What She Never Told Me (15 page)

Chapter Nineteen

I immerse myself in what I have to do at the house, anything to keep the torment of imagining Sandy with Julia at bay. There are more photographs, reams of them. I’ve seen most of them before. My mother’s wedding to Dermot: she in a light blue dress with her hair up and carrying a small bouquet of white flowers; he in a dark suit and smiling happily at the camera; Angela and I standing beside them in our matching blue bridesmaids’ frocks.

I pick up a small black-and-white print that I had long ago forgotten. I’m dressed for my first day at school, holding a little case. Seeing it takes me back to that morning, the first time I can remember being separated from my mother. She had prepared me for it, but at the last minute I rebelled.

I cried, big crocodile tears that made no impression. Then, as my mother took my hand firmly and led me to the door, I pulled and screamed. ‘No! No! NO!’ She wasn’t having any of it.

‘Come on, Louise, you’re going to love school,’ she said. ‘There’ll be lots of other little girls, just like you. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

But there was. The nun waiting for us stood like a black statue at the entrance to the school and, as we climbed the granite steps, I kept my eyes on the huge crucifix that dangled from the belt around her waist, unwilling to look up at the pale, pasty face that had glared at us as we approached.

‘Good morning, Sister. I’m sorry we’re a little bit late,’ I heard my mother say, and I could tell that she was making a special effort to be polite, because her voice was all sweet and sticky, as if she had spooned lots of jam into her mouth and the words were coming out covered in it.

‘Good morning, Mrs Redmond,’ the nun said, and even now I fancy I hear a sneering emphasis on the
Mrs
. But I’m probably imagining that.

‘And you are Louise?’ she said to me. I said nothing, kept my eyes fixed on that crucifix and the big rosary beads that dangled beside it.

‘Look up at me, child,’ she said, and I did, because, although her voice was low, there was a sharpness to it that forced me to raise my head.

‘You can leave her with us now, Mrs Redmond, and come back to collect her at half past two,’ the nun said, dismissing my mother, who bent down to kiss me before retreating down the steps, promising, as she moved away, that she’d come back in just a few hours to take me home.

I wanted to break into a run after her, but I was too frightened. Instead, I followed her with my eyes until tears blurred my vision and I could no longer see her. The nun told me to walk beside her.

She hadn’t introduced herself, but she was the head nun, Mother Bernadette.

Pre-school education wasn’t generally available in Ireland in those days. There was no gentle introduction to the world of learning. We started primary school around four or five in what was called Low Babies, learning to read, write, do arithmetic – basic stuff that continued the following year, in High Babies. These names may have given the impression that the system recognised how young we were, but some of the nuns were tough.

I was too timid to be anything but well behaved. And I was already able to read and write before starting school; my mother had spent hours teaching me to recognise letters and words, and had guided my hand as it pulled pencil across paper to form them.

‘What’s your name?’ asked the girl I was put sitting beside on that first day. She was dressed like me, in the school uniform – a little navy dress with a white collar and mother-of-pearl buttons down the bodice. Her hair was dark red and as straight as mine was full of kinks.

‘Louise. What’s yours?’ I managed to say before Sister Philomena, who was in charge of our class, spotted that we were talking to each other and walked down to us.

‘Empty vessels make the most noise,’ the nun rapped. Her cheeks were bursting against the tight white coif she wore under her veil. ‘Now, no talking.’ And she turned and walked back up to the front of the class, her heavy black habit making a swishing sound as she moved. As it turned out, Philomena’s bark was worse than her bite; she could look and sound fierce, but underneath it all she was soft. But I didn’t know that yet and I was cowed into silence. The other girl was made of sterner stuff. ‘My name’s Ursula,’ she whispered. ‘We can be friends if you want.’

I smile as I think back to how my first real friendship started. How could two girls so different in personality – one forward and bold, the other on the timid side – form such a strong bond so early in life? She became the sister I had longed for and I suppose that, for her, I was relief from a family of boys in which she stuck out as the only girl. When my mother told me we were moving to Drogheda, I cried for days, because the one thought in my head was that I would never see Ursula again. But my mother helped us to keep in touch, so we remained firm friends. And when I moved to London, Ursula did, too, to study journalism.

As I recall that first day at school, it occurs to me that perhaps Ailish was one of the children in my class. I can’t remember, but maybe Ursula can. I dial her number in London.

‘Ursula, I want to ask you something. Remember school, St Celestine’s?’

‘Will I ever forget it? What about it?’

‘Do you remember whether there was a girl called Ailish in our class?’

‘Hmmm. No, I don’t think so. There was an Aileen, though.’

‘Aileen McCormack!’ I say, and for a moment I think I’ve misread the name scrawled on the letter as Ailish rather than Aileen. But when I check it, I see that I haven’t made a mistake.

‘Why do you ask? You haven’t bumped into her, have you?’

‘No,’ I say, fishing around in my head for an answer. ‘I was just thinking about those days.’

‘Are you managing to have some fun? Is Sandy still there?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘He had to go back.’

Although she’s my closest friend, I can’t bear to talk any more about what Sandy has done, and I’m afraid that, if we continue to talk, I’ll blurt it all out.

‘Listen, Ursula, I’m sorry, but I can see the delivery man coming to the door with stuff for the house. I have to go,’ I say. ‘I’ll give you a buzz later, or maybe tomorrow.’

*

One of the cardboard boxes contains a stack of my old drawings and paintings, all done before the piano became my big interest. I’m touched that my mother held on to them. Some of them are surprisingly good, even imaginative. I can’t remember having painted most of them, but I can easily work out who the people in them are meant to be. The grown-up lady in the high heels and dress that flows out from the waist, and who appears in several paintings, is clearly my mother. The two little girls holding hands are Ursula and me. They must be, because one of them has red hair and the other is dark. Sometimes there are boys with the two girls and I work out that they must be two of Ursula’s four brothers.

I look at each drawing and painting in the stack, enjoying this diversion from the main task, until I come to the still life: a bunch of grapes in a bowl. Another reminder of the past, but this one stirs up a different kind of feeling.

Mother Bernadette didn’t teach. Perhaps her duties as head of the school were too all consuming. Perhaps she just didn’t like children all that much.

Our main contact with her was on Wednesday afternoons when, for half an hour, just after the lunch break, we had a period called Instructions, which was taken by Mother Bernadette and brought the whole school together. This could cover any topic, and not necessarily one that had anything to do with religion or education.

Sometimes she inspected our uniforms, checking that our white collars were clean, that no buttons were missing and that the hems of our dresses were a good inch below the knee. Any child found to be wearing clothes not sanctioned by the school was given a written reprimand to take home to her parents. My mother made sure I was always correctly kitted out.

When I fell foul of Mother Bernadette, it had nothing to do with dress or even behaviour, because I was a fairly docile child. But I was also an artistic one, mad about music, art and ballet. I loved drawing ballet dancers and spent hours sketching dancers in different poses – arabesques, jetés, pas de deux. It was the pas de deux that turned out to be my downfall.

One Wednesday, shortly before Instructions, I was sitting at my desk, absorbed in sketching a pair of dancers, male and female. I had given the ballerina a short tutu. My male dancer was wearing what classical male dancers tended to wear – tights and a codpiece. I had no idea quite what a codpiece was, but I drew it without thinking about it, copying from a picture on a greetings card, because I drew what I saw.

Unfortunately for me, Mother Bernadette came into our classroom to start us moving towards the assembly hall and, failing to catch my attention, walked down to my desk to see what I was doing. Her look was one of disgust. But she said nothing, just turned her back on me and left the classroom, a black crow gliding silently, malevolent and predatory.

We all moved into the assembly hall, where Instructions took place. I was shaken by what had happened, uncertain of what I had done that was so wrong and had so clearly disgusted the nun.

‘Miserable oul’ wagon,’ Ursula whispered. ‘Don’t mind her.’

I wasn’t comforted. I knew Mother Bernadette had something in mind for me and, whatever it was, I was dreading it.

We sat in the hall, waiting for Mother Bernadette to arrive. When she made her entrance, we all stood up and, when given the signal by her, sat down again.

At this point, two of the younger nuns scuttled in, one carrying a small table, the other a large tray.

‘Louise Redmond, come up here,’ Mother Bernadette called out.

I walked up slowly towards her, dropping my head in shame and fear. I was to be made an example of, but I still didn’t know how she was going to do it.

The younger nuns took several things from the tray and laid them on the table: a bowl of black grapes, a small jar filled with water, a sketchpad and a box of watercolour paints.

‘Now, Louise, do you know why I have brought you up here?’ Mother Bernadette asked. Her question was addressed to me, but her eyes were fixed on the assembled school.

‘No, Mother,’ I mumbled.

‘Oh, come now, surely you remember what you were doing?’

‘I was drawing, Mother.’

‘You were drawing. Yes, indeed, you were. But
what
were you drawing?’

I started to tell her that I was drawing ballet dancers, but she stopped me, holding up her hand.

‘I don’t think the school needs to hear about the sinful shapes you were drawing,’ she said. ‘And now, Louise, you clearly have some talent for art, so I am going to show you how you can exercise this talent without offending God.’

She proceeded to paint the bowl of grapes, slowly and painstakingly, ignoring the big clock on the wall and stretching the Instructions period long beyond the half hour. I stood beside her, mortified.

I can’t have been more than eight or nine years old at the time. Even then, I would have preferred six strokes of the cane on my hand. The pain would have burned for a while and then it would have gone away. I didn’t tell my mother about it, though, because she would have marched straight in and shouted at Mother Bernadette, and I was afraid of the consequences for myself if she did.

I look at the watercolour in front of me now, tempted to tear it into tiny pieces and throw the shreds into the bin. I hesitate, though, because, despite its provenance, it’s a good painting. That’s one reason to keep it. But there’s another. If I hold on to the painting, I’ll be taking charge of it. I can decide not to let it disturb me, but see it instead as just a relic of the time in which I grew up.

I’ll take it to the framer later. And then maybe I’ll call Ursula and we’ll both laugh and wonder how we managed to grow into relatively normal adults.

Chapter Twenty

The next time I see Declan is by design.

I’m still in bits over Sandy, devastated by his second betrayal. It has only been a week since he went back to London. I’m not yet used to being without him again. I don’t want to go to bed at night because that’s when I’m weakest, when there’s only me in the vast bed and the emptiness of my future without Sandy stretches into the early hours. And when I wake in the morning, the desolation is the first thing I’m aware of as my body comes to life. I don’t want to be miserable. I don’t want to be the tragic figure I’m letting myself become. I can’t even think about going back to London. It would be too much of an effort, so I just drift from one day to another.

I’ve been walking most evenings on the strand at Bettystown, hoping I’ll see Declan. I don’t have a plan for him and me. I just want to walk beside someone, someone like him, throw sticks for his dog to chase, and then sit beside him in a pub with a glass of Guinness and a packet of Tayto crisps. But when I finally see him on the strand, walking towards me, I quickly become aware of how attractive I find him. And when he stops in front of me, I tell him I’m glad to see him.

We walk for a while, up and down the strand, and eventually we go for a drink. He asks me how things are with Sandy. I grimace and shake my head. I don’t want to talk about it.

‘What about Áine? How is she?’ I ask.

‘She’s in Italy. We have a house there, in Liguria. I’ve just come back, but Áine is staying until the end of the summer.’

‘Are the boys with her?’

He nods.

‘So you’re home alone?’

‘I suppose so,’ he says, giving me a nervous look. ‘Apart from Bran.’

Something brazen has got into me, something that reminds me of the night of my birthday, when I picked that guy up in the wine bar and took him home. But this is different, surely? This is Declan. We were lovers once. We can be again. We don’t have to make a meal of it, fall in love or anything like that. So, emboldened, I lean forward and suggest that he come back with me and I’ll cook something. ‘You’re not in a rush. We can talk for as long as we like. And if you don’t want to drive, you can stay over.’

‘What are you saying? That we should sleep together, have an affair?’

‘Well . . .’

‘With no strings attached?’

I nod. ‘Why not?’

He looks disconcerted, anxious. He shifts in his seat.

‘I don’t know, Louise,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I was in love with you once. I don’t know if I could risk that again. And, anyway, I’m married. I’m not the affair type.’

‘Oh, it’s all right,’ I say. ‘It was just a mad idea. I think I probably wanted to turn back the clock on everything in my life. And you were a good thing in my life.’

He looks at his watch and says he’d better think about getting back to Bran, who will almost certainly be destroying the inside of the car. He’s jittery now, eager to be out of the snug and away from me. In my head, I can hear the nuns saying how important it is not only to avoid sin, but also to avoid
occasions of sin
. If this counts as an occasion of sin, it certainly hasn’t led us to anything very dangerous or serious. Impure thoughts have been entertained, certainly by me, but no mortal sins have been committed.

We leave our drinks unfinished and walk to the little car park. There’s an awkward exchange of small talk, followed by an equally awkward, embarrassed embrace. But the awkwardness and embarrassment are his. I feel exhilarated by our encounter, by the sense that anything is possible, even revisiting the past and not being hurt by it.

I turn on the engine and I’m driving away when I hear him calling out to me. I look into the rear-view mirror and see him running after the car. I can keep driving, go back to the house. Or I can stop the car and wait for him to approach, knowing that this latter option may not be good for either of us.

I stop the car and roll down the window fully. He leans in and kisses me. No awkwardness this time.

‘Wait for me. I’ll get my car and follow you,’ he says.

*

The affair, if it can be called that, with Declan dulls the pain of Sandy’s betrayal, makes me feel alive, desired. When he turns up, it’s always with Bran in tow. I don’t mind if he brings the entire dog community of Skerries, as long as he turns up. His intensity bothers me, though. And he’s full of questions. Am I likely to get back with Sandy? It doesn’t look that way, I tell him. Would I ever think of living in Ireland again? I don’t know, but I doubt it, I say. I’ve been away too long.

Sometimes, I join him in Bettystown to walk on the beach in the evening, when the families have gone home and there are just a few people ambling along the hard sand by the water’s edge. But mostly we stay at the house, putting Bran in the yard so that we can go to my bedroom without having to watch the dog look at us reproachfully as we close the door to keep him out. The sex is easy and comfortable, just as sex with Sandy was easy and comfortable. But it’s not the same. It doesn’t leave me with that feeling of everything in the world having been made right. And hours later, long after Declan has gone home, the ache of Sandy, of having lost him, gnaws at my stomach as I get into bed and turn off the light.

Declan has offered to help me with the sorting out of my mother’s papers. I’ve thanked him, but told him I can manage. I haven’t told him anything about the mess I’m in, and I see no point in doing so. And if I tell him that my mother had a child called Louise Redmond with the same date of birth as mine, and who died when she was three, and that I have no idea who I am, he will surely put on his psychiatrist’s cap, wonder about my state of mind and step back from our affair. He’s too cautious a man to do otherwise. And who could blame him?