Mary Kate

by Nadine Dorries

  She dipped back inside. ‘You’re a noisy one,’ she whispered to the cat as she pattered across the lino floor and, freshly bathed, slipped between the pair of cool linen sheets. She stared up at the ceiling, at the fringed pink lampshade hanging from the central plaster rose, and thought what a beautiful sound the Tarabeg river made and why had she never noticed how lovely it was. There was no time to search for an answer as she melted into the depths of her first deep sleep since leaving Tarabeg.

  *

  Lavinia Marcus had tried to entice Nicholas to make love to her, but he was asleep before her lips had reached his soft lower belly. The rhythm of his breathing became slow and heavy and she knew she’d lost. She moved to her own side of the bed, plumped the goose-down pillows, placated herself with the memory of her assignation earlier and felt the burning, tense knot of frustration settle in her groin.

  The room was dark and the only sound other than Nicholas breathing was the distant trundle of the last bus heading down Aigburth Road, the occasional rustle of the leaves and the caterwauling of the huge ginger tom from next door as he squared up to protect his territory.

  She pushed the covers off and kicked her legs out of the bed as she wondered who she was becoming. Each boundary she pushed fell at the touch of her manicured fingers. It had all been so simple. It had taken minimal ingenuity to deceive and, surprisingly, given that his wife wasn’t altogether a headscarf-wearing frump, it had taken even less effort to entice Robin into an affair. Oh, how easily that boundary had been breached. She smiled at the memory of that day, and of the subsequent days and alternate weekends since.

  It was the wickedness, the illicit nature of the affair that thrilled her. She was high on the oxygen of sex and duplicity. The lies came easily, and of course she relished having men desire her and tell her how beautiful and irresistible she was. She was the modern-day Cleopatra of her own suburb. She grinned in the dark as she thought of the women she lunched with, played bridge with and met at the golf club on the odd occasion Nicholas found the time to take her there. She finally gave in to sleep, wondered how many of their husbands were safe and, as it was so easy, who she would reel in next. Her affair with Robin was too risky. Far too close to home, but she wasn’t willing to let him go yet. She would be more careful next time.

  14

  Bridget McAndrew sat with the pen poised over the paper. ‘So I am to reply that you are long dead, is that right?’

  Daedio wriggled himself further up the bed. ‘Aye, say I died of the plague, a rat bite. No, I know, tell them I was cursed, fell down a bog hole and was never seen again, that Seamus is still searching for me and that Nola is beside herself with the grief.’

  Bridget snorted with laughter. ‘Well, that could very well have happened to you after many a night in Paddy’s, and sure, I think it did once or twice, did it not?’

  Daedio rubbed his chin and had the grace to look shamefaced. ‘It did. If Annie hadn’t been stood in the doorway, listening out for me, she would never have heard my screams. I wouldn’t even be here today, God rest her soul.’

  Bridget laid the pen back down again. ‘Daedio, listen while I tell ye, I’m not sure they have the same notions in America as we do here. Do they even have bog holes or faeries over there? Or are they just here in Ireland? Have any of your lot, in their letters home, ever once mentioned the faeries or the bog holes?’

  Daedio looked dismayed. ‘The letters home were about New York and Brooklyn. About bridges being built and dollars being made. About a general store called Macy’s, which Nola said must be just like Malone’s. What shall we say then? We’d better get a move on, Nola will be back up the boreen within the hour.’

  ‘How about this then: Dear Joe Junior of Brooklyn, America, thank you very much for your letter enquiring as to the whereabouts of Mr P. T. Malone. I am replying to you from the post office in Tarabeg and I am very sorry to inform you that he died some twenty years ago, leaving nothing to anyone. The man was a drunk and a tramp and lived out in barns and on the charity of others—’

  ‘Don’t go too far – you make me sound like Matty Maughan,’ said Daedio, his voice loaded with indignation.

  Harmless Matty Maughan had moved into the village when his relative, Shona, and her grandson Jay had moved out. He walked from farm to farm, carrying his food in a cloth bundle tied to the end of a stick and perched on his shoulder, and had no more than his next meal to his name. Ostensibly he helped with harvests and other odd jobs. In fact he did very little, but he was never turned out of a cow byre or a pig pen and he lived off the scraps of food that were given readily, along with a kind word, at nearly every door. No one in Tarabeg remembered how Matty was related to Shona or Jay, they only knew that he kept his distance from them both.

  ‘I know I am. I’m using Matty as an example, and I’m thinking, if they ever come here looking for you, we can get Matty to pretend he’s you. He can say that he didn’t die, just went wandering, and returned at the same time the American did.’

  Daedio flopped back onto his pillows. ‘Matty can barely speak. The poteen has addled his brain.’

  Bridget smiled. ‘I know. Why do you think he was the first person to come into me mind? ’Twas an easy comparison for me to make.’

  Daedio picked up his mug of tea and nursed it to his chest as he glared into the flames of the fire, which was always lit, no matter the time of year. ‘If I meet our Joe in heaven, I’m going to beat the fecking living daylights out of the bastard. Our Joe couldn’t write, no more than the rest of us could, and that, Bridget, is the reason I know there is no fecking will. The person who wrote this letter is not related to our Joe, and now, God help us, we have a murderer from America, who found out about the money in jail, sending an assassin here to claim it. What right-minded person would think it was still here after all this time? He’s chancing his luck, he is – a chancer, nothing more – and it’s trouble our Joe is heaping on us from his bloody grave, the fecking eejit.’

  He waved his fist at the ceiling. ‘Just you wait until I’m up there, Joe – bringing all this worry on my shoulders. Go on then, Bridget, do a Matty letter, ’tis our only hope. I’ll make sure he’s the best fed on this farm next time he calls. Jesus, I’ll give him me own bed for the night, so I will. Go on, write, tell him that’s who I was. Does Mrs Doyle know?’

  ‘Oh, she does that. I’ve told her there will be the finest crate of whiskey in it for her after this.’

  Daedio grimaced.

  ‘Take that scowl off your face. You got seven acres out of it, your grandson built the best shop in the west, and you are sitting on the best farmed hill in the country. They can’t take none of that from you, and you still have a fortune hidden somewhere. What in God’s name is up with you?’

  Bridget began to write as Daedio supped his tea. What was up with him was that he knew there was a great deal of money hidden behind the bricks of his fireplace. He knew why whoever it was Joe had confided in had passed the information on and why a chancer was writing to him. The money, the ill-gotten gains of a bank robbery, had obviously cooled with time, over in America, and someone was coming to fetch it. A letter was their first shot, but Daedio was quite sure that if whoever it was from Brooklyn knew how much money there was, and Annie had told him it was a lot, the letter would be just the first salvo in their treasure hunt.

  *

  Teresa hurried to the oven when she caught sight of Father Jerry running up the path to the presbytery, and with one swift tug she removed the steaming apple pie. ‘Go and get yourself ready now, Father, I have your dinner almost on the table,’ she shouted as soon as the door was opened. ‘Who was it that made you late tonight then? Do they not think you are a shadow of yourself by the time the Angelus arrives and that you don’t have a breath left in your body for nothing other than to eat your tea?’

  ‘I will be down in ten minutes, Teresa.’ And with no other explanation, he was gone.

  Teresa wiped her floury hands on the tea towel and wat
ched him go with suspicion. He was usually quick to volunteer the news from the Angelus. The talk had been fervent since Mary Kate had run away from home, and the gossip, well, that was wild. He was hiding something from her.

  Father Jerry closed the door to his room behind him. He was not about to discuss with Teresa his conversation with Bee. Bee had attended the Angelus and he had left her in no doubt how he felt about her having lived in sin in Liverpool for so many years. If it had been a welcome Bee was after, she was in for a serious disappointment and he had told her so. He had expected her back home to repent the error of her ways within the year, not after nearly ten. As he hung up his cloak and surplice, he pondered on Bee’s words. He was still smarting at her lack of contrition and how she’d fought back when he’d pointed out to her all that she’d done that was sinful.

  ‘What was I supposed to do? Live my life here in Tarabeg along with nothing but the memory of my murdered sister and dead niece, working every hour I was sent on this earth just to put bread on the table? Living the same life, day after day – is that what God had planned for me, Father? Is that why he took my Rory in the way he did, drowned him out at sea so that I had to struggle just that bit harder? Did he?’ Her face was flushed and she was on the verge of tears.

  Father Jerry turned his head away and began to scrabble around in the side of his cassock. He hated these conversations with strong women like Bee. He hated tears. By the time most Irishwomen reached Bee’s age, the tears were usually long spent, replaced with the realisation that they changed nothing, that they themselves had nothing, and that the full weight of the Church and society would bear down on them should they try to do anything about that.

  Bee looked towards the door. She wanted to escape from the Church of the Sacred Heart. Her throat was thick with holy smoke and the anxiety that had beset her since the death of Captain Bob’s wife. ‘Anyway, Father, you might not have to worry about my soul being sent to purgatory any longer. I’ve had neither sight nor sound of Captain Bob since he left me to travel to Ballycroy. I came back to the house all on me own.’

  ‘Yes, well, he has his own family to put first now, Bee, now that the poor woman, his wife in the eyes of God, is dead.’

  The blood rushed to Bee’s face and her temper flared. She swallowed down the bile that had risen to her throat and took a deep breath before she spoke. ‘Father, since when did you become a man with such little understanding? I well know you didn’t approve of the fact that Captain Bob and I were living in sin, but you were never like this. I never expected your blessing, but I thought you – the man who preaches against theft but poaches when the salmon are in, and who drinks in Paddy’s bar even when it’s closed on a Sunday, taking the Guinness – would be a little more understanding.’

  Father Jerry was embarrassed as he wiped his brow with the neatly folded white handkerchief he’d extracted from his cassock. ‘I’ve had a duty to be vigilant since evil began to stalk our village, Bee. You of all people should know that, after the terrible murder of your own sister and then the awful shock of Sarah passing over as she did. ’Twas partly my fault. I made too many excuses, allowed too much to fall from my grasp.’ He leant over and almost hissed in her face. ‘I lost control of this village, so I did, and in my negligence, someone else slipped in. Do you not understand? Are ye forcing me to speak his name out loud?’

  Bee could see the distress in his eyes, but she would not be put off her stride. ‘You didn’t murder Angela or kill Sarah and you cannot use what happed to them to blame yourself, or anyone else, or take your anger out on me. And anyway, whatever you say, Captain Bob’s daughters were worse than the old scold and yet he never missed a week when he kept them comfortable, nor their mother. They all had the best, while we lived a frugal life in Liverpool. But none of that matters now. I think they may have won – you have probably got your way, Father, because I’ve not heard a word.’

  Father Jerry looked at Bee askance. He could hardly believe what she was saying and they were still standing in God’s house. ‘Sure, the funeral hasn’t even taken place yet. Have a bit of decency about you, Bee, would you. He has duties to attend to, obligations to meet.’

  Bee did feel chastened. She knew how she sounded, and unfamiliar tears threatened. She was the strong one; she had carried them through the past ten years. Without Captain Bob at her side, she felt lost, besieged, alone.

  She walked behind Father Jerry to the church door and it occurred to her that he was in a hurry to get away from her.

  ‘As it happens, I’m not here to talk about Captain Bob. I’ve come to ask something of you and you can make of it what you will. Michael is in a mighty temper and he’s packing his bag right now ready to head to Liverpool and fetch Mary Kate home. Rosie is beside herself; she thinks it will be a disaster if he does that, thinks Mary Kate will just dig her heels in further, and that if he leaves her be, she’ll come back of her own accord. Nola and Seamus are on their way down the hill to talk to him, but it seems to me like he has the Devil himself in him, he’s been giving out so much.’

  They were outside on the gravel path now. Father Jerry pulled the heavy church doors closed behind him and they stood in the graveyard in the evening light. He looked up towards the lights of the presbytery, where he knew Teresa would be preparing his supper. His stomach rumbled. The lights were on in the Devlins’ too; the bar was open, and he would be heading there after his supper. As soon as he returned home he would fall to his knees and pray for forgiveness. The keys of St Patrick brushed against his bare thigh, reminding him of his obligation. He, in all of Ireland, was the priest to hold the secret chest, the scroll and the keys. He had felt that Tarabeg was blessed. That St Patrick regarded their village above all others he had visited. Only a few people knew about the treasure in Father Jerry’s care: himself, the Bishop of Galway, and the Vatican. He had proved himself unworthy once; it would not happen again.

  ‘I’ve heard Liverpool is a terrible place altogether – I know priests who are over there. I think Michael’s doing the right thing, going to fetch her home.’

  ‘Well, if you think he’s doing the right thing, you don’t know Mary Kate very well.’ And with that, Bee turned on her heel and headed towards the Malones’.

  Father Jerry stood watching her, his hand resting on the gravestone of Sarah Malone.

  *

  Bee didn’t look back as she turned the corner and hurried towards the Malones’. Despite her mission to plea for help for Rosie and Mary Kate, her thoughts were full of Captain Bob. He would have known how to deal with Michael right now. There hadn’t been a decision made by either one of them in the last ten years that hadn’t seen the other involved in it, and yet now, in the face of the momentous occasion of the death of his wife and the beginning of their long-awaited freedom, he hadn’t even sent a telex from Ballycroy to let her know what was going on.

  On top of this, her quiet homecoming had been anything but. The gossip from Ballycroy was beginning to filter into Tarabeg, and it was only Mary Kate having run away that had deflected the attention from her, allowing her a measure of freedom to go about her business. At night she lay awake wondering what would happen if the village did find out the truth about her life over the past ten years. What if Captain Bob didn’t come back? What options did she have? Could she live in a village where her sins would fuel the gossip for years to come and never be forgotten; where she would be shunned and excluded from everything as if she were a pariah?

  She now realised that Father Jerry must have been behind Michael’s decision not to allow Mary Kate to visit. It was obvious from the father’s manner. Michael would never have been so cruel. They had liked Captain Bob well enough when she’d lived in Tarabeg, when he’d kept up the pretence of returning home to his wife. As long as the villagers had had a reasonable charade to cling to, providing a veneer of respectability that had not challenged their own hypocrisy or threatened their place in heaven, all had been well.

  The day she’d arrive
d home, she’d stood in her cottage doorway looking out at the ocean, well aware of what her options were. She would not return to scratching a living from the land and the sea and the grace of God. She would not walk the mile to the village each night and resume her work in Paddy’s bar for as long as her bones would allow. She would not, when the day arrived, live off charity or beg for her son to send pounds or dollars to the post office. ‘I may be coming to join you sooner than I thought,’ she sobbed to her dead sister and her dead niece. As black thoughts filled her mind, the clouds blocked out the sun and the shadows lurking in the corners of the cottage drifted towards her.

  *

  Rosie was standing at the end of the bed and Finn was on the chair beside the scrubbed pine table under the bedroom window. The lemon-yellow curtains decorated with sprigs of pink flowers lifted and dropped in the light breeze, and the red and orange fuchsias and dog roses in the jug were already beginning to wilt. So was Finn.

  His legs swung under the chair as he looked about him and tried to blot out his father’s remonstrations and Rosie’s pleading. He was supposed to be over in the Devlins’ house, playing with the boys. Keeva had tried her best to make him stay – ‘Would you look, Finn, Aunty Josie and I have made your favourite chocolate cake, and Uncle Paddy, he wants—’ But her words had fallen on deaf ears.

  ‘I’ll be back, Aunty Keeva. Mrs McAndrew said Daddy’s losing his mind and I want to go and watch.’

  He had indeed sat and watched as his daddy roared for all of half an hour, and now he was bored. If that had really been his father losing his mind, it had been slightly alarming but nothing more than that. He’d seen him shout plenty of times before. Finn ran his hands though his mop of golden-red hair and sighed, wondering how he could sneak back over the road to the cake. His biggest concern being whether there’d be any left. He didn’t want to become the next object of his father’s wrath, didn’t dare move, regretted coming back to watch.