It Was Only Ever You (33 page)

The only thing left that he could do for her now was to make sure that she never saw Patrick Murphy ever again.

He marched down the drive, and taking the case from Myrtle said, ‘Go straight up to the house, Myrtle. I want a word with...’ Patrick’s name crumbled in his mouth, ‘him.’

The moment she was out of earshot Patrick started babbling.

‘I am so sorry, Mr Brogan. I know this is all my fault. Is Ava all right? I need to go and see her. I need to explain every-thing to her. I need to.’

Tom Brogan could not remember ever having been so angry in his life as he held his palm up in front of the young man’s chest to stop him walking on. He was not touching him, and was afraid if the young man stepped forward, he could not be responsible for his actions.

‘I do not care what you need. I do not care what you want to do. You leave my daughter alone, you hear? You are never to see her again. Go back to your poisonous girlfriend and look for some sympathy, you will find none here.’

‘Mr Brogan, please, I need to see Ava. Our baby...’

When he mentioned the baby, Tom saw red. He closed his hands into two fists and cocked his head sideways in an angry stare. In that moment, Tom Brogan could have been one of the gangsters he so despised.

‘I’m warning you, boy – if you take one step further on to my property I will call the cops. Do you understand me?’

He looked at Patrick in a way that left him in no doubt that he meant what he said. The kind eyes of the man that helped had disappeared and been replaced with the burning fury of betrayal.

Patrick nodded that he understood and turned back.

He stumbled more than walked the few steps to his car. His hands and legs were shaking so hard he did not think he would be able to drive. But Tom Brogan was standing watching him go. Patrick drove the car to the end of the road, then, still shaking, pulled his vehicle up on to the sidewalk.

There he sat, quietly, waiting for the tears to come.

When they came Patrick felt his soul had been turned inside out. He cried for his baby, for his lost wife, for the family he had left behind in Ireland. For an hour he was just a man, sitting in a car on his own, crying his heart out. Nobody troubled him, and when he was all cried out, Patrick started his car again, and drove around the city until he was nearly out of gas. He did not know where to go. He knew that he could not face going back to the apartment. The mere thought of sitting in their home, being surrounded by their life, was too much to bear. Then he remembered. He was an Irishman and what did Irishmen do when their lives fell apart? They drowned their sorrows. So Patrick started the car again and headed for the Emerald.

Meanwhile, back in the Bronx, Tom Brogan was sitting in the kitchen. Nessa was upstairs, sitting by Ava’s side. Their daughter had barely said a word since she came home. ‘She’s in shock,’ Nessa said.

All that anger had disappeared from his wife, melted away the minute she saw her frail, traumatized daughter come through the door. Nessa had lost two babies before their precious ‘keeper’ Ava came along. Nobody was better equipped to look after a grieving mother.

Tom felt helpless as his wife prepared tea and toast, filled a hot water bottle and went to sit in uncharacteristic silence by their daughter’s bed for the rest of the night.

‘She has had the baby keeping her company day and night for four months,’ Nessa said. ‘She shouldn’t be left alone.’

‘I’ll sit with her,’ Tom said.

‘No,’ said Nessa, ‘let me.’

This was women’s business and he was banished. There was nothing he could do but sit around feeling utterly helpless. Tom was a helper. Not being able to do anything to help his daughter, or indeed his wife at this time, was excruciating.

But it was as if, in the serenity of her new, understanding self, his wife had handed him her petty grievances about Patrick and their daughter marrying beneath herself. As Tom poured himself a whiskey, he found himself unable to let go of the unjust way this young couple had treated his daughter.

With a sense of resolve he picked up the phone and a few minutes later he was speaking to Mary Geraghty in the post office in Foxford, County Mayo, Ireland.

‘Could you put me through to Dr John Hopkins?’ he said.

An American accent. She’d not heard that voice before. Maybe it was something to do with the daughter?

‘May I say who’s calling please?’ she said brightly.

‘No,’ said Tom, ‘you may not.’

Despite himself, and the awful nature of his call, Tom Brogan could not help a small smile. Things back home in Ireland never changed.

‘T
HEY
FOUND
her! She’s safe! Oh, thank God – thank God!’

Eleanor Hopkins was beside herself. Over the last few months Eleanor had been shattered with the disappearance of their daughter. On a number of occasions, her hysteria had risen to such levels that John feared he might have to admit her to Castlebar mental hospital. He tried to quell her fears as best he could with assurances that he himself had come to believe.

When Rose had first disappeared they were both shocked and worried. Shocked that she had stolen the money from them and worried that she would not be able to manage on her own in the big wide world. John knew that she had found Patrick’s letters and assumed that she had gone to New York, and doubtless had found him. Whether it was a wise decision or not, he had not confided this to his wife. He set before her prettier scenarios. That their daughter had gone to Dublin, or London perhaps. That she had taken plenty of money and would get in touch when she felt that they might have forgiven her for stealing from them. It could be a year or more, he assured her. ‘Rose is a big girl, she can look after herself very well,’ he said.

‘She is a
child
,’ Eleanor screamed at him. ‘What kind of a father are you that you won’t go and find her...’

What kind of a father indeed, John thought.

If he had not interfered in Rose’s life the way he had none of this would have happened. His daughter and her young man had fallen in love. In all likelihood, if they had been left alone, they would have fallen out of love, as young couples often do. If they had got married, they might have fallen out of love when it was too late; either way, it was foolish to interfere with fate and meddle in other people’s lives in that way. Even if they were your only child. Even if you were only trying to do what was best for them. People had to do what was best for themselves. John knew that now.

‘My girl, my darling girl! Now you can go and get her and bring her home. Pack your bag right away and you can go and stay in Dublin until the next flight out. She could be home in a few days! This is wonderful news.’

‘I’m not going to get her, Eleanor. She is alive, that’s all we need to know. If Rose wants to come home, then she can call us and make arrangements to do that. I will even send her money, if she needs it. It’s up to her now.’

Eleanor went white. This could only mean one thing.

‘Merciful hour, John – she hasn’t married him, has she?’

John lost patience. Of all the terrible things that could have happened to their daughter, alone, in New York, all Eleanor cared about was that she may have married ‘beneath herself’. In actual fact, as that very decent man on the phone had made clear, Rose had acted beneath anything either of them could have imagined possible of her. She had stolen from them, destroyed a marriage and created a level of distress and hurt in a respectable, good family. Truthfully, John had no desire to see his daughter. He was glad she was safe. But, for the time being, until an apology was forthcoming, that was enough.

‘No, Eleanor – Rose has not married Patrick Murphy.’

He didn’t even want to tell his wife what Rose had done. He was afraid her reaction might throw him further into despair.

‘Thank goodness. Well then, there is no reason for her not to come home.’

‘She is leading her own life over there. When she is ready she will call us.’

‘Did that man give you a telephone number for her?’

‘Yes he did but—’

‘Give it to me at once.’

John stepped aside and nodded at the pad next to the phone where he had written down the number of the convent where Rose was staying.

Eleanor grandly picked up the receiver and asked to be put through to the exchange.

Inside, she was shaking at the idea that her daughter might not want to come home, as Tom said. What would she do then? These past few months had been occupied utterly with her daughter’s disappearance. She had forced the information about her stealing money out of John, after believing that the child had been abducted from the house. At least she knew she had the gumption to go, although she had not imagined in her wildest dreams that she had followed that young vagabond to America.

‘Putting you through,’ said Mary Geraghty. Eleanor closed her eyes in preparation for speaking to her daughter, saying a quick prayer that Mary would not listen in.

It was not Rose that picked up the phone but some American girl.

‘Can I please speak to Rose Hopkins?’ Eleanor asked in her posh, telephone voice.

‘She’s not here,’ said the girl rudely.

‘Ah – this is her mother. Can you tell me when she should be back, please?’

‘Never – I hope...’ Insufferable rudeness, but then, they were American.

‘Can you at least tell me where she has gone?’

‘I have no idea – but to hell, I hope. Congratulations on raising a prize bitch, lady,’ then she hung up the phone.

Eleanor had lost her again. She looked across at her husband, her face collapsed in disbelief and despair.

Perhaps, John thought, it was time to tell Eleanor a few home truths about her precious daughter.

*

Rose got off work early. She knew that Patrick was planning to spend the afternoon at home before coming back in for his evening shift. Perhaps, if she arrived unexpectedly, there would be an opportunity for them to be alone together again. They needed to talk about things, make plans. They needed to talk about the kiss.

Rose started to believe that Patrick did not love her after all. He was married to Ava, and Rose, despite herself, could see what Patrick saw in her. Ava was a warm, kind woman, as kind and sweet a person as Rose could imagine anyone being. As Ava befriended her, part of Rose wanted to believe it would be possible for them to be close. But, no matter how hard Rose told herself it was the right thing, the sensible thing, the decent, and eventually, the
only
thing to do – she simply could not let go of her feelings for Patrick. Her love for him was embedded too deeply in her. Although, she wondered, surely this was not what love was all about? All this chasing around? All this lying? When Patrick said he loved Ava and not her, in her heart Rose simply could not believe that was true. However, she did believe it was possible, that he loved both of them. And that being the case, then as he was married to Ava, Rose knew that she should do the decent thing and let them be.

But then he had kissed her and everything changed again. How could he not love her when he wrote that song?

Rose had just arrived for the evening shift and was putting on her uniform when she heard him. She could scarcely believe her ears. After they had had that fight and she had thought it was all over. But he must have picked up the sheet of paper that she had thrown on the ground and written music to the lyrics. Now he was singing those words he had written for her: ‘It Was Only Ever You’. His message could not have been clearer if he had written above the stage in ten- foot letters, ‘I still love you, Rose Hopkins’.

As she walked through the club towards the centre of the dance floor and stood in front of him, he sang directly to her. There was no mistaking his feeling, his love, his longing. Everything she had been through in the past few months; stealing the money from her parents; chasing across the world, persisting in her love for him, even when he pushed her away; the guilt of deceiving his wife after Ava had been so kind to her; all of those terrible things faded away to nothing when he walked across the room and held her in his arms and kissed her.

He had, of course, chased her off afterwards. This was a very complicated situation and she knew that Patrick would want to do the right thing. Perhaps that was staying with Ava, after all. But even if that was the case, Rose owed it to herself, and him, to acknowledge their grand passion. In her darkest, most selfish moments, Rose determined that if she could get him on his own and kiss him again, she would make him see that their love was strong enough to get them through whatever was coming down the line. That their passion was strong enough, deep enough, to sacrifice a marriage for.

When she got back to her room in the convent, she found Rose’s friend, Myrtle, sitting on her bed. Myrtle came quite often to the Emerald and had made a point of introducing herself when Rose first started working there, although she had had very little to do with her since. Rose sensed Myrtle didn’t like her, and the expression on her face now suggested she hadn’t changed her mind.

‘Hello,’ Rose said, trying to keep her voice light, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘The question is surely,’ Myrtle replied, ‘what are
you
doing here? Oh yes, that’s right – stealing my friend’s husband and causing her to have a miscarriage.’

Rose gasped.

‘Ava lost the baby?’

‘...and her husband, thanks to you.’ This was terrible, shocking news.

‘Where is she?’ Rose asked.

Myrtle stubbed out her cigarette and looked across at her with a nasty sneer.

‘Not that you care but she is at home in the arms of her loving family. And before you ask – Patrick is with her sobbing his guts out. It seems you have ruined his life as well as hers.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Rose. She felt sick. All these lies were bunching up inside her, poisoning her.

‘Of course you do. I saw that pathetic show you put on at the club. That kiss.’

‘You told Ava?’

‘So what if I did,’ said Myrtle. She had felt guilt gnawing at her ever since breaking the bad news, but justified it by insisting to herself that it was all Rose’s fault.