Sisters and Lies
Page 31
I watched Donnagh’s face then, intrigued by his reaction. Instead of looking at his uncle, or even keeping his head in his hands, he stared straight ahead. Unblinking. As if all the stuff his uncle was saying was going right over him. As if he didn’t care.
The next day we realized Donnagh had cared. He had hanged himself in his cell overnight, using the tie he’d worn in court.
None of us, not Evie, myself, Jacob or Artie, knew how to react. We thought we should be relieved that he was out of our lives for good and would never again be able to wreak his particular brand of havoc on anyone else. Instead we felt empty.
Now I pace my house in Sandycove and I try to make sense of everything. Sometimes I sleep, and when I do, I dream of my father. That he is beside me, smiling at me, waiting for my baby to be born.
In the direct aftermath of everything, I went to a psychologist. I feared I might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and that what I’d been through might affect the baby. I didn’t feel traumatized, but something wasn’t right. It was like I was fragmented: I needed to collect the pieces of myself and put them back together.
At some point I told the psychologist something I’d never told anyone. It was a memory of my father, Evie and me standing at the lake shore. We sisters would have been about five and three. My father was stuffing rocks into his pockets, encouraging Evie and me to do likewise. Then he took our hands, telling us we were going for a ‘little swim’. I could remember the rough grasp of his fingers on mine as he coaxed me towards the water, the cold feel of it on my bare legs. Then, out of nowhere, I could see Mammy running – her hair blowing behind her in the breeze. When she finally caught up with us, she hit the back of my father’s head with a stone, shouting at us to ‘run like panthers’ …
‘I don’t know if it’s real or if I’ve imagined it,’ I told the psychologist, who didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes.
After a while she explained something about repressed memories: how we bury images in our unconscious that are too painful to acknowledge or talk about.
Now I think about this story, put my hand on my bump, allow it to rest there.
This is the only child I will ever have. I know that.
I didn’t want to be a mother. But I want this child. This child saved me – saved me and Jacob – and I will love it with all my heart.
And yet …
Something creeps behind the surface of my brain; scuttles across it like an insect.
It’s a memory of another night. Around nine months ago now, when I got so drunk I could hardly remember anything the next morning. I still recall the trampled-on feeling after I’d opened my eyes. Like I was no longer in my own skin. Like I’d been touched …
I feel my bump again. Rub it.
I could have a DNA test after the birth, just to be completely sure. But that would be paranoid.
That way madness lies.
I’ve never thought of confiding that to Evie, but I have debated telling her about my lakeside memory. Perhaps it would make her feel better if she knew about our father. That he hadn’t abandoned us, like she thought. That he was just mentally unwell.
But then again, would it do her any good to know he’d tried to drown us?
I have my doubts.
The publishers want me to write the ‘real story’ of what happened on the night of Donnagh’s assault – true crime meets feminism. But I’m taking a break from writing. From writing about myself, anyway.
Instead I’ll wait here for my baby to be born, clutching my secrets to my heart, as I will my newborn.
Here’s what I’ve learned over the past nine months.
Some secrets must be chased – held out to the light and examined – while others … they are different. With them, it’s better that we never know.
Acknowledgements
It is hard to know where to start with all the thank-yous because so many people have helped to make this book happen, but anyway here goes.
Thank you, first, to Sheila Crowley, agent extraordinaire at Curtis Brown, who believed in me from the start and who gave me not just the title of this book but the kind of game-changing advice that made it publishable; to Rebecca Ritchie, of the same parish, whose helpfulness and enthusiasm never waned; also to freelance editor Sophie Wilson, whose early suggestions for this book were incredibly useful.
Thank you to everyone at Penguin Ireland: to my editors, Claire Pelly and Patricia Deevy, for seeing such possibility in Sisters and Lies; to Michael McLoughlin, Cliona Lewis, Brian Walker and Patricia McVeigh, for such a warm and wonderful introduction to the Penguin Ireland ‘family’. To Lee Motley for the stunning cover and Hazel Orme and Keith Taylor for the meticulous copy-editing. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
To the amazing teachers I’ve had over the years: Kieran Tonra, whose early encouragement made me think perhaps I could write; to Mike McCormack and Adrian Frazier of NUI Galway, who did likewise. To the tutors at the Irish Writers’ Centre – Conor Kostick, Claire Hennessy, Juliet Bressan and Mia Gallagher – for their unwavering belief. To the inspiring Vanessa O’Loughlin of Writing. ie. To the wonderful Orna Ross. Most especially, to Helen Bovaird-Ryan of Pen to Paper Writing Workshops, who set me on the path to creative writing as an adult and who threw in a husband while she was at it. (Helen, you should charge extra for that service.)
To my dear friends Tricia McAdoo, Aine Tierney and Joe Griffin, whose advice, good cheer and shared passion for fiction spurred me on to finish this book. To Lorraine Downey, who never stopped believing. To the Trinity, Whitespace and Galway gangs (all non-violent!), for the laughs and support. To Mairead Campbell and Amanda Kerr, for a host of memorable life experiences
To my more recent writing pals: Gai Griffin, Marian Keyes, Mags McLoughlin and Clodagh Murphy. Gai, there are no words to adequately express my gratitude (you really are a little bit psychic). Marian, I am not worthy to touch the hem of your skirt. Thank you for being such a HUGE inspiration to me and for all your kindness. Clodagh, for the laughs, the dinner dates and the good advice. Mags – it’s your turn next.
To all the wonderful writers I’ve met as a journalist and with whom I’ve shared writing classes down through the years – too many to mention: your support has been invaluable. Likewise, to all my colleagues at Zahra Media in Greystones, for demonstrating, every day, what it is to be creative.
To the staff at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Annaghmakerrig, County Monaghan, for everything. TG is where dreams become reality (and writers become fat because of all the fabulous food). Long may it continue.
To my extended family – particularly Raymond and Jerry Brogan for repeatedly asking if the ‘fecking book’ was finished yet – and to all the Mulligans and Brogans for being such a force for good in my life.
To cousin Claire Nicholl, for sharing the dream, reading early scribblings and generally being an inspiration.
To Clare and Ted Barrington, I couldn’t have asked for lovelier parents-in-law. Thank you for your unwavering support.
To my brother David, for insightful advice on spycams (I will not ask how you know this stuff); to my sister Loraine, for always being my cheerleader; to Conor Power, for help when I really needed it; and to baby Sarah, for being adorable 100 per cent of the time.
To my father Brian and my mother Mary: for making me feel I could do anything I wanted to in life. To steal a quote from my sister: you are the breath in my lungs and the blood in my veins. I love you with all my heart.
And finally to Brian. I fell in love with your writing. And then I fell in love with you. Thank you for being the rock I build my life on. Here’s to the next chapter.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2016
Copyright © Bernice Barrington, 2016
Cover photo © Jon Shireman
The quotation on page vii is taken from Out of the Silent Planet by C. S. Lewis, copyright © C. S. Lewis Pte Ltd 1938, and is reprinted by kind permission
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-1-844-88372-1