Chapter One
Rathmoney,
County Wicklow.
Hours passed.
Margo sat in her favourite wingback velvet armchair
by the window.
The rain sheeted down outside, balls of
water creating
their own symphony on the galvanised roof of
the big shed
out the back. Wind squealed around the house,
whipping in
from the sea, across the fields, hitting against the
building,
driving the worst of the weather against the glass
panes,
whistling between the loose bits of wood at the top of
the bay window, a loud gatecrasher into her thoughts.
Her body was
stiff, her mind racing; in her hand a letter. She
did not need
to read it, she knew every line off by heart. Margo
scrunched the
letter into a tight ball, letting it roll over the palm
of her hand,
dropping to the floor. Decisions made in the dark
may never
last, but she had no choice. Her daughter was sleeping,
her husband dead.
Conor’s
funeral had been the day before. Crowds shuffling
forward to
offer their condolences: Conor’s name uttered with a
reverence,
mumblings that he was a good man; big rough hands
laid gently on
Elsa’s head, regrets expressed she would have
to grow up
without a father. Trays of sandwiches were passed
through the
house, bottles of whiskey unscrewed and poured;
beers
uncapped, pots of strong tea brewed, music filling the big
rooms as night closed in.
She had sat in
her black suit, three strings of pearls at her
neck; elegant,
aloof, polite, a shy smile wavering on her face,
a grateful nod
for anybody who leaned in with pre-prepared
murmurs of
consolation. Somebody fended off the most chatty,
steering them
into the kitchen, so they did not bother her with
unnecessary talk.
Jack Roper
from across the road, wearing a fresh shirt and
zip-up fleece,
his trousers neatly creased, had offered to tend to
the animals.
She was grateful, she did not even know where to
start.
‘I can help
out until you find your feet, decide if you are going
to keep on the
old place,’ he said, tugging at the collar of his
shirt which
was making his neck itch, causing a rash to creep
upwards.
Margo had
stood up, clumps of tissues on her lap cascading
to the floor.
‘This is our home; there is nowhere else we would
want to be, especially now.’
Jack Roper’s
face deepened red with embarrassment. ‘I wasn’t
insinuating
anything else; I had a great respect for Conor; I just
want to help.’
Repentant,
she’d leaned towards Jack, rubbing his arm gently.
‘I know. Conor
loved your chats and advice; he said he could not
have made a go of it without your guiding hand.’
The farmer
beamed with delight as his wife pressed through,
a huge lasagne
dish in her hands. ‘Don’t be giving this to the
hordes of
Genghis Khan; keep it for yourself and Elsa. When
everyone is
gone and all the . . .’ she hesitated, ‘. . . all the fuss has
died down, you won’t want to be cooking.’
She made to
give the dish to Margo, but thought better of it,
muttering she
might as well put it in the freezer. Margo smiled,
hoping
somebody had the foresight to take it from Ida Roper
before she saw
the stacks of casseroles and lasagnes, along with
a rich
chocolate cream cake, which had been handed over in the
last two days.
Conor would
have loved this. When they had moved to
Ireland and to
Rathmoney House twelve years ago after Elsa
was born, he’d
fretted he never would be accepted in the small
community. He
tried too hard, making the locals suspicious.
It was Jack
who had set him straight. Ida was more hesitant
but was won
over eventually by Margo’s ample praise for her
culinary skills, in particular her rhubarb and apple tarts.
Margo’s head
buzzed with all the expressions of sympathy;
the overheard
conversations, along with the whispers she wasn’t
supposed to
hear; whispers that she surely would sell up and
leave
Rathmoney House. What was it about those who attended
a funeral,
that they thought they had permission to speculate on
the future?
Margo sighed
to think of the days when living at Rathmoney
House was
easy; the three of them on a big adventure together.
Now they were
a man down, and they would never savour that
carefree time
again, not now, especially after the arrival of the
letter. She
had sat here too long: night had turned into day, a
new day when
Conor was no more and others would quickly
forget him.
Worrying, she scanned the floor for the crumpled
ball, scooping
it up when she spotted it wedged between the
front of the
leather couch and the worn Persian rug. Elsa must
not see it.
Steeling
herself and pulling back the curtains so the early
morning light
crept across the typed words, she flattened out
the page. Pain
flared across her chest again. It was bad enough
a
twelve-year-old girl had to sit and see the life ebb from her
father, but to
think that she would someday have to know the
contents of
this letter was unbearable. That the letter had come
as they had
sat waiting for Conor to die, she resented deeply.
Shutting her
eyes, she was back in his final hour; his laboured
breathing, the
tap on the bedroom door, Ida beckoning her furiously.
‘What?’ Margo
had swung around, her eyes flinting with
anger.
‘There’s a
courier here with something official, he says you
have to sign
for it.’
‘Tell him go
away.’
‘I did, but
he’s insisting.’
‘Tell him to
fuck off. For God’s sake, does he not know what
is going on
here?’
‘Margo, it
will only take a few moments.’
Her face was
wet with tears, her voice low and raw. Casting
anxious
glances at the bed in case Conor heard her pain, she
waved Ida
away.
‘Mum, just go
down. I can stay with Dad.’ Elsa’s small voice
was nervous,
shaking.
Margo took in
the determination in her daughter’s strained
face. Placing
her hand on Elsa’s shoulder, she let her anger
subside.
‘Daddy likes it when you rub your hand across his
forehead.’
‘Like when I
was younger?’
Margo, tears
bulging under her eyelids, kissed her daughter
on the head
and whispered, ‘Yes.’
Quietly, she’d
let herself out of the room, her pace quickening
once she had
shut the door. Tearing down the stairs, she had
seen a man
standing, watching the dog working up a serious
scratch on the
top step.
‘Does the fact
that my husband is trying to eke out his last
hours on earth
mean anything to you? What is so important
that I have to
sign for it?’
‘This is the
residence of Conor and Margo Clifford?’
‘Yes.’ Margo
clicked her tongue impatiently.
He reached
into a satchel and handed her a white envelope.
‘I was told to
tell you not to ignore this letter.’
An electronic
pen was pushed into her hands. She signed her
name.
Ida shoved
closer. ‘What is it?’
‘It doesn’t
matter. I have to get back to Conor.’
Margo had
thrown the envelope on the hall table.
She had not
thought of the delivery again until she’d been
standing in
black, Elsa at her side, waiting for the coffin to be
carried
downstairs. Placing her hand on the hall table for support,
she’d felt the
envelope tucked in behind a vase of roses
sent by one of
Conor’s more generous clients. After the last of
the hangers-on
had been pushed out and she’d closed the door
on the funeral
party in the early hours, she casually picked up
the letter.
Ripping it
open, she scanned it absentmindedly as she walked
across the hall.
Then, stopping
suddenly, she read and re-read the words furiously.
Her breath choking
in her mouth, she stumbled to the
kitchen.
Feeling for a chair at the table, she managed to sit
down. Elsa’s
coat had fallen off the hook at the back door and
lay crumpled
on the floor, a mountain of napkins was balanced
on a small
table beside the stove; half-empty bottles of beer,
cups and
glasses were scattered across the table; a plate of fruit
cake pushed
into the middle. Beside it, the green glass bowl
with apples,
forgotten, shrunken and shrivelled. The dog, flopped
on the
armchair in the far corner, lazily wagged his tail. Cards
handed in at
the door were in a stack, a list of those who had
been
thoughtful compiled by Ida on top, so that when they
came to them,
the thank-you cards would go to the right people.
Shaking her
head, Margo forced herself to read the letter
again, word by
word. Prickles of fear burned through her; her
mouth dried
up, the words on the page swam in front of her and
she thought
she was hallucinating, that exhaustion had finally
taken over.
Placing the sheet of paper on the table, she rubbed
her eyes,
rolled her shoulders. Outside, a bird gave out a throaty
call as the first glimmer of daylight showed itself.
Suddenly
snapping up the letter, Margo moved to the drawing
room, to her
velvet chair by the window. This was her thinking
chair, where
she liked to ruminate on a problem, the drawing
room a quiet
oasis for her thoughts. It was here she had sat for
hours, before
she’d told Conor there was no hope. It was here
she had sat
begging for strength to break the same news to Elsa.
Now she sat
here for two or three hours, frantically wondering
what to do
with the letter, her desperation numbing her brain,
so all she
could do was clutch the piece of paper and sit.
Forcing
herself, she scanned the letter again. Each word
compounded the first flush of distress and heartache.
Who were these
people to seek anything from her at this
time? What
they were asking, she could not do, would not do,
ever. How dare
they intrude on her now? How dare they impose
with a request
so ludicrous, it insulted her deeply. She ripped the
letter in two,
into four and then into tiny pieces, gathering every
last speck from her lap into her fist.
Margo
blistered with pain, loss seared through her, a chasm
of loneliness
and emptiness opening up, swallowing her whole.
Crows cawed a
racket in the trees, the dog mooched in and
collapsed at her feet.
‘Mum, why are
you still wearing that suit?’ Elsa, in her pyjamas,
was standing
at the door, rubbing her eyes.
‘I must have
fallen asleep. I never got around to changing.’
Pushing her
fist into her pocket, she released the bits of paper
deep inside
it, before opening her arms wide, smiling as Elsa ran
into her
embrace.
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