by Mary Malone
As if it isn’t obvious who’s putting the pressure on him, Jess thought, gripping the receiver in her hand, tension building inside her. “If he’s stressed, it’s definitely not a good time for change.”
“Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?”
Despite her belief the night her mother died that she’d never sleep soundly in that house again, moving out of Number 4 was the last thing Jess wanted now. Distancing herself from Kieran and the fun he’d reintroduced to her life was a depressing prospect now she’d come to enjoy his company. Greg would be devastated. And if she was reading the signals correctly, there was the faintest glimmer that Kieran too would be disappointed!
Would she have the strength to persuade her brother and sister-in-law? It had only been a verbal agreement, not binding. Had she enough fight to demand she continue living in the family home, even though Henry’s hard-earned bonus payments had funded the newly fitted kitchen and modernisation throughout – something that was topmost in Pru’s argument. Their mother hadn’t been afraid to demand his input.
“Your mother’s wishes were specific, Jess.” Pru was on a roll.
“But not legally binding!” Jess shot back. She brought a hand to the base of her throat and swallowed hard, forcing back against the rising ball of stress the mere mention of her mother brought, the metallic taste in her mouth making her want to throw up.
It was Pru she had to convince. Henry would do as he was told – or instructed. Pity he’d never shown her – or their father now she thought about it – the same level of respect and support he’d shown his mother. A true mammy’s boy, he’d lapped up the attention she had showered upon him all his life, turning a blind eye to her many faults.
Why the hell didn’t I check the caller ID before answering the phone, she thought with regret.
Reaching out for Henry’s assistance when her mother’s behaviour had finally spiralled out of control had been out of necessity, not choice. Bloody hell, I am his sister after all, she thought. Shouldn’t that count for something?
Things had been so damn difficult for Jess and Greg when her mother had been alive, her physical cruelty reaching crisis point one evening, forcing Jess to run out of the house terrified, cradling her terrified son in her arms. With a small child to protect, she’d had no other option but escape the danger zone their home had become and run to someone who she’d hoped would understand. In sheer desperation, she’d called a cab and arrived on her brother’s doorstep, carrying nothing apart from her cab fare in her pocket and her sleeping son in her arms.
What she hadn’t factored when she’d made her midnight flit to her brother’s house was that Henry could barely scratch his head without seeking his wife’s seal of approval. And, unfortunately, this occasion had been no different.
“It’s Mum, Henry!” she’d cried when he’d answered the door. “I was downstairs getting her medication and she took her stick to Greg. I ran when I heard him screaming. She fired a glass at me, lashing out at me with her stick when I grabbed Greg from her grasp. Poor child was frozen to the spot, terrified to move –”
“Take a breath, Jess. That doesn’t sound like Mum.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you how bad things were. But you wouldn’t listen.”
“But I’ve never seen that side of her.”
Pulling the belt of his dressing gown tighter, eyes bleary from being woken out of his sleep, a concerned Henry ushered his sister and nephew inside.
“What’s all the racket?” Pru arrived into the kitchen in sapphire pyjamas, the remains of a face mask on her face.
Feeling Greg’s knees tighten around her hips, Jess had planted a kiss on his cheek. In different circumstances she’d have made a joke about scary Aunty Pru but not that evening.
Jess looked at Henry, willing him to ask his wife to go back to bed, to give them a few moments where she could just talk to him alone.
“Mum’s been a bit troublesome,” he’d explained to Pru, playing down the situation.
A bit troublesome! I’ve described the most horrific domestic scene and he calls it ‘troublesome’! “Not quite the description I’d use,” Jess spluttered, refusing to protect their mother’s reputation. “‘Aggressive and out of control’ would be better words and even they’re not apt!”
“Where is she now?” Pru looked around as though she expected the elderly woman to appear from somewhere.
Jess was flabbergasted. Pru hadn’t even asked if she and Greg were okay. “She’s in her room, complaining because I didn’t count her tablets before taking another lash of her crutch!”
Pru tutted indifferently, showing no sympathy whatsoever.
“Henry!” Jess turned to her brother. “We’ve got to do something, get her into a home where qualified people can deal with her aggression. Otherwise she’s going to hurt one of us.”
“Getting her into a home would be at huge cost, I might add!” Pru said, aghast.
Jess felt in danger of taking a swipe at her sister-in-law. “Greg and I aren’t safe with her in the house and all you can think of is cost!”
“Coffee would be great, Pru,” Henry soothed, ushering his sister and nephew into the living room, making his usual effort to diffuse the rising tension.
They sat and talked into the night, a bored Greg falling asleep after drinking a glass of milk and munching on a tasteless rice cake, his health-and-figure-conscious aunt refusing to have tasty biscuits in the house.
Pru’s accusing voice over the phone brought her back to the present.
“What has changed so suddenly?” she demanded. “You were in favour of the idea when she died, even the night we dropped you back to the house after the funeral? Said it was what you wanted too!”
“I was an emotional wreck! I’ve had time to think and now I’m not sure it’s a good time for any drastic change. It’s a serious decision, Pru, one that will affect Greg’s future as well as mine. I have his school to think of. I’ve made enough hasty and regrettable decisions –”
“You initiated this,” Pru interrupted. “As for school? He’s in Junior Infants, not settling into a university degree!”
“He’s happy and content with his friends,” Jess muttered, not expecting any understanding but mentioning it as a point of importance.
“Didn’t you say Pier Road had sucked enough life from you already? Weren’t you complaining that you were suffocating there?”
Not any more, she thought, staring through the window, her eyes shifting towards Number 5, gaining confidence from the support and hope Kieran had been offering her and Greg. She paced the living room, the phone still to her ear. Absentmindedly, she stared at the variety of photos hanging on the wall, some of her and Henry, an ancient one of her parents’ wedding day and several of Greg’s twinkling smile.
She was well aware that her greedy sister-in-law’s only ambition was to acquire a desirable postal address, plans already in place on how she’d change it no doubt. And once those changes were in place, there would be no overturning their agreement – verbal or otherwise.
“Pru, if you don’t mind, I’d rather discuss this with Henry.” She inhaled deeply, anticipating an onslaught. “It is more his decision than yours. Tell him to get in touch.”
“Stop hiding behind that supposed fragility of yours,” were the last words Jess heard before she cut the connection.
Chapter 26
Kieran untied the pink knitting wool, releasing Polly’s bundle of diaries from its tight hold. Several times he’d been tempted to take a peek through her personal memoirs but hesitated at the last moment, taking issue with invading his aunt’s privacy. Today felt different. Olivia’s call had been disconcerting, the knowledge that his sisters were trying to oust him from Number 5 niggling at him and instilling an urgent sense of protectiveness inside him. Chosen as her benefactor, her privacy had suddenly become his responsibility, her personal history his to protect. If the house were to be taken from him with somebody else gaining fro
m her death, he’d like to think he’d censored her most personal items against prying eyes.
Starting over twenty years before, she’d filled a notebook for each of the earlier years, real diaries for more recent times. Opening one of the notebooks, he smiled at the innocence of her daily entries, an observation of life around her, little to interest Kieran. Skimming ahead a few years, he peered through another one, carefully peeling the pages apart and reading Polly’s entries, her life appearing very mundane, a weekly bus trip to Skibbereen the highlight of her activities. He smiled at the birthday entries, all of his family included apart from his mum. No surprise there, he thought, doubting the two strong-willed women had ever exchanged a birthday gift in their lives, seeing as they could barely exchange civil conversation! House insurance renewal dates, TV licence reminders and notes dotted sporadically throughout constituted the remainder of the entries, weeks of pages completely blank apart from the date at the top of the page, obviously a quiet period in her life.
Not expecting anything of great difference in the others, he pushed the notebooks aside, turning to the more recent diaries instead, surprised when a sealed envelope fell from the bundle, a few initials written in block capitals on the outside. Prepared to find money or a legal document, he was intrigued when the contents revealed what were apparently three letters.
Taking the first one – which was undated – he unfolded the single sheet of lined writing paper, smiling at the familiarity of his aunt’s handwriting.
Scanning the letter, however, her words tore at his heart, the smile leaving his lips, nostalgia replaced with a deep sympathy for the troubled woman who had penned the heart-breaking details of the loss of her loved one to the cold arms of the sea. It was written to her husband, Glen, expressing her heartbreak, her love. Loneliness emanated from every word, the smudged ink a tell-tale sign of the copious tears she’d undoubtedly shed. Pouring her heart into a letter displayed her desperation, her frantic clutch on hope. He could only assume that penning the letter was a coping mechanism for his aunt, a way of pouring out her feelings though she’d probably known in her heart that her husband was lost forever.
More apprehensive as he unfolded the second letter, he drew it closer when he realised it was far more recent, written little over five years before. Number 5 Pier Road, Schull in the top right-hand corner, the date underneath and then the salutation.
Dear Kieran, I hope this letter finds you well. Actually, I hope this letters finds you at all would be more appropriate with the rate you’re moving address these days!
He grinned at her humour, remembering her frustration when her letters arrived to a particular spot after he’d packed his rucksack and moved on. Despite his efforts to leave a forwarding address, he knew there had been lots of post he hadn’t received. Polly was one of the few who’d written to him, his mother on the odd occasion in the first year but the rest of his family relying on text and email messages.
His eyes drawn to the page, he continued to read, grinning at her description of the summer regatta.
Lots of old faces around this week as well as the usual onslaught of hopefuls and hangers-on, swanning around in beige shorts and squeaking boat shoes.
Skimming through the next few lines, his attention sparked at her mention of Jess.
Got a few glimpses of Jess next door, back permanently by the looks of it but never seems to be outdoors much, not like when you were here. Inseparable, the two of you. You should call her, she appears to be very down, browbeaten by her cranky mother no doubt. I know I should . . . Oops, there’s someone at the door. I’ll have to finish this later.
Turning over the page, there was nothing on the other side, her visitor obviously distracting her. The letter had remained unfinished and never posted.
Kieran frowned, puzzled as to why Polly would keep a half-finished letter to him for perhaps four years and then seal it up in an envelope as if it were of some significance.
The third one was bulkier. Unfolding the pages, this time on unlined paper and dated two years previously, he found her writing more difficult to read, a shake in her hand evident. Kieran gasped as he read the opening: My dearest John. The intended recipient was clearly John Kilmichael from the harrowing description of her shock pregnancy that followed. Another letter of heartache but this time to somebody who was very much alive but yet again the letter had never been sent. Flicking to the last page, she’d signed it, Yours in regret, Polly, after heartfelt pages of explanation behind her reason for giving him away as an infant.
Why hadn’t she posted this one, he wondered, or handed it to John, revealed to him that she was his mother? His father’s words came to mind. John didn’t know he was her son. What a waste, it didn’t make a lot of sense.
Moving through the subsequent paragraphs, he felt uncomfortable reading her disclosures. He was saddened that his aunt had been deprived of a relationship with a child she’d given away at birth, the depth of emotion in her letter testament to the fact that she’d agonised over every sentence, releasing emotions she’d never shared, leaving this earth without the pleasure of properly reuniting with her only child.
He folded the letter, returning it with the others to the envelope, aware that it posed a problem. Did Polly expect him to deliver the letter to John? She knew – or fervently hoped – he would be going through her things, intended him to find it. So what then had she expected him to do with it? Yet, according to his father, she had been adamant that John should not know. But now she was dead . . . perhaps that changed everything. It was a dilemma.
With a heavy heart, he took a brief look at the more recent diaries, noticing a series of red X’s accompanied by the letter ‘J’ dotted sporadically throughout the last two years of his aunt’s life. He assumed these had something to do with John, marking the days perhaps when she’d received visits from him. About to retie the bundle and put them back where he’d found them, he changed his mind and flicked back a few more years, the absence of any ‘J’ obvious. But if John didn’t know the truth, how had they made their initial contact? He found the point where she had first begun to record the ‘J’s’, but there was no mention there of how John had come into her life.
He picked up the last diary, swiftly glancing at some of the last entries, saddened by the words she’d written about her impending stay in the nursing home, accepting independent living was no longer an option. It’s time to say goodbye to Pier Road and be taken care of, she’d scribbled, adding a few more similar sentiments in some of the date segments.
Picking up another diary he spotted his own name and examined it more closely.
Damn, Kieran’s letter returned. Another ‘not known at this address’, an omen no doubt to mind my own business.
Mind her own business about what, he wondered, flicking the diary closed to check the year. Same year as the half-written letter he’d found. An omen to give up writing him letters seeing as he’d seldom bothered to respond? No, he thought, that didn’t make any sense, didn’t connect with her thinking she should mind her own business. Had she been about to encourage him to return home? His guilt increasing at the lack of effort he’d made to keep in contact, he bundled the diaries and notebooks together, knotting the pink knitting wool around them again. He pushed them back in the drawer, disappointed he hadn’t found more answers yet reluctant to pry any further for now.
In dire need of fresh air and distraction to let go of the memory of Polly’s despair, he checked his watch. Plenty of time before Greg’s out of school, he thought, deciding to pay a visit next door and invite Jess for a walk. He realised he knew so little of Jess’s life since she’d left for college, their meetings sporadic in the intervening years. There was still so much they needed to catch up on and an hour without Greg in their company would give them an opportunity to talk and fill in the gaps. Polly’s indication that Jess had been unhappy was fuelling his curiosity. Probably something as simple as hitting a downer after her few years in a posh college, he thou
ght, or breaking up with one of the posh English guys she’d studied with. Imagining her with other guys, he splashed some of his favourite cologne on his skin and eyed himself critically in the mirror, wondering how he’d measure up against her ex-boyfriends – including Greg’s father, whoever he was. So far she hadn’t mentioned having any significant other in her life – in fact, she had denied it that first night. Nor had he noticed any man paying a visit. But that wasn’t enough to assume she wasn’t seeing anybody and certainly not enough to presume she’d agree to go on a proper date with him.
She’s not going to look twice at me, he thought, unless I improve my pathetic wardrobe of clothes! He’d left his limited amount of personal belongings in the house he’d been sharing with a few other lads, expecting to return on the same airline ticket.
Pulling a plaid shirt over his T-shirt, he walked away from the evidence of his aunt’s regrets in life, his spirits lifting as he approached Number 4, every moment precious now he was no longer guaranteed a permanent address in Schull. Amazing how much more desirable Number 5 seemed when there was a risk he could lose it.
Frank Dulhooly was at home alone, his day already ruined by a pressurising call from his son-in-law. Carl had telephoned to see if he’d received the limited documentation he’d dropped through the letterbox, badgering him on the lack of progress.