Emma stopped in Wicklow on the way to Knockavanagh to buy pots of primula and a deep-red fuchsia for the far-right side of the grave, where the wind punched through like needles.
“Would you not get a few plastic flowers? It makes the maintenance much easier,” the man in the shop said.
“I think my mother would not like that. I imagine she loved fresh flowers.”
She had already got out the pots and placed them in a row on the bonnet of the car when she realised she had not brought any tools to Knockavanagh. Knocking on the presbytery front door, she hoped the priest was not saying Mass.
Mandy McGuane, when she opened the front door, took in the young woman with the bouncy brown hair.
“Miss McGuane, Father said it would be all right if I tended to my mother’s grave today.” She held out her hand and Mandy shook it gently.
“Do you need any help at all?”
“I should be fine, though I have just realised I forgot any tools.”
“I think we can run to that.” Mandy noticed a softness in the young woman’s eyes. “I have everything in the shed out the back. Which grave is it? I will bring down what you need.”
“Grace Moran’s grave.”
Mandy stopped and stared at the young woman standing in front of her. “Father O’Brien said you called.” She wanted to say more, but her mouth was parched dry. Her throat was as if it was swollen.
“I thought it might be nice to tidy up around the grave, plant some flowers.”
Mandy shook herself so that she could answer without giving any hint of her inner turmoil. “Go on, I will drop the tools down to you in a few minutes.”
“Can I carry anything for you?”
“You are all right.”
Emma turned away without detecting the teary shake in Mandy’s voice.
Quickly, Mandy closed the door and scuttled to the kitchen, where she gathered up a tea towel and howled into it, her cries muffled by the thick cotton. She stayed like this, gulps of tears rushing out into the cloth, before she left to splash cold water on her face. Using a fresh tea towel, she patted her face dry, making sure to throw them for the wash afterwards.
After she had collected the shovel, she set off down the path to the asylum fire plot, where Emma was already on her hands and knees arranging the planting.
“I thought primroses in the centre and the fuchsia to act as a windbreaker. I did not know my mother, but they strike me as right for Grace.”
“She would have loved this attention.”
“You knew Grace?”
“We were friends.”
“Do you mind if I talk to you about my mother? Could you maybe tell me what she was like?”
Mandy looked in alarm at Emma. Her knees were going soft; her head was thumping. “I can’t stay long. Father O’Brien likes a big fry-up after Mass.”
“How long did you know Grace?”
“We were friends for years. There was nothing wrong with her. Mentally, I mean. She had the same misfortune that I had: an interfering family who were ashamed of her. We were both abandoned by our families, lost our babies and were stuck in that awful asylum.”
“Did you know about Vikram Fernandes?”
“She waited for him all her life, never gave up on him, though many told her she was foolish.”
“It is so sad.”
“The judge died?”
“Yes, he died not long ago.”
“You said Grace was your mother. Yet she told me you died at birth. How can you be here?”
Emma gave a sharp laugh. “And my whole life I was told my mother was dead. We were both told lies. I am only getting to the truth now.”
A shadow stretched across Mandy’s face as she stooped to hack the ground, getting it ready for the primroses.
Emma stopped what she was doing and looked at the older woman. “You are not dressed for this cold wind. I can do this on my own.”
Mandy, who had begun to shiver, was glad of the dismissal. “Please call up for a cup of tea, when you are done.”
She walked back up the little hill. Before turning into the house, she stood and looked at the young woman carefully pushing her primulas into the soil and watering them with the can she had filled for her. She went to sit in the kitchen. She was not sure what she should do next, not sure if she should tell this young woman the whole story.
She jumped when there was a knock at the door. Emma stood, a big smile on her face.
“I am finished a bit earlier than I thought. The wind has risen and it is a bit chilly.”
“Why don’t you come in and have some tea?”
“I was hoping you could tell me a little bit more about my mother. I know a fair bit about what she liked – I found all her clothes and jewellery in the attic – but I know nothing of the person she was.”
Mandy led the way into the kitchen, busying herself with taking the mugs down from the cupboard.
“Were you there the night of the fire?”
Mandy stopped what she was doing. For a moment, Emma thought she was going to ask her to leave.
Slowly Mandy turned around, tears shimmering in her eyes. “It had started off such a happy night. She had stitched a lovely dress for herself. I had got the fabric when I was out in the town. She made me put it on so she could judge the length. Next thing there was this awful smoke. Everybody started screaming. The ward doors were locked.
“She ran to a window, but when she realised I was not with her she came back to where I was hiding. She pulled me out from under the bed and told me I would definitely die if I stayed there. Next thing she had pushed me out the window. I was knocked unconscious in the fall. I broke my ankle, hurt my back. I don’t know what happened to Grace, why she didn’t make it.”
They sat quietly until the kettle boiled, switching off with a loud click.
“I am raising ghosts, I am sorry,” said Emma.
“It is only natural that you would want to know about it. She saved my life, but by the time they let me out of hospital she was already buried. I didn’t even get to the funeral. Everybody in the asylum was scattered all over the place. There was no interest in rebuilding it. Father Grennan said he would take me in and be responsible for me, so I had a home.”
“My father, did he ever visit the grave?”
“He paid for the whole plot. That is why it looks so nice. He sent a cheque every year for the upkeep, but he never set foot in the place after the funeral. You are the first of Grace’s family to come here.”
Emma traced a pattern on the oilcloth covering the kitchen table. “I should get back. I promised my friend I would help her with her patchwork quilt: she has to finish it for some competition.” Emma stopped, rattling the car keys in her pocket. “Do you like sewing at all, Miss McGuane?”
Mandy looked taken back. “In my day, I was good at the stitches.”