How many times have I thought about that since I’ve come here? The sin of self-obsession. If my regret began anywhere, it began on that sunny drive to Wexford, my husband and daughter estranged to me, as I behaved like someone who cared for no one other than herself. In a way, that is why I accept my punishment so readily – ‘What goes around comes around’, another one of Joe’s favourite affirmations. If only I’d realised that chances don’t come by too often, that in that drive to Wexford I had at least a chance. I could have made things different. I could have simply turned to Amy and given her a smile, the smallest of gestures, just to let her know that I was there, that her mother cared about her.
If I had my way now, I would stop that car. I would stand right in front of it and when it was still, I would reach inside and give that lost woman in the front seat a good shake. Then I’d look to my daughter and take her by the hand. I’d bring Amy out of there to someplace safe, to me. I could give her one of those long hugs that don’t require words, like the ones I gave her afterwards, when it was too late. I would tell Amy I love her more than anything, more than life.
If I could go back, I would not go to Wexford. I would obliterate it from my memory and live a different life, a life with my daughter still in it.
Rose Lane
HE MADE GOOD TIME GETTING TO TERENURE, THEN HE waited patiently at the top of Rose Lane until he was sure no one would see him slipping down to the garage. Even garage space was expensive to rent around here, but he had no choice after buying the terraced house in Rathmines. He needed to keep the old car parked safely, and this was the best option available.
When the garage door was shut tight behind him, he switched on the mahogany floor lamp he’d taken from Cronly, its bare hundred-watt bulb giving out plenty of light. Part of the reason he had chosen the garage was because of its mains electricity, and checking the coin meter before starting up the vacuum cleaner in the corner, he was pleased that there was still plenty of credit left. While vacuuming the car, he hummed to the familiar rhythm of an old church hymn, ‘Be Not Afraid’, putting a more upbeat slant on its normal rendition.
There was still some red ribbon left in the glove compartment. He sat in the passenger seat, where Amelia had sat the night before, and felt the coolness of the ribbon as he twined it between his fingers. He made a mental note to put the ribbon cutting away in the top drawer of his bedside locker when he got back to Meadow View. Continuing to caress the smoothness of the ribbon, he felt that same sense of wonder he had felt all those years ago.
He remembered the day he first found the ribbon, two days after his eleventh birthday, standing at the large sideboard on the upper landing of Cronly. He’d been angry with his mother, who’d once again done one of her disappearing acts, and so soon after his birthday. She had left him alone before, but that was the first time she’d been gone overnight.
She’d told him he was old enough to look after himself. After sulking for most of the first day, he’d decided he would turn the next morning into an adventure, using his time usefully to make discoveries. He had always been partial to touching things, using the sensation to explore aspects of his surroundings that vision alone could not conjure. The sideboard on the upper landing was a favourite place, primarily because he’d enjoyed running his fingers along the intricate wooden detail across the top, allowing his fingertips to go in and out of the bevelled grooves. It had three top drawers, side by side across the top, drawers that were always locked. Underneath each one of them were three separate sections used to hold extra sheets and pillowcases. The reclaimed wood in the sideboard was the same type as the mirror he now had in the hall at Meadow View. It smelled of beeswax and age.
He’d opened the middle drawer first. Even though he’d been the only person at home, he’d felt nervous using the small screwdriver to prise it open. It took a while, fiddling with the lock, and there was no way he would have succeeded unnoticed if anyone else had been there.
The first thing that had struck him about the contents was the diversity of colours and then, on closer examination, the patterns. They’d reminded him of a kaleidoscope with its mix of different shapes – spools of thread in every shade, thimbles and cushions with pins of varying size, yarn for darning and odd ends of wool. When his hands had brushed across the contents, he’d been instantly excited, but it was in the small wooden case at the back that he’d found the fabric cuttings, cottons, velvets and silks. When he’d placed it against his face, the silk felt soft and cold, almost as if it was a trickling stream. He’d known all these items had belonged to his late grandmother – his mother was not the type of woman who entertained knitting or sewing of any kind.