The Birthday Party: The spell-binding new summer read from the Number One bestselling author

by Meaney, Roisin

  Oh, there was so much to sort out, so much tossing about in her simmering head as she lay chasing sleep each night. Thank God the crèche was closed for the summer.

  Anyway, I just wanted to let you know how things were. Don’t worry about me, I’ll figure it out, and I’ll come to see you soon. I’ll bring the little oranges you like.

  love Eve xx

  She read it through from the beginning. It covered two pages of her notebook, back and front. She detached them carefully from their spiral binding, and read the letter through again. Then she ripped the pages in half, and in half again, and again, and dropped the little pieces into the plastic bin under the sink.

  Mam didn’t read letters. Mam had no interest in letters, or in Eve. For the past several months Mam had been living in the psychiatric wing of a Dublin hospital, her mind destroyed by drugs, her body ruined by the lifestyle they’d dictated.

  The last time Eve had seen her, a few days before Easter, they’d sat in a room that smelt of someone else’s feet, and her mother had replied to Eve’s questions in a low, defeated voice. She’d shown no curiosity about her daughter – Eve hadn’t been entirely sure that she’d even recognised her. It felt like nothing remained of their connection, and she’d been so sad and confused on leaving that she’d thought she might not return.

  But she could still talk to her – she could still open up and let out whatever was inside, even if it was only words on paper, even if Mam never got to read them. Better that she never got to read them. Better if she didn’t know the half of what was going on.

  She looked out at the rain. Some summer this was turning out to be.

  Imelda

  IT STOOD ON THE DOORSTEP, ALL ON ITS OWN. IT WAS big and bright green and made, she thought, of rigid plastic. There were little black wheels, four of them, on its underside.

  Imelda hitched her bag onto her shoulder and examined the suitcase more closely. No identifying tag or sticker, no indication as to who might own it, or who might have left it there. She nudged it with her foot: it didn’t budge. She took hold of the handle and gave it a small tug, and the resistance she met told her it was full, presumably with the things that people usually put into suitcases. But whose was it, and what on earth was it doing here?

  Could it possibly belong to Eve? Imelda had never seen it before, but Eve could have picked it up in a charity shop. She might be regretting her recent outburst. She might want to move home again, to be with Imelda while they mourned. But there was no sign of Eve – and anyway, she’d hardly arrive with bag and baggage before talking to Imelda about it.

  She glanced around the small front yard. All was as it should be, the various pots and tubs still in their usual places, no sign of any other foreign object. She walked around the house and found the back garden similarly undisturbed – and there was Scooter, asleep in the corner she always chose for her naps. Had the dog witnessed the arrival of the suitcase? Had she heard the sound of its approach, and padded out to investigate?

  ‘Who was it?’ Imelda asked, and Scooter lifted her head briefly before settling back, not caring who it was.

  Imelda let herself into the house and stood for a moment in the kitchen, listening to the silence. Would she ever get used to it? Not that Hugh had been loud – she could hardly remember him raising his voice: even his laughter had been gentle – but he’d been there, and he’d had plenty to say for himself.

  When Eve and her brother Keith had shared the house with them, there was noise. Two teenagers – how could there not be noise? Sometimes the siblings would bicker, but it rarely lasted. Leave them at it, Hugh would tell her. They’ll sort it out, and they always did.

  But now everyone was gone. Now it was just her and Scooter. Nobody to chat with, no sound when she ate but her own chewing and swallowing, and the occasional soft judder from the fridge, or shriek of gulls if the window was open. There was the radio, of course, but sometimes it annoyed her, and she had to switch it off.

  She dropped her bag onto the kitchen floor and crossed to a chair. She sat and placed her forearms on the table and lowered her head onto them. She was dreadfully tired, more exhausted than she could ever remember. She’d never realised before how grief could suck everything, everything out of you except the awful, endless longing for what was gone.

  And then there were all the stepping-stones that had to be negotiated, all the milestones to pass on her journey without him. Her first night alone, a week after the funeral, when her sister had packed up and gone home. Her first unaccompanied visit to his grave, when she’d stood by the turned earth, still covered with flowers, and torn strips off him for dying. The first time she’d put out the bins, always his job. Every first driving the pain deeper into her.

  And the month’s mind Mass, falling cruelly on what would have been his birthday: how horribly it had stirred everything up. The little church as full as it had been for the funeral, everyone there, she knew, to show their ongoing sympathy – and it had been appreciated, she’d been glad of it.

  But all through the Mass she’d relived the full dreadfulness of his death. All through the prayers and the hymns and the kneeling and the sitting, the pain had come at her in waves. Several times she’d felt the near-uncontrollable urge to burst into hysterical tears, to let her anguish out unchecked, and only the knowledge that any display of high emotion would alarm and upset Nell on one side of her, and Eve on the other, had enabled her to keep her composure.

  After Mass she’d been surrounded, everyone shaking her hand again or pressing her shoulder again or gathering her into an embrace again, till she wanted to scream at them all to let her be, to allow her to mourn him undisturbed. The month’s mind had been hard.

  And two weeks after that, she’d said the wrong thing to Eve, and the girl had shouted at her and left in anger, and still hadn’t reappeared, or been in touch. The silence of that, the hurtfulness of that – but she’d come back. She’d have to.

  She lifted her head. Food. She should eat: nothing since a lunchtime apple and a small wedge of Cheddar. She crossed to the fridge and looked without enthusiasm at eggs and yogurt and sausages. She pulled out the vegetable drawer and saw carrots that should have been eaten a week ago, and left them there.

  She cut bread from a loaf and toasted it. She spread butter and lemon curd and had it standing at the window, unable to eat alone at the table.

  She’d have an early night, even if it wasn’t yet eight o’clock, even if daylight still streamed into the room. Even if, despite her exhaustion, sleep would undoubtedly prove fitful at best.

  But then she thought, no, she wouldn’t go up just yet. There was something too defeatist, something too slippery-slope, about getting into bed so early. She’d lie on the couch instead, close her eyes there for an hour or so.

  She went upstairs and took the eiderdown and Hugh’s pillow from their bed. In the sitting room she turned on the television, the volume set so low she could barely hear it. It was company she craved, but the kind that didn’t require any interaction. The kind that ignored her, and allowed her to ignore it.

  She slipped off her shoes and her cardigan. She should brush her teeth – they still felt coated with lemon curd – but her toothbrush was upstairs and she couldn’t face the return trip.

  She lay back and pulled up the eiderdown and looked at the ceiling while she listened to the small voice of a newscaster telling of a drugs seizure in Kildare, and a landslide in the Philippines, and accusations of more crooked elections in Africa. She closed her eyes and gradually the voice became a soft wash of sound, and she drifted to sleep.

  She woke with a start. What? She blinked, disoriented, too hot. She pushed aside the eiderdown and turned her head and saw the fireplace, the mantelpiece, armchairs. The sitting room, yes, and the day returned slowly to her, and with it the knowledge that Hugh was gone, the fresh cruel blow that waited for her on each awakening, bringing with it the same blackness.

  The mantel clock read twenty past eight; s
he’d slept for little more than half an hour. The doorbell rang – and she realised it must be for the second time, the first having surely been what had wakened her. Someone with an apple tart or a fruitcake, some well-meaning neighbour who would need tea made for them, and who would sit and talk for an hour, and tell Imelda how brave she was being, and how Hugh would have wanted her to carry on.

  She closed her eyes again. Not tonight. She couldn’t take it. She’d lie quietly, and whoever it was would go away. She waited for the sound of retreating footsteps, and for a time heard nothing. She imagined them standing undecided, maybe peering through the sitting room window. She didn’t budge, didn’t open her eyes – and then the letterbox snapped, making her heart skip. She imagined a note hastily scribbled, Sorry I missed you, hope you’re feeling OK. Now they would go. She heard a clatter, a roll of wheels on concrete – and abruptly she remembered the green suitcase, greeting her on her return earlier.

  She opened her eyes. She sat up and pushed her feet into shoes, and ran a hand through her hair. The sound of the wheels was growing fainter. She grabbed her cardigan and shoved her arms into the sleeves. She went out to the hall and stooped to pick up the folded torn-edged page, still pulling her cardigan into place. She scanned the brief message, written in pencil, the lettering shaky:

  Dear Mr and Mrs Fitzpatrick

  Here is Gualtiero Conti. I come to stay in your house. I come two time but you are not here. I go now to hotel. Please come. I wait for you in hotel.

  GC

  Gualtiero Conti.

  Mr Conti.

  She’d forgotten him.

  God Almighty. She had completely and utterly forgotten Mr Conti.

  She couldn’t let him go without an explanation. She had to stop him. She opened the front door and saw nothing. She strode to the gate and there he was, short and straw-hatted, retreating in the direction of the village at a fairly rapid trot, pulling his case after him.

  ‘Stop!’ she called. ‘Wait!’

  He halted. He turned. He was already fifty yards, maybe more, from her. She lifted an arm, gave a ridiculous little wave. ‘Mr Conti!’ she called, and back he came. Plump, dressed in a beautiful navy pinstripe suit. Glasses, ruddy-cheeked. Smiling.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Imelda said, as he approached. ‘I was asleep, I … didn’t hear you. And earlier I was … out. I’m sorry. I’m Imelda Fitzpatrick,’ she added. She hoped to God she looked halfway decent, but she doubted it.

  He was shorter than her by a couple of inches. His skin was tanned. Behind the glasses his eyes were toffee brown. He raised his hat, exposing closely cropped grey hair. He gave a little bow from the waist. ‘Mrs Fitzpatrick,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly deep, ‘incantata. Please to meet you.’

  Imelda’s mind raced. She’d have to come clean. She’d have to admit she’d forgotten about him. She’d explain about Hugh; he’d understand, and go away. He’d have to find somewhere else to stay until he could return to Italy.

  But before she could open her mouth, he spoke again. ‘Please, Mrs Fitzpatrick, you ’ave the toilet?’

  ‘I – beg your pardon?’

  ‘You ’ave the toilet for me, please?’

  The toilet, the least she could do. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Follow me, I’ll show you.’

  She led him up the path and back into the house, the green suitcase bumping along in his wake, hopping over the threshold. ‘You can leave it here,’ she told him. ‘The bathroom is upstairs, first door on the left.’

  ‘Left?’

  ‘This one,’ she said, touching her left shoulder. ‘First door.’

  ‘Ah – sinistra. Thank you, Mrs Fitzpatrick.’ Another little bow. He climbed the stairs, his tread light, the straw hat still perched on his head. He left a faint scent in his wake that put her in mind of freshly sawn wood.

  She stood in the hall, eyeing the suitcase, trying to marshal her thoughts. March, was it, or April? A lifetime ago, it felt like. Eve gone since January to the apartment above the crèche, Keith’s hotel management course already under way in Galway. The house hers and Hugh’s again, after nearly four years of sharing it with others.

  Like to earn a bit of pocket money this summer? Nell had asked over a morning coffee. Laura has had an enquiry from an Italian couple who stayed with her last year – the husband is looking for accommodation for his uncle in the summer. He wants to come for about a month and do some painting.

  Couldn’t Laura put him up? Imelda had enquired, not sure she fancied the idea of taking in a stranger for an entire month.

  She doesn’t want him. Long-term stays don’t really pay her – and, anyway she doesn’t have a single room, so he’d be taking up a double. I said I’d ask around. Don’t worry if you’d prefer not to.

  But the more she’d thought about it, the more the idea had appealed to Imelda. An older man, presumably quiet in his habits – and they’d still have Keith’s room free, if he fancied coming back for a weekend now and again. Would I have to cook for him, or could I just give him the room?

  Well, he’d probably expect breakfast, but you wouldn’t be obliged to do more than that. You could always ask him – Laura has an email address.

  I’ll talk to Hugh – and Hugh, when she’d brought it up, had had no objection. Why not? It’s only for a month – and it would give us a taste, see if we wanted to do more in the future. So Imelda had sent an email, and Mr Conti had replied, and after a bit of back-and-forth – he’d always addressed her as Mrs Fitzpatrick, despite her signing off as Imelda, so she’d felt obliged to stick to Mr Conti for him – they’d settled on the ninth of July for his arrival date.

  The ninth of July, which was today – and here he was. And Hugh was gone and Imelda was falling apart, and keeping Mr Conti now was out of the question. She’d have to let him stay the night though – her heart sank at the thought, but evening was drawing in, and she didn’t have the energy to try and find him somewhere else before dark.

  God – was the room even ready? Eve’s old bedroom she’d earmarked for him, the one her sister had stayed in after the funeral. Imelda was fairly sure she’d changed the sheets after her departure, but she hadn’t set foot in it since then, no dusting or vacuuming, no windows opened to let in the fresh air.

  Oh, what did it matter if the room was clean? What did any of it matter now? He’d be in it for a night, one night. He’d survive.

  The toilet flushed. She checked herself in the hallstand mirror – God, her hair, all over the place. A tap ran – at least he washed his hands. The lock slid back, the door opened and out he came onto the landing, hat held to his chest as he descended the stairs. She’d break it to him now: she’d just say it out.

  Or she’d offer him some refreshment first, to soften the blow. ‘Mr Conti, please come into the kitchen. I’ll make some tea – or perhaps you’d like coffee?’

  He raised a palm. ‘No, no, grazie, Mrs Fitzpatrick. No tea or coffee for me. Only some water, please – and after, you show me my room? I am little bit tired.’

  God, his room. She was going to have to dive in.

  ‘Mr Conti,’ she began, and stopped. She looked down at his shoes, which were black and shiny. She swallowed, and tried again. ‘Mr Conti—’ She came to another halt. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘it’s – well, my husband—’

  She stopped again. No, it was beyond her. The words refused to come. She lifted her gaze and took in the man’s polite half-smile.

  Tell him. You can’t stand here like a dummy. Out with it.

  ‘I – my – the thing is, Mr Conti –’ breathe, breathe ‘– this is a very … bad time for me.’

  Something softened in his face. The little smile dimmed. He tilted his head a fraction to the left, and waited for more.

  ‘My husband died,’ she blurted, ‘nearly two months ago. Very suddenly. It was a – a – it was—’ She clamped her trembling mouth shut, blinked furiously to keep the tears from falling.

  For a moment he didn’t speak, just held her
gaze with those brown eyes while she went on doing her very best not to break down. ‘Mrs Fitzpatrick,’ he said then, softly, gently, ‘I am so sorry to hear this terrible thing.’ Such sympathy in his tone, such concern in his voice, it was all she could do not to let out an anguished howl. A sound escaped her, somewhere between a sob and a moan. He placed a hand on her arm, the lightest of touches, so light she barely felt it.

  ‘Mrs Fitzpatrick,’ he repeated, in the same gentle way, ‘your ’eart, ’e is very sad. I can see this, yes.’

  She nodded, speech still beyond her. Your heart, he is very sad. Don’t make a fool of yourself. Finish what you have to say. She cleared her throat. ‘Mr Conti, I’m so sorry, but I can’t keep you here. I just … can’t – but of course you can stay tonight, and I will help you, I will try my best, to find another place for you tomorrow.’ The words stuttering out, shaky and disjointed and too fast. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘Really sorry.’

  He lifted a palm in the way he had done before. ‘No, no sorry,’ he said. ‘No say sorry. Come,’ he said, propping his hat on the end of the banister. ‘I make the tea for you, Mrs Fitzpatrick.’

  ‘No – honestly, there’s no need—’ but already he was moving down the hall, sensing the geography of the house, turning to look back questioningly, so Imelda followed him. What else could she do?

  In the kitchen he located the kettle and held it under the tap – God, her plate and cup still sitting in the sink, toast crumbs on the worktop – while she silently dropped a teabag into a mug. She didn’t want tea, tea was the last thing she wanted, but she hadn’t the energy to protest. Did he understand, she wondered, that she’d given him his marching orders? Maybe he understood perfectly. Maybe this was an attempt to ingratiate himself, to get her to change her mind and let him stay.