Music from Home

by Geraldine O'Neill

  Maria glanced over at her grandmother and she could see by the look on her face that she was not able to speak. Maria had observed that look on her face so often now – almost a tragic look – that she had become afraid of adding to the burden the older woman already carried.

  She had thought on several occasions that it was the right time to ask about her mother’s past only for Ambrose to say or do something, and she would postpone the conversation she both needed, and yet dreaded, once again. Things had got easier in the house generally, and her grandfather and Jude now talked openly about when her mother was young and some of the funny things that they remembered about her. On one occasion her grandfather had given her some schoolbooks belonging to her mother and on another, her grandmother had given her a lovely floral chiffon scarf that had belonged to her too. Jude on a different occasion gave Maria an LP record of an Irish ballad singer that her mother had listened to, but he told her to keep it in her wardrobe and asked her not to play it when his mother was in the house.

  She had also got used to being the object of the local people’s curiosity and had noticed on recent visits to church and the shops in Tullamore that people had got used to her. If they had anything to say about her, they didn’t do it when she was there or within earshot.

  Her studies with Sister Theresa filled several mornings and afternoons and between her night classes and practising on her Olivetti typewriter in her bedroom, she had become proficient enough to slowly type out three neat letters this week to Paul and Diana and one to Mrs Lowry.

  She had become more interested in her studies back in September when she received encouraging news in a large brown envelope that Franco had re-addressed to her. Seven O-level passes, four A’s and two B’s! She had almost forgotten about them and the excellent grades had convinced her that it was worth continuing her work with Theresa.

  Over the last couple of months she had received letters from Paul at least twice a week and had received two from Stella who was still down in the clinic in London, but was now allowed home at weekends. She didn’t say much about what she did there, but she said her weight had gone up a bit and that the doctors were happy with her.

  Both Paul and Stella had written in their letters to say that Tony had suddenly left Spencers’ stables. He had come in one Friday and said he had been offered a job in Birmingham and that he had to leave that very weekend. He hadn’t given Paul any real information, but said if he was ever up in Manchester again he might look him up.

  Stella wrote to tell her that she had never heard from Tony again after the day she had fainted. He had, she said, never returned even one of her calls. She said she had been heartbroken to start with but, after she had had time to think about it, maybe they hadn’t really been that suited. She had spent time chatting to a special nurse in the unit about it and she thought now that maybe she had been attracted to Tony because it was a way of getting back at her mother for trying to control her life. Whichever way, she told Maria, her mother had definitely had a fright. After her parents had a few meetings with the doctors and the nurses in the unit, her mother seemed to be much more understanding and willing to listen than she had ever been.

  Paul had kept her up to date about his equestrian course, and told her in every single letter how much he missed her and how much he was looking forward to seeing her at Christmas. Every time she thought of it, her heart soared. On several occasions when she had one of Jude’s Beatles albums on and she thought of her trip back home, she found herself dancing happily around the room, feeling so, so grateful to Diana for inviting her to stay with her and for not forgetting her.

  Her grandparents had been quiet when she told them about her letter and said she wanted to spend Christmas and New Year in Manchester.

  “It’s your choice,” her grandmother said. She had looked as though she was going to say something else, but had remained silent.

  “We’ll have to let Ambrose know soon,” her grandfather said. “Because he’s already been talking about some of the things he wanted you to do with him over the Christmas.”

  Maria had immediately felt guilty but said, “We can still do those things. I know he wants me to go to the cinema with him to see The Jungle Book, but I think it comes to Tullamore a couple of weeks before Christmas, so we can see it before I go.”

  “That’s grand,” Patrick had said, “but the main thing is that you need to look after your own business, and get to see all those people who have been so good to you.”

  Maria now felt she not only had something to look forward to but each day had a real purpose as it not only brought her closer to going home, but was making her more proficient in all the subjects she was studying, both with Sister Theresa and at her evening classes. She had also become friendly with a girl from Tullamore who now kept her a seat in the class and chatted to her during the break when the students had a cup of tea. All in all, she had to admit that she was settling into life in Ireland, and as long as she didn’t keep comparing people with the ones she had left back home, she found she was coping and at certain times even enjoying herself.

  She looked down at the lump of dough now, then feeling that it was still too wet and sticky she used her dry hand and lifted another handful of flour to mix in. A short while later when she felt the dough was of the correct consistency, she turned it out onto the well-floured wooden table top.

  Eileen Donovan carefully inspected it and said, “That looks grand.”

  Marie felt a small glow of satisfaction at the praise as she patted the dough into a tidy circular shape, then patted it again on top until it was the required level of thickness.

  That was placed in the old oven, and then Maria looked at her grandmother. “Will I try something else, a cake maybe? Didn’t you say Sister Teresa was calling up this evening?”

  The older woman thought for a few moments. “We might do a few fruit scones. I think we have enough self-raising flour left and there is a full packet of sultanas.” She went over to the pantry and came back with the necessary ingredients.

  A short while later Maria slid a tray with perfectly circles of flat dough of just over an inch thick into the oven to join the soda bread.

  A small cough came from the nest by the fire. “Isn’t she very handy, Mammy?” Ambrose suddenly commented. “For a young girl who was only used to gas cookers, she’s got the hang of the solid fuel. She had no problem lighting the stove today and getting it up to the right temperature for cooking.”

  Maria smiled over at him.

  Eileen Donovan considered his words. “She’s only doing what every woman should do if she’s going to be able to run a house in the future.”

  “But isn’t it great if Maria can lend a hand by doing a bit of cooking and baking now and again? It would let you go into town – or even up to Dublin – and have a bit of a break for yourself.”

  “Ah now, Dublin indeed,” his mother said, gathering up the bowls to be washed in the sink. “Don’t be getting carried away. Baking a bit of bread and a few scones doesn’t mean someone’s fit to run a house.”

  But Ambrose was not to be swayed from his topic. He shifted in his bed to look over at his niece. “My mother works too hard,” he said. “She always has done –”

  “Sure, that’s nothing new,” his mother said,running the tap to fill the basin. “When you’re the woman of the house, it’s the case of the oul’ dog for the hard road.”

  Ambrose laughed and chimed in with, “And the pup for the path!” He looked at Maria now. “You probably think we’re talking double-Dutch with the oul’ Irish sayings?”

  Maria shrugged and smiled. “I remember my mother telling me some of the Irish sayings, and my father used to tell me the Italian ones.”

  “I’d love to hear the Italian sayings. Can you remember any?”

  Maria glanced over at her grandmother and saw the sad look on her face. “Another time,” she told him. “I’ve some washing I need to do now.”

  Chapter 43

/>   As December approached, the days grew shorter and much, much colder. Maria felt that the days were flying by and then they all began to merge together, all heading in the direction of Christmas. Theresa called a few days before Maria was due to fly back to Manchester to take her into Tullamore for some Christmas shopping. Her grandfather had given her some money, which she felt bad taking, but she did so with the proviso that if any money came through after all the legal business at home was sorted, that she would repay him.

  “You’re welcome to it with a heart and a half,” he told her. “Just enjoy it as much as we’re enjoying having you here.”

  They set off into town in Theresa’ s green Morris Minor, Theresa clad in her wax coat and hat, and Maria in her jeans and boots and a warm duffle coat and bright striped scarf that her grandmother had helped her to knit. There were lights strung outside a few of the shops, and Maria thought how scant and disappointing they looked compared to the lights in Manchester and Stockport, and the thought of seeing them all when she got home made her feel really excited now.

  She bought Ambrose a Lego kit and a guide book of Italy that she had ordered in the local bookshop and a jigsaw of the map of France. She bought Jude a record token from the music shop, and she bought her grandmother a matching necklace and earrings. It was from the jeweller’s, although not from their very expensive ranges, and of the same dark crystal stones that were in the necklace that had belonged to her mother that she often wore.

  They were just passing a local hotel, when Theresa suggested that they go in for a hot drink to warm them up and maybe a mince pie.

  Maria was very impressed with the inside of the hotel when she saw the lovely Christmas tree and decorations and the big fires that were on in all the rooms.

  There were a few young men sitting at one of the tables in the bar area, dressed in suits and shirts and ties, and as they passed by one of them kept staring at Maria. He was of average height with short brown hair and a light moustache.

  “Ignore him,” Theresa said. “He looks as though he’s had a few drinks too many. We’ll sit in the room opposite so he doesn’t annoy you.”

  When they had put their bags down and taken their coats off and sorted their hair, then given their order of coffee and mince pies to the waitress, Theresa smiled at Maria and said, “You’re a very striking girl, and I suppose you will have to get used to attention from young men.”

  Maria had rolled her eyes and laughed. “I’m not interested in anyone,” she said. “I have a nice boy who writes to me from back in England, and I’m happy enough with that.”

  They had just finished eating when the young man who had been staring at Maria stuck his head in the door, and said, “Would I be correct in thinking that there is a Miss Donovan here?”

  Both Theresa and Maria looked at him.

  “No,” Theresa said, “that’s not either of our names.”

  He walked over to the table, a slight sway in his gait betraying the amount he had drunk. “Would I be correct then in saying that there’s a connection of the Donovans here? Maybe a daughter of Anna Donovan?”

  Something about the look on his face and the slight sneer that on his lips when he said her mother’s name made Maria’s heart freeze.

  Theresa remained calm and kept an easy tone in her voice. “Why do you ask?”

  He pulled a chair out at the table beside them. “Because,” he said, “I know her mother hadn’t the neck to show her face in this town again after what she did to our family, and I’m surprised that her daughter must think we all have short memories.”

  As Maria looked at him now, she suddenly knew that this young man had the key to all the questions she had been unable to ask. Before Theresa had a chance to say anything else she looked him square in the eye and said, “If it’s any of your business, my mother is dead.”

  “It’s well I know that,” he said, “and it is my business, because if your mother had had her way, our family would have been left with neither a mother nor a father.”

  Theresa stood up now. “Go away!” she said, making shooing gestures with her hands. “You’ve no business to be talking like that to a young girl.”

  The young man stood up now and placed his hands flat on the table. Ignoring Theresa, he stared at Maria.

  “My name is Michael Casey,” he said, “and your mother ruined our family. She played my father like a good oul’ fiddle . . . and then the pair of them ran off to England together and were never seen again.”

  Maria’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “Go!” Theresa ordered. “Go now or I’ll call the manager to remove you.”

  But Michael Casey stood his ground. “You didn’t know, did you?” he said to Maria. “I can see you’re shocked. I suppose the oul’ Donovan one thought she would just bury her head in the sand and hope that no one opened their mouth? That no one would tell you what your mother was and how she ruined our family.”

  Theresa moved towards him now, her hands on her hips. “I won’t tell you again,” she said in an ominous voice. “If you don’t move I’ll move you myself.”

  Michael Casey looked at her and started to laugh. A small bitter laugh. “You’re well met up, the pair of you – an oul’ failed nun and the daughter of a whore and an I-ti!”

  Maria looked at him now, hardly able to breathe, then, as Theresa went to grab his arm to make him move, she slipped between them – a sudden, unexpected spark of courage propelling her on. “My father was the most decent man you could ever meet,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes, “and his Italian nationality is one I am very proud of.” She stepped away from him now. “I’m sorry for whatever has happened between my mother and your family … but it was a long time ago. It has nothing whatsoever to do with me.”

  He looked back at her now and she saw a change in his face. “They should have told you,” he said, his voice quieter. “Because there’s still bad blood between the families and it’s not something that will ever be forgotten.”

  “You’ve said what you wanted to say,” Maria said quietly. “Please go and leave us alone.”

  Chapter 44

  When they left the hotel, there was a sudden icy chill that had not been there earlier, and as they walked along, flakes of snow began to fall. Normally, Maria would have had a childish delight in seeing the first snow of the winter, but now she barely registered it. When they got to the car, Theresa told Maria to get inside and try to keep warm, while she took a scraper out to clear the windscreen.

  As they drove out through Tullamore towards the farmhouse, the snow still falling, Theresa kept constantly checking that Maria was okay and apologising for not telling her all this before. Maria just quietly repeated that it was not her fault and that her grandparents or Jude should have told her.

  “It’s hard for them,” Theresa said. “They’ve lived with it for years without talking much about it, and they obviously thought, or hoped, that the Casey family had done the same and would continue to do so.”

  “I think there’s more he didn’t tell me,” Maria said, “but before the night is over, I’ll know everything I need to know, or I will be getting on a plane tomorrow and going back to Manchester. I don’t care where I go or where I stay – someone will have me. I can’t stay here unless I know the truth.”

  Theresa had shifted her gaze from the white road for a few seconds to look at her and said, “It won’t come to that. Please, God it won’t.”

  As soon as they entered the house, it was obvious to Maria’s grandparents that something serious had happened. Theresa took her grandmother out into the hall while Maria put her shopping upstairs and when she came back down a few minutes later, her grandmother was sitting at the kitchen table, ashen-faced.

  “Ambrose,” Eileen Donovan said, “we’re going down to the parlour to have a chat with Maria and Sister Theresa. If Jude comes in from the Vet’s Suppliers, tell him to have a cup of tea and some brown bread, and that we’ll have the dinner later when we’re fin
ished. ”

  Ambrose sat up in his bed and, as he went to say something, he suddenly went into a fit of coughing. His father rushed to the tap to get him a glass of water, which he slowly sipped, and gradually the coughing subsided. Sister Theresa went to her bag and brought out a comic which she had bought for him in Tullamore.

  “You can go and have your chat now,” he told them, a wheeze still in his voice. “I’ll be glad of the peace to read my new Rover.”

  As soon as the parlour door was closed, her grandmother started to cry and Patrick had to give her his white hanky.

  Maria shivered as she walked over to a chair, as the room was cold with no fire on.

  “This is not the way I wanted this done,” Patrick said, “and it’s our fault for having let it happen like this.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Maria asked quietly. “Why did you wait until a total stranger – an angry stranger told me, to sit down and speak to me?”

  Her grandfather’s hand came up to cover his eyes and Maria realised, with some alarm, that tears were running down his face.

  Sister Theresa said, “I think it might be best if everyone sat down, and maybe, if one of you feels able for it, you might just run through the main events of what happened when her mother left this house.”

  “I can’t sit down . . .” Eileen Donovan said, her voice cracked and faraway-sounding. She moved over to the window.

  “Okay,” Patrick said, brushing the back of his hand now to his damp eyes. “The truth of it all is that Anna . . .” he looked at Maria, “your mother . . . from when she was thirteen or fourteen, used to go into town for piano lessons to John Casey. He was a man ten years older than her, with four or five children.”

  “Five,” Eileen Donovan said. “They had five young children.”

  “Anna was very gifted musically . . . she played the fiddle too . . . Anyway, as she got older – maybe around sixteen or so – and better on the piano, John Casey used to enter her for all sorts of exams and competitions. He often used to call out here to tell her about them, and take her up to Dublin for the day.” He waved his hand over to the ebony piano. “And when we got Anna the piano, he was in and out of here all the time, supposedly tuning it and bringing her new music books. Then one night Mrs Casey appeared at the door here in a terrible state. The next thing we knew all hell had broken loose when she went for your mother, accusing her of carrying on with her husband, calling her names and pulling her around by the hair . . .” His hand came up to his eyes again and he had to stop to compose himself. “It was that bad we nearly had to call for the Guards. Poor Jude was only a little fellow and if you’d heard the screams of him when he saw them fighting! He got such a fright.”