A Letter From America

by Geraldine O'Neill

  Catherine arrived with her son Joseph who had driven them down from Dublin. Fiona greeted them at the door, and she could tell by her aunt’s face how upset she was. Joseph, his dark hair much longer than she remembered, was courteous as he always was, sad about his uncle and full of sympathy for the family. But she felt there was a wariness in him, and it crossed her mind that it might be because he knew about the row that had taken place between his mother and her parents.

  As they stood in the hallway, she felt a knot of anxiety about her mother meeting up with Aunt Catherine again, and was relieved when Nance came out of the kitchen towards them and allowed both Catherine and Joseph to give her a hug.

  “I can’t believe it,” Aunt Catherine said, her voice choked with tears. “Seán looked fine when we saw him yesterday – he looked so well.”

  “Everyone says that. Everyone says he looked fine,” Nance said in a flat, dull voice, “but it obviously wasn’t the case.”

  “If there is anything we can do?” Joseph said. “Anything at all?”

  “Thank you, you’re both very good – but I think we have all the help we need.”

  Fiona noticed that her mother didn’t look directly at her sister or Joseph – when she was speaking to them, her gaze was directed over their heads.

  “If you go into the parlour,” Nance said, indicating towards the door, “there’s a good fire on and I’ll get Bridget or Angela to bring you in some tea and sandwiches. There are some of Seán’s relatives and some neighbours in there too, and Fiona will introduce you to anyone you don’t know.”

  And then her mother was gone, her heels tapping down the hallway.

  “She’s not herself,” Fiona said. “I don’t think it has hit her yet really. It’s all been so sudden.”

  “It was certainly sudden for us,” Aunt Catherine said, “so it must be a hundred times worse for her.”

  Fiona brought them into the parlour and introduced them to anyone who they might not know. Most people were standing drinking tea and talking in low voices, while there were others seated by the fire and at different areas in the room. She had just found chairs for them in the corner by the window when Angela came in, and made her way through the groups of mourners to her aunt and cousin. She put her arms around both of them and then she brought a spare wooden stool from the fireside, so she could sit down beside them.

  Fiona stood near them for a few minutes, thinking how easy all three looked together even under these strained circumstances. As she listened to them talking, she felt a tinge of envy that her sister had such a nice, easy relationship with their aunt and cousin. She wished now she had someone – a grandmother or an aunt she was particularly close to – or anyone that she could confide in.

  Their grandparents had all died years ago, and most of their relations lived too far away. Her father’s family, who lived locally, were nice, but they weren’t the sort you could talk personally with. It was just one of those things.

  She supposed Mrs Mooney was the closest she had to a confidante, as she understood their mother’s moods and ways. But it wasn’t the same as being close with a family member, and although they were comfortable with each other, it tended to be more of a practical relationship based on running the house and the business. Maybe, she thought, it was probably just as well that she didn’t have too many people who she might miss when she eventually went to New York.

  She knew it couldn’t possibly be next week now. She couldn’t leave her mother so soon after burying their father – and she didn’t want to. She hadn’t had time to think it all through, to grasp what had really happened in the last twenty-four hours. But, somewhere at the back of her mind, she knew the true enormity of it was waiting to hit her mother, herself and her sisters. Since this morning everyone was just working on automatic pilot. Doing what needed to be done, seeing to the funeral business, seeing to the constant stream of mourners. And then, at different times, each one quietly retreating upstairs to their room and their own thoughts.

  The next two cold days that followed passed in a blur as more family and more people from Tullamore and beyond came to say the Rosary with the family and to pay their respects. Then, the night before the funeral, Seán’s remains were brought from the house to reside in the church overnight.

  Fiona drove herself and Bridget down through the town in her car, whilst her mother and Angela went with one of Seán’s brothers who had a bigger car that was easier for them to get in and out of. When they all arrived outside the church, Fiona linked her mother’s arm on one side, while Angela and Bridget were on the other.

  As they made their way up the aisle she saw her Aunt Catherine and Joseph waiting in a pew at the front of the church, and wondered why they hadn’t come to the house beforehand as most of the other relatives had done. Fiona noticed her mother’s body stiffen when she passed by their pew, but she just kept walking, her head bent, without acknowledging them.

  Angela had mentioned that her aunt and cousin had booked into Bolger’s Hotel in town for the night before the funeral, to save them driving back and forth to Dublin as they had done the previous nights.

  After the service all the people filed towards the front of the church to shake hands with Nance, the girls and Seán’s brothers and sisters. Catherine and Joseph sat behind, and spoke to anyone who approached them. When there was only the family left in the church, they came to the front row to her mother, and Aunt Catherine once again asked if there was anything they could do to help.

  Fiona felt awkward and embarrassed as her mother shook her head and said, “Thank you, but everything is organised for the morning, and we’re just going to go back home now and have an early night.”

  “We won’t come back to the house tonight,” Aunt Catherine said. “We’ll just go straight back to the hotel now, and give you all a bit of peace.”

  Fiona and Angela both looked at their mother, waiting for her to insist her sister and nephew should come back for a cup of tea or a drink. But she said nothing. Instead, she bent down to pick up her handbag and then search inside it for a handkerchief.

  Fiona thought of the plates of sandwiches that were already made up and covered in tinfoil, awaiting the mourners who would call in after church. Mrs Mooney had sliced fruit cakes and sponges that neighbours had kindly handed in, and Patrick had brought up extra sherry and whisky glasses for those who would like a drink. But it seemed that none of that hospitality was being extended to Nance’s only sister and nephew.

  Angela reached across and touched her aunt’s arm. “Come back to the house,” she said. “You don’t need to rush back to the hotel yet.” She looked pointedly at her mother. “They’ve travelled all the way down from Dublin.”

  Nance tilted her chin and said in a stiff voice, “They’re welcome to do whatever they feel is best.”

  “No,” Catherine said. “We won’t come back to the house. You’re all tired...we’ll leave you to it and see you in the morning.” She passed in front of her sister now to clasp Bridget’s hands in hers, and then she moved along and did the same to both Angela and Fiona. Then, she put her arm through Joseph’s, and they walked down the aisle and out of the church.

  Fiona avoided looking at Angela as she knew she was incensed at their mother’s rudeness. She was upset about it herself, but the last thing they needed was a confrontation and a big row the night before the funeral. The situation was saved when the priest came out of the vestry, and came over to speak to them about arrangements for the funeral service in the morning.

  When they got outside the church, there were more people waiting to offer their sympathies to the family. They stood for a while talking, and when they finally started to make their way back home, Fiona angled it so she and Angela walked behind their mother, Bridget and Mrs Mooney.

  “I’m absolutely mortified at our mother’s attitude,” Angela said in a low voice. “Half the town will be back at the house and she can’t ask her own sister and nephew.”

  “Please d
on’t say anything.” Fiona put her arm through Angela’s to draw her to a halt. “Wait – I don’t want anyone else hearing.” She took a deep breath. “Look, I promised Mam I wouldn’t mention it, but she and Daddy had a bit of a row when they came back from Dublin. Well, it was actually a big row. It must have been on her mind, because the day after Daddy died, she asked me not to mention it to anyone else. She says she’d rather we remembered all the good times, and how they always got on well. I wouldn’t have broken my promise to her, but otherwise you wouldn’t understand why she’s like this.”

  “Of course I won’t mention it,” Angela said. They started walking again now there was a reasonable distance between them and the others. “I’m the last one that wants any trouble – but a row between her and Daddy doesn’t give her the right to be so bloody awful to Aunt Catherine and Joseph. I know she’s awkward with her at the best of times, but to do it so publicly at Daddy’s funeral was not nice at all.”

  “Well, the row between them was actually about Aunt Catherine and Joseph,” Fiona explained. “From what I heard, they had a row when they were at her house the night Daddy collapsed. After they got home, I heard Mam and Daddy arguing in the parlour. I tried not to listen, but the louder bits I couldn’t help overhearing were about Aunt Catherine.”

  “Actually, I know all about it,” Angela said. There was no point in staying silent. It was betraying her aunt, but it wasn’t fair on Fiona, when she had been so honest. “I rang Aunt Catherine the night it happened and she was upset and ended up telling me all about it.” She raised her eyes to the heavens. “Mam is raging because Aunt Catherine asked Daddy if Joseph could come down to Tullamore to work in the bar when you went to New York.”

  Fiona looked at her in surprise. “Mam never mentioned a word about it to me. But isn’t Joseph working in a shop in Dublin – one of the department stores?”

  “He was let go,” Angela said.

  Fiona looked at her for a few moments, turning the information over in her mind. “I think Joseph working in the bar is a great idea. What did Daddy say?”

  “He thought it was great, too – and that’s what caused the row.”

  “But what’s Mam’s problem?” Fiona said. “They would have to get someone after I go anyway. Mam couldn’t be in the shop all the time, and Joseph is part of the family. He’s a lovely, cheery guy – he would be brilliant in the shop and bar. We’d have all the young ones in the town queuing up to be served by him.” She put her hand over her mouth. “That’s doesn’t sound right, but you know what I mean.”

  Angela’s frown deepened. “In fairness to Mam, that’s not the full story.” She sighed. “You do know Joseph was in a band?”

  “I knew he was in a showband for a while, but then I heard him saying to someone at the house that he had moved to a rock band. I was busy going in and out with sandwiches at the time so I couldn’t really listen.”

  Angela then went on to relate the information her aunt had told her.

  “Drugs?” Fiona’s hand came up to her mouth. “Oh, God!”

  “Joseph wasn’t involved,” Angela said quickly, “but she said he’s come home late at night the worst for wear for drink. She said it would do him good to get out of Dublin for a while and away from that crowd.”

  “She’s right,” Fiona said. “I wouldn’t be too worried about the drinking bit – a lot of single lads his age go to the pubs at the weekend, and have a few too many. Sure, we see it in the bar all the time. It’s the drugs that I’d be worried about. Thank God he’s not involved with them himself, but I can see how Aunt Catherine wouldn’t want him mixing with a lad who is.”

  “And there’s more likelihood of drugs in these rock bands – you only have to read the papers. Look at The Rolling Stones and all the trouble they’ve been in over drugs.” She shook her head. “I don’t think Joseph is the type to do anything like that, but if he’s around people who’re taking drugs, you just never know when he could be tempted.”

  “You would think that Mam would want to help her sister out,” Fiona said. “You’d think she could at least give him a chance.”

  “Aunt Catherine told me that Daddy wanted Joseph to move down and help in the bar, but then Mam put a spoke in the wheel. I’m not a bit surprised.” Angela’s voice was flat.

  “There’s nothing we can do about it now,” Fiona said. “Everyone is too upset about Daddy. And whatever she says, Mam must feel terrible that they had such a bad argument hours before he died. We’ll just have to hope that nothing else awkward happens with Aunt Catherine. We’ll leave it until everything has calmed down after the funeral.”

  “Okay,” Angela said. “You know best. You’re the one that is the closest to Mam – living at home and working with her every day.”

  “I don’t know if any of us are that close to her, really,” Fiona said. “There are times I can’t fathom her at all. I don’t know why she’s so angry with Aunt Catherine, especially now when we have so much going on.”

  “Forget it for now. Hopefully it will all sort out.” Angela looked at her. “What’s going to happen when you go away? Has Mam said anything about it?”

  “It’s unlikely now that I’ll be going to New York.”

  “I know you’re not going now. I know you have to postpone the trip. It wouldn’t be the best start for you going so soon. I meant when you go away later, when you feel more up to it.”

  “Everything has changed so much I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know how Mam’s going to be. For all I know I might never go to New York. The nanny’s job might go to somebody else. When I rang Mrs Davis she said she would do her best to manage until I let her know what’s happening. I’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Chapter 10

  On the Friday morning Nance and her three daughters gathered together in the house dressed in black or navy coats and hats, ready to leave for the funeral.

  When they stepped outside, it struck Fiona what a still, colourless day it was. Just as still and colourless as the house now seemed without the cheery presence of their father.

  The next hour and a half passed in a haze as they repeated similar rituals to the night before, receiving condolences and sympathy and shaking more hands on their way into the church. And then sitting through the funeral Mass, and shedding more tears as they listened to the words the elderly priest had to say about one of their most valued parishioners.

  And then they were back out into the freezing crowded churchyard, with more people speaking to them and shaking their hands. Three of the nuns from Bridget’s school came over to offer their condolences and Nance Tracey thanked them for coming and told them they were welcome to come back to the bar for a meal later on.

  At one point Fiona felt a hand on her shoulder and when she turned around she found herself face to face with Paul Moore.

  “I’m sorry for your trouble, Fiona,” he said. His voice was low and serious. “Your father was a lovely man. Everyone said so.”

  “Thanks, Paul,” she heard herself say. “And thanks for coming to the funeral.” She had dreaded seeing him, but amazingly she felt no awkwardness now, apart from gratitude for his kindness.

  He smiled at her, and then he turned back towards her mother and her sisters to offer his sympathies to them as well.

  And then, as though emerging from a dream, Fiona somehow found herself walking behind the shiny black hearse on the long road to the cemetery, as flakes of snow started to fall.

  “This is all we need,” Nance said, her voice filled with hopelessness.

  “It’s nicer than rain,” Fiona said. “And it’s only a light shower.”

  “It’s nice to look at,” her mother replied. “As long as no one slips and falls on it.” She looked at Angela. “Are you okay? Are you managing?”

  Angela looked back at her mother, her face pale and serious. “Yes, thanks,” she said. “I’m managing fine.” She had brought her calliper with her, but so far had managed without it. She was
wearing black leather Mary-Jane shoes she had got made for special occasions. At a quick glance they looked like ordinary shoes, but the shoe for her bad foot was a smaller size – it was narrower and had a reinforced sole and a broader heel. Both shoes, the specialist cobbler had reassured her, had been finished with a good grip for weather like this.

  “Be careful anyway,” her mother said, closing her eyes and sighing. “We don’t want anything else happening.”

  Angela looked away. For once – especially today – she wished her mother could speak to her in a way that was motherly and caring, instead of making her feel like the family casualty.

  By the time they turned into the gates of the cemetery, there was a light covering of snow over all the graves and the grass surrounding them. And the snow was still falling, although the flakes had become smaller and lighter.

  It struck Fiona, as they slowly walked along, that the scene around her looked like something from a painting. In a strange way, it was almost beautiful. And she was glad for her father that it was, because it made her feel a tiny bit better about what was happening.

  But then, as they walked up the avenue towards the grave, where her father’s body would soon be buried, a dark feeling descended on her. All that was left of the man they had loved and lived with was now dressed in his best suit and shirt and nailed down in the mahogany coffin in the back of the hearse in front of them.

  How could it be that she would never see him again? Never speak to him, never feel his hand on her shoulder when he came into the shop or when she went into the bar. She could not conceive of the fact that he was gone – and gone forever.

  All he would be from now on was a place to visit in a cold cemetery, with his name and birthdate on a grey headstone, amidst a sea of hundreds of other headstones.

  The thought brought a feeling of panic in her chest, and she felt tears flooding into her eyes once again. Her arm tightened on her mother’s, looking for some sort of comfort or reassurance, but her mother did not respond – her mam was just staring ahead to where the men who had dug the grave were standing in attendance beside the priest, waiting for the family to arrive.