“What does he mean?”
“I am stuck in this godforsaken place until I die. It is not just the shame any more; he is afraid I will want his no-good wet fields.”
“Surely your mother . . .”
“My mother is heartbroken and has taken to her bed.”
“I am sorry.”
“I know.”
15
Parnell Square, Dublin, March 1984
Andrew Kelly asked Emma to lunch at his house. Even if he was only being polite, she still felt a twinge of excitement at the invitation. A handwritten note, the summons was as old-fashioned as the man who extended it. He had followed it up with a phone call offering to send a driver across town to take her to his home in Rathgar. When she told Angie Hannon, she said that was his way: Andrew Kelly was a gentleman through and through. It was Angie who also told her to dress up, that a lunch invitation to Rathgar was an occasion to be relished.
Reluctant to pick something to wear just yet, she sat at the dressing table watching a pigeon hunched on the windowsill, the wind rippling its feathers, before rising to the windows, making them rattle gently. Flicking through a leather-bound notebook, she stopped rustling the pages when she saw a heading “Met the judge today”.
December 5, 1952
Martin Moran is a tall, smart man and thankfully he is not too old. He was very polite and formal. Aunt Violet is very taken by him. We walked by the canal and I think he proposed. He is not a man of great emotion, I can see that, but Violet said kindness is the most important thing. That and money, and he has both. I still don’t want to marry him, but Violet says I have no choice. If I can get to America, I won’t have to marry anyone I don’t want. I can’t say anything. Violet says if my mother was alive she would be so proud I had the chance to marry into the best stock in Dublin. It makes me sound like a Hereford cow.
Emma heard the clock in the sitting room chime noon as she opened the door of one of the mahogany wardrobes. Angie had helped out for an hour, filling Grace’s wardrobes with the clothes from numerous boxes. Evening gowns, fur stoles and fur coats were all pushed into one section. Three shelves of colourful boxes held exquisite little hats. The second wardrobe had skirts, blouses and a number of dresses. Emma chose a peacock-blue dress and a cream bolero cardigan.
She paid particular attention to her hair, sweeping it up high. Clipping a tortoiseshell slide at the back, she reached for the hairspray Angie had placed on the dressing table. Shielding her eyes, she sprayed until the fumes choked the back of her neck and her hair was stiff. Checking her reflection in the mirror, she ran her hand down her dress: it was a perfect fit. Fixing the small cardigan over her shoulders, she fastened the top diamanté button. The pair of black slingbacks she found in a box at the bottom of the wardrobe were a snug fit. Standing in front of the mirror, she wondered what Grace would say, that her clothes could so easily be worn by this imposter.
When the doorbell rang, she jumped. The brring bounced through the empty rooms of the house.
Swiftly, so she would not change her mind, she opened the door, sweeping it back too far. The driver had already got back into the car and was sitting waiting for her. After a polite introduction, he did not speak again but concentrated on the heavy city traffic. At Rathgar he pulled into the driveway of a two-storey over-basement red-brick house. The garden featured strong architectural plants. Andrew Kelly came out onto his front steps, wiping his hands with a small towel. Beaming, he lightly tripped down the steps and extended his hand.
She thought he seemed nervous, but she did not know why. He stepped to the side to let her go first, indicating she should turn right when she lingered at the doorway.
“I am not huge into formality, there is enough of that in the day job, so I am afraid you may find the room a little untidy. Lived-in, I like to call it.”
It was a large room lined with books, with a huge desk spanning the wide front window. Thick wool rugs were thrown over leather couches and small tables once designed to carry elegant china cups were heavy with books and newspapers.
“Martin always complained about the disarray, but I quite like it, though I am probably in danger of being found dead under a sea of books one day.”
He plumped up the cushion on the armchair nearest the fire and invited Emma to sit down. Without asking, he opened a bottle of champagne and poured her a glass.
“I thought we could drink a toast to Martin.”
She took the glass, reluctantly clinking his.
“To Martin, a man of honesty and integrity who tried his best. A true friend. May he rest in peace.” He did not comment when she barely sipped the champagne but instead asked her to follow him to the kitchen. “Come and sit, while I get my hands into making the crumble.”
She followed him downstairs to a room dominated by a large table, which had been laid at one end for two.
“I was a very good friend of your father, Emma. I would like to think we could be friends too.”
She loitered by the table, not sure what to say. Andrew turned around to her.
“I know you had your ups and downs with Martin. I am not expecting happy families or anything.”
“Are you on the bench as well?”
“Good Lord, no, they would be afraid of what I would do. A senior counsel making more money than the judges, that’s me. Martin and I were on the same beat for years, but I did not get to know him until after he went on the bench.”
“You sound disappointed he did.”
Andrew Kelly stopped crumbling the pastry and slugged some champagne, streaking the outside of his glass with pastry fingers.
“Your father had a huge sense of public duty. He worked way too hard. At least when he was a senior counsel he was getting paid for all the hours; on the bench they took advantage of him, gave him all the heavy cases.”
She sipped the champagne as Andrew fussed around the kitchen. On the mantelpiece was a photograph of her father and Andrew standing, mountains and lakes behind them.
“Four years ago in Italy. Martin went over for a judge’s conference, but I persuaded him to spend a week on Lake Garda. We had a great time.”
Andrew took the salmon out of the oven and transferred it to two plates. He was about to say something else, but he stopped himself, instead lashing the mashed potatoes and peas on the plate beside the fish and placing it in front of Emma.
“Rough and ready, but I hope you find it tasty.” He filled up two wine glasses and they sat eating, each wondering what to say next.
Emma was the first to break the silence. “Would you by any chance know where my mother is buried, Andrew? My father was interred with his parents, according to his wishes, but I have no idea about my mother.”
“Don’t you have family who can help?”
“The judge was an only child and Aunt Violet was the last surviving relative on my mother’s side. She died when I was young.”
“Surely Martin’s solicitor would know.”
“I spoke to her on the phone, but she said she didn’t know.”
“Did you not visit the grave as a child?”
“My father would not even let my mother’s name be mentioned in the house. When I was older and asked about her grave, he said it was in Wicklow somewhere.”
“I remember Grace, a very beautiful woman. I saw her once at one of their parties.”
Emma laughed out loud. “My father would never have had a party in the house.”
“There is where you are wrong. Martin loved a good party, good wine and good conversation. It was quite a thing to be invited to Parnell Square. I had moved down from Northern Ireland and I was glad of the entrée to Irish legal society. I think that was the last party in the house. It was not until years later that I got to know Martin properly, and by then your mother had died.”
Emma put down her fork and knife. “Everything in my life goes back to the death of my mother. I just wish I could meet somebody who could tell me more.”
“Martin was
not able to talk about it to anyone, but he loved you, was devastated when you went to Australia.”
Emma jumped up, her chair screeching across the kitchen floor tiles. “Mr Kelly, you have been very kind to invite me here, but I am not going to sit and hear what a great fellow my father was and how I ruined his life by going to Australia. He is the reason I had to travel so far away. He was a good man, no denying that, but unable to express any of that so-called love you and others say he had for me.”
Andrew Kelly placed a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “I am sorry if I sounded critical, it was not intended. I invited you here today so we could get to know each other and I suppose the only thing we have in common is Martin. He asked me if I could look out for you after he died. I have to honour my promise to him.”
Emma rushed to the hall door. “He is dead, what does it matter?”
She had opened the door and run down the front steps before Andrew Kelly caught up with her. “Come back in, eat some crumble. We can talk like two strangers trying to get to know each other.”
There was something reassuring about him, so she reluctantly agreed, following him up the steps and taking his advice to sit and sip champagne by the fire while he threw a dollop of cream on the pear crumble. When he returned, they talked and she found it easy to tell this man the same age as her father about her marriage breakdown and her plans for the future, which revolved around the boxes from the attic.
She found it strange to think her father must have sat here too, sipping brandy, talking his troubles away, and that Andrew could listen to the daughter like he had listened to the father and not come to any judgement.
As the light outside began to fade, she got up to leave. Andrew telephoned his driver and, when he arrived, accompanied her to the car, opening the passenger door for her.
“I am here to help if you need me, and even if you don’t. We must find time to sit and chat again,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
She left, mulling over Andrew’s stories about the judge, like the time he persuaded him to go to Connemara for a weekend, fishing on Lough Inagh. Martin Moran had nearly capsized the boat when he tried to pull in what he thought was a fish but turned out to be a piece of an old car. Andrew’s words swirled around her head. “We laughed and passed the hip flask until neither was able to control the boat and a local man had to come out alongside us and put a boy on our boat to row us in.”
When she got to Parnell Square, she went straight to sit at her father’s desk. For so long she had been afraid to even enter this room. If he was on his own, he was busy, poring over documents on his desk. It was the only side of him she knew. And now this space, their only meeting ground, was an empty space where the judge’s desk lay abandoned at the bottom of the room. She had only ever known him here. He had never allowed her into court. She did not know him in any way outside of this room.
Once, she had waited up for him to return from the Four Courts, where he was sitting on a late-night court. She had fallen asleep on the chaise longue, only waking up as he bundled her into his arms and carried her up to her bed. “Emma, there is no need to wait up for me. Next time, I promise I will have to get cross,” he said as he made a half-baked attempt to tuck her in.
Now, placing Grace’s suitcase on the floor, she set about examining the contents. Every one of these things spread out on the desk was important to Grace. For the first time, she noticed a long, pale-gold box concealed inside a shoe. Carefully she prised the box from where it had been stuck so long, and opened it. The gold and pearl necklace shivered to be uncovered. Gently, Emma lifted it out. It was a vintage piece, bars of gold holding two pearls each in a sequential pattern, like peas in a pod connected to each other, until it reached the hook-and-chain fastening, which allowed it to be worn as a choker or longer. Turning it over in her hands, Emma spotted it was signed Trifari on the inside of the hook. Holding it up to her neck, she liked its elegant feel.
As she placed it back in the box, she noticed a small card.
Like two peas in a pod, a memory of our wedding day. Martin.
Fingering the card, she traced the writing, which was in fountain pen. Never in a million years would she ever have guessed her father could have presented her mother with such a beautiful gift.
16
Bangalore, India, March 1984
There was an agitation about Rhya, and Vikram could not avoid it. He had not even sat down for breakfast when she began to fret and fuss, calling out to the servant that she was to wash and swab with extra care this day, calling up the caretaker to instruct him to go back to the milk stand and tell him he was only to give her the bags of fresh milk. Vikram wanted to ignore her, but he knew to do that would only mean a prolonging of the nattering and the intrusion into his thoughts.
As she marched up and down the balcony, watching the caretaker make his way to the milk stand, he put a hand out to stop her.
“Rhya, what is it?”
“You know my daughter arrived here shortly after dawn and is asleep in my bed. Next that girl of mine will bring shame on us, by moving back in here. There is something wrong, but the silly girl won’t tell me.”
“All in good time, Rhya. Couples need time to work out their differences.”
Rhya let a cushion she was straightening fall onto the couch. “She has spoken to you, hasn’t she? Are you telling me there is something wrong with the marriage?”
Vikram shook his head fiercely. “I said no such thing, Rhya.”
Rhya made to say something else, but the servant called and she scurried off, complaining bitterly at the top of her voice that she had to do everything in this household.
Vikram sat down at the far end of the balcony. When Rosa stole out to sit beside him, he did not question her.
“Distract me, Uncle, and tell me more about Grace.”
“She had missed a few days at Stephen’s Green and, frankly, I thought she was tired of me. One day, I was on Grafton Street when she came along.”
*
“Dr Fernandes, how lovely to see you.”
“Mrs Moran, are you well?”
“Call me Grace. I have been ill and I had no way of contacting you. Did you wait on the Green for me?”
“I did, but don’t worry. Are you better now?”
He saw a snuffle of tears shiver through her and he took a step towards her.
“Grace, what is the matter?”
She looked anxious, wringing a handkerchief through her fingers. “I am really sorry about last week.”
He was about to answer when he was pushed from behind, making him fall heavily against her. Two young men in tweed blazers and slacks laughed.
“The country’s been overrun by the wrong type,” the one wearing glasses called.
“Who said you could talk to one of our Irish girls anyway?” the other man shouted, and they both laughed loudly.
The one with the glasses turned to Grace and asked, “Is this man bothering you?”
Grace did not say a word but held her handbag up high and swung as hard as she could, hitting the younger man in the face.
The other, astounded at her reaction, remained rooted where he stood, allowing Grace to aim with better precision and hit him whack on the nose.
“Get away from me, you good-for-nothing bastards. How dare you attack my friend?”
Their hands up to stop the handbag raining down on them, they shouted and ran up the street. Grace hollered after them, her handbag still held aloft. Suddenly, aware that others were watching her, she shook her shoulders and straightened her coat with her hands. Vikram’s eyes were full of pride, that this lovely woman should so ably defend him.
“I have ruined a perfectly nice handbag over you, Vikram Fernandes.”
“So dreadfully sorry. Thank you for coming to my defence.”
“Did you see the way they ran off? One idiot lost his cap.”
“Please, you should not have put yourself in such danger. This type of stupid behaviour is really
quite common.”
“Let’s go to the Shelbourne.” Gently, she tugged him and they walked together, hand in hand for a few paces until he pulled free. They continued side by side, not needing to say much.
In the Lord Mayor’s Lounge in the Shelbourne, the waitress recognised Grace, asking if she preferred her usual seat. Grace nodded and they moved to the end of the room and two armchairs beside the open fireplace.
“I like to sit here on a winter’s day and have tea, before taking a taxi home,” Grace said, taking off her gloves and coat and indicating to Vikram to sit down.
“It is a very grand place.”
“My wedding reception was here.”
“What a fine location.”
“Unfortunately, not a fine marriage.”
“Please, you don’t have to explain.”
The waitress came and Grace asked Vikram to choose the tea. He picked Darjeeling, because it reminded him of the mountains and faraway hills where his coffee estate lay hidden.
Grace did not return to the previous topic of conversation until the silver pot of tea had been placed in front of them, along with a small plate of shortbread biscuits.
“You know all about arranged marriages, I imagine.”
He was pouring the tea and he did not know how to answer. “Our countries and cultures are different,” he said, replacing the silver teapot carefully on the tray in the middle of the table. It was only then he detected her tears. “Grace, what is the matter? Is something wrong?”
Delicately, she reached into her handbag and took out a white linen handkerchief edged in lace. Dabbing her eyes, she turned more towards the fire, so that the rest of the room could not see beyond her shoulders.
“And what if the arranged marriage does not work? What happens then?”
He felt uncomfortable. As he was forming an answer in his head, she began to talk again, almost as if she had forgotten she had asked a question.
“You think I am spoilt, don’t you?”
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