by Alison Walsh
But Maeve was already gone, shuffling gently down the hall on her walker and into the living room, clearly expecting June to follow her. She was talking as she went, a stream of chat that June couldn’t hear and so she just ‘aha’-ed and ‘yes’-ed at what she thought were appropriate moments. God it was depressing, she thought, as she watched Maeve shuffle through the gloom. The half-drawn curtains only let in a small trickle of light, through which danced dust motes and which dimly illuminated the piles of old newspapers scattered on almost every surface.
‘Excuse the mess,’ Maeve was saying as she lowered herself into an armchair. ‘The cleaning girl only comes once a fortnight now – I hardly think there’s much need with only myself … Oh, I forgot to offer you a cup of tea – where on earth are my manners.’ She chuckled and made to get up out of the chair.
June made a motion with her hand, urging Maeve to stay put. ‘It’s fine, thanks, Maeve. I can’t stay long.’
‘Oh?’ Maeve looked disappointed now, her liver-spotted hand clutching the handle of her walker, her face a mass of wrinkles as she peered at June, like a little walnut. June had to damp down a shiver of revulsion. To think, one day she’d look like that.
‘No. I have to … well, I’ve come about Mammy, Maeve.’
Maeve didn’t stop smiling, but waited, still, like a bird.
‘It’s just … I think I might need to show someone else the letters.’ As she said it, June suddenly wondered why she was asking Maeve’s permission. She could have shown them to half the world and Maeve would be none the wiser. But she hadn’t, because the weight of it had felt so enormous, a secret that only she and Maeve shared. Maybe that’s why she was here now, she thought, because she didn’t want to keep that secret any more – because she wanted to break it, to be free of it once and for all.
Maeve shook her head. ‘Oh, no, June. She was very clear about that. Just you. She thought she could rely on you to keep your counsel, so to speak.’
June twisted her scarf in her hands. It was an expensive scarf, black with a white skull motif on it. McQueen, so India said. She’d helped her pick it out in Brown Thomas, forking out a couple of hundred euro for it. ‘It’ll make you look younger, Mum,’ she’d said, to June’s amusement. As if a scarf could make you look younger. Now, she looked at it for a second, wondering why on earth she was wearing it – it seemed so silly, somehow, so … superfluous, that was the word.
She looked up and realised that Maeve was waiting for her to say something in response. ‘Maeve, I’ve never breathed a word to anyone. Not even Mary-Pat.’
‘Oh, I know you haven’t, pet, I know. That was precisely why Michelle trusted you. It shows she was right,’ and Maeve beamed, her little curranty eyes squished up in her face.
June could feel herself growing impatient. Get on with it, June. ‘It’s just, well, something’s happened. With Rosie.’
‘Ah.’ Maeve looked out the window, her hands clasped in her lap, as if trying to find something in the windblown seafront outside.
‘Yes. Daddy said something to her. On her wedding day, in fact,’ June said, rolling her eyes to heaven. Maeve knew Daddy. She knew what he was like. She’d understand.
‘Is that so?’ Maeve was such an expert at non-committal politeness.
‘Yes, Maeve, he did.’ June tugged at the end of her silly scarf. ‘He, ehm …’ June looked down at her hands, with their immaculate nails covered with just a sheen of clear nail polish, at her wedding band, her diamond eternity ring and the large emerald engagement ring that had belonged to Gerry’s mother. ‘He denied she was his.’
There was no response and when June looked up Maeve was still and entirely silent, her features giving nothing away. Eventually, she said, ‘Not very tactful.’
‘No.’ June had to smile at the understatement. ‘No, it wasn’t. But what I need to know is, is it true?’
There was a sigh from Maeve. A small, soft one. ‘Well, your daddy was – is – an interesting man, June. Complicated, that’s for sure. And your parents’ relationship was complex – not that they didn’t love each other. They did, but, well—’
‘I know about Daddy, Maeve.’
‘Of course.’ Maeve pulled herself slowly into a standing position, a look of pain flickering across her face as she did so. Leaning on her walker, she shuffled slowly over to where June was sitting on the overstuffed sofa and eased herself down beside her, reaching a withered hand out and patting her gently on the knee. ‘I know what you think, pet, but it’s easy to judge, when there were two of them in the marriage. It was difficult to live the life they’d chosen. There were a lot of hardships.’
At the mention of the word ‘hardships’, June swallowed down the anger which was threatening to bubble up again. You think I don’t know about the bloody hardships, she thought; you think I don’t know?
‘You know, your mother wasn’t an easy woman either, June,’
Maeve said quietly. ‘She had high standards, for herself and for others, and they could be hard to live up to sometimes. I think John-Joe struggled with that a bit and it brought out the naughty boy in him.’ She smiled. ‘Try not to be too hard on your father, June: he wasn’t entirely to blame.’
‘Do you mean for her leaving?’ June said, her senses on alert.
‘Not exactly,’ Maeve said. ‘Your mother was a passionate person, June. She was such a trailblazer. Oh, I still remember her in secretarial college, telling Mrs Joyce that it was time she wised up and joined the twentieth century, and asking her if she’d ever heard of Women’s Lib.’ Maeve chuckled. ‘And she refused to learn shorthand because she said it made no sense and, anyway, she wasn’t going to be a secretary. She was going to forge her own path. She wanted to change the world. And when she met your father, she thought he was a kindred spirit. But, sure, he wasn’t really able for her, the same John-Joe. He couldn’t keep up with her.’
The stuffy room seemed to settle around June, dust motes circling in the late-summer light. There didn’t seem to be enough air, and when she breathed in, it tasted of old books and mouldy newspapers. ‘Did she have an affair, Maeve? Is that what you’re saying?’ June said.
Maeve didn’t answer straight away, and in the silence, for some reason, June thought of Sean O’Reilly and how good he’d been to her, to them all. Even as a child, she’d known how much he’d liked Mammy, by the slight flush on his neck every time he caught sight of her, by the way his eyes followed her across the yard – not in a creepy way, but like a lovelorn boy, but there was no way … He was a good man, Sean. She’d spent half her childhood in his kitchen, nursing the sick hens he kept in a little crate by the range or playing with Bessie’s pups. Once, they’d had to warm one of them up, when the little creature had strayed out of the barn and had ended up soaking wet and cold. They’d placed the little black-and-white bundle carefully into the warming drawer of the range, Sean’s huge, spade-like hands scooping the pup up and onto the cast-iron grate at the bottom. ‘Will she get cooked?’ June had asked, worried.
He hadn’t laughed at her, just shaken his head seriously. ‘There’s only just enough heat here to warm her through. She’ll be fine, but you’ll have to keep a close eye on her. Do you think you can do that?’
June’s chest had puffed up with importance. ‘Yes, Sean.’ She’d nodded. And she’d spent the rest of the afternoon by the range, watching the little body as it slowly uncurled, the pale blue eyes opening, a little mewl escaping its lips.
Maeve was talking now, looking down at her hands. ‘Well …’ she added. ‘Not as far as I know. Your mother didn’t tell me everything, you know. We weren’t that close,’ she said.
Well, that was a lie, so what else was Maeve lying about. June remembered the smile of satisfaction, the look of self-importance in Maeve’s eyes every time she’d hand over a letter. I’m the secret-keeper, it said. Without me, where would you be? And June remembered then why she found it so hard to trust her, because she thought she could control her, doling ou
t access to Mammy like it was a bag of sweets. Well, not any more.
‘Tell me the truth,’ she ordered, shocked as the words came out of her mouth like bullets. She wasn’t normally like that, so aggressive. Maeve recoiled, a frightened look on her face.
‘That is the truth,’ Maeve whispered. ‘As far as I know, June. Your mother was at a low ebb. Your father’s drinking was getting out of control and the smallholding wasn’t working out and, well, there were your father’s … indiscretions; but an affair … I don’t know …’
For God’s sake. June didn’t know which of them was worse. Mind you, not that she was anyone to talk. She gripped the handles of her handbag so tightly her knuckles were white. She could feel the two bright spots of red on her cheeks. ‘Maeve, if you know something, can you just tell me? Rosie deserves it. She deserves to know who she is. Please.’ She almost choked on the word ‘please’.
Maeve nodded without speaking. There was a long silence, while the house around them shifted and groaned, like a creaky ship, and June felt that herself and Maeve were floating along on it, the two of them the only people alive.
‘I can still see your mother standing on the doorstep, you know, with Rosie beside her. It was an awful day, just awful. Grey and dreary and the rain hadn’t let up all morning,’ Maeve began. ‘Oh, she was in such a state, your poor mother. I was worried about her, I really was. She’d been under so much strain for the previous few months,’ and here Maeve blinked and looked down at her hands before taking a deep breath. ‘I think all the years of hardship had just worn her down. All those years of trying to live a life that just put so many demands on her, and, well, she just stood there, soaking wet, little Rosie standing there beside her in a little coat and knitted bonnet, and all she said was “help”. I can still remember it as if it were yesterday,’ Maeve said softly. ‘Just that word, “help” – it has such a finality to it. I could see that she was finished, just hollowed out.’ She sighed. ‘And so, that’s what I did. I rang the mailboat company and I booked a ticket and then Alan took her to Dun Laoghaire …’ Maeve stopped. ‘So help me, June, I still think I did the right thing.’
‘But why, Maeve?’ June didn’t know what question she was really asking. Why did she have an affair, if she did, why did she leave, why did she marry Daddy? All of that. There were so many whys.
‘You know, it takes a lot for a mother to leave her children, June. And to be honest, I probably didn’t understand myself. Alan and me weren’t blessed with children …’ Here, she paused for a second, clearing her throat. She put a hand to the small gold crucifix that hung around her neck, her bottom lip trembling. For a second, June felt sorry for her. She said nothing, just looked at Maeve expectantly. ‘I couldn’t see how …’ Maeve hesitated. ‘Well, I think she counted the cost of that every single day.’
I’ve had enough, June thought. I don’t want to think about how Mammy felt, I really don’t. She stood up from the sofa so quickly she felt giddy for a second and had to steady herself as she pulled the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. She looked down at Maeve, at the little collection of bones in the too-big cardigan, the shapeless skirt, and she almost felt sorry for her. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Maeve,’ she said blankly. ‘Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out,’ and she turned towards the door, trying not to bolt.
‘But that’s not everything …’ Maeve protested.
‘I’ve heard enough,’ was June’s only reply. She tried not to run to the front door, tap-tapping down the hall with its parquet flooring and carefully opening the door, a gust of wind pushing into her, sending her hair flying around her head. She almost didn’t hear Maeve’s reedy voice following her. ‘Talk to Mary-Pat. She knows.’
***
I hate her, I hate her, I hate her, the mantra kept spinning in June’s head as she drove towards the seafront, a line of silver-grey on the horizon, then turned left again in the direction of Dublin. The mantra stayed in her head all the way home, and it took her a while to understand who she was ranting about. It wasn’t Maeve at all. It was Mammy. All these years. All that time spent protecting her memory and keeping that bloody secret – for what? Who on earth gained from it – not Rosie, not Mary-Pat and certainly not her. Look at what she’d done, trying to wreck her own life. June thumped the steering wheel, screaming at Lyric FM, which was warbling away in the background. As if classical music could give her a bit of class.
By the time she got home, she’d burnt herself out. She pulled up the gravel drive and switched the car off, wearily getting out and clambering down, opening the front door and stepping inside, the cool air of the hall enveloping her. She could barely put one foot in front of the other and had no idea how she’d get through the evening. Maybe she could cancel – say she had a migraine, but no, she couldn’t do that to him, she thought. She looked around the hall, taking in the silence in the house. Gerry mustn’t be back yet. God, she hoped the board meeting hadn’t gone on for too long or he’d be in a terrible mood. At least, she’d have time to shower and change, to wash the smell off her now. She threw her handbag on the table and went to climb the stairs, and then she let out a little scream. Gerry was sitting on the top step in the semi-darkness, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
‘Where have you been?’
August 1979
Michelle
The sun is beating down through the open windows of the car and I can feel the seats sticky underneath me. I’m in the front seat and Bob’s driving, and Mary-Pat and June are in the back, bickering over who gets to sit closest to the tinny stereo that’s blasting out the charts into the car. I’ve let John-Joe go with Melody and Pi in the other car. Serves him right, she can bore him to death. She’d probably be just about the only woman in the world he wouldn’t make a pass at. And besides, I can’t bear to look at him. Every time I do, I see him, his hands on that girl.
I close my eyes for a few seconds and just feel the sun on my face, the heat of it, warming me to my bones. And it feels good, the warm breeze in my hair; I feel myself relax, my shoulders drop, my muscles soften. Mary-Pat and June are singing along to ‘My Sharona’, the two of them miming, then yelling out the chorus, ‘Muh-muh, muh, My Sharona.’ And I can hear them both laugh, and Bob cracks a joke and they giggle and Mary-Pat says that he’s quite funny for an old man. She’s such a funny girl, Mary-Pat, so forthright, so cheeky – she can make anyone laugh, and yet she’s more sensible than any of us. It was she who walked the goats over to Sean this morning and asked him if he’d mind them for the couple of days.
If anyone ever asked me what the final straw was, I’d have to say, ‘the goats’. It seems laughable, the notion that once I thought they were our salvation; that if only we could get hold of a pair of goats, all our problems would be solved – the goats would be a symbol of our lifestyle, of our choices, and all that lovely, creamy milk and cheese an emblem of our success in the life we’d chosen, a sign of richness, of completeness. What a joke.
I lean back against the headrest and I find myself nodding off, and as I do, I can feel it wash over me, the exhaustion, the feeling that I could sleep forever. Just then, as if she read my mind, June begins to tap me, her fingers sharp in the flesh of my upper arm, little jabs. My eyes shoot open and, before I can stop myself, I’m reaching around into the back seat and slapping her hard on the top of her legs, one, two, three times. I can see my hand moving, the marks of my fingers bright red on her little brown legs. Her mouth opens in shock, a little ‘o’, and then she’s wailing, a long, almost silent howl, and Bob is saying, ‘Michelle, take it easy, they were only messing.’ And I turn around and face forwards again and look out the windscreen at the green trees flashing by, hear the tiny snatches of birdsong, the hum of a tractor in the distance, and my hand is shaking. Did I just do that? I wonder. Did I just hit my child? And it’s all I can do to stop myself opening the door of the car and throwing myself into the ditch.
***
The campsite at Carnsore is a riot of orange canv
as and cars, all jumbled up behind the sand dunes, the large white catering tents in the distance, and already I can hear the music floating across the hot, dry grass. People are sprawled out on the dunes, sunbathing and smoking, their placards on the grass beside them: ‘No to Nuclear’, ‘Nuclear Power, Nein Danke’. We clamber out of the car and I try not to look at June, and we gaze around us at the sea of tents. ‘That man’s not wearing any clothes, Mammy,’ Mary-Pat pipes up, as a naked man dives into the sea with a whoop.
‘I can see that,’ I say. ‘Let’s see if we can find Dad, will we?’
The two girls are subdued as we walk towards the stalls at the corner of the site, a long row of white canvas. In one, a German couple is cooking sausages and the aroma, along with the rich stew of frying onion, makes my stomach rumble. I desperately want to eat one, but I know that we’ll have to make do with the rations we brought: a few eggs from the hens, a big bag of potatoes and, the pièce de résistance, a big slab of ham donated by Bridie. What would I do without Bridie? Just the thought of the food makes my mouth water.
The girls know better than to ask for something I can’t afford, but I say it anyway. ‘We’ll get our eggs and ham as soon as we find Daddy and set up the stove.’ But they’re distracted by the sight of a naked man in what looks like a large cage, a beard down to his ankles, the bones in his shoulders sticking out, his cheeks hollow. A hand-painted sign stuck to the front of the cage says ‘Blanket Protest’.
The girls start to giggle and I find myself joining in, the three of us with our hands over our mouths. ‘Why is he protesting about a blanket, Mammy?’ Mary-Pat asks.
‘I think it’s to do with the Troubles,’ I say vaguely. ‘The prisoners are protesting about their rights. At least I think they are.’ The Troubles seem a million miles away right now.
