The Book of Tomorrow (9 page)

She tried and tested a few and I grew bored and shuffled lazily around the garage. Shelf upon shelf of junk filled the walls. A table spanning the three walls was also filled with knick-knacks and contraptions that I didn’t know the use for. It was Aladdin’s cave for the DIY obsessed.

I looked around but my head hopped with new questions about the castle. So it had been lived in after the fire in the 1920s. Sister Ignatius had said she’d been here thirty years and had been in the house after the refurbishment. That would take us back to the late seventies. I was under the
impression the castle had been lying idle for so much longer than that.

‘Where is everybody?’

‘Inside. It’s recreation hour.
Murder She Wrote
is on now. They love that.’

‘No, I mean, from the Kilsaney family. Where are they all?’

She sighed. ‘The parents moved away to stay with cousins in Bath. They couldn’t take looking at the castle like that. They hadn’t the time nor the energy nor the money, mind you, to rebuild it.’

‘Do they ever come back?’

She looked at me sadly. ‘They passed away Tamara. I’m sorry.’

I shrugged. ‘That’s okay. I’m not bothered.’ My voice was too perky, sounded too defensive. Why? I really wasn’t bothered. I didn’t know them from Adam—why should I care? But I did care. Maybe it was because Dad had died that I felt every sad story was my story. I don’t know. Mae, my nanny, used to love watching programmes about real-life cases being solved. When Mum and Dad were out she used to take over the television in the living room and watch
The FBI files
, which used to freak me out. Not for the gory details—I’d seen worse—but by the fact she was so fascinated by how to cover up crimes. I used to think she was going to kill us all in our sleep. But she also made the best lattes and so I didn’t probe her too much in case she got insulted and would stop making them. I learned from watching one of those shows that the word ‘clue’ actually came from ‘clew’, meaning a ball or thread of yarn, because in a Greek myth, a Greek guy uses a ball of yarn to find his way out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth. It’s something that helps you get to the end of something, or perhaps to the beginning. It’s the same as Barbara’s satellite navigation kit and my line of breadcrumbs from the gatehouse
to Killiney: sometimes we have absolutely no idea where we are, we need the smallest clue to show us where to begin.

Finally the lock she’d been working on gave way and unlatched.

‘Sister Ignatius, you’re a dark horse,’ I teased her.

She laughed heartily. As she lifted open the heavy front cover my heart fluttered. The voice of Zoey and Laura told me to be embarrassed about this and I momentarily was until the Tamara of this new world beat them away with a stick. But when Sister Ignatius opened the book that embarrassment came back intensified, bringing anger with it for there was nothing in the book. Nothing at all on the pages.

‘Hmm…well, look at that,’ Sister Ignatius said, flicking through the thick cream woven deckle-edged pages, which looked as though they’d come straight from another time. ‘Blank pages waiting to be filled,’ she continued with her voice of wonder.

‘How exciting.’ I rolled my eyes.

‘More exciting than an already filled one. Then you definitely wouldn’t be able to use it.’

‘Then I could read it. Hence it being called a book,’ I snapped, once again feeling this place had let me down.

‘Would you prefer to be given a life already lived too, Tamara? That way you can sit back and observe it. Or would you rather live it yourself?’ she asked, her eyes smiling.

‘Eh, you keep it,’ I said, stepping away, no longer interested in the thing I’d been hugging, feeling let down by it.

‘No, dear. That’s yours. You use it.’

‘I don’t write. I hate it. It gives me bumps on my fingers. And headaches. I’d rather email. Anyway, I can’t. It’s the travelling library’s. Marcus will want it back. I have to meet him again to give it back.’ I noticed my voice had softened on the last sentence. Quite immaturely, I fought a smile.

Sister Ignatius noticed everything and she smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, you can still meet up with Marcus
to discuss the book
,’ she teased. ‘He’ll understand, as I do, that somebody must have donated the diary to the library, mistaking it for a book.’

‘If I take it don’t I break a Commandment or something?’

Sister Ignatius rolled her eyes as I had been doing and, despite my bad mood, I had to grin.

‘But I’ve nothing to write,’ I said, a little softer this time.

‘There’s always something to write. Write some thoughts. I’m sure you’ve plenty of those.’

I took the book back, making a song and dance about how uninterested I was in it and ranting about how writing diaries was for dorks. But for all my talk, I was surprisingly relieved to have it back in my arms again. It felt right sitting there.

‘Write what’s up there,’ Sister Ignatius pointed at her temple, ‘and what’s in there,’ she pointed at her heart. ‘As a great man once called it, ‘’a secret garden.’’ We’ve all got one of those.’

‘Jesus?’

‘No, Bruce Springsteen.’

‘I found yours today,’ I smiled. ‘Yours isn’t a secret any more, Sister.’

‘Ah, there you have it. It’s always good to share it with someone.’ She pointed at the book. ‘Or something.’

The evening was closing in by the time I made my way back to the gatehouse, with my stomach grumbling, not having eaten since Zoey’s Mum had made American pancakes and blueberries for lunch. As before, Rosaleen was standing at her open door looking out, her face furrowed with worry, frantically searching from left to right as though any moment I would emerge. How long had she been doing that?

She jumped to attention when she saw me coming, pushed her hands down near the crotch of her dress to smooth it out. The dress was chocolate brown with a green vine climbing from hem to collar. A humming bird flitted near her boob, and later I noticed another by her left bum cheek. I don’t think that was the designer’s intention, but her height dictated their ironic placement.

‘Well, there you are, child.’

I felt like snapping at her that I wasn’t a child but I gritted my teeth and smiled. I needed to exercise more tolerance with Rosaleen. Tonight, Matthew, I’m Tamara Good.

‘Your dinner’s keeping warm in the oven. We couldn’t wait
any longer, I could hear himself’s belly talking to me from the ruin.’

Many things annoyed me about that sentence. Firstly, that she hadn’t called Arthur by his name; secondly, our discussion was once again revolving about food, and thirdly, she’d referred to the castle as a ruin. Instead of stomping my feet, Tamara Good smiled again and said sweetly, ‘Thank you, Rosaleen. I look forward to it in just a few moments.’

I turned to make my way to the stairs but her sudden movement, a jerk of some sort like an athlete at a starting line anticipating the gun, kept me rooted to the spot. I didn’t look at her, just waited for her comment.

‘Your mother’s sleeping so you’ll not bother her now.’ She’d lost that stammering eager-to-please tone. I couldn’t figure her out but probably nor could she me. Tamara Not-So-Good ignored her and I continued to make my way upstairs. I knocked gently on Mum’s door while Rosaleen’s searing eyes branded me with her stare and, not expecting a response from Mum anyway, I entered.

The room was darker than before. The curtains had been drawn but it was the sun that had slipped into something more comfortable for the evening that made it cooler and dimmer. It was the first time Mum had appeared mummy-like to me for the past month, but it wasn’t for her maternal instincts. The yellow blankets were pulled up to her chest, her arms were constricted down by her side under the covers as though a giant spider had rolled her into its web to kill her and eat her. I can only imagine Rosaleen had tucked her in this way; it was physically impossible for Mum to have trapped herself under the blankets so tightly. I loosened the blankets, lifted her arms out by her side and I kneeled down beside her. Her face was peaceful as though she was merely having one of her favourite crème fraiche and yoghurt wrap
spa treatments. She was so still I had to move my ear to her face to make sure she was breathing.

I watched her then, her blonde hair around her on the pillow, her long eyelashes closed over her perfect blemish-free skin. Her lips were ever so slightly parted and were breathing soft, sweet, warm breaths.

Perhaps as I’ve been telling this story, I’ve been giving the wrong impression of my mother. The grieving widow mindlessly looking out of a window while sitting in a rocking chair in a bell-sleeved nightgown makes her sound so old. She’s really not old at all. She’s beautiful.

She’s only thirty-five, much younger than all my friends’ mums. Mum had me when she was eighteen. Dad was older than her, at twenty-eight. Dad loved telling me the story about how they met, though it always differed slightly each time. I think he enjoyed it, leaving the truth as something Mum and Dad only ever knew. That was a nice thing about Dad, and I never minded if they never told me the whole truth. Perhaps hearing it wouldn’t have lived up to all the other stories I’d heard and visualised. The common denominator in all of his stories is that they met at a posh banquet dinner somewhere and when their eyes met he knew he just had to have her. I started laughing and told him it was exactly what he’d said about the filly he’d seen when he came back from the Goffs sale.

He shut up then, lost the smile and the distant look, and momentarily wished he hadn’t got a teenage daughter, while Mum seemed to ponder my words in a long silence. I wanted to tell them that I didn’t really mean it, that it was just the way I was, awkward, and bitchy remarks dropped from my mouth without intention or preplanning. But I couldn’t say that to my parents. I was
too proud. I wasn’t used to saying sorry. But refusing to take it back wasn’t just because I was too proud, it was also because a part of me thought that it could be true. It
is
exactly what Dad had said when he came home from Goffs. It was also exactly what he said when he saw a new watch, or a new boat, or a new suit: ‘You should see it, Jennifer. I have to have it.’ And when Dad had to have something, he had it. I wondered if Mum was as powerless as the filly in Goffs, as the yacht in Monaco and everything else in the world that Dad had to have. And if so, I don’t pity her at all for her weak-mindedness.

I don’t doubt that Dad loved Mum. He adored her. He was always looking at her, touching her, he opened doors for her, bought her flowers, shoes, handbags, constant surprises to show her he was thinking of her. He was always complimenting her on the most ridiculous things which annoyed me a lot. He never complimented me on any of those things. And don’t go all Sigmund Freud on me, I wasn’t jealous—he was my dad, not my husband, and I know the same rules do not apply, nor would I want them to. But. You can’t lose a daughter, can you? A child of yours will always be your child, whether you see them or not. A wife, now that can more easily be lost. She can grow bored and wander off. She was so beautiful she could have had most men she met, and Dad knew this. His comments to Mum, meant in the most endearing way, seemed patronising to me.

‘Sweetheart, tell them, tell them what you said yesterday when the waiter asked if you’d like dessert. Go on, tell them, sweetheart.’

‘Oh, it’s not a big deal, George, really.’

‘Oh, tell them, Jennifer, sweetheart. It was so funny, really it was.’

And then Mum would tell them, ‘I simply said that I’d put on the calories just looking at the dessert menu,’ and people would smile and laugh lightly, while Dad’s face beamed with
pride at the hilarity of his wife, and Mum would smile that mysterious smile that revealed nothing and I would want to stand up and shout, ‘But that’s fucking ridiculous! That joke is three thousand years old! And it’s not even funny!’

I don’t know if Mum ever saw it the way I did. She always just smiled and that smile hid a million responses. Maybe that’s what made Dad nervous: how much she kept inside. Maybe he never knew how she felt. They weren’t like other couples that sometimes rolled their eyes at each other, or picked each other up on comments they’d made to discuss or debate them a little further. They were just both sickeningly agreeable with each other. Mum pan-faced, Dad always complimentary. Or maybe I simply don’t understand what was going on between them because I’ve never been in love. Maybe love is thinking that every time your partner does or says something mundane that you want to start a Mexican wave from here to Uzbekistan in utter delight. I’ve never had that with anyone.

I always felt Dad and I were total opposites. When he’s afraid, or was afraid, of someone leaving, he complimented them on everything. For example, if Mum’s friends visited, they usually annoyed him and he’d ignore them the entire time they were there, but then when they were leaving he’d make sure he gave them the warmest hugs, smile and send off possible. Dad was a ‘stand at the front door and wave until you can’t see the car any more’ kind of person. I’d just imagine Mum’s friends when they got home: ‘George is such a gentleman, when I left he gave me the biggest hug and helped me into my car. I wish you’d behave like that to my friends, Walter.’

Dad was more into last impressions than first ones, which makes his death all the more symbolic. I was the opposite. Just as I’d given Barbara an easy way to leave me by making
bitchy remarks to her, I’d done the same to my mum and dad all my life. I make it easier for people to leave by making them momentarily hate me. I didn’t realise that other people kept and stored my spoiled behaviour, my sarcastic throw away comments. I’d been doing that since I was a child.

I used to beg Mum and Dad not to go out so much but they’d go out anyway. The only times they stayed in was to recharge their batteries, usually so exhausted and tired of being together they’d separate and spend the evening in different rooms. We never got to spend time with all of us together. I’ve learned now that what I desired more than some things—but not more than
any
thing—was for us to spend time together, natural and easy time around the house, not pushed together in forced moments when they’d call me into the room to proudly present me with a gift or a surprise announcement.

‘Now, Tamara, you know how fortunate you are,’ would begin Mum, who has the biggest problem with guilt about having all the things we had. ‘There are lots of boys and girls that don’t get this opportunity…’

And in my head I wouldn’t feel the excitement they’d think I’d be feeling, though I’d be trying to show it on my face. All I’d hear was my own voice saying, yada yada yada, get to the point, what are you giving me now?

‘But as you’ve been so good and appreciative of all the lovely things you have, and because you are such a special daughter to us…’

Yada yada yada. It’s not a gift, I can’t see it anywhere in the room. Mum’s got no pockets, Dad’s hands are in his, so it’s not concealed on their bodies. We’re going somewhere. Today’s Wednesday. Dad goes to the driving range on Thursdays and Mum has her monthly colonic and without that she’d surely blow up, so we’re not going anywhere till
Friday. It’s a weekend thing. So where’s close enough to go for a weekend?

‘We talked about it for a while and we feel…’

Yada yada yada. Perhaps, London for a weekend. But they always go to London and I’ve been there before, and they seem excited. So it’s somewhere we don’t often go. Paris. That’s close enough. Stuff for them to do; Mum can shop, Dad can follow her around, secretly buying the things for her that she loves but won’t get because they’re too expensive, and I can do what? What can I do in Paris? Oh, I get it now. Ah. Eurodisney. Cool.

‘We’ll give you three guesses,’ Mum almost squeals with excitement.

‘Oh, gee, this is impossible, Mum. How can I guess?’ I’d say, trying to be all confused and flustered and excited, thinking hard. ‘Okay,’ I’d bite my lip. ‘Aunt Rosaleen and Uncle Arthur’s for the weekend?’ I’ve learned that if you aim low first then it makes the parents more excited about your imminent shock and awe. I’d guess two more crappy places and watch as Mum would almost explode with excitement. Bless her.

‘We’re going to Eurodisney, Paris!’ Mum would exclaim, hopping up and down, and Dad would dive for the brochure to show me where we’re staying. Mum would search my face for the emotion; Dad head down with brochure in hand, would immediately point out the things. Things to do, things to see, things we can get, things that we’ll have. Look at this, flick through the pages, look at that. Things, things, things.

No matter how clever and rewarding parents think they are, children are one step ahead.

So to get back to my point, I kicked up an awful lot of fuss one night before they went out. I hurled a lot of abuse at them, not to make them feel guilty but because, back then, I actually meant it. But they went out anyway and because
they probably felt so guilty about leaving me I didn’t get into any trouble for all the nasty things I’d said. I learned that they were always going to go no matter what I said, and so instead of feeling sad and embarrassed in front of Mae to be left behind at home, I pushed them away. I was in control.

Dad had been acting oddly in the weeks leading up to his death, maybe longer but I’m not too sure. I didn’t speak to anybody about this. I guess this is what diaries are for. I thought that he was going to leave us. I felt there was something peculiar, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. He was unusually nice. Like I said, he was always nice to Mum, usually nice to me if I was nice back, but this kind of nice was like a long and drawn-out wave goodbye from the door. A very long and very nice last impression. Long goodbye, very dead. I felt something was coming. Either we were leaving or he was.

Even when lots of people asked about his behaviour after his death, I maintained the same innocent and confused expression as Mum: ‘No, no, I didn’t notice anything wrong.’ Well, what was I going to tell them? For the week before Dad died I felt he was standing at the door waving us off, even long after we were out of view.

I felt something was coming and I did what I always did: I started to push him away. I was bitchier than usual, worse behaved than usual; smoked in the house, came home drunk, that kind of thing. I challenged him a lot more. Our fights were more vicious, my retorts more personal. Horrible stuff. I did what I’d done ever since I was a kid when I didn’t want them to go. I basically told him to leave. I hate him that he did what he did,
when
he did it. Any other night and I could have just mourned him. Now I’m mourning him and hating me and it’s almost too much for me to bear. Could he not at least have thought about how I’d feel, particularly after our
last conversation? I gave him the worst goodbye and he did the worst thing in response. Maybe not because of me but I can’t have helped.

I don’t know if Mum felt something was wrong with him too. Maybe she did but she has never said. If she didn’t sense it, then I was the only one. I should have said something. Better yet, I should have done something to stop him.

I’m sorry, Dad.

What if, what if, what if…What if we knew what tomorrow would bring? Would we fix it? Could we?