would be an endless stream of babies coming from her.<
br />
The baby, a little girl they agreed to call Delilah, arrived late the following afternoon. ‘A good length of time, for the first,’ according to the midwife. Grace took her in her arms and admired her, remotely, as though she was someone else’s. Paul slipped into the role of father with ease and suddenly seemed almost unfamiliar to Grace, so animated, alive, and content. They stole two days from her in that room. Two days, where they slept, washed and ate. She lay in a state of begrudging exhaustion as Paul expertly handled her daughter, and smiled and sang to the child as though they had already formed some kind of secret bond.
*
‘You’ll have to take her, I’m afraid.’ She dreaded those words for months. It didn’t take long to get a routine of sorts going. Most days, she tried to get Delilah out for long bracing walks, fed her, changed her and hoped she slept. Sometimes, when she cried, Grace would just sit there, watching her, not really hearing her at all. It was as though she was watching television, or someone else’s child, someone else’s life. She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, sometimes she felt as if she couldn’t move, but she had to. Paul, on the other hand took to it like oil to canvas. ‘You’re just tired, darling, go and rest. It must be exhaustion, that’s all, let me,’ and he’d whip Delilah out of her crib and whirl her about the floor, singing Frank Sinatra songs she never heard him sing otherwise. Grace could swear that the baby actually knew the difference. She had a terrible feeling. What if Delilah wouldn’t, maybe couldn’t, love her because she knew how Grace felt? Sometimes the grip of anxiousness tightened in her gut and her thoughts turned to a dark place that she knew she couldn’t go. She wondered if she should tell someone, but what could she say? That her thoughts had taken on the personality of a bystander or that her emotions seemed to be spilling over so they were more real than the baby was? Was this what her father felt before he took his life?
‘Post-natal depression. It’s just a touch of the baby blues,’ Paul said one morning when she could hardly look at the child. ‘You need to get it sorted.’ So he dropped her at the doctors and, sure enough, she returned with a prescription for antidepressants. ‘Ah well, there goes the breast-feeding, maybe it’s for luck,’ he said with a shrug. The breast-feeding had all but gone out the window weeks ago; Paul knew it, maybe it bothered him, but he hadn’t mentioned it before. She couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear any of it. She hated the forced intimacy, the wretchedness of the baby’s cries because one way or another she was failing. Worst of all was the feeling that she was being slowly, purposefully trapped. There was no sign of her ever getting back to work, and even if she did, she wasn’t sure that she had anything left to put into paint. She felt emptied from the inside out, as though a vacuum had opened up deep inside her and she would never be a whole person again. This growing, living thing that was part of her and part of Paul had managed to steal a huge slice of her. She felt a bubbling resentment. Each day, it seemed to grow. A small shadow at first, it started as a tendril of smoke, just creeping into her life.
