I Saw You (11 page)

The type to do it.
Margaret repeated the words to herself. Who was the type to do it? She had thought she would be. She had tried it. Not long after she left Ireland, after that night in
Ballyknockan. When she had gone to Noosa on the Queensland coast and she had walked down the narrow sandy beach in the cool of the evening and immersed herself in the water. It was lukewarm, not
much different from the temperature of the water in her shower, and she had lain back, her head parallel to the sand beneath. The sea had covered her ears so she could hear nothing but her heart
beating and her breath sucking air in and out of her body. And she had thought that she could float out to sea. No one would see her, no one would notice that she was gone. No one would miss her or
come searching for her. But she mustn’t have been as ready for death as she had thought because when she swallowed some seawater she felt sick, so she raised her head to clear her throat and
then she saw that she wasn’t drifting out at all. She was being carried back on to the beach and if she put her feet down she could feel the soft sand between her toes. And she was glad. And
she dragged herself out and lay on the sand until the night cold drove her off the beach and into her hotel room to stand under a hot shower, to wrap herself in a bathrobe and to order food and
drink from room service. And she remembered how good that steak sandwich and that bottle of wine had tasted. And she had wanted to cry out her apology to Mary that she wasn’t ready yet to
join her. And so she would go on living. And as time passed it was not only her pain that consumed her, but her guilt as well.

‘So she drowned, however it happened. And, of course, what makes it even worse for my mother is that it was in the same place where my father drowned.’ Vanessa stooped to pick up a
shell. Her hair swung forward across her face but Margaret could see the tears. She said nothing. Vanessa wiped her face with the back of her hand and jumped down from the path on to the beach.

‘I’m going to paddle.’ She kicked off her clogs and ran towards the sea. ‘Are you coming?’ she shouted over her shoulder. Margaret slipped her feet from her sandals
and followed slowly. The sand was wetter here. Every step created a small pool around her feet. She wriggled her toes and felt the suck of the mud below. And heard the girl calling to her:
‘Hey, come and have a look at this. It’s a giant, an absolute giant of a jellyfish. Come and look. Quick.’

It was floating in the shallow water, shocking pink and purple, the size of a large dinner plate, its tentacles splayed around it.

‘Careful.’ Margaret’s voice was sharp. ‘Mind it doesn’t sting you.’

Vanessa’s skirt was wet around the hem.

‘It’s so pretty, isn’t it? Why is it so pretty, do you think, when it’s dangerous? Is it so everyone will notice it and stay away?’ She bent over, one finger poised
above its soft, floating back. ‘But you’d think, wouldn’t you, that it would be the other way round? If it was ugly it would be dangerous, and if it was pretty it would be
harmless.’

Margaret didn’t answer. Jimmy Fitzsimons had been pretty, so pretty with his bright blond hair and his smooth pale skin. And his smile – what a smile. He had come to Mary’s
funeral, that terrible day in the church in Monkstown, and he had smiled at her and she had smiled back at him. A reflex action, the way a mother smiles at her baby. The corners of her mouth
dragged out to the side and her teeth showing. Of course, she hadn’t known who he was then. It wasn’t a betrayal of Mary. It was only later that she knew who he was and what he had
done. And then she had punished him. And the last time she saw him he wasn’t smiling. He was terrified. His face was white with the fear of what lay ahead. He would have done anything to get
her to let him go. But it was too late. It was too late for all of them.

Margaret stepped away from the jellyfish. ‘I don’t know about you but all this sea air is making me hungry. I’m on my way to Monkstown to do some shopping. Would you like to
come with me? We could have a cup of coffee and maybe a scone or something.’

‘Yes.’ Vanessa nodded. ‘That would be very nice. I’d like that. Thank you.’

‘You don’t need to thank me. It’s my pleasure.’

‘Well, I want to thank you for being kind to me. And for listening to me. It’s kind of difficult at the moment. My mother’s in a state all the time. And my friends are away.
Gone for the summer.’ She tiptoed out of the water, holding up her skirt. ‘I was to go too. But then Marina died and everything changed.’

Everything changed. Nothing the same again.

They walked along by the railway line, up and over the metal steps. Vanessa was silent.

‘Your father . . .’ Margaret began.

‘Yes?’

‘He had been married before he married your mother, is that right?’

‘He was married and he had a son, Dominic, my half-brother.’

‘And what happened to his wife?’

Vanessa sighed. ‘Well, from what I know, she was, is, a difficult person. Apparently she has all kinds of problems. According to my mother she’s been mentally ill for years.
I’m not sure exactly what’s wrong with her but apparently she was in and out of hospital all the time she was married to my father. Anyway, again, all I know is what my mother has told
me, and that is that my father divorced her. Afterwards he met my mother and they got married and I was born.’

‘And how did he die?’ Margaret glanced at Vanessa. ‘That is, if you don’t mind me asking. If it’s not too . . .’

‘No, no.’ Vanessa’s voice was suddenly loud. ‘No, really, it’s fine. It’s good to be able to talk about it. He drowned in the lake. He and Marina were out in
a boat and there was an accident. She tried to save him, but he couldn’t swim and he died before she could get help. And then everything was different.’

Margaret said nothing. She waited.

‘Because after he died his first wife, Helena, challenged the divorce. She said that he had lied about where he lived. He had said his domicile was in England. So she went to court and the
court decided that the divorce was invalid. So my mother wasn’t his legal wife. And therefore I wasn’t his legitimate child. I was illegitimate. A bastard.’ Her small face was
very white.

‘It’s just a word, Vanessa. It means nothing. You were still his daughter, still his flesh and blood.’ Margaret put a hand on her shoulder and stopped her.

‘But it meant a lot to my mother. And my father hadn’t changed his will after he supposedly married her. So my mother inherited nothing. My father had been very wealthy. He had a
couple of houses. He had investments, savings, all kinds of stuff. And she got nothing.’ The tears were seeping from her eyes, trickling down on either side of her mouth. ‘But I was
lucky. The law changed not long after I was born and I was recognized as his heir, like Dominic. So my mother was able to get maintenance for me. And in two weeks’ time, when I’m
eighteen, I’m going to inherit part of his property. There’s a little cottage up by the lake, and apparently it’s going to be mine. Not that I care. Not that I want it. I
don’t want anything that came from him. I don’t like what he did. If his first wife was ill, he shouldn’t have tried to get rid of her. It doesn’t seem right to
me.’

They had reached the café by the church. There were tables outside. Margaret gestured to the chairs and they sat down.

Margaret spoke slowly. She picked her words carefully. ‘Sometimes it can be hard for a child to understand the world their parents inhabit. Sometimes it’s not as straightforward, not
as cut and dried. There’s a lovely book,
The Go-Between
by a man called L. P. Hartley. Do you know it?’

Vanessa shook her head.

‘Well, it’s about a boy who becomes involved in a secret relationship between two people he loves. He takes messages from one to the other, but he doesn’t realize what’s
going on between them. And when he finds out he’s devastated. The opening lines are “The past is another country. They do things differently there.” And I’m afraid
it’s true.’

Vanessa looked at her, then away. She said nothing. Margaret took her hand. ‘Don’t judge your father and mother too harshly. The one thing you can be sure is that he loved you and
she still loves you. Of that there can be no doubt.’

Vanessa didn’t answer. They sat in silence. Margaret gazed past her towards the church. She would go there when they had finished. Back to the church where she had first met Jimmy, that
day of thunderstorms, when lightning had cut through the sky. And he had slashed her blouse from neck to waist, tried to terrify her, the way he had terrified Mary. But she had stood up to him. And
he had seen her for what she was. She would push through the heavy wooden door, and sit, bathed in the light from the stained-glass windows. And she would ask for forgiveness. Perhaps she, too,
would not be judged too harshly. Perhaps the Lord would make His face to shine upon her. And remain with her. Always.

She was a busy woman, Gwen Simpson, PhD. McLoughlin had phoned a number of times and got the answering-machine. Each time he’d left a message. She hadn’t responded.
Now he was standing outside the house in Fitzwilliam Square where she had her office. He scanned the brass plates and pressed the bell beside her name. As he did so, the door opened. A man stood in
front of him. He was very small and stocky, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. He was putting on a motorbike helmet.

‘Hold on a minute, if you don’t mind.’ McLoughlin took a step forward and put out his hand to stop the door from swinging shut.

‘You looking for someone?’ The man stood in his way, doing up the strap. The helmet gleamed in the bright sunshine.

‘Yeah, um Dr Simpson – she’s here, isn’t she?’

The man pointed to the brass plate. ‘That’s her. First floor at the front.’ He flipped down the visor. McLoughlin’s face loomed back at him.

‘Thanks.’

The man turned away and McLoughlin pushed past him into the hall. He heard the heavy door slam behind him. There was silence and a sense of cold. He shivered and headed for the stairs.

The receptionist said that Dr Simpson wouldn’t be able to see him. She was fully booked for the whole day. McLoughlin said he wasn’t in a hurry. He would wait. He
sat down on the deep, comfortable sofa and sifted through the magazines. They were new and unthumbed. There was even a recent edition of
Classic Boats
. He turned to an article on the
restoration of the Roaringwater Bay fishing fleet. Next time he met Johnny Harris he’d surprise him with his expertise. He sat back, crossed his legs and began to read.

It was after five by the time the receptionist came to get him. He’d spent a surprisingly pleasant afternoon. He’d helped himself to coffee from a large Thermos-type jug and biscuits
from the selection on offer. He’d watched a succession of Dr Simpson’s clients come and go. Most were women. Most were young and obviously affluent. All were clean and shiny. He
couldn’t imagine how any of them had problems they might need to share with the so far unseen Dr Simpson. The receptionist kept herself busy. There was a little alcove behind her desk. She
had a kettle there and every now and then she would boil it and make herself tea. Or open the little fridge on the shelf and take out a bottle of mineral water, place it on a tray with a glass, ice
and a slice of lemon and carry them in to Dr Simpson. It was a neat arrangement, McLoughlin thought. A very good use of space. A lesson in ergonomics or whatever it was called.

And then his name was called. He pulled himself up out of the softness of the sofa and stretched.

‘She’ll see you now, Inspector McLoughlin.’ The receptionist glanced pointedly at her watch, then came over to collect his dirty coffee cups and straighten the heap of
magazines.

Dr Simpson’s office was a beautiful room. It had classic Georgian proportions. A high ceiling with an elaborate rose and cornice. Two long sash windows, one of them open a few inches at
the bottom. A crystal chandelier swung gently in the breeze, making a soft musical sound. The walls were painted a dull grey-green and there was a deep carpet to match. Dr Simpson was seated at a
desk. It was beautiful too. Modern, simple, a wide piece of polished wood with elegant iron legs. Her head was bent over a pile of papers. She didn’t seem to register his presence. She
carried on writing. He swayed uneasily from side to side. He cleared his throat and looked around. A low couch was pushed against the far wall. It was covered with smooth red fabric. He had a
sudden desire to surrender himself, to lie back, close his eyes and talk. Let it all flow out.

‘Sit down, why don’t you, Inspector McLoughlin?’ she said. She still hadn’t raised her head.

He did as he was told, slipping on to one of the upright chairs facing her. He scrutinized the top of her head. Her hair was grey, pulled back into a no-nonsense bun. She was wearing a cream
wrap-around blouse, which showed a small amount of pale cleavage. Neat gold discs shone from her ear-lobes and her hands were well cared-for, the nails painted red, and a couple of large gold rings
on her third and little fingers.

He recognized some of the paintings on the walls. There was a Norah McGuinness abstract and something that might have been a Mainie Jellett. And was that a Le Brocquy? It was small but the style
was unmistakable. There’s money in the therapy business, he thought.

‘So,’ she sat up straight, and laid her pen neatly on her pad, ‘Inspector McLoughlin, you’re a very persistent man. I’m surprised you have the time to hang around
in my waiting room all afternoon when a phone call would have done.’

‘I tried that,’ he smiled at her, ‘but I wasn’t getting anywhere so I thought a bit of direct action was called for.’

‘Right.’ She leaned back in her chair and it swung slowly. ‘I see.’ There was silence in the room, broken only by the tinkle of the chandelier.

‘It’s nice.’ He gestured above his head. ‘Very soothing.’

‘You think so? Some people find it irritating.’ Her long, thin face was without expression. He noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes and the lines around her mouth. Unlike her
clients she didn’t seem to need the ameliorating effect of make-up.