The Judge's Wife

by Ann O'Loughlin

  “Emma? Emma, where are you going? You will get your death of cold. Come on in, it is time for a hot whiskey.”

  Andrew Kelly had waited in a doorway opposite the solicitors but was too slow to stop Emma before she went on Grattan Bridge spanning the River Liffey.

  “You knew, didn’t you?”

  He did not answer but steered her into the Clarence Hotel. He called for two Irish coffees as he guided Emma to the lounge area at the back.

  “What sort of a man was he, Andrew?”

  “Martin? An inept man trying to do his best, I suppose, like a lot of us.”

  “Hardly. He left my mother in that asylum and he let my twin sister be taken away to India.”

  “What?”

  “My father wasn’t my father, Andrew, and I am not an only child. My mother gave birth to twins. My twin sister was sent abroad because of her colour. She may have done better than me: she, at least, was with her birth parent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father was an Indian doctor.” Emma gulped too much of her coffee when it arrived, burning the back of her mouth, but she barely noticed. “How can it be one baby white, one brown? Is this just some sick joke?”

  “Martin would not do that to you.”

  “He put my mother in an asylum.”

  “I know Martin was a good man. His word always was true and it still is, in my books. I know a doctor, a medical expert we use in cases. Let me ring him and ask him about this. No names, of course.”

  Emma nodded and Andrew disappeared out into the lobby to make his call. She sat, her hands cupped around the glass. What would this sister think of her? Would the father turn his back on her? Why couldn’t the judge have left it? Surely she had enough to contend with. Big tears rolled down her cheeks, one plopping into the creamy top of the Irish coffee, sinking to nothing.

  Andrew came back in and sat beside her. “It is rare, but it can happen. Was there ever anybody who was not white in your background?”

  “My grandfather was Pakistani, but nobody was supposed to know that. It was a big scandal at the time. Aunt Violet said at least Grace looked white.”

  Andrew threw his eyes to heaven. “Aunt Violet was a cruel and heartless woman with a tongue that was way too sharp.”

  Emma sipped her coffee. “What next?” She said the words, but she did not know if she wanted an answer. Andrew reached across and took her hand and squeezed it. She handed him the judge’s letter, but he refused it.

  “I don’t need to read it, Emma, if I did I would have to hand you my letter from him, but I am not ready for that yet.”

  She didn’t question him further. Refusing a lift home, she opted instead to walk alone along the rainy streets.

  30

  Bangalore, India, May 1984

  Rhya was in her own room, still upset, when she heard Vikram come home late. He slipped off his sandals at the door and padded quietly across to his bedroom, so as not to disturb her.

  Feeling tired, he wanted to lie down straight away, but instead he sat at his desk to write up some last-minute instructions for Anil. He was halfway through when he saw a letter propped behind his ashtray. Annoyed that the girl should leave his post where he would not at first notice, he snatched it. His hand shook. He felt his chest tighten. Stress pains spanned across him. He started to breathe deeply, but his heart did not calm.

  In all the years since he had come back to India he had not received any communication from Ireland. Neither had he made any enquiry of anybody or any organisation in Ireland. And now that he was ready to go back there, a letter arrived.

  Using his letter opener, he carefully slit the edges, opening it enough so that a letter and another envelope popped out. His brow furrowed. He scanned the business-like words.

  Why on this earth would Judge Martin Moran leave a letter for him to read after his death? Fear crept through Vikram as he pulled open the second envelope.

  Skimming down through it, his chest tightened fiercely. A sweaty clamminess seeped through the roots of his hair. Squeezing his eyes shut, he hoped the pain would leave him. Clutching the paper so he scrunched it, he opened his eyes warily, fear gripping him as he flattened the page and reread the sentence that turned everything on its head and made a terrible mockery of his whole life. He jumped up, the chair clattering backwards. Sweeping his hand across his desk, everything crashed to the ground, the glass where he normally kept his pens shattering on the marble.

  Rhya thumped on Vikram’s door, shouting at him to let her in. Ignoring her, he kicked the pile of ironed and folded clothes beside his bureau, and pushed at the display of silver on top next until the heavy ornaments toppled on the floor.

  By the time Rhya had run around to access the room from the balcony, Vikram had collapsed onto the bed, his body writhing with the power of loss and anger combined. Strange, mournful sounds emanated from her brother, who could not enunciate even one coherent word.

  Rhya, surveying the room, shook her head. Walking to her brother, she placed a hand on his head and began to stroke him, like a mother does an upset child. He did not acknowledge her presence, though the gulping tears lessened. She sat down, reminded of her mother with her father after news came through of Vikram’s plight in Ireland. What a tsunami of pain that small country had unleashed on the family. What more was to roll in on them now?

  Vikram sat up and looked at his sister. “You know the contents of this letter from Ireland?”

  “Vik, it came today, but I have not touched it, I swear.”

  Shrugging his shoulders, he kicked a silver bowl out of his way as he made for the outside door.

  Rhya pulled at him. “Where are you going, Vik?”

  Hearing the pain in her voice, he hesitated. “I don’t know, Rhya. I just need space.” He made his way through the apartment and stepped into the lift, pushing the button so the doors would close over before she had time to object.

  Vikram did not even notice when the nightwatchman saluted. He stumbled his way, keeping to the near middle of the road in places in case he tripped or fell in a hole. He had no idea where he was going, only that he had to walk, because to stand still would mean despair would envelop him.

  How could he not have known? Surely their love was such that he would have known if Grace was still alive. He would never have left, but that he believed she was dead. Why had the judge waited until now to unburden himself and place a load of such magnitude on his shoulders?

  When he looked back at the apartment, he saw Rhya was pacing up and down the balcony. He rushed on so that soon he would be out of her sight.

  How long had Grace waited for him? Pain stabbed through him to think of her believing in him, despairing when he never came for her. All these years he had consoled himself that there was no other option; all these years he had lived a lie. He had had to leave Ireland, there was no doubt at the time, but why had he left it a lifetime before seeking to return?

  He was a coward who had let her down. Now he must suffer, knowing not only had he walked away but he had taken their daughter from her too.

  At Cubbon Park, he strode along the dark paths, his head down, not caring what he met. Inside he was weak, but he felt the strength of anger and outrage as he pushed on through the park, sweat pumping from him, mixing with the tears that were flowing down his face.

  In his head, he shouted Grace’s name over and over, beseeching her to come and strike him dead like a pauper lifeless on the path, to be found by the workers as they cut through the park on the way to work. She did not answer him, and who could blame her? He who had said he loved her, would never leave her, he who had knitted fanciful stories of their future life together.

  Collapsing onto a bench, Vikram gasped for air. A man curled up under a grey shawl asked him if he was all right, but Vikram was unable to answer. The man called out to a friend under the tree, who came over to enquire if Uncle was ill. “Go home, Uncle, this is not a place for you. You should not walk through the park at
night.” Vikram moved on as the men settled themselves back to sleep.

  He was pacing too fast, propelling himself along so that he was in danger of tripping. A pain crept up his arm and across his chest. He stumbled to a park bench, afraid he would have a heart attack, that he would not make it to Ireland to find her grave. If he were to die, let it be beside her, not in this dark unfriendly place. His forehead was clammy, his hands shaking, but he felt the pain abate. He sat up straight and tried to get his bearings.

  The statue of Queen Victoria towered over him. The big busty lady with the stone brocade dress was a reminder of his younger days, when his worries were minuscule. In the full moon, he took the statue in. His good friend Rahul had once climbed it and, standing eyeball to eyeball with the queen, kissed her. Taking a small can of red paint from his pocket, he coloured her eyes red and drew a big, elaborate, hairy moustache on the imperial face. Afterwards they ran like the wind, afraid they would be nabbed by a policeman, basking in the glow of having done something silly and getting away with it. They only became slightly worried the next day when the newspapers carried a report of the vagabonds who had defaced the famous stone lady.

  The pain was intermittent, so Vikram began to slowly trudge home. He was exhausted, his head full of Grace. He heard her whisper in his ear, stealing up behind him.

  He jumped and she laughed at him, teasing him.

  He pulled her into a gazebo almost covered with creepers and climbers, out of sight of the path. He kissed her, and she giggled, kissing him back. Afterwards, she leaned into him and he held her close, until they had to part. As they crept out of the gazebo, she turned to him.

  “Promise me you will always love me.”

  “How could it be any other way?”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise to love you beyond forever.”

  Vikram shook himself free of his dream and, seeing a rickshaw, the driver asleep inside, pushed his feet to wake him up.

  *

  Rhya, when she heard the rickshaw slow down at the apartment block, listened intently for the lift. She was glad when she heard Vikram come in but decided to leave him alone. She heard him go to his room and begin to tidy up. Happy the servants would not have anything to gossip about, she stayed where she was, her sari cupboard open in front of her.

  When Vikram had walked out, she had watched for a while from the balcony as he rushed up Residency Road and away. She refused to fret, instead taking her bunch of keys and unlocking the sari cupboard.

  She had draped her hands across the neat piles, feeling for the sari of her youth, the one that brought her most comfort. A simple blue nylon-chiffon sari with a deep colourful border, she had worn it the first day she visited the family home of the man who was to become her husband. Unbeknown to her, Sanjay had been standing out of sight in the driveway of their compound, watching the Fernandes Ambassador car pull in off the road.

  When she got out of the car, he told her later, he could not see her face. Neither could he remember the colour of her sari, always pleading a very good reason: he was smitten by the beauty of her slim ankle, revealed as she alighted from the car. She was spirited away and he did not see her again until their official meeting one week later, when they sat stiffly on chairs making polite conversation in the presence of their parents. The next time they met was on their wedding day.

  Sanjay she had loved deeply, but she and her family were unaware the promising young lawyer was a chronic asthmatic. Barely two years into the marriage, he died horribly of a severe asthma attack in the hill station of Pune as his terrified wife attempted to open his mouth wide to force more oxygen into him.

  Draping the sari over her, she swished across the room, remembering his shy smile, the way he pulled her to him, the way he liked her sandals to have a heel to show off her ankles, even though most of the time he could not see her tiny feet under her sari and petticoat.

  Taking off the sari, she folded it quickly and deftly, lest this daydreaming make her cry. Carefully, she placed the sari at the top of her special pile, leaving the sari cupboard open so she may air it out before she had to lock it, when the servants arrived in the morning.

  Vikram, she knew, would not want to talk to her, so she lay in her bed, closing her eyes, conjuring up images of the time when she had a husband, young children and a home of her own. Her life had changed at the click of a finger, as fast as a cat pouncing on a mouse. Once her husband died, his family did not want to know her and her two children, so she came back and lived in the Fernandes home. This is where both she and Vikram stayed, nursing their old loves, not allowing anybody else into their lives. How things could have been so different, if only they had known what to do to make it happen.

  She had had offers, but never could she contemplate another man in her bed. On these types of nights, she missed the companionship of sharing a problem, the support of a husband, the second opinion at the time of crisis. Rhya closed her eyes and hoped everything would be better in the morning.

  31

  Parnell Square, Dublin, May 1984

  Emma stopped in Wicklow on the way to Knockavanagh to buy pots of primula and a deep-red fuchsia for the far-right side of the grave, where the wind punched through like needles.

  “Would you not get a few plastic flowers? It makes the maintenance much easier,” the man in the shop said.

  “I think my mother would not like that. I imagine she loved fresh flowers.”

  She had already got out the pots and placed them in a row on the bonnet of the car when she realised she had not brought any tools to Knockavanagh. Knocking on the presbytery front door, she hoped the priest was not saying Mass.

  Mandy McGuane, when she opened the front door, took in the young woman with the bouncy brown hair.

  “Miss McGuane, Father said it would be all right if I tended to my mother’s grave today.” She held out her hand and Mandy shook it gently.

  “Do you need any help at all?”

  “I should be fine, though I have just realised I forgot any tools.”

  “I think we can run to that.” Mandy noticed a softness in the young woman’s eyes. “I have everything in the shed out the back. Which grave is it? I will bring down what you need.”

  “Grace Moran’s grave.”

  Mandy stopped and stared at the young woman standing in front of her. “Father O’Brien said you called.” She wanted to say more, but her mouth was parched dry. Her throat was as if it was swollen.

  “I thought it might be nice to tidy up around the grave, plant some flowers.”

  Mandy shook herself so that she could answer without giving any hint of her inner turmoil. “Go on, I will drop the tools down to you in a few minutes.”

  “Can I carry anything for you?”

  “You are all right.”

  Emma turned away without detecting the teary shake in Mandy’s voice.

  Quickly, Mandy closed the door and scuttled to the kitchen, where she gathered up a tea towel and howled into it, her cries muffled by the thick cotton. She stayed like this, gulps of tears rushing out into the cloth, before she left to splash cold water on her face. Using a fresh tea towel, she patted her face dry, making sure to throw them for the wash afterwards.

  After she had collected the shovel, she set off down the path to the asylum fire plot, where Emma was already on her hands and knees arranging the planting.

  “I thought primroses in the centre and the fuchsia to act as a windbreaker. I did not know my mother, but they strike me as right for Grace.”

  “She would have loved this attention.”

  “You knew Grace?”

  “We were friends.”

  “Do you mind if I talk to you about my mother? Could you maybe tell me what she was like?”

  Mandy looked in alarm at Emma. Her knees were going soft; her head was thumping. “I can’t stay long. Father O’Brien likes a big fry-up after Mass.”

  “How long did you know Grace?”

  “We were
friends for years. There was nothing wrong with her. Mentally, I mean. She had the same misfortune that I had: an interfering family who were ashamed of her. We were both abandoned by our families, lost our babies and were stuck in that awful asylum.”

  “Did you know about Vikram Fernandes?”

  “She waited for him all her life, never gave up on him, though many told her she was foolish.”

  “It is so sad.”

  “The judge died?”

  “Yes, he died not long ago.”

  “You said Grace was your mother. Yet she told me you died at birth. How can you be here?”

  Emma gave a sharp laugh. “And my whole life I was told my mother was dead. We were both told lies. I am only getting to the truth now.”

  A shadow stretched across Mandy’s face as she stooped to hack the ground, getting it ready for the primroses.

  Emma stopped what she was doing and looked at the older woman. “You are not dressed for this cold wind. I can do this on my own.”

  Mandy, who had begun to shiver, was glad of the dismissal. “Please call up for a cup of tea, when you are done.”

  She walked back up the little hill. Before turning into the house, she stood and looked at the young woman carefully pushing her primulas into the soil and watering them with the can she had filled for her. She went to sit in the kitchen. She was not sure what she should do next, not sure if she should tell this young woman the whole story.

  She jumped when there was a knock at the door. Emma stood, a big smile on her face.

  “I am finished a bit earlier than I thought. The wind has risen and it is a bit chilly.”

  “Why don’t you come in and have some tea?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me a little bit more about my mother. I know a fair bit about what she liked – I found all her clothes and jewellery in the attic – but I know nothing of the person she was.”

  Mandy led the way into the kitchen, busying herself with taking the mugs down from the cupboard.

  “Were you there the night of the fire?”