Masters of the House

by Robert Barnard

  “He couldn’t,” said Matthew obstinately. “He could never have got downstairs and out of the house that night without our knowing. And you don’t know our dad—you don’t know the way he is mad. He’s just a pathetic lump. Before he went for treatment he wouldn’t do anything without being persuaded or forced into it. Otherwise, he just sat there. He’s not all that different now. You’re talking about him as if he was a normal man, or half a normal man. He’s not.”

  Peter left it at that. There was a sort of awkwardness about trying to persuade a friend that his father was a murderer.

  That Sunday, Rob made one of his rare appearances at St Joseph’s—Rob and Grace, in fact, though Grace said her being there was purely social because she couldn’t pretend she was a believer, let alone a Catholic. Auntie Connie was always trying to persuade Rob to go, so she was pleased; but Matthew suspected that one of the reasons for their being there was that Grace was pregnant and beginning to show. It was, on Rob’s part, a sort of announcement. Everyone was surprisingly nice about it and surprisingly relaxed. (“It would have been a different matter if this was Ireland,” said Auntie Connie, though without explaining whether this made England a better or a worse place.) Probably the congregation’s acceptance of the situation sprang from their dislike of Carmen and their feeling that she had treated her husband abominably.

  “You’ll make a fine father,” said one of the women to Rob. The priest was friendly and studiously took no notice of Grace’s bulge.

  Auntie Connie was now a valued member of the St Joseph’s congregation—not too active in the weekday activities because everyone recognised that, as an elderly woman with a brood of young children, she had her hands full. But she took the four of them to church every Sunday, her circle of friends increased, and she was respected as someone who had taken on in selfless fashion an onerous task. Her actual connection to the Heenan family was variously reported, but after a time it was simply accepted. Family ties in Ireland are notoriously intricate.

  That Sunday, after mass, everyone stood around in the sunlight in little groups. Jim Leary was also paying one of his rare visits to church, to sneer, and he and Peter stood joshing Rob and Grace. Some way off, Matthew was standing with Auntie Connie and her friend Mrs O’Hara. Every now and then he caught Auntie Connie looking over towards Grace and her bulge.

  “You’d like Rob and Grace to be able to marry, wouldn’t you?” he suddenly said.

  Auntie Connie smiled at Mrs O’Hara, unembarrassed.

  “Of course I would, Matthew. Any mother would.”

  “Doesn’t the law declare someone ‘presumed dead’ after they’ve been missing a certain time?”

  “Whatever the law may say, it’s not what our church says.”

  “Does the church say you have to know your wife is dead before you can marry again?”

  “It’s a lot more careful than the law will be, I know that. So it’s impossible and not worth thinking about. I must make the best of it, and so must Rob and Grace.”

  Suddenly, a moment after she had finished speaking, Auntie Connie jumped. It was something she had heard. Matthew looked up at her, then over to the other group nearby. The voice of Peter’s father had floated over to them.

  “So you’re just starting out with a kid, while my Peter’s about to buy his own car. I’d rather be in my shoes than yours, I must say.”

  Matthew looked back again at Auntie Connie. Her face was now a mask.

  “Is that Peter’s father?” she asked, her voice not quite normal. Matthew nodded. She went forward to her son’s little group.

  “You’re Peter’s father, Matthew tells me. I’m his Auntie Connie. I heard you say Peter was about to buy a car. There’s ours just sitting idle in the garage. He’s welcome to have the use of that while he’s learning.”

  Matthew, watching, realised there was still something oddly unnatural in the way she spoke, even in the way she held herself. What was odder still, there was the same palpable unease under the habitual bravado of Peter’s father.

  “I say, that’s a generous offer!” he said, with his usual eagerness to get something for nothing. “Hear that, Peter? That would be even better than selling stamps to get one, wouldn’t it?”

  Matthew turned away from the scene and made conversation with Mrs O’Hara on the first topic that came into his head.

  “Auntie Connie doesn’t quite know what to think about Rob and Grace and the baby. She thinks she ought to disapprove, but she can’t.”

  Mrs O’Hara smiled down at him.

  “Well, that’s natural, isn’t it? We can’t always follow the church’s teaching in our hearts, can we? I think everyone here understands. We all know what a horrible person Carmen was. Rob deserves a bit of happiness and a nice woman.”

  Matthew thought for a moment, then said, “Auntie Connie came round to you the evening Carmen took off, didn’t she?”

  “The evening after,” said Mrs O’Hara, in a matter-of-fact voice. “We’d arranged it the previous Sunday. I had a bit of decorating to do, and I wanted her advice. I remember because we talked of nothing but Carmen that evening. We didn’t know she’d gone for good then, of course, but poor Connie was shocked she’d stayed out the night. She’d thought of ringing me up to say she couldn’t come, but Rob told her it had happened before, and that shocked her still more. Poor Connie. It’s a good job there’s someone around with good, old-fashioned standards, that’s what I say.”

  Matthew, looking towards his “aunt” and the other group of worshippers, felt something shut in his heart.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Conclusions

  THEY GATHERED IN THE HALLWAY, and Jamie climbed the stairs softly to see that she was awake and wanted to see them. Greg had just arrived by taxi from the station, wearing his habitual worried expression. How Greg had become the worrier of the family Matthew never knew, for he had had the same sort of structured but carefree childhood as Jamie had had. But it was easy to look into his face and see him in a few years’ time married and worrying about his mortgage, his children’s education, what they should be allowed to watch on television and for how long. Worry was already pinching at the features of his pleasant face. Perhaps he had understood and felt more at the time of their mother’s death than anyone had realised.

  Jamie sped back down stairs.

  “She’s awake, and I’ve put her to rights. She’d like to see us all together.”

  They nodded, and started solemnly up the stairs. It’s like the death of Mother all over again, thought Annie, only this time we’re with her. Jamie opened the bedroom door and ushered the rest in. It was odd how, since the others had left home, he had quite naturally become the master of the house. Auntie Connie lay there in a pretty pink bedjacket they all remembered her knitting, her face and upper body sadly thin and wasted, the eyes still sharp and interested.

  “My, you’re looking well, Annie,” she said, her voice sounding as thin as her body looked but still with an Irish twang that was irresistible. “Motherhood does agree with you.”

  “It does. I always knew it would.”

  She looked round at the little circle of faces, pride in her expression.

  “Now don’t look too solemn, all of you. You’re together again, and that’s rare, and I want to hear lots of laughter from downstairs. If I should drift away, what could be better than to go with the sound of your laughter in my ears?”

  “Are you sure?” Greg asked, not needing to say more.

  “Oh, yes. The doctor tells me it won’t be long. And to tell you the truth, I feel it in my bones. I thank God I haven’t had the pain that some cancer patients have. It’s going to be quick and merciful.”

  Annie went over to the bed and held her hand.

  “You’ve been a good woman. You’ve done good. Everyone here knows that.”

  “Oh, Annie love, don’t twist the knife! I’ve done all the silly and wicked things people do do, and then more. But when I look at you four, I do tha
nk God. He only allowed me one child of my own. But then, late on, he gave me four more. And what a joy you’ve been to me.”

  “We owe everything to you,” Annie said.

  “No you don’t. I couldn’t be what your mother was—”

  “You have!” said Jamie.

  “You don’t remember her, my lad. I can only say I’ve done my best. And I know that you’ll all be all right. There’s the joy of it. I know Annie will see that Jamie has a home, but even if she couldn’t, I know that Jamie will be all right. It’s in his face—and don’t blush, my lad: it’s a lovely face. . . . So I’ve been a lucky woman.”

  “We’ll always remember you,” said Matthew, sticking to the literal truth.

  “Oh Matthew, what you and Annie must try to do is remember your mother and honour her memory. The others are too young. . . . Well now, you go off. We don’t want a scene, do we? That’s for books. They don’t do any good. You go off and catch up with each other’s news. I’ve said what I wanted to say. I’ve done my best by you, but the important thing is you’ve all made me very happy, and it’s that I remember now.”

  “You’ve been—” Greg began.

  “Now that’s enough,” she said, raising a wasted hand. “Be off with you. But I’d just like a few words with Matthew.”

  Annie, rising from the bed and still holding her hand, looked at her reproachfully.

  “Why with Matthew?”

  “Don’t be upset, Annie. Matthew and I have a bit of unfinished business—have had these many years. It would upset me too much telling you all. But he and I can discuss it quite calmly now, can’t we Matthew?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite calmly,” said Matthew.

  Auntie Connie watched them, feasting her eyes on them with love, until the door shut behind them. Then she turned to Matthew.

  “Sit on my bed, will you Matthew? I hope He pardons white lies, don’t you? Because I’ve just told one or two. I know you can never love me like the others do, and I’ve understood that. But it’s meant there’s always been a strain between us, hasn’t there?”

  “Yes,” said Matthew. He added, to hide the bareness of it, “Of course, being the eldest, I remember Mum the best.”

  She shook her head vigorously.

  “Oh, Matthew, the time for lies and evasions is past. That wasn’t the reason at all, was it?”

  There was silence in the room.

  “No,” said Matthew at last.

  “No, of course it wasn’t. I told lies to you, and you caught me out in my lies and guessed the reason for them. Oh, there’ve been too many lies altogether in this business, and it’s a wonder the good Lord let any good come out of it at all. It’s always surprised me that no one asked any questions as to why I came and took over this house and poor Dermot and you children. You’d think the people at St Joseph’s would have wondered.”

  “I think they were so glad that someone did that they didn’t want to ask questions,” said Matthew.

  “Maybe you’re right. I was a sort of gift horse, wasn’t I? But it was a penance, really, at the beginning. My punishment of myself.” Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes. “Oh, you’ve no idea how I longed in those early months to be back in Ireland, in my own home, with my own people! I’d forced myself into exile, and I was amid the alien corn. You children never knew how I wept! But He turned my punishment into the greatest joy of my life. I don’t understand His ways, but I thank Him from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Matthew. “The others will be wondering.”

  She stirred in her bed.

  “Sure, they will, and you must tell them. In your own way, at a time of your choosing. Either now or after. It’s difficult to know where to start. I’ve known I’d have to tell you before I went, but I’ve tried not to think about it. I’ve tried to write it down, but I’m not a writing person. I suppose it started when I came over on that last visit to Rob and Carmen, though things go back further—they always do, don’t they?”

  “You’d hated Carmen for a long time, hadn’t you?”

  “Oh, years and years. Almost from the first time I met her. She poisoned my son’s life, though he didn’t realise it himself. I felt degraded being in the same house with her. But it wasn’t that, Matthew.”

  “Wasn’t it? Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes.” Her mouth was set determinedly. He was not to think that. “That would never have made me do what I did. . . . I came over and found that Rob had been delayed on the rig for a few days. That upset me because I hated being alone with her. Her politeness as usual ran out after the first twenty-four hours. I tried to get out more, went to as many church things as possible, went to the Irish Club, though I never liked all the drinking that went on there. It was at the Irish Club that I heard about you.”

  “About me? Or about us?”

  “I heard talk about the Heenans. Talk was just beginning then. Carmen was asking questions, and you remember Greg let something slip at school. It was more than once, I think. You should have realised that small children will talk. Mary O’Hara’s little girl went home and told her mother that Greg’s father was shut up in a little bedroom all day and never came out of it.”

  “And she told you?”

  “That’s right. We just talked it over, gossiping, really; but I wasn’t involved in any way. I’d known your mother a little and liked her, but that was the extent of it. But as we were talking, Carmen came over. ‘What’s that about Dermot Heenan?’ she asked—all sharp and tense. I could tell she was interested. More than that: I could tell she was involved in some way. And it wasn’t difficult to guess what way that was. We told her about the rumours that were going round, and she snapped, ‘I’ve been round to see those kids, and they’re all right.’ ”

  “Did she claim to have seen Dad?”

  “No, she didn’t. It could have rebounded on her if he was found to be totally out of his mind. She just said, ‘The kids say he’s fine—just very busy.’ Even then the thought struck me that if he was very busy surely someone would have seen him. But then I’d never been much inclined to believe what Carmen said. I’d too much experience of her lies. I thought she was just making it up.”

  “Actually we had said something like that to put her off the scent. What happened next?”

  “Nothing for a bit. Rob came home, and that reined her in for a while. I was half expecting her to find some excuse to come round here, but I’d no evidence that she did.”

  “If she did, it must have been just to spy. She didn’t knock at the door. We’d told her Dad had forbidden us to let her in.”

  “Whether she came or not, I know she was very interested. She didn’t do it when I was around; but she was asking people for news of the Heenans, had they seen Dermot, and so on. This was reported back to me because people hated Carmen, especially the women at St Joseph’s. I was by now quite sure she had had an affair with poor Dermot. I was finding it difficult to be polite to her, and she hardly bothered to try with me.”

  The voice faded away, very tired. Matthew squeezed her hand and let her take her time.

  “The day she died . . . I told you lies about that.”

  “Yes. Let’s not go over that old ground.”

  “We must, Matthew. I want it all straight. . . . The arrangement with Mary O’Hara was for the night after, and she and I had fixed it up days before. But the night she died, Rob was to be out at a darts tournament, as you know, and I soon realised Carmen was taking the opportunity to go on the loose in some way or other. She said she’d be out for a bit that night, and I simply suspected she’d got a date with a man—maybe your dad, maybe someone else. Then it happened.”

  “What?”

  “It was early in the evening, about a quarter to seven. Carmen was down in the garden, getting some clothes off the line. The phone rang, and I picked it up. When I’m in someone else’s house I just say ‘Yes’ because I haven’t got their number off pat like I have my own. If I’d said the number h
e probably would have realised it wasn’t Carmen, but he didn’t. He said, ‘How’s the woman who incinerated her own mother?’ . . . I know what people mean now when they say their blood turned to ice. Something started at the top of my spine and went all the way down. I just stood there paralysed. Eventually I stuttered ‘Who is that? What do you mean?’ He must have realised then what he’d done, and he put the phone down.”

  “He was blackmailing her.”

  “Yes. Or getting ready to when the insurance money came through. I’ll not say who it was—”

  “I know, Auntie, I know. There’s nothing to be done about that now.”

  “No, of course not . . . Peter’s a fine man. You made a good friend there. So much good has come out of this. I put the phone down, and I just slumped in my chair, thinking. The first thoughts were dreadful. I believed the voice absolutely. Carmen’s mother had died in the fire in January, and I now knew she’d killed her for the insurance money. I was just horrified. I knew she was a horrible woman, but that . . .”

  “Did you connect it with Dad?”

  “I think at the back of my mind I was beginning to. Or at any rate to wonder. But mainly I started to wonder what Carmen was going to do that night. She’d come in from the garden and gone up to change. She took an age, and when she came down around half past eight she just shouted, ‘I’m off’ as she clumped through the hall and banged the front door. I went to the window, and she wasn’t dressed up—tarted up—hardly at all. Navy skirt and a yellow blouse—quite ordinary for her. Not meeting a man, then, I thought.”

  “But you decided to follow her.”

  “Yes. Her car was in dock, you see, so it was easy enough. As you know, it’s a fifteen-or twenty-minute walk to get here—a long walk for Carmen but certainly not for me. I left it a minute or so, then began following her. She marched along, never looking back, so it wasn’t difficult. When she got to the roundabout on the Ring Road I hung well back, but once she was across it I could keep her in sight as she came up past the BP Garage and turned into Calverley Row. As soon as I came up and saw the name on the street, I knew what Carmen was interested in.”