by Alison Walsh
Georgia bellowed ‘Hello!’ loudly into the phone, no doubt deafening poor old Aoife at the other end. ‘Oh, hello.’ The name was slightly muffled, but it must be someone they knew, June thought, because Georgia was giggling. ‘Yes, I’ve been a good girl. No, no boys yet. Or smoking. No drugs either.’ She laughed. ‘Do you want Mum? Hang on.’ Georgia bustled back into the kitchen. ‘It’s for you, Mum.’ She nodded in the direction of the hall.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Aunty Mary-Pat. She says she needs to talk to you about a baby.’
Later, June went up to her bedroom, which was chilly, and turned on the little lamp on her dressing table. She sat there under the pool of light cast by the pretty Tiffany lampshade, and she thought of what Mary-Pat had said earlier, about life being too short, and she took out her Smythson notepaper and selected a pen from the little clay holder that India had made in first class in primary school, a sweet, wobbly mess of blue and red paint. Oh, her lovely girls. They were the lights of her life. She knew that India was afraid right now that she’d let June down, and it was true, June was disappointed, but not in India, just in what she’d done. It would be so hard for her, but she’d learn, June knew. At the thought of her girls, June had to blink to keep the tears at bay. They’d have to wait. She hesitated for a few moments before beginning to write.
Dear Mammy,
How strange it is to be writing to you like this, after all the years that have passed, and all the letters that have gone between us, all the things you now know about my life and Mary-Pat’s and Pius’s and Rosie’s. It’s been a lifeline, hasn’t it? Something that’s pulled us both together and it’s been so precious to me, it really has.
Which is why what I now have to say is so difficult. I’d like to ask you respectfully to stop contacting us. You left us a long time ago, and we’ve had to get on without you. To build our own lives, all the time wondering what they would have been like with you by our sides. We’ve managed to do this, Mammy, but some of us have been more successful at it than others. And it’s been hard and so painful at times. And you weren’t there for any of it. You weren’t there when it mattered, Mammy. You weren’t there when we needed you.
I know that this might sound like a bit of a rebuke and I don’t mean it that way, but I don’t think it’s fair that you get to stay in touch with us on your terms. Maybe it makes you feel better about what you’ve done, but it’s harder for us. It makes it harder to live our own lives, to love our own children and to look forward to what life has to offer.
I’m sure this letter won’t be easy for you to read, no easier than it’s been for me to write, but that’s it, Mammy. I’m sure there are many other words I could write, but none of them would really help now. They wouldn’t make a difference.
I hope you respect our wishes.
With love always,
June
19
It was part of his new-found decisiveness, Pius thought, as he stood on Daphne’s doorstep, a bunch of spring lilies in his hand. Turning up just like that, without needing to devote a day-and-a-half to ruminating over the whole thing, debating the rights and wrongs of it, eventually talking himself out of whatever action he’d planned. He’d been getting better at that, at being decisive.
He’d taken Daphne literally when she’d told him to ‘man up’. He’d gone to every one of Rosie’s antenatal appointments with her, waiting outside the door while she spoke to that bossy midwife, Margaret, and if the woman thought it was a bit strange that her patient’s brother should turn up every third Wednesday of the month, well, so be it. He’d tidied up the back room and painted it a nice neutral shade of yellow and had even surprised himself by tracking down instructions for a lovely handmade crib on the Internet in the library.
He was doing it for Rosie, because she needed him, but he was also doing it for himself, he knew that. To show himself what he was capable of. And now it was time to put the next part of his plan into action. Pius only hesitated when he got to the front door, holding his hand up to knock and then dropping it to his side again. His courage briefly deserted him and he was about to turn around and make for home when the door opened and she was there. The Mermaid. She was dressed in a pair of paint-spattered white overalls, her red hair jammed into that stupid bloody hat. In her hand, she was holding two slender paintbrushes. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘c’mon in.’
‘Thanks.’ Pius looked down at Jessie. ‘I’ll leave her outside,’ he began, nodding towards the dog.
‘What? No, for God’s sake, she’s fine. We’ll get you a drink, won’t we, pet?’ she cooed and bent down to stroke Jessie’s silky ears. ‘Oh, you’re a lovely girl, yes you are.’ Jessie practically purred with pleasure, closing her eyes and letting out a small whimper. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said, opening the door wide and leading him into a spacious, bright hall, in which every inch of wall space was covered with paintings.
‘Wow,’ he said as they walked towards the kitchen past a beautiful triptych of green-painted panels. ‘These are beautiful. It looks like the canal hanging on the wall.’ And then he blushed because he didn’t know the first thing about art. She’d think he was a total poser. Books, he could talk about, but not art.
‘Thanks. I wanted it to feel like that,’ she said.
‘Are they yours?’
She nodded. ‘I dabble a bit,’ her back turned to him as they went into a kitchen that had been painted a bright, tomato red and into which filtered a watery silver light from the pretty garden outside. Pius could see a nice agapanthus and a magnolia that needed a prune. Maybe he’d suggest it, if she had a minute, although, knowing her, she’d probably take it the wrong way.
She put a cast-iron kettle onto the hotplate of a blue-painted range. ‘It’ll take a few minutes.’
‘I’m in no rush,’ Pius said. There was a silence for a moment, the kettle bubbling away, and then he was distracted by Jessie, who was circling his legs. He reached out to pat her on the head and felt that twinge in his shoulder again, a sharp pain which made him gasp and lift a hand to squeeze the muscle which throbbed beneath his shoulder blade.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Daphne nodded towards his shoulder.
‘Oh, I think I’ve pulled a muscle,’ Pius said. ‘It throbs a bit right here,’ and he pointed to the spot.
The Mermaid said nothing, just went over to one of the kitchen cupboards and reached up onto her tiptoes, her hand almost, but not quite, reaching a brown plastic box on the middle shelf.
‘Here, let me,’ Pius said and went over, reaching up to the shelf easily and pulling the box down. She didn’t move out of his way and he was suddenly so close to her, he could feel the warmth of her through the overalls, could smell a mixture of paint thinner and vanilla. He suddenly longed to see her red hair tumble around her shoulders. He longed to pull the hair to one side, gently, and to plant kisses from the top of her neck down to her shoulder blades, running his hand inside the collar of her overalls, tugging it back a little so that he could brush his lips along her skin …
He swallowed, his throat dry, and then handed her the box, awkward because she was about three inches away from him, her head level with his chest. He lowered it until she took it. ‘There you are,’ he said, unnecessarily.
She said nothing, but he noticed that her hands were shaking as she rummaged through the box, until she produced a small brown tub with a white lid on it. ‘Calendula. Good for tired muscles,’ she said. And then added, ‘It’s probably your age.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ Pius said.
‘Anyway, let me know if it works,’ she said awkwardly.
‘I will. Thanks. Ehm, do you think you could turn off the kettle?’ He nodded towards the range, where the kettle was now screaming, a high-pitched ‘wheee’ which was making his ears ring.
‘Oh. Right.’ And she walked briskly over and pulled it off the range, busying herself putting two teabags in brightly coloured mugs and adding boiling water. She went to the
bin and emptied the teabags, plunk, plunk, into the bin and added milk from the carton which had been sitting on the counter – he wondered if the milk was warm. He didn’t like it warm, it tasted off. She handed him the mug, taking a sip from hers and making a face. ‘Sorry, milk’s off.’
He took a tentative sip and winced. God, it tasted awful. ‘It’s lovely, thanks.’
She gave a little smile. ‘Liar.’
He smiled back. ‘It’s horrible, actually. Sorry.’ And then they both laughed. He liked it when she laughed: that frown that creased her forehead disappeared and her whole face lit up. It transformed her whole appearance. He cleared his throat. ‘Ehm, I’m getting a new batch of hens next week and I wondered if Dara wanted to help me settle them in.’ At least, that’s part of it, he thought, putting the mug down on the counter. The lie will do for now.
‘Oh.’ Daphne blushed and looked at her tea. ‘Yes, he’d love that. He likes doing things with you.’
‘Oh, really? I thought that I was irresponsible and generally useless and it was time to “man up”,’ Pius said.
She put down her mug on the counter with a thump, her green eyes flashing. ‘I did not say that!’
‘You did. They were your words precisely. “Time to man up, Pius,” and I quote.’ Pius could feel the air getting thick already, the two of them taking up their battle positions, the way they always did after five minutes in the same space. How on earth could he ever have thought that they’d be good together. There was no way this would work. No way.
‘Well …’ She shrugged, as if to say, ‘What can you do?’
He changed his mind then. He had to say it, he just had to, or else they’d go on like this for ever. ‘The thing is, I came to tell you that you were right. You’ve been right all along. I think that’s why we keep fighting every time we meet. Because you keep telling me things that are good for me, but that I don’t like.’
‘We don’t fight,’ she said angrily, her hands on her hips.
‘We do, Daphne,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what we’re doing now.’
‘Oh. Yes. So we are.’ And then she looked at him, and her eyes were filled with an expression he didn’t recognise. ‘I don’t want to fight with you, Pius.’
‘I don’t want to fight with you, Daphne,’ he replied softly.
There was a long silence while the two of them examined their feet, the grouting on the tiles, the bit of dirt over the cooker, anything so as not to be the one to speak next.
Daphne gave in first. ‘Can I ask you a favour?’
‘Sure.’ Pius shifted slightly on his feet, wincing in pain as he moved position. This bloody shoulder.
‘Can you talk to Dara? You know, reassure him. I think he’s worried because of the tension between Kevin and me, you know … It’s a big ask, but he listens to you. He looks up to you.’
Pius was taken aback. He couldn’t see why the child would look up to him. He was hardly a role model now, was he? And then Daphne whispered. ‘We both do.’
Pius looked at her then, but she held his gaze. ‘You’re a good man, Pius. You make people feel safe.’ And she blushed now and looked at her tea.
She reached out and took his hand in both of hers, examining first the back of it, running her hands over the veins and his bony knuckles, then turning it over and running a hand along his lifeline, sending a shiver up his spine.
‘Christ,’ he said then, breaking the moment.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I have a cramp in my leg.’ And he stood up straight, hopping about on his left leg while holding his right one straight in front of him. ‘It’s not funny,’ he said then as she snorted with laughter. ‘Ow, ah!’ The pain was like a knife in the sole of his foot.
‘Wriggle it around a bit, that’s it,’ Daphne said as he hopped around.
‘There, that’s better.’ Finally, the pain was gone and he was left standing there, hands in his pockets, wondering how he was going to get back to where they’d been.
‘It was just having Kevin around again made me realise, you know? How good you are for us both. You’ve never asked anything of either of us, just let us be ourselves. And you’ve taught Dara such a lot, about nature and the garden and everything. You’ve been more of a father to him than Kevin ever has.’ She said this last bit bitterly and, in spite of himself, Pius felt moved to defend Kevin, the imperfect father, even though it nearly killed him to do so. An imperfect father was better than no father at all, and besides, all fathers were imperfect – if only he’d known, maybe he’d have been a bit kinder to Daddy. Or maybe not. Anyway, being a father meant getting over being perfect, he’d worked that out at least.
‘He’s trying, Daphne. It’s not easy, but he’s trying to stay in Dara’s life and to teach him stuff, even if you don’t think much of it. That counts for something.’
She was surprised, he knew, at him leaping to the little shit’s defence, but it was the truth, Pius decided. And after everything that had happened over the last few months and weeks, the truth mattered.
‘It’s just … well, look, I know about Rosie.’
He stood back suddenly, feeling the heat of the range through the rear end of his trousers. ‘What about Rosie?’
She gave him a look that only a woman could give, a mixture of pity and amusement. ‘Pi, we talk. A lot. She’s told me everything about your family. And I’m sorry.’
He could feel it all floating away from him, the little bit of happiness he’d managed to seize for himself. He could feel the black clouds gathering at the edge of things, pushing against him. He sighed heavily. ‘Daphne, please. Can we not talk about this? I’m sick of it all. Just sick of it.’
‘And you blame Rosie for shaking you out of your comfortable rut, Pius.’ Daphne fixed him with that glare again, the one that made him really, really annoyed. Because it said that she wasn’t fooled by him for a second, that she wasn’t taken in by the bullshit he spun himself to make his life easier, to justify to himself why he lived the way he did. And now he had to ask himself honestly whose fault that was. Whose choice to stop living, just to exist, because of something that had happened to him when he was hardly a man at all. Lots of people lost their loved ones, every day – they died or parents split up or left and somehow they went on. But he didn’t. He’d just stopped and sulked, he supposed, refusing to dress or eat properly, locking himself up in his place alone, shunning the only woman who’d ever loved him. He’d thought that if he did that, somehow Mammy would see, wherever she was, and know that she’d hurt him. And one day she’d come back and say that she was sorry. And then, the thought occurred to him. She’s gone. She’s gone and she’s never coming back. And you have to go on.
And then he found himself reaching out and taking Daphne’s hand, pulling her gently towards him until she was standing opposite him, and before he could overthink it, he tilted his head to one side and kissed her on the lips. She tasted of mint and garlic and Vaseline and her skin was so soft and pillowy. He groaned and pulled her tight to him, feeling the softness of her, the rolls of milky flesh which were so gorgeous they were almost edible. He ran his hands through that glorious hair, feeling the silky texture in his fingers. ‘Thank God you aren’t wearing that hat,’ he blurted.
‘What’s wrong with my hat?’
‘Nothing. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful,’ and he kissed her again, before saying, ‘you could wear a burka, Daphne, and you’d still be the most beautiful girl in the world.’
‘Oh, stop.’ Daphne blushed. ‘You know, you’re not too bad yourself.’ And she leaned back in his arms to look at him properly.
He ran a hand over the stubble on his cheeks and chin. It felt like sandpaper and he felt sorry for Daphne, having to kiss it.
‘Would you mind if we took things slowly, though, Pius?’ Daphne was saying now into his ear as they stood there and held each other close. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready yet for, you know …’ and she blushed. ‘We’ve been on our own for so lon
g, it takes a bit of getting used to.’
He pulled himself back a little so that he could hold her face in his hands and look her in the eye. ‘I’ll do whatever you want, Daphne. But I’ve spent thirty years waiting for my life to begin, not realising that I was living it. That every day was an opportunity that I was wasting, sitting in this place and feeling sorry for myself. All those years, just gone and nothing to show for it. And you and Dara, well, you both made me realise that I haven’t got any more time to waste.’
‘That’s a long speech.’
He cleared his throat. ‘It is, I suppose. I probably won’t speak for the next fifty years.’ He smiled.
‘Well then we’ll have a very quiet relationship,’ she said, stroking his chin, running her fingers over the stubble. She searched his eyes with hers. ‘I’m glad I found you, Pius.’
‘I’m glad I found you, Daphne.’
20
When Rosie went into labour, as the canal bank burst into summer life, she knew who she had to call. There was only one person who she really trusted with this, who could go through this with her, she thought as she dialled the number, closing her eyes as the phone rang, imagining her sister picking it up, wondering how she’d explain it all to her in five minutes, how she’d account for the months that had passed when her only contact had been John-Patrick and Melissa, who’d appear at the door because they were ‘just passing’, carefully skirting the fact that Rosie and their mother didn’t seem to be talking. Melissa had been thrilled about the pregnancy, downloading an app to her mobile so that she could monitor her aunt’s progress, becoming an expert on the height of fundus and stages of development, but even though Rosie loved her niece, it wasn’t the same. She needed her sister.
The phone rang to some novelty voicemail and Rosie had to stifle the urge to laugh as Bart Simpson asked her to call back. ‘Mary-Pat, it’s me. Rosie,’ she added helpfully. ‘Look, can you call me?’ She had to break off then as a wave of pain hit her, her mobile falling onto the floor.
