Jude didn’t turn around as she spoke. Iris half rose from her chair then sat back again. I thought longingly of a cup of tea. Or something stronger.
“I told your mother about Delia a week before the accident. She didn’t die because of that; she knew I was...she knew I was away a lot and that there were occasionally other women. We had an understanding. We did, Jude. She died because it was an accident. It was winter. The road was slippery. Fran went months later for her own reasons, maybe. Maybe something happened to her we have never discovered. There was no connection at all.”
I did get up then and pour a drink from the decanter on the sideboard. I offered one to the others, but only Daniel accepted. Whiskey slopped onto the carpet as I poured for him. I rubbed it into the pile with my foot.
“Jude, don’t judge too harshly. It was all a long time ago. It’s done. We’ve all suffered enough,” Daniel said.
Jude came back and sat down in the wing chair by the fireplace where she could see us all. “Well, there’s one part of this we can clear up. If you, Iris, and you, Daniel, would agree to a paternity test, it would settle one thing. Wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Iris said.
Jude turned to Daniel.
“Much as I would be happy to have you as a daughter, Iris, I am certain you aren’t mine. Let’s do the test and lay this to rest,” said Daniel.
“I really thought, hoped, you were Fran’s child,” Jude said to Iris, her voice shaky with tears. “Now you might be my sister. It’s just...”
She stopped talking and blew her nose. I wanted to say again that Iris was not Fran’s child, but there seemed no point in it. I’d been saying so ever since Iris showed up, to no avail. Besides, I was digesting the news that Daniel had talked to Ellen about my pregnancy and his assertion that Iris could not be his daughter.
32
Organizing the paternity test thawed out the atmosphere between Jude and Daniel a little. Jude had arranged for his doctor to come to take blood from both her father and Iris, and stood over them while it was done.
“Well, that’s that,” Daniel said when it was all over. “We’ll know for sure when we get the results.”
“You’ll not know for sure exactly unless you are no relation to each other,” his doctor said. “They’re making great strides in this, but it’s no exact science yet. Still, you’ll know if you could be and if you couldn’t. That’s good enough.”
Jude, I guessed, wanted something more solid, but Dr. Reilly wasn’t giving it to her. When we were alone outside the room, he shook his head.
“I’m not sure he’ll be around for the results,” Dr. Reilly said when we were alone. “All this excitement is wearing him out.”
It was. By the end of that week he was no longer getting up out of bed at all. Jude spent hours with him; the murmur of voices as they talked or she read to him became part of the creaks and background noises of the house. The crackle of tension showed in the overly polite interactions between Jude and me. We avoided each other as much as possible. In spite of Daniel’s prior assurance I worried what would happen with the farm mortgage when Jude was in charge. Iris picked up more shifts at the café to keep herself busy. Her daily runs got longer and she sang less around the house. Daniel stayed in his room, most days not even making it as far as his chair. So we all waited to learn the secrets of Iris and Daniel’s blood.
33
Maggie was in her chair in the corner of her room with her eyes closed. She had sat up a bit when we came in but didn’t interact with us at all, in spite of Mam and me trying to draw her out. I wondered if she was unwell and talked to the nurse in charge, who said that she was just quieter these days due to a change in medication. I couldn’t make up my mind whether it was a good thing or not. She was calmer, for sure, but seemed more withdrawn. For once her hair was unsnarled and tidy. I tried to coax her to walk down the corridor with us, but she wasn’t having any of it. She perked up when Mam gave her the sweets Da had sent. No mention was made of the baby, much to my relief.
“She should have stayed in the nuns,” Mam said.
“Ah, Mam, she wasn’t cut out to be a nun, that’s why she was asked to leave.”
Mam picked up the hairbrush and put it down again, at a loss to have nothing to fuss over with Maggie.
Tucked into a corner table in an almost empty section of the tearoom, we sat across from each other at Bewley’s with our usual cuppa and bite to eat after we left St. Mary’s. It was the fourth time I’d seen Mam on my own since Daniel’s dinner party and I still hadn’t told her anything about my pregnancy. Three afternoons while Jude sat with Daniel I had walked out to the farm, resolved I’d talk to Mam and Da, but I had backed out every time. There was no shortage of excuses I came up with: I was wrung out from the confrontation with Jude, I didn’t have time, I wanted to talk to them separately and they were never apart. All excuses. My parents were proud of me. I’d done well in life. I stayed in the village when I could have gone to a bigger city or emigrated to make more money. I’d helped out on the farm as my father aged. I’d been a good daughter. It was hard to disappoint them. Besides, I’d not decided whether or not to tell them it was Daniel I’d been involved with. They were beholden to him for the farm and I couldn’t see that sitting well with them.
The last time I’d been out there, a few days ago, I’d steeled myself to tell them. Mam was making apple tarts when I arrived. The front of her apron was streaked with flour and her tongue hung on the corner of her mouth as she chopped margarine through flour, the pair of knives she used clicking against each other almost in time to the tick of the clock.
“Too bad that won’t be ready before I go,” I said.
“I’ll save you a bit,” she said and sprinkled flour onto the counter before turning out the mixture from the bowl.
I almost told her then, but the sight of her going about baking a pie, as I’d seen her do every week or so for my whole life, stopped the words on my tongue. For something to do I filled the kettle and put it on the hob. By the time it boiled Mam had the top crust on the pie. She held it up with one hand as she trimmed the excess off. The shorn pieces fell to the counter in a limp heap.
“Call your father for a cuppa,” Mam said.
So I did, and took the cowardly way out again.
“Delia, are you listening to me?” Mam’s voice brought me back to Bewley’s. “Doesn’t Maggie seem more away with the fairies since her operation? She talks a lot less. Have you noticed?”
I had noticed. We talked all around it for a while. Mam, as usual, trying to see some improvement in Maggie.
“As long as she’s safe and as happy as she can be, that’s all we can ask for,” I said.
“Well, we can only believe that.” Mam sighed. “Ah, Delia, at least we have you. You’ve always been a good daughter. Never given us a day’s trouble.”
Mam patted my arm as she spoke. My eyes filled. Before I could stop or hide them, a few tears plopped onto the table.
“What is it, Delia, what’s up?” Mam said.
It was impossible to look her in the eye so I kept my eyes down.
“Delia, tell me what’s wrong. You can talk to me.”
For a wild second I thought of claiming fatigue, or worry for Maggie, but in the end I knew the time had come to tell my tale.
“I’m not such a good daughter. Not like you think.”
When I finally looked up, Mam had her cup halfway to her mouth. She put it back on the saucer.
“What do you mean, Delia? Have you done something?”
“Yes, I have. I have. It was a long time ago, though. I’m telling you now so you won’t hear it anywhere else.”
“So, what is it? What’s got you this upset?”
I told her almost everything, about being left pregnant, about Maggie agreeing to take the baby and meeting Adele. I told her the baby
had died. I didn’t say that Daniel had anything to do with the whole mess.
“God, Delia, if I hadn’t heard it from your mouth I wouldn’t have believed it,” she said when I’d finished. “Was it some lad from the village? Was it Daniel Wolfe? Is that what he has to do with all this?”
“Mam, it doesn’t matter who it was. Really. It was years ago. I was stupid. That’s all.”
Mam took a sip of tea and made a face.
“It’s cold,” she said. “I can’t drink that.”
I caught the waitress’s eye and asked for a hot pot. Mam ran her hand across her mouth several times, her eyes looking for something to settle on in the room. The waitress came back with a fresh pot of tea.
“So why are you bringing this up now, after all these years?” Mam asked when we were alone again.
“Because Iris went to Cardiff to find out about her mother and someone who knew me there told her that I was expecting. I lied to everyone when I went, said I was married. You know how it is, once someone gets a handle on a story, soon everyone knows. I just don’t want you hearing about it from anyone but me. I’ll tell Da as soon as we get back.”
“Don’t you worry about that, I’ll tell him. What he’ll make of it, God knows.”
She poured tea for herself, put in milk and sugar. She stirred for about a full minute, the spoon clinking round the cup faster and faster. I touched her hand to stop it.
“Mam, drink it while it’s hot. No need for you to tell Da, it’s best I tell him myself.”
“Does everyone at the Big House know all this?”
“Yes.”
Without looking at me she patted my hand.
“Jesus, girl, it was terrible that you went through all that alone. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because you’d have had a kitten. You know you would.”
She slurped her tea, then nodded.
“Aye, right enough. Times were different then, but we’d have gotten over it, you know. Just like your da will when you tell him. Eventually, he’ll get over it.”
My fear was, of course, that he wouldn’t, as he never got over Maggie’s trouble. I said as much as to Mam.
“That’s different entirely. Tell me, is the baby Maggie goes on about this one of yours?”
“Probably. She was so looking forward to having a child to care for.”
“Is that what happened? When you lost the child she went strange?”
She hardly let me finish speaking before the question tumbled out of her mouth. Guilt and the urge to comfort her competed in me for a moment. One thing I’d learned this past summer was that my anger and resentment at Daniel allowed me to forget that it was not just my and Maggie’s lives that were so sadly affected by my decision to keep the baby. I was not now going to add to my mother’s troubles.
“Ah, Mam, no. Sure Maggie was already in the home when Michael died.”
“Ah well. Maggie always wanted to have children. I know that. That’s why she left the convent, no matter that the nuns say she was unstable. Did you know that?”
“I did. But I don’t think the convent would have suited her anyway. She was too independent.”
“Well, that didn’t get her far, did it? She’d probably have been better off to take the veil. We’ll never know.”
She put her hand over her mouth, but not before I’d seen her lip tremble. Not for the first time I wished I could turn back time and, if I couldn’t resist Daniel Wolfe, at least I could have had the courage to go against the Church. Surely living with that would have been less painful and a lot less destructive to everyone than all that happened because I stood by what my faith demanded. But as Mam said: we’ll never know.
We got back to the farm at milking time, so I told Da in the barn. He kept his hands moving on the teats and the milk rattled into the bucket before settling into a quieter hiss as the level of milk rose. When I finished he leaned into the cow’s flank for a moment. I waited out the silence.
“Well, that’s a story,” he said finally. “Poor lass, but you’re a silly girl letting some fellow take advantage of you. Not the way we brought you up.”
“Well, at least you won’t hear it from someone else,” I said.
He rose from the stool, arms straight by his sides as we faced each other.
“Aye. There’s that. Thanks for that.”
“Da,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
He took off his cap and settled it back on his head the way he always did surveying the situation when the animals were sick, or a crop was lost.
“Well, what’s done is done. As long as you are all right now, we’ll speak no more of it.”
I moved to hug him, but he turned and sat back down on his stool by the next cow. I listened to the milk fill the bucket for a minute and then left. As Mam said, it would take time.
34
The letterbox opened and closed with a clack. Daniel and I froze.
“That’s probably it,” Daniel said.
We had been expecting the results of the paternity test for days. This day Jude was out with Mike instead of hovering around the hallway as she had done every day for a few weeks around post time. Iris was at work in the café.
“Go check, go check,” Daniel urged.
He sucked his teeth with impatience as I finished rubbing lotion into his feet.
There were three envelopes on the mat. One of them was addressed to Daniel from the outfit that had done the test.
“Well?” he said.
“It’s here.”
He shook the envelope like it was a gift box, held it up to the light trying to read right though the envelope, then let it rest in his hand on the bedcovers.
“Will you wait till they come back to open it?” I asked.
“I should, I suppose. I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m in trouble enough with Jude. This has to be your decision.”
He made a face at me, then lifted the envelope again. He passed his thumbs across the paper a few times.
“I know it. Get me up, get me up. I can’t look at this from my bed. Suppose she is related to me? What if Jude’s right and she’s Fran’s?”
“At least you’ll know that,” I said.
We didn’t make it to the parlour. By the time he was dressed in a shirt and jacket he was exhausted, so he sat in the easy chair in his room, his pajama bottoms covered with a rug.
“When will they be back?” he asked for the umpteenth time.
“Iris will be a few more hours. Jude, well, I don’t know.”
“Well, it’s addressed to me now, isn’t it?”
He slid his thumb under the edge of the flap. His resolve to wait had lasted all of ten minutes since getting to his chair. He unfolded the single sheet of paper. The clock from the kitchen chimed the hour and crows proclaimed their presence from the trees outside as he read through it.
“Well, there it is, Delia. There it is.”
He handed the page to me.
“So maybe you are right, Delia. Mam just wanted to put everyone off the scent.”
The four of us were in Daniel’s room digesting the test result, which gave a negligible probability of a blood relationship between Iris and Daniel.
“I only thought that later,” I said. “At first I thought it was probably true that he was.”
Daniel protested. I shrugged at him.
“I never really thought of Daniel being her father,” Jude said. “I thought Fran was her mother.”
“Well, I’m glad my memory is not at fault, anyway,” Daniel said. “Though I would have been very proud to claim you as a daughter, Iris. Or a grandchild, come to that.”
“Aw, Daniel, thanks.”
Iris kissed him on the head. He caught her hand in his and planted a kiss on it.
“That makes my father a drug-running, murdering criminal then,” Iris said.
“Well,” Daniel said, “your choices were not stellar in any event.”
Iris’s laugh infected us, or maybe relief that the matter was settled. We all began to talk at once.
“Well, let’s have a drink then,” Daniel said.
Jude poured a generous portion of whiskey for each of us. Daniel raised his glass.
“Here’s to life in all its surprises and messy details.”
Suddenly sober, we raised our glasses.
“Life,” we said in chorus.
Daniel stopped my hand as I moved the thermometer towards his mouth.
“Leave it, Delia,” he said. “What does it matter at this stage? Sit down.”
He patted the bed next to him. He was flushed after the whiskey and excitement of the day. He sank into the pillows and closed his eyes, keeping hold of my hand.
“What must you have thought of me when Adele told you her story?” he said without opening his eyes.
I said nothing, just patted the hand that held mine. We stayed like that a moment, Daniel sunk into his pillow grasping my hand and me patting his.
“Well,” he said finally, “at least I’ve taken care of you now. You’ll be all right.”
He opened his eyes and tried to sit up. He couldn’t hoist himself so he resettled on the pillows.
“I left you the farm free and clear, Delia. It’s yours when I’m gone.”
At first I couldn’t take in what he said. When I did I was almost overcome with gratitude and relief.
“Oh, Daniel, thank you. Thanks.”
“It was my intention from the start. I’m glad you are here, Delia. Dealing with all this would have been much harder without you.”
Unclear whether he was talking about Jude, Iris, his illness or, more probably, all three, I nonetheless felt some shame that I had held back what I knew, and didn’t mention that if I weren’t here it probably wouldn’t have arisen in the first place.
Left Unsaid Page 17
