Let Them Lie, page 5
‘I’m so sorry, Kate. I never realised that he suffered from depression. I suppose I’ve been so wrapped up in my world that I never noticed when things were bad with you.’
‘Why should you, love? It was a long time ago and Kenny didn’t want people to know. I don’t know if I ever told you, but Kenny had a tough upbringing. He was in care for most of his childhood, and I think it left a mark on him that no amount of reassurance from me can shift. So, we just have to tough things out and hope for the best. Now, enough about my troubles, I want to hear about you.’
‘Kate, we can change the subject, but I want you to know that I am always there if you need to talk. Promise me you will let me know how things are with you and Kenny.’
Kate grinned at her as she tipped the freshly washed lettuce into the salad bowl. ‘I promise, little sister. I’ll ring you and talk whenever I need to. But not a word to Mam – she doesn’t need to worry, especially not this weekend.’
‘Ah yes, Kate, what’s the story about the anniversary? Is Father Francis coming here to say Mass or are we going to the church?’
‘Yeah, Mass is here at eight tonight. It’ll be just us and the aunts and a few neighbours. Mum has a mountain of food cooked, so plenty of leftovers to take away with you tomorrow.’
The mention of the anniversary Mass for her father prompted Aoife to ask, ‘Kate, I was only a kid when Dad died. I have memories of him, but I have no sense of what he was like as a person. To me, he seemed kindly but remote. I never really knew him. What was he like?’
‘Hang on a minute while I make us some fresh coffee. Is instant OK for you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fetch some of those bikkies Mam keeps on the shelf.’
Aoife got the biscuits and sat at the table where Kate joined her with two mugs of coffee.
‘Now what were we saying? Oh yeah, about Dad. Well, I was fourteen when he died. So, I just knew him when I was a child and a teenager. He was quiet, Aoife – a quiet man. He worked hard on the farm, came in, read the paper from front to back, watched the news, and went to bed. And he smoked like a train – it used to worry Mam a lot. She was always on at him to give the fags up. He wasn’t overly demonstrative but then what fathers of that generation were? I never remember him shouting at us. Mam was the disciplinarian. Occasionally she threatened us with him but we knew she was the one in charge. Every Friday he would peel off a few notes out of a tatty old wallet and hand them to her and they would drive to town where she would do the weekly shopping while he sat in the car and read the paper. When he wasn’t busy, he could be fun. He used to let me ride on his shoulders and tell me stories. As I got older and turned into a bratty teenager, he was less interested in me or me in him.’ Kate smiled reminiscently. ‘I know he cared about me though. One time I got sick – pneumonia, I think – anyway I was very ill, and I remember he sat beside my bed holding my hand. He never spoke, and I drifted off to sleep. When I woke the next morning, he was still there. I felt so special and proud that he did that for me. I’m sure Mam sat up many nights with me, but when he did it I felt loved, you know. My memories of him as a teenager are more tenuous. I was interested in boys and discos. If I wanted to go out, I had to negotiate with Mam – she was the sole authority. Dad always said “Ask your mother” if I ever appealed to him to be allowed out. He was a good man, Aoife, an old-time traditional father. He was the breadwinner, but he deferred to Mam about us.’
‘What about Sam? How did he get on with Dad?’
Kate furrowed her brow. ‘I remember the two of them always being out and about on the farm. Sam adored Dad and sometimes I used to be jealous of how much time they spent together, although I was in no hurry to do the hard, mucky work on the farm either. The plan was that Sam would go to Agricultural College and take over the farm, although before Dad died I think Sam was more interested in becoming a vet than a farmer. It’s strange how things work out. The moment Dad died, he just decided that the farm would be his life. I can remember them having a few rows about the usual teenage things, smoking, sneaking out to meet girls, but Sam had a lot of respect for Dad. Why don’t you ask him? Apart from Mam, he knew Dad best of all.’
While Aoife was pondering on her sister’s words, the door flew open, and a whirlwind entered. Sandy was small and beautiful, a fourteen-year-old Goth in a black miniskirt and leggings, scary black eye-makeup and pale foundation belied by the exuberance of how she greeted her aunt.
‘Aunt Aoife! Mum, why didn’t you tell me Aunt Aoife was here?’ she demanded of Kate. Not waiting for a reply, she turned to hug her aunt. ‘How’s Connor, why didn’t you bring him with you? Have you bought your dress yet? Can I go with you shopping for my dress? And please, please, don’t make me wear something cheesy!’
Aoife returned her niece’s hug enthusiastically and then held her at arm’s length so that she could admire her.
‘No, I haven’t bought my dress yet, and yes, we can go shopping for your dress – and no, I wouldn’t dream of making you wear anything you don’t like. Connor is busy working on his dissertation, but he sends his love.’
Grinning happily, Sandy sat down beside her aunt and mother.
They spent a happy hour chatting and catching up, Aoife promising not to go all ‘teachery’ on her and ask her about school. Instead, Kate recounted her daughter’s exploits on the football field as Sandy pretended annoyance, but by the smirk on her face Aoife could tell she was delighted.
Agnes came into the kitchen to remind them that in an hour and a half the priest would be there, so they took the hint implicit in her words and got up to assist her in putting the finishing touches to the feast laid out in the dining room. It was a salad to beat all salads. Their mother had prepared gallons of coleslaw, potato salad, pasta, and rice dishes. There were also copious amounts of salmon, thinly sliced beef, and ham to keep the men happy. She had the unshakable belief that men had to consume meat or fish twice daily or they would sicken. To keep the ladies happy, she had outdone herself with scones, cakes, and fresh bread. There wouldn’t be room for everyone to eat at the table so everything was laid out buffet-style so guests could help themselves, but the girls were directed to set places at the table for the priest and the aunts.
Meanwhile, Sandy had transformed a table in the front room into an altar by covering it with a thick white tablecloth and placing two brass candles at each end. She then arranged two rows of chairs in a semicircle around the altar.
At eight, Kate, Sandy and Agnes went upstairs to change while Aoife hurried outside to call Sam in to get ready for Mass.
CHAPTER 6
Sam was at the back door, pulling off his Wellington boots. Aoife watched him for a few moments. He did everything with slow, deliberate movements. Suddenly she flashed back to a memory of her father. It was the sharp darting way he moved. He could be completely still and then be a frenzied blur of activity, rushing through his work, tearing from one thing to the next, and yet he never seemed to be done. One task followed another in a torrent of activity. She remembered him kicking off his boots and hanging up his wet jacket, simultaneously splattering mud and muck about her mother’s immaculate scullery to the soundtrack of her scolding voice. Sam was a sharp contrast, moving slowly but thoroughly and completing each task with little fuss or flurry.
She called to him, and he turned and smiled.
‘It’s OK. You can tell Mam to calm down – I’ll be ready on time.’
Smiling, she ran upstairs, changed into a skirt and blouse, and applied make-up.
The priest had arrived when she went downstairs. Agnes was urging him to have some tea, but he reminded her he was about to say Mass. Father Francis was seventy-five and still working. Shortages of priests meant that retirement wasn’t an option if you were fit and well. Aoife shook hands with him. She had always liked him. He was a kind man, and she never forgot his gentleness the night her father died. Realising how confused she was, he took time to talk to her and try to explain what had happened to her dad. His hair was white, and the blue eyes were now filmed by age, but he was still quick-witted and had a sharp sense of humour. He must find the local parish priest a pain in the arse. Father Kestler was one of those people who think they are cleverer than they are and were always eager to give everyone the benefit of their opinion, however ill-informed. Father Francis never complained, but once or twice she had seen him shudder, pained by the idiocy of his fellow cleric.
‘Hello, Aoife, it’s well and grand you’re looking,’ he said, greeting her with a warm smile.. ‘Young Connor is a lucky man. How is he, by the way?’
‘He’s in great form, and I remind him how lucky he is daily, Father,’ she said, grinning back at him. ‘We’re both looking forward to you marrying us in August.’
The arrival of the aunts interrupted their conversation. Their pungent and conflicting perfumes dominated the room. They presented a vision of contrasts. Aunt Emma, the eldest at seventy-six, was the most glamorous. White hair beautifully cut flattered her small oval face which, although well creased by time, still held arresting hints of her past beauty. The untimely death of her husband in an accident at his workplace left her widowed at an early age but also, thanks to a generous insurance claim, financially secure. Aoife enjoyed Emma’s capacity to be charming and bitchy in equal measure.
Standing next to her, Aunt Clarissa was as plain as Emma was beautiful and as sweet-natured as Emma was acerbic. Abandonment by her husband after only three years together had taken its toll on her appearance. The shame she felt about this marital failure gave her a sad, diminished air made worse when in the shade of her glamorous older sister. She wore her grey dress like a uniform. Did she own clothes in any other colour? Clarissa was always hard up for money, so she dressed out of charity shops and steadfastly refused to take any money from her well-to-do sister. Aoife thought her wise to remain financially independent. Emma would be a benign dictator, but a dictator nonetheless. Clarissa was smart to hold on to her poverty and her independence.
Baby was the youngest sister, her given name long forgotten by everyone including possibly Baby. She wasn’t even the youngest in the family. Aoife’s father, Manus, was the ‘baby’ of the O’Driscoll family. But somehow the name suited her. At seventy-two, she resembled a chubby, wizened baby, all round eyes and pouting lips. The impression of childishness was enhanced by her plaintive, whiney voice. The oversized dresses she decked herself out in looked quaint and girly, yet aged her more than she realised. Baby had never married. Aoife avoided spending too much time in her company as it made her teeth hurt.
Although Clarissa was her favourite aunt, she enjoyed the waspish wit and animation of Emma, so she made a beeline to her.
‘Aunt Emma, you look wonderful – you get younger every time I see you. Connor reckons that you have a portrait in the attic and that’s how you look so gorgeous.’
Aoife laid the compliments on with a spade, knowing how Emma would lap it up.
‘Darling Aoife, you are a tease! How is that lovely man? I’m so excited to see you both walk down the aisle. But what a pity it is that your dear father won’t be there to take your arm on the big day. I suppose Sam will do the honours but of course it’s not the same as having one’s father. It was the same for me on my special day. My father died when I was a little one. Ah well!’ Emma sighed theatrically.
Father Francis appeared before them in his vestments and a hush crept over the room as everyone took their seats.
Clarissa stood up and in a quivery but oddly moving voice sang an old hymn that Aoife remembered from childhood. The priest listened with head bowed and then began the celebration of the anniversary Mass.
Aoife drifted off, lulled by the familiar drone of the responses. She came to with a start when she saw people receiving Communion and hurriedly joined them. The Mass ended with Clarissa and her sisters singing ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee’. Glancing across at her mother, she saw how tired she looked, worn out with all her cleaning and baking. Guiltily, she realised it was nearly three months since she had last been home. She would visit more often and, when she and Connor married, they would have her mother up to stay regularly.
People filed out of the room and Aoife made her way to help her mother with the food.
Sam waylaid her. ‘Can you get some sherry for the aunts? You know what they’re like, mouths parched with all the yakking.’
Reaching into the cupboard, she got out three bottles of sherry and poured out a sweet sherry for Baby, a medium for Clarissa, and a dry one for Emma. It reminded her of ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’.
The ladies, delighted with their refreshments, were soon happily sipping and talking to Father Francis and Sam. When her mother joined them talk soon turned to Manus and the aunts reminisced about the old days when he was alive.
Aoife felt a shiver travel down her spine. For a few hours, she had avoided thinking about the box but now a creeping unease settled over her and she desperately needed reassurance. Hearing Connor’s voice would help or at the very least distract her from her troubling thoughts.
She slipped out to the hall and rang him, sitting on the stairs while she waited for him to answer. It went to voicemail, so she just left him a quick message. She longed to hear his voice, to tell him about the box and the notebook. Caution prevented her from saying anything to Kate or Sam or, God forbid, her mother.
‘Aoife, there you are!’ Emma stood before her, dangling her empty sherry glass. ‘I was wondering where you got to. Come and talk to me. I’m fed up with listening to those old hens I’m related to. I need some stimulating conversation and another sherry if I’m to survive this evening.’
Aoife put her mobile away. ‘OK, why don’t we sit in the sunroom? You go on ahead and I’ll fetch your drink.’
Aoife took her glass and Emma tottered off.
Aoife replenished the glass and made herself a generous G and T. Shoving the sherry bottle under her arm, she carried both glasses to the sunroom. Emma was perched elegantly on the couch. She still had a good pair of legs and wasn’t afraid to display them. Her eyes lit up when she spied the sherry bottle and she patted the space beside her.
They chatted for a while and then, when there was a pause, Aoife asked, ‘What was Dad like?’
Emma glanced at her questioningly.
‘I mean, I never knew him properly, I was a kid when he died. I just wondered what he was like as a person.’
Emma gave one of her direct looks. ‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Of course I do!’
Emma reached into her handbag and took out a photograph. She handed it to Aoife.
It was black-and-white, battered and creased, but she could make out a boy of about nine or ten. He was tall and thin and was staring unsmilingly into the camera.
‘That was your father the year I went to America. He was a young lad stuck at home on the farm with our mother. I took that photograph. You asked me what he was like. It was so long ago and yet, this evening, chatting with the girls and your mother the memories came flooding back – I was a lot older than him. He was the baby of the family. When the older boys left and showed no signs of coming back, I think that mother intended him to stay put and run the farm and look after her. He hadn’t much of a life while she was alive. The best thing that ever happened to him was meeting your mother. He was a serious man, Aoife, slow to smile, and he always seemed older than his age. When I came back from America, I found him as difficult to know as ever. He always struck me as a sad person. But your mother made him happy. You keep the photo – it’s only getting destroyed in my bag. You know Sam is a bit like your dad, serious and hard-working.’
Aoife stared at it wonderingly. ‘What was Granny like, Aunt Emma? Why didn’t Dad have much of a life with her?’
Emma looked at her empty glass and Aoife took the hint and filled it up.
‘Mother was a powerful woman. She brought us up and educated us and gave us every opportunity on little or no money. She refused charity and was very independent. But she was a hard woman – there was no softness about her. It wasn’t difficult for me or the others to leave home, but we felt bad for your dad. Every year he got quieter and quieter. He worked his guts off on that farm and she never gave him a crumb of praise. He never had time to have a life of his own. I never remember him having friends or going out. When Mother died, he met Agnes. She worked in the office of the funeral undertakers that buried her. They started going out together and before too long they were saving hard to get married. We were all delighted for him. Your mother was such a lively girl we hoped she would lighten him up.’
‘Did she? Did she make him happy?
Emma patted her hand. ‘Yes, she did. I can truly say that no woman could have made him happier, but …’ Emma hesitated.
Aoife demanded, ‘But what?’
Emma sighed. ‘I don’t think your father was ever really happy. He had a dark sadness about him that I don’t think ever lifted. In fact, when I heard about the accident I wondered if perhaps it wasn’t an accident.’
Aoife glanced at her sharply. ‘Are you saying that you think he killed himself?’
Emma looked contrite. ‘Of course he didn’t kill himself. It was just a foolish notion I had. Of course it was an accident. He fell, and the cold finished him. It was just when I first heard he died, I wondered, that’s all. Don’t mind me, I’ve had too much sherry.’
Aunt and niece sat quietly, each uncertain about what else to say.
Aoife’s mind was whirling. The details in the notebook were disturbing and now, according to Emma, her father was a deeply unhappy man. Some unhappy men internalised their pain, others took their pain out on others. Which was her father? Was the notebook a safety-valve or something far worse?
The entry of Kate broke the silence.
‘There you are! Come on, there’s a feast for you to help consume,’ she said.
