“I’ve already made it,” Henry said without hesitation.
She smiled. “I guessed you would say that. I’m glad.”
Chapter forty-one
The heavens opened on the morning of Martha Clare’s funeral; a fitting metaphor for Ruby’s grief. The daughters could never have guessed that their mother would follow so quickly in their father’s wake. A wound beginning to heal over, torn open again like the grave in the cemetery itself. Father Kelly conducted the Requiem Mass.
Ruby stood at the graveside, supported by Rose and Jamie, experiencing the raw closure of another parent’s life. The heaped wet soil waiting to refill its weight under the granite headstone. The rain battering the lid of the descending coffin, the priest hastening through the prayers for the dead with the gathered mourners, brought back recent memories she could hardly bear to face.
Several nights after the funeral, her mother invaded her dreams. Always the same image: her face imploring, her arms spread wide for the hugs Ruby never received in life.
And Ruby would see herself as a little girl, running through the fields toward the gift of that embrace. But, at the point of blissful union, at the moment their fingers touched, the vision would retreat—like the vision of herself she’d seen over Beldam—and move farther and farther away. Ruby would run faster and faster, her feet flying over the grass, arms outstretched, but it was useless. She could never catch up. As in life, her mother was forever out of reach. And the cries she heard as she collapsed on the grass were the cries of a love long lost, that never was and never now would be.
She’d awaken, breathless, and weeping into the aftermath of those dreams to the loneliness of Oaktree, where the only sound was her heartbeat and the darkness stood like heat.
The daylight hours brought fresh assaults with all the power that being changed can bring. She was intensely aware of herself as a lone figure in an isolated space. The house that was Martha’s domain, shaped to how she’d lived, mocked her. There was no one now to please. No setting tables or trays for two. No climbing stairs with gifts or news. The room: lifeless. The bed: empty. Plants wilting on the windowsill. She missed the edge of that sharpened voice razoring the quiet; the voice, which in her final days had faded to a rasping sigh.
Father Kelly visited in the subsequent days. She told him about the dreams.
“It’s because I didn’t get to say good-bye, isn’t it, Father? I was out enjoying meself when . . . when I should have been here at her side.”
They sat at the kitchen table, the tea going cold between them. The twins already back at work, because the pain of being in Oaktree without Mummy could not be lightly borne.
“Now, Ruby, you can’t blame yourself. None of us had any idea God was going to take your mother home . . . so soon.”
“Did she say anything, Father? Anything about me . . . before . . . before she . . . ?”
“Yes, Ruby. She said she was sorry . . . sorry that she hadn’t been the best mother to you.”
Ruby broke down. “She did?”
“Yes . . . she wished things could have been different between you. That she was so hard on you. She regretted that. Yes . . . she regretted that, Ruby, very much.”
How could he tell her what he knew? The secret he’d taken ownership of was his, and his alone, to carry.
He patted Ruby’s hand, shifted in the chair, the one Martha used to occupy.
“I’ll always be here for you, Ruby. Have no fear of that. Sure I’m only down the road. You can depend on that. Any time you feel like talking, just give me a call.”
“Thanks, Father.” Ruby blotted her eyes.
He stood up. Put on his hat. Gazed out the window at the patch of flowers where Vinny fell.
“She’s at peace with your daddy now, so. Aye . . . at peace.”
In the afternoon, Ruby made the first journey of several into Tailorstown. A journey of despair, and longing for what might have been had she not opened the case, not gone down to the lake, not gone out with the McFaddens and Jamie. Would her mother still be here? Sitting on the faded cushion in the passenger’s seat, maybe giving out about something, but there, nonetheless, beside her. In the flesh.
She felt an immense ache in her heart. The courage she’d mustered from Father Kelly’s visit deserting her, thawing into a river of tears as she entered the town’s main street and parked in the same spot, opposite the sale yard. She recalled the last time she’d taken her mother to town.
Saw her clamber out of the vehicle, cane clattering to the ground.
“Don’t you dare touch me . . . You’ve done it this time.”
“Done what?”
“You just wait till I get you home.”
She’d been visiting the solicitor, Mr. Cosgrove, that day. The thought of the lawyer brought on another wave of grief. The twins and she would be meeting him tomorrow for the reading of the will.
She’d no longer be able to live at Oaktree. The house and farm would be sold. Where would she go? What would she do? She could never have believed that the deaths of both parents would cause even greater upheaval in her life, their parting separating her from all she held dear.
Images of Beldam reared up at her. Maybe it was the answer. Just walk in. Let the waters claim her, as they had Edna. She now understood what grief was, and why her grandmother had done what she did. She’d lost her husband and then her child within the same short time period as she, Ruby, had lost her parents. And then, upon the marriage of her only son, she’d lost her home as well. Been driven up above to the bedroom at the top of the stairs. The one Ruby now occupied. No, Edna was never crazy, as Martha had claimed. She was heartbroken, mourning a loss that was unbearable, that she knew she’d never fathom or get the measure of. What was left to her in the hollow afternoons? Nothing but the seasons turning beyond the window and the field where her husband died; and in the brooding darkness of night, the alluring gleam of Beldam under a starlit sky.
Ruby rested her head on the steering wheel, sobbing uncontrollably, paralyzed by fears of a future only the gods could know. The shopping list in her pocket, the errands she had to run—her reasons for making this trip—becoming the most trivial things in her world.
She had no idea how long she’d sat like that, but a gentle tapping on the window brought her back to reality. She looked up—to see Jamie McCloone’s concerned face through the glass. She wound down the window.
“Are you all right, Ruby?”
“Yes . . . yes, Jamie. I was just . . .”
She burst into tears again.
Jamie shifted from foot to foot, adjusted his cap, uncomfortable. “I’m goin’ . . . I’m goin’ . . . into Biddy’s for a cuppa tea. Maybe you’d—”
“Don’t know . . . don’t . . .” Her voice faltered. “Don’t want anybody tae see me like this.”
“It’s . . . it’s better . . . better, Ruby, to talk tae somebody.” He looked over at the café. “Sure there’s nobody in it at this time of day.”
She knew he was right. The only one she’d talked to in recent days was Father Kelly. She needed to unburden herself. Her mind made up, she fetched her handbag and left the car.
Inside the café, Ruby was relieved to see that the only other customer was Barkin’ Bob, seated in the corner. Bob was a good man because he wasn’t a gossip and didn’t have much time for conversation.
“We’ll take this nice table at the windee,” Jamie said, pulling out a chair.
Ruby halted. He could not have known it, but the table Jamie selected was the one she and her father used to share.
She dissolved again into tears.
“It’s all right, Ruby,” Jamie said gently. He rested a reassuring hand on her arm. “You sit down and I’ll go up and get us a drop of tea and a bun. You’ll be all right in a wee minute, so you will.”
Ruby had no option but to sit
down.
In a couple of moments, Jamie was back. He sat down—in her father’s chair.
“Biddy’ll be down in a minute,” he said.
Ruby composed herself. Dried her eyes.
“Thanks, Jamie . . . it’s just that . . . just that . . .” But she was unable to verbalize how she felt.
Jamie lifted the saltcellar and began toying with it. “Aye . . . it’s . . . it’s terrible hard when . . . when . . . somebody goes sudden. I know . . . know what you’re goin’ through. When Uncle Mick passed away . . . I wanted . . . wanted tae die, too.”
“Did you?”
“Aye, so. But there . . . there wasn’t much point in doin’ that.”
“Why not?”
“’Cos it wouldn’t of brought Mick back, and I couldn’t let Rose and Paddy down.” He replaced the saltcellar, gazed out the window. “Aye . . . and I couldn’t leave Shep on his own . . . ’cos Mick had give him tae me when he was only a pup—”
“Your dog?”
“Aye.” Jamie averted his eyes.
“You must miss him now, Jamie? Rose tolt me he’d passed away.”
“Oh . . . something terrible. Mornin’s be the worst, ’cos . . . ’cos he used tae wake me up . . . jump on the bed . . . and lick me face.” Jamie smiled at the memory. “God, he was the greatest wee dog.”
“I’d always wanted a dog, but Mammy never liked them . . . said they were smelly.”
“You could get one now.”
Ruby fought back the tears again, wondering if she should share with Jamie her fate with regard to Oaktree.
“Would be good company for you now, so it would.”
“Aye, maybe.”
Biddy soon arrived with a tray. She off-loaded the cakes, and a pot of tea the size of an urn.
“Now, Ruby . . . a good cuppa tea will give you a bit of strength. Won’t it, Jamie?”
“It will indeed, Biddy. A bitta whiskey in it, too, would be even better,” he quipped. Ruby smiled.
“Och, away with you, Jamie,” Biddy said. She leaned closer and whispered. “Well, d’ye know, if you have a word with Bob up there, I’m sure he could get yins a drop from that van of his out there. He’s got everything, don’t ye know.”
They all looked Bob’s way, but the traveling “salesman” was too occupied with his food to notice.
Another customer entered and Biddy excused herself.
Ruby tried not to weep by concentrating on Jamie’s words. It was hard to be sitting across from him. He was in her father’s chair. Taking up the space her daddy used to fill, in a place she never thought she’d have the heart to enter again. But here she was in the café for the first time since her daddy’s death. And it wasn’t so bad after all. Because Jamie was there.
“Do you do a bitta farmin’ yourself, Ruby?” he was saying.
“I did . . . but when . . . when Daddy died, Mammy set the land.”
“Aye. Suppose you miss it, right enough? But sure you . . . you could always start it up again.”
Ruby nodded. How could she tell him that by this time tomorrow the will would be read and Oaktree Farm would no longer be hers? She tried not to think about it, focused all her attention on Jamie: noted the creased collar of his shirt that she could iron, a tear in his sleeve that she could mend.
“What’s your farm like, Jamie?”
“Oh, it’s not terrible big . . . just ten or so acres. Doz me all right. I would say yours would be a bit bigger than that.”
“Aye . . . a wee bit . . .”
“Now how’s that tea? Will I get yins a fresh pot?” Biddy had appeared at the table. “And that’s a lovely sight: an empty plate.”
“That would be nice, Biddy,” Ruby agreed.
“And more of them buns, too!” Jamie called after her.
They talked some more. The conversation easy, words slipping between them like precious coins.
And the more Ruby listened to Jamie, the calmer she became. She drew strength from his unaffected ways. He was easygoing and kind, but also brave. Brave because he could play his accordion in front of all those people. Kind because he’d seen her distress and invited her for tea.
She thought back to that first meeting in the field all those weeks before. And how her father’s passing and her mother’s greed—“it’s my land and we need the money”—had brought their little worlds together.
Now that frail coincidence, and all it held—stood ready to be loosed.
Chapter forty-two
They’d given him fourteen days to sort things out: Hanson and Webb. Except they hadn’t put it quite like that. They’d used that formulaic phrase “to put your affairs in order.” An expression usually delivered by doctors in sterile rooms to people facing the bleakest future.
Just fourteen days to “die.” For, in a way, he was dying—dying to his old way of life.
In the preceding days, he’d set about dismantling all that he held dear. He’d put the house on the market. Informed Maeve at the gallery that he’d be relinquishing his part in the business. Had visited Betty, Connie’s sister, to say he’d been offered a position overseas.
“You’d better tell me where exactly,” Betty had said. “In case . . . in case Connie turns up.”
“Sorry, Betty.” He’d hugged her. “When I get settled I’ll write to you. Promise.” Those parting words leaving her puzzled on the doorstep.
The hardest farewell he’d leave to the end: his father.
Now Henry stood in the home he’d shared with Connie for more than a decade, taking one last look around. She’d been drawn to it by the gardens, and the picture-perfect windows, where daylight thronged the glass; ideal for her work. It was their first home together, their first joyous shot at all things new.
Yes, they’d had many happy times in Hestia House. She’d insisted on calling it that, after the Greek goddess of hearth and home. There was a time not so long ago when he believed this home would be theirs for good. But oh, how very quickly things had changed! It was an end he’d never seen coming.
And very soon now, another house in a far-off land. With that thought, the image of his dear father came quick in his mind, and the reality of what lay before him hit him like a tidal wave.
He could not allow himself to weep.
He wandered into the living room. On the table his letter, in the same spot where he’d left it all those months ago. He smiled at the memory. Was about to bin it, but changed his mind. He’d keep it and give it to Connie. The letter she’d now finally get to read.
The thought of seeing her again made him leap with joy.
He raced upstairs. Hauled down their suitcases from the attic space. He’d pack one with Connie’s clothes and effects. She’d like that: having something back of their old life together.
A couple of hours later, he pulled up outside his father’s place in Lisburn.
The time had come to say his last good-bye.
He found Sinclair having tea with his housekeeper, Mrs. Malahide.
“You haven’t met Matilda, Henry, have you?” Sinclair getting up, smiling, happy.
“No . . . no, we haven’t met,” Henry said. “Thanks for taking care of the house.”
A tall woman rose to greet him. Henry was surprised. He’d expected his father’s “help” to be the quintessential Belfast cleaner type: hair-rollers, housecoat, cigarette permanently in hand.
Matilda was anything but. Tall, with grayish hair worn in the inverted teacup style favored by Her Majesty, she cut a striking figure in a navy-blue dress and sensible brogues.
“Do call me Tilda. I knew Dymphna would do a good job,” she said in the voice of an adroit headmistress. “Very dependable girl.”
Sinclair saw Henry’s confusion.
“Tilda runs the cleaning business, Henry. Sweeping Beauties. Wonderful nam
e, don’t you think?”
Henry grinned. “Well, your sweeping beauty did a very thorough job.”
“Glad to hear it, Henry.” She plucked her bag from the sofa. “Now I really must be off. You two have lots more interesting things to discuss, I’m sure.”
Sinclair saw her out.
“Would you like to eat here this evening or shall we go out?” Henry overheard his father say through the partially opened window.
“Let’s go out,” Tilda said. “Treat ourselves for a change. He’s very handsome, your son.”
“Takes after me.”
They chuckled.
Henry was surprised. His father wasn’t the easiest man to get along with. The judge’s wig and gown hard to shrug off. But he was glad—glad that he would not be on his own.
He heard Tilda’s car take off. Sinclair reappeared.
“Didn’t expect you, Henry. You didn’t say.” He made a beeline for the kettle. “Shouldn’t you be at work? No word of Connie, I suppose? Cup of coffee?”
Henry braced himself. “A brandy would be better.”
Sinclair turned, kettle in hand, eyebrows raised. He checked the clock. “Really . . . at this hour of the day? I hope you’re not turning into one of your patients.”
But already Henry was by the drinks cabinet.
A pause.
A tightened brake of fear.
His hands trembling with the glasses.
“There’s something wrong, son. Isn’t there?”
Henry kept his back turned, willed himself to be strong.
Then: “I have to go away, Dad.”
Not the customary “Father” but “Dad.”
He took the drinks to the table.
Sinclair sat down slowly, his eyes never leaving Henry’s face.
“Away . . . where?”
“I can’t say.”
“I-I don’t understand.” Fear already in his voice. “What have you done, son?”
“I’ve done nothing. But this . . . this is the price I have to pay.”
He gulped the brandy down to keep the tears in check. There was no easy way to . . .
The Godforsaken Daughter Page 30
