him a few he had reserved behind the desk. I’d jumped at the
chance. Of course I didn’t think that in doing so I’d have to
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listen to the simpering librarian behind the desk wax lyrical on what a wonderful man he was and how he must be a great
father. I nodded, made relatively non-committal noises. She’d
become misty-eyed.
‘A terrible tragedy. He’s so young still, and such a good man.
They say God takes the good ones first,’ she said. ‘You must be
beside yourself at the news.’
I’d been so, so tempted to tell her that I wasn’t beside myself
at all at the news. That I’d spent more time than I’m proud of
wishing he was dead. A wicked voice inside me wanted to
scream: ‘The sooner the bastard is in the ground the better.’
I didn’t, of course. And for now I’m doing what my mother
wants me to do. I am being there for him. Smoothing waters,
even though I know no matter how calm the surface, there is
an undercurrent threatening to drag me down at any moment.
I take a deep breath. I won’t let that undercurrent win today.
I plaster something akin to a smile on my face and carry the
tray into his room, where he’s sitting up in bed, reading a
newspaper, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He needs
a shave, but I’ll not be offering to help with that. He looks
much brighter than he did when I first saw him three days
ago. There is some colour back in his cheeks. He smiles back
at me. Or leers. It strikes me that there has always been some-
thing about his smile that makes me feel uncomfortable.
‘Here’s your lunch,’ I say, sitting it across his lap and making
sure he has everything he needs.
I don’t want to be in this room with him any longer than I
need to be, so I turn to leave.
‘Ciara?’ His voice is thin and reedy – thinner and reedier
than it probably needs to be. ‘Come and sit with me. Just while
I have my lunch. Then you can get back to hiding downstairs
again. Or you can go home. But just give me five minutes of
your time, please.’
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‘Okay,’ I say, instantly wishing I had the guts to say no.
‘Why don’t you sit down, instead of standing there and
growing tall? You’re tall enough already.’
‘I’ll go get a chair,’ I say.
It might be a good idea to have one here anyway, for visitors.
Not that there have been many, by all accounts. Despite his
supposed status in the community, the house has been remark-
ably quiet according to Heidi. All those people who he holds
court with, chats to in the street, in the library. They’re not
really his friends, are they? Where are they now?
‘Sure, there’s no need for that,’ he says. ‘You can sit at the
bottom of the bed.’
I hesitate. I remind myself that I’m an adult now and I have
my own voice.
‘I’d rather just get a chair,’ I say, clenching my fists tightly to try to stop myself from shaking. Without giving him the chance
to argue further, I go and get a chair from the spare room,
place it just far enough to the right of his bed that he can’t
reach it, and sit down. I’ve left the bedroom door open. I can
leave at any time I want, I tell myself.
I watch and listen as he slurps spoonfuls of his soup into his
mouth while he tries to make small talk. It’s all inconsequential
babble that infuriates me. He wants me here, he says, but he
doesn’t seem to have any intention of saying the things I need
him to say.
As soon as he takes his last mouthful, washes it down with
the last of his milk, I lift the tray from him and walk from the
room, not looking back.
‘Would you not just stay another few minutes?’ I hear him
ask, but this time I find my voice.
‘No. I’ve done what you asked. I have to leave now.’ I don’t
wait to listen to any response – I just get down the stairs and
out of the house as quickly as I can.
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Chapter Eleven
Heidi
Now
Joe’s not getting better. Not the way the doctor’s hoped, anyway.
I mean of course we know that ultimately he is going to die.
But they did expect him to recover from his surgery well
enough to enjoy some sort of quality of life, for some amount
of time.
He’s still confined to his bed, six days after coming home
from hospital. He doesn’t even want to try to manage the stairs,
to sit in the living room and maybe watch some TV. He
complains he is in pain. He complains he feels sick. He complains
he is too tired. He complains he can’t sleep. He complains his
cup of tea is too hot. Or too milky. Or he wanted coffee instead.
He complains the room is too stuffy. Or it’s too cold.
It’s a constant barrage of complaints, which I feel I have to
swallow down. Because he’s sick. Because he’s dying.
I’ve tried – I’m still trying – to rally the troops, so to speak,
to get help. I’ve spoken to some of Joe’s friends. Asked them if
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they could maybe take a shift on, a morning or afternoon, or an hour even of looking after him.
They’ve mostly been too busy. They work. Or they mind
their grandkids. Or they have plans but they’ll ‘see what they
can do’ and disappear off the radar.
With every ‘Sorry, I’d love to but can’t,’ I feel myself crumble
a little.
This house has started to make me itch. I only have to get
to the bottom of the drive and I can feel my skin prickle.
Everything here is heavy and there are shadows everywhere.
We have, at least, managed to secure a care package for Joe.
From next week, carers will visit for fifteen minutes each morning and fifteen minutes each evening to help with personal hygiene
and the like. It’s not much, but it’s something, and I cling to it.
So far Alex has been on hand to help Joe shave every second
day. We’ve put a stool in the bathroom, where he can sit while
he brushes his teeth, and each morning I bring a basin of warm
water, soap and fresh towels to Joe’s room and he washes himself
as best he can.
He needs a shower. I know that. But he’ll have to wait for
that.
Ciara has visited twice. Stayed for a few hours. Seemed to be
in the foulest of all moods while she was here. It doesn’t help
with the atmosphere, so I tend to avoid her. Use the time she’s
here to get outside and breathe in some fresh air. I walk the length of the quay along the river over and over again with Lily in her
pram, waiting for the peace and calm to wash over me that’s
supposed to come with getting out and about. I’m still waiting.
�
��Look,’ Dr Sweeney says as he sips tea from a good china
cup, the kind kept for company. ‘He’s feeling a bit down, you
know. That could be what’s hindering his recovery in and of
itself. I know the prognosis isn’t good, but we need to do what
we can to get him to make the most of what time he has left.’
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I’d nodded, because it was expected. But ‘we’ all know that
‘we’ means ‘me’.
‘He says he gets panicky at night, in case he’s unwell and
there’s no one here to help him,’ Dr Sweeney, who has been
our family doctor for as long as I can remember, says.
‘There’s always someone here ’til gone eight,’ I say defensively.
‘And then I’m here before nine in the morning again. He has
a phone. He can call if he needs me.’
I want to add that I’m doing as much as I can. I don’t actu-
ally want to do any of it. I’d spent the bare minimum of time
with him before this illness and I’d very much like it if it was
still that way. But of course, I keep quiet.
‘Maybe, but he’s a frail, sick man. I’m not one to tell you all
what to do, but it might be worth talking with other family
members about a rota for overnight care. Even in the interim,
until he rallies a bit.’
I can’t help but roll my eyes. ‘Other family members’ – as if
there’s a queue. As if I haven’t been spending the last few days
calling everyone I know remotely connected with Joe to try
to ease the burden on my shoulders.
‘I’ve a young baby to consider, you know,’ I tell him. ‘But
I’ll mention it to Ciara. There aren’t many more options.’
‘You’re a good girl,’ Dr Sweeney says, a master at being
patronising. ‘And for what it’s worth, babies are very adaptable
at this one’s age. As long as they’ve a bed to sleep in at night
they don’t mind too much disruption to their surroundings.’
I resist the urge to tell him to piss off.
Thankfully he leaves a little later, after eating the better part
of half a packet of biscuits and dusting the crumbs onto the
floor. As I close the door behind him I hear Joe call from the
bedroom and I climb the stairs, each step feeling heavier and
harder than the last.
‘Yes, Joe?’ I ask, opening the door just slightly and peeking in.
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‘Was that Dr Sweeney talking to you about night-times?’ he asks, his face a picture of perfect misery.
‘It was.’
‘I don’t want to cause you girls any more trouble,’ he says, ‘but
it’s so hard here being on my own, with only my thoughts to
keep me company after you all go home to your happy families.’
‘It must be,’ I tell him.
‘I’ll not be round to be a burden on you all for much longer,’
he says.
‘I’ll talk to Ciara,’ I say.
‘Kathleen said she might come over from England,’ he says.
‘Maybe you could call her for me. Tell her I’d like to see her.
She might listen to it better from you. Come sooner, you know?’
‘I’ll do that, Joe,’ I say, putting my hand to the door to leave.
‘Heidi . . .’ His voice is soft, setting my teeth on edge. ‘Could
you pray with me?’
I grip the door handle a little tighter, feel the beginnings of
the fight or flight fear set in.
‘I’ve things to do,’ I tell him.
‘Just a wee decade of the Rosary,’ he says. ‘It won’t take long
and it would mean the world.’
I glance out of the door, I don’t know why. In the vain hope,
perhaps, that someone will come and rescue me. There is no
one there, of course, just as there has never been anyone there.
‘Please,’ he says.
I nod, cross the room and sit on the chair close to his bed.
He lifts his red rosary beads and starts to pray, stopping only
to encourage me to speak up when I’m too quiet.
I parrot the words, the rhythm and familiarity of them
providing no comfort at all. Tears are sliding down my face.
‘Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death . . .’
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Chapter Twelve
Heidi
Now
Thankfully, I don’t have to lay the guilt on too thickly before
Kathleen agrees to fly over from England. She’ll be here as
soon as she can get it all arranged. Maybe her visit will give
Joe a bit of a boost, she says to me.
‘I’ll ask my friend, Pauline, if I can stay with her,’ Kathleen
says.
I tell her she’s welcome to stay at the house, not adding that
it would be great if she did so she could take care of the over-
night minding that Dr Sweeney seems to think her brother
needs so badly.
‘I wouldn’t want to get under anyone’s feet,’ she says, and
even though I tell her it would be no imposition, she is firm
in her resolution to stay with Pauline.
She stayed here, in this house, back then, when I was a child.
For a few months, before she moved to England, if I recall
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I had been maybe ten or eleven. I can’t quite remember. We’d had a strange, strained, relationship. At times she was so loving
and caring towards me, I felt as if I never wanted her to leave.
I realise now that a part of me was longing for someone to fill
the hole my mother had left, but also instinctively knew no
one could. I was so lost without my mother though, I grabbed
on to every act of affection tightly.
But then, at other times, Kathleen would look at me as if I
was completely incomprehensible to her. An alien child. I’d see
no trace of warmth or love. Those times were scary.
I’ve often wondered if she knew what happened under this
roof, if she had any suspicions at all. It’s hard to believe she
didn’t, but it’s worse to think that she might have and did
nothing about it.
Even though she says she will stay with Pauline, I decide to
make sure the two spare rooms are ready. Joe is sleeping and
Lily is napping in her pram in the living room, so I decide to
kill the time productively. One used to be my old bedroom
and the other a guest room. At least they’d be in a decent state
for anyone unlucky enough to get landed with an overnight
shift.
If nothing else, it gives me something to distract me from
my own thoughts, which have a tendency to slip towards dark-
ness and despair a little too often for comfort these days. It’s
best just to keep busy, I tell myself.
I can’t remember the last time I set foot over the door of
my old bedroom. God knows when anyone was last in it. There’s
no doubt it will need to be aired
and dusted, especially if there’s a chance Lily will have to spend a night here with me.
But even walking to the far end of the landing makes me
feel a sense of horrible foreboding and when my foot lands on
the squeaky floorboard – the floorboard that used to act as my
warning signal – my body tenses.
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I take a deep breath and open the door, feeling the cold air hit me. The room has a damp feel to it. A musty smell. I need
to air it but it is much too cold to consider opening a window
just yet. I shiver and switch on the overhead light, the bulb
giving just one pathetic flicker before it pops and dies. I reach
for the switch to the bedside lamp instead and thankfully it
turns on, although it must be the weakest wattage known to
man. A dim, yellow glow lifts the darkest corners of the room
but I wouldn’t say it is in anyway light. Stubbing my toe on
the foot of the bed, I swear as I walk around to plug in the
small oil-filled radiator that sits by the desk.
We can probably fit a travel cot in here for Lily if the need
arises, but apart from that there is only enough space to walk
around the bed, open the chest of drawers or sit at the small
school desk. Still scored with my childish graffiti, it sits under the window.
An unpleasant burning smell rises from the radiator and I
curse myself for not thinking to dust it off before switching it
on. I grab an old towel to give it a wipe while I look in the
airing cupboard for any suitable bedding to dress the bed with.
I decide I’ll bring my own, buy new stuff if I have to. I don’t
want anything he has slept in touching me.
The room doesn’t feel like my room any more, although the
echoes of my childhood and teenage years are still here, down
to the remnants of Blu-Tack still clinging to the walls, where
posters once hung.
Sitting on the bed, I look up and see the dolls, which were
once the most important thing in the world to me, on the shelf
of the far wall. Four of them. Porcelain, pale-faced, dressed in
Victorian-style clothes. Ciara hated them. Said they were ugly
and gave her the creeps. But when I was younger they were a
vital link between my mother and me. She would buy me one
each Christmas. ‘A little girl deserves a very special doll,’ she
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