Andrew, detecting her confusion, sat beside her and pushed a tumbler of whiskey into her hand. “It is a lot to take in, I know.”
She gulped the whiskey, not caring that it burnt the back of her throat.
“I never knew he loved her.”
“He loved her and respected her, never forgave himself for what happened to her. Any bit of pleasure he got out of life, he immediately felt guilty, thinking of her, how she died in that asylum. He never meant that to happen.”
“But how was it going to end, tell me that?”
“I don’t think anybody can answer that. We only know how it ended in the tragedy it became.”
“Why didn’t he ever talk to me about any of this? I wish I had known he cared for her, it would have meant so much.”
“Martin, as you know, was never good at talking about his feelings. I think it is only in the paintings that we can see how much you and your mother meant to him.”
She got up and considered the painting close up, noticing for the first time it was set in the Parnell Square drawing room. There was a hint of the mustard velvet couch in the background. “Do you mind this being here?”
“Do I mind that he cared so much for her? I am glad he did. A man who could not have affection for such a lovely woman and daughter would be half a man.”
Emma looked around the room, the bookcases laden with paperbacks, shelves of records, mostly opera, two shelves of model cars, rows and rows of pictures of himself and Andrew on their travels, fishing, side by side wearing tuxedos at society events.
“Am I really the only one who did not know?”
Andrew, concerned at the sharpness of her tone, thought for a moment before he spoke. “Everybody knew, but nobody knew for sure, like so many things in this great country of ours. There was only one person who knew absolutely. Angie Hannon helped us keep it all under the radar and for that we are infinitely grateful. She advised me to tell you and I was glad, because I wanted to, from the day of the funeral, though to have told you then would not have been the right time.”
Emma ran her fingers along a dark wood bookshelf. The model cars, a Ford T, a Cadillac and a grey Morris Minor, were in perfect condition, not a speck of dust. Halfway down was a silver tray with a decanter of brandy and gleaming tumblers. Martin Moran saw no need to hide his drinking here. Tucked at the end of a shelf was a framed communion photograph, she and her father standing in the photographic studio on Dorset Street, her veil simple with a crown of artificial flowers, her dress panelled with a front inset of lace, the pearl buttons shining in the camera flash. She looked out of place here, this secret place where he led his real life. She felt very much a part of his other life. He was happy here, content, a man she had never known.
Andrew had disappeared again and for that she was grateful. If she had been idly looking around this room at the array of books and music, the old teddy propped against a shelf, the little mementoes of travel like the small lacquer box from Russia, the fly-fishing box displays, she would think it belonged to a person she could get on with.
Yet the man she had known was so different. Loneliness came over Emma for the father she did not know and the mother who had lost out on a husband and family life. Walking quickly out of the room, she stole a glance again at Grace. The exquisite dress added to the tragedy of the woman who had had everything and nothing.
Andrew Kelly called her to join him in the kitchen, where he was frying two steaks to serve with pepper sauce and a green salad. “Martin was never much of a cook. He was quite a cheat, used to get Angie to cook up a storm for him and then transfer it across in foil plates and onto the plates before I got home. Silly man thought I was completely fooled and I never let on.” He stopped when he saw Emma’s face crumple and tears splash down her face. “I have to stop going on so. Sit and get this down you.”
He plopped a whiskey into a small glass and pushed it towards her. She drank it in one go, embarrassed that she should collapse in front of this man who was so loved by her father.
“I am sorry. I feel strange, not about the two of you, but that I missed out on knowing the real Martin Moran. I think I would have liked the man who was your partner.”
“And he would have liked you.”
“I couldn’t come when you wrote.”
“It is all right. He understood.”
She fisted the table, tears coursing down her face. “It is not all right. I could have come, I just did not want to. I did not want to be by his side when he was dying.”
Andrew Kelly, if he was shocked, did not let on, though when he spoke again she noticed his voice had changed to a more formal tone, which is what he probably used in court.
“The past is a painful place to live, Emma. Maybe it is time to move on.”
She wiped away her tears and, in an effort to please him, began to eat her food, though she had no appetite. He babbled on about this and that, but she barely heard him, taking in instead the warmth of this house, compared with Parnell Square, the friendly atmosphere, the fact the judge had not been a judge here but a man and a lover. Here, Martin Moran had been willing to accept the idiosyncrasies of others, something he could never do for his daughter. If Andrew Kelly thought letting her peep in on her father’s real life would help, he was very wrong. It made her feel even more isolated and lonelier than ever before.
She lasted through dessert before she said she had an appointment in the city and must go. Andrew Kelly did not believe her, but she did not care. She needed to escape from this house; she needed to find calm. When Andrew ran to the car with the library painting, she declined, asking him if he would mind keeping it for her until she was ready to accept it.
She got the driver to drop her off at St Stephen’s Green. Shunning the busy centre of the park, she headed down the outside path, where the wind wheezed through the trees. Here, she could pretend she was far away. Spying a small gazebo lost in a small clearing, she went there and sat down, the damp air creeping around her, the leaves rustling, the branches creaking. A blackbird fluttered in and, seeing her, let out a loud warning call. A child running ahead of its parents peeped in and saw her but was whooshed on his way. Closing her eyes, she felt the tears bubble up, wrenching through her. She wept long and hard, screaming in her head for the mother and father lost forever, screaming in her head for the lives lived and those kept secret.
29
Parnell Square, Dublin, May 1984
Two days later, Andrew picked up Emma and they travelled to the city offices of the solicitors together. They were immediately shown into a tiny room on the second floor. Andrew settled into a chair in front of a large desk, but Emma, more restless, stood, her hands running over the chocolate pleated linen of her box jacket and skirt.
The night before, at No. 19, she had rooted through the wardrobes for something to wear. A part of her was afraid of the finality the reading of her father’s will brought, but another part of her wanted to represent her mother, to be present, to hear his last decision for the family. The suit she found at the back of the wardrobe was right for the occasion. She was flicking through the rail when an outfit covered in tissue paper with a note attached by a straight pin caught her eye: “To be collected, Grace Moran.”
Emma tore off the tissue paper. Chocolate-brown, soft, tight linen pleats in a separate jacket and skirt. The skirt was the same as before, long, horizontal pleats, the jacket a box pattern in the same fabric, a deep ruffle of pleated linen on the elbow-length sleeves. Carefully, Emma slipped the outfit from its hanger. Stepping into the skirt, she noticed the chocolate-brown colour shimmered in the light. The box jacket buttoned up to a round, collarless neck. It was soft and comfortable and moved with her, her hair set off by the dark undertones of the jacket.
The door opened and a woman bustled in. “Miss Moran, Mr Kelly, thank you so much for attending our offices here today. I am Natalia Redlich: we should get started.”
Emma smiled at the solicitor’s business-like manner and rem
ained unflustered, waiting for the reading to commence. Natalia Redlich was fussing, so Emma took in instead the painting of a woman sewing, her child leaning against her mother’s lap as she stitched a square of fabric. When the solicitor broke into her daydream, Emma flinched.
“I will now read the last will and testament of Judge Martin Moran, No. 19 Parnell Square, Dublin.”
Slowly, she opened the grey folder and took out a large sealed envelope. Using her pen, she ripped open the seal, taking out a sheet of paper and two smaller envelopes.
“I, Judge Martin Moran of Parnell Square, Dublin, being of sound mind and body do make this last will and testament and leave my estate, including the following properties: No. 19 Parnell Square, Dublin; 21a Rue du Bac, 7th arrondissement, Paris; and St James’s Terrace, London, NW8; and various bank accounts to my daughter, Emma Moran, to be distributed as outlined in the accompanying letter. I also ask that the second accompanying letter be handed to Mr Andrew Kelly, my best and loyal friend.”
Neither Emma nor Andrew said anything, but accepted the letters when the solicitor handed them across.
Emma did not want to open hers. Maybe it would be better to stuff it in her pocket and read it at home. The solicitor coughed politely and drummed the desk with her fingers. Emma ripped the seal and pulled out the paper roughly, as if she was in a hurry.
“Maybe I should go,” Andrew said, rising slowly from his chair, as if he did not want to disturb the quiet.
“You are entitled to stay, but if you prefer to go . . .” the solicitor replied impatiently.
Andrew sighed loudly, before turning to Emma. “Emma, I can wait downstairs.”
“Can I meet you another time? I think I might need to be on my own for a bit.”
The solicitor looked at her watch, tapping her fingers on the table. Andrew made to open the door, but appeared to hesitate and turned to the solicitor. “Miss Redlich, I am sure you do your job very well, but it might be best to remember in the future you are dealing with people with real live emotions, not just files and numbers.”
Natalia Redlich’s face turned sour, making Emma stifle a laugh as she concentrated instead on the letter in her hand.
“Do I have to read it now?”
“It is probably best that you do, to make sure you understand the contents,” the solicitor said gently. “Would you like to be on your own or will I stay?”
“Maybe on my own.”
Natalia Redlich gathered up her files and quietly left the room.
Emma was not sure what to do. Part of her wanted to read the letter, another part was afraid. A squall of wind shook the glass of the window, making it rattle fiercely. The wind pushed on to the river, curling up the Liffey, making the pedestrians on the quays move faster.
She carefully unfolded the letter and began to read.
19 Parnell Square,
Dublin
February 18, 1984
My Dearest Emma,
Your mother, if she had been able, would have loved you with every fibre of her being. In her absence, I tried to fill a gap, which was too deep and wide.
I know the last time we were in my study together, you said some things. I am sorry I didn’t stand up there then and tell you how much I cared for you. I am equally sorry that writing it down can never compare to saying it, with all the emotion such a statement as “I love you” deserves.
I have tried to be a good father, but I was always a better judge and I wonder what that counts for now.
I must leave you, dearest Emma, other bothersome matters I should have had the courage to address much earlier. I know you believe when you were born your mother was very ill and later died. What I concealed from you, I stress for no other reason than to protect you, was that my Grace did not indeed die but had to be committed to an asylum. The poor thing was unable to function on her own and her aunt Violet suggested a short spell in the asylum in Knockavanagh. Reluctantly I agreed, but, unfortunately for Grace and all of us, it went on longer than it should. I am sorry to report Grace died in the asylum. She lost her life in a fire. I left her there and she suffered that terrible fate. For that, I will never forgive myself.
I profoundly regret that I had neither the strength nor the bravery to tell you the truth. I regret even more that I had not the strength of character or mind to take Grace from that asylum and look for alternative ways to help her. As you know, Aunt Violet has had a huge influence on our lives and it was only on her death bed that she admitted to me that Grace was never as bad as had been insisted upon by the doctors. Violet had paid them a monthly stipend to exaggerate Grace’s symptoms in reports to me. These same reports kept her in the asylum. Violet had her own twisted reasons for that. That I got caught up in it and never questioned these reports is an incredible shame and sadness for me. I let Grace down and I will never forgive myself.
There is one other matter that I feel I should trouble you with. I don’t do so lightly. I think you always felt I was your father only in name, and you were right. You were fathered not by me but by the man Grace loved all her life, an Indian doctor, Vikram Fernandes. Not only that, but you are not an only child. It was only when she gave birth that we realised Grace had been pregnant with twins. It was impossible to tell back in those days and I understand that Grace was so overcome during the labour that I do not know if even she was aware of it. But the twin girls were born two different colours: white and brown. Tell me, Emma, how could we in Ireland of the ’50s keep a brown baby? Not even my position as a judge could protect us on that. Vikram Fernandes, when he returned to India, took your twin sister with him. He did not know the details of the birth and as a result did not know you existed. I have to point out that at this stage I knew nothing of any of the things that led Vikram Fernandes to make the decision to leave this country. Aunt Violet told the man Grace was dead, which I think was a despicable thing to do, but then Aunt Violet always put her own selfish needs first.
At the height of all the stress and anxiety surrounding the birth, I did what I thought to be best. You and your sister can pass final judgement.
You were right, Emma, I was not your father and, to my eternal shame, I never showed you how much I cared for you. Your sister and her father were constantly on my mind. Even judges make bad decisions, Emma. So do the most well-meaning of fathers. As you stand in judgement over me, I hope you will assess the mitigating circumstances that led to my decisions and the pain and loss I have had to live with all these years. If you can, please judge me half kindly.
I was married to Grace and regard her children as mine. Therefore, in my final will, I leave my property folio and bank accounts to you, Emma, and to the little girl who was sent to India I leave £100,000. It will leave you both with an ample legacy and maybe help in some small way to right the wrongs of the past.
With esteem, love and respect,
Martin Moran
Emma let the letter drop into her lap. Her mouth was parched dry, pain thumping at the back of her eyes. From where she sat, Emma could see out into the company car park, where the parking attendant was drinking a mug of tea, his feet up reading a tabloid newspaper.
She had a sister. A sister that maybe did not look like her, but a sister. Grace was dead, and now she had to find her sister.
Emma turned away to watch the late-afternoon sun flash across the wet bonnets of the cars. How would she find her sister?
When Natalia Redlich slipped into the room, Emma jumped up, pacing about.
“You know where my sister is, don’t you?”
The solicitor looked flustered, fiddling with items on her desk.
“In the letter, my father says he left money to my sister. You surely have an address, something. I have to find her.”
Natalia Redlich sighed deeply. “At the risk of being accused of being heartless, I can only tell you what I have been instructed to say.” She held up a page, as if to create a barrier between them, and read out the sentences. “‘My daughter Emma will want to know
about her sister. I have only the information I have included here. The address of Vikram Fernandes is Residency Road, Bangalore, Karnataka, India, which I stress is an address from the 1950s. I have instructed my solicitors to write to that address and have also enclosed a letter to one Vikram Fernandes, telling him of Emma’s existence and other matters which need not concern you. I have also instructed the solicitors on the reply to make contact with my daughter Emma and forward to her the address of Mr Fernandes or his next of kin, if that is relevant.’”
“Has there been an answer?”
“The letter was only recently dispatched. We have not yet heard from him.”
“You are saying there is nothing I can do. I will have to wait for him to make contact.”
“I am saying we will have to wait and see how things pan out.”
Emma moved to the window. Small waves raced along the top of the Liffey, the seagulls flying low, squealing. She imagined she heard the birds squawk out the word “sister” over and over.
“Is there anything else we can do for you, Miss Moran? Probate should take a few months. We will be in touch.”
Natalia Redlich made to stand and Emma, wiping a tear from the corners of her eyes, gathered up her handbag. “Thank you, Miss Redlich.”
Ignoring the hand extended, Emma rushed from the solicitor’s office and down the stairs to the street. She was shaking, a piercing pain stabbing through her head. Not knowing where exactly she was going, she made for the bridge. She made a lonely figure lingering on a windy day on a bridge over an angry river. Passers-by looked oddly at her as she leaned on the parapet for support, the power of the water rushing underneath making her skin tingle.
All the times she had wanted a sister. All the times she had wanted a mother. The man who was not her father had taken them away from her.
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