When All Is Said

by Anne Griffin

  White linens, not a crease in sight, on a four-poster bed. Curtains hang around it matching those of the window: deep purple folds that fall to the floor with the weight of the money they must have cost. Cream pillows, with purple flowers, sit three rows deep. A mahogany wardrobe stands at the end of the bed. To its left near the window is a writing desk with a bottle of water and a glass. When I switch on the lamplight I can see the furniture is old but cared for, polished to a shine. A chair with its back to me is pushed in under the arch of the desk, its green leather secured to the frame with brass tacks. And an armchair, to the right, with a high back and generous armrests, sits in the corner like it’s been waiting for me all this time – eighty-four years.

  My hand bangs the whiskey bottle down on the bedside locker. I didn’t mean to do it. I misjudged the distance and I jump at the sound.

  ‘Ssh,’ I say, ‘they could be coming. Robert might be running up the stairs right now to save the day and wrestle you from me. Quiet now.’

  I take off my sopping jacket and throw it on the bed. I look around and try to locate my faded memories, the shadows of your wedding night. Can you remember it like it was yesterday or is it half rubbed out in your head too? Was the room as mighty, as plush and posh as this? I walk around the bed, over to the window, feeling my feet sink into the deep carpet. Not the easiest of dance surfaces, but nevertheless, I take my stance and waltz her. Feeling her back arch under my guidance as I move us through the steps.

  ‘Goodnight, Sadie. Goodnight, Sadie, I’ll see you in my dreams,’ my tired voice sings.

  ‘Irene,’ I imagine her protests, ‘it’s Irene, not Sadie.’

  But I don’t listen and off we go again, waltzing through our lives. Humming my way through my one, two, threes, when the words escape me. Dancing her through our highs and lows and all of those bits in the middle that’ve made up this life of ours. Grinning like the happy fool I am. Faster and faster I spin, brushing by curtains, dicing with corners, colliding with chairs, racing through those moments on my memory reel. Swirling, swirling, until at last I land on the soft down of the bedcovers. Panting, exhausted, the ceiling spinning above me. My eyes shut tight against it all. The soft silkiness of the covers holds me, refusing to let go. Its folds are far too tempting and soon I feel myself drift away.

  But my brain taps away at my skull. I moan in protest. My conscience doesn’t give a damn and guilts me into moving. I roll on my front and drool down on to the whiteness. My arms push me up. I feel like a heifer, the weight of me.

  I unpack my remains. From my jacket, the pictures: Tony and me, Sadie and you. My father’s pipe that I run my hand over to feel its smooth comfort one last time. Sadie’s hair-clip purse that I hold to my nose for a minute before laying it down with my glasses and my phone.

  I search my trouser pocket, for the handkerchief. Where is it? Where the fuck is it? My hand rummages, but it’s gone. Did I drop it? Where? Sitting at the bar? In the toilet? My hand pats at my clothing, at my jacket, as my brain goes over the memories of the evening. And I remember giving it to Hilary. My fingers recognise the plastic bag now, in its hidey-hole, scurrying about under my touch. Thirty little pills. I scoop it out, dig my fingers into the plastic and let the contents spill on to the bed: the yellow, blue and pink. I count them. One all the way to thirty. I get up to get a towel from the bathroom and lay it flat on the writing desk, careful to push the bottle and glass in out of the way. I retrieve the pills from the bed and wrap them in the towel. With the water bottle, I begin to pummel them. Each time I press down with my weight, I cry. Tears that surprise me stream down my face, my neck, reaching my chest. Flow for as far you can go. I’ll not stop you now. And when I’m sure my job is done, I shake the contents of the towel on to the table, my hand corralling all that falls, pushing the multicoloured mess to the edge, tipping it over, into the glass. Tears, pills, everything falling downwards. Tinkle, tinkle. I sit and stare at it, my love-heart mixture. Still crying, for me. I am as reluctant as I am eager to leave this world behind me now.

  I got them in Dublin, the pills. Tried to con the Doc into giving me some. But he was having none of it. A counsellor, that’s what he wanted to give me. A fecking counsellor.

  Didn’t take me as long as I’d thought to find Gizzo up in Dublin. Tall as a giraffe and a Jimi Hendrix tattoo on his left hand. Not that young David ever knew why I questioned him so much about his misguided youth. Walked into the Galley Bar and there he was, sat in the corner booth. I wore an old, moth-eaten coat, long enough to cover my shotgun strapped to my belt. All I was short of was a Stetson and a horse.

  ‘I hear you supply all sorts,’ I said to him. Another lad sat beside him, Deco or Eamo maybe. We didn’t exactly introduce ourselves. Gizzo had me up out of the place fairly lively. His hand jammed right into my armpit, pushing me through the doors.

  ‘What the fuck, man? You can’t be at that in there. You’ll get me barred,’ he said, hoisting me down a lane behind the pub. My blood was pumping. What was the worst he could do, I kept saying over and over in my head, shoot me? Wouldn’t that’ve been a good one?

  ‘I’m a friend of David’s. David Flynn,’ was all I could think of babbling, God forgive me, I hope the kid never finds out.

  ‘David? Fuck me, man. Haven’t heard from him in years. Heard the Da died.’

  Polite young man, I have to say.

  ‘You can get anything you want, old-timer,’ he told me when I’d explained my predicament, ‘once you’re willing to pay through the nose.’ How he laughed at that one. ’Course, I didn’t know what I wanted, I just knew what the end result needed to be. I waited a half hour or so in the lane with the rubbish and the used condoms until he came back like he said he would.

  ‘Amiods, Digs and Zeps man. Just crush ’em and mix ’em. Wash ’em down with a bit of booze. And bam. Gone. Adios, amigo.’ I took the little bag he offered and left. Had there been a follow-up survey, he’d have gotten five stars.

  I shake those crushed pills about in the glass, still fascinated by them, by this, by me.

  There’ll be no letter, Kevin. That’d take a whole evening in itself. Instead I want you to hear my voice, so you know for sure this is what I want. My voice. Did I ever tell you it was my voice your mother fell in love with?

  ‘So deep and smooth,’ she said, not long after we were married, ‘I could’ve closed my eyes and listened to it all day, the first time we met.’ Imagine.

  From the bed, I take your picture, my phone and glasses and bring them to the writing desk. The towel, I fold and push towards the end. Jefferson’s, pills, phone and picture – all before me. I put on my glasses. Ready at last.

  I tip the red button and my voice tumbles out, exhausted but steady:

  ‘Son, it’s me – Dad. By now, I’ll be, em … gone. I’m not one for letters, as you know. How many of those have you gotten from me over the years, what? No, that was more you and your mother. You were good with the words, the two of you. You got it from her, of course.

  ‘I want you to know, son, I’m sorry. Not for dying, not for going, although I … I know it won’t be easy. But no, I mean, sorry for the father I’ve been. I know, really I do, that I could’ve been better. That I could’ve listened more, that I could’ve accepted you and all you’ve become with a little more grace. I’m in awe of you, is the truth of it. The man you are, the goodness you possess, your brightness, your cleverness. I feel a lesser man standing beside you, having watched you grow into this big strapping man of letters.

  ‘I want you to know I’ve read your articles, every one. It took me a while, I’ll admit, but in the last two years I’ve read every one. Even did a bit of your mother on it and looked it all up, and you, yes, I googled you. And there you were. The amount of stuff on you, I couldn’t believe it. Sure you’re everywhere. I even googled myself and there I was missing. So in my own way, I did find you. I met you there in print and on the screen. I’m sorry it’s taken me until now to tell you I see it – I see
your brilliance and your kindness. I see it all and I love it – I love you.

  ‘There are things I regret, Kevin, like how I never shook your hand for working beside me every Saturday when you were younger, hating every moment of it but doing it anyway. And how I shut you out when your mother died. That was … that was wrong.

  ‘God almighty, I had hoped I could spare you the tears but there you go … Achmm, achmm … Sorry now.

  ‘I drank your Jefferson’s tonight. She’s a beauty. I raised a glass in your honour. I had a toast for your mother and Auntie No-no and little Molly and your Uncle Tony too.

  ‘I want you to know I’ve gone on my own terms, Kevin. This life has been good to me. This is no tragedy. You know I’m not one for illness or nursing homes; I couldn’t have done that, Kevin, because the way I saw it, that’s where we were headed. Be honest, it’s better this way.

  ‘I remember Rosaleen holding your hand the day of your mother’s funeral. She’s a good woman, Rosaleen. I know I’ve not given her the credit she’s deserved over the years. Tell her I’ve asked that she hold your hand again now.

  ‘To my Adam and Caitríona, I send my deepest, deepest love. I know I must’ve played the part of crotchety grandfather well for them over their young years. Give them a kiss for me and tell them Granny and Grandad will be watching over them.

  ‘The will is sorted. Robert has that for you. Everything is taken care of. The land and home is sold and every business interest I’ve ever had has also been taken care of. You’ll find that all the proceeds are yours, sitting in several bank accounts, except of course for the one in Adam and Catríona’s names. I wanted to leave no headache for you. All is ready for you to live your life.

  ‘There is, of course, the issue of the hotel, this hotel. I own half. It’s a long story and one I’m sure Emily will tell you. You’ll remember Emily from your wedding, nice lady. I want her to have it, Kevin, the hotel; I’m giving it back, although her mother may have something to say on that. She can do what she wants with it then. It’s best that way. I’ll let her fill you in on it all, no need to bore you with the detail now. But one other thing, you know that brother of Rosaleen’s, your man who was one of your grooms men, can’t remember his name, but you might introduce him to Emily someday, I’ve a feeling they might hit it off. And there’s a few bob there for a lad called David as well. Robert’ll tell you about him.

  ‘I’m ready for your mother now. Ready for her by my side again. It’s a risk, I know. Perhaps there is no heaven. Perhaps she won’t be there with open arms. But anything, anything has to be better than this life without her. These past two years have been rotten. I’ve felt the ache of her going in my very bones. Every morning, every hour of every day I’ve dragged her loss around with me. The worst thing has been the fear that I’ll wake one morning and she’ll be gone from my memory forever, and that, son, that, I just can’t do. I’m not half the man I was without her. I’m ready, ready to have her hand in mine for real again, not imagined any more.

  ‘Well, my boy, I think that’s me. The good and the bad of me. Have a good life, son, keep ploughing on and you’ll be doing mighty. Mighty. And thank you, Kevin, thank you for all the years of letting me be me.

  ‘And know this – if ever you need me I am beside you listening, always. I love you, Kevin. Take her handy, my boy. Bye for now.’

  The silence surrounds me as my finger presses ‘done’. Your picture, I turn over and put on top of my phone with a message I wrote on the back earlier: For Kevin – Press Play. And then it’s time for sleep. Me and my pills and your whiskey make it to the bed and on to these sheets that are way too good for me.

  Whiskey first.

  I unscrew the bottle as my glass, unsteadied by the ripples I’ve caused in the bed, leans into my thigh. I sigh; one last chance to bolt for the door, one final chance to flush these beauties down the toilet.

  No?

  My hand finds the glass and I raise it and start to gulp them down. Then drink again. And gulp and drink and gulp and drink. I pour and swallow. And then I lie back, my glass at last empty.

  My eyes close one final time and I call to her:

  ‘Sadie, are you there? Are you ready? It’s me – Maurice. Can I come home?’

  Acknowledgements

  To friends and family who have shared stories that have helped in creating this book – Tom Byrne, Mary Daly, Gerry Heary, Marése Bell, Séamus Ó Drisceoil, Brian McGovern, Michael Walsh, Anthony Lowry Senior, Joe Brady, Donal Heaney and in particular my parents, James and Brigid Griffin. To Brigid, Patrick and Jean for their continued support of my writing, in particular at the final stages of this novel. To two dogs called Dinky, one from Westmeath, the other from Wexford, who inspired the lives of both dogs in this book. To Rosie Bissett and all at the Dyslexia Association of Ireland – the inspirational stories of those who use its services have greatly influenced the life of Maurice Hannigan. To all in Loreto College, Mullingar, for affording me the time during the editing process. To the students and teachers of the Creative Writing Programme in University College Dublin 2015–2016 who gave invaluable feedback at various stages of this novel’s existence – Joe Crotty, Finnbar Howell, Laura-Blaise McDowell, Lorna McMahon, Aedamar Kirrane, Lorcan Byrne, Rory Kiberd, Disharee Bose, Colm McDermott, Eamon McGuinness, Phil Kearney Byrne, James Ryan, Éilís Ní Dhuibhne, Frank McGuinness, Lia Mills, Anne Enright and Paul Perry. To Alison Walsh and Billy Doran, who gave of their time and wisdom in helping me get this book published.

  To Louise Buckley, whose belief in this book has changed my world – your guidance has steered me well.

  To all in Hachette Ireland, in particular Elaine Egan, Jim Binchy, Breda Purdue, Siobhán Tierney and Ruth Shern.

  To Hope Dellon and Sally Richardson at St Martin’s Press USA, who acquired and championed the book. To Stephen Power and Samantha Zukergood at Thomas Dunne Books, who have supported this book’s development and not least, given me a great title.

  To all in Hodder and Stoughton’s Sceptre team in the UK who read and fell in love with Maurice giving him a home I am proud of. To name only a few that have worked so hard on my behalf: Louise Court, Fleur Clarke and Lily Cooper. In particular my deepest gratitude goes to Emma Herdman who first found Maurice and whose talent and eye as an editor has helped me make this book shine.

  To John Boyne, the man who first encouraged me to write and who has incessantly supported my journey ever since – I am in your debt.

  Finally, to James and Adam – for picking me up and brushing me down when I stumble, and for the hands I will always hold.

  About the Author

  Anne Griffin is the winner of the John McGahern Award. Short-listed for the Hennessey New Irish Writing Award and the Sunday Business Post Short Story Award, Anne’s work has been featured in, among others, The Irish Times and The Stinging Fly, and she had an eight-year career at Waterstones. Anne lives in Ireland with her husband and son. When All Is Said is her debut novel. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Wanted

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
/>   THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  WHEN ALL IS SAID. Copyright © 2019 by Anne Griffin. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design and illustration by Olga Grlic

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Griffin, Anne, 1969–author.

  Title: When all is said: a novel / Anne Griffin.

  Description: First U.S. edition. | New York: Thomas Dunne Books, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018041302 | ISBN 9781250200587 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250200594 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PR6107.R495 W44 2019 | DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018041302

  eISBN 9781250200594

  Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  First published in Great Britain by Sceptre, an imprint of Hodder & Stoughton, an Hachette UK company

  First U.S. Edition: March 2019