Music from Home

by Geraldine O'Neill

  If she had the slightest regard left for him, she might have asked out of curiosity if she was the only female he had ever had any interest in. Something told her that she should not flatter herself and that Brian would always have looked for a ‘normal’ relationship to cover up the truth. But, she may well have been one of the few women that he had been able to fool for all those years.

  It had crossed her mind on more than one occasion that Brian would never be honest about his sexual inclinations because he himself could not face what he was – and he probably knew his family and friends could not support it. In a different situation, she might have had sympathy for someone in his position, knowing how difficult it must be to be open and honest when facing a wall of prejudice. And even though it had been legalised recently, it was a long way off from being socially acceptable. But even taking all these things into account, she could never forgive him for making her part of his deception.

  She felt utterly exhausted. A couple of hours’ sleep was necessary if she was to continue to function and be a support for Maria. She sat on the bed for a few minutes, deciding whether to shower now or go to bed for a couple of hours and have it later. Then she wondered at herself thinking such an ordinary thought, as though she had not just lost the man who had made her whole life complete. How was she to cope with this? How was she supposed to go back and live again as a thirty-odd-year-old spinster?

  How was she to act as though Leo Conti had never existed?

  Chapter 26

  For Maria, the house was becoming less and less familiar by the hour. The space and the quiet she was used to were gone, the daily routine she was used to was gone, and most of all – her father was gone. A strange house she hardly recognised was left in place of the warm home she had been used to.

  The only spaces that remained more or less the same were her bedroom that no-one else came into, and her father’s bedroom. So far, she had only pushed the door open to look in. It was spotlessly tidy as always. Leo was an organised man who had automatically hung things up in the wardrobe after he wore them, put his shoes on the rack and put laundry in the basket for Mrs Lowry. Stepping over the threshold and walking around her father’s room and seeing his alarm clock and his rosary beads, and the polished wooden box where he kept his cufflinks and tiepins, was not something that she was ready for yet.

  Everything in her life was upside down and her moods veered from being in an almost trance-like calm – which even she herself knew was not normal – to the periods of total clarity when she realised exactly what had happened. During the clearer periods she was apt to suddenly break down into hysterical sobbing.

  It was after one such emotional episode that Father O’Donnell and the elderly Father Quinn arrived at the house. Mrs Lowry showed them into the dining room as it was more private than the sitting room where some of the immediate neighbours were. Maria, now more composed, came downstairs with Bernice to speak to them.

  Father O’Donnell stood up and, coming forward with outstretched hands, took both of hers.

  “Ah, Maria,” he said, “this is a sad time for us all. Leo has gone to meet his maker much much sooner than we would have thought or would have liked.”

  Father Quinn stayed sitting, but he nodded his head in agreement. As Maria looked at him, she suddenly thought he looked very old – surely beyond retirement age – and the vague look on his face made Maria wonder if he even knew who she was.

  “Leo was a good and decent man,” Father O’Donnell used the same formal voice he used on the pulpit on Sundays, only softer, “and we have no doubt but that he is already enjoying the treasures stored up for him in heaven.” He then stepped back, his hands held behind his back.

  There was silence for a few moments, then Maria realised he was waiting for her to say something, so she murmured, “Thank you, Father.”

  Maria did not look directly at him because she knew he was uncomfortable but trying to cover it up. She felt almost sorry for the priest. She thought it must be an awful depressing sort of job where you have to go around to people’s houses on a regular basis, to talk to them about the person who had died and then about the funerals. The parish was big with lots of elderly people, so she imagined he might have to do this every other week.

  “Now, my dear . . . I hope you are feeling well enough,” Father O’Donnell said, not looking directly at her, “because I am afraid we will soon have to think about the funeral details.”

  Maria’s stomach churned. She was still thinking of her father as being in hospital. “When will that be?”

  When Father O’Donnell raised his eyebrows, and held his head to the side, she realised she had spoken in a whisper. She repeated it again in a louder and clearer tone. “When will it be?”

  “Well, that depends on when he is released from hospital . . . and whether we will have to wait for any relatives coming from abroad.”

  Maria looked at the floor. “I don’t know anything about that yet.”

  “Someone will need to call the undertaker’s. There are two particular firms that the Italian community tend to use. They have their own traditions about these things.”

  Bernice moved forward to put her arm around Maria. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Franco and some of your father’s friends will help with all of this. He will know what’s to be done.”

  “You will have to give them any paperwork,” the priest advised. “Insurance policies and documents of that nature. Does your father have a filing cabinet or anything like that?”

  “Yes,” Maria said, “he has one in the spare room where all his work things are.” She shrugged. “But I don’t know anything about them.”

  “Franco will sort it all out,” Bernice said.

  Maria looked at her and said, “Thank you.”

  Bernice turned to the priests now. “We have tea and coffee and sandwiches, if you would like to come into the room across the hallway.”

  When Maria followed her into the sitting room, she was a little overwhelmed by the number of people there, and thought it did not seem like her own home any more. Since the news of Leo’s death began to spread, downstairs had been constantly occupied, which felt strange since she had become used to spending most evenings there on her own when her father was working.

  The sofa, armchairs and dining-chairs were lined up in a regimental fashion around the perimeter of the room to allow more people to be seated, and the teak kitchen table had been carried through into the sitting room and placed against the back wall to accommodate food and drink for visiting mourners.

  Maria had been relieved when Diana and Franco’s wife, Bernice, said they would stay in the house to be with her at all times, sleeping in the spare bedroom which had twin beds. They kept busy, and seemed to be constantly moving between the kitchen and sitting room. Mrs Lowry stayed for most of the day, only going home to feed her family. Franco was also a fixture in the house but would go home that night to be with his three children, who were being looked after by good, dependable neighbours. Still in shock, he was uncharacteristically quiet – a ghost of himself.

  Maria did not know how to react when Franco told her he had closed Leonardo’s, and had put a sign up to let customers know about the tragedy.

  “When will it open again?” she asked.

  Franco stared at her for a few minutes and then he shrugged. “I don’t know . . . it is something that needs to be talked about.”

  She stared at him now. “Who will talk about it?” she asked. “You’re the only one who knows everything about the restaurant and how it’s run. Who else is there?”

  He turned his head to the side, now avoiding her eyes. “I don’t know, Maria. I can’t think about it now. I can’t imagine being in it without Leo. There are a lot of things to think about the restaurant . . . but not now.” He shrugged. “There are too many other things for me and you to think about.”

  “Will you help with the funeral arrangements?” she said. “I don’t know anything about that either
.”

  He turned back to her now, a sad smile on his face. “Of course. It will be a privilege. I loved Leo – he was like my brother.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “How can we manage, Franco? How can we do things without my father?”

  He answered her honestly. “I don’t know, Maria . . . I don’t know.”

  She had never seen Franco look and sound helpless before – he had always been laughing and joking with everyone. A cold fear gripped her now as it dawned on her that Franco had depended on her father almost in the same way that she had. He had been in total control of everything – both at home and in Leonardo’s. But he had handled things in such a light and easy way that it seemed as though everyone else had shared in the responsibility, and making the decisions too.

  What, she wondered now, was going to become of the restaurant and the house without her father. What was going to become of her?

  Diana arrived back at the St Aiden’s Avenue to find the house full of people. She joined Bernice and Mrs Lowry in the kitchen and they passed their time making tea and sandwiches, washing and drying cups and saucers, and brushing and mopping the kitchen floor. Although they chatted in quiet voices amongst themselves, they seemed to be listening all the time and automatically moved the minute they heard a car coming up the street or if anyone knocked on the door.

  Maria found their presence reassuring, but every so often she found herself watching Diana who was quietly talking to people and doing all she could to help, but who Maria thought was not quite herself. But then, she reasoned, how could she be? Nobody was really themselves after what had happened.

  Mrs Lowry was certainly distraught when she first learned about Leo but, after she had got over her initial shock and had cried for a while, she had just said, “When you get to my age, Maria, you learn to accept that life is going to knock you. And it’s usually when things have been going well for a while and you become complacent that it catches you unawares.” Then she had patted Maria’s hand. “It’s an old saying, but it’s the truth – time is a great healer. You’re a young girl, Maria, and a strong girl and you’ll survive this. Better things will come your way.”

  “But I don’t want anything different,” Maria said, tears beginning to choke her. She had another cry and so did Mrs Lowry.

  Then, the housekeeper took her in her arms. “You’ll be all right, Maria. Your father had good friends, and we’ll all make sure that you are well looked after until you’re old enough to do for yourself.”

  Her words, meant to comfort Maria, instead left her anxious and wondering what the future held. Lots of questions rattled around in her head – could she still live in the house on her own? What was going to happen to the restaurant? What about Bella Maria? What about her and Paul? How would she get to her riding lessons without her father?

  Her father was the one person who would have had answers to everything.

  After their chat, Mrs Lowry went off to the kitchen to find cleaning materials for the downstairs toilet as she wanted to give it a quick going-over and, after that, she told Maria, if anyone was looking for her, she would be upstairs tidying up the bathroom.

  “Poor Mrs Lowry,” Bernice said. “She’s heartbroken, but she’s the old sort who copes by keeping busy.”

  At one point in the late afternoon the phone rang and Maria asked Bernice to answer it. Bernice listened for a while and spoke only a few times. When she came off, she went into the kitchen and spoke to Diana, and then the two women asked Maria if she would come up to her bedroom with them where they could talk in private. As she followed them up the stairs she felt as though there was a heavy weight in her chest because she knew she would hear something she did not want to hear.

  “We’ve had a call from the hospital, Maria,” Diana said, “and they asked us to tell you that they have been doing some tests on Leo today and will let us know when they are able to release him. It could be sometime this evening. He’ll be taken to the undertaker’s first of course”

  Maria swallowed hard and tried not to imagine what that meant. All day she had been afraid that someone would tell her that the hearse was at the gate, and that she would have to face seeing him lying in a coffin. And yet, another part felt she desperately needed to know that he was back in their house, because something at the back of her mind told her that it would make life more familiar again.

  “Is that normal?” she asked quietly. “Does that happen to everyone?”

  Diana lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “I would think that it’s very common.”

  Maria looked from one to the other. “What will happen tonight then?”

  “I think it will be just the same as today,” Bernice said, “with people coming and going and paying their respects to you.”

  Maria pictured how the rest of the afternoon would be and then the evening stretching ahead. Having to speak to more and more people she did not know, and sense the awkward, self-conscious way certain ones felt when they had to offer her their condolences. The worst part was listening to them all saying how they could not believe what had happened, and then overhearing them talking in low voices to Mrs Lowry or Bernice about the accident and pressing them for the exact details.

  “How long will it be until . . .” She could not finish. She could not say the words until the funeral.

  A flicker of alarm crossed Diana’s face, as though she had been trying not to think of it herself, and she turned to Bernice.

  “We don’t know exactly when,” Bernice said. “Franco is trying to contact your father’s relatives in Italy. They will have to organise flights if they are coming over.”

  “But my grandparents are very old,” Maria said. “They won’t be able to come. They wouldn’t be fit enough for the journey.” She paused to think. “My Aunt Sophia stays at home looking after my grandparents, and my uncles – his two brothers – are in America. I don’t think they have been there that long, so they probably wouldn’t be able to come either.”

  Bernice nodded. “I’ll speak to Franco.”

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and they all stopped talking.

  Bernice went to the bedroom door and looked out to see who was there. “Here he is now.”

  He told them he had come looking for some addresses and some documents. Bernice explained to him what Maria had told them about her grandparents and relatives in Italy.

  He listened carefully and then he looked at Maria. “I understand what you’re saying, but I think we must let all your father’s family know, because someone will probably want to come – maybe a cousin or an uncle or someone like that. I know that some of his family came to Manchester before. Not recently, a few years ago.”

  Maria thought of all the people she saw when she went to Italy each year and could not imagine any of them travelling over to Manchester.

  “If anyone does come,” Bernice said, “you don’t need to worry about them staying here. They can stay at our house or with some of your father’s Italian friends.”

  “I have to ask you something else,” Franco said.

  His face was so grave Maria thought she hardly recognised him.

  “I know you and your father have not seen your Irish relatives for a long time . . . but maybe we should contact them too.”

  Maria shook her head. This was the last thing she expected him to say. “No, no. I don’t want them here. They wouldn’t come anyway. They hated my father!” Her voice was becoming higher now, almost hysterical. “No one from Ireland has been here since my mother died and I don’t want them coming here now that he’s died too!”

  “I don’t want to argue with you, Maria,” Franco said, “but your father told me that when you were older he wanted you to get to know some of your Irish family. He said –”

  “If they didn’t want to see him, then I don’t want to see them!”

  “That’s okay,” Diana said. “That’s okay. You don’t have to see anyone you don’t want to.”

  Maria started to
cry and put her hands up over her face, repeating, “I don’t want them here – I don’t want them here!” Then she went across the room, threw herself down on the bed and broke down into great heaving sobs that she could not control.

  Seeing her so upset was the last straw for Franco and he had to leave the bedroom and go out into the hall, his shoulders heaving and huge silent tears running down his face. When Bernice followed her husband, Diana went over to the bed to try to console Maria or at least to check that she was not becoming so distraught that she was going to make herself sick. She sat quietly on the side of the bed, stroking Maria’s hair, while she just kept crying and crying until she started to cough and choke.

  “Bernice!” Diana called. “Would you bring Maria some water, please?” Then she turned back to Maria. “Don’t let it overwhelm you – your father wouldn’t want you to make yourself ill. He loved and adored you, and he would be so upset to see you like this.”

  Maria made a little muffled noise as though she was trying to speak but Diana could not make out what she was saying.

  “We’re all so sad, Maria,” Diana said, trying not to break down herself, “and you’re entitled to be sadder than anyone, because you were the most important person to him in the whole world. You were all that really mattered to him.”

  Maria suddenly went still and then the sobbing began to subside. Eventually she moved out of Diana’s arms, wiped the back of her hands over her eyes and sat up. Then she looked up at Diana with her red and swollen eyes and said, “But you made him happy too. He never showed any interest in any woman after my mother died until he met you. I’ve never seen him as relaxed and happy in years.”

  Diana looked back at her and her chest felt so tight that she had to take a deep breath. “Thank you, Maria,” she said. “Thank you. That means an awful lot to me.”