On Bone Bridge

by Maria Hoey

  I had also casually enquired of Grace whether by any chance she had done so. She seemed to take umbrage at the very idea, and I was afraid she thought I was suggesting she had been snooping. I then felt I had to mention Oliver’s latest adventure, as it was clear that nobody else had, although I was afraid that she would take even greater offence at my question now, implying as it might seem to, that she was in any way responsible. But her reaction seemed purely one of horror at what might have happened to Oliver and gratitude at what had not.

  Coming down from my room now, I met her coming out of Oliver’s room and we started downstairs together.

  “Are you off to see your da?” she said, and I nodded. “You’re very good to him, the amount of time you spend with him.”

  “He’s always been very good to me,” I said. “And I love spending time with him.”

  “You’re very lucky to have him,” said Grace.

  “Yes, I am very lucky,” I said more gently this time. I had been reminded suddenly of her own situation – did she even know who her father was?

  There was a sound behind me and turning I saw Rosemary coming toward us, pulling on a jacket.

  “How’s your headache?” I asked.

  “Better,” she said. “I thought I might just go out and get some air. I thought I’d take Oliver with me but ...”

  “Oh, you can’t do that now,” said Grace. “He’s sleeping tight and that’s the best thing for him today after all that terrible business yesterday.”

  “I know he is, I just looked in on him,” said Rosemary.

  I thought she sounded a bit sharp but Grace, if she noticed, said nothing. But it made me wonder again if perhaps Rosemary resented Grace’s involvement in her children’s lives – mine too for that matter. And I wondered too if in fact Robbie’s efforts to lighten her load were actually making her feel undermined. Because concern was one thing but interference was quite another. I made a mental note to raise the subject with him, if not by phone then certainly on his return. And then there was the elephant in the room – Rosemary’s complete ignorance of her real relationship to Grace. On that issue at least I was certain that Robbie was making the wrong decision.

  The three of us parted company in the hall, Rosemary letting herself out through the front door, while I walked with Grace as far as the kitchen where I left her to go and get my car. It was sunny when I came out onto the terrace at the back of the house and I remember thinking that Rosemary had chosen a fine afternoon for her walk and I hoped it would do her some good. I have no real memory of walking to the second garage or reversing and turning the car. I must have lowered the window on account of the lovely afternoon but I don’t actually recall doing so. I do remember thinking, as I drove slowly around the side of the house, that Robbie was right about the rhododendrons being overgrown – they badly needed cutting back if they were not to encroach even more on the space available for driving between the shrubbery and the wall of the house. Clearing that space I picked up speed just a little and the next thing I remember is seeing a sudden movement and something moved into my path. I say something, but I knew at once that it was a somebody. I caught a glimpse of blonde hair and the blur of his features in profile. I braked violently and screamed his name, “Oliver!”

  At first I could not move, I could not even let go of the steering wheel. All I could do was repeat the same thing over and over again: “Please God don’t let me have hit him! Please don’t let me have hit him! Oh please God, don’t let me have hit him!”

  If I had not been so paralysed by shock, it would have been perfectly obvious that I had not in fact hit Oliver. For one thing he was standing right there in front of me, very red in the face and looking cross and generally outraged. He was expressing this outrage in some very loud bawling, but was otherwise clearly unharmed. Then I heard another voice and somebody raced past the open window of my car. I caught Violet-May’s scent and saw her swoop down on Oliver. My powers of movement returned then and I unbuckled my seatbelt, noticing as I did that my hands were shaking. I opened the door and climbed out. I half expected my legs to buckle when I tried to stand up, but somehow they managed to bear my weight and I walked to where Violet May, inches from the car’s bumper, was on her knees clutching a bawling Oliver. She looked at me accusingly over the top of his head.

  “You almost hit him!” she shrieked. “You could have killed him!”

  “I know,” I said. “Is he alright? Please tell me he isn’t hurt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She held Oliver away from her for a moment and studied his face and his body. He suddenly stopped crying and gazed at her from great, tear-blurred sleepy eyes.

  “I think he’s alright – he looks fine, but you almost hit him. How the hell did it happen?”

  “He came out of nowhere,” I said. “One minute there was nothing and then he came running out from the shrubbery.”

  “I saw him,” said Violet-May. “But what the hell was he doing in the shrubbery? What was he doing outside at all and where the fuck is Rosemary?”

  I had never heard her swear before, not even when she was really angry.

  “She went out for a walk, I just saw her go. She’d just been in to check on Oliver and he was asleep. Grace said so too – she’d given him Calpol for his teeth because they were driving him crazy all morning. I don’t understand it – how could he be fast asleep one minute and out here in the shrubbery the next? I mean, look at him, he’s practically asleep in your arms now. It doesn’t make any sense, you know it doesn’t, Violet-May.”

  “Yes, well, I’m taking him inside now,” said Violet-May, getting to her feet with Oliver in her arms. “And then I’m going to have a word with Grace.”

  I was watching her walking away, Oliver perfectly quiescent in her arms now, when I suddenly called after her. “You saw it, did you, Violet-May? So where were you when it happened?”

  She stopped and turned to look at me. “I was coming round from the back of the house. Now, do you think I might be allowed to take Oliver inside, please?”

  I let her go and after a moment I turned back and stared at the massed-up rhododendrons. There was a clearly discernible gap in one spot and I was fairly sure it was from there that Oliver had emerged. On an impulse I crossed to it, lowered my head, plunged into the depths of the dark-green leathery leaves and pushed my way through them to the path beyond. It was, I knew, the same path that wound its way the entire length of the shrubbery and once there I was able to straighten up and look about me. It was cool and dim and shady, just as I remembered it from the days when Violet-May and I used to play our games of chase or hide and seek here. But since then the rhododendrons had run wild and the sinuous path along which we used to run had become overgrown. Standing there, I asked myself just what exactly I hoped to find here now. Some sort of answer was the answer, but I failed to find it.

  I retraced my steps, plunging back amid the rhododendrons again.

  It was as I was stooping to climb through the gap once more that I spotted the red cardboard box. It was lying on the ground and, even before I picked it up, I knew exactly what it was. I picked it up and turned it over, satisfying myself that it was in fact one of the miniscule boxes from the multi-pack that was kept in the kitchen cupboard as snacks for the children. Emerging from the shrubbery I climbed into my car, pulled the door closed and, leaning back against the headrest, I stared at the little cardboard box once more and asked myself what it meant.

  “Are you alright?” said Grace. “You look like you’re about to pass out. And I’m not a bit surprised. Violet-May told me what happened.” She had been drying her hands on a towel but dropped it as soon as she saw me and came toward me, her face a study of concern.

  “No, I’m not alright,” I said. “I almost killed him, Grace.”

  “You didn’t kill him and that’s what counts,” she said.

  “Where is she?” I said. “Where is Violet-May? Is Oliver alright?”

  “
Violet-May took him upstairs, he’s fine. The car didn’t even touch him.”

  “Go up to her, would you, Grace,” I said urgently. “Make sure he’s OK.”

  Grace looked at me in obvious surprise. “I was going to make you a cup of tea,” she said. “The kettle’s already on.”

  “I don’t want tea. I need to go and see my father.”

  “You’re not going anywhere until you’ve had a cup of tea,” said Grace. “You need time to get over the shock you’ve had. Now sit down, that’s an order.”

  “OK,” I said, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table. “I’ll have the bloody tea if you go and check on Oliver. But only because I should wait and talk to Rosemary. I need to explain to her what happened.”

  Grace, her back to me, clattered some dishes and muttered something I only half heard to the effect that if Rosemary was around a bit more often, she’d know herself what had happened.

  “She only went for a walk,” I said. “As far as she knew, Oliver was asleep in his room. That’s what you said, isn’t it, Grace? That you’d given him some Calpol and he was fast asleep?”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “So what I don’t understand is how in God’s name he ended up outside running in front of cars!” I looked up as a thought struck me. “You said the car didn’t touch him, Grace. How did you know that? Did you see it happen?”

  “No, I didn’t. Violet-May mentioned it,” said Grace, her back still to me. She turned and came toward me, carrying a small tray which held a pot of tea large enough to serve a family of seven, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar and a single mug. “Drink that,” she said. “And be sure to stir some sugar into it – you need it for the shock.”

  “I don’t like sugar,” I said. Last night it was brandy, now it was sugar being pressed on me. It occurred to me I should be used to the feeling of shock by now.

  “Have some anyway,” said Grace. “And I’ll go look in on the little fella.”

  She left me and I stared after her and then I sat alone in the silence of the big kitchen. After a while I pulled the little red box from my pocket and turned it over in my hands. I was thinking and while I did my tea grew cold.

  When later that evening I returned from the nursing home, I went in search of Rosemary. I had waited over an hour earlier for her to return from her walk before giving up. I found her in the drawing room where she was lying on the sofa watching The Vicar of Dibley. I remember being a bit disconcerted to hear her laughing then decided this could only be a good sign for me. It was only when I came further into the room that I realised she was not alone. Violet-May was lying on the sofa opposite and at first I thought she was asleep. Then I realised that her lids were just lowered.

  Rosemary saw me first and she stopped laughing, lowered her feet and raised herself to a sitting position. She did not, however, lower the volume of the TV.

  “Hi, Kay,” she said and immediately Violet-May’s neck craned and her eyes turned to me.

  “Hi, Rosemary,” I said and I crossed the room and sat down on the far end of the sofa on which she sat.

  “You heard about what happened?” I said and she nodded.

  “Right, well, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. And I know there isn’t any point in saying I didn’t see Oliver, that I don’t know where he came from. But that’s the truth, I didn’t and I don’t. I swear to you, Rosemary, one minute the drive was empty and the next he ran out right in front of me. And I don’t think I was going faster than I should have, at least I’m fairly sure I wasn’t. But none of that would count for anything if I’d hit him, if I’d hurt him, if –”

  “But you didn’t,” said Rosemary. “You didn’t hit him and you didn’t hurt him one little bit.”

  Her voice held no hint of blame or anger and, although logically I knew I could not be held responsible for what had happened or what might have happened to Oliver, this was his mother after all – the very least I expected was some mild show of reproach.

  I looked helplessly at Violet-May.

  “You heard Rosemary,” she said. “It’s fine.”

  “Yes, everything is perfectly fine,” said Rosemary in the same lacklustre tone of voice. “Let’s all just forget about it.”

  But nothing was fine. I knew it and I knew they had to know it too.

  “I don’t suppose either of you have heard from Robbie today?” I said abruptly.

  Violet-May did not respond but Rosemary looked up quickly. “Robbie? No, I haven’t spoken to him today. Why, have you, Kay?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t reach him.”

  Violet-May was surveying me coolly. “No need to worry. He did say he’d be out of range for a day or two.”

  I met her gaze straight on. “It’s not Robbie I’m worried about,” I said, then I turned on my heel and left them there.

  Back on my room, lying on top of my bed, I remember feeling for all the world like someone who has unwittingly walked onstage in the middle of a play. Not only did I not know my lines, I didn’t even know if I was taking part in a tragedy or a farce.

  This time it was not a dream, how could it be, when I was awake? Although perhaps it had started out as one, because I had started up distressed and disorientated, unsure of where I was for a moment. Then realising that I was in my bedroom at the Duff house, I lay back against the pillows and tried to remember what it was that had unsettled me. But the dream, if dream it had been, had evaded my grasp as is their wont and I had no choice but to let it go wherever it is that dreams go in the daytime. But it wasn’t quite daytime yet and I lay there for a while wondering just what time it was but too drowsy to make the effort to check. I had the sense that it was just before the dawn and for a while I stayed where I was on my back, just staring at the faint outline of the ceiling-rose above my head. That was when it happened, like a reel of film unfolding before my eyes.

  I saw them as I had seen them that day, through the gap in the hedge, Violet-May and Rosemary-June on Bone Bridge. Not all of them, I could not see all of them, just pieces of them, like a jigsaw puzzle, but I could hear them, I could hear them very clearly just as I had that day. Not them, her. It was only Violet-May who was speaking, urgent, her breath coming in little sobbing gasps. Not speaking so much as shouting really, shouting at Rosemary-June, telling her, urging her, ordering her what to do.

  Chapter 27

  Unlikely as it seems I did get back to sleep that morning. I even dreamed, about Alexander again of course. I had that sense of picking up from where I had left off that sometimes happens with recurring dreams. This time while he was falling I was sitting watching him from the wall of Bone Bridge, but instead of trying to help save him, I wrote about what was happening in my diary. Then Fidelma, the policewoman who had interviewed us all those years ago suddenly appeared by my side.

  “Why didn’t you help him?” she said. “Why didn’t you help Alexander?”

  “I had to write it down,” I told her, and it seemed to me a perfectly legitimate reason.

  Then Fidelma was gone and so was Bone Bridge and I found myself in our sitting room at home. My father was there and he was shaking his head at me as he used to do when he was disappointed at something I had done.

  “But it’s my diary,” I explained. “I have to write it down so I won’t forget.”

  My father shook his head sadly and when I spoke again I was no longer asleep.

  “My diary,” I said out loud to the silent room. “I need to find my diary.”

  But in the end it was well into the evening before I managed to get away to search for the diary. Grace was busy with a humungous batch of baking and, although Violet-May was home all morning, Rosemary was again conspicuous by her absence and I decided to stick around. After lunch, Grace had to go shopping for food and so it was four before I set out to visit my father and after six before I pulled up outside my parents’ house.

  As I put the key in the door, Mrs Nugent came out and accosted me over the to
p of the hedge.

  “You’re back?” she said.

  “Just back to get some bits and pieces, Mrs Nugent,” I said.

  “Is that it?” said Mrs Duff. “You know, you won’t believe this, but somebody tried to tell me you’d moved into the Duff house, imagine that?”

  “Imagine that indeed,” I said and I shut the door firmly behind me.

  She clearly knew exactly what I’d been doing but I had no patience with her nosiness right then or her obvious hunger for gossip.

  Inside, the hallway was an obstacle course and I had to step over floorboards and even dodge a wheelbarrow in order to get to the stairs. I let myself into the room where I had slept as a child, the room I had come back to as an adult.

  I climbed up onto the bed. And when I reached my hand into the narrow vent-opening I was still telling myself that the chances of the diary being there were less than slim. But after all it was there, exactly where I had left it all those years ago, pushed back behind the scrunched-up newspapers my father had stuffed in there to keep the draughts out. I drew it out and looked at it with a sort of fearful reverence, at the blue cloth cover, faded now and slightly damp to the touch and spotted in places with mildew. The little lock, once a bright silver, was tarnished now and I had to think for a while about what I had done with the key. Then I remembered and with a further short rummage inside the vent I pulled out the rolled-up hanky in which I had always wrapped it. The key was only slightly tarnished and when I sat down on the bed and inserted it in the lock it turned quite easily. Inside, the pages had browned and thinned a little with age, but otherwise it was surprisingly unharmed by the years it had spent inside the vent.