Happily it wasn’t long before Brendan and George returned from the kitchen with home-made cheesecake. Afterwards Brendan insisted that Matt take Harri up to the stables.
‘It’s a ten-minute walk and Henry’s dying to meet you,’ Brendan said.
‘He’s like my second father,’ Matt said. ‘I promise you’ll be back in half an hour.’
The walk was nice and quiet.
‘It’s beautiful here,’ Harri said, taken by the hundred plus shades of green, the old trees, the dirt path, the sounds, the fresh-smelling air and the general weight of passing time in the air.
Matt nodded and walked on, remembering when he was younger and the girl walking beside him was the girl he loved.
‘You’re thinking of her, aren’t you?’ she asked.
‘If I’d had a choice I wouldn’t have let you go,’ he said.
‘Oh.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Usually I’m good with women.’
‘Lovely,’ she said.
‘I shouldn’t have said that – I’m sorry. I don’t know how to be around you.’
‘Be yourself.’
‘You don’t seem to like me being myself.’
‘True.’ She laughed.
Henry was cleaning out Derby Girl’s stall.
‘Henry!’ Matt called.
Henry walked into the courtyard and stood still a second before putting his hand up to his forehead. ‘There you are,’ he said, his old eyes watering. ‘There she is, Matty,’ he said, sniffing. ‘You’re smaller,’ he said, with a single tear flowing down his cheek, ‘but that’s all right.’
Now Harri felt like crying too.
Matt was steadfastly stoic. ‘She’s a smasher, Henry,’ he said to the old man.
‘Ah, well, she comes from good stock.’
After they had walked Henry back to his house, Matt told Harri about how Henry had taken care of him after his own father died. ‘He’s a good man,’ he said.
‘Did he know she was pregnant?’
‘Oh, no. Nobody did.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘How did you think you could keep it a secret?’
He shrugged. ‘We were kids.’
25 December 1975 – Thursday
My last period came on 30 October. I think I’m in trouble. I’ve been throwing up and my chest is so sore that last night it woke me. I haven’t said anything to Matthew because he’s still trying to get over his dad and, anyway, there might be nothing wrong. I’ll wait another few days. No, I’ll wait till the New Year. If I haven’t got it by the New Year I’ll tell Matthew. The first week of the New Year. He’s spending Christmas with his grandparents in Meath, leaving poor Henry all alone. I’d never thought about Henry being alone before, not until he was asked to watch over Matthew. Now every weekend they’re like two peas in a pod. It’s nice. We all muck in together with the horses and we ride and Dr B comes up and he helps too, and it’s like we’ve got our own family, which is good because I might as well have no family here.
HE took a job in Galway for the month – at least that was what he told my mam. I don’t think she cares much about anything any more. Today we had chicken for Christmas dinner. I cooked it. Mostly we just watched TV. She gave me a pendant – it had been my granny’s. It’s nice. I’d bought her a bottle of perfume and a book but she didn’t even look at them. Not really, anyway. We just sat on the sofa, time passed, and now I’m up here writing it all down, not that there’s much to write. Matthew will be home the day after tomorrow so everything will be back to normal. Well, at least I hope so. Maybe I’ll talk to Dr B, maybe not. No. I’ll just wait and see. It’s probably fine. Sheila and Dave have been having sex for ages and she hasn’t got pregnant. Everything will be fine. Happy Christmas to me.
22. If I could change …
Harri and George had a lot to talk about on the way home from Wicklow.
‘Brendan’s nice,’ George said.
‘He seems it,’ she replied.
‘Do you know what he told me when you and Matt were at the stables? He said that the first person he came out to was Liv.’
‘No!’
‘I swear.’
‘That’s so strange,’ she said.
‘Funny old world.’
They talked about Matt a lot.
‘I like him!’ George laughed.
‘But didn’t it freak you out when he kept talking about the way I looked?’
‘Natural.’
‘What about the way he says everything that comes into his head?’
‘You do that.’
‘But I have to be asked.’
‘True,’ he agreed.
‘He thinks I don’t like him.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’
‘I’d say lots of women like him.’ George was smiling.
‘Oh, seriously, George, don’t do that.’
He laughed. ‘He’s a looker.’
‘George, please, I get car sick at the best of times.’
‘Henry sounds like a nice man.’
‘He made me want to cry.’
‘You know what I think?’
‘What?’
‘I think the girl who died in the woods in 1976 was really loved.’
‘Me too.’ She smiled. ‘Me too.’
Deirdre was sitting in her chair by the heater under the large window that looked out on to the grounds. Matt rested his hand on her shoulder.
‘Hi, Deirdre.’
‘Hi, Matt.’
‘Sorry it’s been so long.’ He sat in the spare chair next to her.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Has it?’
‘Deirdre.’
She blinked at him.
‘Remember I told you a secret a few years ago.’
She nodded. ‘About the girl who looks like my Liv.’
‘That’s right.’
She blinked at him.
‘I met her today. It was awkward. I think I made a bit of a tit out of myself.’ He waited for a reaction but there was none. ‘You’d really like her, Deirdre. She has that look, the one that puts you in your place the moment you say something she doesn’t like.’
‘It’d frighten the devil,’ Deirdre said, with a little giggle that seemed to come from a faraway place.
‘That’s the one. Maybe some day I could bring her to meet you. Not today or tomorrow, and maybe not for a while. I don’t know when I’ll see her again and things are very up in the air but maybe some day I could bring her here. Would you like that?’
She blinked at him.
‘Deirdre?’
But Deirdre’s mind had moved on.
‘Well,’ he said, getting up. ‘Maybe one day.’
Doctors would often discuss and debate Deirdre’s depression and associated altered behaviour, which had been diagnosed soon after her daughter’s death. For thirty years she had been in and out of mental institutions, where she had received any number of treatments. Unfortunately it was only following an EEG test in the mid-nineties that it had become clear that the cause of Deirdre’s mental condition was a brain injury, no doubt a result of the abuse she had suffered throughout the 1970s. The diagnosis had come too late for surgery so they were forced to continue her medication: it had long ago become clear that Deirdre would not find her way back.
Deirdre had returned to her little home in Castle Street many times over the years but never for long, and during her times of internment the tiny mortgage payments had mounted. When it became obvious to all those around that she was unable to take care of herself, Matt had moved her to a care home and paid all her bills because that was what Liv would have wanted.
Seeing Deirdre always made him sad because in that last week Liv had been so sure that her mam was going to be all ri
ght – but that was Liv, determined to look on the bright side no matter what. We were only kids.
George only realized how tired he was when he opened his front door. It had been a hectic week at work, and driving to and from Wicklow in a day was no joke, especially when there was a bloody two-hour traffic jam on the way because of two broken-down lorries.
‘How the hell does that happen? Look at them side by side, taking up the whole fucking road!’
Aidan was waiting on the sofa. He was quiet. The TV was off. George knew it was time so he sat down.
‘We don’t work,’ Aidan said.
George nodded.
‘We keep trying. I’ll give us that.’ Aidan smiled. ‘And I don’t want to hate you but if we keep going …’
‘Me neither,’ George said.
‘I’ll really miss you,’ said Aidan.
‘You’ll really be missed,’ George replied sadly.
‘You’re selfish and have issues that you may never resolve but you’re fascinating and worldly and fun and passionate, and you’re kind and I wouldn’t take back one minute of our four years together,’ Aidan said, tears threatening.
‘Maybe the minute we had a gun stuck in our faces after you mooned out of a bus window in Egypt.’ George grinned.
‘Yeah, okay, I’d take back that minute.’ Aidan laughed.
‘You’re camper than Christmas and sometimes I know you’re just doing it to annoy me.’
Aidan nodded.
‘You’re loud, you’re bitchy, you’re patient – you’ve been very patient. You’re funnier than most people I know and when I said I loved you I meant it.’
Aidan sighed and stood up. ‘Goodbye, George.’
‘Goodbye, Aidan.’
They hugged, and Aidan left quietly. George sat alone and heartsick in his apartment in the centre of Dublin. If I could change I would have changed for you.
It had been a long week and, between George and Aidan, Harri and her new dad, Susan, Andrew and the whole bloody lot of them, Melissa was ready for a quiet uneventful night with her husband.
She took Jacob up to bed.
‘One more Scooby-Doo,’ he begged.
‘No.’
‘Half one.’
‘No.’
‘One more Maha-maha-maha-mammy!’ he wailed.
‘Jacob, you can maha-maha-maha-mammy me all you want, love. You can scream, you can shout, you can roar, you can do that kicking thing you do on the floor, but you are not watching another Scooby-Doo.’
Jacob thought about this for a second or two, then screamed, shouted, roared and did the kicking thing on the floor until, exhausted, he fell asleep.
Gerry was downstairs rocking Carrie, who had a cold.
‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s still stuffy, poor little mite,’ he said, looking down into her face.
‘She picks up everything that’s going round.’
‘She’s a person and people get sick.’
‘Not that often!’
‘Okay, okay! Anyway, Mrs Rafferty has the worst of it, minding her while we’re at work.’
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve been doing some figures and if we get rid of the two cars and maybe buy one a few years old, and if we cut out a family holiday for a few years and tighten our belts, I could leave work.’
‘No.’
‘Gerry!’
‘Melissa, we can’t afford it.’
‘But we’d save on childcare.’
‘No!’ he said, wiping Carrie’s nose.
‘You know what? Fine. Fine. Fine. I’ll just die standing, will I?’
‘I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean,’ he said. Jesus, here we go again. The door slammed. Looks like it’s just you and me, kid.
Harri opened the door in her dressing-gown, with a big smile on her face.
Melissa held up a bottle of wine. ‘Can I stay?’
‘Why not? I’ve just got rid of Susan.’
Melissa flopped on to the sofa while Harri opened the wine.
‘I still can’t believe you met your dad.’
‘I know.’
‘I still can’t believe Susan and Andrew are giving it another go.’
‘I know.’
‘I still can’t believe George and Aidan have split up.’
‘I know.’
‘Everybody else is moving forward and I seem to be stuck in the same old rut.’ She clinked Harri’s glass.
‘He’s still not budging, then?’
‘He won’t even discuss it.’
‘Still, you’ve worked so hard to get where you are.’
‘I know.’
‘You might hate being at home all the time.’
‘I know.’
‘But then something’s got to give.’
‘I know.’ Melissa smiled.
‘If only you could go part time.’
‘It’s just not an option – the firm is too small and my job is too big.’
‘What are you going do?’
Melissa picked up her glass. ‘Have you taken Matt up on his offer yet?’
‘No.’
‘If you do, how would you feel about company?’
‘But it’s midweek.’
‘Exactly. I think it’s time Gerry got a taste of my life.’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t!’
‘Oh, I bloody would!’
‘I’ll make the call.’
Melissa clapped her hands. ‘Road trip, road trip!’
It had been a week since Matt had met his daughter for the first time in Brendan’s kitchen. He’d waited until Wednesday before he’d made the call inviting her to attend a horse show in Seville. He sold it on the basis that she’d get to see what he did and it would be a nice break – and maybe it would be easier to get to know one another on neutral ground. He’d sounded nervous on the phone and like he wasn’t used to sounding nervous.
‘I don’t know,’ she’d said.
‘Think about it.’
‘Okay. I will.’
‘Good.’
There was an uncomfortable silence and then the phone call ended. When she rang him on the Saturday morning to confirm she would go, along with her friend Melissa, he was delighted. ‘Fantastic! I’ll show you a great time.’
Later she went to her parents’ house. Her dad was sunning himself on Nana’s bench. She kissed his furry cheek and sat beside him.
‘A good day,’ he said, looking up at the bright sky.
‘It is,’ she agreed.
‘Last Sunday was nice too.’
‘It was.’ She laughed.
‘How was he?’
‘Fine. Nice. Weird.’
‘I suppose that’s to be expected.’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes, love.’
‘No matter what, he’s not you.’
Duncan rubbed his beard on her face the way he had done when she was a child. She pushed him off, laughing.
‘Your brother is inside with your mother,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘He’s been here most nights this week.’
‘Still missing Aidan.’
‘It’s early days. And what about you?’
‘Me? Well, I’m going to get James back.’
He turned his head to look at her. ‘Good for you!’ He slapped his thigh. ‘That’s the best news I’ve had in a long time.’
She listened to the phone ringing and thought about hanging up, but it was too late.
‘Hello?’
‘James.’
‘Harri.’
‘Is it okay that I’m calling you?’
‘I was just thinking about you.’
‘Ha. How funny.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m good,’ she said. ‘I’m really pretty good.’
‘Grea
t.’
‘James, the last time we were together you said I needed to find myself or something – well, I’m doing that. I’ve visited my mother, which, granted, is just standing in front of a stone, but I’ve had dinner with Matt, my father, and his doctor friend, and I met old Henry – you would just love him – and I’m going away to some horse show in Seville with them next week, and it’s weird but it’s not weird and I miss you. Every day. And I know it’s not much and I’ve a way to go but can I ask you to hold on?’
‘Yes.’
She laughed. ‘Okay. And, James?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was thinking of a Christmas wedding.’
‘Don’t push it.’
‘Understood.’
‘Call me when you get back from Seville.’
‘I will.’ I love you, you knock-knock-joke-telling weirdo.
30 January 1976 – Friday
Okay, slightly panicked. My period has still not come and I decided to wait before upsetting Matthew because it might have been a false alarm – he had a hard Christmas with his grandparents, school is difficult and I only get to see him on weekends. I’m making excuses. I’m a coward. I’m a pregnant coward. I’m so sick all the time and tired. I fell asleep in the biology class today. The teacher was doing the reproductive organs, which was ironic. I keep puking and puking and puking. If puking was an art form I’d be Leonardo da Vinci. I think I’ve lost weight too – my school shirt is swimming on me. I wonder how long that will last.
I was riding with Dr B on Monday evening and it was freezing. Betsy was not one bit happy and I don’t blame her. I wasn’t too happy myself but I’d promised him I’d go with him. I was thinking about talking to him and maybe I would have but then I thought, I don’t know if he has a duty to report it, like he had a duty to report HIM coming into my room, not that the police did anything about it, but what if he has a duty to report me and they do something about me? Pamela Whelan’s older sister Pauline (there are four girls in that family and they all begin with P!) got pregnant two years ago and she was sent to a convent in the midlands and when she came back she had no baby and she’s been a bit weird ever since. And Dave told Sheila about his cousin Loretta. She got pregnant and was sent to England and that was four years ago and the family never speak of her. He doesn’t know what happened to her. I’m in big trouble.
Anyway, I was thinking of telling Dr B and then I thought I wouldn’t and then he told me that he had met someone. I nearly died. Dr B has found someone. I’m happy for him. They met at some dance in Dublin and he’s only seen him three times but they get on great. They both like cards and chess. He has a car and a full-time job as a factory manager. It’s brilliant. I told him I was so happy for him and I wasn’t lying. I even forgot that I was pregnant for a while. I have to tell Matthew this weekend and I’m dreading it. He keeps talking about Kentucky being only six months away. I thought after his dad died that our plans would have to change but Matthew won’t inherit until he’s twenty-one and his dad’s friend still wants him to come and Henry thinks it’s a great idea and now I’ve gone and ruined everything. He’s going to hate me.
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