All That I Leave Behind

by Alison Walsh

  ‘Thanks,’ Dara said, then continued munching.

  The boy seemed upset about something, but Pius wasn’t sure if he should ask, figuring that pushing him would only upset him, so instead he said, ‘I was just thinking, we might do a patrol of the perimeter out there to check the fox isn’t around, and then take Jessie for a walk back to yours. What do you think? Your mammy will probably be worried.’

  Dara shook his head and looked out the window, not catching Pius’s eye. ‘She doesn’t know I’ve gone. I ran away.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Something must have upset you, so.’

  Dara nodded but didn’t volunteer anything. I won’t prod, Pius thought. I won’t try to winkle it out of him. I’ll just wait.

  There was a long silence. ‘Daddy’s there, so she might not notice I’m gone.’

  Pius’s heart started to thump in his chest. The Waste of Space as he’d christened the man. He must be visiting, and even though Pius tried to rationalise it, to tell himself sure why wouldn’t he be, the man would want to see his child, his own flesh and blood, he couldn’t help the feelings of jealousy that gripped him. It was all he could do to control himself, not to show it to Dara. ‘I’d say she might, Dara, if you’re gone long. Tell you what, why don’t we do our jobs and then I’ll give her a ring just to let her know you’re safe, how does that sound?’

  Dara barely nodded, jumping down off the sofa and allowing Pius to put his little twig-like arms into the fleece. ‘Will you get Jessie’s lead for me, Dara? You know where to find it.’ Jessie didn’t need a lead at all because she glued herself to his ankle whenever they were outside, but it did Dara good to feel he was in control.

  The garden was in darkness when they went outside, the trees black against the inky blue sky, a pale moon just skirting the edge of the water, not high enough up to create much light. Jessie whimpered and sniffed, probably scenting the fox, but Pius let Dara take her lead and walk her. She wouldn’t pull too much; she was good like that, Jessie. The two of them did a circuit of the garden, along the hedge where the fox would slink every night, and around the henhouse. Dara smiled at him and gave him a thumbs-up then. ‘They’re OK,’ he said, in an exaggerated whisper.

  ‘That’s good,’ Pius whispered back. ‘Let’s go and check on my lettuces – we might need to pick the slugs out of them.’

  Dara hopped eagerly along the path in front of him, clearly not having the same trouble that Pius was in seeing where he was going. Pius was just wishing that he’d brought his torch with him when the moon rose up above the fir tree at the edge of the garden and bathed all in a silvery light. The two of them looked up, and the night sky seemed to be alive with stars. Pius could make out the plough and, above that, Ursa Minor and Polaris, then the dusty sprinkle of the Milky Way.

  ‘Pius, do you know what that star is?’ Dara tilted his head back and looked up at the Evening Star, alone in the sky.

  ‘That’s Venus,’ Pius answered. ‘It’s a planet.’

  ‘I know. I have the solar system on my wall at home. And there’s Jupiter.’ Dara pointed to a star so far away Pius had to squint to make it out. Could the child be right? Probably. Daphne would make sure he knew important stuff like that. That’s what parents did, if they were any good; they didn’t just feed and clothe their children and shove them out the door: they taught them the things they’d need to know. He thought now of that night with Mary-Pat and Daddy, looking up at the stars, understanding for the first time his place in the universe, understanding, too, that it wasn’t finite, that it went on for ever, a place that had existed long before him and would exist long after he’d gone. He’d understood for the first time in his young life that there was something larger than him and his own little world in Monasterard and it was Daddy who had helped him to know this. Daddy with his feet of clay, of whom he thought so little.

  ‘Do you know that if you fell into a black hole, you’d stretch like a bit of spaghetti?’ Dara was saying now. ‘I know because Kevin told me. Kevin’s my dad and he knows everything.’

  You’re right, Pius thought. He does. Until you discover that he’s just a human being and that he doesn’t know nearly as much as you thought. ‘Cooked or raw?’

  Dara dissolved into a fit of giggles. ‘Cooked, of course! If you were raw, you’d just break up into little bits.’

  ‘Ah, I can’t think which is worse.’ Pius smiled.

  ‘I don’t think we’d die like that, would we, Pi? In a black hole.’

  ‘It’s probably unlikely,’ Pius agreed.

  ‘But we will die? My friend Sinead’s mother got cancer last year and she died. Does everyone die of cancer?’ He was growing anxious now, hopping from foot to foot, his face creased with anxiety.

  ‘Well, some people do die young, but most of us will live for a long, long time,’ Pius said gently. ‘We’ll grow up and fall in love and marry and see our children grow. And we’ll work and just live life and do our best with every day that comes.’ And maybe, just maybe, he thought, we might discover that there is more, that there is some greater purpose to our lives, some reason for our living, or maybe we’ll just slip into the cold ground knowing that all we’ve done is pay a few gas bills and moan about the weather. Either way, just looking at this little boy, Pius understood something for the first time, that this was life in all its beauty and mystery, him and Dara, here in the garden on a cold winter’s night, looking up at the stars. Life was him and his sisters fighting like animals, life was him and his feelings of anger about his father, loneliness about his mother, regret at all the lost opportunities, life was the beauty of the water and the rain and the silvery rushes. It was all there, and he was living it. All these years wasted waiting for it somehow to begin, and all the time it was right there, under his nose.

  ‘And then we’ll die,’ Dara said with a sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘That’s the general idea,’ Pius said, ‘when our work is done.’

  He was about to usher the child inside when there was a sudden flurry of motion beside the gazebo and a loud voice yelled, ‘Dara? Dara, are you here?’ And in a blur of motion, Daphne was upon them both, catching hold of Dara and squeezing him tightly to her, murmuring, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ into his hair. The little boy began to cry in earnest then, as if he’d only just realised where he was, a long wail coming from his mouth as he put his arms around his mother’s neck.

  The two of them remained like that, with Pius looking on. He felt a bit awkward and wondered if he should just slink away quietly, when Daphne pushed Dara away, yelling, ‘Don’t you ever do that again, do you hear me? I contacted Garda Kelly at the station and he has a patrol out looking for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’ Dara looked down at his wellies, and his shoulders shook as the tears came. ‘I just wanted to help Pius to put the hens away and you said I could,’ he wailed.

  ‘Not in the middle of the night, I didn’t, you silly boy,’ she said, and then pulled him towards her again in a tight hug. ‘You have to ask Mummy before you go out.’ She was quieter now and as she spoke she kissed the top of his head and rubbed her hands through his hair.

  She seemed to have forgotten him for a few moments, and Pius wondered if he could simply make a run for it to avoid being given out to.

  He stuck out a foot to begin walking, but too late. She caught him with those green eyes. ‘Did it not occur to you to contact me? Do you think it’s normal that a seven-year-old would wander the countryside alone at night in a pair of pyjamas?’

  Pius shook his head, a naughty boy, like Dara. ‘Look, Dara only turned up ten minutes ago, and I was going to ring you once he … settled a bit.’ He searched for the right word. There was a silence while she digested his excuse, which he broke by saying, ‘C’mon, let’s go inside out of the cold. I’ll ring Garda Kelly and let him know Dara’s safe.’

  Throwing him another glare, she said, ‘No thank you. Kevin’s on his way.’

  ‘Right, then. Well, are you going to come inside a
nd wait or stand outside in the freezing cold?’ Pius barked and then turned on his heel and went into the house, leaving the door open behind him. She could come in if she wanted. He wasn’t going to embarrass himself by begging.

  He was banging around in the kitchen, pretending to put a pot of water on the range to boil, when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in, for God’s sake,’ Pius said, more rudely than he’d intended. She appeared out of the gloom, standing under the glare of the strip light. Not even the horrible yellow glow could make her look less lovely, he thought. ‘What is it?’

  She blinked for a few moments, and he suddenly realised how rude he’d been. ‘Sorry—’ he began, when she interrupted him. ‘I owe you an apology.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I jumped to conclusions. I guessed pretty quickly that he’d come here, but I should have trusted you. I know you’d have called me, of course you would. I was just so worried.’ Her lovely green eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. ‘I thought I was losing my mind. I mean, you hear these things every day, about kids that go missing …’ Her voice broke.

  He wanted to do nothing more than to go to her and hold her, but he stopped himself. He knew that she didn’t think much of him to start with and that would only make matters worse, so he stayed put, beside the range, and said, ‘I know, and it’s hard, but sometimes you just have to trust that they’ll be OK. And he was, wasn’t he? The world isn’t that bad a place, Daphne, in spite of what you hear.’

  She nodded silently and sniffed.

  ‘Dara’s dad’s been visiting.’

  ‘I know. You said.’

  ‘He’s not used to kids. He doesn’t see much of Dara and he expects too much of him. He thinks they should be discussing world peace and algebra, but the child is seven, for God’s sake. And then Dara gets upset because he knows he isn’t able to please his dad and oh …’ She twisted the tissue she’d dug out of her pocket into a tight knot, shaking her head, before she blurted, ‘Sometimes I wish he wasn’t in our life at all, does that sound terrible?’

  Pius shook his head. ‘It doesn’t sound terrible. And if he doesn’t spend time with Dara, he might not know what’s … appropriate for a seven-year-old.’ He thought of the black holes and the being stretched like spaghetti. Maybe he wouldn’t mention that to the Mermaid.

  At this, Daphne looked up. ‘You know, and you don’t have children.’

  ‘Thanks for the reminder,’ Pius said dryly. ‘It’s something I regret.’

  She looked up at him then. ‘You do? Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’ And she bit her lip and Pius wanted to reach out and kiss every bit of that lovely face. She looked as if she were thinking hard about something and then she said, ‘Pi, do you know about Rosie?’

  ‘What about Rosie?’

  ‘You don’t know then,’ Daphne said. ‘It’s just …’ She took in a deep breath and then it came out. ‘She’s pregnant.’

  Pius swayed from foot to foot, feeling dizzy. ‘What? How? My God,’ he eventually managed. Then, ‘Is it the Yank’s?’

  Daphne gave a little giggle. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, no. Not him.’ The two of them shared a conspiratorial smile, and Pius, not for the first time, wondered how on earth he’d remained completely ignorant of this new development. Rosie had managed to have a new relationship and he hadn’t noticed a thing. Top marks for observation, Pi, as usual.

  He looked at Daphne hopefully. ‘That’s good news then. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes it is. Except he’s gone.’

  ‘Who?’

  She rolled her eyes to heaven as if he was the greatest eejit that ever lived. ‘The father. You know, Mark.’

  That young lad from the Chinese? Well, it fitted, he supposed. They’d been inseparable when they were kids, and he was a good lad. Not like that other creep. ‘Well, she’ll be needing help with it, I suppose,’ he said thoughtfully, ignoring the hiss of the boiling water as it poured over the top of the pot and onto the range. Daphne would be well able for it, he was sure, and Mary-Pat, if he plucked up the courage to tell her. She’d want to know, surely.

  ‘Time to man up, Pius,’ Daphne said softly, before turning on her heel and walking out into the hall. He heard the soft thud of the front door and then she was gone.

  Time to man up indeed.

  Part Four

  Spring-Summer 2013

  17

  The midwife was a bit of an old bat, but Rosie found that faintly reassuring. She wanted to be bullied and bossed around a bit. It helped her to feel more secure, because Margaret reminded her of Mary-Pat. Every time Rosie sat in front of Margaret, a stout woman from County Mayo with a big red face and size-ten feet, she’d think of her sister and she’d have to suppress the longing to have her there beside her.

  She’d lost count of the number of times she’d gone to pick up the phone to her sister, since that day in November, or had started to walk with Jessie across the field to the town, turning right then in the direction of Mary-Pat’s, before stopping herself. ‘No,’ she’d say out loud, so that Jessie would look at her, cocking her head to one side, wondering what it was she’d done. ‘No, you’re not going there.’ It was as if she had to say it out loud to herself, to scold herself into not going. Not because she was angry with Mary-Pat, though. She wasn’t. She just felt as if she didn’t know her sister any more. As if the Mary-Pat she’d known all her life was not the same Mary-Pat that had sat in front of her at her kitchen table and told her that she’d always known about Rosie’s mother but had chosen not to tell her. And Rosie could understand why, in a funny way. I get it, she’d thought as she’d looked at her sister’s tired, too-pink face, at the broken veins on her cheeks and chin. I understand why you didn’t tell me. Because it would have done me no good. But then the next step would be to assume that Mary-Pat had done it for the right reasons, out of love, but here Rosie couldn’t be sure. And if she couldn’t be sure, it was safer not to trust, to end up finding out that the opposite was true. She’d had enough of thinking one thing and finding out that she should, in fact, be thinking quite the opposite. Rosie supposed she was sulking, in a way, but she also knew that it was easier like this, with just herself and the baby. It was time she stood on her own two feet, even though she struggled to keep the feelings of loneliness at bay. The sense that she and the baby were the only two people in the whole world.

  Once, in a fit of madness, she’d almost rung Craig. She knew that she had to ring him anyway, to discuss the annulment. In spite of everything, the letter that had arrived from the solicitor in January had given her a shock. Words like ‘dishonest’ and ‘fraud’ had jumped out at her. She wasn’t dishonest, she knew that, but she was a fraud, and he deserved better than that, in spite of everything. If he preferred an annulment to a divorce, she’d agree to whatever it was he wanted, even if it was to pretend that instead of making a mistake, what they’d had had never really existed. It was as if their ten years together had simply been wiped out.

  She’d gone to her mobile phone and scanned the numbers, a little thumbnail of his strong face and bright smile popping up beside his number. She’d stared at it for a long time, running her finger across the numbers, finding it hovering over the call’ button but then, she’d stopped herself, because how would she tell him that she was four months pregnant with someone else’s baby? The thought was ridiculous. But there was something about the situation that called for his stoic presence, the completely logical way he’d have of working through the problem. He’d probably devise a spreadsheet for it, she thought to herself.

  Mark, on the other hand, would not. He’d have kissed her bump and nuzzled his face into her belly, making gentle farting noises with his lips and singing to it in Vietnamese. He’d have told it jokes and cooked it spicy noodles and called it silly names. He was as light-hearted as Craig was glum, Rosie knew. And then she understood why she’d wanted to call Craig – because she so badly wanted to tell
Mark but knew that she couldn’t. She knew that if she told him about the baby, he’d come back for good – at least, he’d promise her that, but she couldn’t ask it of him. Oh, he’d come back, she knew he would, and then one day he’d wake up and look at her in the bed beside him and he’d think, ‘I missed my one chance, and all because of you.’ She couldn’t be responsible for that. She just couldn’t.

  He’d written her a letter, posting it through the letterbox early one morning before Christmas. She’d been awake, the way she was every morning since that day in November, staring up at the ceiling or peering into the grey gloom that shrouded the canal. She’d tried to run downstairs in time to catch a glimpse of him, but by the time she’d pulled on her tracksuit bottoms, shuffled downstairs and opened the door, all that she saw was an empty front path to the gate, which had been left open. She’d called out his name then, but her voice hadn’t carried.

  She didn’t open the letter for a while. Not until she’d had a cup of tea and two digestives to give her strength. Her hands were shaking as she’d opened the light blue envelope and pulled the letter out. She’d almost smiled as she scanned the few lines written in a terrible scrawl on the paper. He never had been much of a writer.

  Dear Rosie,

  I’m sorrier than I can say about your mother. I can’t explain why I didn’t tell you, except that it just felt like the wrong thing to do. I knew that Mary-Pat loved you and Pi and June, and I didn’t want to ruin that by telling you something you wouldn’t have believed, not for a moment. I know it was the truth, but sometimes the truth is overrated. What good is the truth if it only causes more pain?

  I hope you can forgive me. The times I’ve spent with you over the last couple of months have been the best of my entire life, even better than when I beat you at holding my breath underwater by at least thirty seconds when we were nine, even though you cheated. I saw you, so don’t deny it.