Masters of the House (14 page)

“I don't see why
you
have to do anything,” said Annie bitterly. “We're all right as we are. You can see the young ones have been properly fed and kept clean and tidy.”

“Annie love, your father needs attention,” said Mrs O'Keefe, summoning up all her peasant common sense against this childish irrationality. “Medical attention. No doctor in the world is going to let things go on as they are.” She looked at the girl and then said gently, “You'd have been found out before summer was over, you know. Summer's the time when you expect to see people. The neighbours would have started wondering about your father before long. Eventually the little ones would have talked—maybe they have already, but people haven't quite caught on. And before long your father was bound to be ill—physically ill—and then you'd have had to call a doctor.”

“But we don't want to be taken into care!” said Matthew passionately. “Just separated and handed over to this family and that one.”

“And did I say anything about that?” demanded Mrs O'Keefe. “Sure, I never did. Now, the first thing is to get the doctor to your dad. We need to know how bad the poor fellow is and what the chances are that he might recover. That'll be for Monday morning. But whatever happens it's going to be a long process. The best thing is for me to move in now—”

“You?”

“I don't see any alternative. The doctor will want to know there's someone looking after you. I think we'd better conjure up some kind of story—”

She looked at the two serious childish faces opposite her, seriously thinking as they took in the new situation.

“We invented an Auntie Maureen,” said Annie. “For
her.
We said she was here on a visit from Ireland. And we talked about her to one or two other people—so that they thought there was someone in the family taking an interest.”

“Well, I can't suddenly become a Maureen,” said Mrs
O'Keefe briskly. “People know me here and know that I'm a Constance. But I can say your Auntie Maureen is a friend of mine in Ireland and that she phoned me to come round and see that you were all right.”

“What will you say about Dad?” Matthew asked.

“We'd better not tell the truth, had we? Make you children a nine-days' wonder at St Joseph's. I think we could say that all the work and worry and responsibility finally got to him and he's had some kind of nervous breakdown.”

“Yes!” said the children. “Like it was recent.”

“That's it. But I'm not sure that will wash with the doctor. I'd better stay closer to the truth with him but tell him that I'm here indefinitely to look after you all. Nobody's going to come rushing round to take you all into care, you know. It's a last resort.”

“Are you sure?” asked Annie.

“Oh yes. No question,” she said, slowly and explicitly. “I'll not
let
you be taken into care.”

It was very comforting—the most wonderful relief. Annie and Matthew looked at each other and smiled.

“How shall we manage about bedrooms?” asked Matthew.

“Well, we'll have to manage, won't we? Perhaps we'd better not make any changes for tonight—the little ones won't want too many strange things happening at once. Is there a good sofa anywhere?”

“There's one in the sitting room. And there's an old sofa-bed in the dining room that used to be Aunt Lucy's.”

“You have some relatives, then?”

“No, she's dead,” said Matthew. “She left us this house. All the relatives we have are Mum's in Ireland, and they don't care, though they pretend to.”

“Well, let's have a look at that sofa-bed, then, just for tonight. Then I'll ring my Rob and tell him I'll not be home. Maybe you can find me an old nightie of your mother's.”

So that was how things sorted themselves out. They pulled the old sofa out to make a bed for her, sneezing at the dust that months of neglect had allowed to accumulate. “We'll have a good hoover round tomorrow,” said Mrs O'Keefe. Then they fetched sheets and blankets and pillows down from the airing cupboard upstairs. They got Greg and Jamie in from the garden, and Mrs O'Keefe took them upstairs to wash them and put them to bed. When they were in their pyjamas she told them to say goodnight to their father. She stood behind them in the doorway as reluctantly they did so, getting no more than a grunt in reply. Dermot Heenan looked at Mrs O'Keefe without comment or curiosity and, confused, she shut the door and shooed the children to their room.

It seemed odd to Matthew and Annie not to have the children to put to bed. When they were settled and Mrs O'Keefe came down again, she saw at once that they were at a loose end.

“I bet your schoolwork will have suffered with all this,” she said. “We'd better make that the first priority over the summer: catching up. And you'll start tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mrs O'Keefe,” said Annie.

“I've been thinking about that,” said Mrs O'Keefe. “What you're to call me, I mean. At the moment it's the name of a ‘horrible woman' for you, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said the children in heartfelt tones.

“I think Auntie Connie' fits the bill, don't you? I know Annie and Connie makes us sound a bit like a music-hall act, but we'll get our tongues round it in time.”

The children agreed that “Auntie Connie” sounded fine.
The new auntie then went into the hall and phoned her son. They heard her say that something had come up—“a bit of an emergency”—and that she'd be sleeping here for a bit. Could he pack her things and bring them round to Calverley Row the next day? She then lowered her voice but misjudged it, and they heard her say, “No, there's no danger of meeting him.”

Then she came back to the sitting room, and they all watched a bit of television. “Study and revision tomorrow,” she said, as she packed them off, earlier than of late, to bed. “Two hours a day over the summer and you'll soon catch up.”

Annie slept wonderfully well. It was the sleep of utter relief, at a burden having been lifted off her shoulders. The future was unclear, but somehow, she knew, they were going to remain a family.

Matthew's sleep was more troubled. In fact, it was a long time before sleep came at all. He heard the lights being switched off downstairs and the house settling into total silence, and still he lay staring into the darkness. He was troubled by what Mrs O'Keefe . . . what Auntie Connie had said about his father's needing medical attention and not getting it, troubled about her comment that in judging him so harshly he was playing God. It was true that before all this, Dad hadn't been a bad father at all—easy-going, generous and a lot of fun. There had always been laughter when he had been around. And yet for that one lapse Matthew had been willing to condemn him utterly, cast him off his pedestal, break up the image. Why had he been so unforgiving?

And the accusation of playing God made him think of Carmen O'Keefe and burying her body. Had he played God there, too? Was that another mistake they were going to have to undo?

No! he told himself fiercely.
That woman
was going to stay buried. Better for all of them so—for the children, for Dad, for Auntie Connie, for Rob O'Keefe.

After midnight he dropped off to sleep, and when he awoke it was to a household of which he was no longer in charge.

M
ATTHEW AWOKE
to the smell of frying bacon. His nostrils almost twitched under the sheets at the delicious unexpectedness of it. When he went out onto the landing, he found Annie and Jamie in the bathroom; and the two elder ones exchanged the sort of looks that their recent complicity had made so frequent: looks that did not need words added to them. This one said all sorts of things like, “Just like old times” and, “We're not having to do it ourselves” and, “We're free at last.” It was Greg who ran downstairs shouting, “Fried breakfast! Yippee!” but he put all their feelings into those simple words.

“Now, you're not to think you'll be getting this every morning,” said Mrs O'Keefe, as she took warmed plates from under the grill and began dishing out. “I know as well as anyone that wouldn't be good for you. But on Sundays . . .”

They all pulled back chairs and sat at the table, looking at her raptly.

“We've just been having cereals and toast,” said Annie, making an advance towards friendship and intimacy—an intimacy that involved complicity as well. “But this is wonderful. Mum used to cook us a proper breakfast on weekends.”

Annie suddenly caught sight of little Jamie, looking at Mrs O'Keefe with his brow wrinkled; and she knew with certainty that he was about to ask, “Who are you?” She jumped in quickly with, “Now, Jamie, you'll just have to wait till Auntie Connie has done yours.”

There was a pause for thought, and then, “Auntie Connie,” repeated Jamie, as if this solved his problem.

“That's right,” said Mrs O'Keefe, turning round and smiling. “We talked it over last night, what you should call me, and that's what we decided on. Auntie Connie.”

“Auntie Connie,” said the two younger ones.

“You can tell people I'm a friend of your Auntie Maureen's, and I'm here to look after you till your dad is all right.”

This was a new idea to Greg.

“Is Daddy going to get well?” he asked.

“Well, we'll surely hope so, won't we? Sick people usually do get well, don't they?” She turned and began putting the plates before them. “I'm going to make a start today by arranging for his doctor to come round.”

They all took up knives and forks and began tucking in joyously.

“His doctor's in a group,” said Matthew, his mouth full. “I think they only have emergency calls on Sundays.”

“Does the doctor go to St Joseph's?”

“Oh yes. It's Doctor Maclennan.”

“Then I”ll ring him up before he goes off to mass. If I can't speak to him I'll speak to his wife. I'm sure she'll understand how important this is.”

Breakfast was wonderful, with unlimited toast and marmalade, though Auntie Connie said she didn't like that awful sliced stuff, and she'd have to look around for some real bread somewhere. She managed not to make it sound like a criticism. When they were finally replete, Annie and Matthew said they'd wash up; and after a moment's thought, Auntie Connie nodded agreement. She went into the hall and consulted a telephone directory; and after they'd finished running the water for the washing up, the children heard fragments of conversation.

“No, there's no question of his coming to the surgery. Even if I could get him there, it would just make a spectacle of the man. . . . I'd say it was some kind of mental breakdown. . . . No, very serious. . . . Well, the children have been looking after him, bless their hearts. But now I'm here, and I'll not be going home till he's back to health. . . .”

Once again Annie and Matthew looked at each other. Then they went on with the washing up. When Auntie Connie came back to the kitchen, she looked very pleased.

“He'll be coming round tomorrow afternoon. That's the first step taken, isn't it? Now, I don't suppose you children have been going much to church, have you?”

They both shook their heads solemnly.

“Not much,” said Annie. “We have been, but not much.”

“Afraid people would ask a lot of questions, were you? Well, we'll have to get you all back to regular churchgoing, but perhaps we'd better let things settle down for a week or so first. Then you can answer people's questions confidently. And I can't go today, at least not this morning, because my Rob will be coming round with my things. So I think you two should get down to your schoolwork and start revising all you've done or should have done since your poor mother died. Don't say you haven't fallen behind, because I know you must have. It'll be
six months' work; and if you give it a couple of hours every day over the summer, you should be up to date by the end of the holidays.”

It was comforting to be told what to do. Perhaps it wouldn't be so pleasant forever, because Auntie Connie obviously had very definite ideas, and rather old-fashioned ones. But for the moment it was a good feeling; and every time she told them what to do, they realised that now they didn't have to make all their own decisions or decisions about Greg and Jamie.

Rob O'Keefe came round at about eleven o'clock. He had a long conversation with his mother in the kitchen, and then he was led through to be introduced to them, bringing with him a wonderful aroma of roasting pork. He was a big, strong-boned man with large hands and a protruding chin. He had lost his Irish accent and spoke very much as their father did, when he spoke at all. He looked to be in his early thirties, but his fair hair was already thinning. He was very ill at ease, and when he'd said he had seen them sometimes at church with their mother he shuffled and didn't seem to know what else to say.

“I hear you've been going through a rough patch,” was the best he could finally manage.

“Oh, not so bad, really,” said Matthew.

“I'm really sorry about your dad. . . . You'll be all right now Mother's taken you in hand.”

“Yes, we will.”

Auntie Connie then took him out to meet the young ones, who were playing in the back garden. When Matthew and Annie went to the kitchen for a Coke half an hour later, they saw him playing uproarious games with them, lifting Jamie high above his head and then swooping him down towards the ground as if he were a bird seizing a worm.

“He's embarrassed with us because we know about his wife and our dad,” said Annie, when they were back in the front room.

Matthew nodded wisely.

“Yes. He's what they used to call a cuckold.”

“I expect he'll get over it,” said Annie.