Music from Home

by Geraldine O'Neill

  Franco had shrugged and looked sad. “We can’t re-open it until we know how things are. We would have to pay the suppliers and all that sort of thing, and we don’t know if the money is there to do it yet. If I had the money myself I would do it, but I’m only a worker – I was never the businessman your father was.”

  Maria had thought that when he looked at her there was shame in his eyes that he had not been able to do anything to save Leonardo’s,just as he had not been able to save her father.

  She and her grandmother were on their way back downstairs when she heard the front door open and recognised Jude’s voice calling a greeting. And, as she heard her grandfather calling back and then a younger voice she presumed was Ambrose’s, she was surprised and relieved to feel there was some life in the old house for the first time.

  By the time they arrived downstairs, Jude was heading out of the front door again. He stopped and smiled at Maria and said, “Are you getting settled in all right?” When she nodded he looked at his mother. “I’m just going back down to Sister Theresa’s to get the rest of Ambrose’s things. I put his wheelchair in the parlour.”

  “Did she say if he was okay while we were away?”

  “Grand. She said he had a bit of a coughing fit, but that he came out of it quickly.”

  Eileen Donovan’s shoulders heaved and she gave a sigh but said nothing.

  Jude reached out and patted her arm as though trying to comfort her. “I won’t be long.”

  Jude left and Maria followed her grandmother, expecting to see a young man of her own age who wasn’t quite right. There was a special school down near the church back home, and she often saw the pupils being dropped off in coaches or cars, and some being pushed along in wheelchairs. There was a range of conditions, and she presumed her uncle would look like some of those pupils.

  “Here she is now,” Patrick said when Maria and her grand-mother appeared.

  Eileen Donovan went over to the half-settle bed by the side of the fire, her frame obscuring the small figure ensconced there.

  “Ambrose,” her voice was suddenly softer and lighter, “this is Maria, the niece we told you about from England.” She then stood back to allow uncle and niece to view each other. “I’ll leave you to have a chat while I get the frying pan on, as we’re all hungry.”

  Maria found herself staring into the most intense pair of blue eyes she had ever seen. So intense she was almost startled, and then she realised that the face that was looking back at her – scrutinising her – seemed not young at all, but more the face of a wise old man topped by thick fair curls. He was nothing at all like she had expected. While her grandmother had been correct in describing him as not like other boys, she couldn’t have prepared Maria for the fragile little figure she was now looking at, which was reclining on the little bed she had noticed, in a colourful nest of cushions. Even though he was wearing woollen trousers and had on a shirt and sweater – it could not disguise the fact that he had the body and arms and legs of a scrawny twelve-year-old.

  “Hello, Maria.” He used one thin arm to support him on the side of the bed as he held out the other towards her. “Welcome to Offaly.”

  Patrick Donovan rattled the poker loudly on the iron grate under the pile of burning wood and turf, and Maria knew the noise was to cover up any resulting silence or awkwardness on her part. She moved towards Ambrose with an outstretched hand and, when she saw the welcome in his eyes and felt the frail but warm hand in hers, her face broke into the first spontaneous smile in a week. And for a few moments as she looked at him the heavy sadness she carried seemed a small bit lighter.

  “Hello, Ambrose,” she said, “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  He patted the bottom of the settle bed. “Sit down,” he said, “and take the weight off your feet. You must be tired after all that travelling. I never was on a plane myself. How did you find the journey over? Was it a smooth flight or was it rough?”

  His curious manner almost amused her. “It was a little rough at the beginning,” she told him, “but thankfully it settled.”

  Ambrose patted the end of the settle bed again.

  Maria’s eyes flickered over towards her grandmother who was standing at the electric cooker melting a lump of lard in the huge frying pan. Maria could tell she was watching them and listening to every word that was being said. She could not work out whether it was the right or wrong thing to sit on the bed, but she decided she would take the risk and sat down.

  He studied her face again with his old man’s eyes, then reached for her hand and held it in his. “I know you had a sad journey. You must be feeling very lost. “Your father was an Italian, wasn’t he?”

  “Ambrose,” his mother said, “you’ll only tire yourself out talking so much. Maria’s had a long journey and she mightn’t feel up to chatting.”

  “Leo Conti – I like the name,” Ambrose continued as though no one had spoken. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him – and I’m even sorrier I never got to know your mother. She was my sister, you know. I pray for her every night. Losing one parent is sad enough, but it must be very sad for you having lost both your parents. Very sad indeed.”

  “It is,” she agreed, feeling somehow comforted by both his words and his direct manner.

  He lifted a thin little arm now and waved it in his mother’s direction. “Isn’t it strange to think that I have my older parents – your grandparents – still alive, while yours are gone?”

  Eileen Donovan tutted loudly several times in a row, as she cut a string of sausages and let them fall into the pan. Then when Ambrose started off again, she whirled around towards her husband. “Patrick! Will you say something to him – please?”

  Patrick Donovan gave another loud metallic rattle of the poker as he put it back on the brass stand and then he looked over at his son. “Ambrose,” he said, “that’ll do now. You heard your mother – don’t be talking so much about personal things. Maria has her case to unpack and things to sort out while your mother cooks us a bite to eat.” Her grandfather’s voice was kind but matter-of-fact, as though he were used to telling his son this kind of thing on a regular basis.

  The small face looked up at him and shook his head. “Am I to say nothing? Am I just to pretend to people?”

  “Now, now,” Patrick said, “there’s no need for talk like that.” He looked over to Maria and smiled and rolled his eyes.

  Maria now knew what her grandmother had meant when she said Ambrose said things he didn’t understand. But in the few minutes she had spent with him, she wasn’t sure she agreed. From what he had said, Maria thought Ambrose knew and understood exactly what he was saying. She thought he was fearless and it made her like him even more. Not wishing to cause any further friction between them, she squeezed Ambrose’s hand and stood up.

  “We’ll talk again later,” she said.

  “Oh, we will,” he said. “Nothing surer.”

  “Oh, Ambrose,” his father suddenly remembered, “I have a few things in my bag for you. Some comics and a new jigsaw puzzle.”

  Ambrose’s face lit up. “Good man, Patrick!” he said laughing. “What’s the picture of? And did you get the Superman comics?”

  “Hold your horses!” Patrick winked over at him and smiled. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  As they walked up the stairs her grandfather said, “Don’t mind Ambrose, now, if he says things straight out that might upset you. He means no harm.”

  “I don’t mind,” Maria said. “And I know he doesn’t mean to upset me at all. He’s only speaking his mind. I can tell he’s a very good person, and I like him a lot.”

  “Begod!” her grandfather said, laughing now. “I think you have the measure of him, and if you can get along with Ambrose, then we’ll be the finest.”

  When she was up in her mother’s bedroom on her own, Maria went to stand by the small iron fireplace. As she looked down into the empty grate a picture from home flashed into her mind – a snapshot of Leonard
o’s restaurant as though captured by someone walking through the front door. She closed her eyes and let it run behind her lids like a movie screen. Then, she watched as the rosily lit restaurant came to life with people at every table and Franco and the waitresses rushing back and forth from kitchen to table with menus or fluttering order slips or bottles of Italian wine. Then, the film slowed down and from the swinging doors emerged the handsome, perfectly groomed figure of her father. She froze the picture of him and let it fill her mind. She held the image of him as long as she could, until she felt strange and dizzy and was unable to hold it any longer.

  She let it go with a loud shuddering gasp, and only then realised that she had been holding her breath for all that length of time. Then, the horrendous reality of what had happened in one single week and the life she had lost swamped her again and again. Pictures flashed again in her mind of the house in St Aiden’s Avenue, of groups of her school friends and then Stella and Paul. She wished with every tiny vessel in her body that she could go back to the ballet classes she had considered giving up, that she could go back and sit in exam rooms in the school she had dreaded, that she could even go and live in the empty house on her own.

  But the decision had been made and her old life – like her father – was officially dead and gone. And there was nobody who loved and cared for her here in this bleak, overwhelmingly strangeplace. There was nobody here who even knew her. Not one single person who knew the kind of girl she was or knew the kind of life she had lived.

  The realisation of her situation hit her once again and washed over her like a monstrous dark wave that was determined to sweep her off her feet and carry her away into the blackness. She moved slowly across the shadowy room again to sink down on the old bed with her head in her hands. She tumbled down somewhere deep inside her mind towards a place she was terrified of, until some basic survival instinct drew her back, warning her that if she went that far there might be no saving her, and she might never return to any normal kind of life again.

  She choked back the sobs that had gathered in her chest and throat, and dragged herself over to the window, in the hope that even the smallest sliver of natural daylight just might comfort her.

  And as she looked out over the flat green fields she prayed now to the mother who had lived in this house, slept in this bed, to help her. She asked her help to find the strength to survive and live through the coming days and months until the time came when she could make her way back to places that were familiar and what was left of her old life.

  She stood for a while staring at nothing and eventually the storm inside her began to subside. Her gaze moved up towards the sky and the white and grey clouds slowly moving across it. Then her attention came back to where she was and she became aware of noises and cooking smells in the house. She could hear her Uncle Jude’s voice again and then she thought of Ambrose and his piercing, inquisitive eyes and his refusal to be silenced on the subject that everyone else in the house didn’t want to acknowledge.

  She thought back to the small scene where she had seen a lighter side to her grandfather, when he had spoken to Ambrose about the jigsaw and winked at him, and she hoped that she would eventually see this same difference with her grandmother, who was so much more serious.

  She turned to look at her cases which stood at the end of the brass bed and then went over to unzip the larger black one. She lifted the lid and looked at the piles of clothes she and Mrs Lowry had packed into it. Her hand moved amongst the sweaters and blouses and skirts and slacks, then cellophane bags with her underwear and more delicate garments. As she looked at each item she could recall where she had bought them and who she had been with. She could remember wearing certain outfits on certain days.

  But those days were gone now. She was in this house in Ireland now, and would have to remain so until the time came when she could make her own decisions. Until then, she would have to do her best to live this new life with the people in the house. She could make it easier for herself or make it even harder by fighting against them all.

  She had to make the choice. She knew that her father would want her to make as best a life for herself as possible. She would have to choose to do it now or do it eventually.

  Heavy, quick footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs and then they carried on more softly on the runner as they made their way towards her room to knock on the door.

  “Maria?” Jude called. “Are you all right there?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m just sorting out a few things.”

  “Grand,” he said, “my mother said to tell you that there’s food out on the table for you.”

  She swallowed hard and then called back to him that she would be down in a minute. She didn’t feel like going downstairs and talking to him. She didn’t feel like talking to any of them.

  Maria looked again at the unpacked case and suddenly felt a huge weariness descend on her. She wished she could just climb into bed and pull the covers over her head. But, like everything else here, it wasn’t her bed and what she really wanted was her familiar comfortable bed from home. It didn’t even matter to her that this had been her mother’s room and maybe even the bed she had slept it. She could feel no evidence of her mother’s presence anywhere in this room or even in this house.

  She realised that all her memories of her mother were wrapped up in the house in St Aiden’s Avenue, and she wanted to go back there. Back to her real home.

  The house she was in now and the people she was with had nothing to do with her.

  Another ten minutes passed and then Jude came back up and tapped on her bedroom door. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m coming,” she called back. “I’ll follow you down.”

  Then, she rose from the bed and went over to the chair where she had left her handbag and took her powder compact out. She went over to the mottled mirror which hung over the fireplace and checked her pale reflection and the dark circles under her eyes. Then, she rubbed the powder puff over her face, hoping that it would make her look more like herself.

  They were all seated around the table waiting for her. There was a radio on now playing some sort of American country music she vaguely recognised. And as she walked self-consciously across the floor she saw that Ambrose was sitting at the table too, and wondered if they had carried him over or whether he had managed to walk.

  “Come in and sit beside me,” he said, indicating an empty chair between him and Jude. He tried to pull it out for her, but when he found it difficult, Jude just caught the back of the chair with one hand and moved it to let her in.

  Maria sat down and then her throat closed over when she saw the big white plate in front of her with sausages, bacon, an egg, a slice of fried soda bread and two small circles of black and white pudding.

  “I wasn’t sure what you liked,” her grandmother said, her head bent over her own plate, “so I gave you a bit of everything.”

  “Thank you. It looks very nice … but I’m not really hungry.”

  Her grandfather looked over at her. “You’ll feel better if you eat something. You ate very little when we were travelling over. We don’t want you to think we’re getting on to you – but we don’t want you to go making yourself sick or anything.” He turned back to his wife. “Isn’t that right, Eileen?”

  “It is indeed,” she said.

  “She’ll be grand when she settles in,” Jude said, cutting a rasher of bacon. “Won’t you, Maria?”

  Ambrose touched her arm. “It’s not easy making yourself eat when you’re not hungry or feeling as upset as you must be. I’m often not hungry myself, but my mother’s soda bread is the freshest and finest in Ireland, and it’s even better the day after it’s been baked if you fry it. When I’m not at my best, I can usually manage a piece of fried bread dipped into the soft egg.” He nodded towards her plate. “You know eggs build you up, don’t you?”

  Maria nodded.

  “Well, you wouldn’t know it to look at me, but they�
�ve been giving me them for years to try to build me up. But then, I’m a lost cause.”

  She looked at him, not knowing what to reply.

  “Ambrose, for goodness sake,” his mother said. “Don’t be talking such rubbish.”

  “On the other hand,” Ambrose continued, as if there were only him and his niece in the room, “I might be long gone if I hadn’t had the eggs. But they will probably work well for you.”

  Jude laughed. “Good man, Ambrose! We’re only back from one feckin’ funeral and you want to depress us all with talk like that!”

  “Enough now!” Eileen Donovan whirled around to her handsome, fit son. “And you can mind your language while you’re in this house.”

  She suddenly reminded Maria of Mrs Lowry when she was on her high horse.

  Jude was silent for a moment, then he looked up at his mother and said, “Sorry.”

  Her grandmother, Maria decided, had finally found some-where to vent her anguish at the conversation as she obviously thought Jude was well able to withstand the sharp edge of her tongue.

  Again, as though no one else had spoken, Ambrose smiled over at Maria and pointed a finger at her plate. “You should try a little bit with salt.”

  “I will,” she told him.

  She took her knife in one hand and pierced the centre of the soft yellow yolk, then she reached for the salt cellar and shook a few grains on top. She cut off a small slice of the crispy fried bread, dipped it into the runny golden liquid, then took a bite. When she tasted it, she thought he was right. It was lovely. As she finished the last bit, she turned towards him and saw the concern in his eyes and she smiled.

  “Good girl,” he said, as though she had achieved something wonderful, and Maria felt ashamed that a person like him should be worried about her.

  When everyone rose to leave the table, Eileen Donovan looked over at Maria and, seeing only a small amount left on the plate, remarked, “You’ll feel a bit better now you’ve something in your stomach.”