by Elske Rahill
She expected time to have diminished the house, but as she turns the corner it looms up bigger and sooner than expected. The clutter of red chimneys and slate peaks, that then seemed only sinister, look expensive now, with their bright window frames and the swathes of tied curtains. There is a rectangular, flat-roofed extension at the front of the house. That’s new. Along the steep drive, the twiggy trees that once haunted this stretch have thickened into a wall of bark and branches. They bend in on her, shaking their leaves over her flimsy car as she tilts and bumps up the plush gravel.
There is a shiny red van in the driveway, two black cars – both sleek, expensive things with frowning headlights – and a pale blue convertible with its leather roof folded back. Cara tries to reverse the car, so that she can leave quickly if she needs to, but as she is inching it around, she sees them in the wing mirror, emerging one by one from the house – her mother and her Aunt Sinéad and her Aunt Aoife. They stand in a row, watching her. Her mother is wearing an exaggerated smile and clasping her hands together. The front of her hair is pinned up on either side, so that it flanks her face like spaniel’s ears, and she is wearing a pink knee-length dress with a floppy lace collar.
‘Chicken!’ she cries, her eyes very round and her whole face strained with smiling. Even her hairline has lifted.
Cara pretends not to have heard her. She concentrates on parking, on steadying her breath, readying her voice. Hello, she will say. Just, hello. She will look her in the face. She will not squirm.
As she takes the key out of the ignition she notices the holes in her jeans – a loose hatch of thread across each knee. She had thought to change before coming here, but she didn’t want them to think she had dressed up for them. She didn’t realise quite how tatty she was though. She has worn these jeans through all of her pregnancies. This jumper too. It is frayed at the cuffs, stretched thin and bobbled over her belly.
She takes a deep breath, to try to pull herself back together, but her mother is approaching the car now – the driver seat with the duct-taped mirror. Cara hurries out of the car.
‘Chicken!’ Her mother touches her belly with both hands, giving a shriek that makes Cara flinch. ‘Aaaa! You’re so BIG!’
Her eyes stretch very round, showing the veiny whites. This was a mistake. Cara can see that now. Her aunts are still standing by the house. They have both aged since the last time she saw them.
Aoife purses her lips. ‘Hi, Cara.’
‘Hi, Aoife. Hi, Sinéad.’
Sinéad, who has been looking everywhere but at Cara, nods apologetically. ‘Hi, Cara.’ Everything about her seems to have puffed up. Even her eyelids. Even her fingers, which hold each other in a kind of supplication.
The aunts file into the house, and her mother shoos her in after them.
*
Where did her mother get the money? Her cousin Valerie said it was a settlement from Cara’s father’s family, but that seemed farfetched. As a child, she did not appreciate the cost of a house like this. The huge marble hallway and the glass doors leading, on the right to the music room with its sponge-painted walls of manic yellow and orange, to the left the ‘good room’ where the curtains match the armchairs.
‘Through here, Chicken, we’re having tea in the sunroom.’
As she is ushered through to the far end of the hall, there are framed photos on the walls: portraits of each of Cara’s children, black and white, a little bit pixelated. Peig as a newborn, her face still creased like poppy petals, a cotton hat on her head; Denise with her white hair piled up, her eyes a dark smudge; Megan with jam around her mouth. They have been enlarged from smaller prints. Her first thought is of spies photographing her family from far away – black cars with tinted windows – but then she spots a huge studio photo of her nephew. Jem is a few months old, sitting buddha-fat in his nappy, smiling gummily and grasping for some bubbles the photographer is blowing. She had forgotten how bald he was. A big bald head, and dimples. Grandma had that photo taken. She had a small print of it on the mantelpiece in the good room.
The kitchen has changed since she was last here. There are granite worktops, smooth white fittings, a giant butcher’s block in the middle of the room. The Aga is still there – the big red Aga her mother never used.
‘Cara, I don’t think you’ve seen the sunroom since I had it built. Have you?’
‘No.’
‘W-Hell—’ She spreads her arms to present a room off the kitchen – ‘Isn’t it JU-H-UST BE-HA-YUTiful?’ She has a way of forcing all the air from her lungs when she wants to emphasise a word. The effect is a hoarse huffing sound that makes Cara feel like she is out of oxygen herself.
It’s the extension that Cara saw from the front – a rectangle with high glass windows and a glass roof, a big farmhouse table and chairs. There is a jasmine plant trained up one of the walls.
‘Don’t you just love BEHATHING in sunlight?’
Cara’s throat hurts. There are more photos in here – of Cara herself this time, and Freya.
‘The SUHUN! Even in winter! Sit down, Cara, sit down.’
‘Why have you got those photos?’
Her mother’s lips pull tight to her teeth, her eyes bulge, but she keeps her voice sweet. ‘Why shouldn’t I have pictures of my children up, Cara?’
‘But you weren’t at my wedding. And the pictures of my children. Where did you—’
‘Why wouldn’t I have pictures of my grandchildren?’ Her mother laughs incredulously, and so does Aunt Aoife. But Aunt Aoife knows she shouldn’t have those photos – she must know.
‘I made some brownies,’ says Sinéad.
Arms wrapping her bump, Cara peers closely at the photos. They are small prints, but poor quality, as though they too have been enlarged. Facebook. That’s what it is. They are all pictures that Cara uploaded onto Facebook. But how did her mother get on Cara’s Facebook?
‘Valerie sends her love,’ says Aoife.
‘Have some tea, Cara,’ says Sinéad, ‘and try a brownie. They’re good. Well, I think they’re good. These two won’t eat sugar.’
‘It’s the wheat I won’t eat, Sinéad. Poison. If you didn’t eat wheat you never would have got cancer, you know. Get another cup from the kitchen, will you please, Sinéad? The white Villeroy Bosh.’
‘Boch,’ mutters Aoife, ‘it’s Villeroy Boch, Eileen, you ninny hammer.’
Aoife has settled herself at the end of the table, and she’s fingering some A4 sheets grimly. There is text printed on them, streaks of yellow highlighter pen over some of the lines. She picks up a memory stick and puts it down again.
Cara sits. She takes a bite of the brownie and taps the crumbs onto a pink paper serviette. It’s delicious – a sweet crust and then softer chocolate in the centre. ‘Mmmm. These are lovely, Sinéad. Is there hazelnut in them?’
Sinéad is visibly pleased. ‘Hazelnut flour. Yes, I think they’re pretty good… lovely with a cup of tea.’
‘Now,’ says Aoife, ‘we want to discuss Freya.’
‘I thought you wanted to discuss Grandma?’
Her mother is sitting beside her, too close. She takes a loud breath in through her nose, and lays her hand over Cara’s.
‘Cara,’ she says, ‘your sister isn’t well.’
‘What do you mean?’
Aoife’s eyes sharpen on her, quick as a pecking bird’s. ‘Did you know she has been bleeding Grandma dry? For years, she’s been spending Grandma’s money…’
Cara takes her hand back. She rubs her belly in circles. She closes her eyes. A limb sweeps under her hand – a leg or an arm?
‘Right,’ she says, ‘I’m going to go now, I think. I don’t think this is going to be productive.’
Her mother rolls her eyes. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Cara, don’t be so dramatic!’
‘Since we have taken over Grandma’s affairs we’ve discovered all kinds of things,’ says Aoife. ‘Thousands and thousands Freya has got out of her, did you know that Cara?’
�
�I don’t care.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t care, Aoife.’
‘What did you say? Speak up, Cara, what are you trying to say?’
‘I’m not going to sit here listening to you bitch about my sister.’
Cara watches the jasmine plant over her mother’s shoulder – its waxy flowers, the weave of its branches and the little green ringlets springing loose, searching for something to cling to.
‘Well, believe you me, Cara, she has taken thousands and thousands from Grandma over the years,’ says Aoife. She picks up the USB stick and waves it. ‘We have evidence. Video footage. And we have stuff on you.’
‘Well, that’s neither here nor there anyway,’ says Sinéad. Several times she has lifted her brownie to her mouth, and put it down again, as though embarrassed to eat. ‘It’s the power of attorney we wanted to discuss, isn’t it?’
‘We have you rifling through Grandma’s purse,’ says Aoife. ‘We have Freya stealing from her.’
‘She’s sick, Cara,’ says her mother. ‘She has poor Davitt driven demented.’
‘Davitt is very unwell, Cara,’ says Aoife. ‘He is dying of cancer and Freya is tormenting him. She set the HSE on him, hounding him for information about things – mad things. Mad ideas.’
Cara can feel the redness washing up from her neck. They think that was Freya.
Her mother squeezes her face up, shakes her head. ‘She’s never been right.’
‘What kind of cancer?’
‘It’s the child I worry about,’ says her mother. ‘His poor father is very worried about him. He’s desperately trying to get custody…’
‘Jem’s fine. I’m going to have to leave, I’m afraid.’
‘This concerns you, Cara. She made Grandma change the will. She made Grandma give everything to her – to the child, you know, but he’s a child, so actually, to her.’
‘Well, not if his father gets custody…’ says her mother.
‘This is bullshit,’ says Cara, standing. Her ankles hurt, her throat hurts. She needs to wee but the thought of pulling down her pants in this house makes her panic.
‘She made some kind of bogus report to the HSE!’ says Aoife. ‘And she has some fantasy – some really crazy ideas. She sent some really crazy emails to Valerie. I have them here…’ She looks at the paper in front of her, sneers, ‘Listen to this.’ In a sing-song voice, she reads: ‘As you may or may not know, last summer there was a HSE enquiry into elder abuse regarding Grandma. I think only your mum and Sinéad were investigated and they both refused to co-operate. I don’t know why my mother wasn’t. Who does she think she is? Valerie was disgusted. She rang me straight away. I told her not to reply. Just leave it, I said. I told her not to get involved. Listen to this, I mean it really is – who does she think she is? ‘You may or may not be aware that my mother extracted a €100,000 cheque from Grandma very shortly after her fall…’ “Extracted”! Like I pureed her or something! Made a little reduction here in my cauldron! Essence of Mammy!’
‘No, hang on now, this is from the latest one. She sent this only a few days ago. As I have made clear to both your mother and mine, I find certain behaviours in relation to Grandma’s money and property revolting…’
‘Behaviours!’ says Aoife. ‘She thinks we’re bold girls and she’s going to put us in our places! She finds it revolting! Of course she does! She’s not getting her way paid anymore… it makes her sick. I replied by saying that I find their behaviour around Grandma’s affairs really sickening and want no part in it. And hang on here is where she lets her colours show: I did not, by the way, “get” anything for having Jem! She did pay for childcare fees as she wanted me to finish university. Did she now, Lady Muck?’
‘Aoife,’ says Cara’s mother, ‘read her the bit about me. About how she is being horribly harassed by her own mother, and poor her, her child’s father wanting to see him…’
‘Wait now, so here’s where she threatens us. While I do find the behaviour deeply unethical, I do not wish to proceed with an objection at this time as long as Grandma’s direct welfare is not at stake. Well, isn’t that very good of her altogether?’
‘Where’s the mad bit, Aoife, about the father and me and all that?’
‘I’m going now.’
‘Wait, you need to know this, Cara. You need to know what she’s up to. Okay, here it is. I mean, she doesn’t even know what an affidavit is, clearly. Brendan nearly fell off his chair laughing at this bit: Jem’s father has gone into the district court with the following sworn affidavit, and then in brackets she says, (not very relevant to access, but extremely odd) – I love the brackets, the brackets are my favourite – He has told my solicitors that the following “information” has been provided by an elderly aunt. Extremely odd indeed – just amazing levels of paranoia! Elderly aunt – she thought she’d insult me with that one… Oh hang on, here it is – the drama!’ Aoife flings her arms out, gesticulating hammily as she reads: ‘There seems to be some bogus record of Grandma’s finances in circulation, and this has resulted in what is verging on harassment from my mother and an ex-boyfriend.’
‘She’s always had a persecution complex,’ says The Lily. She pronounces the word ‘persecution’ very carefully, as though she’s just learnt it. Rolling her eyes she says, ‘Everyone is out to get her. We’re all spending our lives trying to wreck hers… Like none of us has anything better to do.’
‘Oh, this is where it gets really dramatic though, listen to this: I do not wish to involve anyone unnecessarily in this sordid affair – Sordid affair! – the whole thing makes my skin crawl – but if you know what is going on please tell me as I need this to stop.’
‘This sordid affair!’ says Sinéad.
‘I need this to stop,’ says Cara’s mother. ‘It’s the little boy I worry about. It’s the child I worry about, really. Am I going to have to go through the courts to get to see him, Cara? That’s what I want to know. That’s what I’m going to ask her.’
‘Right, goodbye, Aoife,’ says Cara. ‘Goodbye, Sinéad, thank you for the brownie.’
Then she looks at her mother. She wants to say goodbye but she doesn’t know what to call her.
‘Look, this is serious, Cara,’ says Sinéad. ‘Speaking of sordid, Freya has done something really disgusting here.’
‘She could have had me dragged up in front of the courts like a common criminal!’ There’s a tremble at the corner of Aoife’s eyes.
‘She caused Davitt to get critically ill,’ says her mother.
Sinéad is picking the edges off her square of brownie. ‘It’s very upsetting for the whole family, Cara. Freya made Grandma change her will to something crazy. She took thousands and thousands from Grandma. Brendan shut that investigation down, but we were lucky. Imagine us all dragged up before the courts? Imagine Grandma dragged up? You can’t possibly think that’s right, can you? We’re a respectable family. We are Dennis Kearney’s children!’
‘What do you expect me to say, Sinéad?’
‘The power of attorney thing, Cara. We’re going to have to fix this and you have put in an objection to power of attorney. There’ll be nothing left, you know. Most of the money is going on Grandma’s care.’
‘We need to talk to you like an adult now, Cara,’ says Aoife, her mouth set in a thin line. ‘We have worked out how much money Freya took from Grandma and it’s not fair. It’s not just. And Grandma wouldn’t have wanted that. It comes to eighty grand altogether you know, between one thing and another, and that’s only in the last few years. And – now Grandma is in agreement with this – we are going to have to access some of Grandma’s funds anyway, for her care. We’re going to sell some shares she has, and we propose, well, to make everything fair, we propose we distribute it as Grandma wants – you included now, you and Valerie included – we propose we give you each eighty thousand and that way it doesn’t all go to Freya.’
‘You have no right to do that.’
‘We do,’ says
Aoife. ‘Grandma has signed off on it. We haven’t taken power of attorney yet. You’ve put in an objection, so we got Grandma to sign off on it herself.’
Sinéad cocks her head; her eyes look so little now in her swollen face. ‘Is it some nonsense Freya said to you, that made you do that?’
‘I put that in because of some things Grandma said. And the way my mother got her to write a cheque for a hundred thousand.’
‘A – what, Cara?’ Aoife squints. ‘You’re muttering, we can’t hear you.’
‘Mammy got her to write a cheque for a hundred thousand to her…’
‘How dare you!’ says her mother. Something glistens in her eyes; a ferocity, a kind of pleasure.
‘Oh yes, Cara, we know. You were bothering Davitt about that, weren’t you? Well, don’t worry about that,’ says Aoife.
‘She is my mother,’ says The Lily.
‘We’ve sorted that out, Cara. There was no need for you to go meddling in that. That was just a loan. Your mammy has paid us back our thirds. We’d be getting that in the will anyway…’
‘If Grandma was made a ward of the court,’ says Sinéad, ‘it would be a disaster. Everything would go on tax and legal fees and Grandma would be dragged up in front of the courts.’
‘Did Davitt not tell you? I have pulled the objection. I can’t afford it.’
Aoife nods tightly. ‘Well, Grandma wants everything to be fair. We’ll send you a cheque will we? Or do you want us to transfer it to a bank account?’
‘Bank account,’ says Cara, ‘I’ll email my bank details…’
54
FREYA SHAKES OUT ONE of Baby Peggy’s vests, smooths the ridge made by the clothes horse, shapes it slowly into a neat square. Her sister has not inherited their grandma’s knack for housekeeping. The laundry is pilled and stiff – too weakly wrung and too slowly dried. The whites are grey or yellowish; the coloured things are faded. None of it has ever been ironed. There’s a sour, brackish smell off it.