I rushed up here to your room as soon as James drove me home, because I wanted to search for photographs, certificates, letters – anything from the time that you, particularly, were older. I have nothing. And yet I know that you did well at school, you were always a good student. You got a good Inter Cert, and an even better Leaving – and yet there are no signs of all those achievements. Do you have them?
Watching Gemma today was a too painful reminder of your own summer, the one when you’d just finished school. You were determined to go away, to spread your wings in London. I saw it as something very different. I was hurt that you wanted to get away from me and, to be truthful, I was afraid of being left on my own. James was twenty-three by that stage, just about to start his PhD, and I was so proud of him. He’d already met Olive, and I could tell it was serious. When you finished your exams, I was so pleased – I wanted the same for you as I’d wanted for James. My daughter – a university woman, maybe even a doctor or a lawyer. I’d learned how important it was for everyone, men and women, to be able to earn their own living.
Instead, to my horror, I saw you disappearing off to a big city with a boy you hardly knew. It had never even occurred to me that he was part of any picture, any plan of yours. In my imagination, I saw happening to you what had happened to so many before you – you’d get pregnant and that would be the end of any ambitions you might have. I didn’t want that for you – I wanted you to have a better life, one with more ease and comfort than the life of an unmarried mother.
Why couldn’t I tell you that? Had we really not been speaking for so long that it was impossible to say anything that the other would listen to? I regret that, Elizabeth. I regret it more than I can tell you. You were the young person, I was the adult, and I had a responsibility to behave better. If I had, we’d probably not have lost almost thirteen years. Thirteen years! It seems incredible that we punished each other for that length of time. I know you came back from time to time, and we had a tacit agreement not to mention the unmentionable. Those visits were hard for both of us, weren’t they? But we kind of settled into the routine of them. I’ll always be grateful to James for being the one to keep up real contact with you – and I’ve told him so, in my letters. He made sure you were back for each of the Christenings, in ’76, ’80, and ’82, and I know he and Olive have lots of photographs of their babies and the doting aunt. I asked him for them today, and he promised to drop them by at the weekend. I’m looking forward to seeing them, and to filling in some of those gaps for myself. I feel saddened by the waste of it all, and I’ve nobody to blame but myself.
The real ray of sunshine came in ’85, when you married Tony and had Laura later the same year. I really liked Tony, I thought he was good for you. I still do. And your wedding was lovely, so intimate with just the ten of us. Do you remember phoning me to tell me you were pregnant? I was overjoyed – and I really began to feel that we still had time, that your baby would pull us back together again. And she did, really, didn’t she? I used to look forward to your visits so much! Laura was such a lovely little girl, she reminded me so much of you. I felt we had a real connection at last, and I wanted to be very careful of it, to make sure I never did anything to weaken it. Christmas and summer became something to look forward to, and I felt I could show you through Laura just how much I’d always loved you. Over the years, it seemed to me that we no longer needed to talk about what had driven us apart. It’s only now, when I feel I may never see you again, that I must acknowledge how wrong I was.
I know that when you read these letters, it is highly unlikely that I will be able to speak to you; perhaps I won’t even recognize you. But that doesn’t matter so much now, because I can feel you are listening to me; I feel that you will forgive me.
Your loving mother,
Alice.
Beth folded the pages and replaced them in the envelope. She tucked the letter into the back pages of The Ugly Duckling, and placed the book under her pillow. She gathered the jewellery boxes and James’s book and took them downstairs to the sitting room, leaving them on the shelf beside the fireplace, where he was sure to find them. She’d talk to him in the morning.
Right now, she felt as though she were swimming in slow motion, making difficult progress through heavily moving water. Alice’s final letter had left her too calm, almost without emotion. She knew that all the outer ripples of their stormy relationship had opened up and closed again, that she and Alice were now at the centre of things, just like the pebble at the centre of the pond in her father’s walled garden. She would be back inside her other life soon, would find the time to be quiet and still: time in which she would look for, and discover, the daughter and mother she was now in the process of becoming.
*
‘Are you ready, Laura?’
‘Coming!’
She and Gemma appeared from the kitchen, eyes bright, faces flushed with laughter.
Beth couldn’t help smiling at both of them.
‘Do you think you can save some of that hilarity for our next visit? We might need it.’
‘Are we coming back for Christmas?’ Laura’s voice was high, excited.
Beth hesitated. She was conscious of Tony standing in the hall behind her. He had been quiet and unobtrusive for the last three days: she had noticed on more than one occasion his discreet helpfulness, his kindness to elderly neighbours and his sharp-eyed concern for herself and Laura. She was glad he’d come; she suddenly didn’t want to make any plans for the future.
‘I’m sure we’ll meet up sometime over the holiday – Gemma might even want a few days on her own in London sometime soon?’
The two girls shrieked and hugged each other.
‘Come on, you two,’ grumbled James. ‘You’re in my way.’
He was carrying Beth’s suitcase down from her room, and the two girls were jumping about by the bottom step.
‘I’ll take that, James.’
Tony stepped forward and took the suitcase from him. He turned to Laura.
‘Have you got all your stuff down to the car yet?’
She nodded.
‘Yeah. I put it in the boot ages ago.’
‘Come on – let’s check that we haven’t forgotten anything.’
Laura threw her eyes up to Heaven and Gemma giggled again. Beth looked at him gratefully.
‘Go on, Laura,’ she said. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
She and James were left on their own in the hallway. He held out his arms to her.
‘Come here to me, Sis.’
He hugged her tight.
‘You know that man still loves you, don’t you,’ he whispered into her ear, not letting her go. It was not a question. ‘Hold on to him this time: do you hear me? Don’t fuck it up. This is your second chance.’
Don’t give yourself something to regret when you’re eighty.
She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the bit of wall above his shoulder.
‘I dunno, James. There’s a lot of water under that particular bridge.’
‘Not as much as you think,’ he said quietly, kissing her cheek. ‘Take my advice and start swimming.’
She drew back and looked at him, doing her best to smile.
‘Will you be okay?’
He nodded.
‘Yes, I will. I’m going to do nothing between now and Christmas: just use the time and space for myself. And by the way, send Laura over anytime you want to, on her own. It’ll be good for her.’
‘I’ll do that. I’ll be back soon, James – don’t do any clearing out without me.’
He shook his head.
‘I won’t. I intend to leave everything exactly as it is until you come back. I’ll be doing nothing that I don’t have to.’
She could feel tears threaten.
‘Thanks for everything, James.’
‘Thanks to you. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
She could see that he meant it, too.
‘Ready, Mum?’
‘Coming now, Laura.’
‘’Bye, Uncle James. See you at Christmas.’
‘Or sooner. Look after your mum, won’t you?’
He bear-hugged her and she smiled up at him, suddenly Alice’s smile.
‘I will.’
Tony was waiting, standing by the hire car, which looked ridiculously small beside his large frame. He came over at once, and shook hands warmly with James.
‘’Bye, James. Thanks for your hospitality. Take it easy, won’t you?’
‘See you soon, Tony.’
Beth looked at her brother. His eyes were full of mischief.
‘Have a safe journey,’ he said.
‘Do you want to drive, Beth?’
Tony was holding the keys towards her. She had a brief, unpleasant memory from hundreds of years ago of a man with dirty fingernails and a cement lorry. The rain was running down the cracks and lines of his face; he smelt nauseatingly of diesel.
‘No, thanks,’ she said, ‘I think I’ll sit this one out.’
She blew James a kiss. He smiled, bent down and waved to Laura and watched as the car pulled away slowly towards the gates.
Beth looked behind her, waving until they reached the road. Watery October sunlight burnished the rioting leaves of the Virginia creeper. Her last glimpse was of the prolific ivy and woody-stemmed clematis all along the smooth capping-stones of her parents’ walled garden.
The Walled Garden
CATHERINE DUNNE was born in Dublin. Having studied English and Spanish at Trinity College, she went on to teach at Greendale Community School. Her first novel, In the Beginning, was published in 1997, and was translated into several languages. It was shortlisted for the prestigious Bancarella, the Italian Booksellers’ Prize, in 1999. Her second novel, A Name for Himself, was published in 1998 and was shortlisted for the Kerry Ingredients Book of the Year Award.
She lives on the north side of Dublin with her husband and son.
By the same author
IN THE BEGINNING
A NAME FOR HIMSELF
Acknowledgements
The Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig in Co. Monaghan has been a real haven for writers and artists for many years now. I was lucky enough to be there for the month of October, 1998, surrounded by the peace and tranquility of Bernard Loughlin’s autumn garden. My thanks to Bernard and Mary, former directors, who have since moved to warmer climes.
My thanks, too, to all the others who were resident at Annaghmakerrig during that time. It was a pleasure to be with those who took their work, but not themselves, very seriously indeed.
Special thanks are also due to Shirley Stewart, Literary Agent, for her sheer hard work and dedication, and for her unfailing sense of humour in times of stress.
First published 2000 by Picador
First published in paperback 2001 by Picador
This electronic edition published 2012 by Picador
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ISBN 978-1-447-21172-3 EPUB
Copyright © Catherine Dunne 2000
The right of Catherine Dunne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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