by Claire Allan
I made my coffee and slipped two slices of bread into the toaster, waited for them to pop up and then spread them thickly with butter before switching on Sorcha’s laptop, opening a new Word document and starting typing – pouring out the memories Áine had shared with me. It wasn’t well written. It was little more than bullet points but it was the framework of my charge’s life. It was a rough family tree – a basic spider-web of connections between people who had been mentioned. Jonathan of course, and his sister – and Charlotte and her husband Jack. Lorcan too, I supposed, though I couldn’t quite work him out – how had their story ended? And Rosaleen, her mother, a woman who seemed to have experienced her own share of pain.
I imagined the rooms of the house – those that were locked away from us and I vowed that I would talk to Jonathan about it the next time I saw him.
I saved the notes I made into a new folder on Sorcha’s cluttered desktop and searched out more information on reminiscence work with dementia patients. I could do so much, I realised as I read, if only I had the key to Áine’s past. Where she worked, everything about these people who meant so much to her, what music she listened to. Áine could fill in the blanks – now before it was too late – and I could remind her of those memories when things were tougher.
I stretched and poured a second cup of coffee before glancing at my watch and seeing that it was past nine. There was no time like the present, I assured myself, so I took my mobile from my handbag and searched out Jonathan’s number. I typed out a quick message, deleting and rewriting a few time so as not to cause him any alarm. “Jonathan, would like to meet to discuss your aunt. Nothing to worry about, just a few ideas. Let me know when suits.” I read over the message once more, deciding it set the right tone – professional but also chatty. I wanted to come across as approachable. I realised above all else I needed to get Jonathan – the man who seemed to have taken against me from our first meeting – on board if I was to even try to do what I intended. Hopefully he wouldn’t think I was snooping. God, what if he did think I was snooping? That I was only interested in unlocking any secrets the big house might hold? But I couldn’t live my life based on what-ifs – and I realised I would never forgive myself if I didn’t at least try and help Áine more. The realisation hit me in the pit of my stomach. Yes, Áine was more than a client. More than a dementia patient. More than a charge. She was my friend and I wanted to help her.
I took a deep breath and pressed send and then wandered out into my own pitifully suburban and boring garden where I had never in my life planted a flowerbed, where I had never created an almost magical playground for my daughters.
1964
Áine woke as the early morning sun began to stream through the windows at the front of the house. Her mother had offered before, many times, to get heavier curtains for the room but Áine liked being woken by the sunrise – even in summer when it seemed as if the sun never really set in the first place.
She would lie there in her bed and breathe in the sights, sounds and smells of the old house. There was a haziness to these summer mornings. The old house held the heat from the day before and the room was warm despite the fact Áine had left the sash window open just a fraction. She could hear the birds break into their morning song, the soft whistle of the breeze through the leafy trees whose branches brushed against the windows. Áine breathed in and out again, slowly, and turned to look at the clock on her bedside locker. It was just before seven. It wouldn’t be long until the house woke up around her. Bit by bit the sound of the ticking grandfather clock in the hall, and the whistle of the breeze in the leaves would be replaced by the squeaking of the hinges on bedroom doors, by the gentle thudding of footsteps on the wooden floorboards, the shouts – friendly and not so friendly – between the two children vying for the bathroom. Rosaleen would call that she was making breakfast. Charlotte would sing as she walked downstairs, and Jack would whistle – his own tunes that no one else ever seemed to know. The kettle would whistle on the stove. The knife would scrape over the toast. The cups and plates would clatter and the bacon would sizzle and the house would buzz into existence.
There were mornings the seemingly quick transformation from her restful sleep to a house buzzing with people would make her want to stuff her head under her pillow to drown out the noise but she promised herself that today she wouldn’t take a second of it for granted. Charlotte, Jack and the children were due to leave before lunchtime. This was their final morning to cram as much in as they could. Everything was packed – including the beautiful new dress and a few books she knew Jonathan would love practising his reading with. The children had a small satchel each and she had made them cookies which she had wrapped in brown paper for the journey. She had put a colouring book in each of their bags and some crayons and she had made some little books in which they could draw. She had bought them each a bag of marbles. Charlotte had gently scolded her and told her the children had plenty and there was no need to spoil them. Rosaleen had butted in, of course, saying that the children would always be spoiled in Derry and that when they came home again at Christmas Charlotte could expect more of the same.
“Lord knows, we don’t see half enough of them and, when they are here, we want to do everything and get everything for them,” Rosaleen had said, ruffling Jonathan’s hair. Turning to Áine, she added: “Imagine it, Áine – all together in this house at Christmas again! We’ll have to get a big tree and make paper chains. Will we buy some new baubles – ours are getting a bit tired?”
Áine couldn’t remember the last time she saw her mother look so alive – but she had to admit she was excited herself. She was already planning to sew some new Christmas stockings for the children and she had seen a few jigsaws which she would love to wrap and put under the tree. She was sure she could find a simple pattern and some lovely fabric for her mother to make a Christmas dress for Emma. She would have to remind herself that Charlotte and Jack would have a say in the festivities as well – but she knew her sister well enough to know that, despite her protestations that the children should not be spoiled, she would go along with whatever Áine and Rosaleen planned. She was one of life’s travellers – she went with the flow.
But before Christmas could come they would have to say goodbye for four months. Áine allowed herself to lie in her bed for a moment longer before she sat up. Four months was not long. And sure school would be starting again soon – and once she was in the whirl of the classroom and piano lessons the weeks would fly by. Lorcan had also promised to provide his share of distractions as well. She smiled at the thought – of all the distracting he could do, all those soft touches and gentle kisses and not so gentle kisses.
Four months was not a long time and then they would enjoy a truly unforgettable Christmas. Perhaps Lorcan would even join them for dinner. He would look quite fetching in a paper hat, she thought smiling, and it would be lovely to kiss him under the mistletoe after the children had gone to bed.
“Think of the good times still to come,” she whispered to herself as she slipped her feet into her slippers and pulled on her dressing gown. She tied her hair up in a ribbon and opened her bedroom door as quietly as she could, padding her way downstairs to where Charlotte sat nursing a cup of tea and smoking a cigarette.
“You’re up early,” Áine said, allowing her sister to pour her some tea from the pot before adding her own milk and one sugar.
“Lots to do,” Charlotte said with a smile. “It’s not easy transporting all of us across a continent. It takes a lot of planning. Or least a lot of tea to get me through the day.”
“Admit it,” Áine said, “the tea is just not as nice in Italy as it is here at home.”
Charlotte laughed. “I cannot tell a lie. And I have a box of finest Irish tea leaves in my case to prove it – but, even at that, it doesn’t feel the same drinking it in the Italian sunshine.”
“My heart bleeds,” Áine said with a smile.
“I’m sure it does, dear sister. I am sure
it does.”
“You’ll be back soon,” Áine said softly. “I’ll make you as many cups of tea as you want at Christmas. Consider it your present.”
“And I couldn’t ask fo r a better one,” Charlotte said, taking her sister’s hand. “It has been a lovely few weeks, hasn’t it? I mean once Mother and I stopped going for each other’s throats at every opportunity.”
“She worries about you.”
“And I about her – and about you. That’s what families are all about, isn’t it? Worry. They say it’s love but the two are linked together – you can’t love someone or something fiercely without worrying about it just as strongly.”
“I suppose,” Áine said. “If we didn’t worry about each other we would be angry at ourselves. It wouldn’t feel right.”
“Precisely. So I promise, dear little sister with a big romance on the horizon, to always worry about you and you can promise always to worry about me.”
“I will,” Áine said softly. “I will worry about you with all my heart.”
“Good girl,” Charlotte said, topping up their teacups. “Now, some more of this fine Irish tea before the brood wakes.”
Áine did her best to keep a stiff upper lip as Charlotte and Jack climbed into the car and the children waved at them from the back seat. Rosaleen wasn’t quite as reserved and she allowed the tears to flow freely, even if she had a strange smile – for the benefit of the children – plastered on her face at the same time.
“Be good, I love you! Take care and we’ll see you soon! Don’t forget us!” Rosaleen called after the car.
Áine put her hand gently on her mother’s arm, partly because she wanted a little bit of comfort herself and partly because she had a small but perfectly formed fear that her mother might just take off running down the driveway after the car and her newly departed family.
Rosaleen took a deep breath, a shaky breath which ended in the smallest whisper of a sob, and straightened herself, adjusting her pale-blue cardigan and smoothing down her blouse.
“That’s that then,” she said, in a voice not as strong as the sentiment she was sharing. “Best get on with things, my dear.”
She turned without meeting her daughter’s gaze and walked back into the house – which was already colder for the loss of the four voices that had rattled around it over the previous few weeks.
Áine took a moment to watch the car leave the estate, to get the last glimpse of a small hand – Jonathan’s she was sure – waving back at her before they went out of sight and then she walked back into the house and to the kitchen where she filled the kettle and placed it on the range.
“A cup of tea will make it all feel a little less sad,” she said to her mother.
Rosaleen nodded, but she was somewhere else in her mind. “You know, pet, I think I’m getting one of my headaches and my hands are aching a little. I might just go for a little lie-down. I know it’s terribly lazy of me, but I do feel tired. All that running around with the little ones, I imagine.” Still she didn’t meet Áine’s gaze.
Áine wanted to reach out to her, to say it was okay to feel a little bereft, but she knew that her mother just needed some time to adjust, just those few hours to be still and quiet and lick her wounds a bit. Besides, Lorcan had promised to take her for a drive to take her mind off her sister’s departure. She would feel easier leaving the house knowing her mother was sleeping. So she just nodded and agreed that a little sleep might do her a power of good. “Nothing as healing as a good sleep,” she said and she promised to wake her mother later in time for tea. “I’ve everything ready for a nice salad,” she added. “I even got some of that tinned salmon in that you like and that bread is still nice and fresh.”
“That sounds lovely,” Rosaleen said. “I’ll look forward to that.”
“It will feel easier after a sleep,” Áine said.
“I know, pet,” Rosaleen answered. “I know.”
With that she shuffled off up the stairs and Áine wondered if it was possible that someone could look five or ten or fifteen years older just because they no longer had children around them keeping them young.
She lifted the kettle off the range – no longer in the mood for a cup of tea. Instead she poured herself a glass of cool lemonade and made her way to the sanctuary of her garden where she would wait for the beep of the horn from Lorcan’s car as he arrived.
The beach was busy – families set out in little camps on itchy woollen blankets, baskets overflowing with sandwiches, mothers pouring tea – milk and all – out of flasks into enamel mugs. Children screamed as the waves crashed against their legs, Lough Swilly never quite warming up enough to take away the shock of the chill.
Áine felt the sand between her toes – warm and soft as she walked along observing all life in front of her. Lorcan took her hand and she turned to smile at him. He looked strange – in his trousers, shirt and tie – his bare feet being his only concession to their surroundings, but he also looked so very handsome against the backdrop of the hills of Donegal, the sun shining on his face.
“Nothing clears the head like it,” he said. “You just can’t beat a walk along the beach.”
“A paddle in the sea could beat it,” she teased but she had already tried to persuade him to dip his toes in the water to no avail.
“I really don’t think so,” he smiled. “I never was one for the water. Fierce fear of jellyfish!”
“I think you might just be afraid I would splash you,” she said. “And I don’t blame you. It brings out the child in me – a wee paddle in the water. Sure what’s the point of it if you can’t splash the person you’re with?”
“And you see, Miss Quigley, this is why you will never tempt me down to the hard sand and the surf. I’ll take my chances up here on the soft, warm and dry sand.” He squeezed her hand and led her on. “I don’t even mind a little wander among the rocks, somewhere more secluded. Somewhere we won’t get watched if we share a kiss.”
Áine blushed, her stomach tightening delightfully at the thought of his lips on hers. She wanted so much to nod, to drag him towards the sheltered cove at the end of the beach where less families had set out their pitches for the day – where they could sit on the sand and enjoy a quiet cuddle together. It would all be okay, she realised. Missing Charlotte would pass. Missing the children would be tough but not as tough as it had been before, because this time she had someone all of her own to help her while away the lonelier times. That someone was handsome, she thought as she walked hand in hand with him in the sunshine, imagining that just as she was envying the families enjoying their picnics there were people among the crowds envying her and the tall, dark-haired man she walked with.
She leaned towards him, resting her head briefly against his arm and momentarily let herself close her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin as she walked. She felt him pull her a little closer, winding his arm around her shoulders and kissing her forehead gently. When she opened her eyes she looked out at the sun glinting off the ripples of the water, the hills rising out of the horizon, and she listened to the soft sounds of familiar accents around her and felt a wave of contentment wash over her.
Chapter 15
Present Day
By the time Matthew sent me a text to tell me the girls were staying with him for the rest of the day so that they could go out for a late Sunday lunch together, I had managed to get myself into a bit of a funk. Feeling lonely, I decided to make the most of the beautiful spring day which had graced us with its presence and head over to see Áine. Perhaps I was crossing a line, again, but it seemed like a perfect day for working the garden. I’d just spend a few hours there – maybe have a spot of lunch – and then be on my way.
I was sure Áine wouldn’t mind – and she had told me that she normally spent Sunday mornings on her own before Jonathan would call over. It would also allow me the opportunity to make sure she was okay after the upset of the day before. It was a win-win situation. And no, it wasn’t at all
sad, I convinced myself, that I didn’t want to be on my own on my day off.
I dressed in some linen trousers and a light T-shirt and set off, stopping on my way to stock up on some delicious salad goodies and some fresh-baked crusty bread.
Áine’s smile was bright when she saw me which in turn made me happy – then as I walked through to the kitchen she faltered slightly.
“I know I’m doting,” she said, “but it’s not Monday already, is it? It’s Sunday? And you’re here?”
I blushed – ashamed I hadn’t realised that the upset in routine could cause her confusion. “Oh sorry, Áine! It is Sunday! It’s just that my girls are with their daddy today so I was only sitting around the house like a sad soul anyway – and I fancied some company.”
“Aren’t you kind?” she smiled. “It’s lovely to see you – but only if you’re sure your family don’t need you?”
I stifled a laugh (again doing the being-positive-in-the-face-of-life-being-rubbish thing). My daughters were happy with their daddy and their daddy was more than happy doing his own thing.
“I won’t pry,” she said, looking at me quizzically, taking in the wedding band I still hadn’t brought myself to remove. “I know it’s one of the biggest clichés in the world, but it doesn’t make it any less true. Everything happens for a reason – and things work out if they are meant to.”
“I do believe that,” I told her, unloading my shopping into the fridge. “I just have some trouble coming to terms with what is meant to be.”
“Don’t we all, pet,” she said, reaching out and rubbing my arm gently. “Now, I always found one of the best ways to take my mind off things that were bothering me was to lose myself in the garden for a bit.”
“Well, it sounds like a plan to me,” I smiled. “It’s a great day to make a start.”
Áine opened a wardrobe and pulled out two, rather battered, wide-brimmed straw hats. “Best put one of these on,” she said to me. “No point in the two of us getting a little sick in the head.”