The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley

by Jeremy Massey

  But my mind was far away from horses today; it was focused on the funerals of Michael and Lucy Wright, and Dermot Hayes.

  “Overdose or suicide?” I said.

  “Suicide by overdose.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  “Yeah, apparently he did.”

  I pulled out my cigarettes and lit one. I could see Christy’s disappointment even though he tried to conceal it. When I’d given them up three years ago, I convinced him to do it with me and had made him feel we were in it together. Now that I’d broken the arrangement, I could sense he felt betrayed.

  “You’re smoking,” he eventually said.

  I nodded, blowing smoke out through my nostrils, feeling like a defector.

  “You know they’ll kill you.”

  “And get out of this kip sooner?”

  Christy shrugged like it meant nothing. “Fuck it,” he said.

  “Fuck it,” I said, letting a smile sink in.

  “What happened in Pembroke Lane?”

  “She went upstairs to get the clothes and dropped dead while she was up there.”

  “And where were you?”

  There were secrets to tell good friends and secrets to keep to yourself. The Lucy Wright situation fell into the latter category. Neither Christy nor I had anything to gain from his knowing, and beyond that, considering what could be coming down the pike, I didn’t want to involve him or put him under suspicion of collusion.

  “Downstairs in the kitchen writing down the details. I hear a bump upstairs, a loud one, so I go up to the bedroom just at the top of the stairs and see her legs sticking out from the bedroom. I go into the room and there she is on the floor beside the wardrobe, the life gone out of her.”

  “Good Jaysus,” said Christy. “And no other family there?”

  “The daughter arrived after, so I told her.”

  “How’d she take it?”

  “She thought it was romantic.”

  Christy shook his head a little. “Like the McKinleys. Remember?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “the McKinleys.”

  FIVE

  2:30 p.m.

  Brigid Wright was crouched on the draining board beside the kitchen sink, cleaning the windows. She’d already ironed her mother’s shirts and blouses that were piled up beside the ironing board, and she’d swept the yard outside. She was doing all this to keep her mind occupied. She knew the shirts and blouses were never going to be worn by her mother again, but this, along with cleaning the windows, was helping her to process her grieving and think.

  Even though Brigid had lived most of her teenage years in Dublin, the only time she’d spent there recently had been when visiting her parents. She’d been dealing with her father’s imminent departure for the last few years of his life, particularly since his cancer diagnosis, so she’d less grieving to do there. But her mother, her darling mother—her friend, her guide, her fairy godmother, and countless other things—her passing was a different matter, and the loss she felt was massive. She hadn’t expected her to die for another twenty or thirty years, much less fifteen hours after her father’s death. But this was the path, and if it was to be her path, then she’d walk it with her chin up and her heart open, just like her mother always had.

  It was her mother who’d counseled her through the breakup of her marriage. It was her mother who’d advised her on what paintings to include in her shows, just as it was her mother who’d taught her to always take life in stride and who’d encouraged her to be as free and independent and strong as she was.

  “Nothing is forever,” Lucy had always told her. And now, hours after her death, Lucy’s words echoed in her daughter’s ears as she continued to wipe the windows clean. Brigid was glad she’d been in Dublin for the deaths; she could soak in the freshness of their passing where it had happened, rather than traveling from London and arriving after everything had been moved and set up and organized. For once, she could plan and organize something for her mother and father, and put everything in its right place before heading back to Hampstead to collapse in a heap to wail away her lament and pour it into her pictures.

  The prospect of both her parents’ bodies coming back to their house to be waked rather than staying in the hospital mortuary was a heartening one for Brigid. But it was the romantic element of their dual passing she found most comforting.

  Both Brigid’s parents had been artists all their lives. After their funerals, she’d have to decide what to do with all the paintings in the house, both theirs and the few dozen painted by their friends and contemporaries. She hopped down from the draining board and washed her hands while thinking of her own paintings and what would be next for her now that she had a new well of pain to draw from.

  Her last show had consisted of what she called her Blight Paintings, a series of oils illustrating what had actually happened in Ireland in the nineteenth century during the Famine, focusing on scenes of the food that wasn’t potatoes being transported out of the country under armed guard to England, and all the Irish people being beaten away and dying because they were allowed nothing to eat other than the blighted potatoes. She’d been surprised at how well her work had gone down in London. It seemed the slight controversy the show courted during its time did her finances no harm at all. Her show sold out and managed to get the attention of the art world at large, bolstering her profile and earning power.

  For her next series of paintings, death would probably be the theme. And impermanence. And maybe the state of being solitary. But not loneliness. Brigid knew her parents would always be with her now, in her heart.

  SIX

  4:10 p.m.

  I stood amidst the swirling leaves at a door I was getting to know well, waiting to hear Brigid’s voice. It never came. Instead, I listened to the door vibrating before I pushed it open. However unwittingly, I’d wronged this diminishing family, and my intentions now were strictly to arrange the ritual I’d been enlisted to carry out. Get the information, tell this woman what she needed to know about it, and leave her to grieve the loss of her departed parents.

  As I approached the sliding doors, Brigid opened them, looking far more relaxed than when I’d left her earlier. Her tweed jacket was gone, replaced by a navy cashmere sweater, and her hair was back in a ponytail. I nodded hello.

  “Let me take your coat,” she said, just like her mother. I took it off and watched her hang it up, noticing she’d inherited her mother’s grace of movement. Then she led me into the kitchen, giving me an unusually strange case of déjà vu.

  “This must be a bit weird for you, having done all this with my mother earlier in the same place,” she said, reading my mind while putting the kettle on.

  “I think it’s a bit weird for the two of us,” I said, taking out a fresh arrangement form as well as her father’s one.

  “You look like you could do with a cup of coffee.”

  I’d decided before I’d come in that I wasn’t going to accept any tea or coffee or anything else offered to me, and just get out of there as soon as possible. But something about the way she asked me completely disarmed my intentions.

  “Why not?” I said. Brigid went about getting the good stuff together, not quite as strong as Frank’s brew, but freshly ground all the same, and then sat down at the table opposite me.

  “How far had you got with my mother in arranging my father’s funeral?”

  All sorts of unwelcome thoughts rushed around my head. I swallowed and struggled to remain calm.

  “We’d pretty much covered everything. What your mother had decided upon was to have the removal tomorrow evening and the funeral on Wednesday morning after ten o’clock Mass at St. Mary’s on Haddington Road. And then afterwards to Glasnevin Cemetery.”

  “I’d like to stick to her wishes as much as possible. Can we do that?”

  “Of course,” I said, wanting to accom
modate her. “The only thing you need to take into consideration is the time factor. Your mother and I talked about having the removal tomorrow evening, but that was obviously before she passed on. So, bearing in mind there’s to be an autopsy on her remains in the morning, I’d suggest moving the arrangements forward a day.”

  “Okay,” said Brigid. And then as an afterthought, “Why is there an autopsy?”

  It was a simple question that felt like a punch to the gut.

  “It was a sudden death. Your mother is relatively young, and it happened at home. Routine under the circumstances.”

  “Right,” said Brigid, letting me continue.

  “What your mother wanted to do was to bring your father back here today and have a little bit of time with him before removing his remains to the church tomorrow. What I’d suggest, to keep in line with your mother’s thinking, would be to bring both your parents back here tomorrow afternoon at the same time, have them here over a twenty-four-hour period, then bring them to the church together on Wednesday evening and have the funeral on Thursday morning.”

  Brigid nodded her head with somber eagerness.

  “That sounds perfect,” she said, as the kettle clicked off. She got up from her chair and made us both a cup of coffee. While she was pouring the water, she said nothing and neither did I. The silence was a relaxed one, and I felt no need to fill the gap with words, and nor, it seemed, did Brigid. Even when she’d sat down after putting the milk and sugar on the table, we both fixed our coffee without speaking. I watched the movement of her fingers as she stirred her coffee. She was a beautiful woman, and very much her mother’s daughter. Just as my thoughts started to trace back to Lucy, Brigid broke the silence with so soft a voice that it was bordering on a whisper.

  “What do you call this?” she asked. Instinctively, I leaned in a little, as she’d said it conspiratorially, and also because I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. She realized this in an instant and broke into a little laugh, bringing her hand to her nose to stifle it, making me smile.

  “Sorry,” said Brigid, “that silence was so nice I didn’t want to offend it, and you don’t know what I’m talking about anyway, do you?”

  I shook my smiling head.

  “What do you call it when there are two funerals together, like my parents’?” She was still smiling. I was surprised at how at ease she was. I’d been expecting her to be devastated, but she appeared to have great acceptance of her parents’ deaths.

  “A double funeral,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that you seem to be taking all this very well.”

  Her smile disappeared but the expression of calm and contentment remained.

  “It’s because they died together, Paddy,” she said. “In a funny sort of way, I was sadder this morning before Mum died because I felt for her so much, having to be alone after them being with each other for most of their lives. Even though my father was very sick the last few years, they were still together and she was devoted to him: soul mates, completely. And now that she’s followed him, I’m just so happy that they’re together. It’s the perfect ending to their romance. It gives me solace, great solace. I’ll still miss them, of course I will, and I am grieving, but there’s a smile between my tears.”

  I nodded as I listened to her, forgetting momentarily my experience with her mother and my part in her demise. When I’d been sitting at this same table with Lucy, I could have listened to her accent all day. But now, sitting here with Brigid, even though her accent was remarkably similar to her mother’s, it was her voice that I found comforting.

  “Have you had experience with this kind of thing before?”

  “The McKinleys,” I heard myself saying.

  “Who were the McKinleys?”

  “Well, the circumstances were quite different, really, but it’s the case that springs to mind. The McKinleys were a couple, an old couple, who were well known in Dublin. They were inseparable. He was a watchmaker with a place on Dawson Street, a little man who was always impeccably dressed—he’d have his hat and black mac on even in the summertime—and anytime you’d see them around town, they’d always be holding hands: soul mates, as you say. And then she got a brain tumor and was given no hope. Months, they said. So, they sealed the windows and doors in their house, turned on the gas, got into bed, and died together, holding hands. Their children found them three days later and we looked after the funeral.”

  Brigid sat listening with tears filling up her eyes.

  “That’s so romantic,” she said.

  “And tragic,” I said. “Unlike your parents, which is purely romantic.”

  Brigid nodded while still looking at me, stirring in me something I thought had died with Eva: a yearning. I looked back at her and felt my heart swelling a little. There was also a strange absence of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. And then I realized what it was. I hadn’t thought of Eva once since sitting down with Brigid. It was as if she were forgotten.

  I straightened the arrangement sheet in front of me and shifted on my seat, bringing us back to the task at hand.

  “Your mother had agreed to arrive at the church at half past five on the evening of the removal and have ten o’clock Mass on the morning of the funeral. Okay with you?”

  Brigid nodded slowly with the faintest hint of sultriness in her glistening eyes as she continued to look at me without saying a word. I felt a deepening attraction to her as each minute closed and I wondered if I was deluding myself by thinking that maybe the feeling was mutual. I felt guilty and remorseful and wondered if this was what sleep deprivation did to a man. I started running a mantra in the back of my mind: You’re arranging the funeral of this girl’s parents because your prick killed her mother, you fucker.

  “Regarding transport, Brigid, to save you from the headache of having to drive and park, would you like me to put a car down for you on the removal and funeral?”

  She nodded again.

  “Yeah,” she said, “do that.”

  I worked hard to keep my focus trained on the funeral.

  “Your mother ordered a floral spray for the top of your father’s coffin. Would you like me to put the same on top of her coffin?”

  “That’d be nice,” she said, watching me write on the arrangement sheet.

  “And music, would you like me to get an organist and singer for the funeral Mass?”

  Brigid thought about this for a minute, looking at me all along. I remembered her mother looking off while thinking, allowing me to study and admire her; but being here now with Brigid, it was she who was studying me as I moved through the questions. I waited for her answer while looking back into her gaze, which was a warm and comfortable place.

  “Yeah, let’s have music. Can I talk to the singer?”

  “Of course. I’ll get them to ring you. Would you like a male or female singer?”

  “Which is nicer?”

  “Female I find much more beautiful.”

  “Okay then,” she said, “female.”

  “Your mother compiled a death notice for your father that she wanted put in The Irish Times. Would you like me to duplicate it and make the necessary changes for her own?”

  Brigid nodded. “That’d be perfect.”

  “The church offering, which is obligatory, is usually about two hundred euro. Will I put down four hundred and have it paid on the day for you, or would you prefer to look after it yourself?”

  “No, you look after it. Four hundred is fine.”

  I pulled out the coffin catalog and placed it on the table, unopened.

  “And the last thing: the coffins. Do you want to take a look at them?”

  “Sure,” she said, and held out her hand. I passed the catalog over. Pictures of coffins often brought the finality of death tumbling home like a thumping reality check and usually turned on the waterworks, but the c
offin had to be chosen.

  “Did you show these to my mother?” she asked.

  “We hadn’t reached this stage.”

  She looked through them, turning the pages over one by one, eventually stopping on a simple oak coffin. She turned it around to me like it was a menu in a restaurant.

  “This one here, is it unpolished?”

  “Yes, it’s unpolished. That’s a limed oak.”

  “That’s the one then,” she said, handing back the catalog. I put it back in my briefcase and marked down which coffin she’d selected before throwing a cursory glance over everything I’d written. I put my pen away and folded the sheet closed. I breathed easy. I’d got through it.

  “That’s it, Brigid,” I said, intending to walk out the door in a matter of moments, but Brigid’s focus remained fixed on me.

  “I know my mother would have loved you, Paddy. You must have sensed that she liked you,” she said. I was riveted to my seat.

  “Yeah, we . . . definitely got on,” I said.

  She got up from her chair.

  “Have dinner with me,” she said, as she cleared the table of the cups.

  I slammed myself hard into undertaker mode. “That’s very kind of you, Brigid, but I’m on call for the night. I’ll have to be getting back to the office,” I said, and went about packing up my briefcase.

  “Are you sure? There’s a fridge full of food here and I’m going to have to throw it all out if it’s not eaten.”

  “No, really, I can’t do it, but you’re very kind to ask, thank you.” I rose to my feet and picked up my briefcase.

  She took two wine glasses from the cupboard and picked up a bottle of red from the shelf beside the cooker. “Then have a glass of wine with me at least.”

  The way she said it had me wondering again whether she liked me, making me hesitate long enough for her to close the deal.

  “Settled then,” she said, and she uncorked the bottle. I relaxed back into my seat and rested the briefcase on the floor beside me.