When I attempted to speak, he didn’t hear me at first. I tried my hardest to call out his name. All I heard was a cracked whisper, but it was enough to make him look up. ‘I’m sorry’ was all I could say. He wanted more, I knew that, but as he took in my words, I sensed a form of closure for him, some faint hope that what had gone before might some day be resigned to memory.
When he stood up to leave, we both knew he was drawing a line in the sand and I was not going to stop him. Unlike me, he had done nothing wrong. If Joe found some small relief in my apology, that was okay by me. The truth was something only I needed to bear. He had lost his daughter, he had suffered enough.
After he left, I made the decision to eat again. I had no desire to get better as they, the hospital staff, had kept jabbering on about. Rather, I decided that death was far too easy an escape for the likes of me. Why should I be released of the burden of guilt, when a man who had no hand or part in being anything other than a good father blamed himself for missing the so-called tell-tale signs of his wife’s madness?
When I see Dr Ebbs again, I’ll ask him for Amy’s photograph. He’ll give it to me, I’m sure of it. Maybe it is okay for me to ask for a piece of Amy back. It’s not because I feel any more deserving. My punishment is one thing I am absolute about. But I would like to have one small thing to place under my pillow when I go to sleep. After fifteen years, it’s not a lot to ask. No matter how bad my next meeting with the doctor is, I know that by the end of it, I will have her picture with me. I might write to her, use my copybook. It doesn’t matter what the words are, as they will be our words, and that is a beginning of sorts.
Cronly Lodge
IT WOULDN’T TAKE HIM LONG TO GET TO CRONLY LODGE, traffic was always light on Sunday mornings. He had thought about taking the train, one left Dublin at 7.32 a.m., but the return train wasn’t until 14.01 p.m., which would restrict his other plans.
On the drive down, he went over the events of the previous day. He had felt unsettled during the night, and hadn’t been able to put his finger on exactly why. It was only when he had the opportunity to reflect, he realised how much the past few days had taken out of him. He didn’t like loose ends, untidiness – nor did he like being rushed.
Provided he had no unwelcome visitors to Cronly, he should be able to take care of things quickly. If everything went to plan, he would be back in Dublin by early afternoon. He’d already texted that irritant Daniel about being sick. Bulldog Face loved the limelight; no doubt everyone would think him on his deathbed by the time Daniel filled them in breathlessly.
Today, he chose to wear his charcoal merino turtleneck sweater, finishing off the look with a grey cashmere scarf, the way he’d seen Jude Law wear it in Alfie. The day was bright and crisp, so he’d decided on his fitted grey wool blazer as a perfect complement. He had numerous expensive items in his wardrobe. Although careful with money, he always chose items that would withstand the test of time. It was all about balance, a saving here, another one there, affording him the odd indulgence and reward.
The ribbon was safely stowed in the buttoned-down pocket inside his jacket, close to his chest. He hoped it would bring him good luck. Sunday would be busy in the village, but he had no intention of engaging in tedious social interaction. His mother’s funeral had been a trial: the obligation to play the loving son, Mrs Flood taking charge, the gardener and handyman, Steve Hughes, prowling around the house like he owned the place. Even that awful man from the caravan park, Oliver Gilmartin, had attended. Still, it was all old news now. Things were moving on.
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No matter how many times he walked the pathway to the big house, the magnificent nineteenth-century facade was always pleasing to his eye. The lime-washed walls, imbued with the smell of the sea, and the high sash windows, battling down for the harsh winters of a seaside town, had such a soothing effect on him. Importantly, the once decrepit condition of the house, as it had been in his youth, was no more. Even the gardens looked well. He could hear still his mother’s high-pitched voice in his head: ‘The thing I’ve learned about planting Lily of the Valley is that you must pick a place to plant them, and absolutely nothing else.’ At first, he had planned to cancel Hughes tending the gardens – he had never liked the man and found him too friendly for his station. On reflection, he had changed his mind. He realised that keeping the gardens looking good might help sell the house, in time. Besides, Mother had been fond of having Hughes there to keep the garden exactly as she liked it. She had her flaws, but the lowering of standards was never one of them.