The Doll's House

I check for messages on the answerphone. None from Ruby, but there’s one from Orla. She wants to know if I got her letter – bloody Martin, controlling the post. If Orla sent me a letter, he should have given it to me. More images of Keith Jenkins appear on the screen. Some are recent, showing a handsome man in his late fifties, then others, when he started out in his career. It’s when I see the images of the young Keith Jenkins that I realise why I know his face.

I walk out into the hall, pulling the old photographs I took from Seacrest out of my bag. I had not expected to be looking at this one so soon, my father with his friends. It’s his graduation year. The year after my parents married, and Dominic was born. Up until now, I didn’t know anyone in the photograph other than Dad and Uncle Jimmy. But now I have another name. Keith Jenkins can be added to the list. He looks a lot younger than the others, barely a teenager, but tall. His right arm is resting on Jimmy’s shoulder. Maybe they’re related. I don’t know the fourth man. He stands alone, but there’s something familiar about him too.

I hear the sound of the electric gates opening. Martin’s car is pulling into the drive. Lately, even Sundays have turned into work days for him. Perhaps he’s avoiding me. I tell myself to be calm. If he’s taken Orla’s letter, it doesn’t mean he’s read it. Orla addressed it to me. But to Martin, information is power.

His key turns in the front door, and right away I can sense his mood isn’t good. It’s the small things, the sharp twist of the lock, extra force brought to bear on the door, the way he slams it shut, fires his keys onto the hall table. They’re all signs. I brace myself for a row, steadying my nerves. He drops his briefcase with a thud on the floor, taking a couple of steps closer to me. He goes to kiss my cheek, but I turn away. He looks down at the photograph in my hand, surprise on his face. He’s quick to get his dig in. ‘Taking another trip down Memory Lane?’

‘Do you have Orla’s letter, Martin?’

‘And how are you, my darling?’

‘Do you have it, yes or no?’

‘Yes, I do, actually.’

‘Why didn’t you give it to me?’

‘I didn’t want to bother you. Lately your mind has been all over the place.’ He looks at the photograph again.

‘Stop treating me as if I’m a child.’

‘Then stop behaving like one.’

‘Have you read it, Martin?’

‘Should I have? You and Orla used to be as thick as thieves.’

‘That was a long time ago, and you know it.’

‘I never liked her,’ he says, with disgust in his voice.

‘The feeling was mutual. You’ve read it, haven’t you?’

‘Do you think I’ve sunk that low? That I’ve taken to reading other people’s mail? Now why would I do that? Why would I do such a thing?’ He emphasises I, as if making an accusation against me. He moves closer again, so close that, if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch him. I need to keep my nerve.

‘Martin, why have you been keeping the mail from me?’

He walks past me, into the living room. ‘Do you mind, darling? I’d prefer to sit inside.’

I follow him. ‘It’s a free country,’ I say.

‘Is it, Clodagh? Maybe for some people it is.’ He sounds angry. ‘I can see what’s happening here. Suddenly I’m the bad guy. I guess working hard, paying the bills, being here to support my alcoholic wife counts for nothing. Maybe Orla thinks you can do better. Be with someone less boring.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

He doesn’t respond.

‘Just give me the letter, Martin.’

‘Polite people use the word “please”.’

‘Please give me the letter.’

‘See how easy that was, Clodagh?’ He walks back out to the hall, and returns with his briefcase, slamming it onto the low coffee table. When he lifts the lid, I can see Orla’s letter sitting on the top. He hands it to me. ‘You look tired, darling. Maybe you should lie down. Your mother’s death is still very fresh.’

I don’t answer him, but I can already see that the letter has been interfered with. There is a small tear on one side, and the line of adhesive is bubbled. I think about not passing any comment, but instead I say, ‘You’ve opened it.’

‘Have I?’

‘Martin, what’s going on?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why are you keeping the mail from me? Is something wrong?’

‘I’m not keeping the mail from you. Most, if not all of it, is addressed to me.’

‘But you opened my letter. I can see it’s been opened.’

‘Is that the case for the prosecution? You’re an expert on letter-opening, are you?’

‘Don’t be flippant.’

‘Flippant? Seems to me I’m not the one being flippant. It seems to me, I’m the innocent party here.’

‘I can tell you opened it.’

‘Can you? How do you know it was me?’ His face is mocking.

‘Martin, stop twisting things.’

He walks into the kitchen. Again I follow him. He takes down a bottle of Beaujolais from the wine rack. I wait while he pops the cork.

‘Clodagh, I’m not the person with the problem here. You are.’ He looks at the photograph in my hand again. ‘I didn’t open your precious letter for one very good reason. It wasn’t addressed to me. I thought about it, yes, but I have standards. I know where to draw the line.’