Still You Read online

  Áine looked at the picture again, showing it once more to me. Rosaleen looked back at me, a small, formal smile tight on her lips. She stood in a fitted suit in a pale golden colour which came to just below the knee, clutching a small white handbag in her white-gloved hand. A pillar-box hat sat on top of her head, her curls beautifully styled. Once again I saw the resemblance between mother and daughter and I smiled.

  “You are like her,” I said. “Two very attractive women. It must be in the genes.”

  “I always wondered would she find love again but she never got over my father’s death,” Áine said. “I never really knew him, you know. He died when I was a baby. I have vague memories – probably what people told me about him when I think about it. My mother should have tried to find happiness again.”

  “She had happiness in her own way,” Jonathan said. “With you, and my mother … and us.”

  Áine nodded, and she looked back at the pictures in front of her. “Thank you for bringing these over today,” she said. “I haven’t seen these photos in such a long time.”

  “I shouldn’t have taken them out of the house in the first place,” Jonathan said. “It was very selfish of me. To take all these pictures – I did mean to scan them and bring them back. I just never got round to it. I wanted my own collection, you know?”

  “And you’re entitled to them too – all these pictures, your parents’ wedding day, your grandmother – of course you should have them.”

  “I’ll bring my laptop and a scanner over here,” he said. “I’ll scan them here.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I told him as I saw Aine lift another picture – the happy couple – and stare at it intently.

  “They made a beautiful couple,” she said softly. “A very happy couple too.”

  Jonathan nodded and reached out and held her hand. “Happiness comes in different forms,” he said.

  Later I settled Áine in her room, helping her into her night clothes and dressing gown. I couldn’t help but notice she was looking utterly worn out even though it wasn’t long after seven.

  “It was nice to see that picture again,” she whispered. She rested back on her pillow.

  “Your mother?” I asked.

  Áine nodded. “There are so few pictures of her. Fewer still when she was all dolled up – looking so happy. That was a happy day – a really happy day. It was just so nice to see that again – to see her at her best.” She sniffed and I could see she was starting to get emotional.

  “You mustn’t get yourself upset,” I soothed, rubbing her hand.

  “I’m starting to forget her a little. Just little things – details. It’s just fading a bit.”

  “It’s happens to all of us, regardless of this hateful disease. We have so much to remember – things get hazy.”

  “But everything is fading a little bit. It’s all gone a little fuzzy around the edges.”

  I wanted to reassure her – to tell her that it would okay but I supposed it wouldn’t. Not entirely, Things would get fuzzier. Things would get scarier. I couldn’t imagine how I would feel if it was me who was sitting watching pieces of my life slip away bit by bit – knowing perhaps that something was there but just a little out of reach.

  “I’ll be here,” I said. “No matter what.”

  “I know,” Áine said. “Thank you.”

  “That was a good thing you did for your aunt today,” I said. “Bringing over those photos.”

  Jonathan was sitting at the kitchen table looking every bit as lost as his aunt had done in her room.

  “She seemed upset.”

  “She misses people. She’s scared of losing her memories.”

  “I never thought to bring them over before. They were just in my house – waiting to be scanned. If I had known, if I had thought, I would have brought them over much earlier.”

  “You can’t beat yourself up about it. You didn’t purposely keep them from her,” I said. “She enjoyed looking at those pictures. Of course it was going to be bittersweet. Don’t we have memories which cause us as much pleasure as they do pain?” I was thinking of the wedding pictures sitting on my own mantelpiece. “Your aunt is doing remarkably well,” I added and she was – Áine was still able to spend large swathes of time in the house on her own. She could hold a conversation. To people who didn’t know her – who spent brief interludes of time with her – she could, on a good day, come across as perfectly fine. “But she wants to remember. She has spent so much time talking about her life. About you as a child, and your sister, and your mother. But they were fading. They are fading. She is fading. It probably won’t be quick. And please God she will stay well for a long time – but to help keep those memories she needs prompts. I can’t prompt her about stuff I don’t know.”

  Jonathan still looked lost. He looked tired and he rubbed his temples as if warding off a headache.

  “I can’t pretend to know how hard it is,” I said, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his arm. “I don’t have personal experience of dementia. I know that no matter how fond I am of your aunt, I’m always going to be one step removed from where you are.”

  “She is more than just my aunt,” he said. “She was my second mother. I don’t think I would be half the person I am without her. My sister the same. In fact I’m pretty sure that almost everyone who ever came through this house owes something to her.”

  “Can I ask a personal question?” I asked.

  He smiled a soft smile. “Well, it seems you are getting to the heart of this family’s secrets one way or the other, so fire away.”

  “Why did your aunt never marry? She has told me of a man called Lorcan – but not what happened there.”

  Jonathan coloured slightly and sat back in his seat. “I don’t really remember Lorcan all that much. I don’t think they saw each other for very long – and then things changed. We moved back when I was eight and Áine took on caring for us.”

  “And your mother, Charlotte?” I asked, wondering where this wonderful mother Áine had spoken of had gone.

  “No, she never came home,” Jonathan said. “Did Áine not tell you? My mother died when I was eight. She drowned at our villa in Italy. She’s buried there. Everything changed that day. As I said, not all our memories are happy ones.”

  I could hardly take it in. Each time Aine spoke of Charlotte, she seemed so alive – so vibrant. She never mentioned her death – and those children, those poor children. I felt shocked to my very core.

  Chapter 17

  1964

  The classroom had emptied. The chairs were stacked neatly on top of the desks and the pencils were back in their pots. The light was starting to fade and the room was growing cold – the heating had clicked off and the old, stone building never did hold the heat for long at the end of the day. Rain rattled off the windows and the fluttering of the leaves outside cast shadows on the walls. Áine stood on her tiptoes, dusting off the blackboard of the day’s work, ready to start on laying out work for the following day. She sang as she dusted – and already her thoughts turned to getting home, sitting in front of the range and enjoying a bowl of the stew she had prepared that morning.

  She glanced at her watch. Lorcan would be by soon to pick her up. She didn’t know why she had worried about their working together – things had run smoothly and she had the added bonus of him picking her up each day and driving her home. They would enjoy a brief chat about their day and then a kiss on the street before she got out of the car. As the afternoons had got darker, the kisses had become longer and she swore there were days when it was all she could think about – those precious moments alone with Lorcan. It made her feel giddy and elated and it was no wonder she sang as she dusted off the blackboard.

  That night would be even nicer – Lorcan was coming for dinner. He did that at least once a week. His first meeting with her mother had gone so well that Rosaleen had told him he was welcome any time and he took her up on the offer. He would always bring a bouquet of fl
owers for Rosaleen which would make her act more than a little giddy herself and he would insist on clearing the table and washing the dishes when they were finished eating. Rosaleen had resisted at first, of course. She had chided Áine, telling her she should get up and do her bit and get that lovely friend of hers a cup of tea – but Lorcan had shushed her and charmed her and now, if he didn’t make them all a cup of tea after dinner, he was likely to get some gentle ribbing as Rosaleen reminded him she took one sugar and just a drop of milk.

  When she heard the door of her classroom open she turned, a smile on her face, ready to tell Lorcan that Rosaleen had baked an apple pie for dessert. She hadn’t been expecting to see that Lorcan was not alone. The headmaster was beside him. Both men’s faces were ashen and in that moment she was acutely aware that everything was changing.

  Áine stood, the quiet of the room buzzing around her eyes, taking in the image before her, and she told herself that as soon as she spoke, as soon as they answered, everything would be different. She didn’t know how, she didn’t know why, but she could see by the way Lorcan started to walk across the classroom to her, his head shaking ever so gently, that something was very wrong. Mr Quinn, the headmaster, stood awkwardly – looking as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world than where he was. She was aware it was cold and she was shivering – a gentle shiver at first, which soon turned into something more violent as Lorcan grew closer. With each step she felt what was her life slip away. She raised her hand, willing him to stop. If he didn’t reach her – if he didn’t say anything – then it could be as if nothing was wrong just for another few moments. All she wanted was another few moments.

  But he stepped ever closer – and she kept shivering.

  “Is it my mother?” she asked, willing him to ask her what she was talking about. Willing him to tell her she was imagining the look of shock on his face. Willing the headmaster to shout “Goodnight then!” and leave them to get on with their plans. Stew, and pie for afters.

  “Your mother is fine,” Lorcan said.

  A momentary flare of relief.

  “But we need to go home now. She needs you.”

  She needs me, Áine thought. My mother needs me. We need to go home.

  And Mr Quinn was shaking his head slowly, sombrely.

  “Why does she need me?” Áine asked, trying to figure out if it was at all possible to freeze time, or to stop her ears from working, or to wake up from this dream. This didn’t feel real, so it couldn’t be real. She felt another bubble of relief rise up and threaten to burst out of her in a silly giggle – a nervous reaction she didn’t know how to control.

  “She needs you,” Lorcan said again, his voice uncertain.

  She saw Mr Quinn reach for her coat from the hook by the door.

  “You’re scaring me,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied.

  She realised he looked horrified, scared and out of his depth. Her feelings spiralled. She wanted to comfort him – but she wanted to know why.

  “You have to tell me,” she said, taking a deep breath to fight the urge to faint. “You have to tell me because I can’t breathe.”

  He was reaching for her now and she realised her face was wet and the shivering had been replaced by large, body-shaking shudders.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said as he pulled her into his arms. “I’m so, so sorry. It’s Charlotte. She’s gone. I’m so, so sorry.”

  The rhythmic back and forward, here and there, of the windshield wipers helped keep Áine grounded as they drove back to the house. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even allow herself to think too much. So she held on to what she could – the patter of the rain, the swish of the wipers, the hum of the engine.

  Lorcan tried to speak a few times, mumbled a few words before he trailed off again. She didn’t have the strength to talk to him. She was using all the strength she had to keep it together, to try and not simply stop to exist because her sister was gone. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Charlotte couldn’t be dead. She was the most alive person she had ever known. She oozed vitality. She couldn’t simply cease to exist. It wasn’t possible.

  And yet this is what she had been told, and what she was going home to try and accept. It was what she and her mother would talk about for days, for weeks, for months. She couldn’t imagine anything else could ever be more momentous, that anything else could ever be more important. She wouldn’t laugh again. Or smile again. As she drove she realised she would never be the same again and she cursed herself for not having perfect hindsight and enjoying the last few days of innocence more.

  She didn’t know how long they had been stopped and she hadn’t noticed Lorcan get out of the car and yet he must have because she heard the car door open beside her and looked up to see him extend his hand to help her out. He looked uncomfortable, she thought, glancing at him. She felt momentarily sorry for him – thrust into the middle of a family crisis. He hadn’t bargained for this – no one had bargained for this because these kinds of things didn’t happen – they certainly didn’t happen to her.

  Stepping out of the car she felt the cold rain on her cheeks and she inhaled deeply.

  “Let’s get inside,” Lorcan said, pulling his collar up and starting to walk towards the steps to the door.

  She nodded. It couldn’t be put off any more. It was as real as it would get.

  Rosaleen stood in the middle of room, her eyes darting from place to place trying to find a truth that was more palatable than that which she had been told.

  Aine was aware she was staring at her over the shoulder of Father Michael, summonsed to provide some spiritual comfort. Auntie Sheila was also there.

  Áine looked at her mother and felt her heart sink further than she’d ever thought possible. Rosaleen was always strong – always. She had raised the girls amid the grief of losing her husband and, while Áine had been too young to remember the shock of that loss, she had always known her to be stoic, defiant even, in the face of any battles they had faced. “You keep looking forward,” she would say. “We all have our crosses to carry and we just have to muster what grace we can while we carry them.”

  But now, there was a strange look in her mother’s eyes – almost wild, feral, broken.

  “We’ve called the doctor,” Auntie Sheila whispered. “We think she might need a little something to settle her.”

  Áine nodded, thinking she could do with something to blank all this out herself.

  “You should sit down,” Father Michael said.

  “Why?” Rosaleen barked back. “Will it bring her back? Will it make me feel better?”

  “You’ve had a shock,” the priest said, his voice calm and measured – this was not the first time he had comforted the bereaved.

  Áine became aware that she was crying – that tears were flooding down her face and she couldn’t stop them and watching her mother made them fall faster.

  “We’ve had a shock,” Rosaleen blustered to her daughter and Áine nodded, unable to find a single word of comfort. “We must sit down,” she continued. “Go on, Áine, sit down and the shock will pass. We’ll all feel better. We’ll all feel calm and collected and set about drinking tea and accepting calls from well-meaning neighbours offering their condolences.”

  “Rose!” Sheila implored, one of a generation terrified of offending the clergy.

  Father Michael didn’t flinch. Áine was acutely aware that no one flinched – everyone was waiting to see what she would say or do, or what her mother would say or do.

  “No, don’t ‘Rose’ me,” Rosaleen continued. “Did you not hear what that policeman said? Did you not?”

  Áine wanted to say that no, she hadn’t heard. She didn’t know. She wanted to scream at her mother to be gentle, to share the news softly. She hadn’t heard and she was afraid of what would come next – and of the images that would fill her mind. She was afraid to sit down, afraid her mother would launch at her, but she was afraid she would fall to t
he ground.

  She reached for the chair back to steady herself as her mother shouted, “She drowned! My daughter drowned! My baby is dead. But sit down, it won’t be so horrific. It won’t be so real. It will be easier to deal with the fact that I won’t ever see her again.”

  Rosaleen was sobbing now, her words distorted. Spit had flown from her mouth as she shouted and Áine stood and watched, afraid to move, images of her sister floating face down in a pool of water flooding her brain. Were her eyes open? Áine couldn’t imagine those eyes dull and glassy, dead. She found herself sinking onto the chair. Auntie Sheila sat beside her and Áine felt the warm hands of her aunt on hers.

  Rosaleen was in full flow now and Father Michael was stepping up to the plate, doling out every platitude under the sun about God’s plan and time being a great healer.

  Rosaleen – a woman who bowed before the altar rails every Sunday and helped arrange the flowers on a Saturday – was shaking her head in fury. “God’s plan? God’s plan? To take my girl away? She’s a mother, for God’s sake. She has those children. God – who took away my husband – and now he takes her? Don’t ever speak to me of God’s plan!”

  “I understand you are hurting right now,” Father Michael said.

  Áine tried to process what her mother was saying. Each word bringing a new wave of grief – how could her mother endure this? How could she endure this? And Jonathan and Emma? Oh God – and Jack. How was Jack? Was he there? Did he try to help her? Did the children see her? She felt a physical ache in her stomach.

  “You might understand – but you don’t feel it,” Rosaleen raged on. “You don’t know – don’t tell me God is love and he will support me. God is a hateful, horrible spiteful creature and he can go to hell!”

  Áine found herself unable to listen any more – so she stood up and without looking at anyone in the room she ran outside to stand in the rain to try and silence the screaming in her head.