The Old House on the Corner

by Maureen Lee

  Patrick, ignoring the advice given by Liam a whole week ago that he not play anything Irish, was doing just that. ‘There was a wild colonial boy,’ he crooned in a pleasant baritone voice, spurred on by the copious amount of wine he’d drunk of which his mother was totally unaware. Tiffany was dancing around the willow tree with Tabitha, the kitten held tenderly in her arms. Jack and Alastair were asleep. Judy Moon, who’d only meant to come for an hour, was still there, talking animatedly to Anna, who was in the course of telling her about the film she’d made. Judy had just explained where her Christian name had come from: ‘Mum and Dad were at the pictures watching The Wizard of Oz, when Mum had her first contraction …’

  ‘Have you enjoyed yourself, Gareth?’ Debbie asked in a subdued voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Gareth said shortly. ‘Yes, it’s been great,’ he added in a friendlier tone.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so impatient with your mum. And we’ll move to Victoria’s house if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Will you?’ This was a turn-up for the books. He wondered what on earth had happened to make her change her mind? Earlier, he’d meant it when he’d threatened to move out but, on reflection, it just wasn’t on. Somehow, he and Debbie would have to learn to live together without fighting all the time. ‘Before we move, I’ll decorate the place from top to bottom,’ he promised. ‘We could get the paint and stuff tomorrow. Would you like to have a look around now? Victoria won’t mind.’ He looked at Victoria, who was looking at him while she spoke to his mother.

  ‘No, I’d sooner wait till she’s gone. I don’t care what it’s like as long as I’m with you. And I’ll cancel the holiday in Barbados, tell them I’m pregnant and not allowed to fly.’

  ‘Leave it,’ he said impulsively. It would be the last extravagance for a long while. Their marriage needed mending and perhaps the repair could be done in Barbados.

  Patrick finished ‘The Wild Colonial Boy’, and Rachel tapped a bottle with a spoon in order to grab everyone’s attention.

  ‘Two things,’ she said in a strangely authoritative voice. ‘Firstly, I’d like everyone to join with me in congratulating Patrick on reaching his eighteenth birthday. Happy birthday, Patrick.’

  ‘Happy birthday to you,’ the crowd sang, ‘happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Patrick. Happy birthday to you.’

  Patrick blushed, but looked pleased, not as pleased though as Marie, his mother, who was thrilled that such an important birthday had been celebrated in public. She and Danny had sent cards and so had Victoria and Kirsty – there’d been nothing from Liam who must have forgotten – but had circumstances been different, Patrick would have received dozens and dozens of cards from his aunts, uncles, and cousins back in Donegal, and from his friends in Belfast where there’d have been a party that would have gone on all night and half the next day.

  ‘Secondly,’ Rachel continued when the singing stopped, ‘this is the last time we’ll have Victoria with us. Tomorrow, she’ll be flying off to a new life in New York. Let’s drink to Victoria and wish her all the luck in the world.’ She raised a cardboard cup. ‘Victoria!’

  ‘Victoria!’ people echoed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Victoria said in a small voice, and Tiffany burst into tears.

  Kathleen slipped home, unnoticed. She’d been too worried about Steve to enjoy herself. Anna was delightful, but she never shut up and had been getting on her nerves.

  The first thing she did was pick up the phone to see if there was a message on voicemail, but the even tone indicated there was none. All of a sudden, she remembered that, if Jean had genuinely had a heart attack, then she had the phone number of the hospital where she would be in her address book – she’d had several friends there. She found the book and, after some hesitation, picked up the phone, dialled the number, and asked for the Cardiology ward.

  ‘You have a patient, a Mrs Jean Cartwright,’ she said when she’d been put through. ‘I’d like to know her condition, please.’ She prayed the nurse who answered would deny having a patient of that name or say it had been a false alarm and she’d been sent home.

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘I’m her sister-in-law.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that Mrs Cartwright’s condition is critical.’

  ‘I see.’ Kathleen drew in a deep breath. ‘Is her husband with her?’

  ‘Yes, he’s been here all day, and her daughters.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She put the phone down, feeling shocked and horribly ashamed. Critical! There was actually a chance that Jean might die. And if she did, Kathleen knew for certain that Steve would be with her until the end and that he’d blame himself for the heart attack. Then there’d be a funeral and he might feel obliged to stay with his girls, at least for a while – or perhaps for ever!

  And if Jean recovered? Kathleen dropped her head into her hands. If Jean recovered, she had no idea what would happen then. There were too many ifs and buts for her to cope with.

  She should be feeling sorry for Jean, not herself. Perhaps Steve hadn’t rung because he expected she’d fly off the handle if he said he wasn’t coming home, didn’t even know when he’d be home.

  ‘God, I’m such a bitch,’ she groaned aloud. She lit a cigarette, but stubbed it out almost immediately. Right now, she wasn’t very keen on her own company. She’d go back to the barbecue, listen yet again to the story of how Anna had once starred in a film. It would be a sort of penance.

  ‘When Irish eyes are smiling,’ Patrick sang and everyone joined in. ‘All the world is bright and gay …’

  Some people had become aware of the black cloud that was getting fatter and fatter as it climbed towards the heavens.

  ‘I hope it doesn’t rain.’

  ‘So do I, but we could do with a good shower.’

  ‘As long as it’s just a shower …’

  Tomorrow was St Swithin’s Day, Rachel remembered as she eyed the cloud. If it rained, then it would rain for another forty days and nights. She was glad she’d had the barbecue today. Everything had gone so well, much better than expected. It was almost nine o’clock, but no one showed any sign of wanting to go home. Kathleen had disappeared, but only for a while. Frank couldn’t very well complain it had been a failure as he’d predicted. He was sitting on the grass, eyeing up Victoria’s friend, Sarah having managed to escape his attentions. He might be trying to think up spiteful things to say to his wife when everyone had gone.

  That afternoon, Rachel had gone into town and bought gold sandals and the green silky dress that she’d tried on the other day. The hairdressers were very busy, but said they could just manage a wet cut. She’d come out, her hair transformed. It would never be thick like Kathleen’s or curly like Victoria’s, but it looked respectable for a change. She’d felt quite proud of her appearance tonight and no one had looked sorry for her, as they usually did.

  Gareth’s mother approached. ‘I just wanted to say I’ve had a lovely time, Rachel. Thank you, very much. I’ve really enjoyed myself.’

  ‘Do you have far to go?’

  ‘Wallasey. It’s quite a way, but Debbie has asked me to stay the night with her and Gareth.’ She looked very pleased about it.

  ‘In that case, we’ll probably see each other in the morning.’

  ‘Tiffany,’ Sarah called, ‘time to go home, darling. I want to put Jack to bed and give Alastair his bottle.’

  ‘Don’t want to go home, Mummy.’ Tiffany was playing football with Danny Jordan. The child was tireless. Judy Moon was nursing Tabitha and talking about getting a cat of her own.

  ‘I’ll bring Tiffany over later if you like, Sarah,’ Rachel offered. Patrick started to sing, ‘I’ve been a wild rover for many a year …’

  ‘Thank you, Rachel,’ Sarah said, and Frank rose to his feet and said in a loud voice, ‘I wouldn’t trust her with your little girl, Sarah. You’re not likely to see her again.’

  Patrick stopped singing and guitar gave an angry twang when his fingers pressed the wrong stri
ngs. The buzz of conversation ceased and everyone looked uneasily at Frank, swaying slightly, his face as red and angry as Rachel had ever seen it. Saliva dripped from his mouth on to his shirt, as he continued, ‘We had a little girl, but she died and it was all her fault.’ He nodded at Rachel. ‘She all but killed her with her own bare hands.’ His face collapsed and he began to weep, the tears streaming like rivers down his puffy cheeks.

  ‘Shush, Dad, you’re drunk.’

  Kirsty took a step towards her father, but Rachel held up her hand and shouted, ‘Stay!’ She felt tall and powerful, very strong. Nothing on earth was going to prevent her from saying what she was about to say.

  Her daughter stopped in her tracks and everyone jumped. Rachel turned to her husband and said in a voice even louder than his, ‘If anyone killed our Alice, Frank, it was you. The day she died, I phoned the showroom because I was too sick to collect her from school. You’d said you were coming home early and I asked Margot, the receptionist, to make sure you left in time to pick up Alice.’ Rachel cocked her head on one side, remembering. ‘You’d just come back from lunch and I heard Margot call to you, “Rachel’s on the phone and she said will you please collect Alice,” and you replied, “OK”.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ Frank blustered, but his eyes were bright with fear. ‘I would have remembered if it were.’

  ‘Perhaps you would have remembered if you’d been sober, Frank: but you were drunk. That’s the only mistake I made, not realizing you were drunk. You’d been out having a Christmas drink with your mates.’

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, but no one stirred. Tiffany and Danny had stopped kicking the ball, aware something of tremendous significance was happening between the grown-ups. Anna opened her mouth to speak, but Rachel saw Kathleen lay her hand on her arm and whisper something in her ear.

  ‘Margot rang the next day when she heard what had happened, that Alice had drowned, and I told her not to say anything about the phone call. I was willing to take the blame, you see.’ She threw back her shoulders and could feel even more power coursing through her veins. ‘I’m stronger than you, Frank,’ she said proudly. ‘You could never have stood up to knowing you were responsible for our little girl’s death.’ She looked at her husband pityingly. ‘But I could, at least, I could have if I’d had your support. But you behaved as if I’d taken Alice to the canal myself and held her head under the water.’ There was a chorus of horrified gasps from the rapt crowd. Rachel looked at them and said conversationally, ‘He turned my children against me. He tells me over and over how much he hates me, that if he were me he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.’

  ‘Mum!’ Kirsty ran and threw her arms around her mother. ‘Oh, Mum.’

  James, her son, who’d been so cold with her, groaned, ‘I didn’t know, Mum. I didn’t know.’

  Rain had begun to fall, only lightly at first, quickly turning into a downpour. A bolt of lightning split the sky, but still no one moved until they realized that Rachel had finished. Only then did they collect their belongings and make a dash for home. Frank Williams collapsed, weeping, on to the grass. No one went near him.

  ‘Leave the chairs, Ernie. It doesn’t matter if they get wet,’ Anna commanded.

  ‘Well, that’s the most dramatic barbecue I’ve ever been to,’ Gaynor remarked, as she and Ernie between them helped Anna home. ‘Poor woman, what an awful time she’s had. I’m glad she got everything off her chest. Yes, I’d love some cocoa, Ernie. Thanks for asking.’

  Kathleen remained, not caring that she was getting soaked, watching Rachel being embraced by her children. Then Kirsty removed the sodden cloth from the table, James began to fold it, and Kathleen said, ‘You were magnificent, Rachel. I can’t believe you’ve been holding that in for so long. Me, I’d never had stood up to it.’

  ‘I loved him, that’s why,’ Rachel explained. She looked weary all of a sudden, all her power gone. ‘I used to love Frank very much.’

  ‘What’s going to happen now?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll sort it out tomorrow.’

  ‘Good luck then, Rachel.’ Kathleen went indoors and picked up the phone, but Steve still hadn’t rung.

  Marie had noticed the car parked outside the row of garages and assumed it belonged to Ernie’s sister or Victoria’s friend. She was having difficulty unlocking the front door. Her hands were wet and the key felt slippery. Patrick was urging her to hurry. ‘Will you stop your nagging?’ she barked. ‘I’m doing the best I can.’

  ‘But me guitar’s getting soaked, Ma.’

  ‘I’m sure a drop of rain won’t harm it.’

  ‘It’s more than a drop.’

  The key worked at last and they fell inside. Marie turned to close the door and saw a man coming towards her. ‘I’ve been waiting for you in the car,’ a familiar voice said. ‘I didn’t like to intrude on the party.’

  ‘Enda!’ Marie took a step backwards and bumped into the guitar. It made an echoey, booming sound and Patrick tut-tutted irritably. ‘Enda Kelly. Come in, come in, before you get drenched.’

  ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Marie.’ He gave her a warm hug, aimed a pretend punch at each of the lads, and grinned, still the same old Enda: tall, big-boned, white-blond hair as flat as a pancake. Marie was transported back to the night she’d gone to his sister’s house and he’d come into the bedroom accompanied by her future husband.

  ‘How did you know where we lived?’ she demanded, a mere second before realizing it was a stupid question. He knew because his sister, Brigid, had given him the telephone number off the card advertising the computer and he’d rung and asked Danny for the address. ‘It doesn’t matter. I already know. Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll make a cup of tea. Liam will be back in a minute,’ she said when Enda and the boys had seated themselves around the table. This was all wrong, Enda shouldn’t be there, but Marie no longer cared.

  ‘Right now,’ Enda said flatly, ‘Liam Jordan’s in the police station being questioned about his drug dealings.’

  It took a long time for the meaning of the words to sink in. ‘But he’s a priest!’ Marie protested when they had. She was shocked to the core, so much so, that the water she was pouring into the kettle missed its target and splashed all over her skirt.

  ‘I know he’s a priest, Marie. He’s also a murderer. It was Liam who arranged to have your Mickey killed.’

  There was another long silence, during which they were conscious of the rain pounding against the windows and thunder rolling in the sky.

  Patrick was the first to speak. ‘Liam killed our da?’ His fists were clenched, the knuckles white. ‘If I ever get near him, I’ll kill him with me own bare hands, so I will.’

  ‘And so will I,’ Danny cried.

  ‘No, you won’t, boys. Me and a few other lads have been searching for him every-bloody-where over the last twelve months so we could do that very thing ourselves. We never dreamed he was with you, Marie.’ Enda’s blue eyes narrowed. ‘Did you not realize you were protecting your husband’s killer?’

  ‘Indeed I knew no such thing.’ Marie’s face turned as red as her hair. Just as if! ‘I was protecting our Patrick, or so I thought. He said – Liam said – that the men that killed Mickey were after Patrick too.’

  ‘But why would anyone want to kill me?’ Patrick spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

  Marie angrily banged her fist on the draining board. ‘Enda Kelly, will you kindly explain what’s been going on? Oh, will someone make this tea? I’ve lost the hang of it.’ She couldn’t remember how to switch on the kettle. The wind had risen and sheets of rain were being blown against the windows – the bedroom windows were open and everything would be getting wet, but she didn’t care if they had to swim upstairs.

  Danny got up to attend to the tea making. Marie sat and wondered if she was going mad or had she already lost her brain when Mickey died?

  ‘You know the weekend Mickey went to London to stay with his sister for her birthday?�
� Enda began. ‘Before he left, he took her back to the hotel where she worked – what was her name, Marie?’

  ‘Patsy. Still is, unless she’s died herself while we’ve been away.’

  ‘The hotel’s one of those grand places that cost the earth to stay in and a small fortune to buy a drink. Patsy took Mickey into the bar and got him a lager: she probably got it buckshee, her being on the staff like.’

  ‘What’s this nonsense in aid of?’ Marie asked impatiently. ‘What’s it got to do with my Mickey being murdered?’

  ‘I’m coming to it, girl,’ Enda replied, just as impatiently. ‘Who did Mickey see in the bar, but Father O’Mara, now known as Liam Jordan, not dressed as a priest, but all done up in a posh suit and sitting with two other guys. Mickey recognized one: a Unionist racketeer, well known in the drugs trade. He would’ve run a mile, but it was too late. The priest had already seen him. And that, my darling Marie, is why your Mickey had to be killed.’

  ‘I remember,’ Marie said slowly, ‘it saying in the papers that kids were being offered drugs in schools, in parks, discos: all over the place. And Father O’Mara – Liam – was behind it and he had to kill Mickey before the truth came out.’ It was that simple. Her darling husband had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had had to die to save Liam’s miserable life and protect the drugs business. Marie didn’t think she would ever set foot inside a church again, ever say another rosary. It was so unfair. What sort of God would let such a heinous thing happen? They all grimaced when thunder shook the house and the windows rattled in their frames. She asked, ‘How do you know this, Enda?’

  ‘Because Mickey rang me from the airport and told me what he’d seen.’

  Patrick said, ‘I was offered cocaine at school, Ma. It happened more than once.’

  ‘Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, what is the world coming to!’ Marie fell silent. She didn’t possess the words to describe how she felt about Liam Jordan. Eventually, she said, ‘But why did he want our family out the way? He insisted we leave, said it was dangerous to stay.’