As I walked from the bus stop to my house, I discovered that I’d missed yet another call. There was a message – and at last a hint of what was going on. Mum said, ‘We’re all over in Swords with your Auntie Rosemary – you won’t get us at home.’ She sounded calmer.
Back at the flat, I spared seconds to tear off my coat before sinking on to the sofa and phoning Uncle Fintan’s house.
The phone rang eight times before it was picked up. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is that … Mum?’ I was momentarily disoriented – it was so unlike her to answer the phone in someone else’s house.
‘Caitlín! Oh, thank goodness!’
‘Hi, Mum, yeah, I’m just back from Belfast.’
‘Belfast? Oh, your choir. Of course. I’d forgotten. Listen, did you get the messages I left you?’
‘Yes, I did. What’s going on? Is everyone OK?’
‘Well, yes. Everything’s going to be all right.’ Mum heaved a deep sigh. She sounded exhausted. ‘There’s no need to worry. We had a scare. Fintan is in hospital.’
‘Oh, my god – what happened?’
‘He had a heart attack yesterday.’
‘Oh, no! Is he all right? Was it serious?’
‘Well, it was quite serious, yes.’ Mum’s breath whispered; her voice shook. ‘He’s still in intensive care, but he’s stable, thank god. They’re going to give him a pacemaker. We drove Rosemary home – she’s asleep at the moment. I’m making us something to eat.’
Mum released a series of disorganized data that eventually enabled me to piece together the story.
It turned out that Uncle Fintan had been staying in Mum and Dad’s house when it happened; Mum didn’t quite explain why. He’d been reading the paper in the sitting room with Dad and Mícheál, while Mum cooked dinner, when he had suddenly listed over in his chair. They’d called an ambulance, and he’d reached Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital inside half an hour, unconscious, with about an even chance of making it through the night.
Mum had phoned Auntie Rosemary, who had cut short an evening with her friends and hastened to her husband’s side. The night had been a long, horrible ordeal. Uncle Fintan had suffered two further heart attacks in the small hours. Then towards dawn he had stabilized, and by the time the doctor had seen him on Sunday morning he’d been conscious and coherent, and with a reasonable shot at recovery.
Mum didn’t say it in so many words, but she had been phoning to give me the chance to come and say goodbye.
After we hung up, I sat still for a long time. Dusk had been gathering its forces as I’d arrived home; now it had taken hold and was deepening into darkness. I would have to get up soon, go out, drive for an hour or so to the hospital – I’d promised Mum I’d go this evening. My eyes stung, and I had not an ounce of strength in my limbs.
The screen of my phone flashed rudely into the shadowy room.
Text message.
Matthew Taylor. (Who?)
‘In Belfast about to get on a train. Can we talk when I get back to Dublin?’
Delete.
Part Four
The Living
I SAT AT George’s desk and plugged in the memory stick as he watched. It contained just one item, not a text document at all, but a sound file. As I clicked to copy it across, George said, ‘You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I had a bit of an intense weekend.’ My stomach gave a lurch. How much did I need to tell him? The whole story was an enormous tangle, and I had not the faintest idea of where my little thread fitted in.
‘So I read in the papers,’ said George. ‘Well, did you get to sing your songs, at least?’
‘No. We were just starting when everything went pear-shaped.’
The file finished copying. ‘Is that it?’ George asked.
‘I think so,’ I said. I set it playing before he could tell me not to. I wanted to hear what had so intrigued the PSNI.
A lot of rustling, to start with. Then, slightly muffled, a man said, ‘David Cornwell.’ He sounded English.
‘Pleased to meet you, David. You can call me Noel,’ said another voice, much closer to the microphone, and a third man, further away again, said, ‘Eric.’ There was a soft cough, and then, ‘Oh, I’m Frank, very pleased to.’
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said David Cornwell, ‘I want to start by emphasizing that I’m here in an unofficial capacity. This is strictly an exploratory meeting, and it may lead to nothing.’
‘Turn it off, there, Cate. That’s it, all right.’
Reluctantly, I clicked Pause. I sat for a moment, taking in what I’d heard. I looked at George. ‘That was actually Nicky Fay, wasn’t it?’
George tipped his head back and lidded his eyes in grudging assent. ‘In his younger days.’ He chuckled. ‘Noel,’ he said, in a Belfast accent broader even than the one on the recording. ‘That was a pocket tape recorder, you know. Seemed like magic back then. I bet it never even crossed your man’s mind.’
‘And Frank was Uncle Fintan. And Eric? Was that Eddie MacDevitt?’
George nodded.
Light dawned. ‘This was the Blackpool meeting, wasn’t it?’
George looked sharply at me for a moment. ‘All right, young Cate, you’ve a head on your shoulders.’
‘George,’ I said, ‘you should probably tell Mr Fay that the police know about that file. They questioned me after the bomb scare. I think they thought I was involved somehow.’
‘Oh, lord god. What happened?’
I gave him a summary, skirting around the parts about Matthew, which made for a deformed little tale.
‘Well,’ he said when I’d finished, ‘if I’d known I was sending you into the lions’ den like that I never would have asked you.’ He paused, looking at his clasped hands. ‘Thank you, Cate – thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I said, and I meant it.
‘And listen to me. You were lucky with the PSNI.’ He pronounced it piznee.
‘I was, I think.’
‘You were very bloody lucky. That shower can keep hold of you for days without giving any reason.’
I stood up and let him have his chair back, then headed towards the outer office. But there was still one thing more. I turned back. ‘Uncle Fintan asked me to let you know he’s in hospital.’
George’s face fell. ‘Oh, no. What’s wrong with him?’
‘He had a heart attack on Saturday night. And … he said not to visit without phoning first. Because Rosemary …’
George nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. We’re not supposed to be in touch.’ He shook his head once and sucked his teeth. ‘Sure, we’re all getting older, I suppose.’
TEXT MESSAGE. MATTHEW Taylor. ‘Cate, please can we talk?’
Delete.
I HURRIED ALONG THE corridor, rubbing foul-smelling alcohol gel into my hands. I was still learning my way to Uncle Fintan’s room.
It took me a second to recognize George out of context. He was walking towards me, side by side with Paula.
‘Hello!’ I said, and they both nodded their greetings. ‘I’m just … You’ve just seen …’ I stood looking at them.
‘He’s in good enough form,’ said George. ‘He’s on the mend, I’d say.’ Paula said nothing.
I edged past them. ‘I’d better …’
‘On you go,’ said George. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.’
‘Bye-bye.’
Uncle Fintan lifted his hand in greeting and gave me a weak smile. He was very tired, the nurses had explained – he used an oxygen mask to conserve his strength. ‘Cate,’ he said, his voice blurred by the mask. He let his head tilt back on to the pillows, but his eyes were open and alert.
‘I brought you some more grapes,’ I said.
‘Oh, lovely.’ His speech was mostly vowels.
I didn’t mention George and Paula straight away. He asked about Sheila and Aidan from the downstairs flat. I’d barely spoken to them since they’d got back from China. ‘Sheila’s
doing her tax exams soon,’ said Uncle Fintan, managing the consonants a little better now. ‘Tell her good luck.’
He had a music player on the bedside locker, and a big set of headphones. I told him about the music Carmina Urbana was rehearsing for the Christmas concert – Bernstein, Mendelssohn, Mahler, Copland. ‘All the Jews,’ he said. I was delighted that he was so on the ball.
After a bit I said, ‘Hey, Uncle F, you never told me you knew Paula.’
He looked out the window. It was starting to rain. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘We were going to get married, once, long ago.’
I absorbed this in silence. Uncle Fintan seemed on the point of going to sleep.
There was something I needed to tell him. I’d been putting it off. ‘Uncle Fintan, I met Nicky Fay when I was in Belfast.’
With effort, he turned his head and opened his eyes.
‘He told me to tell you … He gave me a recording for George – it was that meeting in Blackpool – and he said to tell you it wouldn’t cause you any more trouble.’
Uncle Fintan mumbled into his mask. ‘Closing the stable door.’ I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.
A little while later I stood to go. As I bent to kiss him goodbye he grasped my hand. ‘Cate!’ he whispered. He scrabbled at the oxygen mask and pulled it away from his face. ‘It was coming for a long time. If it hadn’t been Eddie’s book she would have found some other reason.’
I nodded. ‘OK. Goodbye, Uncle Fintan – I love you.’
DIANE CLAPPED HER hands for silence. ‘Now, we have three more rehearsals before the Christmas concert, all right? Some of you have work to do between now and then. You know who you are. Tenors, Matthew will not be joining us for this concert after all, so sing up.’
The rehearsal went well – the Bernstein, in particular, was starting to sound pretty good.
At break time, Joan clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention, and announced that she and Val proposed to make honest women of each other in the spring. They would, of course, be needing a choir for the occasion.
TEXT MESSAGE. MATTHEW Taylor. ‘Cate, I know you’re upset. You’re right, and I’m so, so sorry about everything. But please don’t leave it like this. Please talk to me. (990)’
Delete.
‘I WAS IN with Fintan yesterday, Caitlín, and he says you visit him all the time.’
I looked in vain for the unspoken reproach. ‘I go when I can,’ I said. ‘He’s bored rigid in that place.’
‘Well, I’m very glad to hear you’re making the effort. He appreciates it, you know.’ Mum’s tone was warm and uncomplicated, and I felt a rush of affection for her, for all of them. I turned my attention back to my dessert.
I didn’t mention that my work on Eddie MacDevitt’s memoir had given me a rich vein of conversation to explore with Uncle Fintan, who was recovering nicely and eager to talk about his old friend’s book. He wanted to hear all about my meeting with Nicky Fay, and I told him, although I omitted the part about my arrest. He was amused to hear about the memory stick – said that Nicky had always loved having the latest gadget. He was planning to ask George for a copy of the recording, for old times’ sake.
During another visit, he told me with rare animation about how he’d collected Eddie’s manuscript when he and Auntie Rosemary were on holiday in Spain, sneaking out of the apartment while she was having a siesta.
When I recounted one of the book’s more dramatic anecdotes, he said, ‘Ah, Eddie’s an exaggerator, Cate, he’s always. I hope George is reining him in a bit. Don’t believe more than half. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as he seems to …’ He turned to look out the window, then continued almost to himself, ‘I’ll tell you, if I wrote my memoirs, nobody would publish them, because most of the time I was up to nothing at all.’
DAD PLACED HIS knife and fork carefully together on his picked-clean plate. ‘That was splendid!’ he announced. He raised his glass and beamed round the table. ‘To Nora and Rosemary!’ The family dutifully followed suit.
Christmas in Ardee was always elaborate, but this year Mum and Auntie Rosemary had pulled out all the stops. It was clear that this was mainly for Uncle Fintan’s benefit. He was out, and home, and still slightly bewildered at the reprieve his wife had granted him. He had been silent through most of the meal, but apparently out of contentment, rather than fear.
I sat at the table feeling empty and brittle, like a seaworn shell, despite being stuffed full. I was two people: one the festive Christmas daughter, the other in a state of explosion, spattered around the walls.
Mum had asked, as we set out smoked salmon in the kitchen earlier, ‘Would your boyfriend like to come for a meal some time before the New Year?’
I took care to breathe evenly. ‘Actually, we broke up.’
‘Oh, dear, I’m sorry, love,’ said Mum, trying to hide her good cheer. ‘Still, chin up, eh? It’s not the end of the world.’
Now Auntie Rosemary was calling for attention. ‘It’s important to remember at this time of year all those people we loved who are no longer with us.’ She raised her glass. ‘To absent friends!’
DENISE’S NEW YEAR’S Eve party was as much a fixture as Christmas itself. I was exhausted and despondent all day, but as the evening approached I ground into gear and forced myself into party clothes, if not mood. I had a vile head-cold, and I’d almost certainly have to interact with Denise’s rat of a cousin. A hard, mirror-like bonhomie would surely get me through.
I put off my arrival until after ten, by which time there were enough people there that I did not have to make more than superficial conversation with any of them. There was dancing, in which I participated gratefully, and there were lots of foreigners, for some reason, to whom I held forth at length about the joys of living in Dublin.
The college gang were there, and at one point we all happened to congregate by the kitchen door.
‘So, is your Brit still on the scene?’ Fenian Mick asked, leaning in to give me a nudge.
‘Nope!’ I forced a grin … managed not to double over with the pain. ‘Didn’t last.’ There was no way I could possibly explain to them what had really happened. That gulf again. I was marooned.
‘Ah well,’ Noreen said. ‘Plenty more fish in the sea.’
‘Yeah, but the problem is, fish are terrible in bed.’
I got a laugh.
A couple of hot whiskeys cleared my stuffed-up head a bit, but all the same, by the time the bouncing, roaring countdown arrived I was aching for my bed.
‘Happy New Year!’ I shouted, over and over, grudgingly allowing that it was good, once again, to spend this moment with old friends.
Five past midnight. Text message. I hastened to open it. ‘Happy New Year!’
It was from Joan.
Oh.
UNCLE FINTAN’S HEART stopped as he sat reading in his favourite armchair on the afternoon of New Year’s Day. His new pacemaker couldn’t keep up. Auntie Rosemary came into the sitting room with a tray of tea and biscuits to find him slumped there, the newspaper sliding off his knee.
Auntie Rosemary phoned an ambulance first, then phoned Mum. Mum phoned me, and the family converged on Swords. I arrived as the ambulance was pulling out of the driveway. I parked on the street, behind Dad’s car. Mum answered the door and explained that Uncle Fintan’s body had been taken to the mortuary. An undertaker was due in the morning.
Auntie Rosemary was sitting in the kitchen without her glasses on, drinking sherry, looking lost and white. She barely acknowledged my arrival. I kissed her cold cheek and set about making myself useful.
The next few days passed in the sort of blur I’d heard about, but never experienced until now. I slept at home with my family, going with them to Swords each morning, participating in discussions with the undertaker, making pot after pot of tea. Mum, Dad and Auntie Rosemary seemed to respond to the shock by slowing down, spending hours over every decision, eating little, speaking in monotones.
I couldn’t bear them. I was
all action, finding comfort in efficiency and speed. I organized the funeral notices, spoke to the florist, made endless lists. It was like that for Mícheál, as well. To my utter astonishment he began producing plain but tasty and nourishing food for us – and snapping at us like Mum if we didn’t eat it all up.
Conversations were filled with long silences. On the second day after Uncle Fintan’s death, as we were drinking tea round the kitchen table before getting ready for the removal, Auntie Rosemary announced suddenly that she would be selling the house in Terenure. ‘The probate will take a little while,’ she told me, ‘and I’m not in any rush. But I wanted you to know so you could keep an eye out for a new place.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. I added this to my unwieldy heap of things to deal with.
Uncle Fintan, it turned out, had left instructions about funeral music: Bach and Fauré, Ó Riada’s ‘Ár n-Athair’ and an uilleann-piper to play at the end. The choir rallied round with grace and generosity, and after some dithering over whether it would be all right to have a Protestant organist, I contacted Tom’s partner, Steve, who was willing.
George gave me the week off work and told me more than once that he’d do everything he could to help. He appreciated that he was not welcome in Swords, but he would see me at the church.
TEXT MESSAGE. MATTHEW Taylor. ‘Heard the sad news about your uncle. I’m so very sorry. Hope you’re doing OK. M. xx’
I kept that one for two days before deleting it.
AT THE REMOVAL, I sat in the front row, between Auntie Rosemary and Mum, and stood up to receive condolences when the ceremony was over. Most of the people I didn’t recognize, but of course there were lots of relatives, and neighbours with familiar faces. Aidan and Sheila were there, and it was odd to shake hands with them, knowing – as they did not – that they would soon have to move house.
When George and Paula came past they nodded wordlessly at Auntie Rosemary, who nodded back, eyes full of grief. They didn’t shake hands.
The Living Page 19
