The Better Half

by Sarah Harte

  ‘We can’t do that,’ Verna had been saying.

  Tilting her head, her hip cocked out, Karen shot her a sceptical glance. ‘So let me get this straight. I can’t bring the flowers up. And you’ – this was said in a vehemently accusatory tone – ‘won’t bring them up for me. So what would happen if I sent flowers via a florist? Would the delivery man have to dump them on the hospital steps and throw a stone up at the patient’s window to alert them to their presence or would he be allowed the honour of bringing them up?’

  ‘He’d be allowed bring them up,’ Verna said, folding her arms across her chest, as if in anticipation of the onslaught that was to come.

  ‘Well, that’s just plain stupid,’ Karen snarled. ‘What makes him more qualified to walk up the stairs with the flowers than me or you?’

  ‘You’re missing the point.’ The woman drew herself up to her full height. ‘This is hospital policy.’ Her chest seemed to expand as she added, ‘These are the rules.’

  ‘Verna, I fear that you are the one missing the point. Rules are only guidelines,’ Karen shot back. ‘They’re there to be broken.’

  ‘In your opinion,’ said the woman.

  Karen had met her match. They’d have been there all day.

  ‘Come and say hello,’ I said, tapping Karen on the shoulder.

  ‘Anita,’ she said, latching onto me and nearly hugging me to death, ‘you poor chicken.’

  ‘You mean poor Frank,’ I had mumbled into her hair, my eyes filling with tears.

  She wouldn’t come up, though. ‘No,’ she’d said, shaking her head. ‘I’ll leave the man in peace.’

  Karen just hadn’t wanted to come up, that was the long and short of it. The relationship between her and Frank was too strained. And maybe Frank wouldn’t have wanted to see her either, when I thought about it.

  In a strange way, those were a special few days. The kids came and went. We were not a particularly tactile family – well, Dylan and I were touchy but the other two weren’t – but we talked about stupid stuff. Frank and I talked. In some ways we didn’t say very much. We stayed away from the dangerous topics and yet there was an intensity to our conversation that had been lost a long time ago. Everything was heightened by the fear that Frank might die. Time seemed to be suspended. The world shrank to what was in the room. It was just Frank and me and the kids.

  Then Frank was discharged, and some of the magic slipped away. The ordinary entered the frame. Life seeped back in.

  ‘I want to come home, Anita,’ Frank had beseeched, sitting forward in the bed on the day before he was released. He’d reached for my hand with the blunt slightly podgy fingers that were so familiar to me. ‘Please.’

  I had looked at him then, and thought of how once I would have died for those attentions. The passing of time changed things. Some things came too late maybe. People were not dispensable, though. I told him he could come home for a while, that he could stay, we would look after him, but beyond that I couldn’t say.

  Now he was installed in a guest room. His face had fallen a little when he saw where he was being directed but, wisely, he’d said nothing. If the kids had questions surrounding his status they’d kept them to themselves.

  Men came and went, trooping up the stairs to the room, murmuring and chatting, the odd rumble of laughter floating down the stairs. It was mainly contractors, developers, advisers, cronies. And, of course, Eamon who had become a regular fixture.

  Frank’s face was a pale moon hovering in the centre of the mound of pillows but there were distinct signs of recovery. ‘You can tell Ultan Mohally to stop calling me looking for moolah. He can shove his cash calls up his bony arse. Tell him Frank Lawlor said to get up the yard. I can’t give what I don’t fucking have.’

  He’d started to get saucy too, asking for things, making us run around. I’d had to strike a balance between looking after him and not letting him take over again. ‘We’ll have to get you a bell, Frank,’ I said to him one evening, exasperated. We’d both laughed.

  A leopard didn’t change his spots. At some fundamental level, Frank believed that everything and everyone could be bought, and that wouldn’t change. Anyone who thought otherwise was smoking crack. The bottom line was that Frank Lawlor – son of Kathleen – respected the buck and thought he could buy his way in and out of situations.

  ‘It’s Florence Nightingale you need, Frank,’ I said to him another day, setting down yet another cup of tea.

  ‘It’s you I need.’ He made cow eyes at me.

  I won’t lie. I felt conflicted. Like a lot of women I was a sucker for feeling needed. There was something, maybe, about the female engineering that allowed us to slip into the carer role. And yet there was a little part of me that was cynical. Maybe Frank had really hit the nail on the head when he mentioned ‘need’. Maybe need was driving him back.

  It would be a slow recovery, the doctors had said. A combination of factors had led to the heart attack. Both Mam and Frank’s father had met their Maker, thanks to their hearts packing in the game. Most of the Lawlor brothers were on medication for their hearts. The Lawlor family history of dickey hearts played its part. Frank’s diet had not been the best. And of course he’d been under overwhelming stress, however much he tried to deny it. ‘Sure I’m grand,’ he kept saying. ‘I’ll live to fight another day.’

  A nice smell was wafting from the kitchen. Dylan was in charge of cooking. He was glad to be given something definite to do, a way he could help his father. He was awkward around him. Frank was effusive and Dylan was polite, but he stayed away from the room as much as possible. When he was there he was guarded. And yet I could see that he wanted to help. He had been very upset when I’d first told him about the heart attack. He had turned away from me because his eyes were filling with tears. In some ways he’d seemed to take it harder than Ella. She had been upset, too, of course, and frightened, but once the initial shock had worn off she’d focused on the medical side of things, haranguing the doctors and taking notes.

  I had appointed Dylan chief cook and bottle-washer. The cleaning part was haphazard at best. But he was producing lovely meals, poring over the Jamie Oliver books I had given him. We’d had lasagne and chilli con carne and spaghetti Bolognese – but everything involved meat and Ella had started to complain. I’d smacked her back. ‘Let him have this one thing he’s good at. Please don’t criticize or make fun of him. You’re so good at everything.’

  ‘I’m crap at cooking.’

  It was true. Although she ate enough, Ella had very little interest in food, which she viewed mainly as fuel.

  ‘Please, Ella. He needs to feel he’s contributing.’

  So, Dylan solemnly and proudly carried the meals – fresh healthy meals – up on a tray each day to Frank, who became instantly enlivened on seeing him. He was pathetically grateful to him. ‘This is fucking lovely,’ he’d say. What he really wanted to say, I thought, was ‘I love you, son, and I’m sorry.’ But he was an Irish fella so he stuck to the meal commentary. Frank had been humbled a little but I had no doubt that the Teflon-coated Frank would reappear in time – if he didn’t die first. I felt a catch in my throat at the idea.

  ‘Make it up with your father, Dylan,’ I had said. ‘This experience teaches us that we never know the time or the day. Imagine if Dad died and you hadn’t resolved things with him.’ I was becoming a regular little sermonizer.

  Dylan nodded, but maybe Frank had left some things too late. I thought of Dylan on Frank’s back playing ‘horsey’ when he was small, the boisterous shouts – it was a sad thought that they might never be close again.

  Now I pulled myself together. We had to get going. ‘Come on, guys.’ When this yielded nothing, I bellowed again, my voice echoing around the hall. ‘We’re late,’ I cried rapping on the banister.

  The church in Rathmines was big and grand, in the Greek style with a portico and copper dome and an inscription on the ou
tside pediment: ‘Mariae Immaculatae Refugium Peccatorum’ – Mary Immaculate, Refuge of Sinners. Originally built in the nineteenth century, it made you think of times when big congregations required big churches and the hierarchy was hell bent on constructing symbols of the faith with the repeal of the penal laws. And sin was big in Ireland.

  I’d been told that the Mass on Christmas Eve was a family service and particularly lovely, and so it was. The children from the local schools put on a Nativity play. Ireland – and Mass – had changed a lot since my day. Mary was a little African girl, Joseph was Asian. Dotted through the crowd were people I recognized: the CEO of a publicly listed company, a senior counsel, Ciara’s Filipina nanny, who gave me a merry little wave. It seemed very democratic. Mass, the beach and the park were the three places left in Ireland where you couldn’t pull rank.

  The music was beautiful. A soprano sang ‘O Holy Night’. I craned my head back. She was small, dwarfed by a too-large coat, and had mild mousy features, but her voice, powerful and sweet, had filled the church, soaring up towards the big dome, its echoes lingering after she had finished. My breath had caught in my chest and it had been a struggle not to cry. I was flanked by my children. My heart burst with love and happiness and sadness and, most of all, gratitude for what I’d been given in life.

  I’d asked Shannon to come with me, but she wouldn’t. She had been advised the previous weekend by their GP not to leave Jimmy on his own. ‘The doctor said he was a suicide risk,’ she’d said, sounding defeated. ‘He’s going to counselling, which we probably can’t afford, and he’s on medication.’

  They were coming over as a family on Christmas Day. I prayed for Jimmy, and I offered a few up for Shannon as well.

  Ella was a bit hesitant, unsure of the procedures. She’d rarely had occasion to go to Mass because she had been to a Protestant school. Frank and I had ended up at their shindigs, mumbling our way through Protestant hymns, grouped with all the other Catholics, feeling a bit awkward.

  It was one of the few things in which Frank had dared to go against Mam, in choosing to send Ella to the Prods. I’d been amazed that he would thwart her like that. But he hadn’t been able to resist the lure of the perceived polish, such as it was. Mam had clawed back some authority by insisting that Ella receive religious instruction outside school and make her First Holy Communion and Confirmation. Dylan knew exactly what to do because he’d gone to a Catholic school. Frank, like I said, was up for paying the Prods to give our daughter a veneer of sophistication. But he had departed from this well-thought-out educational philosophy when it came to his son and heir.

  ‘You want the Protestant polish for the girls but that’s fuck-all use to boys. Boys need to be in with the fellas who are going to run the country, and that’s not the Prods. Rugby-playing Catholic schools and the benefit of the old school tie are what’s called for.’

  Dylan wasn’t quite running the country yet, I thought, shooting his scuffed trainers and messy hair a sidelong glance.

  ‘Well, that went well,’ Ella said, when we were funnelled out in the stream of people spilling onto the steps.

  ‘There was no bolt of lightning to strike us down,’ she elucidated, a small smile playing around her lips. She hadn’t wanted to come. ‘You’re just doing this because you’re afraid for Dad. That he might die,’ she’d said.

  ‘He won’t die,’ I’d said forcefully.

  ‘You’re using religion as a prop.’

  ‘Would that be so bad?’

  She’d changed tack. ‘I’m not into that whole whore-Madonna dichotomy, handmaiden of the Lord thing that the Church peddles to women.’

  ‘You’re coming,’ I’d said, encircling her shoulders with a firm arm.

  She had enjoyed it in spite of herself. She had been visibly moved at ‘O Holy Night’ although she’d tried to tough it out.

  I searched the throng for Dylan and saw him talking to a knot of young men he’d gone to school with. He’d be all right, I thought, watching him throw his head back and laugh at something a blocky little guy with a cheeky freckly face was saying.

  The parish priest was shaking hands with the congregation. ‘Good night, Father, and a very Happy Christmas to you.’

  Cries of ‘Happy Christmas’ rang out through the still crisp air.

  Mary, the Mother of God, zigzagged through the crowd, her pretty little face beaming, a diminutive figure in sky blue, her parents tracking her proudly.

  I gathered my children and we headed for home, to where Frank the prodigal husband was waiting. And to where Dylan insisted his special Christmas Eve repast was drying out on the cooker.

  There was some mumbo-jumbo on the television. I’d turned the sound down. Dylan was making us tea. ‘Bring us in a couple of biscuits too,’ I’d told him, and he had grinned.

  The day had been quiet, except when Shannon and Jimmy and the kids had popped over. They’d only stayed for an hour or two. Frank had been shocked by Jimmy, who had sat clutching a beer with a vacant look on his face. ‘Jesus Christ, Anita, he’s a shell.’

  Shannon had broken down briefly in the kitchen. ‘I feel,’ she had said, struggling to regain control, ‘as if I’m grieving for Jimmy. I feel like a widow. That he has died but there’s been no funeral, no proper grieving.’ She had practical concerns too. The kids’ school had put on a talk about ‘Raising children in a post-affluent society’ but, she noted bitterly, its management hadn’t offered her any help in managing the fees and she’d had to withdraw her three.

  The only thing I could offer to do, I thought, was mind the kids. There was no date night any more. Shannon and Jimmy had always gone out together on a Thursday, and with friends at the weekend. She said she would try to go away for a day or two if she could organize company for Jimmy. His brother might come to stay with him. He had no interest in going anywhere. But she needed a break.

  I could hear the gravel crunching. It would be Karen and Darren. They were calling around for a Christmas nightcap. I had presented it as a fait accompli to Frank. I would not have Karen pushed out of my life now. ‘End of’, as Ella liked to say.

  Frank was resting in his room, worn out by the day. Or it might be Ella, back from the Deegans’, I thought, cocking an ear. Jamie had called over for her. She had been thrilled by his present, which had been far too expensive. I’d said nothing, but wondered if Ella’s gift to him had been as costly. I hoped not.

  I started as the front door banged open. Ella came barrelling into the drawing room, screaming and sobbing. I was unable to make sense of what she was saying. ‘Ella, please,’ I begged, crossing the room, ‘slow down. I can’t understand you.’

  Ted Deegan had been floating in the swimming-pool when Ella and Jamie had found him. He’d shot himself in the head. Ella had talked about seeing him bobbing up and down, his eyes wide open, illuminated by the pool lights, which had switched on as they had walked around the periphery of the pool.

  Maria Deegan had been out, said to be with her lover, her husband’s best friend. Ella confirmed the truth of the rumours and media reports that had been circulating for the last few months: Ted Deegan had lost a fortune betting on contracts for difference. There were other more unsavoury rumours swirling too, such as those that Frank had touched on, but they remained unsubstantiated.

  When Ted Deegan had gone broke before, as a Lloyd’s Name, he’d had a nervous breakdown, Jamie told us, but it had been hushed up. ‘We kept it inside the family.’ This time that wasn’t possible. Even American and British networks picked up on the story. The Irish papers bore screaming headlines.

  Tycoon Found Floating Face Up In Pool By Son and Girlfriend

  Tragic Tycoon Victim of Recession

  There were pictures of the Deegans at social events, including a shot at their Arabian Nights extravaganza culled from an old social diary, with Maria Deegan in a sexy aquamarine Arabian princess costume. The Deegans were described as ‘
conspicuous spenders’ and said to be ‘a mainstay of the Dublin social scene’. Another, showing Maria positioned between her husband and the senior Irish businessman with whom she was having an affair, had a suggestive caption about the ‘close personal friendship’ between them all. There was a shot of Ted Deegan congratulating Jamie on winning the Senior Cup. There was even a side-bar panel connecting the Deegans with us, citing the relationship with Ella, which infuriated her.

  ‘How dare they?’ she spluttered, her eyes filling with tears.

  I didn’t like to point out that the Deegans were public people, and Jamie had a certain profile too, although he seemed to have spurned that kind of thing since he’d been going out with Ella. Dylan and Biba had graced many a page. And, of course, Frank had stuck his head above the parapet time and time again, saying ‘Look at me.’

  It was the day of poor Ted’s burial. Although it was morning, the light was already fading, it seemed, from the slate grey sky. Ella and Dylan had walked over to the Deegans. ‘I just need to get through this, Mum,’ Ella had said, recoiling from my hug. ‘See you at the church.’ She’d squared her shoulders and wiped her eyes.

  I’d stolen over to the window and watched my children walking out the drive, Ella’s spine resolute in the black coat. She had clearly stiffened herself to comfort Jamie and deal with the media. Dylan’s hand lay on his sister’s back and my heart filled with love for him. I thought how selfish suicide could be, the impact it would have on that family, on Jamie. It was a burden he would always carry and which might have reverberations down the generations. And I was a little angry for what my daughter had had to witness.

  Frank was coming, in spite of my reservations. He suggested that we drive Dylan’s car. He didn’t like to be seen in his big flash car now. Large, ostentatious vehicles were out. It didn’t look good, he said.

  Now he came down the stairs, a little thinner, in his dark suit.

  ‘It’s very sad,’ I said, my stomach knotting at the thought of what was to come.