All That I Leave Behind

by Alison Walsh

  ‘Cheeky bugger,’ she said, accepting the brief squeeze he’d offered her, his hands damp on her shoulders, leaning her head against his chest and thinking how funny it was that only a few years before, he’d used to come to her for hugs, leaning into her tummy and resting his head there while she wrapped her arms around him.

  ‘Love, will you promise me one thing?’ she said into his jumper.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t tell your father. He’s had enough of all that and he doesn’t need any more of it, the burden of it, do you know what I mean?’

  John-Patrick hadn’t answered her directly; he’d just shrugged and muttered something about playing Devil May Cry. ‘Later, Mum.’

  Now, she dipped a finger in the hollandaise, wondering about how the roles had been reversed and if it was inevitable that the children become the parents in the end.

  ‘Mary-Pat?’

  She screamed and dropped the wooden spoon, where it clattered to the floor, sending a yellow spray of hollandaise over the floor and cupboard doors. ‘Oh, shite,’ she yelled, clutching her chest. ‘PJ, don’t sneak up on me like that. You gave me an awful fright.’

  He was standing at the kitchen door, a copy of The Sun under his arm, looking at her warily, as if she were a wild animal he’d cornered. Compared to her, he was overdressed, in a thick sleeveless gilet and a fleece which zipped up under his chin and she suddenly realised how cold she was and how unattractive her mottled blue skin must look. She looked down at the two rolls of fat around her belly, over which she couldn’t see the knickers with the ribbon detail. What had she been thinking – how on earth would he think she was sexy in this rig-out?

  ‘Why are you in your underwear?’

  ‘Ehm, I … well …’ she stuttered. For a second, she couldn’t think of a single word to say.

  ‘Mary-Pat?’ He was beside her in a second, but she couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t touch her. He just stood beside her, looking worried. Eventually, he said, ‘Will I fetch your dressing gown?’

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  When he came back, he draped the dressing gown gently over her shoulders and tied the cord around her waist, like a little child. Then he busied himself making a cup of tea, putting one teaspoon of sugar in hers, the way she liked it. And then he handed it to her. ‘Will we sit down?’

  She shook her head, pulling the collar of her dressing gown tightly around her, feeling the warmth of the thick cotton surround her like a fluffy blanket. She felt glad to be covered up, not to be exposed like that, even to her husband.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I think we might take the sauce off the heat.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ she blurted and turned around to see a sticky brown mess bubbling away in the pot. She whipped it off the stove and threw it into the sink, dousing it with a jet of cold water so that it hissed and spat.

  ‘I was making venison steak for dinner,’ she eventually managed. ‘I thought the sauce might be nice.’

  ‘Steak? Are we celebrating?’ He tried to joke, but when she didn’t reply, just bit her lip and looked at her tea, he said, ‘Mary-Pat, tell me what’s wrong. Is it the others?’

  She’d been about to tell him, to let it all out the way she had with John-Patrick, even though she’d asked her son to keep it quiet. The temptation was almost too much for her, but at the tone of his voice, she stopped herself. He sounded so weary, so tired of it all, and she knew that if she told him, if she fed him another morsel about her family, it would drive him even further away. He’d had enough. God, she wanted to unburden herself, but she wouldn’t, because she knew that it wouldn’t do any good. And she also knew that if she told PJ about Mammy, he’d only encourage her to get in touch with Mammy again, because he was a good man and because he believed in family. He just wouldn’t understand why it would cause her more pain than she could deal with.

  ‘It’s not the others. It’s us.’

  PJ said nothing, just blew on his tea, his eyes fixed on the activity. Mary-Pat wanted to rip the mug out of his hand, and she would have done had it not contained near-boiling liquid. Instead, she said, ‘I know about your one up at the minimarket. I’ve seen you there.’ She looked directly at him as she said this, daring him to deny it, to say that she was just imagining it. When he didn’t immediately reply, she opened her mouth to say something else to him, something like – ‘Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?’ But she stopped herself. She didn’t need always to be the first to speak. Graham and she had been working on that recently. So she just waited.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said eventually. ‘Nothing has happened. She’s just a nice girl who likes a bit of a joke, that’s all.’ He looked at his hands around the mug of tea. He was such a bad liar, PJ, like a naughty schoolboy, all shifting from foot to foot and refusing to meet her eye.

  ‘A bit of a joke.’

  ‘Yes, MP, a bit of a joke, and banter and fun. The craic. We used to have plenty of it, if memory serves.’

  Mary-Pat was silent for a bit. PJ never talked to her like this. She was about to open her mouth in response when he continued, ‘And do you know what? I enjoy it. And I flatter myself that she fancies me, even though the dogs in the street know that she would never in a million years go anywhere near a man like me – she’s got some Transylvanian body builder who waits for her after every shift – but it makes me feel better, MP. Because I know that you don’t fancy me any more and you haven’t for a long time. And don’t tell me that’s not true, because I know it is. I’m the invisible man around here.’ His cheeks were a livid red with emotion and his breath was coming in short puffs as he spoke.

  Mary-Pat could hardly believe it. ‘I’m sorry, PJ, I know that things haven’t been easy—’

  He tutted impatiently. ‘It’s not that, love. That kind of stuff will always be there – the swings and roundabouts, ups and downs. The thing is, we’ve always been in it together. It’s always been us against the world. Now, I feel I don’t have you any more, the girl I married … You’re here physically, but in your mind you’re elsewhere, somewhere I can’t reach you. None of us can. And that hurts, Mary-Pat, to be shut out like that.’

  Mary-Pat felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of her. She’d thought she was the one in the driving seat, the one who’d been wronged, and now … she didn’t know what to think. ‘I don’t know what you mean, PJ. I’m here day in day out, making your lives easy, making things comfortable, looking after you all, making sure that none of you want for anything … If you’re not happy with that, though …’ Mary-Pat folded her arms and set her mouth in a thin line.

  ‘We are and we appreciate it, MP, we really do. But honestly, I’d trade all the ironed shirts and big dinners in Ireland for a joke and a laugh with you the way we used to. I mean, when was the last time we sat down together and talked, really talked?’

  ‘We talk every day, in case you haven’t noticed.’

  ‘I don’t mean that kind of talk – shite about what was on Pat Kenny or what that eejit Wee Petie got up to on his tractor. That’s all well and good, but I mean proper talk, about what we want out of life, where we’re going, that kind of thing. Remember our five-year plans?’

  Mary-Pat shook her head but didn’t reply. It seemed safer now to leave the talking to him, seeing as he was so much better at it.

  ‘We used to sit down and talk about where we’d be in five years and what we’d have done. We’d have a holiday home in Wexford, or one of the kids would be studying medicine, or you’d have gone to college, that kind of thing – what we hoped for out of life. Why did we forget our dreams, MP, I mean what happened?’ As he said this, he reached out and covered her hand with his, squeezing it tight.

  Mary-Pat shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Life happened, I suppose. The kids and then the business …’ She didn’t mention the elephant in the room. Daddy.

  ‘I know. And Daddy did his best to make things stressful,’ PJ said ruefully, rolling his
eyes to heaven. ‘But I didn’t resent it, love, because I knew how much it meant to you, how much family mattered.’ She knew that he was being kind, using a euphemism for the chaos that was her family. ‘At least you have a family. If you don’t, you quickly understand how important they are.’ Mary-Pat used to find the fact that he was an only child, born to parents in their forties, now long dead, fascinating. She used to tell herself that she wouldn’t actually mind being an only child – it seemed so much more peaceful – there would be none of that endless conflict, that ceaseless measuring yourself up against your siblings and finding yourself wanting. That you weren’t as glamorous as your younger sister, or as pretty. That your brother was far nicer than you would ever be. That you were a complete bitch to the little girl you’d told yourself you’d given everything to. She sighed and squeezed PJ’s hand back.

  ‘You don’t need to be responsible for them any more, MP. They’re all grown up now. You don’t have to mother them. It’s not your job. It should be our time now, Mary-Pat. We’ve earned it.’

  She bit her lip. ‘I know, but I’m just afraid,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ PJ shuffled his seat a little closer to hers and reached out and folded over the collar of her dressing gown, which had been sticking up, patting it down, looking at her tenderly.

  ‘That we won’t know what to say to each other. That we’ll discover that we have nothing left now that the kids are reared. That we’ll just sit in silence in front of the TV for the rest of our lives.’

  He smiled. ‘What are the odds of that, do you think? Sure, you’d talk the hind legs of a donkey, for starters. I can hardly get a word in.’

  Mary-Pat laughed. ‘Well, it’ll have to be different from now on. That’s what’s got us into this mess in the first place. You have to do some talking too.’

  He nodded. ‘But you have to let me, love. And you can’t interrupt, or tell me what I should be thinking, or that I’ve got it all wrong, that I’m some class of an eejit – all that kind of thing has to go.’

  ‘Jesus, give it to me straight, why don’t you,’ Mary-Pat said. ‘Am I that bad?’

  He kissed her softly on her cheek. ‘You are, and most of the time I wouldn’t have it any other way. You know me, love. I like a quiet life. But that won’t work any more. We need to really talk.’

  Mary-Pat nodded silently. She was itching for a fag, but she had to be firm with herself. She wouldn’t give in to her cravings any more.

  ‘You can start by telling me what the underwear is about.’ He smiled.

  ‘Oh.’ Mary-Pat found herself blushing like a teenager, pulling her collar more tightly around her neck. ‘I thought that it might make you fancy me again. I had no idea I looked so ridiculous.’

  He reached out and stroked her cheek, his eyes tender. ‘You do not look ridiculous. You look gorgeous and I wouldn’t change you for the world.’

  Mary-Pat thought she’d just die of embarrassment. ‘Will you get up the yard, PJ, with your flattery.’

  He leaned closer to her now, snaking a meaty arm around her shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. ‘I mean it, Mary-Pat. I’ve never stopped fancying you. I just thought you didn’t want me any more.’

  Mary-Pat shook her head. ‘You were wrong. But what about your one?’

  He shrugged. ‘I won’t lie, MP, it was fun to go up there and have a bit of craic. To share a joke and a laugh. But that was it. We’d just chat a bit and I’d see myself as the man I once was. The kind of man other women might fancy. It made me feel better about myself.’

  That’s sad, Mary-Pat thought.

  ‘I couldn’t fancy her anyway, sure, she looks like a stick insect,’ he added mischievously. ‘I like my women with a bit of padding on them.’

  Mary-Pat giggled.

  ‘And now that dinner looks well and truly burned.’ He pointed to the charred mess behind Mary-Pat.

  ‘It does.’

  ‘When are the kids back?’

  ‘Not till late. Melissa has drama and John-Patrick’s helping Pi with the garden.’

  ‘That gives us a couple of hours.’ PJ looked at his watch, then looked at her hopefully. ‘Think we can go for a walk or something?’

  ‘A walk? Do you think I bought this stuff to go for a bloody walk?’ Mary-Pat pulled open the front of her dressing gown. ‘If I’d wanted to go walking with you, PJ, I’d have bought a pair of hiking boots.’

  PJ burst out laughing. ‘That’s more like it, Mary-Pat. That’s more like the girl I used to know.’ She’d tell him in the end, she thought later, as the two of them lay in bed, PJ snoring softly beside her, her new underwear strewn on the floor on top of his jeans and boxers, where the two of them had ripped them off, they were in such a hurry. But not now. She’d only just got him back and she didn’t want to spoil things before they’d even begun. It was her marriage, she now realised, hers and PJ’s. And her life to do with whatever the hell she wanted. The thought was scary and exciting at the same time, and as she allowed herself a little daydream, she pushed all the other stuff into the background, all the guilt and the anger and the sadness, and the uncomfortable thought that by not telling PJ she was guilty of keeping another secret. All that didn’t matter right now.

  I’m free of them all, she thought. Free at last.

  16

  Pius was doing the washing up after tea, which he’d cobbled together out of the couple of rashers and sausages in the near-empty fridge, when there was a knock at the door. He tutted. He hoped Mary-Pat hadn’t sent an envoy down as she had done every single day since the meeting in November. John-Patrick would appear on his bike, saying he was there to help with the garden, and then two days before Christmas, he’d turned up at the door, his breath streaming in the winter air: ‘Mum wants you to come to Christmas dinner.’

  Pius had shaken his head. ‘Thanks, John-Patrick, but I’ve other plans.’ The ‘other plans’ consisted of the Christmas edition of The Archers and a bumper pile of The Sunday Times, with a dash of self-pity that here he was, all alone at Christmas. Rosie had asked him to come to Daphne’s, but he’d refused because, he realised, he probably wanted to wallow in it, in the loneliness. It felt familiar, comforting in a funny way. Anyway, Pius wished Mary-Pat would just butt out. Piss off and leave him alone. There was no way in the world he wanted to talk to anyone. He didn’t trust himself. He felt as if his heart was sore, bruised and heavy in his chest.

  He’d been so angry about it still when he got home, he thought now, a full six weeks later, as he put the dishes away. That Mammy had just walked out on them all, and now she was allowed to live like that, to eat and drink and laugh and have friends and all that, when she’d left them all behind. It wasn’t right. His life had stopped the moment she’d walked out the door and he couldn’t honestly see why hers had gone on. He just couldn’t. And the other thing was that without Mary-Pat and June he felt unanchored, loose. He’d spent his entire life resenting them both, but in the weeks since he’d spoken to them, he’d felt as if there was something missing, like a limb. And that irritated him because, quite frankly, he didn’t want to feel like that, not when he never wanted to talk to either of them again.

  When he’d finished his supper, he’d decided to take Jessie out for a walk before he went to the greenhouse and checked on the plants. She’d be needing one. Maybe he’d ask Rosie to go with him, if he could persuade her to get out of bed. She’d been so tired lately, so quiet. A couple of times, he’d tried to broach the Frances O’Brien subject with her, suggesting that they could both go down and see her, but Rosie had shaken her head in a way that made him understand that there would be no visiting, not any time soon anyway. She’d do it in her own time – or not at all. It would have to be her choice.

  He wiped his hands on a tea towel and was about to go and fetch Jessie’s lead when he heard the knock, a slow thud on the brass door knocker. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he thought, eyeing the grandfather clock in the hall. The words were in his mouth as he opened the door.
‘John-Patrick, it isn’t a good time – oh.’

  Dara was standing on the doorstep in his pyjamas, a pair of wellies on his feet. He was shivering, his thin little body vibrating with the cold, his cheeks a purplish blue. ‘Can I feed the hens?’ The request came out in a gush and, as he asked, he didn’t look at Pius but around him into the hall. Pius didn’t know what he was looking for, for a minute, but the penny dropped when he heard Jessie whine from behind the pantry door. She must have heard him.

  Pius leaned out the door and looked left and right for any sign of the child’s mother. It was nearly dark now and he knew she’d be worried.

  ‘Well, they’re in bed now, Dara. They go to sleep before dusk, so the fox doesn’t get them.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked down at his wellies, which were bright red with black spots on them, like a ladybird, and shuffled around for a bit. Pius said nothing, waiting, and when Dara looked up at him he was astonished to see the boy’s lip trembling.

  He wasn’t sure what to do – he hadn’t been faced with a crying child before. ‘Come in anyway. I was going to take Jessie for a walk, but I fancy a hot chocolate first. What do you think?’ he improvised.

  Dara nodded silently and slunk in the door, making his way into the kitchen. Jessie’s whining became more persistent now and after Pius had pulled a carton of milk out of the fridge and poured some into a pan, he opened the pantry door. Jessie bolted out and over to Dara, her tail wagging furiously, covering his hands and his knees with her slobbery doggy kisses. Dara squealed with delight, hugging Jessie and burying his face in her neck. ‘I love you, Jessie,’ he muttered into her fur.

  Pius smiled to himself as he opened the cupboard for the cocoa powder. You could find great comfort in animals, he thought, noticing to his relief a packet of ginger nut biscuits that Rosie must have bought.

  When the cocoa was ready, he put a mug of it in front of Dara with a couple of biscuits, then sat down beside him, slinging his old grey fleece over the child’s shoulders as he did so. There was silence while Dara sipped his cocoa and munched on a biscuit, showering the front of his pyjamas with crumbs. Pius reached out and gently brushed them off. ‘There, we’ll tidy you up a wee bit.’