by Alison Walsh
Of course, Rosie didn’t need her any more. She was a grown-up now: she’d been gone for ten years, and during that time something seemed to have happened to her. She looked smooth and sleek, as if she’d grown some kind of shiny outer shell; she wore expensive-looking clothes and her hair tied back in a knot at the nape of her neck, not that fuzzy halo around her head that she used to have. And that bling-ring. Mary-Pat couldn’t help wondering where her little sister had gone.
But still, couldn’t she let her do this one thing? That was what mothers were supposed to do, wasn’t it? And then she’d had to remind herself that she wasn’t Rosie’s mother. Just her sister, and what’s more one who had tried to get rid of her, to shove her away ten years before. And now here they were, a ‘normal’ family at a lovely summer wedding.
Who would have thought it? We don’t look as if we have a hole blasted right through the middle of us, a huge, empty, mother-shaped gap. Maybe that’s the way with all families, that they look normal on the outside to make you think that’s what a family should be. But who knew what things were really like on the inside?
It was such a bleak thought that Mary-Pat didn’t notice that the bride and groom were kissing and hugging and the little gathering was getting to its feet. She felt as if she were in a daze, standing up to join in the applause, the whistles and cheers from the good-looking young friends of her sister’s, who seemed so smart and bright, so self-confident. She had no idea Rosie still had so many friends in the village – how had she managed to keep in touch with them all these years, when she’d hardly spoken to her sisters. Her eyes darted to Daddy, who seemed to have fallen asleep under the tree, his mouth open, head tilted back, looking like a small, wizened child. Her heart lifted then with relief. Please let him wake up when it’s all over. Please, God.
She started when PJ snaked an arm around her waist and gave her a gentle squeeze. ‘Brings back happy memories,’ he said and winked at her, then leaned towards her and brushed her cheek with his lips. She tried to smile back, but all that her mouth did was form itself into a watery grin. She wanted to tell him that she remembered, that it had been the most wonderful day of her whole life, walking along the seafront in Bray, hand in hand, the pair of them tucking into a big bag of salty, vinegary chips, the swell of her stomach just enough to push out the fabric of the pink dress she’d bought with June in Arnotts.
They’d got married in the register office in town, with June and Gerry as witnesses, even though PJ’s mother said she’d disown him if he didn’t do the decent thing and get married in church. ‘She’ll get over it,’ had been his only comment. He’d known that Mary-Pat couldn’t get married in church – sure she hadn’t even been christened. And she’d known then, as if she hadn’t before, that PJ was the man for her. They’d got the train to Bray, all four of them, herself and PJ trying not to laugh at Gerry’s carry-on. He was sulking because they’d chosen chips and the seafront over his preferred choice of lunch at Guilbaud’s. They weren’t ‘lunch at Guilbaud’s’ kind of people.
PJ and June had gone on the dodgems, but he’d made her sit down on a bench with Gerry and watch, putting a big, meaty hand onto her tummy and rubbing it briefly, flashing her a grin as he did so. They hadn’t told anyone else about John-Patrick because they’d wanted to hug the secret to themselves for a bit longer. And so she’d watched June throw her head back and laugh as she crashed into everyone – PJ making a point out of reversing into her more than once – thinking she’d never been as happy. Not even Gerry and his peevish nonsense about the chips being soggy and his suit being ruined by sitting on a damp bench could spoil it.
PJ wanted her to acknowledge him now, she knew that from the anxious look in his eyes, but she just couldn’t. The words she wanted to say got stuck in her throat and even though she willed her hand to move, to grab hold of his and squeeze it, it just wouldn’t. I love you more than ever, she thought, but somehow I just can’t say it.
She followed everyone to the trestle tables that had been laid out against the gable wall of the house and filled with platters of cold meats and salads, all made by someone else, served on artfully mismatched china. It looked like a magazine article for a country wedding, Mary-Pat thought, as she helped herself to a big pile of coleslaw, not the real thing. But it was lovely all the same, just lovely.
‘I thought you were looking after Daddy?’ Mary-Pat looked over June’s shoulder as her sister appeared, all linen and rattly jewellery, her dark curls expensively blow-dried. She looked gorgeous, slim and lovely and about ten years younger than her forty-one years. But there was something about her that just didn’t seem right … Just showed you, you could have everything and still not be happy.
June looked briefly over to the willow tree, before waving her hand. ‘Oh, he’s fine. He’s having a little snooze … I think,’ she said vaguely. ‘Oh, pâté! Yum,’ and she helped herself to a great big slab of it. Mary-Pat’s mouth watered. If she ate pâté, she’d put on a stone before the stuff had hit her stomach. She pushed the coleslaw around on her plate.
‘Isn’t it just lovely?’ June was saying, taking in the crowds and the lovely wedding outfits and the mismatched china. ‘So tasteful. Rosie has really done us all proud.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes, well, you know what I mean. Herself. She’s done herself proud,’ June added hastily, before looking carefully at Mary-Pat. Mary-Pat knew what that look meant: you weren’t very nice at that wedding place, were you? You had your chance and you blew it. She was right, Mary-Pat thought. ‘She seems so capable and grown-up, doesn’t she? Who’d have thought it,’ June said.
Mary-Pat opened her mouth to say something sarcastic, but before she could cut her sister down to size, she felt a little hand on her shoulder. ‘How are my two favourite sisters?’ Rosie kissed each sister on the cheek. Her lips felt chilly, Mary-Pat thought, like one of those marble statues. ‘Thank you both for being here; it means a lot to us, it really does.’
Mary-Pat turned around. ‘For Christ’s sake, Rosie, we’re your—’
‘You’re welcome, Rosie,’ June interrupted. ‘Sure, we wouldn’t have it any other way, would we, Mary-Pat?’
‘No. No, we wouldn’t.’ Mary-Pat managed to push the words out.
‘We’re so proud of you, Rosie,’ June was saying. ‘And look what you’ve done with the place,’ she trilled. ‘You’d hardly recognise it, isn’t that right, Mary-Pat?’
‘That’s right.’ Mary-Pat knew that she sounded like a robot, but she didn’t trust herself to say anything further. How dare Rosie treat them like guests. How dare she.
‘Are you sure you’ve both had enough to eat and drink?’ Rosie said, an arm on each of their shoulders. ‘The canapés are organic, would you believe. Craig has a thing about it,’ and she smiled in that composed way she had now.
‘Melissa told me all about it,’ Mary-Pat blurted, and of course, at the expression on Rosie’s face, she knew that it hadn’t come out right. It had sounded sarcastic and hurtful. But it was far from the kind of ‘organic’ they’d been reared on and she wondered if Rosie remembered crying for three days when they’d had to wring Denise the hen’s neck and put her in a pot. But she felt June’s hand on her arm then, a steady, firm pressure, and she forced herself to say, ‘It’s lovely, very tasty.’ And, yes, they had everything they needed, thanks, and, yes, they’d help themselves to more, then they both watched their sister dance off into the crowd, where she was pulled into an embrace by a young man with a flaming red beard, a stranger to them both.
June snaked an arm around Mary-Pat’s shoulder. ‘That’s your work, Mary-Pat.’ June squeezed her shoulder gently. ‘She’s a credit to you, even if she doesn’t know it.’
‘Oh, I’m not so sure, Junie,’ Mary-Pat said and she just couldn’t help the note of bitterness that crept into her voice. ‘I can’t help thinking that our Rosie’s put a lot of thought into herself all the same.’
June looked puzzled and Mary-Pat thanked God th
at her sister could be a bit slow on the uptake and wouldn’t grasp what she’d been trying to say, that her sister wasn’t the same Rosie that had stomped onto that bus ten years before, and that it wasn’t the normal change that growing up brought – it was something that made Mary-Pat feel uneasy, something not quite real. But she didn’t want to be bitter and nasty on her sister’s wedding day. She really didn’t, and so she patted June on the hand. ‘Thanks.’
‘If only Mammy could see her now.’ June sighed. ‘She’d know just what a good job you’ve done, MP.’
Mary-Pat felt that there was something just beyond her reach, something she didn’t quite get, and she looked at June, who was biting her lip. She was about to ask her, but then June said, ‘C’mon, let’s go and get drunk and make holy shows of ourselves.’
Mary-Pat nodded vaguely, scanning the crowd. ‘In a minute. I need to find Pi. You go on and pour me a drink … a large one,’ she called out to her sister’s retreating back.
He was in the kitchen, filling the old tin bath with the contents of a plastic bag of ice. His back was turned to her, but she could see that he’d scrubbed up well. That awful bush of hair had been tamed into something halfway presentable and he was wearing a smart-looking shirt and slacks that she’d never seen before and that looked as if they’d cost actual money. ‘Pi?’
He turned around, a look of shock on his face. ‘You gave me a fright, MP.’
‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’ve been avoiding me this last week.’ She knew that she was bullying him a bit, using ‘that tone’ of voice, arms folded across her chest, but she couldn’t help it.
She was almost glad when he blushed and put the bag of ice down in the sink. ‘Ah, no, it’s just that I had a big long list of things to do for the wedding, and the garden needed a bit of tidying, you know.’ He shrugged. ‘And then Rosie dragged me into Mullingar to some men’s shop. It wasn’t my kind of place – full of half-naked men waving aftershave in the air – but I did it to please her.’
Mary-Pat felt it again, the jealousy pushing up inside her, making her throat constrict. For fuck’s sake. She’d just swanned back here after ten years and taken over. Where was Rosie when he’d needed to go into that awful place, when he’d had to put his head in her lap and bawl his eyes out like a baby while they were waiting to see the shrink? Where was she when he couldn’t dress himself without bursting into tears, or eat without herself or one of the kids sitting with him to make sure he took even just a few mouthfuls? She wasn’t there, not for that whole long year when he’d hardly been able to set foot outside the house, when PJ had had to take him and Jessie for ‘little walks’ down by the canal, him shuffling along like an old man. She hadn’t been there when it really mattered, and now she was taking him to boutiques and doing him up like he was some kind of a doll.
Mary-Pat folded her arms across her chest, feeling a trickle of sweat slide down into the neck of her dress. She wanted to yank the awful thing off and throw it into the garden. ‘Haven’t I been on at you for years to tidy yourself up? Much good it did me.’
‘I know. I suppose I just needed a bit of a push, by someone … you know, someone outside the family, I mean, someone who hadn’t seen me for a while, that’s it.’ He stood there at the sink, his arms folded across his chest, and she was suddenly struck by how like Daddy he looked, with those lovely fine features, those flashing dark eyes. The bloody Judas.
And then he said, ‘I have something for you. Wait a minute till I get it.’
He left her standing in the kitchen, the sounds of the wedding filtering in through the door. It was nearly dusk now and the room was filled with a rosy pink glow, the same kitchen in which she’d spent her whole young life, cooking dinners and drying clothes on the range, trying to bite back her impatience as Rosie tapped her pencil off her copybook, tilting her chair backwards so that, any minute, she’d fall and hit her head. Sometimes, Mary-Pat would throw the wooden spoon down with a clatter and go over and yank the back of the chair so hard it would squeak in protest, righting Rosie with a thump. ‘Get on with your bloody homework, will you?’ And then she’d slap back to the range and bash pots and pans about for another half an hour, before yelling at them all to come down for their tea. She’d been so angry, she thought now, her skin prickling with heat and guilt. Such an angry young woman. She still was.
‘I’ve found it,’ Pius was muttering as he came back into the room, his head bent. He didn’t look at her but instead thrust a small package into her hand.
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t open it now.’ His hand on hers was firm. ‘Leave it till later.’
‘For feck’s sake, Pi, you’re scaring me. What’s in here – a bomb or something?’ She went to open the little parcel, picking at the Sellotape which stuck the brown paper together. The thing felt as light as air, as if there was nothing at all inside the package. She looked up at him and the expression on his face was one she’d never seen before. He looked anguished.
‘Mary-Pat.’ His tone was so firm that she looked up from her task. ‘Don’t. OK? Put it in your bag and leave it and we’ll go and get drunk and we’ll talk about it in the morning. I have a lethal punch which I spent three days making and which would knock an elephant stone cold.’
‘Thank God, I thought you’d never ask,’ she said, shoving the package into her shoulder bag, tucking it underneath her fags. ‘I’ll race you.’
They were heading towards the makeshift bar beside the henhouse when they heard the commotion, the raised voices, the loud shriek. Mary-Pat turned her head to see Rosie running down the garden, her hands pressed to her face, a look of horror on those tiny, pretty little features. She was barefoot and the daisies in her hair had formed into tight clumps, the red hair knotted around them, her mouth a big round ‘o’ of alarm.
‘Rosie!’ Mary-Pat called out to her as she ran past, extending a hand as if to catch her, but Rosie just shook her head and disappeared around the side of the house. What on earth …? Mary-Pat looked at the knot of people gathered at the pergola, the voices male this time, one of them clearly the Yank’s, that nasal twang that she couldn’t stand. ‘Couldn’t you leave her alone, old man? Couldn’t you let her be?’
Oh, shite, Mary-Pat thought, her step quickening as she hurried towards the pergola. I thought June was taking care of him. I thought he was out of the way.
She arrived in time to see Daddy, half-out of his chair, looking mystified. ‘But I only said—’ he was saying.
‘I know what you said, you old bastard.’ The Yank was leaning towards him now, his face a livid red, both fists clenched. His tie, unknotted, hung around his neck and his cream suit had grass stains on it. For a second, Mary-Pat was sure he was going to hit Daddy, and even while she put out a hand to stop him, the thought entered her head: Go on. Do it. Hit him.
The thought made her stop dead for a second, but then she pulled herself together and bustled in to the little group, clutching the handles of Daddy’s chair. ‘What’s the matter, Craig?’ Her voice was flat.
‘That bastard.’ Craig was gulping, trying to get enough breath into his lungs. ‘Could you not have kept him away from her?’
And then Daddy tried to stand up, that awful blanket falling from his knees. ‘But I only told her – it was for her own good. She had to know,’ he was saying, his voice shaky, the look on his face confused, as if he couldn’t understand for the life of him what had gone wrong.
Mary-Pat’s stomach lurched. ‘Told her what, Daddy?’ As she asked, she lifted a hand to silence the Yank, who’d been about to interject, his eyes bulging with rage.
‘That she isn’t mine.’
There was a deafening silence for a few minutes, during which Mary-Pat could hear the blood swishing around in her ears. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words would come out. For fuck’s sake, she thought. Could you not have kept your mouth shut after all this time?
And then Daddy added helpfully, ‘You see, I
had to send her away then, that little knacker, I had to. I couldn’t have that. That child is not mine. No, no.’ He was shaking his head now, and then he looked at Mary-Pat. ‘Don’t you see?’
‘Daddy, you’re talking nonsense. You know who Rosie is: she’s your daughter. Your flesh and blood.’ And she tightened her grip on the handles of the chair, as if to drive it forward, away from here.
But then Daddy turned and grabbed her by the wrist, his black eyes locking on hers. The look on his face was so intense, it frightened her. She wanted to pull away, to run, to bolt for the safety of the car and home. She licked a bead of sweat from her upper lip.
‘She tried to pin it on me, you know, she tried to tell me that it was all my fault. Filthy bitch …’ And he shook his head. ‘Do you understand, Mary-Pat? I just couldn’t let it go on.’ And now his eyes filled with tears. ‘That woman tried to trick me, to make me believe that Rosie was mine, but it was all lies. You know, Mary-Pat, you know the truth.’ He spat the last word out, covering Mary-Pat’s face in a thin mist of his spit, and she had to fight the urge to vomit as she wiped it off with the back of her hand. She looked down at her arm, which bore the mark of his fingers. Her breath was ragged now, coming in short gasps, and she clutched her throat. She pushed him firmly, with all her strength, back into the chair, pressing his shoulders down as hard as she could until he landed on the seat with a thump. ‘Daddy,’ and her voice sounded like a cracking whip. ‘You’re not yourself. It’s time to go home now for a little rest. Let’s go.’ And she yanked the chair back into reverse, cursing as it caught in the gravel and tugging it harder. She didn’t dare look up to see the expressions on their faces. The dirty O’Connors, doing it again, lowering themselves.
‘Here, let me.’ Pius’s voice was firm in her ear as he took the handles from her, gently hauling the chair out of the gravel and across the grass, ignoring Daddy’s bleated, ‘But I was only saying …’ He simply pretended Daddy wasn’t there, throwing over his shoulder, ‘PJ, I’ll stick him into the back of the Pajero for you.’