Beatrice Page 21

  ‘Shauna’ll be making her communion this year?’ asked Mammy.

  ‘In May.’

  ‘That’s something to look forward to,’ Mammy says. She appears incredibly calm and distant. I look at the kitchen clock.

  ‘We’d better get ready,’ I say to her.

  ‘Yes, we’d best,’ she says. ‘Help yourselves, lads.’ She indicates a bottle of Hennessey on the countertop.

  I know that both Leo and Mick feel uneasy at our apparent normality, our lack of histrionics. They exchange glances. Myself and Mammy glide up the stairs. We are so far removed that we could be phantoms. We dress in silence. When I am ready I go into Mammy’s room. She is putting on her lipstick. She looks really well. She is wearing a soft, slate-grey dress in wool. I had never seen it before.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I got it in Carrolls in the sale.’

  I walk over to the wardrobe. Daddy’s things are still hanging up inside. I touch the sleeve of his best jacket and smell it. It smells of mothballs. He hadn’t worn it in so long. I put my hand in the pocket – there’s an old lotto slip, over a year old. In the corner of the pocket there is a small witch’s stone. It is shiny and rubbed smooth, with a tiny hole in the centre. He must have picked it up on one of his rambles. It is so perfect that it could have been man-made; its surface is so highly polished by his heavy fingering that it could be pure ebony. I take the stone and hold it in the palm of my hand. I hold it there all day.

  An hour later we stand rigid in the church. Tension sears through my body.

  Will she come?

  I stand next to Leo. He holds my hand. Phil is behind me. I sense his breath on the back of my neck. It comforts me.

  Few cry. Surprisingly Aunt Bríd is in floods. The priest is talking about Daddy. The whole thing is totally surreal. I look at the coffin. He is in there.

  I squeeze my eyes tight and let my memory return me to a different time. I am a little girl walking hand in hand with my daddy. I am a daddy’s girl like Shauna, confident of his protection and love. We are walking in high boggy grass and tall-stemmed bog cotton. We are searching for frogs.

  Daddy has promised to build a pond in our back garden. We are going to have waterlilies, and fish and frogs. Maybe we’ll get an ornament, or a little fountain, and some fairy lights to hang in the tree. I carry a large Tupperware box. I am hoping our hunt will be successful.

  Daddy and I sing as we wade through the reeds.

  When I was but a little boy

  And washed my mammy’s dishes

  I put my finger in my eye

  And pulled out golden fishes.

  He doesn’t care if I get wet and muddy. Things like that are not important, because we are busy hunting frogs.

  Daddy finds one. It is tiny. In my nature books they looked so big. This wee frog is shining and green. He picks it up, and slips it into my box, which I have lined with grass and leaves for my frogs’ comfort.

  I put the lid on – we have made holes in it so that the frogs can breathe. Mammy won’t be pleased we’ve ruined her best Tupperware, but that doesn’t matter now. We are explorers, battling against the elements, an adventurer and his adventuress daughter.

  Hey, diddle, diddle

  The cat and the fiddle,

  The cow jumped over the moon,

  The little dog laughed

  To see such sport,

  And the dish ran away with the spoon!

  Daddy lifts me up on the last beat of the rhyme and swings me through the air. Sky and land collide in my vision. I laugh, he laughs.

  We find three more frogs. Daddy says that is enough for now. I am tired. He crouches on the ground, and I climb onto his back. We canter home.

  When I was but a little boy

  And washed my mammy’s dishes

  I put my finger in my eye

  And pulled out golden fishes.

  This is our song.

  BEATRICE

  Dear Jakob

  Thanks for your letter. I can’t believe he hasn’t told anyone yet. God he’s a pig – what a mess. Mammy must be going mad. But I can’t ring her, Jakob, not yet.

  Everything’s going to be okay – I’m meeting my real father tomorrow.

  I spoke to him! And yes, Jakob, he’s going to meet me. Tomorrow afternoon at 3 o’clock in the Waldorf Hotel for tea. There now, I will be taking tea with my father this time tomorrow.

  Once I tell my father everything he’ll help me. Then I can ring Mammy.

  I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t he turn up to our meeting in Majorca? Well, he explained that. He just got the hotels mixed up. He thought he’d said the Continental, but in fact he had said the Europa. A simple mistake.

  It’s night-time, but the streets of London are still alive with people. My room’s on the top floor, it’s an attic room. I’ve a tiny balcony, well it’s more like a gangway slotted between two roofs. I’m sitting here now, on a chair I’ve brought out from the room. It’s fab sitting here, among the rooftops of London. The street lights sparkle below me, it’s as though there’s an orange haze hanging above the city. It never really gets dark here, not like at home.

  I can still smell autumn. It’s different from home. There’s no bog here, no decay. Instead, the leaves fly about me, they’re light and golden, cast off the trees by a gentle breeze. They spin like dancers in the air, one last flurry before they land, and are swept away by the street cleaners. The odd leaf remains. It withers to become a fragile skeleton. I’ve been picking up these delicate things and drawing them.

  I’m also sketching people. Alexa lets me draw her. She says I’m very good, and I should set myself up in Piccadilly Circus, drawing portraits for money. Well, if things get desperate . . .

  It’s starting to rain. I’m going in to bed. Think of me tomorrow and my big day. I’m not nervous. I feel so weird at the moment. Really out of it as though I’m on something. I really want to be myself again.

  Write soon,

  Love B

  EITHNE

  The wind picks up as soon as Daddy is buried. It pushes us out of the graveyard, hurling hats, flapping coats, obscuring faces with flyaway hair. I remember Granny used to say that a strong wind was a portent of bad news. I believe I have already heard the worst.

  Darkness falls early as the family make their way to Daddy’s favourite hostelry. Safe inside, away from the hostile wind, we group around long tables, and sip at steaming bowls of soup. I sit in between Leo and Mammy. Phil is opposite me. Uncle Jack is talking about when he and Daddy were boys, and the pranks they got up to. It is hard to imagine Daddy as a child, carefree and mischievous. Since Beatrice disappeared, even before that, he had become so apathetic. I begin to eat my soup; it scalds my throat and brings tears to my eyes.

  ‘I have to talk to you,’ Leo whispers.

  ‘Now?’ I ask.

  ‘Can we go somewhere to talk in private?’ he says.

  ‘Okay . . . I’ll meet you outside the back door.’

  He gets up and makes his way towards the Gents. Phil glances over at me, and his eyes hold no apology. His look is warm and direct. I smile at him, and he smiles back.

  I get up from the table, and excuse myself. I walk through the pub, and out of the back door. The wind has grown even more ferocious. Leo stands under the back-door light; his face wears a worried expression.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

  ‘I have to tell you something,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t hear you.’

  The wind howls. Leo raises his voice.

  ‘I have to tell you something,’ he repeats. ‘But before I do, you have to remember I was thinking of you, that’s why I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘You worshipped your father, and he was good to you. I didn’t want to be responsible for damaging your relationship.’

  I am completely in the dark. My husband makes no sens
e to me.

  ‘Leo, what is this all about?’

  ‘These.’ He takes a sheaf of paper out of his coat pocket. He grips them tightly, as their edges flap in the wind, then he hands them to me.

  I look at the first page. It is regular copybook paper, torn down one side and slightly discoloured from age.

  I immediately recognize the handwriting. It belongs to Beatrice. I read, ‘Dear Jakob . . .’ I look up at Leo. I am completely stunned.

  ‘I found them in Jackob Rudin’s attic when I was down that time with Mick,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t give them to you, Eithne. Not after I read them. It would have destroyed you. I didn’t think it would do anyone any good if you saw them. But now your father is dead you should read them, I think.’

  He steps back. Has he any idea what he has done?

  ‘Are these letters from my sister?’ I say very slowly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You had these letters all this time and you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘I couldn’t, Eithne – what she says in them, I couldn’t let you find out—’

  ‘But you had these letters, you knew she was alive all along. Why did you say Lisa was a fake?’

  ‘Because the truth is too ugly. I didn’t want you to get hurt.’

  ‘Hurt!’ I scream in unison with the wind. ‘The one person in my life I thought I could trust has been lying to me and hiding things from me. I thought we had no secrets. How could you?’

  ‘I haven’t lied to you. I just didn’t tell you. Calm down, Eithne, please. You’ll understand why when you have read the letters.’

  ‘I don’t need to read them to know that you have betrayed me.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic.’ He holds my shoulders. ‘I was trying to protect you.’

  I push him away.

  ‘From the truth. Aren’t you always telling me that you must be honest; that it is the most important thing.’

  ‘But this is different.’ Leo is exasperated. ‘What Beatrice writes in the letters – it’s so dreadful, Eithne, I couldn’t let you know while your father was still alive. It was just too terrible—’

  ‘No!’ I interrupt him. What is he saying? What does he mean? Something snaps and I slap him with all the strength of my free hand. He steps back, shocked. I run into the wind, driving myself against it, the horror of my husband’s words propelling me. I run through the town, up the hill, and fold up beneath the round tower. Trees lash at each other, as my heart rips apart.

  BEATRICE

  Dear Jakob

  He never came.

  I am too upset to write about what happened. I am coming home, and then I will tell you everything.

  Love B

  When she got back to the hostel, Beatrice phoned Jonathan.

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I thought it best if I didn’t come. I’m sorry I couldn’t contact you.’

  ‘But, why don’t you want to meet me? I’m your daughter.’

  There was a pause, then he said slowly, ‘I think it’s best not to get emotionally involved at this stage.’

  What did that mean? Didn’t he become emotionally involved the day she was conceived?

  ‘You have to meet me,’ she said. She was getting desperate now. ‘I won’t go away until you meet me, at least once.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question,’ he said, and hung up.

  So she went to the house, the next morning.

  He came to the front door. When he saw her, he looked appalled. He glanced behind him and opened the porch door.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  He knew who she was immediately. He must have been expecting her.

  ‘I have to talk to you,’ Beatrice whispered, shaking.

  He made her stand in the porch, with her coat still on.

  ‘So?’ he stood questioningly. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘I’m your daughter,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘Maybe by blood. But the man who married your mother and brought you up is your real father.’

  ‘Never,’ she hissed.

  He was taken aback. They stood in silence. Beatrice composed herself.

  ‘I need your help,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve nowhere to go,’ she said.

  ‘Why don’t you go home, back to Ireland?’

  ‘I can’t go back. I can’t . . .’

  To her shame, she began to cry.

  He shook his head; he was getting agitated. This was not what Beatrice had dreamt about, this was a nightmare. She could hear voices in the hall.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, what’s wrong?’ he said, impatiently.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  The words fell out of her mouth. Heavy . . . clumsy . . . awful.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, embarrassed.

  ‘I can’t go home because Joseph – my step-father – he’s a drunk, and he hits me, and . . . well . . . and it was him, you see, who made me pregnant.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s appalling, of course, but I’m sorry, I can’t do anything about it. No, no, it’s much better if I was not involved. You should report it to the police and leave it up to the authorities.’

  She started to laugh, manically.

  ‘Shush . . .’ he said, glancing over his shoulder nervously. ‘Will you please be quiet.’

  ‘No one would believe me.’

  ‘I really don’t think that I can help you at all—’

  He was interrupted by a clear voice singing out from the hall.

  ‘Daddy, who’s at the door?’

  He turned to close the front door, but before he did so, it swung open. A girl about three years younger than Beatrice faced her. She was blonde and blue-eyed.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, smiling.

  Beatrice stared back at her, and said not

  Jonathan Voyle took out his wallet. He thrust some notes into Beatrice’s hand.

  ‘There you go now,’ he said. ‘Get yourself sorted out with that.’

  Humiliated, Beatrice turned and left, still clutching the notes. She could hear the sing-song voice of her sister say, ‘Who was that girl?’

  ‘Just a gipsy, begging at the door,’ replied her father.

  ‘She looked so sad.’

  ‘Well, she’s in trouble, so to speak.’

  Beatrice turned her head and saw the girl embrace her father.

  ‘Oh, Daddy, you’re so good to help her out,’ she said. ‘I do love you.’

  SIX: THE PURSE

  EITHNE

  I sit on a gravestone and listen to the birds sing. This is not where Daddy is buried. He is behind the large Catholic church in town. This little Protestant graveyard is in the middle of nowhere, tucked behind a small ruined church. It is a place where you can step back in time. People are still buried here, but it is the very old graves I like to sit by.

  I am in the far corner, surrounded by creaking yew trees.

  If I walk to the other side of the plot, the trees clear and I have a timeless view of the hills, a few cottages and the ruined church. In the winter light, the mountains are deep blue, the ground is intense green and the trees are brown-feathered skeletons.

  A tractor passes. Nobody else is around for miles. I hear its engine trail into the distance.

  I have been sitting here all morning, reading. I am still clutching the bundle of letters, staring off into the middle distance. I am scared. I don’t know what to do.

  I see my mother walking towards me, crossing the road, her jacket is loose and flaps about her. Instinctively I take out a cigarette lighter and, sheltering behind a gravestone, I light one corner of one of the letters. I make a little fire then with a few sticks and twigs, and by the time Mammy reaches me, the letters have all gone up in flames.

  ‘What are you doing, Eithne?’ she asks. ‘What is it you’re burning?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She stands above me, head on one side, staring down at me.<
br />
  ‘What’s going on? Why has Leo left without you, Eithne? You never even said goodbye to him.’

  ‘He’s gone, then.’

  ‘Yes, he’s gone. He waited and waited for you, but you never came back, and your phone was switched off . . . so he went. He looked quite upset, Eithne. What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s too complicated to go into.’

  She sits down next to me on the gravestone, and sighs.

  ‘He lied to me,’ I say. ‘He kept things from me and didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Was he unfaithful?’ she asks.

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that.’

  ‘Why did he lie?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . he said he was trying to protect me.’

  A bunch of rooks take off suddenly, cawing wildly.

  ‘Maybe he was,’ Mammy says. ‘Is that such a bad thing?’

  ‘It feels like it is.’

  ‘What’s important, Eithne, is, do you love Leo? Because, if you do, any deceit is worth overcoming . . . if there is love. So many of us lose that chance to really love someone. Once it’s gone, it’s very hard to get it back again. You might never get it back ever.’

  She speaks very quietly, so softly I can hardly hear her. I put my arms about her.

  ‘Mammy,’ I ask her. ‘Did you love Daddy?’

  ‘No, darling,’ she says sadly. ‘I never did, though he loved me. I have that on my conscience.’

  ‘Do you think Daddy was a good man?’

  ‘Yes, he was, though he would have been a better man if he hadn’t chosen me. I brought out the worst in him, and you brought out the best.’ She smiles wistfully. ‘He adored you, Eithne, don’t forget that.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘And he loved Beatrice too,’ she adds. ‘It was very hard for him when she disappeared.’

  I say nothing. There seems absolutely no point in shattering her illusions.

  She gets up.