What She Never Told Me (14 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Sandy has already left when I wake up. I have a vague memory of him kissing me on the nose. He has opened the curtains, so that the sunlight is streaming in. It’s so strong that I have to squint into it while I decide whether to doze for a while longer or get up. I get up. I want to get back to the papers.

I have a quick shower and then make coffee and toast, which I eat on the floor in the sitting room, papers strewn all around me.

I find my First Communion and Confirmation certificates. Although my mother had no interest in religion, she was happy enough that I shouldn’t stand out as being different. So, like the other little seven-year-old girls in my class, I wore a long white dress with a lace veil and a little pearly tiara, and went to the altar with my hands joined as if in prayer, to receive the body and blood of Jesus for the first time.

I root around among the stuff scattered across the floor and I find an old black-and-white photograph showing a group of little girls dressed like miniature brides and beaming at the camera. We had spent months preparing for that day, rehearsing for the first time we would go to confession, stand inside the dark box and wait for the priest to slide back the grille and hear us own up to all the terrible sins we’d committed in our seven-year lifetimes.

I smile now, remembering how I’d agonised over whether something was a sin and, if so, whether it was a mortal or venial sin. How small those worries were. But, back then, they were worries that dominated my life.

I made my First Communion in the church to which my primary school was attached. It wasn’t far from where we lived in Drumcondra and I’ve always assumed that I was also baptised there. But I can’t assume anything any more. A baptism certificate isn’t a legal document, but if I can find mine, it will have on it the names of the church and the priest who baptised me. If he’s still alive, he may be able to help me with even the smallest bit of information. I scrabble among the papers, but can’t find it.

Richard, though, may be able to tell me what I need to know. I dial his number and I’m pleased to hear the lift in his voice when he hears me speak.

‘Ah, Louise, you’re back in the country. Are you going to come and see me?’

‘I am,’ I say. ‘But I’m going to be knee deep in paper for the next few days, and I was wondering whether you might be able to fill in a couple of blanks for me in the meantime.’

‘I can certainly try.’

‘Was I baptised? I think I must have been because I went to a convent school. But I haven’t found a baptism certificate yet.’

‘Yes, you were. In fact –’ he breaks off and clears his throat – ‘I stood for you.’

‘You’re my godfather?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry . . . I haven’t been a very good one.’

‘Oh, it’s all right. Maybe my mother told me, but I don’t remember. I don’t think I ever even asked who my godparents were. Did I have a second one?’

‘Yes, but I can’t remember her name. I think she may have been an old school friend of Marjorie’s.’

‘And the church? Was it in Drumcondra?’

‘Why would it have been there?’ is his response. ‘No, it was here in Dalkey. We were all there.’

‘All?’

‘Well, Marjorie, myself and my wife, the other godparent and, of course, our parents.’

This is something I hadn’t been expecting. My mother’s parents, who had rejected their daughter for having a baby out of wedlock, attended my baptism, which took place in their local church in Dalkey. It doesn’t make sense and I say so.

‘They were strict, but they weren’t cruel,’ Richard says. ‘Look, I wanted to tell you this when you came here earlier this year, but you seemed so agitated that I didn’t want to upset you further. I don’t know what Marjorie told you, but if she told you that our parents threw her out of the house—’

‘She didn’t exactly say that, but that’s the impression I’ve always had.’

‘It wasn’t as simple as that.’ He sighs. ‘They hit the roof, of course, when she came home and announced she was pregnant. But they never cast her out. She stayed here, in the family home, until she had you. And she could have continued to live here, but she insisted on moving into a flat when you were a few months old.’

‘Drumcondra,’ I say. ‘That’s where we lived.’

‘It wasn’t, then. The flat she moved into from this house was in Rathmines. She was there for a year or more. It was a nice little flat. My parents paid the rent and went to visit her occasionally, and she brought you here, too, sometimes. And then, all of a sudden and for no obvious reason, she moved out of the flat. We only found out when the landlord contacted us. She hadn’t left a forwarding address. It was hard on my parents. They weren’t the most demonstrative people, but they did love her and they were terribly hurt by it.’

I listen, bewildered. I might have doubted Richard had he told me all this during my first visit, but a lot has changed since then. My mother, I now know, was a consummate liar. She lied about everything. What I can’t even begin to understand is why.

Richard is speaking again.

‘We didn’t hear from her for years and my parents were too proud even to try to contact her. I probably should have made more of an effort but . . . well, Sadie, my wife, and I were having a few problems. Anyway, Marjorie had been settled in Drogheda for a very long time when she got in touch with me, and by then our parents were both dead.’

I had thought of my uncle as having had a charmed life, inheriting the family home in a beautiful area. Now I’m learning that impressions are not to be relied upon. Certainly not mine.

I briefly consider mentioning the death certificate and the ‘other’ Louise before I ring off, but decide that this is not something for the telephone. I’ll take the document I found among my mother’s papers with me when I visit him, maybe later in the week. And I’ll make sure I also take the letter to Santa Claus in Lapland from the little girl called Ailish.

But I need to ask Richard whether he had been aware of my mother’s time in Northamptonshire.

‘I think I know why she cut everyone off,’ I say. ‘Did you know that she moved to England at one point?’

‘England? No. No, I had no idea. When was this?’

‘When I was very small. Or when someone was very small.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a long story, Richard,’ I say, weary now of the conversation and unable to face the thought of recounting the details of my visit to David Prescott. ‘And it’s not one for the phone. I’ll come up later in the week. I’m sorry, but it’s all getting a bit complicated and a bit much.’

There’s a silence that lasts several seconds.

‘Would you like me to obtain a copy of your baptism certificate?’ Richard asks eventually. ‘I can have it for you when you come.’

There’s no need for a baptism certificate now. I’ve learned more from this telephone conversation than anything a record of my church baptism will show. But I might as well have it. One more document to add to the strange collection.

‘If you don’t mind,’ I say.

*

Sandy phones at six o’clock to say the issue surrounding the patient he and his colleagues have been discussing is much more complicated than he had thought it would be. He sounds agitated.

‘I’m really sorry, hen, but I’m going to be here at least through tomorrow morning. Will you be all right?’

‘I’ll have to be, won’t I,’ I say, and I immediately regret my snappy tone. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like a witch. It’s all this bloody paper. I feel as if I’m drowning in it. And I discovered something else today.’

I tell him about my conversation with Richard and he whistles.

‘Bloody Nora! So she was the one who rejected them, not the other way round. Look, why don’t you leave everything until I get back. If anything dodgy is going to turn up, I want to be there.’

‘You’d better hurry back, then.’

*

I’ve invited myself round to Angela’s for the evening, partly because I want company and partly because I want to fill her in on all the latest developments. Joe, despite having worked all day, is only too happy to take over the cooking, leaving Angela and me to sit in the garden, making inroads into a bottle of wine.

Maybe it’s the result of her training as a nurse, but Angela has always taken everything in her stride and barely reacts to what I tell her.

‘I had no idea whatsoever that she’d lived in England. She never mentioned it. I wonder if my father knew. And this death-certificate business . . . Do you think it’s real?’

‘Yes. Well, in that one does exist in the name of Louise Redmond, who was born on the same day I was born and whose death was registered by a Marjorie Redmond. But it just can’t be right – except, how many Marjorie Redmonds are there who have daughters called Louise Redmond, born on the same day in 1969?’

‘You know, Louise, I really don’t think this is something you can sort out on your own. It’s gone well beyond that stage. My advice is to go to the police when you get back to London,’ she says.

‘But what will they do? They’ll probably just say that there’s obviously been a bureaucratic mix-up somewhere along the line. And then why would they bother to get involved when the death certificate was issued in England, but the birth certificate in Ireland? And there’s still masses of stuff I have to go through. Maybe everything will become clearer when I’ve looked at all of that.’

‘Pity she never kept a diary,’ Angela says drily. ‘We’d all be the wiser.’

I’m not so sure about that. I find myself thinking that, even if my mother had kept a diary, it would almost certainly turn out to be a work of fiction.

Chapter Eighteen

Bombshells have become par for the course over these past few months, but the one that lands this morning has nothing to do with my mother and the turmoil she has left for me to sort out. And the strange thing is that, when it explodes all around me, I’m not even that surprised. It’s as if things have somehow come together and are finally starting to make some kind of sense.

My day starts with my mobile ringing, waking me up. It’s the opening of Mahler’s eighth symphony – my ringtone for Sandy – and it’s big and loud. I love when it bursts into life with the massed choirs singing
Veni, Creator Spiritus
, although not at seven o’clock in the morning.

‘Hello?’ I say, turning the greeting into a question with an upward flick in intonation, hoping he’s not calling to tell me that there’s a new delay and he won’t be coming back today. We have only a few days left in the house, in the huge bed dressed in white linen. On Sunday, we fly back to London.

‘Lou, are you all right?’ he asks, and I assume he’s checking to find out whether anything untoward or upsetting has turned up among my mother’s things.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ I say. ‘Slightly hung over. I went to Angela’s last night, so you can imagine. But otherwise not a bother on me. Are you all right? You sound a bit . . . anxious.’

‘No, no, I’m fine. I just felt bad about leaving you for a whole night when we have so much to do and with everything else that’s been happening. But I’m coming back today. I have a flight around three, so I’ll see you between six and seven.’

‘Wonderful.’

I’m about to end the call when I hear him start to speak again.

‘Lou . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I do love you.’

‘I should hope so,’ I say, using the response he used to make when it was me telling him I loved him. When I put the phone down, I’m smiling. It’s already turning into a good day. I feel I can handle anything it throws up. I haul myself out of the bed, shower and dress, and walk down to White Nights, where I order a big cup of coffee and a croissant.

It’s eight o’clock and the air is still cool, but it’s going to be another hot day and this is the perfect start to it. People are crossing the little pedestrian bridge in both directions, going to work, going about their business, and I can hear the distant hum of the heavy stream of traffic that bypasses the town centre. The river looks clean and bright in the early sunshine. I wonder where the swans are. Perhaps they’re still asleep.

I’m so relaxed that I almost don’t hear my phone ring. If it’s Sandy telling me he’s not coming after all, I’ll murder him, I think to myself as I scramble inside my bag for the phone. It’s not Sandy, though. The number that flashes up is a London landline that I don’t know.

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘Louise?’

It’s a female voice and I don’t immediately recognise it because I’m hearing it out of context, but within seconds I realise it’s Julia.

‘Julia, hello. I’m still in Ireland.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she says, and even as I wonder why she’s calling me, I have a feeling that she’s not going to tell me anything I want to hear. Her speaking voice seems to have dropped a tone and there’s no hint of that honeyed sound that is so seductive.

So I wait for her to tell me the reason for her call. But, all the time, I’m telling myself I know exactly why, because now it’s all making sense. And I’m half relieved because I know now why Sandy left me that first time. I don’t have to wonder any more. But the other half of me is devastated as I listen to Julia say how she hates herself for having to tell me this, but she has no other option because Sandy is the father of the baby she’s going to have, and that he loves her but is torn between leaving me – because he feels guilty about doing something like that when I’m in such a parlous emotional state – and moving in with her and the baby.

She’s still talking non-stop when I put the phone on the table, and I leave it there, leave her talking to the wind. I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t need to.

Eventually, I put the phone back in my bag without checking whether Julia is still on the line. She must have cut it at some point because, after a while, it starts ringing again. I look at it, but I don’t answer. It’s Sandy.

I look at the river, see how fast it’s flowing. I could lower myself into the waters that are dark below the glistening surface and let myself be taken out to the sea. But the thought is a fleeting one. It wasn’t so long ago that I had to learn how to survive without Sandy. I can do it again.

He keeps trying to call me through the morning, but I just let the phone ring. I could answer, talk to him and hear what he has to say. I have questions that are torturing me. How did he meet her? Was it through the choir? It must have been. And why did he choose her? Was it because she could have a child? Did he compare her with me and find me less lovable, less beautiful?

And I think back to this morning when he called me so early and told me he loved me. I thought he simply wanted to make sure I was all right. But now I know he was checking to see whether Julia had already called. Maybe he thought he was safe and could get back in time for some damage limitation. But the damage has been done. I think that maybe I could have coped if he’d told me about the initial betrayal. After all, he came back to me. But I can’t deal with this new one.

A text comes through:

Louise, please let me tell you the truth. I did have an affair with her, but it’s over. It has been over for a long time. I love you.

I text him back:

No more lies. Don’t come back. I don’t want to see you.

I go back to the house. I take Sandy’s things out of the wardrobe and put them into one of the black plastic bin bags. They’re destined for the charity shop. I haven’t gone through them. If there’s further evidence of his betrayal, I can’t bear the thought of finding it.

Sitting in the kitchen and drinking mug after mug of strong tea, I torment myself with images of Sandy and Julia together, planning a future with their baby. I think about his trips away from London. He went to conferences all over Europe. Vienna. Prague. Berlin. Rome. Was she with him on those trips? Or had he invented some of them and gone to stay with her for days at a time, knowing I wouldn’t check up on him? I sob until my ribs are too sore to cope with any more weeping and I wipe away the mixture of tears and snot running down my face. I’ve had enough and now I want to know everything, but I want the truth. If I talk to Sandy, I’ll get only lies.

I search through my phone and find a number for his friend, Geoff, whose flat he stayed in when we were separated and who also sings in the choir. I once thought of Geoff as my friend, too.

‘Hello, Geoff, it’s Louise Redmond. Do you have a minute?’

He’s uncomfortable talking to me and at first denies all knowledge of Sandy’s affair. But I persist, telling him about Julia’s telephone call earlier this morning.

‘Geoff, this woman sought me out, came to me for lessons. And all the time she was screwing my husband and probably laughing at me behind my back. Now she says Sandy is the father of her baby and is planning to leave me, once and for all. I need the truth. Did he meet her through the choir?’

‘I’m afraid so. She joined about a year ago. Look, I’m not trying to make excuses for him—’

‘It sounds like that’s exactly what you’re about to do!’

‘She set her sights on him. He didn’t really stand a chance. She was very determined.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Geoff, don’t give me that rubbish. She clearly didn’t have to try too hard.’

‘She could have had any of us, Louise, myself included.’

For a moment, I’m sidetracked. I switch my hatred of Julia to envy. How extraordinary to have such power over men. But my anger takes over again.

‘Do you know what really pisses me off, Geoff? He left me and he never told me why. He let me think there was something wrong with our marriage, because he said there was no one else. And, all the time, he was with her, and everyone knew about it. Everyone except me.’

‘Louise, I have to say I’m a bit surprised about this latest development – the, er, pregnancy – because I thought he had ended the whole thing. He hasn’t been to choir for a while, either. He took a break because he wanted to fix things with you. Have you heard Sandy’s side of things?’

‘Why would I want to hear his side of things? What would be the point? I know what he’s done. I’ve had too many lies. From everyone.’

Angela comes round. She’s sympathetic, but says I need to speak to Sandy before I start to think about cutting ties with him.

‘I should have known it couldn’t last,’ I say.

‘Well, it lasted long enough,’ she says. And then, softening her tone, she adds, ‘You’ve invested a lot in your marriage. Do you really want to let it end because of an affair?’

‘Angela, am I really hearing this from you? It’s more than an affair! She’s pregnant. He’s been carrying on all the time I was convinced we could make a go of things. Would you forgive Joe if he had an affair? If he’d had an affair and said it was over, but was lying?’

‘I don’t think I’d want to know if he’d had an affair,’ she says. ‘But now that you know for sure that Sandy’s had one, I think you should talk to him.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Do you want me to talk to him?’

‘No! Don’t, Angela. Please.’

Geoff said Sandy hadn’t stood a chance against Julia. But maybe I was the one who had never really stood a chance, not against a woman like Julia, who could give him a child.

Sandy, busy at the hospital, busy with choir rehearsals and concerts, hadn’t made an issue of having children. I had been ambivalent and I had been afraid. I had seen us as a perfect couple. And now I curse myself for having been so stupid, so sure that we could survive as a couple without a family. I couldn’t have been more wrong.