by Annie Murray
‘It’s OK,’ Marek said, as they perched side by side on the step. ‘It’s OK, he’s gone, he’s gone. No need to worry.’
He let her cry, saying little, just holding her and rocking her slightly until she came back to herself, as if up into the light, and reached into the sleeve of her blouse for her handkerchief. As he released her, she felt him gently kiss the top of her head. She raised her eyes to him. For a moment they looked at each other.
‘Thank you,’ she said, wiping her eyes, but still barely able to stop crying. ‘That was a shock.’
Marek kept his arm round her back and it felt so reassuring. Katie became aware that Sybil was standing close by, drawn from the kitchen by the screams. She said nothing, but her face was full of enquiring sympathy. Michael was quieter now too, watching her.
‘It is true, what he said?’ Marek asked. His sensitive face was close to hers, his eyes full of tenderness.
‘You mean is he really my father? Yes – I think he must be. In some way I knew, as soon as I saw him.’
‘But when did you see him last?’
‘When I was two – or three. Somewhere in between. She told me – my mother . . .’ She wrung her hankie in her hands. ‘He was my dad. He was good to me.’ She began to weep again. ‘And she told me he was dead. That he died of TB . . .’ She turned her face up, bewildered. ‘Why did she do that? Why?’
Sybil considered. ‘The truth was that he left her? Maybe she was too proud to admit it.’
‘And he never came back,’ Katie said, bitterly. ‘Not once, to see me, see how I was. Why has he come now?’
‘Who knows?’ Sybil said. ‘Guilty conscience? My goodness, what a thing – you poor girl.’ She became practical, holding her hand out to Michael. ‘Now, little man, you come along with me and we’ll find you some tea. Mummy will come and join you in a minute.’
Michael took Sybil’s hand with complete trust, and Katie and Marek were left sitting side by side on the stairs. She went to pull herself up, but he held her.
‘One minute, Katie. I spoke to him, this man, when he is leaving. He said to give you some time to think. Then he said, he like to see you. If you like too, he will meet you – next Saturday.’
Katie stared into his face, searching it for help. ‘I don’t know what to do – or feel. What should I do?’
A nerve in Marek’s cheek twitched, as if some pain was being registered.
‘Perhaps you should think for some days. But he is your father. That he is alive is good – no? Perhaps you should meet with him.’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. She stared ahead of her.
‘Katie?’
‘Umm?’ She looked round, dazed, into that beautiful face.
Marek couldn’t seem to speak, except with his eyes. They drew closer together, and lovingly, gratefully, she allowed herself to be drawn into his arms again and their lips met, both warm and searching.
Fifty-One
Of all places, Michael O’Neill had suggested that Katie meet him in Lewis’s that Saturday morning.
By the time she was on the bus into town, leaving Michael with Sybil, she had been through a week of stormy and conflicting emotions. It had been difficult to concentrate at work, and there was scarcely a moment in the day when her father’s sudden presence in her life didn’t batter at her thoughts. At first there was the sheer shock of finding out that he was alive, yet had not seen him from that day to this. Even more bewildering was that nothing in her family was as she had believed. As her thoughts spun round and round, this realization was followed by a rage that took her over to such an extent that it had sometimes forced her from her chair or bed to pace up and down the room.
They lied to me – the pair of them! Just lie after lie! the voice roared in her head. He just buggered off, abandoned his wife and child without a word, no help, no money – just turned his back on us without a care!
Yet she felt just as furious with her mother. Vera’s hurt pride at being deserted by her husband had made her concoct all these self-pitying stories – lies, call them what they were! And, for her own comfort, she had turned her absent husband into a dead saint. God, what a pair they were!
Some nights Katie actually punched her pillow to let out some of her anger. All those years she had spent trying to keep Vera happy, feeling sorry for her, doing her bidding and bowing to her moods – only to have her reject her own daughter so violently when she had got into trouble herself, had made one mistake . . . Once again, the only person who came out of the situation in innocence was Uncle Patrick, who clearly believed his story that his brother was dead and had been sent back to Ireland for burial. Patrick had still been in Africa when Michael ‘died’.
Other emotions would follow the anger. She thought of his remark about her mother. ‘Impossible,’ he had said. Of course Vera was impossible, and how strengthening to hear someone else say so. It wasn’t just that Katie had somehow failed as a daughter! Three years he had lived with Vera – was that all it had taken to drive him away? And Katie was filled with curiosity both about exactly what had happened and about him as a man. What was he really like, other than in her mother’s fantasies? But then the anger would axe through her again. You went off and left me with her!
At times, though, there came other tender feelings. She ransacked her memory, that of her two-year-old self, who held an image of him as kind and loving. Her daddy. These thoughts flooded her with simple longing for all that she had lost or never had. She wanted her daddy – for him to love her.
It had been a tumultuous week. With all this had come the miracle of Marek, another kind of shock, beautiful, warming, that they had spoken their feelings for one another. He had been very kind to her, and considerate, seeing the state she was in. Through the intimate tenderness they shared, she trusted him very deeply already. Yet there were so many gaps in his life and in her knowledge. She did not yet know what had happened to Marek’s family, but she was almost sure that it was he who suffered from the terrible nightmares.
‘One day, I tell you,’ he said, as they sat one evening, perched on the edge of her bed, holding hands as Michael slept. The little lamp was on and the room felt cosy. She looked round at Marek’s thin, sensitive face and even in the gloom could see that mixed with his longing to talk was the fear of it – of facing it all again, and the emotion that went with it. It made her feel very tender towards him.
‘You shouldn’t bottle things up,’ she told him, squeezing his hand, so big and warm. ‘It’ll only make it worse.’
He looked at her. ‘Usually people do not ask. They do not want to know. Or I think they would not believe.’
‘Well, I’m asking. But only when you feel like it.’
‘Yes,’ he said, looking down, almost as if ashamed. She stroked his back. He gave a rueful smile. ‘Thank you.’
She assumed that most of his family had died, somehow. For him, the idea that you might find a parent when you believed them dead would be a miracle indeed, even though he could see that the situation was different. He encouraged her to go and see Michael O’Neill with an open mind.
‘Maybe there was good reason,’ he advised. ‘Give him a chance. He is your father – that doesn’t change.’
Sybil counselled the same. Katie realized that week just how much things had changed in her life. She was openly sharing her problems and concerns with others who cared about her. It felt a new, happy experience.
As she walked into Lewis’s tall, imposing building it was with a prickling feeling of dread. What if she met her mother? Did she even work here still? Surely not, after all this time? And what, more disastrously, might happen if he met her? Katie slipped up the stairs, giving the drapery department a wide berth.
There was no sign of him in the Ranelagh Rooms, where they had agreed to meet. She sat feeling very nervous at a table facing the door of the smart room, amid the Saturday shoppers who had come for a breather and a cup of coffee, and told the waitress she would order once her friend arr
ived. That morning she had chosen her clothes carefully, dressing in her navy business suit, her coat and smartest navy hat, her hair taken up into a neat pleat – almost as if for a lover, she realized, her emotions still flitting between defensive anger and tremulous need. Whatever else, she wanted him to see the best of her. Pulling off her navy gloves, she sat back trying to look composed. Was he going to be late?
He was bigger than she remembered, more imposing. As soon as he entered the room he was noticeable, hurrying a little, his brown coat swinging open, hat perched slightly at an angle on his head, and a scarf in brown-and-faun checks hanging over his lapels. He saw her and seemed to hesitate for a second, his confidence faltering. He gave a slight smile and came towards her, pulling off his own gloves, large and black, and holding out his hand. Katie stood up, her hammering heart making her breathless, and felt her hand gripped in his.
‘Well, hello again, Katie,’ he said. She could hear the misgiving in his voice. Did he wish now that he hadn’t said he would come, she wondered painfully? But he looked closely at her – hungrily almost, did she imagine that? – as she returned his greeting and they released hands and both sat down.
The waitress whom Katie had waved away before approached immediately and they both ordered coffee.
‘Anything to eat, Katie?’ Michel O’Neill asked. He had a soft, well-spoken voice.
‘No – thank you.’ She felt as if she might never eat again at that minute.
There was a moment of silence, during which they eyed each other and she tried to build up her inner defences against him. He was looking at her, curious, as if trying to work something out, and she was examining him. Moved, she saw hints of her son in the shape of his brows, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and the curling black hair, even though the hair of the man in front of her was halfway to grey. It was astonishing, his physical reality, here in front of her. And he looked nervous, vulnerable. For a moment a lump came up in her throat, quite unexpectedly. She had wanted somehow to keep the upper hand in any conversation. This wasn’t the moment to start blarting all over the table!
‘You must be angry with me,’ he said finally.
This was even more unexpected. The lump grew and her eyes filled, and in desperation she looked down into her lap. It took her a moment to be able to say in a strangled voice, ‘Yes. I s’pose I am.’
There was another interruption while the coffee cups were arranged on the table and Katie managed to gain control of herself. When they were alone again, she said, in a stronger tone, ‘You’d better explain. Start from the beginning and tell me what happened.’
He nodded. ‘I will. Here, let’s have some coffee.’ He leaned forward and poured for them both. Katie grasped the handle of the cup, grateful for its warm contents and for having something to cling to.
Michael O’Neill looked up at her as he sat back. ‘You’re mine all right. I can still see the little one you were once.’
Oh God, Katie thought as the tears rose in her eyes again. She gripped the cup until she thought she might smash it and swallowed hard.
Perhaps he could see her distress, but he didn’t invade it. He took a sip of coffee, followed by a deep breath, and let out a long sigh of preparation.
‘The long and short of it was, I couldn’t go on living with the woman. Three years, and she’d almost squeezed the life out of me. Do you have any idea?’ he asked hopefully.
Katie nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. But . . . why did you marry her?’
He dragged a hand over his eyes for a second. ‘She was a looker. You’ll know that. A real lady – full of charm and good manners. Genteel family, but my God what a snakepit they turned out to be. And she was besotted with me – I was exotic, I suppose. Irish boy over here, trying to make good. We were in love, to be sure, but I think in some way she wanted to spite her family. That’s a powerful combination, Katie. At the time I’d never met anyone quite like her. I was not long over here, and she seemed to represent part of the whole promise of this country. We made a handsome pair – everyone said so. And she seemed eager to do anything for me: even being received into the Church and ready to bring you up as a Catholic. Of course, that did it with her family – they cut her off. Not one of them even came to the wedding, d’you know that?’
Katie shook her head. But she could have guessed it.
‘Well, there was trouble from the start, as you see, but what I hadn’t reckoned with was her – just her. What she was like! I think the rift with her family turned her head a bit. Then having you. She was . . . How can I say it? She became fixed on things – I suppose you’d say obsessed. She wanted to manage every single aspect of my life. She was jealous – of nothing! Before she had you, she took to following me to work, although she must soon have seen that there was nothing to look at when she got there – well, except life in an engineering works! At the same time, though, she had me on a pedestal. She’d call me her angel, her saviour . . . all sorts. That time I was sick – the time I think you’d be remembering – my chest was bad, I was in a state. And she was sweet as pie to me, nursed me with every care.’ He shook his head, fumbling in his breast pocket and offered her cigarettes. ‘Smoke?’
‘No, thanks,’ Katie said, watching him light up. With a deep pang she found that she knew his hands intimately, the shape of them, the shading of dark hairs on the backs of his fingers, hands that she had once, many years ago, seen close up and been held by. The feeling of longing they gave her was so acute that her chest ached. She distracted herself, watching the way his lips moved round the tip of the cigarette. He blew out a mouthful of smoke and went on.
‘The thing was, then, when I was sick, she had me just where she wanted me: in her power. She was truly happy. I heard her singing round the house. I think it would have suited her if I’d been an invalid and she could have had full control over everything.’ He gave a visible shudder. ‘I don’t know – I’m not sure how I can explain it all. How it all added up, so that I couldn’t stand being anywhere near her. It was as if she had her hands round my throat, day and night. I thought when she’d had you she might be better, have someone else to take her mind off it. And she was obsessed with you. Any mother would be, you were beautiful.’
Katie flushed with pleasure, hearing the genuine affection in his voice.
‘I could go on trying to explain. There was something crazed about her. It wasn’t that she flew into rages or tantrums all that often – it was that quiet, terrible, stifling atmosphere she created.’ Katie was forced to nod in admission. Oh, she knew that all right. ‘I couldn’t stand it, the look she had in her eyes sometimes.’ He drew on the cigarette. ‘Makes me go cold thinking of it, even now. It wasn’t that I was afraid of her harming me – or you. It was something more . . . More about just being with her.’
He shifted in his seat to cross one leg over the other and gave a tut of frustration as he looked across at Katie.
‘How d’you talk about the force of another person, the way they can press on you? Do you know, in any way, what I’m talking about?’
‘I lived with her for twenty-one years,’ Katie said, meeting his gaze.
‘And you left to marry?’
Time for truth, no pretence. ‘No. I left because I was having Michael. She refused to have anything further to do with me – or him, it seems.’
Michael O’Neill’s eyebrows lifted. ‘No? Dear God – just like her own mother. Heaven knows what a nest of miserable puritans they were. And the father?’
‘He never married me. He deserted me – just like you.’
She saw him flinch, but the truth could not be denied.
‘Then why . . .’ he asked hesitantly. ‘Why did you call him Michael: my name?’
That was when she lost control. ‘Because . . .’ Because I remembered you, because I wanted you, wanted you to be a good thing in my life . . .
But instead all she managed was to put her hands over her face as her shoulders began shaking with sobs.
&
nbsp; Fifty-Two
‘I can’t make it up to you, I know that,’ he said later, when she was calmer and they were on their third cup of coffee. ‘I can’t change the past. But we can start with something – can’t we?’
Katie stared at him, then nodded. She sat back, feeling tired from all the emotions inside her.
They had talked for a long time, as others around them came and went. He had told her that he had set up home with another woman soon afterwards, in Coventry, and that he had two more children, a son and a daughter.
‘But, did you marry her?’ Katie asked.
‘No – how could I? At first, I didn’t feel I could tell her what the situation was. And then I saw a long line of twisted lies following me throughout my life, if I didn’t own up early on. By then we were ready to get married, if it had been possible. She took it badly at first – you can understand it. But in the end, when I’d tried to get across what Vera was like – is like – we had to find our own way. We set up as Mr and Mrs O’Neill . . . and are so, except under the law and in the eyes of the Church. She wore a ring, but we’ve never had a ceremony.’
‘So,’ Katie said brutally, for those children had had their father all this time – her father, ‘your children are bastards – like mine.’
Michael O’Neill looked shocked, but had to concede that this was the truth. ‘You’re very straight-talking, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose I’ve learned that I might as well be.’ She leaned towards him. ‘Could you not have come – just once? Or got a message to me, let me know somehow that you were alive? All these years . . . And then you turn up out of the blue.’
He looked away for a moment, then back at her. ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t think of it – to start with. But . . .’ He made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘At first it was too tricky. You were so young: how could I see you without her being there? And then time passes – there’s a distance. It seems better not to disturb things: you, them . . . There’s shame in it – it’s all difficult. Our situation was already so irregular. A clean break seemed the best. I left you alone. I mean, you might have—’