Daniel sighed beside me.
“They seem friendly,” Daniel said. “Maybe they’ll make a match. What do you think?” he asked.
I didn’t hold out much hope for a permanent match between these two, as I had no confidence they could bridge the social difference between them.
“Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t,” I answered.
By a quarter to four Daniel was asleep. Instead of tidying up or going into the village as usual, I sat at the kitchen table, hands clasped on the polished surface. It was the longest day of the year, a day that made me melancholy, turn in on myself. Thinking on the past yields nothing at all, but I kept this one ritual day to remember and mourn. All the people I’d seen through the door to eternity, from the newborns to the very old, were on my mind. I chose to work with the dying as reparation for my sins, to be present for the very moment a soul passes into the hands of God and to offer what comfort I could. Afterwards is for the living. They experience the loss, the relief, the guilt for the past, but that is not my concern. My part is done. This year another burden was added to my reflections, such as they were. I would soon see Daniel Wolfe through that door, the man I’d resented for so long, and the one who had now saved me, Maggie and the farm. I watched the sun creep across the room and spotlight random things, the edge of the countertop, the glass jug of flowers I forgot to put back on the table when I cleared it after our meal. The light moved to the head of the table and hit the old wooden chair. The oak worn smooth as river stones from the rub of Daniel’s back was ghostly through the dust motes in the sun’s rays. The room dimmed as the sun sank behind the tall pine at the west edge of the herb garden in the backyard. I jumped when the brassy chime of the doorbell rang, shuffled off my slippers and stuffed my feet into my court shoes. The heels tapped a smart tattoo on the wooden floor to the front door.
The young woman on the doorstep looked ordinary enough, brown hair cut a bit unfashionably short. She wore a cornflower blue T-shirt, jeans and heavy laced boots out of keeping with a mild summer day. Her T-shirt exactly matched the colour of her eyes. My heart went crosswise in my chest because I recognized who she was. There was no mistaking those eyes. Perhaps if she had shown up at any other time, or even any other place except Daniel Wolfe’s doorstep, I would have reacted differently. I hope I would have. Instead I gave her my most formal face.
“Yes?”
“Hi, are you Delia Buckley?” she asked.
I thought about denying it, but if someone from the village had already told the girl where to find me there was no point in it.
“I am.”
“My name is Iris Butler. I’m trying to find my family. They came from these parts, and I think...hope...you can help me.”
She spoke slowly to offset the rolling ‘r’s and lilt of her Scottish accent. I heard the quick intake of breath; saw the quick flash of tongue that slid over Iris Butler’s lips as she prepared to speak again. I cut her off, anxious to get her on her way before Jude arrived back.
“I don’t know any Butlers hereabouts.”
“Yes, I know. Look, may I come in and explain? It’s a long shot, I know, but maybe you can help. Really, this is my last hope.”
I fought the impulse to slam the door on her. Before I had time to think of something to cut her off the tring-tring of the bicycle bell rang out to announce Jude’s return. Iris turned toward the sound and the two of us watched Jude emerge round the bend in the drive. She drew level with us and hopped off her bike. As soon as she heard it was a search for family I knew there’d be no getting rid of this Iris Butler.
“Oh, Delia,” she said. “We have a visitor. How nice.”
Left with no choice, I introduced them. Iris walked down and held out a hand to shake with Jude.
“Sorry to barge in,” she said. “I’m on a quest to find some family my mother told me was in this region. I think, well, I hope Delia can help me.”
Jude, of course, invited her in for tea. Just as Iris Butler lifted her foot over the sill I decided that I would give her no help at all. She could find her family on her own. Let sleeping dogs lie, that was the old adage, and by God that’s what I vowed to do. But the dog was already on its feet, I would discover in the days that followed. Iris Butler walked through the door and brought the past with her.
While Jude made tea in the kitchen, Iris and I sat in the parlour, listening to the rattle of cups onto saucers and the clink of spoons. I took the chair next to the fireplace. She perched on one end of the settee, her feet neatly together on the shag rug, her head swivelling right and left as she took in the room. Her eyes lingered on the row of photographs along the mantel.
“It must be brilliant to work for Mr. Wolfe,” she said.
“It suits me well enough.”
“I read all his books as a kid. My mother started reading them to me when I was tiny. I loved them. I’m sorry to hear he’s so ill.”
She was cut off by Jude’s arrival with a tray full of tea trappings. Iris jumped up to help.
“No need, really.” Jude waved her away and set the tray down on the coffee table, an oval glass-topped affair, edged in dark wood that showed every fingerprint and crumb.
“So,” Jude said as soon as we’d settled the tea pouring. “What makes you think we can help you find your family?”
“Maybe you can’t, really. I don’t know. My mother died six months ago. She got sick quite suddenly. Lung cancer. She wasn’t able to talk much at the end. After Sam, that’s my adopted father, died, it was always just the two of us. I didn’t think I had any other family at all. Mum said we didn’t. The last day she was able to speak at all she said I should go find my family. At first I thought she just meant I should, you know, make a life for myself. Her speech was slurred and voice was weak and very hard to hear. She grabbed my arm. Find them, she said. I heard that clearly and realized what she wanted. I asked her who, find who? She clearly said your aunties, your granny. Most of her strength left her then and she slurred something like Kiltilly and Buckley, but it could have been Butler and Kilty, really, and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve been mistaken about what she said at all. I’ve found four Buckley families in towns that sound like Kiltilly. None of them were connected to Mum in any way. Then I met a guy in a pub in Scotland a few months ago and he said he knew Buckleys in the town of Kiltilly, so here I am.”
She turned to me.
“You’re my last hope, really. There are no more Buckleys that I can find in towns that sound like Kiltilly. I would so like to meet family. All my life it’s just been Mum and me. No aunts. No uncles. No granny or granddad. It would be so very cool to find someone, anyone, related to me. Anyone at all.”
9
“My mum never lied to me, I was sure of that. She never lied. But on her deathbed she either told the biggest lie of all, or made a lie of my whole life.”
Iris’s eyes got teary as she began her tale. It was hard not to have sympathy for her. I did, I felt it. There was a lot I could have told her then, but my reawakened memories of Daniel’s betrayal and my own losses blocked the words in my throat. Through the years I’d worked hard to earn trust as a nurse and make a place for myself in the life of the village. Kiltilly had moved into the modern age in many ways, but it still held onto the old-fashioned mores. Besides, I couldn’t risk that Daniel would find a way to change his mind about giving me the farm. Nonetheless, I listened carefully to Iris Butler’s story.
Iris and her mother lived alone together after her stepfather, Sam, was killed in a motorcycle accident when she was seven. Her mother, Maggie Butler, and Sam had been together since Iris was a baby, though they’d never married.
“He didn’t die right away, but Mum was straight with me about how badly injured he was. She told me he wasn’t likely to live. She hid nothing,” Iris said. “She told me we’re all going to die. We just know Sam will die very soon.”
He died, she said, three days, six hours and twenty-five minutes later. He left them a life insurance policy which they used to buy a cottage.
It was a small place, no more than a bedroom, a big kitchen and living room warmed by a huge range.
“It was our castle. We got a sign made for the gate that said “Little House.” Iris dabbed her eyes with a ragged paper hankie. “We planned out the garden all winter and planted it in the spring. In the months after Mum died I couldn’t bear to be in that house. Every Friday after work I’d drive out into the countryside, find some wild, deserted places and walk until my legs ached. I’d choose a spot high on the edge of some hill or mountain, take out my flask of tea and bag of sandwiches and fruit. When I was tired I lay down on the grass and heather and slept. But as much as I found comfort in those wild places, I couldn’t tend the little garden. The beds are overrun with weeds, the cabbages and herbs gone to seed. It went back to the wilds as well.”
“I’m so sorry, Iris,” Jude said. “It’s so hard to lose family. I know it. When I was sixteen, my mother died.”
Iris nodded. She tried to blow her nose again but the tissue was used and useless. I passed her a box from the side table.
“What makes you think I know anything about your family?” I asked her.
“It was what she said just before she died. When I was a wee thing I always asked her where I came from. The story she told me was always the same.
“She said it had been cold all day. The light dawned late and left early and by the morning a few flakes of snow skidded around the house. The curtains in the kitchen of the tiny flat she lived in were grimy from the open windows of summer and autumn, so Mum decided it was a good day to wash them. She wanted them clean and bright to entice inside whatever dim light there was to welcome me.
“As she emptied the soapy water out of the big washbasin, she felt the first twinge. Maybe today is the day, she thought. Maybe my baby will come today. She had thought that a few days earlier when she’d had a twinge, and every day for the last three days, but every morning she woke up and was still Mum-in-waiting. So she filled the basin with rinse water, rinsed the curtains, wrung them out, and shook the big wrinkles out of them. She opened the brand new clothes-drying rack and put it in the bathtub. As she spread the curtains on the drying rack she got a big twinge. It was a no-nonsense one. She called her friend Annie, who came right away and took her to the hospital. By teatime, I had arrived. I was pink and soft. She knew right away my name was Iris, because it means Rainbow, or bringer of joy.
“That’s the story she told me. It was a lie. I asked Annie, Mum’s best friend, if the story was true and she said she only met Mum when I was about three months old. I used to ask about my real father, and Mum said he didn’t matter. We only had each other as family. Just the two of us and Sam.”
She searched first my face, then Jude’s, as if we could solve this mystery. Jude patted her arm. Iris sighed and took up the tale again.
“You see, I searched everywhere for a town with a name similar to what I thought she said. When I got here I was certain I was right, because we have a picture on the wall at home, a little watercolour, of this very village. I recognized it immediately. When I asked in the village about Buckley, I was told you were here. Your family is the only Buckley left in Kiltilly who could possibly be related to me.”
“How old are you now? Did your mother live here then?” I asked.
“I’m twenty-two. I was born in June 1968, in Scotland”
“There you are,” I said. “It’s not me at all you’re looking for. I’m sorry, Iris, but I think you have had a trip for nothing. My cousins are all married women and accounted for since then.”
“What about brothers? Maybe one is her father,” Jude said.
“I don’t have brothers, Jude. It was just my sister Maggie and me. I’m sorry, but we are not your family.”
“I’m not even sure I was born in Scotland. When I went to search for my long-form birth certificate, it didn’t exist in the Scottish registry. I don’t know how I got the short-form one, but that’s all I have.”
It was on the tip of my tongue so say something then, but before I could Jude broke in.
“Oh dear, Iris,” she said. “You have a real riddle on your hands. I’d love to hear more of your story. Why don’t you come tomorrow for lunch? You can meet my father. He’ll be glad of a new face around here. Perhaps we can figure something out about where to look next between us. Can’t we, Delia?”
10
I would have given a great deal to get out of lunch, but I needed to be at the Big House to get Daniel ready for the day. He stayed in bed until mid-morning now and spent precious little time on his book. He was still determined to finish it, but it was more intention than action recently. To be fair, he was in a lot of pain and on a punishing daily regimen of drugs. His energy was failing visibly.
The prospect of a visitor energized him, though. He brightened up and gave instructions on what to serve for lunch, including a bottle of wine.
“I don’t know why you asked her to come. Sure we’re no help to her at all,” I said to Jude as she was flitting about preparing lunch. Daniel supervised from his chair at the head of the kitchen table. My tone was sharper than I intended. I hadn’t slept much the night before, unsettled by Iris and her story.
“She’s feeling a bit lost. Her mother is recently dead and she’s trying to honour her wishes. To find family now would be great for her. The poor thing could do with a bit of support,” Jude answered.
“She’s grasping at straws, that’s what she is.”
“It will be fine, Delia,” Daniel said. “No need to make a fuss. A young person around for lunch will liven us all up.”
“She’s just holding on to deathbed ravings. Best not to encourage her.”
“That sounds so cold, Delia,” Jude said. “She must have family somewhere. Why not look for them with what clues she has?”
I remembered what Daniel had said about Jude’s search for her sister after she went missing, so I said no more.
The doorbell rang at almost exactly at 12.30 p.m. Jude ushered Iris in to meet Daniel.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Wolfe. An honour, really. All the kids in Scotland read your books. Including me.”
Daniel looked confused for a moment and left her hand hanging in air.
“Daniel?” Jude nudged him.
“Ah, yes, thank you. So nice to meet you.”
He pumped her arm until Jude broke in and led us into the dining room. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Iris, and I fancied I could see his mind ticking away. Perhaps he saw in her what I saw myself.
Daniel was at his most charming over lunch. He quizzed Iris about her mother, but Iris didn’t have much to add to what she’d already told Jude and me the day before, except that her mother had trained as a surgical nurse.
“I didn’t know that. I found her documents after she died,” she told us.
“Ah, Delia, did you ever come across her? If she came from these parts, maybe she trained with you,” Daniel asked me.
Flustered, I let my fork clatter to the floor. Jude jumped up to get me another.
“No, not that I can think of. She was younger than me, so we wouldn’t necessarily know each other. Did she nurse in Scotland?” I asked Iris.
“No. She worked in a bank as long as I can remember.”
“And Butler is her own name, is that right?” Daniel asked. Iris confirmed that it was, as far as she knew. Daniel sipped his wine and lapsed into silence.
“It’s a lovely house, Mr. Wolfe,” Iris said after a moment. The conversation turned to the history of the estate, much to my relief. I looked around the room, trying to see it through Iris’s eyes. I was accustomed to the absence of ordinary things I took for granted in my own house and the houses of friends. No Sacred Heart lamp to be seen,
no religious pictures, no crucifixes on the wall. I had become so used to the lack of a holy water font by the front door that I was forgetting to dip my fingers and bless myself in my own home. I wondered if Iris was Catholic, but I didn’t ask her.
As soon as lunch was cleared Daniel invited Iris on a tour of the house and grounds.
“Come with us, Jude,” he said. “And you too, Delia. You haven’t had a formal tour of the place yet, have you?”
“I’ll join you outside when you’re ready,” I said, knowing he’d need someone to lean on. He wanted to interest Jude in the property, and couldn’t pass up the opportunity Iris’s presence gave. So far Jude had resisted all his efforts, except for spending time with Mike. Most of their time was spent while he worked, so I supposed she was learning something about running the place, and didn’t want to let Daniel know that yet. Or maybe they were falling in love. Whatever it was, Jude wasn’t talking about it. While the three of them toured the ground floor, I got a warm jacket for Daniel and sat on one of the rattan chairs out back to wait.
Through the open window I could hear him talking about the house. It had a long history in the hands of the FitzGibbons, and the thought that Daniel and I could have lived here with our child came to mind, but with some effort I dismissed it. No use at all thinking about that. The Big House had never been a consideration of mine then, but now a new bitterness at Daniel clattered in my heart.
As we walked out on one of the trails through the woods, Daniel held my arm and Jude and Iris followed. He surprised me by knowing the names of most of the trees and much of their history on the land. We moved slowly and he leaned more heavily on my arm by the time we reached the bench under the elm about halfway across this part of the estate.
“My sister Fran and I used to play here,” Jude said to Iris. “It was our favourite place. Sometimes I’d come here alone with a book and our little cat, Skin. We buried him just behind the tree a few yards in. Come, I’ll show you.”
Left Unsaid Page 5
