My Mother's Daughter - Ann O'Loughlin

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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.