After another hour lying on her bed, Maria sat up. Her head had eased but, more importantly, it had cleared. Everything seemed clearer now.
She brushed her hair and put some light powder on her face and a touch of mascara and lipstick. Then she went downstairs and into the sitting room. There were a dozen or so people in the room, and she said hello to those she knew and acknowledged anyone who looked at her. Then she went over to the coffin and stood looking down at her father. She closed her eyes and silently said, I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry for the horrible things I said about you to Franco and Diana.
She realised now she had got things very wrong. How could she have been so stupid? Her father was the one person who had never let her down in her life. He might have gambled and drank too much, but that was a weakness within himself. And, she knew he had been working hard to get out of any financial problems that he had caused. She was also sorry knowing now that he had been deceived by her mother, and had kept quiet about it so as not to tarnish her mother’s memory for her. Everything he had done, he had always done with her best interests at heart.
How many other people had come forward to help her? From what she could see there were none. Nobody was standing up and insisting that they would take her in until she was old enough to look after herself.
No, her father wasn’t the reason for the situation she was now in. It was because she had trusted other people.
When she walked into the hotel lounge she could see her grandfather and her uncle sitting at a table by the window, reading papers. They each had a pint of beer in front of them. Jude looked up when she came towards them, and when he saw her his face lit up.
He tapped his father’s newspaper. “It’s Maria,” he told him.
Jude pulled out a chair for her and then they both folded their newspapers up and put them down.
“Will you have a lemonade or a shandy or anything?” Jude asked.
“No thanks,” she said. “I’m okay.”
“We’re delighted you came,” her grandfather said. “We’ve been waiting here on and off since breakfast this morning.”
She looked at them both, then her hand came up to hold on to the crystal necklace. “I don’t know if you know anything about it, but my father left some letters.”
Jude’s hand came over to cover hers now. “We do know,” he said. “You don’t have to explain it all again – Franco came to the hotel to see us.”
She looked from one to the other, unable to find the words she needed.
Her grandfather moved forward in his seat and she noticed that his eyes were shining with tears. “We were afraid to ask you,” he said. “But that’s why we came over, Maria. We came to pay our respects to your father, and then we hoped that we might persuade you to come back to Ireland with us.”
Jude’s hand tightened on hers. “It needn’t be forever,” he said. “You can come back here for holidays and go to your father’s family in Italy and all that sort of thing. We were talking about it before we left Ireland and we have a good friend who says she thinks she can sort out a year or two at a nice girls’ school for you, or there are colleges we can look at for next year.” He looked at her face now, trying to read her thoughts. “You don’t even have to go to school – there’s plenty to do around the house and the farm. That’s if you want to.”
“We don’t need to do anything quick,” her grandfather said. “You can take your time and find your own way.”
She closed her eyes. A picture of her father came into her mind. She opened them again. “I’ll come,” she said. “I’ll come back to Ireland with you.”
Chapter 35
The airport in Manchester was surprisingly busy for an eight o’clock morning flight as the three of them made their way to the check-in desk, Jude carrying Maria’s large black case for her, the one she used to take to Italy every summer, and her grandfather carrying Leo’s old brown leather case.
Her grandfather had warned her that the house in Ireland was big and old and she would need warm jumpers and cardigans as they didn’t have central heating. She had packed both cases with a mixture of light and heavier clothes, and had dressed in jeans and a blouse with a mohair cardigan which she could take off if it got too warm on the plane. She also brought a heavy gabardine raincoat to wear just in case.
The weather had taken a complete change, the sky now dark and grey instead of the sunshine they’d had over the last few weeks, and the early part of the flight was far from pleasant. The plane hit patches of turbulence and each time it did, she heard some of the other passengers beside her gasping, and she noticed one elderly lady kissing her rosary beads every time the plane dipped. It reminded Maria of her mother’s fear of travelling and, although she did not feel anxious herself, a little part of her could understand someone feeling like that. Then, she put it out of her mind as she knew she would be travelling by plane or boat a lot more in the future.
Eventually the turbulence eased off, and, even though it was a lot shorter than the journey to Italy, they were served a full meal with a dessert. As she picked at the food, her mind went back to the funeral, which now seemed like a distant haze of people dressed in black, flowers and music. Franco and Diana had dealt with all the difficult things for her and had made sure that everything she wanted was included – from her father’s favourite music being played in the house and restaurant, to the flowers that were thrown by selected people on top of the coffin when it was lowered into the grave beside her mother’s.
Her mind then moved from the sad funereal images to the previous night when she had said her goodbyes to both Paul and Stella. They had been shocked at her news about moving to Ireland, and even more so at her speedy departure. Their own lives were due to change too, but not in the quick, tragic way that hers had.
Paul had tried to be as positive as possible. “It will only be for a year – eighteen months at most,” he said. “And I’ll be in Northumberland for most of it. When you come back we’ll pick up where we left off.”
Maria had nodded and said they would see what happened.
“We’ll write every week,” Paul told her. “And you will, of course, come home for Christmas, won’t you?”
“Hopefully,” Maria said.She didn’t tell him that she might never come back home again because she had nowhere to live, and she had no idea what money would be left when all the bills her father owed were paid.
Stella had been distraught. She had missed the funeral because she wasn’t well and had not been allowed outside the house. She had another week of this then she was going to London, to spend time in a special clinic that dealt with girls who had problems eating. Stella had been sketchy about the details but, when she went upstairs to the toilet, her mother had come in and told Maria the very stark truth.
“I know you will keep this to yourself,” Mrs Maxwell said, “but Stella is seriously ill. When the doctor made her stand on the scales, we discovered she was barely five stones in weight.” She had closed her eyes to stop the tears. “And when we came back home her father told her that he had found empty boxes of laxatives hidden in her room, so that she got rid of anything she ate by making herself sick or going to the toilet.” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “She’s probably up there now making herself sick because I made her eat a bowl of cereal.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like this before,” Maria said quietly. “Will the clinic help?”
Her mother shrugged. “We have to try. It’s a new modern place run by a specialist from New York who has been studying eating disorders in young girls for a few years. Thank God she’s not the only one in the world like this, so someone might be able to help her before she starves herself to death.” She had looked at Maria. “The doctor told her that’s where she’s heading if she doesn’t get help.”
Maria stared out of the plane window now, and then she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for Stella and then she said another one for herself. The waitress came around and cleared the t
rays away. A short while later they brought drinks around, and her grandfather and Jude had a whiskey each and she had a lemonade. By the time the air hostesses had cleared the glasses away, it was almost time for the plane to land.
Maria’s grandmother, Eileen Donovan, had driven up to Dublin from where they lived in the country near Tullamore in County Offaly, and was sitting waiting for them in Arrivals. Maria’s first impression was that she looked thinner and older than she remembered she had at her mother’s funeral, and now had grey streaked in the hair she had swept up in a bun. But, Maria thought, she was still a good-looking woman, and reminded her of the old-fashioned film stars with her three-quarter-length blue duster coat, white gloves and shoes, and a navy leather bag. She smiled when they came out, shook Maria’s hand, and said, “Welcome to Ireland, Maria,” but there was a wariness in her eyes that made Maria feel anxious.
Her grandfather drove on the way back, her grandmother in the front beside him, while Jude sat beside her in the back, pointing out various places they passed as they drove out through Dublin city and then later down through the country roads of Meath and then Offaly.
Eventually, just as they were heading towards Tullamore, dark clouds moved across the sky and by the time they reached the rambling old farmhouse, drops of rain had started to fall.
When they got to the door her grandfather ushered her in after her grandmother so she didn’t get too wet, and Maria found herself stepping into one of the biggest kitchens she had ever seen, with flag-stoned floors and painted cream cupboards and two big old pine dressers full of blue-and-white china. There was an open fire in a big old stone fireplace with what looked like a small settle bed to the side of it, and a big green, turf-burning range to the other side which looked as if it was used for cooking. Maria thought it was strange when she noticed there was also a smaller white electric cooker in the corner. When her gaze moved around, she noticed that there was a wooden staircase at the back of the kitchen, and she wondered if it led to the bedrooms.
In its own old-fashioned farmhouse way, Maria thought the kitchen was nice and bright, and it was spotlessly clean, but it was a world away from their nice, neat kitchen back in Manchester.
Maria’s grandmother took her coat off and then took Maria’s and hung them both on the rack behind a door at the end of the kitchen.
“I’m sorry now if the fires are a bit low,” Eileen Donovan said, “but we’ll soon have them going.”
Her grandfather brought his and Jude’s bags in, then Jude came in carrying Maria’s cases and took them upstairs for her.
A short while later, while the two men were busy with the fires and bringing in turf, Maria followed her grandmother up the creaking wooden stairs, which, like the stone flags below, had not a thread of carpet to dull the sound of their footsteps.
As if reading her thoughts, Eileen Donovan said, “It’s a big old house with plenty of noise in it, but you’ll get used to it. We hardly notice it.”
At the top they turned right and her eyes fell on the long narrow rug that ran the whole length of the corridor. It had cream fringes at either end that looked as though they had been combed into place, and the main part was worked in faded blues, cream and wine.
For some reason, the runner gave her a moment’s glimmer of comfort, and then she realised it was because Mrs Lowry had a similar one on her stairs back in Heaton Moor. Back in what was her old life – her real life.
They passed three small windows hung with lace curtains and she saw that each sill had a white jug filled with blue forget-me-nots, and she wondered if her grandmother kept them like that all the time or whether she had put the jugs there because of her arrival. They continued their path along the dimly lit corridor to the bedroom at the end.
Eileen Donovan halted, her hand on the painted doorknob. “This was your mother’s bedroom,” she said quietly, without turning to look at Maria. “And now it will be yours.”
Maria felt something tighten in her chest. It only lasted a moment or two and then the blanket of numbness descended on her again. All the years when she had wondered what her mother’s family would look like, what her home would look like, and what the bedroom she had grown up in would look like, faded into a grey mist. The pain and loss she had felt all those years when she thought of her mother, now felt ludicrously small compared to the gaping hole in her heart that losing her father had left.
Her grandmother opened the door and she followed her into the room. She immediately felt the chill in the old house, and she realised they did not have the modern central heating that the houses in England had. Then it registered at the back of her mind that it would feel much colder when she was only wearing her pyjamas. The pyjamas that she had bought on a shopping trip with Stella into Marks and Spencers in Manchester. The day that Stella had teased her, saying she should buy one of the sexy baby-doll nighties for Paul Spencer.
She pushed her old world out of her mind and looked down at another floral rug not quite big enough to cover the varnished wooden floorboards. Then she looked at the yellow rose wallpaper and the silver crucifix above the high double brass bed made up with starched white linen sheets and lace-edged pillow-cases. There was a folded pink satin quilt on top. Like the kitchen downstairs, the bed linen and everything else in the room was spotlessly clean but, apart from a bookcase filled with books, it was empty of anything personal.
She looked around at the other three yellow walls and found the holy pictures on each one depressing. Then she looked down at the carpet, and wondered if it had been there when her mother slept in this room.
“Jude is going to collect Ambrose. He stayed down at a neighbour’s house while I came to pick you all up at the airport.” She turned directly to look at Maria now, and there was a sadness in her eyes. “I might as well warn you about Ambrose now. He’s your youngest uncle, not much older than yourself. I had him late. What they call a change-of-life baby.” Her eyes shifted towards the door. “He did that all right . . . he certainly changed my life forever.”
“My grandfather and Jude told me a little about him,” Maria said. “I’m looking forward to seeing him.”
“He’s not like other boys his age,” her grandmother continued. “And I wouldn’t like you staring at him or anything like that.”
“That wouldn’t be my way,” Maria answered. “I’m not the sort to stare at people because they are different. My father brought me up better than that.”
“That’s good to hear, because poor Ambrose is just himself. He has his own little ways. There are times when I wish the others in the family had been more like him. For all his health difficulties and his inclination to say things he doesn’t understand, he has caused us the least trouble.” She narrowed her eyes. “We’ve had more than our share of life’s knocks – and I sincerely hope you’re not going to cause us any more.” She held her hand up. “I don’t mean to sound critical before you’ve even settled in. I just want you to know that I wouldn’t be able for trouble.”
“There was no trouble in our home,” Maria said. “My father and I got on very well.”
“I’m sure you did.”
Maria recognised a terse note in the old woman’s tone which she had heard Jane Maxwell use on occasions when speaking to Stella.
“And I don’t ever remember my mother having to tell me off very often.”
Eileen Donovan’s face stiffened. “And was she very modern and lax with you? I suppose she brought you up the way the English do things?”
“I don’t know the difference between the English or the Italian or the Irish ways,” Maria said quietly, “but I know I’ve been taught good manners and to always respect my elders.”
Her grandmother regarded her for a few moments and then gave a deep sigh.
As she turned away, Maria stared after her, wondering why she seemed so much less welcoming than the two men. From the first moment she met her grandfather and Jude, they had done and said everything to make her feel welcome into their family
, and they had been very understanding and kind both during and after the funeral. Her grandfather had told her not to worry about money, that he would pay her flights and make sure she got anything she needed back in Ireland. When she said she couldn’t take money off them, Patrick Donovan told her that if they had been able to see her over all the years, they would have spent a good bit of money on her between Christmas and birthday presents and holidays, and they were delighted to get the chance to make up for it all now.
She suddenly remembered the day the two horrible men had come round to the house checking everything out, and she wondered if her father had actually owed them money and, if so, whether he had managed to pay them off. He had never mentioned them again, but he had sounded so determined to get to the bottom of it that she was sure he had sorted it out straight away. Franco said her father’s solicitor and his accountant would take care of all the legal and financial things and they would sort out things with the bank and the insurances.
“You will have some money,” Franco had reassured her. “But the solicitor said it will take a bit of time.” He told her that if it was confirmed that the house was to be sold, they would leave the furniture in the house until after the sale. Then, all the furniture and her father’s personal effects would be put safely into storage for her, as she might want them if she decided to return to England full time when she was of an age to look after herself.
Diana also said that when Maria came back for a holiday, she might feel more in the mood to go through them and decide what she wanted to keep. The mention of holidays and coming back home made Maria feel less like she was being deported from the country for good, and gave her a little comfort. Franco also told her that they would keep in weekly touch with her, and let her know as soon as they heard official word whether they could save Leonardo’s or not.
“What’s going to happen to the restaurant, until you hear from the solicitors?” she had asked.
Music from Home Page 30