“Grace said she was going to tell the judge, and we arranged to meet at four o’clock, when I finished work the next day. I wanted to go along with her, but Grace would not hear of it. She was going to ask for an annulment and tell him she was leaving for India with me. She was nervous but not afraid. She hoped that, him being a realist and a pragmatist, he would relent.
“We completely underestimated the evil of her aunt Violet, who did anything she could to stop our union. Neither was Violet going to allow Grace to walk away from the marriage.” Vikram’s voice was shaking, his eyes wide, as if even after all this time he found it hard to comprehend. “Rosa, it became a total nightmare. I never saw Grace again. The next day I was on duty on the women’s ward. I was almost sick with worry. A woman came in complaining of back pain. When she insisted I pull the curtain fully around the cubicle, I did not think anything of it. Thinking she was a prudish sort, I pulled the screen round the bed. Next thing, she was shouting and roaring I had tried to feel her up.”
He swallowed hard. Rosa, seeing how hard it was for him to call up such painful events, said, “Uncle, if it’s too much . . .”
“I came back to India a broken man. I want you to know why. How does a man heal from something like that?” Taking a deep breath, he spoke faster, as if by rushing, he might avoid the necessary pain in the delivery. “Next thing, I was suspended from my work. Neither did Grace turn up at our meeting place that afternoon. When I went to Parnell Square, there was no answer at the door. I went home and hoped for word. The only visitors were two uniformed police officers who brought me to the barracks and charged me with the rape of one woman and the indecent assault of the hospital patient. A court appearance followed and I was remanded in custody.”
“Uncle, what are you telling me?”
“Rosa, it was all a complete lie, I swear to you. Don’t please for a second think I could do such a thing. I am sure Aunt Violet had something to do with it. No matter what my solicitor did, no matter what money my parents pledged, I could not get bail.”
Vikram felt the words choke through him and he began to wheeze heavily, unable to stop.
“Uncle, please don’t do this to yourself. Mama can tell me further.” She squeezed his hand so hard that the trapped sweat between them squelched.
“I have to. Whatever I went through is nothing compared with my lovely Grace. She was carrying my child and was no doubt being told I was a rapist by Aunt Violet.” He spluttered as he tried to calm the coughing. Rosa held a glass of water to his lips and he took a few sips. “The solicitor told me that Grace had been sent down the country. I did not know where she was.”
Rhya walked in with a tray of coffee and stopped in the centre of the room. “What are you doing, telling her this? Don’t you know even thinking about it destroys us all?”
“Mama, I need to know the full story.”
“It is bad luck to be discussing these terrible events,” Rhya said, shaking herself as if she was cold. “Enough, please, some secrets are best left buried.”
Recognising the agitation in her voice, Vikram put his hand up to indicate he was done. Rhya, seizing her chance, pulled her daughter into the bedroom, where she immediately bombarded her with questions on what exactly she had been told.
Vikram, on his own, conjured up an image of Grace, resplendent in her gold pleated-linen Sybil Connolly gown. She had worn that dress the night she chanced it and stole off with him after she had been to the Law Society ball with the judge.
*
Martin Moran had spent the night deep in conversation with Judge Fitzpatrick, leaving his wife in the company of the other judges’ wives. Grace told Vikram later she had wanted more than anything to be whirled across the dance floor, to see the lights reflect off the dress, to feel the fabric as it weighed across from one side to the other. On two occasions she went over to her husband and stood nearby, hoping he would pick up the signal, but he did not notice.
Claire Fitzpatrick, dressed in peacock blue, did not mind so much. “Darling, when these men go out, they see it as an extension of the day job. Once a judge, always a judge. You will get used to it,” she said, and the other women around all laughed.
Grace shortly after excused herself and went to the bathroom, where she placed her head against the cubicle wall and allowed the tears to flow down her face and neck, wetting the top of the bodice. She only stopped when she realised that if her eyes were too red she would have some explaining to do to the other women, so she fixed her make-up before returning to the table.
Martin Moran was waiting for her. “I think we can safely leave now,” he said, and they went to the cloakroom to ask for their coats.
As their car pulled up outside No. 19 Parnell Square, Grace had seen Vikram standing across the road in the shadow of a tree overhang from the park. She smiled to him as she ascended the steps, knowing he would wait until she came to him.
Inside, she went straight to her room, waiting until she heard her husband pass on to the next floor before daring to go to the window and signal to Vikram. She should have taken the dress off, but she was vain enough that she wanted Vikram to see her in what was probably the most beautiful dress she would ever own. She waited until she heard her husband’s snores before padding downstairs in her bare feet to the front door.
Vikram silently ran up the steps to her.
“I have never seen you look so beautiful.” He caught her around the waist and waltzed a few steps, making her giggle.
When she kissed him, he ran his hands over her, pressing the fabric to her, and he knew that night they would be together for as long as they could. He pulled her hands and they ran together to the park. Placing his coat on the cold ground, they lay together under the city sky, the windows of No. 19 Parnell Square watching them.
It was on their way back, as he led her to the front door, that Vikram carelessly stepped on the hem of the dress, tugging it too fiercely, so that a small section of linen came away. Grace laughed, teasing him that in years to come they would look at that small rip and know it was the evening she went to the ball but finished her night in the park.
Vikram now smiled to think of Grace fingering the pencil-like shimmering pleats of the dress, announcing it was a gown made to party and dance. Wearing the gold dress, she had insisted, was like trying on a waterfall.
26
Parnell Square, Dublin, May 1984
Emma could not sleep, so she padded down the stairs to her mother’s room. The gold wreaths on the wallpaper twinkled in the dim electric light. The room was quiet, the city slumbering outside the window. She could not get the asylum fire out of her head. Had Grace tried to escape it or had smoke overcome her before the intensity of heat destroyed her?
A letter had arrived calling Emma to the reading of the judge’s will. She wondered if she would even own this place afterwards. If she did, she would stay here. Maybe she could make a few bob taking the overflow from Angie, though she had not yet broached that subject with her neighbour.
She could move into this room and live among the vintage and only memories of her mother. A pain of loneliness swelled in her heart for the woman she did not know, the mother she would never know. Sitting at the dressing table, she twisted the cap of the remaining bottle of brandy and swigged a gulp from the bottle. With her right foot, she manoeuvred a cardboard box full to the brim towards her. Prising back the bulging flaps, she could see several silk pieces, wraps or scarves neatly folded.
Taking the first one, a gold paisley wrap, she shook it out. It unfurled in a shimmer of gold. Soft to the touch, it was wide enough to cover her shoulders, delicate hand-knotted fringes skimming over her blouse. Emma stood in front of the wardrobe mirror. The flashing gold of the wrap set off her auburn hair. She decided she must wear it the next time she went to visit Andrew.
Next was a cardigan-type shawl as light as gossamer in a soft grey lace-ply wool, the intricate knitting a pattern of flowers. Emma slipped her arms into it, letting it hang do
wn her back. She straightened, pulling the small hood halfway up her head. It felt like a film of lace. There was no label on it, so she presumed Grace had women who knitted and crocheted according to her fancy.
How different it could have been, growing up with Grace at her side. Emma had only been brought clothes shopping twice a year, and never by her father. For some reason he never let her go out with Violet, who visited the children’s department of Clerys twice a year, before Christmas and in May, ordering all the possible things a young girl would need. When the job later fell to a housekeeper, Mrs Esther Harris, she insisted on bringing Emma with her.
“You may think your father is made of money, missy, but Mrs Harris is not a spendthrift,” she had said as she picked the best price in everything, once pushing Emma into sandals a half size too small because they were on sale. “Sure, it does not matter with sandals. Aren’t your toes hanging out anyway?” she had said.
Emma’s musings were interrupted by a soft knock on the front door and Angie’s unmistakable voice calling up at the window. Glad of the diversion, Emma ran downstairs to find Angie in a silk nightdress, dressing gown and slippers.
“I saw you couldn’t sleep as well. I have brandy,” she said, pulling a bottle from under her dressing gown. They went up to the drawing room and settled on the couch, their feet up. “I could never have done this to the judge. Only a woman understands the urgent need to talk.”
Emma listened and Angie prattled on about this and that until she suddenly stopped and let the tears flow. Unsure of what to do, Emma waited until there was a break in the flow to ask what was wrong.
“It always happens on my third brandy. I had two before I woke you up. I had my coat and boots on and was going to walk the angst off. I thought, ‘Stupid woman, you will be attacked and end up on page one of the Evening Herald.’ Then I saw your light.” She stopped to gulp another mouthful from her glass.
Emma wanted to laugh out loud, but instead she rubbed her hand across the other woman’s back as a shudder of tears swelled through Angie.
“You are wondering what the hell is wrong with me. The truth is I don’t know.”
“Is it something with your health? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Angie looked stricken. “God, no, nothing like that. I am in love.”
Emma burst out laughing and Angie half-heartedly joined in, giggling and crying at the same time. Gulping back the laughter, Emma asked what could possibly be wrong with falling in love.
“Don’t you think it is some sort of betrayal of Christopher and Timmy?”
Emma did not know how to answer, but Angie didn’t wait.
“Christopher was the love of my life. How can I think of being with another man? I have ably resisted it until now, but, Emma, I am lonely.”
“Nobody would blame you. It is so many years on.”
“I blame myself, Emma. I should have been more involved with the two of them. I should have been out on that boat. If we had all gone together, I would not be marooned like this. If it was not for Martin Moran, I don’t know where I would be.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is the one who came out to Greystones and took me away from there. He was a dear friend of Christopher’s. When Martin was a practising barrister, Christopher was his instructing solicitor on a lot of cases. Martin said he owned the house next door at Parnell Square and the area needed a nice bed-and-breakfast establishment. He insisted I was the one to set it up and run it.” She took a deep breath. “That man, you can say all you like about him, but he forced me out of myself. Five years later, as a gift, he signed the house over to me. He did not want anybody to know, but that is all a matter now.”
Emma got up to make some tea. Confused, she leaned against the sideboard on the pretence of waiting for the kettle to boil. Why had she never seen this side of her father? The man she had known was aloof, snobby, stubborn and strict; the man everyone else knew was the exact opposite.
Angie rearranged herself and began to talk about Henry Fortune, who worked in Clerys department store and had been asking her out for a long time. She had relented last week, agreeing to go to a movie. She even allowed him walk her home afterwards. “I am in love, Emma, a woman my age. What am I going to do?”
Emma turned around. “What can you do? Only follow your heart.”
Angie stood up, tightening her dressing gown around her. “So like your father: always the sound advice. Now, I won’t keep you up any longer. I am afraid tea after the brandy would only be a let-down.”
Emma listened until the front door thudded shut before sitting down. Discarding any idea of tea herself, she poured herself another brandy.
The more she found out about Martin Moran, the less she knew him. If only she could find somebody who had known her mother as well, then she could start to piece together the mystery of the marriage between her mother and father, a story with already too much tragedy.
The phone ringing drew her back. She wanted to ignore it, but she thought it might be Angie with a second instalment, so she went down to the judge’s library to answer it. The room was chilly when she entered, the phone on his desk ringing, calling out to a naked room.
“Em, it’s me.”
“Why are you ringing?”
“Em, when are you coming back? We need to talk, get a divorce.”
“I am not coming back. It is not as if I have anything to come back to.”
“I have an offer on the flat. There is paperwork for you to sign.”
“So?”
“Em, I can’t finalise the sale without your permission.”
“Can’t all this be done through solicitors?”
He sighed loudly at the other end. “Don’t you trust me?”
“What do you think?”
“I was not going to go to the bother of a solicitor. Can’t we act civilised?”
“Civilised? You don’t expect me to answer that after what you have done. Next time you call, have the name of your solicitor ready and we can exchange details. It is the only way I will do business with you from now on.”
She heard the click of the phone and knew he had cut her off in anger. Pulling the lace wrap around her, she went back to the sanctuary of Grace’s room, wanting to forget about the husband she hoped she would never have to meet again.
A few hours later, Andrew Kelly knocked on the door. He was not to know that Emma had only been asleep a short time. She thought of not answering, but she could not lie on the bed as the bell sounded, followed by a few heavy hammers of the knocker. She was surprised to see Andrew so early. He handed her a small loaf of bread, still warm at the base.
“I make the best brown bread on any side of the Liffey. Put on the kettle and we will have tea.”
She did as she was bid, leading the way to the drawing room upstairs, where she switched on the small kettle on the sideboard. Andrew, she thought, looked slightly worried and she wondered why he’d decided to call on her. He sat on the edge of the velvet couch, his hands bunched as if he was in prayer.
Chatting away about nothing in particular, all the time both of them knew there was something in the background, something Andrew was almost afraid to mention. He made a big meal of cutting the loaf, removing small pats of butter, along with jam pouches, from his jacket pockets. “My one vice in life, I can’t leave those things on the table when I have my breakfast in the courts café every morning. I tip well, so the waitresses say nothing. They are probably laughing up their sleeves at the rich lawyer who steals the butter and the marmalade.”
Emma laughed and they sat munching the brown bread, which was crumbling-warm. She waited for him to bring up the reason for the surprise visit, but he seemed content to enjoy his breakfast. The bus to Cabra revving up the hill was the only thing invading their peace.
Andrew finished his tea and refused another cup. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind. I just did not want you turning up at the solicitors and seeing me there.”
�
��My father must have thought a lot of you to mention you in the will.”
Andrew laughed. “Emma, don’t be worried. Your father has not left any of his wealth to me: that is why I am here, to allay any fears you may have.”
She was slightly annoyed that he knew what was in the will, when her father had not bothered to tell her.
“You are put out.”
She did not answer, so he continued.
“And so you should be. I am sorry your father never revealed any of his life to you. He is leaving that task to me. We have been special friends for over a decade. I loved your father very much. I miss him every day. There, I have told you. Your reaction is yours. Whether you approve or not is not a consideration, it is entirely your own business.”
Emma did not know what to say. Andrew’s delivery was precise and firm, as if he was addressing the court, but his face was contorted, nervous she may overreact.
“Why did he never tell me?”
Andrew shifted on the couch, crossing and uncrossing his knees. “Our relationship was in its infancy when you left for Australia. I don’t think Martin would have put such a thing in a letter. Anyway . . .” His voice trailed off, as if he did not want to cause hurt by referring to the rift between father and daughter.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“That bit is easy. I wanted to get to know you. I didn’t even know you were going to stick around.”
Emma stretched and took Andrew’s hand in hers. “His death, the funeral, it must have been so terrible for you. I am so sorry for your loss.”
He sat, the tears rolling down his cheeks, letting her squeeze his hand. “Afterwards, I went to Connemara, back to Lough Inagh, and went out on the boat and drank a bottle of whiskey. I waked him well.”
“On your own?”
He looked at her. “How could it be any other way? We always had to hide things. If anybody found out, Martin would have had to resign. That would have killed him.”
“He must have loved you very much to risk . . . I mean, isn’t . . .”
The Judge's Wife Page 16
