The Last Goodbye

by Caroline Finnerty

  We both fell silent then but there was a closeness in just peeling and chopping together – something we would never have done before.

  Patrick brought Luisa and their children over. They seemed to have warmed to me a bit more. We all squashed in around the table, keeping our elbows tucked in neatly to make room for everyone, and helped ourselves to the food that Dad had served up for us. We chatted about the recession and Dad was giving out about politicians that never seemed to change. “Different face, same arrogance,” he said. We didn’t talk about Gran. Her presence was missed and it was like we were all too sad to speak about her. We sat watching TV for the rest of the evening.

  Ben booked flights home for the following day. He was able to get one from Knock, which was a lot closer than driving back to Dublin. I hated walking out on Gran when she was like this but Dad told me I had to go, he was nervous of me being so heavily pregnant. And Ben had to go back to school. But I felt guilty all the same knowing that when Gran came home from hospital, the reality of the situation meant that Dad and Aoife were going to have to be her carers.

  I woke up early the next morning. I couldn’t sleep in at all lately, which I thought was ironic because every second person kept advising me to sleep now while I still could. They meant well but, my God, it wasn’t like I could store up the sleep to tide me over for when the baby was born and giving us sleepless nights. I think this early-rising lark was the body’s way of preparing me for the lack of sleep that lay ahead.

  Eventually, I decided to get up. I tiptoed past Dad’s bedroom door so that I wouldn’t wake him. I went out to the kitchen. Aoife had stayed over last night too but she must have been sleeping in. I flicked the switch on the kettle and waited for it to boil for what seemed like ages. I popped a teabag into a cup. While I was waiting I looked out across the fields. The grass was silvery with dew. It looked like it was going to be a nice day – the sun was out and it was one of those days that lifted you up and made you feel all was well with the world and you would forgive the weather gods for the poor summer that we’d had up to now.

  I opened the back door and let the kitchen fill with fresh morning air. Walking over to the dresser, I picked up the family photo of my Confirmation off the dresser. I was wearing the hickest matching jacket and dress in an orange floral fabric – I will never forget how much I had hated that outfit. Mam and I had rowed for weeks beforehand because I did not want to wear a dress. You never would have guessed though with the smiles that we all had plastered onto our faces. Mam stood behind me with her arm on my shoulder – her candy-pink lipstick looked so dated now but she still looked good. I did a quick calculation and guessed that it was probably taken shortly before she had found out that she was expecting Aoife and then had the tumour.

  There was something I needed to do before I went back to London. The last time I was home I still wasn’t ready to do it but now, as I found myself alone in the empty kitchen, I knew that I had to. I went back down to the bedroom. I would be lying to you if I said that I wasn’t nervous – my heart was racing in my chest.

  I scribbled a quick note for Ben and threw on a pair of jeans and a jumper and set off.

  The roads were quiet at that time of the morning as I walked along. At least I didn’t have to worry about bumping into anyone. I noticed more this time – things I had missed the last time. It was still raining though. I walked through the square, crossed the bridge and finally I reached the graveyard. The iron gate groaned as I pushed it back and let myself in. The last time I had been here was for my other granny, Dad’s mother’s funeral. I knew Mam was probably buried nearby. Overhead oak trees shaded the path beneath it and the lower branches wafted gently on the breeze. I walked along the path, cracked from the roots trying to push up underneath it. I had watched a documentary once where the roots of a tree had grown so large that they caused all four walls of a house to separate.

  I finally came upon her headstone. I was glad to see it was neat and well kept. Flowers were planted and I could see someone had weeded it recently when I looked at some of the other graves whose plants were overgrown by weeds. Seeing her name there etched in gold paint on the cold granite slab made it very real. There it was written in front of me.

  I began to speak to my mother. The words, although whispered, came out loud in the quiet graveyard.

  “I’m sorry I lost your letter. I tried my best to get it back. I really did. I’m so glad you wrote it for me, Mam. It meant a lot to have that little piece of you. And I’m sorry I was such a bitch before you died – I regret it so much. If I could take back those words, believe me I would.” My bump was starting to weigh me down so I lowered myself on to the edge of the kerbing. “I miss you, Mam. Every day. Even the Hoover banging off the bottom of the door on a Saturday morning – I’d let you do it every day for the rest of my life, if it would bring you back.”

  I looked around at the other headstones, each with their own story and loved ones left behind. The cycle of life, it was the one thing guaranteed, but human nature was a funny thing because even though we knew it had to happen sometime, we still found it so hard to accept when someone belonging to us passed over to the other side.

  “I wish you could be here to meet Ben – and Baby Pip. Can you believe I’m having a baby, Mam? Sometimes it scares the life out of me that I’m going to be entirely responsible for a little person and that they’re going to call me ‘Mammy’. To be honest, I’m a bit scared, Mam – a lot scared actually, so please stay close to me, yeah?”

  I stayed like that for a while, listening to the birdsong on the cool morning air. It was such a peaceful place. I now understood why people liked to visit graveyards. I always thought, whenever I had heard someone saying that before, that they were loopers, but there was something soothing about being here and for some reason I definitely felt closer to her.

  When I went back to the house everyone was up eating breakfast.

  “Kate, where were you?” Ben said.

  “I just went for a walk to get some fresh air – it’s a beautiful morning out there.”

  “Well, pull up a chair – get some breakfast into you, love,” Dad said.

  I sat down at the table and helped myself to the fry that Dad had cooked.

  We headed into the hospital then. It was hard saying goodbye to Gran. I leant in to hug her and I could feel her trying to hug me back as best she could but it was obvious she wasn’t able to. The good news was that they said she’d be able to come home soon.

  We had a few hours to spare before we drove to Knock to catch our flight. I chatted with Dad and Aoife and we pored over old photo albums together and recalled long-forgotten anecdotes from my childhood. I felt at ease in their company. It was such a relief, after years of tension, to finally just relax together. I could see Aoife was enjoying hearing more about the mother she never had the chance to know. I noticed that she and I had some of the same mannerisms – she would scrunch up her nose when she smiled broadly and she had the same habit of wrapping her hair around her index finger and rolling it onto the middle finger and back and forth again too. I invited her over to stay with Ben and myself for a weekend to do some shopping or maybe even to catch a show. It was a big step in our relationship. I hoped we were ready for a whole weekend with each other but she said she might and I really hoped that she would.

  They made me promise to bring the baby back to see them when she was born and I knew that I would – it wasn’t just an empty promise. I had decided that I was going to be a regular face in the house now and Pip would know where her mother came from.

  “Dad?” I said with a lump in my throat as we said goodbye.

  “Yes?”

  “I love you.” And for once I didn’t cringe as I said it.

  Chapter 53

  I was exhausted when I sat down onto our sofa that night. The emotional rollercoaster of the last few days was after catching up with me. Seeing Gran like that, then talking things through with Dad and then Aoife had taken its
toll. Twenty years of emotions had been thrashed through in one weekend. Although I was glad to finally have talked to Dad and Aoife properly, it had been difficult dredging it all up again.

  Ben plonked down beside me so the sofa gave a little poof under his weight.

  “I’m proud of you Kate, you know that?”

  “Thanks Ben . . . look, I think I owe you an apology for how I’ve acted over the last few weeks.”

  “Don’t worry about that now – I’m sorry for not really getting how hard all this still is for you. Your mum sounds like she was a lovely woman.”

  “She was, Ben – I loved her so much. I know I might not show it, but I miss her every day. Every single day. There is not a day that goes by where I don’t wish that I could talk to her just once more. Even just for five minutes.”

  “Oh Kate, of course you do, love. But why didn’t you talk to me about her before?” He hugged me close against his broad frame so I could smell the fabric softener on his T-shirt.

  “And especially now that I’m pregnant – that’s when you really need your mum to ask her all those questions, y’know, about her own pregnancies or how her labours were. And then when the baby is born I’m sure I’ll have millions more to ask her.”

  “Well, you know my mum thinks the world of you and she would be delighted if you ever needed her help or to ask her something.”

  “I know that, Ben, and don’t get me wrong – your mum is great – but it’s not the same as having your own mum there, is it?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Do you think she knows that I was hurting and that I just didn’t know how to express how scared I was?” I regretted so much not seeing her before she died and that our last words were words full of anger. It was something I could never make up for. I could never take those words back.

  “Of course she does – I bet she’s watching you right now with a big smile on her face.”

  “She was so much fun as a mother. She always spoke her mind. I remember one time in school when my teacher in third class, Mrs Maloney, sent a note home in my journal because I hadn’t learnt my nine times tables off by heart. I thought Mam was going to go through me for a shortcut but she came into the classroom behind me the next day and told her off, saying that in all honesty weren’t there more important things in life than nine times tables and sure couldn’t I always use a calculator if I ever found myself in the unfortunate situation of having to multiply something by nine when I got older! You should have seen the look on Mrs Maloney’s face. It was priceless.”

  Ben started to laugh then. “Your mum sounds like a right old character. I’m glad the pupils I teach don’t have parents like that!”

  “You would have loved her, Ben – she didn’t suffer fools gladly,” I said wistfully.

  “This is the first time you’ve let me in, you know,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let me right in close, let me get to know the real you.”

  “But you’ve known me for seven years!” I said, drying my eyes with a tissue.

  “Yeah, but only up to a point. There was always this . . . I don’t know . . . wall or something around you that I couldn’t get past. You were always so guarded with your emotions.”

  “Jesus, Ben – a wall – you’re not half dramatic, are you? I never knew you had such depth!” I picked up one of the cushions off the sofa and playfully hit him over the head with it.

  I rang Dad on my way to work the next morning. He said Gran had done well overnight and they were hoping she would be allowed home later that day. She would be going to stay with Dad, and Aoife was going to move in with them too. I hoped the arrangement worked out for them because it would be really hard to see Gran going into a nursing home. I told him I’d ring him later to see how she was.

  As I walked along the street, I felt so much lighter. I can’t explain it but I felt a huge weight had been lifted off me. All the years that I had been running away and I was now finally ready to step up and face it. I didn’t care when people wouldn’t make room for me to get on the Tube – I just let it go and waited for the next one. Or when the escalators were out of order yet again so that I had to climb a mountain of stairs to get out of the Tube station it didn’t make me mad like it usually would. Although I hadn’t realised it, those years of being angry and carrying all that guilt around had taken their toll on me.

  Nat was in first when I reached the gallery. I told her about Gran and about Dad and Aoife.

  “I’m so proud of you, Kate – I know it can’t have been easy dealing with everything you’ve gone through over the last few days.” She handed me a cup of coffee.

  She was slowly coming back down to earth from her exhibition. Cards sat on top of the counter, thanking her for a wonderful evening. She had been overwhelmed by the feedback to her work and she was buoyed up and encouraged to go out and take more photos. I was delighted to see that the old Nat was slowly returning.

  We decided to tackle the dusting – we tried to do it once a week – one of us would do downstairs and the other would do the mezzanine although sometimes it must be admitted that neither of us could be bothered. But today I didn’t mind doing it. As I ran the cloth over the tops of the frames, up along the banister, across the desk and the computer screen, I was able to switch off and get my head around everything that had happened over the last few days.

  I suggested to Nat that we should go to Portobello Market the following Saturday. I thought it was something that she might enjoy – she used to love going there for a browse. It had been ages since we’d been – we used to be regulars, scouting around the stalls and then grabbing something to eat afterwards. She agreed, so the following Saturday afternoon we took the Tube down to Notting Hill Gate. The street was already thronged when we got there – it had got really popular over the last few years with tourists. Since it had featured in the film Notting Hill they would come in their droves, photographing themselves in front of the pastel-coloured buildings or standing beneath the Portobello Road street signs as the fed-up locals walked around them impatiently. We browsed through some of the antique stalls, which I loved. Old trunks and suitcases stacked on top of each other stood beside a stand of leather rugby balls and cricket bats. There were tables full of cloth-covered books with their old inked inscriptions from loved ones. Other stalls displayed antique china sets and silverware.

  I always said that if Ben and I ever managed to afford to buy a house, I would come here and fill my house full of stuff from this market.

  “Remind me never to come here again on a Saturday,” I said as a wall of people pushed me to the left as we walked along.

  We stood and listened to a girl sing in French and play an accordion before strolling along until we came to the food stalls. The smell of fresh cheeses and baked goods filled the air. Nat was sampling the foods on offer from the different stalls and taking photos. At least she had started taking photos again, which was a good sign. Another man was shouting, “Peaches three for a parnd, three for a parnd!” from behind his table of fresh fruit. We sampled some delicious baklava from another stall.

  “Hello, darling. It’s a sunny one today, innit?”

  The sticky sweetness was delicious so I bought a few to take home with me.

  We continued on to the clothing stalls. Fashion students displayed their designs, trying desperately to stand out from the rest of the stalls and to make a name for themselves.

  Soon we were at the cheaper end of the market. These were the tacky stalls selling plastic toys from China and offering 2 for 1 deals on washing powders.

  “Kate, isn’t that your bag?” Nat said suddenly.

  She was pointing at a stall claiming to sell ‘vintage’ handbags. There were lots of stalls here claiming to sell vintage clothing, some of it was genuine, some not so.

  I swung around from the rail that I had been thumbing through on a nearby stall. My eye was immediately drawn to the bright yellow of my satchel, which was
sitting on the table amongst all the other bags. I would know it anywhere. I ran over towards it.

  “That bag – where did you get it?” I asked the Asian guy manning the table.

  He shrugged his shoulders at me. I wasn’t sure if he understood me.

  “I think it’s mine.” I went to lift it up but his hand moved across my arm to block me.

  “No try – you must buy.”

  “How much?” I said quickly.

  “Twenty pounds.”

  I rooted in my purse but I only had a ten-pound note.

  “Here, I have money,” Nat said taking another ten-pound note from her pocket and putting it with mine to give to the stallholder. “I can’t believe you’ve got to pay to get your own bloody bag back!”

  He handed me the bag then. I took it from him and examined it – it was slightly scuffed on one of the corners, exactly like my one had been. It was definitely mine. We stood to the side of the stall, out of the way of people.

  My heart started beating wildly. Nervously, I opened up the bag. There was a small zipped pocket inside the bag, disguised against the turquoise lining. That was where I had last put the letter. I begged Mam, if she was listening, to let the letter be still inside it. With trepidation, I pulled back the zip and saw the white envelope was still there. I carefully took the letter out of it and unfolded it. I held her letter in my two hands, studying her familiar words once more. I felt tears come into my eyes. Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!

  Nat and I both started jumping up and down. People in the market started to look at us but I didn’t care, I was so elated. It felt as though I was somehow closer to her by touching the paper that she had once touched too. It was like a little part of her was still living.

  “She’s looking down on you, Kate,” Nat said.