The Legacy of Lucy Harte

by Emma Heatherington

  ‘Now? Are you going to contact him now?’ says Flo. ‘Maybe you should wait… you know, sleep on it.’

  ‘Sleep on it?’ I ask her. ‘Sleep on it? I can’t sleep on it!’

  ‘Okay, okay. What are you going to say to him, then?’ asks Flo.

  I stand up again, this time more slowly, and lean against the worktop for support. What am I going to say? What am I going to say? I have absolutely no idea…

  ‘I’ll tell you when I do. Thanks Flo.’

  ‘Keep it simple, Maggie. Polite and simple.’

  She says goodbye and hangs up and I am left in my kitchen with an empty glass of last night’s wine, a smoky room and a mind full of whirlwind thoughts. I have so much to say, but where on earth do I start? I have absolutely no idea.

  At 8am I am in bed and on my third draft of what I’d decided, on Flo’s advice, was meant to be a very polite and simple reply – in which I would thank Simon Harte for getting in touch, hope he was well, give sympathy to him on the death of his father and take it from there. As in, wait for a reply and see how it goes. Simple.

  But it wasn’t simple at all. I have so many questions I want to ask him and they just won’t stop gushing out. What was Lucy like? What happened to her? Did she die suddenly? Did she suffer? Does he resent me like his father did? Are there other people walking around with Lucy’s organs inside them? What about her poor mother? Where is she now? Is she still around? Did knowing about me make him feel like Lucy wasn’t really dead? Has he tried to contact me before or even thought about going behind his father’s back to do so? How long did it take to find me? Who told him my name? Who the hell is our mutual friend? Was he doing this through grief or was it something he had thought about properly? Had he sought professional help before even considering such a decision?

  I write and delete and write and delete and my eyes are starting to drop again but I won’t give in to sleep until I press send. Eventually I settle for this…

  Dear Simon,

  First of all, I am so sorry to hear of your loss. I cannot put into words how thrilled I am to hear from you.

  Thrilled. No, I’m not thrilled. That sounds desperate. I start again.

  Dear Simon,

  Thank you so much for getting in touch. How brave of you to send your letter. You have indeed found the right Maggie O’Hara and I am delighted to hear from you after a long time searching and wondering.

  I am so very sorry to hear of the loss of your father.

  I have so much I want to ask and say and I’ve written this email over and over again to avoid waffling and now here I am doing exactly that … waffling.

  Anyhow, yes, it’s me.

  I too have listed my contacts below, should you want to chat further.

  God bless you,

  Maggie

  I press send. God bless you? What? I must be turning holy. My stomach is in my mouth as I close the laptop and curl up under my duvet in a mixture of delirium and exhaustion. I re-read the email. Shit, but it is awful. It’s bitty, it’s nervy, it’s rushed. Shit. But it’s done.

  I need to sleep.

  Simon D. Harte. I wonder what the D stands for. Derek? David? Daniel? Yes, I bet it is Daniel. Why am I even wondering that? What difference does that make?

  I wonder lots of things. I wonder where he is right now. Well, he is in Tain, I suppose. But where exactly?

  Is he a sad and lonely man who is clinging on to a last-chance family connection and is going to want to meet me like I’m long-lost family? Is he lying right now in bed with his arms around an oblivious woman who has no idea of his pursuing me and will go nuts when she finds out in case it takes him away from her? Maybe it’s been a lengthy obsession with him to find the people who carry parts of his dead sister around?

  My mind continues to race furiously.

  Maybe Lucy Harte was murdered or killed in a freak accident and he is out for revenge and will now track me down in a fit of rage and jealousy that I am alive and she isn’t! Oh, good Lord!

  Maybe he is outside my door now and has been following my every move in some stalker-type way and is going to break in and kidnap me and hold me to ransom!

  Or my parents! What if he has tracked them down too and wants to blackmail them in some sick kind of way and threatens to kill them all!

  Maybe I am the one going nuts!

  Maybe Flo was right and I should have slept on it.

  I lie and stare at the ceiling. It’s going to be a long, long day.

  I wake up later that morning with a crick in my neck and a thumping headache and check my phone with the same dread that comes with every hangover.

  I turn to say good morning to Jeff but he isn’t there, of course.

  It’s just me and the plush, unslept-on new pillow beside me and this strange room that I am so trying to get used to with its new pale grey-and-white gingham bedcovers and matching curtains and clean white walls that I am trying my best to suit the new me.

  I scroll through Facebook, but it only serves to annoy me as I read of people I hardly know and their pretend-perfect lives, then turn to Twitter for a snapshot of random thoughts from more people I don’t know. And then I check my emails and a rush of excitement fills my veins when I remember the early-morning message I sent to Simon D. Harte.

  I have two messages in my inbox, so I’m guessing that the emails, or at least one of them, are from Simon.

  But they are not. One is from a finance company offering loans at a ridiculously high interest rate and another is offering me Viagra for a discount price of $5. I’m gutted. Why hasn’t he replied?

  Probably because he hasn’t read it yet and is at work or doing whatever people do in the north of Scotland like eating a late breakfast or an early lunch or reading the paper or on a train to a meeting somewhere?

  Yes. Probably.

  I sneak another look at Facebook, despite how much it aggrieves me these days. Jeff and I have lots of mutual online friends and I know I run the risk of his photo popping up on my newsfeed is a huge probability and I will sink into further self-pity when it happens. Especially if it is one with ‘herself’ in it. I wonder, do they take selfies and post them like we used to? I wonder, does he take her picture at every turn like he used to do with me?

  And then my phone pings and I open my Inbox, wide-eyed and hoping.

  This time it isn’t junk mail. It is him.

  It’s Simon D. Harte. Oh, good God above.

  I bless myself and press open, then I bless myself again. I will be joining the golden oldies in the church soon and saying the rosary in whispers if I keep up this rate of acknowledging God, but somehow it feels like the right thing to do.

  Dear Maggie,

  I take a very deep breath.

  I don’t know when the last time was that I cried.

  I don’t even think I cried at the funeral way back then but, to be honest, that’s all a blur. I was only seventeen and I think I stayed in shock for at least a year after that. What I am trying to say is that I am really not a man who cries easily, or even when pushed, and believe me I have been pushed to the limits many times. My wife is having our first baby and is very emotional, so I need to let her do most of the crying these days!

  I cried, however, when I read your email. I have never been so relieved about anything in my whole life as I am now that I have heard back from you and that you are not mad or telling me to butt out of your life or reporting me to the medical authorities for contacting you directly.

  I too am trying not to waffle but there is so much to ask you, so much to say. Do you feel the same?? Please be honest. I can’t emphasise this enough – I don’t expect anything from you. You don’t have to reply again if you don’t want to. I’m just so happy to hear from you and to know that you are well. You are well, aren’t you? I really hope you are.

  Now I am so waffling.

  I will go and wish you a great day.

  Best wishes and most of all, thank you for getting in touch.


  Thank you

  Simon

  No ‘D’ this time. Just Simon. Just plain informal chatty ‘Simon’.

  I read it all over again. And then again. And then again.

  He seems pretty normal, right? Not too serial killer-ish, so I think I’m pretty safe for now. He has a wife. They are having a baby. I picture him, sitting at a breakfast table, or maybe on a train. He is somewhere out there, pressing send and waiting in the same anticipation as I have been on a response. Even in my dreams I was waiting on a response. What does he look like? What did Lucy look like? My mind is racing. I have so many questions! Where do I start? I haven’t even got out of bed and there is so much I need to say and do!

  I start typing back immediately.

  Dear Simon…

  So lovely to hear from you again. If you want to talk, any time, please feel free. My number is on my signature at the bottom of my email, so do give me a buzz anytime.

  We all need to talk. I know I really do right now.

  Chat soon,

  Maggie

  And then I send. And I wait.

  Chapter 5

  My mother calls me later that afternoon when I am toying between a bunch of lilies or a bunch of tulips in Tesco.

  ‘And I just told her that when it comes to John Joe, he will do what he wants when he wants and no one, not even her, will stop him,’ she says.

  ‘Told who?’

  ‘Vivienne!’

  I am still none the wiser. ‘Who?’

  ‘Vivienne! John Joe’s girlfriend!’

  I have no idea why my mother thinks the domesticities of my older brother and his latest squeeze hold any interest for me, but I try and keep up with her.

  ‘Right, okay,’ I mumble, checking the price tags on the flowers to help me decide. Tulips it is.

  ‘I mean, even your father says that John Joe is his own worst enemy when it comes to relationships. He can’t handle sharing his space. He can’t handle sharing a bag of bloody chips, never mind anything that might dare last longer! So I thought I did right by setting the poor girl straight. What do you think? Did I say too much?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did I say too much? I mean, it’s not as if I have even met her, but she called me for advice and I could barely make out her accent. I think she is French. I always try to give good impartial advice, even to the lovers of my own two children, no matter what their nationality.’

  I put the tulips back and pick up the lilies. I should probably get a basket. I fancy a browse around the clothes section for Billie.

  ‘You did the right thing, Mum,’ I reassure her, even though I have barely listened to a word she was saying. ‘Is this the girl who had his name tattooed on her chest?’

  ‘Lord no,’ she says. ‘She was last year’s model. This is the girl that his friend Clive, the country singer, introduced him to. You see, our John Joe was working on Clive’s ranch shoeing horses near Nashville for a few weeks and he met her. Poor girl. She is in for an almighty fall.’

  ‘Oh men! They are all filthy rotten lying fucking bastards,’ I say a little too loud and a passing stranger gives me a dirty look.

  ‘Exactly!’ says my mum. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself. And speaking of men … any word from –’

  ‘No, Mum, no word from Jeff,’ I reply quickly. ‘I don’t want to … oh no!’

  I trail off. I freeze. Ah Jesus. Ah Jesus no.

  ‘Maggie?’ my mother calls. ‘Maggie, are you there?’

  Please no. Don’t do this to me. Not now. No.

  My skin goes cold. I didn’t think that could actually physically happen but every part of me tingles with angst from my very toes to my fingertips. Fizzy, prickly, pins and needles of anxiety.

  ‘I have to go, Mum. I’ve just spotted … someone I used to know. I’ll call you back.’

  I stand there, bunch of lilies in one hand and my phone in the other, in the kids’ clothes section of my local Tesco watching, as if in slow motion, as Jeff, my ‘husband’ and his fancy woman walk obliviously towards me, laughing and looking into each other’s eyes as she pushes a trolley full of fucking groceries.

  I think I am going to actually vomit as an invisible wrench clasps my whole insides. Oh God!

  She leans on the trolley and he stands behind her, playfully putting his hands on her waist as she walks along, scanning the aisles with a love-struck smile on her face.

  He used to do that to me.

  ‘Are you okay, love?’ asks a little old lady. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Jeff sees me.

  Our eyes lock and he raises his hand, a desperate look of guilt replacing the smug look of love from seconds before. I can’t move. I don’t want to look but like one does at a car crash I can’t help but stare and stare and then she follows his eye line and looks towards me and her face sours and she looks panicked up at him and I just want to go home. Now.

  ‘Have some lilies,’ I tell the old lady, handing her the flowers. ‘You’re right. I have seen a ghost. I have to get out of here.’

  I make it to the car before I burst into tears and huge unapologetic cries of despair empty out from my lungs.

  I hit the steering wheel.

  ‘Bastard! Seventeen fucking months! What does she have that I don’t have? What?’

  I turn the ignition. I am in no fit state to drive. I want to go to Loch Tara, far away, and lock myself in my room and hide under my duvet and hug my mum and dad and just crawl out of my own skin.

  I want to punch him. I want to punch her.

  I have no energy to punch anyone.

  A message comes through on my phone but I don’t dare look at it yet. If it is Jeff … if he has the audacity to apologise in a text message, I don’t know what I will do. I don’t want to hear from him. I want to hear from him, but I don’t want to. I don’t know what I want.

  I look at the phone. It’s not a text, but an email and it’s from Simon Harte.

  ‘Can I call you?’ is all it says.

  I put the car into reverse and speed out of the car park.

  I need a fucking glass of wine.

  I dash into my apartment block to avoid the late-afternoon April shower, kicking myself for being so upset at seeing Jeff and that giraffe-like bitch who he was all over like a rash.

  I am bigger and better than that, I say, as I climb the stairs to my front door, stomping up each step with vengefulness. How dare he? How dare he?

  I fling off my coat and throw my bag on the floor, then bend down to get my phone and contemplate messaging Simon back. I don’t know if I have the energy for Simon and Lucy Harte.

  I will shower, get freshened up and then I will reply to him. Maybe.

  I am towel-drying my hair when the phone rings and I look at it in disbelief. It’s him. It’s his number, glaring at me, urging me to pick up and actually … well, talk, I suppose. Actually speak instead of typing bravado questions and messages. Talk.

  I quickly tie my hair back.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Maggie!’ says a very rich, more mature and confident voice than I had expected. But then he breaks slightly. ‘My God, Maggie.’

  I don’t speak. I can’t speak. I sit down on the bed.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, but I don’t know what the answer to that question is. Am I okay? Probably not. Is it anything to do with him? Probably not.

  Or maybe it is. I don’t know anything any more.

  ‘I’m looking at flights to Belfast,’ he says eventually. ‘Are you free this weekend for a coffee? I need to see you, Maggie. In person.’

  I stand up again. Then I sit again. A coffee? With him? Here? In Belfast? What the actual fuck? Already? What?

  ‘Flights?’

  ‘Yes,’ he laughs. ‘You know those things that take you from one country to another in an aeroplane. Flights. At least that’s what we call them in Scotland.’

  This has floored me. We only found each other yesterday and now he wants to fly he
re and get together over a coffee? His accent is delicious. He sounds like Gerard Butler. He is not Gerard Butler, I remind myself.

  ‘Are you sure you want to meet me? Isn’t this all a bit –?’

  ‘Soon?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, soon.’

  ‘Maggie, I have waited for years to find you,’ he says. One minute his voice is an emotional quiver and then it extends into an almost overactive excitement. ‘There is a football game this weekend I need to cover in Belfast – well, that’s not exactly true. I don’t need to cover it but I could if I wanted, so I figured I can mix business with, well, with finally getting to meet you. Only if you want to, of course. If you decide after this that you don’t want to hear from me again, that’s fine. It just feels amazing to have been able to chat to you.’

  I seriously do not know what to say. I can’t really argue with what he has said. Why wouldn’t we meet up for a coffee? It’s what I have always wanted. Closure. A chance to say thank you to someone related to the mysterious Lucy Harte.

  But the weekend… that is soon. I need to prepare myself. I need to prepare the apartment. Will he want to come here at any time? I look around my bedroom. It’s an absolute tip. The spare room is a mess. The living room is a mess and the kitchen resembles a bombsite. Is he expecting to stay here? I did tell him about my apartment and that I had a spare room. I feel a bit claustrophobic with it all.

  ‘I can book in somewhere nearby,’ he says, as if he read my mind.

  Oh, thank God.

  ‘Oh-okay,’ I say with relief. ‘Well, then, yes. Why not? Let’s meet for a coffee. I know a great B&B on the Lisburn Road. It’s lovely and it has real chandeliers and a library. Yes, okay. No harm in that at all.’

  Real chandeliers and a library? What the hell am I on about?

  ‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘You had me at chandeliers. Send me the name and I will book in. I’ll check out more flight options and text you when I get into Belfast on Friday afternoon. I can’t wait to meet you in person and I can’t wait to tell you all about Lucy.’