“Excuse me,” I said. “I know you’re busy but I would like to talk to someone about my husband, Ben Parrish. He’s in Room 5.”
“He’s making very good progress, Mrs Parrish.”
“So, his scans and X-rays. Are they all clear?”
The girl shifted from one foot to the other. She looked down, avoiding my gaze.
“I think you should speak to Mr Parrish,” she said.
“No. You tell me, please. Has his heart been damaged? I’m entitled to know.”
“And your husband is entitled to confidentiality. We have to respect that, Mrs Parrish. Talk to him.”
I stood there, not knowing what to do. It was easy to infer that the staff were under instructions from Ben not to discuss his condition with me. As things stood, he was the patient and he was entitled to confidentiality. But his doctors should also be aware of his full medical history, past as well as current. Even if that was the last thing Ben wanted.
The nurse smiled at me.
“Rest assured he’s making a good recovery, Mrs Parrish. I’m sorry, I have to go now.”
I watched her disappear into a ward. As I made my way towards Ben’s room, I felt I had, in the kindest way, been pitied. I wondered if she guessed that I did not trust Ben to tell me, or them, the truth. That I was far more concerned about his mental health than anything else. She probably did. The nursing staff dealt, day in day out, with every aspect of the human condition.
Ben was sitting out in his chair, watching the TV which had been placed so high up on the wall you had to bend your head back to view. He looked brighter. Even a little stronger. He was watching a news bulletin.
“Can you believe what this asshole is saying?” he asked.
I laughed. This was more like the Ben I knew. He blamed all politicians for the state of the economy and frequently shouted at the TV when they were on. He was not alone in that.
“Listen to him! He’s saying the economy is showing green shoots! Where is he coming from? The highest unemployment figures ever, a constant stream of emigration, the country on its knees, and this clown is talking about green shoots. Maybe he’s smoking them!”
I sat on the side of his bed. He switched off the TV and turned towards me. He frowned.
“You look tired, Leah. And a bit pale. I’m sorry I’ve put you through all this worry. It must be a nightmare time for you.”
I took his hands in mine. My Ben was definitely back. This was the time. The perfect opportunity to tell him about the almost-foetus. About our fourth child. We could make the decision together. I squeezed his hands.
“You know I’m tough, Ben. I can cope. We’ll get through this together.”
He pulled his hands away from me.
“What are you saying? That I’m not tough enough? That I’m not able to cope? Is that what you think?”
Jesus! What a sudden turnabout. The volatility Hugh had also spotted. I really needed him to answer the questions the nurse had effectively prevented me from asking.
“That’s not what I said, Ben, but now that you mention it I do think the strain of losing your job and the change in our circumstances has hit you very hard. There’s nothing wrong with needing an extra bit of help to get through rough patches. I asked the duty nurse about your current state of health but she was very evasive.”
I felt anger radiate from him but I stayed sitting close to him.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, “because I specifically asked that my treatment not be discussed with anybody but me. I knew you’d be sticking your nose in. And Hugh. I told you that I’ll be going back to my GP. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“Doctor Kelly thinks you’re taking the medication he prescribed, doesn’t he? Do you think he should know you’re stashing it? Why would you do that?”
He left his chair and sat on the bed beside me. His anger deflated as quickly as it had blown up. He put his arms around me and laid his head on my shoulder. He was shaking.
“I don’t know, Leah,” he whispered. “I don’t know. I promise I’ll talk to Doctor Kelly. I trust him. But I don’t want to get drawn into the hospital system. Going to clinics to see people who don’t know me at all. Being labelled. I’m just a bit depressed. That’s all. Nothing we can’t cope with.”
I held him until he stopped shaking. That took some time. I told the embryo inside me that Daddy was not well enough to hear about it yet. Nor was he in the right frame of mind to discuss the question of the house in Howth. But both discussions would have to happen soon. Very soon. Before it was too late to take control.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
If circumstances had been different, Hugh would have thoroughly enjoyed his walk along Curracloe Beach in Wexford. The sky was grey, the sea dark and restless, but the beauty of the seven-mile stretch of sand was stunning. He licked his lips, salty with spray the stiff breeze carried shoreward.
“Wasn’t this where Saving Private Ryan was filmed?” he asked Maria Cosgrave.
“That’s right. There was huge excitement while the film crew was here. That was back in 1997.”
Hugh stood and looked out to sea. To where the grey sky met the grey ocean. An appropriate setting for his grey thoughts. Yes, he had come here to try to get an insight into his mother’s childhood, but he had not been prepared for what Maria told him. He had no doubt she was being truthful. Two years Della’s senior, Maria was a striking older woman. More remarkable than her appearance was her zest for life. The wonderful energy she radiated. Her kindness. Her honesty.
“Della and I used to spend a lot of time here,” she said. “Especially during the winter when the place was all ours. We used to search the shoreline for treasure.”
He tried to imagine my mother as a carefree child. The picture did not fit with the woman he knew.
Maria checked the time on her phone.
“I’d say my dad should be awake by now. He hates anyone knowing he takes a nap during the afternoon. As if a ninety-four-year-old is not entitled to a rest.”
Hugh followed as she led the way towards the woods. Her father, long since retired from his job as gardener/handyman for the Roaches of Curra Manor, lived in the heart of the woods. His cottage was situated in a clearing, the ivy-clad walls blending in discreetly with the surroundings. Hugh was surprised to see triple-glazed windows and a solar panel on the old building.
“He refused to leave here and come live with me in the town, even after Mam died, so I decided to make it as comfortable as possible for him,” Maria explained.
“Beautiful setting,” Hugh said.
It would indeed be spectacular in spring, carpeted with bluebells and snowdrops, but it had a bleak beauty in the fading light of the November afternoon.
Maria knocked on the door. A dog began to bark.
“That’s Toby,” she said. “He’s a sheepdog, as old and toothless as Dad. No need to be afraid.”
The door opened. Dog and man peeped out. James Cosgrave’s face was weather-beaten and time-worn but the pale blue eyes were alert. The dog gave one more bark and then disappeared back into the cottage.
“So you’re Della Roache’s eldest son,” he said, offering his hand to Hugh. “I remember you when you were little. You were always asking questions.”
Hugh took the old man’s hand.
“I haven’t changed,” he said. “I’m still asking questions.”
“I know. Maria told me. Come in and sit down.”
James led Hugh and Maria into the kitchen and sat them next to the blazing log fire. He settled himself into the rocking chair across from them. His gaze was steady as he looked at Hugh.
“So you want to know about your Uncle George,” he said.
“Yes, please,” Hugh answered. “In fact, I didn’t know my mother had a brother until Maria told me today. I had always believed Mom was an only child. She never told me otherwise.”
“She was only four when her brother died. Maybe she doesn’t remember him.”
; “Maybe,” Hugh said, not wanting to openly disagree with James, but he did not believe that.
“Maria told me you were the one who found George. His body, that is.”
He nodded, then bowed his head. Not before Hugh saw sadness dim the old man’s bright eyes. It was as if he was reliving the horror of the moment. When he lifted his head again, there were tears in his eyes.
“He was a lovely lad, your Uncle George. He spent a lot of time in the woods here. There was a particular oak tree he loved. It’s around 100 years old now. He often climbed that tree and sat up there. He was a dreamer. But one evening he took a rope with him. I found him next morning. He was fourteen.”
They were silent, the three of them. Hugh thought of the vulnerable fourteen-year-old George. Depressed. Needing support. Misunderstood. How tortured his life must have been. How lonely his death.
“Your mother adored him,” Maria said. “I remember her trailing around after her big brother whenever she got the chance. He was ten years older than her and she hero-worshipped him.”
Hugh put his hand in his jacket pocket and took out the photo Maria had given him. Even though his mother had only been four when the picture was taken, it was safe to say the little girl holding hands with Maria was a miniature version of Della Parrish as she now was. And the boy standing behind them, George, was like a twin to Ben. The same dark hair and eyes. The same indefinable aura of sadness. George Roache, Ben Parrish. Peas in a pod. Hugh looked up at Maria.
“So why did she not tell us about him? Why no photos? I don’t remember her ever visiting his grave. It’s as if, for her, he never existed.”
“Not her fault,” Maria said. “You knew your Grandfather Roache. You must remember how strict he was. He ruled the roost with an iron fist. What he said went. To his way of thinking, his son had disgraced the family name, so he banished him from their history.”
Hugh shook his head. Leah had been right. His mother’s family history was like an excerpt from a Victorian novel. For crying out loud, it wasn’t that long ago. Sixty-four years. Surely there would have been some understanding of mental illness and how to treat it.
“How can you deny someone’s existence?” he asked. “Especially your child’s. That’s not just puzzling, it’s downright cruel.”
He heard James give a disapproving huff.
“Before you judge your Grandfather,” he said, “remember all this happened in a different day and age. Suicide wasn’t decriminalised in Ireland until 1993. And then there was the moral aspect. You know your grandfather was a very religious man.”
Hugh shrugged. Yes, Grandad Roache had attended church regularly but Christian kindness had never been part of his make-up. He had been twenty years older than Grandma Roache so he certainly belonged to another, less enlightened era.
“You have to agree, Dad,” Maria said, “that old man Roache was harsh. Della was afraid of him. Terrified that she might inadvertently break one of his rules.”
“Well, she broke the strictest rule of all, didn’t she?” the old man said. “She asked him about George’s death. That was your fault, Maria.”
James stared at his daughter. Maria shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“Well, yes, Dad, I suppose it was my fault. But I don’t regret it. George was her brother. She had a right to know how he had died. And he had a right to have his life, short as it was, acknowledged.”
James’ chair creaked as he sat forward, glaring at Maria.
“You interfered in something that was none of your business. You stirred up a lot of trouble then, and you’re doing the same again now.”
Hugh sensed the spark of anger pass between father and daughter. He felt awkward, sorry that his enquiries had seemed to stir up old disagreements. He moved to stand up.
Maria waved to him to sit and turned back to her father.
“Who was going to tell her?” she asked. “Her parents? You? The people who whispered behind her back? The ones who said there was a streak of madness running through the Roache family?”
She stopped suddenly, realising the Roache blood ran in Hugh’s veins.
“Sorry . . . I don’t mean . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
Hugh smiled, breaking the tension that had suddenly seemed to grip the room.
“Aren’t we all that little bit off-kilter? Isn’t that what makes the world interesting?”
“Maybe so,” James said. “But Della paid a high price for asking her father about George. He sent her to boarding school within days. Off up to Dublin. You lost a friend, Maria, and Della lost her childhood. We never really saw her here again, did we? Not mixing with the likes of us anyway.”
They were silent then, the old man staring into the fire as if reading history in the flames.
“I was at the burial,” he muttered eventually. “Dug the grave and helped lower young George’s coffin into the ground. Not here. The cemetery is twenty miles away. Not even marked with a gravestone.”
He picked up the poker and stirred the logs. Sparks crackled, flames made a whooshing sound, the dog snored as it slept at James’ feet, the clock on the mantle ticked away the minutes.
Hugh felt transported back in time. To a graveyard, twenty miles from here, to a furtive burial of the brother Della never spoke about. The uncle he had never had a chance to meet.
James turned towards him.
“Your grandfather wasn’t a cruel man, Hugh. I watched over him at his son’s graveside as he wept bitter tears. He was devastated by George’s death and the manner of his dying. It was different times. That’s all.”
Hugh nodded. There would be no point in telling the old man that the damage Grandfather Roache caused was not buried with George. He understood now. He knew why Della had always been so protective of Ben, why she tried her best to cover up his vulnerability. To deny his need for psychiatric care. To never, ever, mention her brother George. The shame was part of her DNA. It was plain Dad had not known about George either. He would have brought it all out into the open. And maybe, just maybe, he would have understood Ben better and loved Mum more.
Hugh stood up. He could find death and burial records online. At some stage he would erect a headstone to commemorate George Roache’s short life and tragic death. For now, he needed to get back to Paircmoor and talk to his mother. And to Leah. He offered his hand to James Cosgrave.
“Thank you so much for your help, James.”
“You’re welcome. Are you going up to the Curra Manor before you leave?”
“No. I’d better make tracks. It’s a long drive back.”
“There’s a young couple there now. And a gang of children. It seems like a happy place again.”
“That’s good. Thank you, James, for seeing me. I appreciate it.”
“I hope you’ll let the ghosts of the past sleep in peace now,” James said, before turning back to gaze into the flames.
Maria walked Hugh to the door.
“Thank you too, Maria,” Hugh said. “Do you mind if I keep this photo of George? I’ll send it back to you when I get it copied.”
“You’re very welcome, Hugh. Feel free to call anytime you’re in the country. Do tell Della we were asking for her. She’s always welcome here.”
“I’ll tell her.”
As he walked away, Hugh was sure that Della would never want to come here again. Nor would he, but he knew that the shadow of Curra Manor would always travel with him.
CHAPTER FORTY
It was past eleven o’clock when I heard Hugh’s car drive up the avenue of Cowslip Cottage. I went to open the front door, worried that he might knock and wake the children. As I watched him walk towards the cottage, I noticed the droop of his shoulders. If body language was anything to go by, his trip to Della’s home place must not have gone well.
“That was a long drive,” I said, as he made his way into the hall. “You must be exhausted.”
“You bet, Leah,” he said as he followed me into the kitchen and sat at the table.
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He did indeed look tired. His skin had a yellow tone as if he had paled underneath his tan. I sat down across from him.
“I was about to offer you hot milk, Hugh, but would I be right in thinking you need something stronger?”
He nodded. I went into the lounge, poured a whiskey and put it, and the bottle, on the table in front of him. He emptied the glass in one long swallow, then refilled it. I felt my stomach knot with tension. What in the hell had happened in Wexford?
“Did you meet Maria Cosgrave?”
“I did. And her dad. James Cosgrave. He dug the grave for Della’s brother. My uncle. Ben’s uncle.”
“Her brother? You mean her uncle? Della was an only child.”
“No, as it turns out. She was not. Her brother’s name was George.”
He picked up the glass of whiskey, looked at it, and put it back on the table again. He began to talk, telling me what he had learned of George’s life and death. Of how the memory of the boy had been banished from the Roache family history.
“So Maria Cosgrave told Della how George had died. Is that right?”
“Yes, Leah. That’s how, when she was fourteen, Mum found out that her brother had died by suicide. After talking to Maria, she went straight to her parents and asked them if it was true. That’s when they sent her to boarding school in Dublin. They banished her from her home as effectively as they had erased her brother’s memory.”
Hugh reached into the pocket of the jacket he had hung over the back of his chair. He took out a photograph and pushed it across the table to me. It was black-and-white. Old, with a sepia tinge. I had to hold it up to the light to see it properly. My breath caught in my throat as I looked at the boy in the photo. He was standing behind two girls, one of whom was obviously a very young Della Parrish.
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