“Has Uncle told you?”
Rhya, who was sorting through the post, stopped. “Told me what?” She saw a hint of tears in Rosa’s eyes and went to her. “What can you tell Vikram that you cannot tell me?”
“Mama, I don’t want to talk about it.”
Rhya drew her to the sofa. “Do you think I can leave it like that? What has this husband of yours done?”
“I think he is going to dump me.”
Rhya straightened in her seat. “He can’t and won’t do that. You must tell me everything.”
Rosa shook her head. “I am here to see Uncle. We leave in four days and there is a lot to discuss. Mama, I don’t want to talk about it to you. I may not be able to go away.”
“What has happened?”
Rosa shook her head.
“How can I help if I don’t know what we are dealing with?”
Rosa jumped up. “Anil is off every night partying with other women.”
“What sort of women?”
Rosa made to find Vikram. “The sort of women who don’t mind being seen out with a married man.”
Rhya threw her hands in the air. “Come back here and talk to me, girl.”
“Mama, I am finding this so difficult.”
“And you don’t think I do? This has the potential to pile a heap of shame at our door. You listen, Rosa, it is not easy when a wife is constantly leaving the house. Maybe if you give him more attention . . .”
Rosa slumped down in a chair. “I doubt he is jealous of Uncle.”
When Vikram walked into the living room, he felt the tension straight way.
“Uncle, I want to hear more about Grace. I have packed already.”
“Four days we have until we leave for Delhi and you have packed,” he laughed, trying to avoid eye contact with Rhya, who had a scowl on her face.
Rosa caught her uncle by the arm, intending to go to the balcony, but Rhya stood in her way.
“She is not telling you she may not be able to travel because of this stupid husband of hers. You have to do something about this Anil, Vik.”
Vikram pulled away from Rosa. “I don’t think I can make this journey without you, Rosa. When were you going to tell me? Everything is booked: flights, hotels . . . Everything is finalised. The boy brought the envelope around. We can’t go back on it now.”
“Mama, you had no right to say anything. I am going, I was just upset Anil is being so . . .”
She started to cry and both Vikram and Rhya made to comfort her.
“Why do we have to concentrate on it so? I come here for a break from all this trouble. Please, Uncle, I want to hear more of Grace.”
Vikram indicated to Rhya to leave them to it and, though upset, she retreated to the kitchen to give out to the servant for not filling the filter jug to the brim. The servant smiled. She knew Rhya was snapping because she was angry at her daughter; she should not take it out on her. Rhya, feeling cross, retired to her room to rummage through her saris and calm down.
On the balcony, Vikram let Rosa catch her breath before he started his story. Her eyes were still wet with tears and every now and again a shudder ran through her, but he continued in the hope of distracting her.
“Things moved quickly between myself and Grace. I knew after the Shelbourne tea that she was such a lovely girl, but so troubled.
“On the Saturday morning, I was on O’Connell Street and found myself walking towards Parnell Square. I knew I would meet her and, sure enough, she was at the front door. She had just seen the judge off for a weekend legal think-in, somewhere or other.”
*
“What luck your good friend Violet is away as well,” she said, pulling him in the door.
In the basement kitchen she took out a stool from under the table and climbed up to the top shelf of the dresser, taking down a McVitie’s biscuit tin. Prising open the lid slowly, the smell of rich fruit cake laced with poitín slipped through the room.
“Just one slice or we will be drunk and Violet will know we have been mooching around. Aunt Violet is more than a match for your battleaxe landlady.”
“Surely, never that bad.”
“Do you miss home?”
“Every day.”
“I can’t imagine why you would want to be in Ireland. Life here must be so dull in comparison.”
Vikram laughed. “It is certainly different.”
“Do you mind if I ask a personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Will you have an arranged marriage?”
“Always the same question in this country, I notice. If my mother has her way. A doctor is a good catch.”
“A judge was a good catch too.”
“You are happy, Grace?”
She got up, twirling with her hands outstretched across the kitchen. “Look, Vikram, I wear the finest clothes, live in this wonderful house. I have not been on a bus in a whole year; I take taxis everywhere. I should be happy. I am married to a judge.”
He did not know why, but he bowed and asked her would she like to dance. “I am not very good at waltzing, but I would love to dance with you.”
She took his hand and they glided for a few seconds in the same direction before he stumbled across her toe.
“We will have to practise more, Dr Fernandes.”
He could smell the perfume on her neck, feel the softness of her hair against his cheek. He reached over and kissed her.
She did not pull back but responded, leaning in to him. He held her close, until she pulled away.
“You want to know why I married the judge, don’t you?”
“Only if you want to tell me.”
“I had no choice. My mother and father died when I was young. I was taken in by Aunt Violet. She gave me a roof over my head, but when I reached eighteen she said I should marry a man with money. Conveniently, she knew such a man. Martin is much older than me and has always been kind, but I don’t love him and he certainly does not love me.” She stopped suddenly. “I don’t want your pity, Dr Fernandes. I am just giving you the information.”
“I am sorry, but it is not pity.” He took her hand and kissed it and he saw the smile come back into her eyes.
“Let’s get away from here. I have heard there is a newfangled passport machine at Heuston Station. Wouldn’t it be fun to go there?”
“But we must go by bus, Grace.”
She clapped her hands in delight and ran off to get her coat. He waited at the top of the front steps for her. A few people who passed by looked oddly at him and a Garda on the beat shot him a suspicious look. When Grace came out the front door, the Garda approached.
“Is this gentleman with you, Mrs Moran?”
“Yes, is there a problem?”
“No, ma’am, just doing my job. May I speak to you in private?” He stepped into the hallway and made sure the door closed behind him. “I wanted to ask you if you are all right. Do you know this character? Does the judge know him?”
“That fellow, as you call him, is Dr Vikram Fernandes. I am astounded, Garda O’Mahony, at your attitude.”
The Garda reddened around his collar and began to stammer. “I was only doing my job. You can’t be too careful.”
“Of foreign men. I get your message, and yes, my husband has met Dr Fernandes and even had him here at his drinks party recently. Will that be all?”
The Garda mumbled something she thought was an apology and opened the door. Grace swished out, her perfume curling after her. Snapping her handbag shut, she walked down the road, the large pleat of her swing coat swishing from side to side, highlighting her indignation. Vikram followed two steps behind as they moved towards O’Connell Street.
“Quick, there’s the bus that passes Heuston. Hurry,” Vikram shouted, racing past her towards the bus stop. The bus was pulling away when Vikram jumped on the back, swinging on the bar and pushing his hand back to pull up Grace, who was giggling uncontrollably.
“I hope after that spectacle you are going to pa
y a fare. One of these days somebody is going to get killed pulling one of those stunts,” the bus conductor said as he clinked his bag of money and prepared his ticket machine.
Vikram paid the fare and they went upstairs as the bus throttled down the quays and the stench of the Liffey bit into their nostrils.
*
“Rosa, my voice is going. We had such fun there. Afterwards, we knew I would stay the night, and I did, in the judge’s house. From then on, I cared about nothing else, only Grace. She was my soulmate in every way. What can I say? I loved her completely and I know she loved me. Would you like to see a picture of her? Reach into my desk and I will instruct you.”
The photograph he had hidden in a small silver box so long ago because he could not bear to see her face. Now, he knew he wanted to look in her eyes. The box was under a pile of envelopes. Carefully, Rosa took it out and studied the woman’s fine features, her wide smile, the sparkling eyes.
“It was taken on the most perfect weekend. We were so happy. We did not know what was to come.”
Rosa made to say something, but he hushed her.
“We felt free, silly and happy, a good way to be. I doubt if either of us felt that way again. We spent the rest of the weekend together, happy in the moment. We had such fun together. Now I only have the precious memory and that photo-booth picture to remind me of blissful days. Looking back on it now, I am so glad of that day. So often we can spoil the good things of the present with worries about either the past or the future.”
“You look so happy.”
“We were, but that was a long time ago.” Vikram let the tears splash down his face. “Everything got serious from then on. Tomorrow, I will tell you.”
“Thank you for not cross-examining me, Uncle.”
“The day may come when I will have to deal with this Anil.”
“For now, I think I can handle it,” she said, and bent down to kiss Vikram on the cheek. She got up and left the apartment quickly, before Rhya had time to demand conversation.
For his part, Vikram disappeared into his room, so that he would not get caught up in useless and excessive mulling over of the possible troubles in Rosa’s marriage with her mother.
On days like today, he liked to think of the good times with Grace. It gave him the strength. She was in front of him now, frisking down the street, telling him to hurry or they would be late for Sybil Connolly.
*
“You hardly need me there when you are trying on a dress you will only wear for your husband.”
She laughed because he sounded cranky, his cheeks swelling in the upset of feeling sorry for himself.
“You silly man, I could wear a sackcloth and that man would not notice. I value your opinion. I can’t even bear spending an hour in Miss Connolly’s fitting room without you.”
“I am not sure Miss Connolly will approve of you bringing a gentleman friend to a fitting.”
“What if she doesn’t? She will never dare say it. I want you to see me in this gown: it will be the most exquisite thing I own.”
He could not refuse her, her eyes shining, her look defiant. She giggled, pulling him by the hand towards Grafton Street. Hastily, he snatched back his hand.
“What if the judge or somebody you know sees us?”
“You worry too much. The judge is either in chambers or at home in his library with his head stuck in a law text.”
Vikram, though worried, was in awe of her fighting words.
Sybil Connolly greeted him with a nod. He sat tapping a tune out on his knee with his fingers while Grace was taken away to try on the dress. After about half an hour, she burst through from the dressing room, a swirl of gold pleated linen. Spinning in front of him, she laughed like a child on a merry-go-round until she slumped awkwardly against him, her head reeling.
When he put his arms around her, he felt the softness of the linen pushed and kept into place by bunches of taffeta underneath. The bodice, covered in thick lace, ran down to the waist, where a myriad of tiny pleats fell to the ground. The gold-bronze of the dress accentuated the hazel flecks in her eyes and he felt tears well inside him that she could be so lovely.
She stood and walked slowly across the room as if it were her catwalk, the rustle of the taffeta complemented by the soft sweep of the linen. Suddenly she stopped, swinging around.
“You don’t like it.”
He put his hands out to her and she took them. “I have no words for how beautiful you look, because you take my breath away.”
“But do you think it suits me?” Her head to one side, she looked like a doll twisted into a funny shape.
“What greater compliment can I give, Grace? I am left watching this vision in gold and words strangle in my throat because all are inadequate.”
She placed her hand on his shoulder and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I think I love you, Dr Vikram Fernandes.”
He did not move, a swirl of emotion racing through him. When he looked up at her again, she was smiling and he smiled back.
“I know I love you, Grace Moran.”
They stood, too afraid to touch, too afraid to kiss, even too fearful to talk.
Miss Connolly’s assistant came to the door, stopping for a moment to take in the room before stepping inside.
“The dress will be ready for tomorrow morning. Is that all right?” She hesitated, looking slightly away, when she saw they were holding hands.
Grace pulled away quickly, knocking Vikram momentarily off balance. He watched her and he knew he loved her beyond anything. He looked at her again, her head down, her long hair tumbling down the lace bodice. She was busy discussing whether the pleats should stick out so far, so preoccupied that she did not notice him slip away further and further, until she was, to him, a slick of gold against the black.
20
Parnell Square, Dublin, April 1984
Andrew Kelly drove out to the sea at Sandymount. He needed to walk, so he could think. The wind buffeting in from the Irish Sea shoved him sideways, but he pushed on with a steely determination. He had a decision to make and not even the gale-force wind was going to stop his journey to that destination.
Rain sheeted across the strand, but he ignored it, too busy fussing in his head, worrying about her reaction. Why he hadn’t told her when she came for lunch? He did not know. He could not tell her in the car either, as Angie had been there and he did not want a three-way discussion.
Digging his hands into his pockets, Andrew paced back towards his car, stopping to lean on the strand wall. A woman hunched against the rain and wind, pulling her dog along with her, looked oddly at him. Further down, she stopped and retraced her steps, peering closely before enquiring if he was all right. Embarrassed, Andrew did not answer but scuttled back to his car.
Worse not to tell Emma, he thought, turning to the city centre, water from his wet clothes pooling at his feet.
When he pounded on the front door, Emma was in the library. He stood soaking wet, shivering. She did not know what to say.
“Can I come in? I apologise, but what I have to tell you has to be done in person.”
She pulled back the door. “You could still have phoned, Andrew.”
“I have important information about your mother.”
“What do you mean important? Let me get you a towel.”
She saw Andrew’s face change as she put out a hand to guide him onto the landing and into the drawing room.
“Sit down, Emma.”
“It is bad, isn’t it?”
“Your father told me a little of your mother. He asked me to keep it confidential. I did, but now I feel in my heart it is something you should know about. I also feel that to tell you is not exactly breaking the confidence.” He paused, as if he was trying to carefully pick his words.
“Please, Andrew, what is it?”
“Grace didn’t die at the time of your birth but was committed to an asylum. It was all hush-hush. Seemingly your father was devastated, a broken man as
a result.”
“My father would not do such a thing. This can’t be true.”
Andrew shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to sit down for fear of staining the furniture with his wet clothes. “It tortured him all his life, from what I could see. He told me the poor thing was not well at all. He acted on the best medical advice.” He cleared his throat. “Her spell in the asylum seemingly did not work very well for Grace. It all took longer than anyone intended at the start. He said she died there.”
Andrew stopped and walked to the window.
“Emma, you have to look at this from Martin’s point of view. All the doctors said she needed it and Aunt Violet was more than insistent, so he put her in the asylum. He said afterwards that it was a decision he would regret past his dying day, but, at the time, it seemed the only thing to do. It was heartbreaking.”
Emma sank deeper into the chair. “He loved her so much he put her in an asylum.”
The silence of the room closed in around her, gripping at her throat, so she felt as if she may choke. She noticed Andrew’s trousers were wet up to his knees. On the mantelpiece, she saw the wedding photograph of Grace and Martin. She wanted to fling it out the window, to hear it shattering on the city street below.
“Emma, are you all right?”
Andrew’s voice was far away, stabbing through the fog enclosing her. She wanted to speak, but she could not. She felt him place her feet on a chair, put a pillow under her head. He fretted over her.
“Emma, are you all right?”
She looked into his anxious face. “Tell me everything, please.”
“Emma, I don’t know what happened. It was clear it had all so devastated Martin. It was the past, a painful one, and I left it there.”
Emma put her hand up to stop Andrew placing a rug around her. Pushing her head into her hands, she dragged her palms down the length of her face. “What do we do next?”
“We find out what happened: that is what we do. I will be right there with you, don’t you worry.”
“Why was she committed? Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know, Emma. I had to tell you. It is your right to know the truth. Who knows what Martin had to deal with?”
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