Her Name Was Rose

by Claire Allan

  It was difficult to think that this man – this child really – in front of me could hurt anyone.

  I took a deep breath, which shuddered through my body and set my fight or flight senses on full alert. As I made to leave, I felt a hand grab mine. Instinctively I turned to see Liz McDaid, her face, round, red and wet looking at me. ‘Are you okay, pet? You’re an awful colour.’

  Her concern for me was touching. I felt tears spring to my eyes – tears I tried to blink away but which fell anyway.

  ‘I know, I know – it’s awful. It’s such a shock. He didn’t do this – no matter what they say. He didn’t kill himself,’ she said, her voice hoarse from grief and exhaustion.

  I shook my head, afraid to speak.

  A man crossed the room and put his hands on Liz’s shoulders. ‘C’mon now, Liz. Don’t be upsetting yourself again. Or this wee girl.’ She shrugged him off.

  ‘We’re at my son’s wake. I’ll upset myself if I want to. Youse are all great standing there telling me you are sorry for my troubles – but will you all fight with me for the truth? He had broken ribs, I’ll show you,’ she said, standing up and scrabbling at the coffin, starting to unbutton Kevin’s jacket until the man pulled her back again, telling her there was no need.

  ‘There’s every need. Broken ribs, and bruising, like he was pushed against the railings. Bruising on his ankles. Marks on his hands … This wasn’t his doing.’

  The woman who had been sat outside nursing her cup of tea had now come in and was openly sobbing. ‘Mammy,’ she cried. ‘Please … you have to leave it to the police.’

  I felt the room close in around me and I wanted to run, but the room was full, the doorway blocked, and it was as if all the air was being sucked from it.

  ‘The police won’t do anything for the like of us. They never did. They’re just glad to be rid – but I’m telling you, this wasn’t suicide. It wasn’t. And I’ll make you all listen to me …’

  The woman – who I presumed was Kevin’s sister – crossed the room to hold her mother, leaving me space to make my escape. I willed my legs not to run, not to give away that I wasn’t just another ordinary mourner. Head low, ashamed of myself for having come, I nodded my goodbyes and left, stopping only to allow someone to pass with a host of china cups rattling on a tray. I swear I didn’t breathe in – not properly – until I was outside, past the smokers and the small, rusted garden gate. I sucked the air into my lungs as deep as I could, coughing as it rattled its way back out.

  ‘Are you okay, ma’am?’ A deep voice asked. I looked up into the eyes of a uniformed police officer; tall, clean shaven, his expression one of genuine concern – and yet he made me feel nervous. I wondered if he could see through me, know that I wasn’t meant to be there.

  ‘I’m fine … it was just a shock. It’s very sad. All of this,’ I said, trying my best to hold eye contact, acutely aware that every movement I made could scream outsider.

  ‘Well, take care of yourself now. Safe home and all,’ he said, a female officer at his side nodding at me before they walked on. I made my way as quick as I could to my car where I smoked two more cigarettes before driving home, stripping off my clothes, roughly wiping off my make-up and standing under the shower where I cried for twenty minutes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The thought of meeting Cian for tea made the prospect of work the following day much easier. I didn’t discuss hair or make-up with the girls at work – who were still too shell-shocked by the events of the last few days to indulge in such light-hearted banter. Their usual Friday chat of after work drinks and weekend plans were muted.

  Part of me resented their lack of enthusiasm for their usual weekend activities. It wasn’t often that I could join in the chat with them – not really. Not with plans of my own for once. But they were just too busy trying to make it through the day. It was as if their grief had sucked the energy from them – pulling it down through their bodies out of their feet, through the ground. Gone. Leaving these soft masses trying to slip and sludge their way through every day.

  I was never so glad to finish up and say goodbye to my work colleagues. To nip into town and pick up some pampering products and a bottle of Prosecco and some candles so that I could soak my troubles away and relax before the big meeting the following day.

  When I got home I spent more time than usual looking through Rose’s Facebook page – all her photo albums, especially those in which she was pictured with Cian. I hoped it would give me an insight into what look he went for. Not that I thought he would go for me. But it would be better to be prepared. Just in case.

  *

  Cian had suggested we meet at ‘Primrose on the Quay,’ a bijou café on the banks of the River Foyle, for afternoon tea. It was a lovely spot with an on-trend shabby chic design – but with enough little nooks and crannies that it was perfectly possible to have a private conversation without everyone else in the place being able to listen in. Plus, they did good cake. Lovely cake, which I would at most push around my plate afraid of looking like the kind of person who enjoyed it too much. Rose Grahame had the look of a woman who never so much as looked at cake, never mind sprayed it liberally with cream and made orgasmic noises while eating it.

  My trawl of Facebook revealed that Rose seemed to have dressed fairly conservatively, but with a chic style that I didn’t often manage to pull off. I pulled a black wrap dress from the back of my wardrobe. I had worn it only once before, to my parents’ house for Christmas – on a day that hadn’t worked out as particularly pleasant for anyone. Teaming it with my knee-high boots, I decided it looked suitably smart-casual for a perfectly innocent cup of tea with a man who was grieving for his wife. I hung a pair of chunky red beads around my neck and spent more time than I should have trying to give my hair that messy but stylish look that other girls – girls like Rose – seemed to be able to pull off effortlessly. (Sea Salt Spray, Google had told me, was my go-to product for such a look.)

  I went for a natural look to my make-up. A slick of Mac’s Velvet Teddy lipstick, a swipe of mascara. Some blush. I pulled on my old green winter coat and examined myself from all angles in the mirror. I looked good, but not too good. Not good enough that anyone would think I was making a play for the poor widower. Not good enough that, on the chance I would bump into any of my colleagues from Scott’s, they would have cause to ask if I was off somewhere fancy.

  As I walked alongside the Quay – a walkway that runs beside the river Foyle from the outskirts of the city centre right into the heart of the town – I could feel the cold air pinch at my cheeks and nose. I’d at least have a healthy glow about me when I came face-to-face with him. The café was busy with the clatter of knives on plates, of teacups on saucers, the chatter of old friends gossiping, the serving staff laughing as they made up their teas and coffees and lifted calorie-laden cakes onto plates with serving tongs. I looked around for him – and spotted them almost immediately. Sitting at the back wall, he had Jack in a high chair, running a plastic car along the table and smiling broadly at his daddy. I watched as Cian ruffled his son’s hair, blew a raspberry on his cheek. The little boy roared with laughter, grabbing his daddy’s face with his chubby toddler fingers before turning his attention back to his toy car. As Jack looked away, I saw the smile slip from Cian’s face – just momentarily. It must be exhausting, I thought, to keep up that act for the sake of a child. To pretend to be happy.

  He looked across the room and saw me, gave me a smile that warmed my heart. He stood up, his shirt lightly wrinkled, the cuffs rolled up, the top button undone. I tried not to look at the little tuft of hair that poked out below his neckline. A little tuft of hair that made me feel a little weak at the knees.

  ‘Emily,’ he said, his voice low and soft. ‘I’m glad you came.’ He reached over and kissed my cheek. I revelled in the momentary brush of his stubbly face against my skin. Human contact. Skin on skin – however brief – felt so good. ‘We both are,’ he said, gesturing toward Jack who wa
s staring at us open mouthed, as if trying to size up who this strange woman was.

  I wasn’t awfully sure how to act with this cute, wide-eyed toddler in front of me. I didn’t have much experience with children. I figured a smile couldn’t hurt, so I grinned down at Jack and told him he was a gorgeous little man. He cooed back, gestured his toy car in my direction and I took it from him and drove it across the table, making the requisite ‘vroom vroom’ noises. This seemed to please him and he giggled loudly.

  ‘You’ve a fan there,’ Cian said, gesturing for me to sit down on the chair opposite him.

  ‘He’s very cute,’ I said.

  ‘I was going to order afternoon tea for two,’ Cian said. ‘Does that sound good to you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Great,’ he said, waving to a passing waitress to get her attention. He ordered the afternoon tea, and a cup of milk and a biscuit for Jack.

  ‘I should probably have brought a packet of raisins or a banana or something for him. Rose would have done that – but I forgot. Sure a biscuit won’t hurt him,’ he said.

  ‘No, it won’t. I’d say he might even enjoy it.’

  Cian smiled at me again, before taking a deep breath and sitting upright in his chair. ‘I do want to thank you for listening the other day,’ he said. ‘You must have thought me a complete arsehole.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘And even if I did, I think you can be allowed a little bit of arsehole behaviour at the moment. Given everything that is happening.’

  His eyes darkened a bit. Sadness perhaps. ‘It’s certainly been intense,’ he said. ‘And there’s no manual in how to deal with stuff like this. Lots of well-meaning people wanting to tell you what to do – but no one who really gets what it’s like to be in the middle of it.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose they do. I don’t know how you’re coping, to be honest. And with what’s happened to Kevin McDaid …’

  He looked down at the table, then brought his hands to his face. For a moment I wondered if he would break down and cry and my heart threatened to crack just a little. He inhaled deeply again and ran his hands through his hair before bringing them to rest on the table.

  ‘This might put me in arsehole territory again, Emily,’ he said, ‘but I don’t much care about what happened to Kevin McDaid, or about what Kevin McDaid did to himself. I don’t care about him at all. They say that’s the healthiest way to be – to be ambivalent? He got what was coming to him, and that’s all I can say about him.’

  I admired him. His ambivalence. I’m not sure I could be so cold in the circumstances. I tended to react differently when people hurt me. Go big or go home, wasn’t that what they said? Even if I didn’t mean to. Even if I tried not to – tried to walk away.

  ‘I can’t allow him headspace,’ Cian continued. ‘Things are tough enough. All the time. Trying to do the things I would have done before without even thinking twice. Waking up. Getting out of bed. It’s so fucking hard – there are days when I don’t think I can.’ His voice was low and angry, he balled his fists, and thumped the table – the teacups jumped and rattled on the saucers – beige liquid splashing onto the table. Jack jumped, a small laugh, then a loud cry as the fright kicked in. ‘I’m sorry, buddy,’ Cian said, immediately, standing and swooping his son up out of the highchair and into his arms. ‘I’m so, so, so sorry for everything.’

  It was then I realised he was crying.

  People were starting to look round. Just a few, but enough that there was a danger of a buzz spreading through the café. Those who didn’t know Cian as the acclaimed author, sure as hell knew him as the widower of that woman killed in the hit and run. I stood up in front of them both, doing my best to hide them from view. Jack quietened down, hugging into his father, putting his thumb in his mouth – his eyes drooping as he cuddled into Cian’s chest – which was still shuddering as he cried. ‘Oh God,’ he muttered. ‘People are looking. They’ll be talking.’

  He looked stricken, I placed my hand gently on his arm. ‘You go. Take Jack to the car. I’ll sort the bill. He’s exhausted anyway.’

  ‘But I promised you a cup of tea at least – and we’ve hardly had a bite. I’m sorry, Emily. I’m totally useless at the moment. I keep fucking up – this poor wee man deserves better. Not me. Not me who can’t do anything right.’

  He covered his son’s ears as he swore, tenderly kissed the top of his head. He looked utterly broken – in a way that no amount of time or effort could fix.

  ‘You’re far from useless,’ I said instinctively. ‘Where are you parked?’

  ‘Just up beside the toy shop, Smyths,’ he said, gesturing to the path I had walked down just a short time earlier.

  ‘Go, take Jack. I’ll pay the bill. I’m sure they will box some of this up. You can make me a cup of tea back at yours and I’ll be a listening ear for you until this feels a little less daunting. For today anyway.’

  He nodded. ‘I would argue with you and tell you we’ll be fine, but I don’t know if we will be.’

  ‘Go to the car,’ I repeated. ‘I’ll see you in five.’

  He told me the make and colour of his car and took a now sleeping Jack through the café, ignoring the few open-mouthed stares coming his way, and pushed his way out the door. And I did what I said I would and wondered how I had just managed to invite myself to Cian Grahame’s house.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rose

  2009

  Rose Maguire: is getting married today! Looking forward to becoming Mrs Cian Grahame. Love you, Cian, with all my heart and can’t wait to start our life together! I feel so lucky to have you love me Xxxx #weddingday #Blessed

  It was perhaps a mistake to drink three glasses of champagne the night before my wedding. After a fitful sleep, I woke with a sore head and a mouth as dry as the Sahara. I had to be up early, of course. The hairdresser and make-up artist were arriving at 8.30am and my parents’ house was already starting to come alive as the day began. My bridesmaids would be here shortly – and my mother had promised us all a hearty breakfast. Not that I felt I could eat – my stomach was in knots. Nerves were normal, weren’t they?

  Looking out the window, I saw it was dry and offered up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever one of my relatives had put the Child of Prague in their garden to try and encourage the weather gods to be kind. I knew Cian had been very much hoping that a lot of our day could be spent in the grounds of the hotel, basking in the sunlight and enjoying a relaxed affair. He would be more relaxed himself now that the weather looked as though it would behave itself – and if he was relaxed, then I could relax a bit too. An artist’s temperament, he called it – when he got himself wound up about something he couldn’t quite control.

  For a bloke, Cian had surprised me with his notions of what he wanted our wedding to be. He had very definite ideas. I’d been lucky, a few friends told me. Most men didn’t really care and had to be pushed to going out and sorting a suit. Cian was the opposite; he was obsessed with the detail of it all. He wanted a day that symbolised us and what we meant to each other, he said. We didn’t need anything big and showy, he said. The most important thing was our marriage, not our wedding day, he said. I couldn’t argue with that – even though I suppose I had always dreamed of a big day surrounded by as many friends as we could fit into a decent-sized hotel for a party into the early hours.

  Cian was right, of course, when he pointed out that our budget wouldn’t stretch that far. Yes, his book had sold and was selling relatively well as these things go – getting him some great reviews – but it seemed that ‘relatively well’ didn’t put a lot of money in the bank. Not that the money really mattered, I had reassured him, but I knew he felt it. Felt he should be providing more.

  ‘I don’t want to start the rest of our lives in debt,’ he said, ‘I’d feel I was letting you, and us, down. Let’s just make it about us – and our closest family and friends.’

  He talked about it so warmly that I started to relish the idea of so
mething more intimate. Something more low key. Just forty of us, me in a simple dress, my hair dressed with flowers. I’d even go barefoot if the weather allowed – and we’d skip off early in the evening, forsaking the big evening do, to spend a week in the South of France – a wedding present from my parents.

  Cian’s guests were small in number – a couple of friends, his agent, a cousin who was acting as best man. His parents didn’t keep well and had retired to Cork but they sent their best wishes and a cheque for £500 towards the cost of the day. So we tried to balance the numbers a little – not make it look too uneven. It put noses out of joint for a few great aunts and cousins – but they weren’t as important to me as Cian was.

  It would be nice not to have the pressure of making all that small talk with distant relatives and neighbours who had only been invited because their postcode matched ours. I actually found myself looking forward to it even if it was different from what I had thought I would want. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the look on his face when he saw me walk up the aisle towards him.