I reached for Ben’s hand and took it in mine. His palm was sweaty. I had enough of the pussyfooting around. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth.
Della beat me to it.
“It’s my story so I’ll tell it my way,” she said.
“No!” Hugh contradicted her. “It was your secret, but it is our story, our history, our heritage. Me and Ben. The children. It affects Leah too.”
Della ignored Hugh’s interruption. She ignored me also and addressed Ben directly as she told him about her childhood in Curra Manor and how she had idolised her big brother George.
“But –” he said and she held a hand up to stop him.
She told him of her friendship with Maria Cosgrave and how they used to play together. How her father was authoritarian and ruled the Roache family with fear. And then she stopped talking. I could feel Ben’s hand shake as I held it.
“Why did you never speak of him before, Mum?” he asked. “Why did your parents never mention him?”
She shrugged. A helpless gesture absolving herself from any responsibility.
“I was only four when he died,” she said.
“Oh! That still doesn’t explain the secrecy. Why did –”
“Suicide,” Hugh said.
The word seemed to reverberate around the kitchen. It was as if everything had been sucked from the room, cups, cooker, chairs. The vacuum left had been filled with the word, the deed, the awfulness of suicide. Suicide. Suicide.
“At fourteen years of age,” Ben whispered. “Why?”
“Probably untreated depression,” Hugh said. “It wasn’t recognised in those days.”
I felt Ben stiffen. I started also. It was if Hugh was pointing out a direct link between George’s condition and Ben’s. He had definitely picked up the American trait of openness and lost the Irish habit of softening the impact of bad news with indirect hints and clues.
“How?” Della asked. “I mean, what did he do to end his life?”
I looked at her in surprise. Did she really not know how George had taken his own life? I sensed vulnerability in the way she stared into Hugh’s face, waiting for an answer to her question. It was clear she wanted to know as much as she dreaded hearing.
“Did Maria not tell you?” he asked.
“She told me to ask my father. I did. That’s when he sent me to boarding school in Dublin and threatened that he would disown me if I ever spoke of George again. So I didn’t.”
Hugh nodded. It was an explanation. Of sorts. Della had gone on to university, read history and arts, graduated with an Honours degree. She was an intelligent woman. Her traumatic childhood was an explanation for keeping her secret. Maybe. An excuse, never.
“George hanged himself,” Hugh said. “In the woods, near the Cosgrave cottage.”
Della put her arms on the table and laid her head on them.
Ben reached across and grabbed the photograph. He stared at it, then stood and took it over under the spotlight lamp beside the dresser. His face was pale when he looked up. He walked back to the table and sat.
Della seemed to have got control of herself now and was again sitting up ramrod straight, head held high.
“I see now,” Ben said. “This is all about me, isn’t it, Hugh? You think I inherited George’s genes. That manic depression and suicide is my inevitable fate.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ben. Yes, you’re hardly going to deny you went through depression in your teens. But you had treatment in the Booly Clinic and look how you prospered after that. There’s no excuse now for being secretive or ashamed about mental problems.”
“Is that what you think, Hugh? That I’m a fucking mental case? Why are you dragging all this up now, just when you’re about to escape back to your plastic life?”
Della looked from one to the other of her sons.
“Boys!” she said. “There’s been enough sadness. Please don’t argue. I am upset yes, but I also feel liberated. I loved my brother. He was gentle and kind. And so protective of me. I could never explain my father to you and how afraid of him I was. At the same time I adored him and always strove for his approval. I should have let go that fear and the promise of silence I made to him. I brought it into my marriage with me, into your childhoods and adolescence. It’s time to let it go now.”
“So, you never told Dad, did you?” Hugh said.
Della shook her head.
Ben still had the photo in his hand. He seemed mesmerised by it. I wondered now about the wisdom of exposing him to this family tragedy on his first day out of hospital. He had been so happy just thirty minutes ago but now his shoulders were stooped and when he looked up, his eyes flashed anger.
He glared at Hugh. “Well done, big brother. You’ve stirred the shit here and left us with the fallout.”
Della reached her hand across the table to Ben. “No, Ben. Don’t be angry with your brother. He acted in the interests of the whole family. I appreciate that, and you should too. If you need someone to blame, it should be me.”
Ben pushed back his chair and walked around the table to his mother. He stooped and kissed the top of her head. He went to the door.
“The photo,” Hugh said. “I’d like to take it with me.”
Ben glanced from the photo in his hand to Hugh, then silently turned his back and went out, the picture still in his hand.
Della got her coat. Obviously she was not going to stay the night.
“I’ll drive Mum to her hotel in town,” Hugh told me. “See if I can get accommodation there too. If not I’ll just head for Dublin.”
I nodded, understanding that he needed to look after Della, but suddenly realising how much I was going to miss him.
“The children,” he said. “I’m so sorry I have to leave without saying goodbye to them. Give them a hug from me.”
“I will. And you take care, Hugh. Thank you for all your help.”
He opened his arms to me and I gladly stepped into that embrace, safe in the knowledge that Hugh and I were friends. There for each other in a warm, supportive way. And we always would be.
We held on to each other until a discreet cough from Della alerted us to the fact that she was standing there, waiting for Hugh. I walked over to her, intending to say goodnight but when I saw how exhausted, pale and helpless she looked, I automatically put my arms around her. Then Della, the self-contained, snobby, devious, proud woman I had come to dread, became a vulnerable old lady as she laid her head on my shoulder and wept.
“Do excuse me,” she muttered, as she straightened up and wiped her eyes. The raised chin told me Della was back.
“You don’t have to go now,” I said. “Stay until the morning.”
“I must.”
Then she was gone. Hugh followed, head bowed.
I walked to the hall door. Hugh stood on the step and faced me.
“I’m sorry, Leah. Maybe I should have left the past buried with George Roche. I hope I’ve not made things worse for Ben.”
“Truth is always best,” I said, and then kissed him on the cheek.
I waved them off but neither waved back. They had already left Cowslip Cottage behind.
I locked up, tidied cups into the dishwasher, turned off the lights and went to bed.
Ben was asleep, the photograph of his Uncle George on the pillow beside him. Even in sleep, he looked troubled. I lay there watching the rise and fall of his chest as he drifted into deep sleep. I thought over the events of the night. Della’s shock. Ben’s anger. Hugh’s confusion. I didn’t know if the truth was worth all that suffering. Could this be why Mam never told me who my father was? Could she have been protecting me from a fact I would not accept, but could not change?
What I did know for certain, as I lay tossing and turning until after four in the morning, was that the consequences of digging up all this hidden history would reverberate through our lives for a long time to come.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Saturday 4th December 2010
&nbs
p; I awoke the following morning to silence. Not a whisper in the bedroom. Not even the usual creaks, groans and sudden clicks that were the voice of Cowslip Cottage. I was alone in the bed. For a moment I wondered if I had dreamt that Ben was home from hospital. Then the memory of last night’s revelations about Della’s secret brother and his suicide came back to me. Ben had been angry with Hugh. Upset.
I reached for my phone on the bedside locker. It was nine thirty. I jumped out of bed, noticing that Ben’s pyjama bottoms were thrown on the chair. I called his name. Still not a sound. I threw on my dressing gown, shoved my feet into slippers and hurried to the kitchen. Empty. Silent. No Ben. No children. I raced to their bedrooms, the twins first, then Rob. Empty. Beds unmade. Heart thumping in my chest, I went back to the kitchen. There was ware in the sink. Four cereal bowls, so the children had breakfast and Ben had eaten too.
I held on to the back of a chair as I tried to control my racing thoughts. Panicking would not help me find the children, but all I could think of was Ben’s anger and upset last night. Could he be thinking logically this morning? Was he capable of looking after the children? Were they safe with him?
Even as that thought entered my head, I knew how treacherous it was. And yet, when I searched the other rooms, I found them empty. A quick look out the kitchen window told me the children were not at the swing. I ran out the front door. The shed where we stored firewood and fuel for the stove was to my right. A little behind that, hidden by shrubs, was the quaint old shed with the dry-stone walls and corrugated-iron roof. In there we kept every bit of bric-a-brac we couldn’t find space for in the house.
I had no idea why I should search the firewood shed, but I went there anyway. The door was difficult to open. I had to give it a good shove as it was swollen from all the recent rain. When I eventually got in, there was nothing to be seen except logs piled up against the wall and several bags of coal. I came out and started to head towards the old shed. I was suddenly brought to a halt as I glanced towards the avenue. The jeep was gone.
I stood there. Unmoving. Paralysed with fear. Ben had taken the children. Where to? Why? In milliseconds my mind recalled a plethora of horrific news reports. The awful things that had happened to other families when fathers took their children. Sometimes mothers too, but mostly fathers. Upset fathers. Troubled fathers. Terrified children. Dead children. Other families. Always other families. Other children. Not mine. Please God, not mine! And as well as all that, Ben should not be driving so soon after having a heart attack.
I screamed as I ran back into the house. I was calling on Mam to help me, help the children, trying to remember where I had left my phone, what I would say to the police when I made the 999 call. The bedroom was the last place I recalled having my phone so I raced there, almost tripping over the bedside rug as I grabbed my phone from the locker where I had left it.
I blinked when I saw it. The message I had been too sleepy to notice when I woke up. My fingers shook as I pressed the icon. It was from Ben. Sent at 8.45 am. While I had been snoring my head off and he had been kidnapping my children. I had to sit on the bed because my legs would no longer hold me up. I tried to read his words, but all I could see were mental images of my beautiful children. Rob, so solemn, so clever. Josh, full of fun. And Anna, a force of nature. My babies. Tears burned my eyes. They splashed onto the screen. I wiped them away with a corner of the duvet. I took a deep breath. I must read this message. The gardaí would need to know. It might give a clue as to where he had taken the children.
Then I heard it. The sound of an engine. A car pulling up outside. Car doors opening and closing. The excited laughter of children. Ben’s voice telling them not to wake Mom, that she was very tired. I slipped into the lounge and peeped out through a slit in the curtains. There they were, the three children and Ben, complete with Christmas tree strapped onto the roof of the jeep.
I went back to the bedroom, threw myself onto the bed, and buried my face in the duvet. I cried with relief, and also with shame that I had suspected Ben of kidnapping our children. That I had even considered him capable of harming them.
When I dried my eyes, I took myself and my phone into the ensuite, locked the door and read Ben’s message.
Hi sleepy-head, hope you had a good lie-in. You must be exhausted after the past week of hospital visits and looking after the children on your own. I’m taking them into the farmers’ market in Paircmoor to buy our Christmas tree for the house and a new set of lights for the garden tree. See you later. Enjoy your rest. Love you. XX
I looked at the calendar on the phone. Of course! It was the fourth of December. The day we had always gone and bought the Christmas tree. We had done so ever since our first Christmas together. I had forgotten about the tree, Christmas decorations and twinkling lights. Ben had not.
I vomited. Maybe because I was pregnant or more likely because I felt such self-disgust. The bile of my shame stayed with me. It burned deep inside, making me feel worthless, despicable. How could I have doubted him so much? All I knew for certain was that my betrayal must remain a secret. Yes, another secret. It would destroy Ben, and doubtless end our marriage, if I told him I had believed him capable of . . . of . . . I had to force myself to acknowledge the unthinkable, so that I could look at it, own it, and bury it in my subconscious. I had thought Ben capable of murdering our children.
There. That’s how bad I was.
I texted him back.
Thanks for the rest. Just getting up now. Going to have a shower. See you soon. Love you forever. XXX
PS: you should not be driving so soon after coming out of hospital!
Then I pressed send.
I went outside to the front of the house after my shower. The day was cold but bright and, for a change, not raining. The tree was still strapped to the luggage rack on top of the jeep. It was beautifully full and, I reckoned, so tall it would tip the ceiling in the lounge unless there was a chunk cut from the bottom. I smiled as I thought of the artificial tree Mam used to bring down from the top of her wardrobe every Christmas. It constantly shed its plastic needles, until finally, the year I married Ben, a new tree appeared in Mam’s home. I had thought the old one had been dumped, but as I cleared out her flat after her death I had found the old one, still on top of her wardrobe. I had kept it and brought it with me to Paircmoor. I’m not sure why. Probably to remember the Christmases Mam and I had spent together. Warm, sharing times. Fun times, when Santa always, miraculously, brought me the best of surprises.
I followed the sound of laughter and went to the old shed. I stood, unseen, to one side of the doorway and watched Ben and the children as they poked around, pulling out boxes of decorations. Anna had a string of tinsel draped around her shoulders and Josh was wearing a headband with antlers. I guessed Ben was searching for the tree-stand. He always forgot where he had stashed it away the previous year. I glanced up to the roof rafters of the old shed, to where I had slotted Mam’s bare-branched artificial tree. It had been no less magic to me than the big tree was to my children. Someday I would take it down and tell them about it. I took a step inside the door.
“Try behind the deck chairs,” I said to Ben.
He turned around and grinned. His face, like the children’s, was glowing with excitement.
“Thank you,” he said. “What would I do without you? You know me so well.”
I smiled up at him, praying that he did not see shame reflected in my eyes.
Anna and Josh ran towards me, while Rob came to the door at a leisurely pace. They were all full of news, wanting to tell me about the tree they picked and how they were going to decorate it. Ben pulled the stand out from behind the chairs and gave me the thumbs-up sign.
“Sorry I slept so long,” I said. “You should really be resting after all you’ve been through. And you should not be driving.”
He put down the stand, caught me by the two arms, and looked deep into my eyes. So deeply I was afraid he would see the poison in my soul.
; “I’m done with resting, Leah. That’s just a half-life. I want to meet life full on. Challenge it. Control it. And I’m perfectly capable of driving. You don’t think I’d do anything to endanger the children, do you?”
I heard the fervour in his voice, the passion, the determination. There was no doubt that Ben was tired of being buffeted by fate and was ready to stand and fight. It might be that he now realised how close to death he had come. Or perhaps it was hearing how his Uncle George had given up on a life so tragically young. Or he might be buoyed by the idea of returning to Dublin, to live in that great big house in Howth. I wondered where this battle was going to take us, or if his new-found enthusiasm would last. But one thing was certain, I would be by his side, trusting him, whichever direction life took us.
“Group hug!” Anna ordered.
I stooped down and picked her up. She shoved a Santa hat skew-ways on my head. Ben picked Josh up, while Rob stood in between us. We had a Parrish family group hug, right there in the quaint old shed.
I glanced up again in the rafters, at the remains of Mam’s old tree. I smiled, silently thanking her for sprinkling this moment with angel dust.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I was in the kitchen in the afternoon, sorting through laundry, when there was a ring on the door. Ben and the children were in the back garden putting lights on the little tree. I went out to the hall to open the front door. Della stood there, looking pale and unsure of herself. It was as if she was waiting for an invitation.
“Come in, Della,” I said. “Ben and the children are out in the back garden. They’re all a bit manic because the Christmas tree goes up today.”
“I know. Fourth of December. I brought trinkets for the children to hang up. If that’s alright.”
She held a bag in her hand, and for the first time I felt she was really asking me if she could give them to the children. I thanked her and she put the bag on the counter.
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