‘Did you drop her?’ Jo asked.
‘Sometimes,’ Helen admitted, ‘but I had more girls-only nights and invited her to them; she seemed to like that.’
‘You never invited me to girls-only nights,’ Jo said, feeling left out.
‘I gave up inviting you to things a long time ago, Jo,’ Helen retorted. ‘The only time you ever say yes to my invitations is if it’s the whole family or just you, me and Marianne.’
‘I know, sorry.’ It was true, Helen had invited her to plenty of things over the years but Jo just felt uncomfortable around strangers and could never think of a thing to say.
‘Anyway, Marianne will be fine. We just need to keep a close eye on her.’
‘Absolutely,’ Jo agreed. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for Marianne. If it wasn’t for her, Jo wasn’t sure she’d have made it through her time in St Anne’s. ‘She’ll be okay though, won’t she, Helen?’
There was a short silence before her friend replied. ‘Of course she will.’
And she would, Helen reassured herself after she’d hung up. Marianne had always had a cool head and there was no reason to believe she would lose it now.
Most of the kids at St Anne’s had grown cautious and suspicious the longer they were in the children’s home. After you’d been pinched, kicked, had a precious doll broken or sweets stolen, you learned to be on your guard. Not Marianne though. She was only a few months old when she took up residence and a more sweet-tempered baby you couldn’t find. At three she was moved from the nursery into a dormitory and eight-year-old Helen was charged with helping her to bathe, dress and brush her teeth. It was the best thing that had ever happened to Helen and she embraced her new responsibility with gusto. She had been four when she came to St Anne’s after her mother had died and her father had spiralled into depression and alcoholism and was no longer capable of looking after her. Helen was told he was sick and he would come and collect her when he was better. And so every time she heard the bell announcing a visitor, Helen was convinced it was her daddy coming to reclaim her but he never did. As she got older she grew quieter and spent her time wondering what she had done to upset him and if perhaps it was her fault that her mammy had died and that’s why he didn’t want her any more.
And then suddenly Marianne was there and it was as if she suddenly had a family again. Being Marianne’s carer also gave her a new status and won her respect from the other children, which rebuilt her confidence and gave her a new focus. No little girl was ever looked after as well as Marianne. Helen took her job seriously and went way beyond her brief: reading to her, nursing her when she was poorly and sneaking her treats when they came her way. The adoration in her eyes when Marianne looked at her was her reward, making Helen feel six feet tall.
And then Joanna Duffy had arrived and threatened Helen’s position. Jo was almost twelve and it was rare that older children came to the home; the corridors were full of Chinese whispers. She’d been a troublemaker; she’d stabbed her dad; she’d been raped by her brother. Helen had no idea where the stories originated but everyone took against the girl and the bullies set out to make her life hell. But soft-hearted, ten-year-old Marianne had rushed to the rescue and drawn her into their cosy little circle. Helen had felt threatened, afraid that she might be squeezed out given there was only two years between the other girls. But Jo was such a frightened little mouse that before long Helen had found herself mothering her too.
When the time had come for Helen to move out of St Anne’s, she was torn between feeling excited about the new life that lay ahead and sadness at leaving Marianne and Jo behind. They had been pretty traumatized at the time, too, though she reassured them that she would visit. And she had, every week without fail, and once a month she’d take them out. She put a lot of thought into their outings. She’d had little money and had to be creative, but there was a lot you could do in Dublin for free. If it was a nice day she would take them up to Phoenix Park or to the Botanical Gardens or to Dollymount to paddle, build sandcastles and play in the dunes. She would pack a picnic of dainty sandwiches, lemonade and crisps – forbidden in St Anne’s as they were too messy – and buy ice-cream cones for afters. On wet days she would take them to a museum or the National Art Gallery or window-shopping in the Ilac Shopping Centre off Henry Street where they could marvel at the clothes and stay dry. Sometimes, if she could afford it, Helen would treat them to beans and chips in Fortes café before returning them to St Anne’s.
That was the hard part. Walking back through the heavy door that banged shut after them with a depressing finality. The reception area held only a hard sofa covered in garish red leatherette, and a large statue of a rather grim and colourless Saint Anne, a vase of tacky plastic flowers at her feet. On the wall there was a crucifix, a holy water font and a picture of the Pope. When she lived here, Helen had never noticed the plain magnolia walls, the plastic chair covers, the scuffed tiled floor and the pervasive smell of disinfectant. It was only in contrast to the vivid colours of the outside world that she noticed how drab and depressing the home was. Even the boarding house she lived in, though modestly decorated and cheaply furnished, was far cheerier; the walls decorated with posters and photographs of previous tenants on their wedding day or holding new babies. Music rang out from the ancient radio in the kitchen, radiating a cheer and warmth that had been sadly absent in St Anne’s.
It was the nun who ran the place who they had all lived in fear of. Sister Ignatius was a cold, hard and angry woman who seemed to think that the only way to get through the pearly gates was by crushing those around her. She used to frown on laughing or singing; the first demonstrated a silly frivolous nature, the second should be reserved for praising the Lord.
‘Bitch,’ Helen muttered now, feeling the familiar taste of bile at the back of her throat at the memory of the woman and her cruelty. But despite Ignatius she was here today and maybe because of her, she truly appreciated her family and her life.
Chapter Three
‘Andrew, you know you’re not allowed to play with that clock. Put it back up on the fireplace and do it carefully or you’ll break it.’
Marianne watched, stunned, as her son deliberately let it slip from his fingers and the crystal smashed into smithereens on the kitchen floor.
‘Why on earth did you do that?’ she exclaimed in frustration.
‘It’s only a stupid clock.’ He kicked at the pieces of glass with his bare foot.
‘Stop that; you’ll hurt yourself.’
‘So? You don’t care.’
‘Of course I care.’
‘You don’t, you only love Kate.’
Marianne crouched down and put her arms around him. ‘Now that’s just silly. I love you just as much as I love Kate.’
‘No, you don’t.’ He shrugged her off. ‘I wish you’d died instead of Daddy!’
Marianne gasped; his words were like a knife through her heart. He stared back from defiant eyes, red-faced and shaking. ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say, Andrew.’
‘I don’t care, it’s true. I hate you!’
‘What’s all this then?’ Dot stood in the doorway, taking in the scene with raised eyebrows.
Marianne gave a defeated shrug. ‘He deliberately broke my clock.’ She started to pick up the larger pieces of crystal and placed them on a tea cloth.
‘I’m glad I broke your stupid clock.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ She heard her own voice rising and knew she was close to losing her temper.
‘I think I should take this fella out of your way for a few hours. I was just going to do the shopping; Andrew can help me. Where’s Kate?’
‘At a birthday party; she’ll be dropped home about seven.’
‘Then why don’t you relax and run yourself a nice bath,’ Dot suggested. ‘And have a glass of wine while you’re at it.’
‘I might just do that,’ Marianne said with a grateful smile. There had been many outbursts in the last couple of weeks and they were
all beginning to get to her; sometimes she just wanted to scream. A few hours’ breather from her angry son and silent daughter would be welcome. ‘You do what your granny tells you, do you hear me?’ she said to Andrew.
‘I’m not going—’ Andrew started in a furious voice.
‘Oh, yes you are,’ Dot assured him, jamming his Crocs on and frogmarching him down the hall.
‘Bye,’ Marianne called after her son, hating parting from him in anger, but he didn’t answer. She sat back on her heels, feeling decidedly sorry for herself.
It was almost five weeks since Dominic had died and she’d thought the children would be over the worst but she’d been kidding herself. She could barely drag a word out of Kate and Andrew was turning into the kid from The Omen. This latest tantrum had shocked and hurt her although she knew she shouldn’t take it to heart. She was confused by it. Yes, he’d adored his daddy but Dominic had spent so little time with his son that she was surprised he was missing him so much. She certainly hadn’t expected it to affect her own relationship with her son. And now Kate seemed to have pulled away from her too. She couldn’t understand what she was doing wrong. She had been careful to spend time alone with each of her children and had reassured and encouraged them both to talk about their dad.
‘Ouch,’ she yelped as a shard of glass pierced the soft skin beneath her fingernail and it began to bleed. Tears pricked her eyes and she wondered what else could go wrong today. As she stretched towards the worktop for a piece of kitchen towel to stem the bleeding, the doorbell rang. ‘Typical,’ she muttered and picked her way through the glass and out into the hall. If this was a bloody salesman, then he had picked the wrong door. She swung it open with a vengeance and sighed. ‘Oh.’
Johnny smiled. ‘Well, there’s nothing like a warm welcome.’
‘I’m sorry, Johnny,’ she grinned.
‘Dear God, what happened to your hand?’
‘It’s nothing.’ But when she looked down, the paper was soaked red.
Johnny propelled her back down the hallway to the kitchen. ‘Sit.’
‘But I have to clean this mess up,’ Marianne protested as he pressed her into a chair.
‘It can wait; let me check your hand.’ He knelt at her feet, heedless of the glass around them and carefully peeled the tissue from the cut.
‘Really, it’s nothing. I was cleaning this mess up and a piece of glass went under my nail.’
‘Let me make sure that it’s not still in there.’
Marianne winced as he probed around her fingertip.
‘No, it seems to be clean. Where will I find a plaster?’
Marianne nodded towards the cupboards. ‘Top drawer.’
‘What happened anyway? It looks like Beirut in here. Ah, here we are.’ Johnny selected a plaster and came back to dress her finger.
‘It was Andrew. He broke my crystal clock deliberately, the little demon.’
‘It’s not funny, Johnny,’ she said when he chuckled, but she couldn’t help smiling. ‘He’s an awful handful these days; I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. I know he must be missing Dominic and I have to make allowances but the way he looked at me just now, it was as if he really hated me.’ Marianne felt her eyes fill up.
‘Of course he doesn’t hate you.’ Johnny smiled up at her and then stopped as he saw her tears. ‘Ah, don’t, sweetheart.’ He folded her into his arms and Marianne buried her face in his chest. ‘This has been a terrible time for you but it will get easier. And you’ve got me and Helen and Jo and Greg to look after you. Well, okay, maybe not Greg—’
Marianne laughed, then hiccupped and drew back from him. ‘Oh, look, I’ve made a mess of your shirt.’
‘Never mind the bloody shirt. The kids will be grand. Right now I think you need to look after yourself.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I don’t think you are. I know that you and Dominic had your problems but his death must have come as a terrible shock and you’re so busy fussing over Dot and the kids, I’m not sure you’ve dealt with your own feelings.’
‘I’m okay, honest,’ she insisted. ‘Now I’d better clean this place up.’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘No, but I’m going to while you make me a nice cup of tea.’
‘Fair enough.’ She wiped her eyes and went to fetch a brush and pan from the hall cupboard and a thick plastic bag to empty the debris into.
‘Do you want me to have a word with Andrew?’ he asked as she put on the kettle.
‘Dot took him off for a few hours, perhaps she’ll get through to him; he adores her.’
‘He adores you.’
‘He’s hiding it well,’ she joked but she had to swallow back more tears.
Johnny sighed. ‘He’s only five. You’re being too sensitive, sweetheart.’
‘I know, you’re probably right but it’s hard not to be. It has been such a strange few weeks. There’s so much to take in.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m honestly not sure.’
‘Relieved perhaps?’
Marianne looked at him in alarm.
Johnny rested the brush against the table and sighed. ‘Helen told me all about Dominic.’
‘I see.’
‘Don’t be cross with her. It was straight after we heard the news and I was saying how sad it was and she said you were probably better off. Well, she obviously had to explain that; she’d never have broken your confidence otherwise.’
‘I know that, Johnny.’
‘I tell you, it nearly caused a divorce. I was furious that she hadn’t told me. If I’d known that he’d raised his hand to you, Marianne, I’d have throttled him.’
‘Which is exactly why I didn’t want you to know. You hitting him wouldn’t have helped; it might have made things worse. He was a sick man, Johnny. I had to deal with it in my own way.’
He looked at her in disbelief. ‘And did you deal with it?’
She looked away. ‘It’s easy to see things differently in hindsight.’
‘I know, love, I know.’
He went back to cleaning up the mess and said no more until they were sitting drinking their tea. ‘Will you tell me about it, Marianne?’
She nodded silently. There was no harm in him knowing now.
‘When did it start?’
Marianne stared into her mug. She didn’t have to think hard; she remembered every detail about that night right down to the fact that her son was wearing the green Babygro covered in bears. ‘It was when Andrew was about nine months old. He was teething and miserable and there was no consoling him. Dominic had only just got to sleep and the crying woke him. He went completely ballistic, totally over the top. Well, I was furious with him. His screaming and shouting wasn’t doing anything to calm Andrew down, the poor child was terrified. It was after midnight but I strapped Andrew into the car and went for a drive; the car usually settled him. After about an hour I took him home, put him to bed and then came downstairs to make a hot drink. I was stirring in the cocoa when Dominic appeared.’ She paused, visualizing the scene. ‘I didn’t look up; I was still annoyed. It was one thing shouting at me but at a baby . . .’
‘So the shouting happened a lot?’
‘By that stage, yes.’ Marianne sighed. ‘If I had looked into his eyes, I’d have known to keep my mouth shut but instead I tore into him; I said he should be ashamed of himself.’
Johnny studied her intently. ‘What did he say?’
Marianne bit her lip. ‘Not a word. He came over to me. I thought he was sorry and coming to hug me, to apologize, but he wasn’t. He took the spoon from the mug of cocoa and pressed the bowl of it into my arm.’ Her fingers went instinctively to the spot on the soft inner skin of her upper arm.
‘The fucker,’ Johnny exclaimed.
‘I tried to wriggle free but he held my wrists firm between his other hand and used his body to pin me against the worktop. I couldn’t escape
. I didn’t even scream. I think I was in shock.’
‘So, what happened then?’
‘He let me go, put down the spoon and went back to bed. He never mentioned it again. I actually wondered if he had been sleepwalking.’
‘And your arm?’
‘Oh, I put some ice on it; it was fine,’ Marianne assured him, then wondered why she was still lying. Why didn’t she tell him how it had blistered, kept her awake all night and that it had taken over a week to heal? You could still see a tiny red crescent mark if you knew where to look. She sat back in the chair and hugged her arms tightly around her.
‘When was the next time?’
‘Months later. The children were in bed and I was watching TV when he arrived home. I could tell as soon as he walked into the room that he wasn’t quite right.’ Marianne frowned as she remembered how disorientated he’d seemed. ‘You know what Dominic was like, Johnny; he could have a few drinks and not show it at all.’
‘He could hold his drink,’ Johnny acknowledged.
‘He could and sometimes he would drive if he’d a pint or two. But on this particular night I figured he must have had several; his speech was slurred and he was unsteady on his feet. I was disgusted that he’d got behind the wheel in that state and said so. He lost his temper and I knew it was pointless trying to talk to him when he was like that so I said I was going to bed. When I went to walk out of the room, he put out his foot and tripped me.’ Marianne stopped, and swallowed hard. The memory still upset her. ‘I fell and whacked my head against the corner of the coffee table.’
‘Jesus!’ Johnny clenched his fist and thumped the table as if it were Dominic’s face.
‘I was okay,’ Marianne reassured him. ‘I just felt a little bit woozy. I expected him to be upset at what he’d done, to rush over to help me.’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘But he simply stepped over me saying he’d got work to do. When I came down to the kitchen the next morning, there were scraps of paper all over the table covered with totally illegible writing. That’s when I realized that his behaviour was probably down to drugs rather than drink.’
Every Time We Say Goodbye Page 3