by Alison Walsh
‘How do you know her password?’ June asked.
Georgia gave her a patronising look. ‘Now …’ She scrolled down through pictures of dogs leaning out car windows and American cheerleaders. ‘Mum, you might need to prepare yourself. Are you ready?’
June nodded, her stomach clenched. She wasn’t sure she was ready. She looked at the photo Georgia showed her on the iPad. There was silence while June tried to process the information. The photo was blurry and only showed from the bottom of India’s face down, but June knew that scar on her daughter’s collarbone. She’d got it when Georgia had hit her with a hockey stick in the back garden. She’d needed five stitches.
‘She’s not wearing any top,’ June said, stating the obvious.
‘No, Mum. She isn’t.’
I’m not sure she’s wearing any bottoms either, June thought bleakly. ‘Where does this come from?’
‘Probably that asshole Jamie Ferguson; he says he’s her boyfriend, but he’s only after one thing. Guess he’s got it now.’
‘He asked her to post … naked photos of herself online?’
Georgia sounded weary now. ‘No, Mum. He asked her to send them to his phone and then he posted them online for all the world to see. It’s what some boys do.’
‘And girls let them?’ June looked at Georgia in horror.
‘Well, not exactly, but it happens, Mum.’ Georgia shrugged.
‘My God,’ June said. How the hell had she not been aware of this? What kind of world were her daughters living in … that something like this could happen? That they could be defiled like this, in front of the whole world, by a young man. June couldn’t think. Her mind was a blank.
‘Everyone in the school knows and Mrs Delaney says you’ll be hearing from her, like, today, and she’s phoned you twice and India’s made me run to the phone every time it rings in case it’s the Gorgon. I’ve had to pretend to be the Chinese takeaway twice now.’ Georgia was growing agitated and June soothed her. ‘Georgia, calm down. I’ll ring Mrs Delaney.’
‘No!’ Georgia wailed. ‘India will kill me. She’ll know it’s me. I’ve been trying to keep it a secret, I really have, because I know that things are so bad with you and Dad, but I just can’t keep it in any more,’ she said.
June held her breath, just for a second, while she tried to take it all in, patting and soothing and telling Georgia that it would all be all right. ‘Daddy and I will sort it out, and you are not to worry about a thing, do you hear me? You’ve done the right thing,’ she said, trying to sound convincing, all the while wondering how she hadn’t noticed what was going on with her girls, right under her nose. How had she not seen? Maybe, she thought bitterly, because she hadn’t been looking.
15
She must be pure mad, Mary-Pat thought as she tasted the sauce and decided it needed a little more salt. To think she could get her husband to love her again with a bit of nice food and underwear, but she had to start somewhere. God, these knickers were killing her, she thought, as she ran her finger around the elastic, which was digging into her flesh. Her breasts almost spilled over the top of the corset: she’d been a bit optimistic with the sizing, she realised.
She’d planned it for days, trying on the underwear and standing in front of the bedroom mirror, wondering if she’d stand any chance of seducing him in that get-up or did she look like a giant marshmallow with a little strip of purple at the top and bottom. ‘Are you cracked or what?’ she’d ask herself, turning around to get a view of her rear end encased in blue lace, her face flushing with embarrassment as she caught an unwelcome glimpse of her back fat. Sure why would he be interested in you? Why would he find you sexy? The thought would move her to tears. He used to find her sexy, but now, she wasn’t so sure. At other times, she’d feel a rush of self-confidence as she planned the seduction menu, grinning as she thought of how much he’d love the venison steaks and steamed asparagus.
But, sure, the whole thing distracted her anyway. ‘Displacement activity’, Graham called it: doing one thing to avoid thinking about something else. He’d be right there. But it didn’t matter what the hell he called it, Mary-Pat thought, the result was just the same. She was trying not to think about everything because it was just too much to take in, and so it was easier to focus on asparagus. Easier than to go to the phone and pick it up and dial Rosie’s number, slamming the phone down before it had even rung once. She had no idea what she could say to her anyway. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about that O’Brien woman, that I kept it a secret from you because I was trying to protect you from the sordid truth about Daddy. Who the hell would want to know that her father couldn’t keep his hands off any woman who happened to be passing? No one, least of all Rosie. She’d had enough to bear in her life. Mary-Pat wanted to explain to her that she’d had the best of intentions, but that somewhere along the line they’d gone wrong.
But Mary-Pat also knew that there was a part of her that hadn’t rung Rosie because she couldn’t forgive herself for the way she’d been with her. She wasn’t sure how it worked like that, how hatred for one person could be moved onto someone else, someone entirely innocent. Her logical mind told her that Rosie was blameless, but her heart had been filled with anger and resentment. She couldn’t help herself: all the years she’d given to her sister after Mammy left. She only had to catch a glimpse of Rosie’s red head for it to seize hold of her, for the thought to pop into her head: if you hadn’t appeared, Mammy would still be here. You’re the reason she left.
Mary-Pat closed her eyes as she stirred the sauce. How could she ever make it up to Rosie? Where could she even begin?
After Pi had carried Rosie off into the night that dreadful night of the family conference, June and Mary-Pat had sat in silence in the kitchen, the only noise being the click of Duke’s paws on the kitchen tiles as he shuffled back and forth, sniffing for any food that might have miraculously fallen from the sky. The two of them had blown themselves out and the silence now stretched between them.
‘Well, that went well,’ Mary-Pat had eventually said. She’d intended to sound sarcastic and was gratified when her sister had flinched. It was mean, she knew, but June deserved it.
June had shrugged, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Can I have one of those?’ She’d nodded at Mary-Pat’s cigarettes.
‘You don’t smoke.’
‘I do now,’ June had said in a shaky voice, accepting the proffered box from Mary-Pat and selecting one, inhaling deeply when Mary-Pat had lit the cigarette, then coughing and spluttering.
‘Easy. You don’t have to smoke it all at once.’
June had given a tight smile and there was another long silence while she had puffed away at the cigarette. Mary-Pat didn’t break it. She wasn’t going to throw her sister a lifeline.
Eventually, June had blurted, ‘I’m sorry, MP, I didn’t meant to spring it on you all like this. And I didn’t mean to keep it a secret from you all these years. It was just … Mammy made me promise not to breathe a word. She didn’t want the others to worry. She wanted to let sleeping dogs lie. It was an awful responsibility, MP, and I hated it, but I felt I had no choice. It was either that or lose Mammy for ever.’ She’d sounded whiny and nervous, the way she always did when she knew she’d done something wrong. Mary-Pat remembered her using the same tone when they’d done something bold as children and Daddy told them he’d tan the hide of whoever was responsible. June would just look wounded and whine, ‘It wasn’t me, Daddy.’ And, sure, who wouldn’t believe her? Like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Mary-Pat had thought for a long time, eyeing the little letters on the table, before saying, ‘Do you think you could put them away, please? I don’t want to look at them.’
‘Sure.’ June had tried not to look too hurt as she picked them up and pushed them into her handbag, like a bundle of used tissues, soiled and manky.
‘The thing is, June, we did lose Mammy for ever. The day she left us. She was gone. And we had to come to terms with that in w
hatever way we could. You know what it was like, Junie.’
June had nodded silently, twirling the wedding ring round and round on her slender finger. ‘It was awful.’
‘It sure was. Worse than awful. It wasn’t just the wondering where she was, the worrying, but also thinking over and over again about what we’d done to make her run away like that. I thought it was my fault, that I hadn’t looked after Rosie well enough or something, or that I hadn’t taken sides when that woman came to live with us. I should have sided with Mammy. I should have. She probably felt she had no one to turn to—’
June interrupted, ‘But that wasn’t our responsibility, MP. It wasn’t our fault, surely you knew that. Look what Daddy was like. If it hadn’t been Frances O’Brien, it’d have been someone else. She probably just couldn’t take any more.’
‘So she left her children,’ Mary-Pat had said flatly.
‘Yes, well …’
‘You and I both know that she could have taken us with her or booted him out. The law was on the woman’s side in those days. No judge in the land would have argued otherwise. But she chose to leave us with him and go off and make a new life for herself.’
‘And she’s blamed herself ever since,’ June had interjected. ‘I can’t tell you how many times she’s said sorry—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Mary-Pat had barked. ‘Sorry, sorry. Who gives a shit about her sorries. It’s far too late for that, Junie, and you should have told her that. After you’d told us, your flesh and blood, about the letters and let us all decide what to do. It was your responsibility to us, to tell us. But you chose to keep it to yourself. And I don’t think I can forgive you for that, I really don’t.’
‘I’m sorry—’ June had started to whine again.
‘Oh, will you just quit, Junie?’ Mary-Pat’s hands had been shaking as she’d lit a cigarette and took a deep pull. She needed a moment, she’d thought. She needed to weigh the enormity of it all in her mind, to decide whether she wanted to lose another family member after everything else that had happened that afternoon. After all of those years holding it all together, through thick and thin. All those years with Daddy in this house, all the years in which what had happened in her own family had sunk deep inside of her. And Mary-Pat knew with a sureness which she’d never felt before that she’d had enough. She knew that she couldn’t erase the past, but she could stop it taking a grip on her now. She could stop it poisoning her family, the family she’d created with PJ. They were what mattered now, not the others.
‘Don’t you want to find out where Mammy is? What she’s doing? Aren’t you even a little bit curious?’ June’s voice had sounded faintly accusatory.
Mary-Pat had shaken her head. ‘I’m with Pi on that, June. Thanks all the same. And now,’ she’d pushed herself up from her chair and looked around, ‘this place is a mess and PJ will be back from the pub quiz any minute.’ She’d taken a deep breath, her decision made. ‘I’d like you to leave, Junie. I’m sorry.’
June had nodded and sniffed, picking her expensive handbag up off the floor. She hadn’t looked at Mary-Pat as she put on her jacket, but when she got to the hall door, she’d turned around. ‘Are you sure …?’ and she’d pulled the wad of paper out of her handbag.
Mary-Pat had hesitated for a second too long. At that moment, she’d have given anything to know where Mammy was and what she was doing. But as June had come back towards her, taking the creases out of the crumpled mess of paper, Mary-Pat had found it within herself. ‘No. Please, Junie. No.’
June had looked as if Mary-Pat had hit her. Then she’d nodded, stuffing the letters back in her bag and marching promptly out the front door, shutting it behind her with a loud bang. Mary-Pat had waited until her sister was long gone before breaking down. It was as if a dam had broken inside her, and it all came pouring out, the pain and resentment of it all. For the next hour, she’d held herself and howled until she could howl no more and then she’d looked at the clock on the wall and realised that she’d have to stop, because PJ and the kids were due home at any minute. By the time John-Patrick had come in, she’d been standing by the cooker, turning fried eggs over in the pan. ‘Tea’s ready,’ she’d said.
‘Thanks, Mum.’ John-Patrick had pulled out a stool and sat down, pouring himself a cup of tea. ‘Any news?’
‘No. Quiet day,’ she’d lied, putting the eggs on a plate and sliding them across to him. ‘Eat up.’
She’d sat down beside him and lit a fag, before remembering that the child was eating, and she’d put it out on the ashtray on the kitchen windowsill, wincing as she noticed all the butts. He’d looked up and had given her a half-smile and she’d noticed that his eyes were their normal blue, not those scary black marbles.
‘What?’ She put her hands on her hips.
‘Nothing.’ He gave a faint smile.
‘What is it, John-Patrick?’
‘You normally don’t stop smoking when we’re eating,’ he said politely, crossing his fork and knife on his plate and wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin she’d provided for him. She’d trained him to do that and she felt proud of him now.
‘Yes, well, I’m trying to be a bit more considerate,’ she’d muttered.
He’d nodded, as if her being considerate was the most normal thing in the world. ‘Is everything all right, Mum?’
She didn’t know what came over her, but she’d told him, her lovely son. It had all come out, everything, about Mammy and Daddy and Rosie, all of it, and, being John-Patrick, he hadn’t interrupted or offered advice she didn’t need. He’d just listened, and even though Mary-Pat had felt guilty about burdening him, she’d also felt glad, glad that it was all now out in the open and that she wasn’t passing the guilt on to the next generation; the notion that you had to keep things secret. It wasn’t good for anyone.
‘You know, I remember the very first time I saw Auntie Rosie,’ she’d said, pouring a thick brew of tea into two mugs and shoving one across the table to him. ‘I’d come home from school. It was February, I remember, because there was ice on the canal and the rushes were all covered in frost. And there was a carrycot in the hall. It was like an alien had landed in the place, I can tell you. I crept over to it and just saw her, moving under her little crochet blanket, and she let out this tiny cry. She was such a scrap, all scrawny and wizened; she didn’t look like I thought a baby should look. I thought they were always plump and bonny, with big rosy cheeks. Anyway, of course, your Auntie June nearly wet herself with excitement, eejit that she is. “MP, look, there’s a baby!” God almighty. She always was dim.’ She’d rolled her eyes to heaven then, before catching herself on. ‘Sorry, that was a bit much.’
‘Did you know who … it … sorry, Auntie Rosie belonged to immediately?’ John-Patrick had said quietly.
Mary-Pat had nodded. ‘Of course I did, because I’d met her in the minimarket when she was about six months gone and it didn’t take a genius …’ She’d hesitated, biting her lip. ‘As far as I know, I was the only one that did know, apart from Daddy and Mammy, of course. And it made me feel anxious inside, that I had to keep it to myself, you know? And the way they made excuses for it, for her, I mean.’ Mary-Pat had shaken her head. ‘Mammy told us it was her sister’s and they were minding the baby because she hadn’t been feeling well. I never did understand that: not the excuse, but why Mammy put up with that. I can’t think it was because she wanted another baby. For God’s sake, they could hardly manage to feed and clothe the three of us as it was.’
John-Patrick had cleared his throat and shuffled in his chair. ‘Ehm, maybe she loved him,’ he’d finally said, blushing bright red at the idea.
‘Maybe you’re right, love. Maybe she did,’ Mary-Pat had said. She’d taken a deep breath, ‘Don’t think badly of Grandad, love, will you?’ Mary-Pat had said. ‘I don’t want you to think badly of him.’
‘It’s kinda hard not to, Mum,’ John-Patrick had said, looking surprised. ‘He doesn’t come out of it well.’
‘Maybe not, but he was weak, John-Patrick, not bad through and through. Just a weak man trying to pretend that he wasn’t. Maybe try not to be hard on him, will you? Not that he’d notice if you were, but you get my drift. You’ll see that when you get older, love, that it’s not always easy to be strong or to do the right thing. Sometimes it takes more than we’ve got.’
John-Patrick didn’t say anything, just put a hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. ‘You did the right thing, Mum, by Rosie. She knows that.’
Does she? Mary-Pat thought. ‘It’s good of you to say it, love, but I doubt it. I think she blames me for everything that’s gone wrong in her life, but anyway …’ She squeezed his hand back. ‘You’re a good listener, son. There’ll be some girl out there who’ll like that.’
‘Thanks.’ He’d shifted uneasily in his chair, not meeting her eye.
‘There already is,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t I cop on sooner? Your mother must be losing her touch.’
He’d blushed then, the poor thing. ‘She’s an au pair for the MacNamaras.’ And then he’d coughed nervously. ‘She’s Swedish.’
‘Oh, lovely,’ she’d said nervously. ‘She must be into saunas and all that.’ ‘All that’ meaning ‘taking their clothes off all the time’. The Scandinavians were awfully free like that.
He’d snorted with laughter then. ‘Mum, for God’s sake – talk about stereotyping. And no, she doesn’t eat reindeer or listen to ABBA all the time either.’
‘Sorry. Maybe I haven’t changed that much, after all,’ she said ruefully.
‘That’s good to hear,’ he’d replied, carrying his plate over to the sink and carefully rinsing it, before turning his head and saying, ‘Because I like you the way you are, Mum, believe it or not.’