“Have you managed to contact your son at all?”
She shrugged, her expression cool and Maggie saw, that whatever level of intimacy, they had reached, had retreated several steps. She cursed herself.
“The police inspector, Ben Cronin offered to try for me. They have connections, of course with their counterparts in Britain. I gave them my last contact with him, which was Eastbourne, not that I think he’s still there. He was only doing seasonal work in a hotel, and it’s a couple of years ago, now, or more, since I heard.”
She was civil enough, but Maggie still felt she shouldn’t have asked about the son. You’d think that she’d be more desperate to make contact with her only living relative. There was some discrepancy about this woman’s relationship with her son.
Mary Crowe seemed in no hurry to go, and Maggie was wondering how rude it would look if she started to prepare vegetables because she was going to have to get started soon. There was no sign of Father Tom either.
As usual, the canon appeared in the kitchen, soft-footed and silently.
“Mrs. Crowe. I didn’t know you were here.” He looked at Maggie. You could see him battle with his irritation.
“We were having a cup of tea and a word, Canon.”
She didn’t quite want to come out and say that Mary hadn’t come to see the canon, but couldn’t quite bring herself to say it.
“Come up the hall to my sitting-room, Mrs. Crowe…Mary. We can have a quiet word there and let Maggie get on with her work.”
Mary looked at him, then quickly at Maggie and got straight up.
The canon had that way of speaking, years of giving orders and having automatic respect. It must be a bit like being minor royalty. Completely ridiculous when you thought about it. And that was the kind of thinking that was making it clear to Maggie that she was no longer cut out for the job of being a priest’s housekeeper.
Chapter Fifteen
The journey to the hospital had been a revelation. Gerry had been dreading it and wondering what had possessed her to go with Derek Cooney of all people. Frank would hit the roof, for one thing. Well, the old Frank would have done. The man he was at the moment was unreadable to her. She had agreed though, and now she sat in the passenger seat of his Ford Prefect.
She had left Elizabeth happy enough with Sheila, at home, listening to some strange loud music on the wireless. It was good to see Sheila because Gerry worried about what Elizabeth might be going through at school. They were the wrong age–old enough to know what was going on and listening in to their parents’ conversation, but not old enough to deal with it sensitively. Mind you, people two or times their age weren’t a lot better. She promised her too that she would ask Frank if Elizabeth could visit soon. Goodness knew who she’d ask to give them a lift.
She talked non-stop for the first couple of miles. Inconsequential talk about the traffic and the road works. There was sweat on her top lip as she realised she was gabbling. Eventually, silence fell.
“Are you managing all right at the bank? I mean, I’m sure you must be…I know my husband relied on you.” Goodness, not only was she gabbling now, she was blatantly lying.
“He has big shoes to fill, but I’m doing my best with a lot of help from the staff. They are brilliant, Mrs. O’Sullivan. They are all stepping up. It’s brilliant, I couldn’t ask for more support…”
His voice faltered. It must have hit him that he was at the least of it, being insensitive.
She jumped in. “I’m delighted for you, Derek.”
She couldn’t remember ever having addressed him by his first name before. In fact, she’d had very little to do with any of the staff in the branch. Once a year, she would host a Christmas do at the house—an embarrassed affair, where the men would stand around the place with half-pints of bottled Guinness and the girls with Babycham and Frank would play the lord of the manor. She’d be busy with ham and salmon sandwiches in the kitchen and Elizabeth would hand them round.
Gerry would barely have a chance to speak to any of them apart from asking inane questions about whether they had done their Christmas shopping. She’d been as caught up in Frank’s glossy, artificial world as he had. She was ashamed. All her adult life she’d been a coward, running around behind him, smoothing the way and allowing his bullying ways to get worse. She should have challenged him about the way he spoke about his staff.
She should have challenged him about a lot of things, and maybe they wouldn’t have ended up where they were now, driving into the forecourt of St. Martin’s psychiatric hospital on the nice side of Cork city, the tyres making a soft swooshing sound on the gravel.
The hallway to the place was decorated in lavender and cream colours, the only note of strong colour from the large statue of St. Martin de Porres in the corner. Everything about the place was hushed and efficient and apart from the faintest smell of hospital that the lilies in the vase on the desk and the polish couldn’t quite disguise. A young nurse, hair in a bun behind a white hat, greeted her by name.
“I have brought someone with me. He’s a colleague of my husband’s, and I thought it might do Frank good to see someone apart from myself.” The nurse came out from behind the desk and walked across to the lift with them. Would it be like this in the state-run mental institutions? Gerry doubted it. The place on the Lee Road had always been spoken about with almost comic dread – one of the worse things that could happen to anyone was to end up there.
It had been a mistake to bring Derek Cooney, and when she saw Frank’s first reaction, she cursed herself for a fool. There was an instant look of panic in his eyes, and he looked at her. He wasn’t angry, though, more frightened. What had possessed her anyway? It hadn’t been about the lift in, though she’d felt a second’s relief about having her transport sorted for at least one more visit.
“I thought it would do you good to see someone from work, Frank, and Derek offered me a lift too, which was very handy.”
Her husband stared at Derek Cooney as though he was struggling to place him. Derek froze, his Adam’s apple moving in his neck. He put a couple of fingers up to free his collar from his neck. The whole thing was even worse for him than for either Frank or herself. She’d have to examine her own reasons for bringing him here. It had seemed like a good idea, some normality, which was stupid. There was nothing normal about this situation, and all that was happening was that Frank was further humiliated and the young bank clerk was embarrassed.
But, then he showed some mettle. “My mother suffered a breakdown years ago. I was only about ten. The youngest of my two sisters was only about six months old. I think my mother’s depression happened because of the birth. There had been complications, and she wasn’t well for a long time.”
Gerry held her breath when he first started talking, not sure if what he was saying would make things better or worse.
The three of them sat in Frank’s small room; it was claustrophobic. She’d been on the point of suggesting they all go down to the café on the ground floor for a cup of tea when Derek had begun telling his story.
Gerry tried to take in her husband’s expression without staring at him.
He always seemed to be staring at nothing these days. He wasn’t bowing his head anymore, but he didn’t make eye contact with the person he was with, and it made conversation impossible. You genuinely couldn’t tell whether he was listening or away in his own world. It made it all the stranger when he interjected as he did now. Derek, brave as he was, would surely run out of steam soon, having told them about the big hospital they took his mother to, and about having to go and stay with his aunt for months.
“Did she get better?”
Frank’s voice sounded like the old Frank, and it threw Gerry completely. She hadn’t heard that animated tone since the morning he’d left for work and had the breakdown in his office.
“She did get better, but I’ll be honest, Mr. O’Sullivan, it took a long time. I know a few months is a long time in a child’s life, but it took
at least that long.”
That was good; there was no point in treating Frank like an idiot, though he was far from himself, he would still see through that.
Did that young man come back? The one who came to see me last week?”
Again, his voice was normal, but there was a tone of something there. Fear, she thought, but, that was ridiculous. What would he be frightened about? Could there be someone threatening him?
Derek shook his head. “No, not as far as I know, anyway.”
“Thanks very much for coming in, Derek, but would you mind giving me a few minutes alone with Gerry now before you go? Maybe you could go downstairs for a cup of tea or something.”
Derek’s expression was puzzled. Maybe he wasn’t used to being spoken to in a civil fashion.
He left the small room, and she could see the doubt about how he should make his farewells. He thought about shaking Frank’s hand, but the moment passed and in the end, in the fashion of men, awkward in each others’ company, they nodded and muttered something she couldn’t quite make out. Probably it was something about coming again.
“Should I not have brought him?”
Steady, she told herself. She’d made a resolution. She was no longer going to be cowed. It was bad for both of them and definitely not what he needed at the moment.
“That doesn’t matter. Sit a bit nearer to me, Gerry.”
Her stomach dropped, and she hesitated before walking to the bed and perching herself on the very edge of it.
She hadn’t realised it until this second, but she definitely didn’t want any physical contact whatever with Frank. Something else to worry about.
All he did was take her hand in his and hold it. She relaxed and breathed a bit deeper.
Then it was the tears again, and that was strange because she thought that maybe he had come from that stage. He’d been calmer and even had a bit more to say in front of Derek Cooney. Maybe the fact that he could hold it together for the fifteen or so minutes the younger man had been in the room with them was something and maybe all he could deal with. There had been a lot in what Derek had said when he spoke about his mother.
The doctor here and Dr. Cash at home, the ward sister too, had all repeated it like a prayer or something she must get through her head—all variations of the same thing. She should expect this to be a long job. There was no magic wand to be waved. Frank’s recovery would take months, not weeks, and she could expect setbacks along the way.
“I need to speak to a priest, Gerry. Will you be able to do that for me? Make it Father Stephen or, if you must, the young priest, Father Tom. But, it would be better if it was Father Stephen.”
She knew the answer, but asked anyway. “You don’t want Canon Murphy, so?”
He shook his head.
“Don’t bring him anywhere near me. Please, Gerry. I don’t want him in here.”
She blurted it out before she could lose her courage. “I noticed how upset you got when he came round to the house to see you. What’s happened, Frank? What is it that’s causing all of this? I can tell it’s got to do with the canon and with Simon Crowe…but…”
He let go of her hand. “I can’t tell you. Don’t go on at me about it. I can’t tell you, and I can’t tell anyone. I just need to speak to the priest.”
It was only going down the corridor in the direction of the stairs that she remembered she was supposed to ask him about Elizabeth visiting. Well, she wasn’t going back, and there was no question of it at the moment. Frank was too unpredictable, and it would be too much for Elizabeth to see and deal with. She’d just have to cope with her daughter getting into a huff if that’s what happened. She had to make decisions and take control even if the results didn’t always keep the peace or everyone happy.
It was good of the doctor to stay back and talk to her, but she felt little enlightened after. He was sympathetic and kind, but it seemed, just as she thought that mental illness was unpredictable, especially in its progress and the patient’s recovery.
* * *
The house was cold and empty when Ben Cronin woke up. He’d known it would be, but the reality of it was different, and he hated it. It was as well that he was busy. It was a small consolation, but one good thing was that he wouldn’t have to put up with Abina today. She had listened to him on the journey from the hospital, and he’d seen a different side of her, the same part of her character that made her kind to his wife, but he had no illusions that he was going to have some deep new friendship with her.
The ward sister told him the night staff had reported that Harriett had a comfortable night—reassuring, yet meaningless.
“I’ll be in later and will you tell her I called, please, Sister?” He couldn’t give a time, though he’d been tempted to say he would try and call in during the afternoon visiting. It was best to say nothing, though. He had no idea how the day at work would go, and he disappointed Harriett on a regular enough basis as it was.
Dick Sheehan was already at his desk, and one of the young guards was bringing cups of tea.
“O’Hehir’s, I think,” he said to Sheehan. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be bringing the other young fellows on, but this wasn’t the time. Now was the time to have someone with him that he could trust not to say the wrong thing. The super had been quiet for a day too -not a good sign. He’d better ring him up himself later on and pre-empt him. At least things were moving, and Ben had the feeling that they were going to go on moving at a fast rate.
* * *
It was soon clear that the O’Hehir brothers and the sister, Breda didn’t live in harmony. The two brothers, Mikey and Paddy, were in their late fifties or early sixties, and she could be a few years younger.
The farmstead had that closed off, hostile feel about it that you got sometimes when there was unhappiness in the house. He’d seen it before—adult siblings and sometimes parents forced to continue living together long past the stage where it was doing any of them any good. There were all kinds of reasons for it happening, but they usually revolved around reticence and inheritance.
Mothers and fathers wielded a lot of power too, over the lives of their adult children, and it wasn’t uncommon for a marriage to be delayed or even put off because a mother wouldn’t countenance having a young woman “with ideas”, share her kitchen, and in a way you couldn’t blame the mother. There was a lack of get up and go sometimes, in the adult children, that ruined and limited lives. It wasn’t inevitable, and Ben had seen households of siblings and parents where all got on well, but you could feel that the O’Hehir household wasn’t one.
It was apparent in the neglected air of the yard, with weeds growing between the stone and concrete and peeling paint on gates and doors. The hostile way the collie dog ran at them felt like a foretaste of what was to come.
Ben’s heart gave a jump. He wasn’t afraid of dogs, generally, but this one looked like it meant business, and he didn’t fancy being bitten. “Eh, boy, what’s up, boy, calm down, what’s all the barking for?”
Dick spoke softly and stood still, putting his hand out just a little.
The dog barked more crazily than ever and circled the pair of them. Taking his cue from the sergeant, Ben stood still too.
“We’d probably be better staying here until someone comes, out,” Dick muttered. Ben wasn’t arguing with him.
The dog appeared to lose interest in them and retreated a few feet, but Ben didn’t trust him an inch.
“I feel a right turnip stood here,” he said.
“Surely to goodness they must hear the racket.”
No sooner had he spoken than an angry voice shouted out.
“Come here, boy, come here, Captain…what do you pair want?”
“Charming,” said Ben under his breath,
The man came nearer and put his hand out, grabbing the dog’s collar.
“Oh, it’s you…guards. What’s brought you out here?”
“Could we come inside for a minute and talk to you?”
<
br /> The farmer stood his ground, and for a moment, Ben felt that he was going to set Captain on them.
“All right, come in.”
The farmhouse didn’t have anything of beauty in its construction. It was sizeable and square, without fancy stone-work or finishes or adornment of any kind.
The kitchen was different, though. Not homely or fancy, exactly but it was clean and tidy, and there were a few touches that Ben noticed. The cloth on the table was clean as were the tea-towels and there was a geranium on one of those white doily things in the middle of the table. There was also a smell of cooking, onion predominantly, which Ben found a bit much to stomach at ten o’clock in the morning.
“Can we sit down?”
The man nodded, still stony-faced and looking the picture of suspicion.
They’d wait a long time for a civil word out of him or the offer of a cup of tea.
There was also no point at all in the social niceties. He’d be wasting his time with that, here.
“The reason we are here is because a young man, an American who was found dead in a farm building a couple of days ago seems to have a connection with the O’Hehir family.”
“I know nothing about that.”
Maybe it was a mistake to have asked to sit because Mikey O’Hehir, wasn’t so much towering over them as looking poised for flight. It was a farm, and the stance of the man reminded Cronin of an animal, a deer maybe—though without the grace -which watched the humans but warily, ready to be off, if they got too close.
It was going to be like getting blood from a stone.
“Who do you live here with, Mr. O’Hehir?
“Brother. Sister.”
Was he all there? That was the trouble with the extremely taciturn types, you couldn’t always tell.
“Are either of them around?”
As he spoke the door was pushed open roughly, and a woman who was saying something and it didn’t sound like a pleasantry, came into the kitchen.
A look of shock crossed her face. Cronin had asked the sergeant to park their car at the top of the yard, out of sight to anyone who was in the house or its immediate vicinity.
The Body at Ballytierney Page 19
