Chapter 14
When she got back to the hotel, she changed into a pair of skinny jeans and a loose floral top. Then she went down to the reception area and sat in a deep armchair near the window, where she was able to watch the activity on the street outside while waiting for her taxi. Clara, the receptionist, asked her if she needed anything.
‘No, everything’s good so far,’ said Abbey.
‘Have you ever been to Ireland before?’
‘No.’
‘Lots for you to explore, so,’ she said cheerfully.
‘I guess so. If I have the time.’
‘Sure, of course you’ll have the time,’ said Clara. ‘Dublin’s easy enough to get around. You can catch the Dart into town from here and you’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Abbey looked at her in confusion.
‘It’s the suburban train,’ Clara explained.
‘I thought this was the town,’ said Abbey.
Clara shook her head. ‘Howth is a village,’ she said. ‘Town is Dublin, the city.’
‘Right,’ said Abbey.
‘It does sound slightly bonkers,’ Clara said cheerfully. ‘But that’s the way it is. If you get the bus, it will say City Centre on the front. As well as An Lár. That means city centre but in Irish.’
‘OK.’ Abbey was feeling confused again.
‘Ah, you won’t get lost,’ said Clara. ‘Dublin’s too small for that. We’ve plenty of brochures here for all the main tourist sights. Let me know if there’s anything special you want to do and I’ll help you organise it. And if you’re here to trace your roots, I can help you with whatever you need.’
‘Thank you,’ said Abbey. ‘But I’m pretty much being organised for now, roots and all. And I think this might be my cab.’
A red taxi had pulled up outside the hotel and the driver came inside.
‘Ms Andersen,’ he said.
‘That’s me.’ Abbey got up, said goodbye to Clara and followed the driver outside.
‘Right you are, love,’ he said. ‘Furze Hill. Great location.’
The driver kept up a running commentary as he drove up the steep road towards the summit of Howth Hill.
‘Gorgeous here in this sort of weather,’ he said. ‘A bit bleak in winter. Though that’s just my opinion.’
He was right about its beauty today, thought Abbey as they reached the summit. A carpet of yellow gorse stretched out in front of her, leading to the now aquamarine blue of the sea. In the distance, on the other side of the crescent bay, she could see a peak in a ridge of purple mountains.
‘The Sugar Loaf,’ said the driver. ‘Wicklow. The other side of the city obviously. Another place worth visiting.’ He pulled up outside a high double-sized wooden gate. ‘Furze Hill.’
She looked out of the car window. The gate was at street level but the land behind it rose steeply and she could make out the edges of the house, shielded by shrubs, at the top. It was spookily reminiscent of Pete’s home, both in the way it was hidden from casual view and the way it overlooked the water.
She opened her purse. ‘How much?’
‘On the account, love,’ said the driver.
‘Oh.’ She fumbled for some coins and handed him a couple, unsure of the correct tip.
‘Ah, no need,’ he said. ‘But thank you.’
She got out of the cab and waited until the driver had disappeared around a bend in the road before turning towards the gates of the house again. She guessed that these gates led to a garage. There was a wooden pedestrian gate a little further on, with an intercom beside it. She looked at it hesitantly.
She realised that, despite what she’d told Pete, she was nervous. She wasn’t sure why. All she had to do was give Fred Fitzpatrick information about Ellen and listen to him saying sorry. And yet her heart was pounding in her chest and her hands were trembling. She wished that Ryan Gilligan was beside her now, telling her there was nothing to be nervous about. Ryan had been a sort of steadying influence. Although, she reminded herself once again, all he’d been doing was his job.
What would this man want to know about her mother? What would she tell him? How would he react?
She took a deep breath. It didn’t matter how he reacted. None of it mattered. They were connected by blood, but that was all. They didn’t mean anything to each other. His opinion was irrelevant. She pressed the button.
After a few seconds, a rasping, slightly breathless voice said, ‘Yes?’
‘This is Abbey Andersen,’ she said. ‘Here to see Fred Fitzpatrick.’
‘I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to ring the damn thing,’ he said. ‘Come in. Come in.’
The pedestrian gate clicked open. She pushed against it and stepped inside.
Uneven steps were carved into the hillside and led through a tumble of tall grasses, trees and flowering shrubs to the house. She walked up them slowly, stopping once to look behind her and over the beautiful bay again. The sun was warm on her shoulders and she could feel beads of perspiration forming on her forehead. Her heart was racing. She remembered Ryan Gilligan suggesting that maybe she needed some counselling after he broke the news about Ellen’s father. She’d scoffed at the idea then. But she was wishing now that she’d talked to somebody about it, someone who could put things into perspective for her. Because right now she was wondering if she was out of her mind.
The house, when she reached it, was a single-storey building with a very retro look. It had a wide paved area at the front, huge picture windows and a stone-clad chimney. The walls were painted a buttercup yellow. The front door, in honey pine, was ajar.
She tapped at it nervously and then pushed it further, poking her head around it, her eyes struggling to adjust to the dim interior after the bright sunshine.
‘In here,’ said a voice.
She stepped inside. The hallway was a big square, tiled in terracotta with a large Aztec-patterned rug in its centre and rooms leading off from each side. The walls were covered in an eclectic mix of small paintings, prints and photographs.
‘This way,’ the voice said.
It had come from the right-hand side of the hallway. She walked across and entered what she realised at once was the main living room. It was long and wide and the floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides overlooked the sea.
‘So you’re Abbey.’
She’d glanced at the view before looking at the man who was sitting in an armchair in a corner of the room. She knew that he was in his eighties, but he held himself well. His pale blue eyes were clear and alert in a round face with an almost bald head. He was wearing a suit and tie, the jacket tightly buttoned over a stomach that was also rounded.
‘Mr Fitzpatrick?’ she said.
‘Who else?’ His laugh was rasping and he coughed afterwards.
‘Stupid question,’ she agreed and walked over to him. ‘Abbey Andersen. Pleased to meet you.’
‘My God,’ he said slowly as he took the hand she’d extended politely towards him. ‘You’re the image of her.’
‘My mother?’ Abbey was startled. This man had never known her mother. Anyway, she wasn’t at all the image of Ellen.
‘No. Dilly. Her mother. She was just like you. Same eyes. Longer hair, but …’
He sniffed loudly while Abbey stood uncertainly in front of him.
He took a hanky from his pocket and blew his nose. ‘I don’t know what’s got into me,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that woman for years and now I’m snivelling over her. Sorry.’
Abbey said nothing.
‘Maybe all I wanted was for you to be her.’ He returned the hanky to his pocket. ‘Now that I look at you … well, you’re like my daughter too. But she’s darker; there aren’t that many natural blondes in Ireland. Dilly was one of them. She was beautiful. So are you.’
Abbey was finding it difficult to take in that she was apparently the image of a woman she’d never even known had existed until recently. And that the old man considered her beautiful, w
hich she knew she clearly wasn’t.
‘I’m sorry about how things turned out,’ she said.
‘Sit down, sit down.’ He waved at her and she pulled an upright chair from its position near the wall until it was facing him before sitting on it. ‘I’m sorry too. Now, I mean. I didn’t think of her much back then. It was a silly love affair. It didn’t mean that much. I was probably tired of her before she even got pregnant.’
Abbey was silent.
‘She was fun. A bit of devilment in her, that’s what attracted me. That and the looks, of course. But they broke her spirit in the end.’
‘She was very young,’ said Abbey.
‘Yes, but these days … well, girls her age wouldn’t put up with that sort of stuff now.’ There was a mixture of support and irritation in Fred’s voice. ‘You see them in their short skirts and their long hair and their low-cut tops, yapping away like demented parrots, phones clamped to their heads, doing their make-up on the bus or the train …’ He coughed again. ‘Got a bit of a cold,’ he explained. ‘Excuse me. Anyway, if what happened then happened now, it’d have an entirely different outcome.’
‘It was a difficult time,’ said Abbey, paraphrasing what Ryan had told her.
‘It was a disgraceful time,’ said Fred. ‘Men behaved disgracefully.’
Abbey looked startled.
‘I did too,’ said Fred. ‘I abandoned her. I didn’t care. What d’you think of that, Abbey Andersen? That I didn’t care?’
‘I don’t know the circumstances so I can’t pass judgement, can I?’
‘Very diplomatic,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to be. The truth is, I left her to it and they sent her to that terrible place and she died and that was my fault.’
Did he want her to forgive him? wondered Abbey.
‘I don’t think …’ she began.
‘I didn’t think either,’ said Fred. ‘For a long time. Until I learned about it. And now I do think. A lot. About how I acted and how I behaved. I have a book for you.’ He picked it up from the table beside him. ‘It’s about the laundries. About what went on. It disgusts me to know what happened to those girls. I don’t know what happened to Dilly, but as she died there … I can only imagine it wasn’t good. That her last days were miserable and hard. But I never once thought about it. And I was relieved that I didn’t have to worry about your mother. Who is my daughter.’ His fingers tightened around the book. ‘I completely put her out of my mind, you know. As though she didn’t exist.’
‘To her you didn’t,’ said Abbey. ‘At least, maybe not. Because she never said anything about being adopted. So she might not even know about you.’
‘Which is terrible, don’t you think? I let those people take her and change her name her and bring her to America. I was pleased about that, back then, because it meant that I wouldn’t have to worry about her popping up and demanding to know me and wanting to be part of my life.’
‘She didn’t. She doesn’t,’ said Abbey.
‘Have you spoken to her?’ His voice was eager. ‘Does she know I’m looking for her?’
‘No,’ said Abbey. ‘I haven’t been able to talk to her about it.’
Fred’s brow furrowed. ‘Are you estranged?’ he asked. ‘Because I’m telling you, that’s not a good thing. I know all about it. Families should stick together. Support each other. Look out for each other.’
‘We’re not estranged,’ said Abbey. ‘I know she loves me. But she’s built a certain life for herself and I … I’m not a big part of it.’
‘She abandoned you?’ asked Fred. ‘Like I did with Dilly?’
‘No. No,’ said Abbey, while at the same time remembering the day her mother had left, remembering that she had indeed felt abandoned. ‘She – she does her own thing. It’s … she …’
‘That’s what the investigator told me.’ Fred didn’t wait for her to finish. ‘I said to him that I didn’t care. I wanted her found. But then he suggested I talk to you instead.’
Abbey was surprised. She’d thought that her visiting the old man was his own idea, not that Ryan Gilligan had put it into his mind.
‘He said I’d like you,’ Fred told her.
‘He did?’
‘He said you were feisty.’
Abbey thought about the tin of Mace she’d carried with her when she’d met Ryan in Sausalito, and smiled.
‘You get it from her,’ added Fred. ‘From Dilly. She was feisty too.’
‘Was she?’
‘I suppose you think I’m crazy.’
‘No.’ She spoke slowly. ‘No, it’s not crazy to want to … to make your peace with people.’
He chortled. ‘Before I die, you mean.’
‘Wow, no, I didn’t mean that you were going to die,’ she said quickly.
‘Of course I am,’ he returned. ‘I’m an old man. Old people die, that’s the way life is. We don’t talk about it, though, do we? And these days it’s like we pretend it doesn’t happen. Hush it up in words like “passed on” when we mean dead. It was different when I was a kid. More people died then, I suppose, at younger ages. So you knew about it. Got used to it. Mind you, I’ve got along pretty well so far and I might have another few years in me yet. All the same, you’re right. I think of dying and I think … well, let’s say there is a place where you have to account for yourself, or a place where you bump into the people you knew. I want to be able to say I tried to make a difference, even though it was too late for Dilly.’
‘I understand,’ said Abbey.
‘You’re quieter than I expected,’ Fred said. ‘When Ryan said feisty, I thought you’d come in here all guns blazing and blame me for the death of your grandmother and for anything that ever went wrong in your mother’s life.’
‘I didn’t even know about Dilly until he told me,’ Abbey said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, my grandmother isn’t that woman. And as for my mom, well, I guess she’s happy with her own life. Which is obviously different to the life she’d have if you and her mother had got married and lived here together.’
‘I keep wondering about it,’ confessed Fred.
‘But if you’d married Dilly, you wouldn’t have the family you do now,’ said Abbey. ‘So I guess it’s swings and roundabouts, isn’t it?’
‘That’s true. Although who knows …’ Fred made a dismissive gesture.
‘My grandparents were good to my mom,’ said Abbey. ‘They gave her lots of freedom.’
‘Hmm.’ He looked sceptical. ‘Not always a good idea.’
‘We live in the land of the free,’ Abbey reminded him.
‘And the home of the brave.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You were,’ he said. ‘Brave. Coming here on your own. Not knowing me or anything. I was surprised when you agreed.’
‘So was I.’
‘That investigative guy is very persuasive, though.’ He chortled and winked at her.
‘Mr Gilligan was a total professional,’ she said, wondering if she’d misinterpreted the wink.
‘How is the hotel?’ Fred changed the subject
‘Lovely.’
‘So are you going to stay?’
‘In Ireland?’
‘Of course.’
‘Until I’ve told you everything you want to know about my mom.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I want to introduce you to the family, too.’
‘How much have you told them?’ asked Abbey.
‘Nothing yet.’
‘Nothing?’ She looked worried. ‘They don’t know anything about Dilly? Or Mom? Or me?’
‘No,’ said Fred. ‘But they’ll be OK about it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Fred. ‘I reckon they always guessed there was something. I wasn’t an angel, you know.’
Abbey wasn’t so certain that the old man’s family knew anything about his younger days. And she couldn’t help thinking that there were plenty of reasons why they wouldn’t be too impressed by the news t
hat he had a secret daughter and granddaughter. She looked around her. ‘Do any of them live here, with you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m an independent person. A bit of a crock at the moment, what with my bad wrist, bloody cold and all, but independent all the same. My daughters-in-law drop in from time to time and I have a woman who does light housework twice a week. I do everything else myself.’
‘I was wondering how you get up and down those steps,’ said Abbey. ‘If you’re crocked.’
He laughed. ‘There’s a lift from the scullery to the garage. No problem.’
‘Cool,’ she said.
‘Want to see?’ he asked.
‘Love to.’
He got up from the chair. He walked slowly, but he wasn’t as infirm as she’d initially thought, although she could see that beneath the long-sleeved shirt there was some light strapping on his right wrist. He brought her through the kitchen of the house and then into a utility room which contained a boiler, a washing machine and a dryer as well as the lift. He pressed the button and the doors slid open.
It only took a couple of seconds to reach the garage. Abbey was astonished to see a restored Volkswagen Beetle and a Mercedes there, along with a Ford Focus.
Things We Never Say Page 14