I’m back at Aberfoyle Crescent, picking through a house that has been picked through by the police a number of times now. There is dust from where fingerprints have been taken. Things have been placed back on the chest of drawers, or on shelves but just not quite in the right order. Kathleen wanted me to pick up some things for the wake. A framed picture of Joe at the library, one of his silk hankies to place in the pocket of the suit jacket he is to be laid out in. His prayer book, so that she can help Father Brennan choose some of Joe’s favourite readings from the Bible or prayers for the funeral service.
I’ve been looking for the book for twenty minutes now, in all the usual spots, but it can’t be found. I don’t actually recall the last time I saw it, but then it had become such a part of him, I’d almost stopped noticing it at all.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I tell her over the phone. ‘But I haven’t seen it and I’m not sure where else to look. Unless maybe the police put it somewhere?’
‘Why would they do that?’ she asks, an accusing tone in her voice.
‘I don’t know,’ I answer. All I know is that I can’t find it and I don’t want to be here for any longer than I need to be.
I hear Kathleen have a muffled conversation with someone in the background before her voice comes back on the line.
‘Ciara seems to think she saw you with it, but sure, maybe she’s mistaken? These things happen.’
There’s a tone in her voice that lets me know she doesn’t quite believe me.
I have pulled open every drawer in his room and in the living room. Opened every cupboard and wardrobe looking for it. As the clock moves closer and closer to the time Joe’s remains will be brought back to Marie’s house, Kathleen is becoming more frantic. I’m tempted to tell her it’s okay to use whatever prayers she sees fit. It’s not like Joe will be able to hear them anyway.
‘I didn’t see his prayer book,’ I tell her truthfully. I’ve not seen it days, come to think of it. ‘I’m not sure what Ciara saw me with, but it wasn’t that.’
Kathleen sighs. ‘Why is nothing going right?’ she says, and I’m not sure for a moment or two if she expects an answer. ‘Look, I think maybe just get here to Marie’s. Joe’s remains will be back soon and we really do need to give a united front. Things are bad enough as it is.’
Her negativity weighs heavy on my mind as I drive to Marie’s. Not even picking Alex up from work and having him sit beside me can calm my nerves. I notice that I’m gripping the steering wheel tightly. The rhythmic swiping of the windscreen wipers, battling the sleety rain, gives me something to try to concentrate on, to time my breathing with. Neither Alex nor I talk.
I’ve never been in Marie’s house before, but I can’t imagine, despite what she has said, that I’ll be made to feel welcome there. And up until now I didn’t think it possible that I could feel any less welcome than I already have over the last few days.
Marie lives in a terraced house in Lower Creggan. Her home is clearly her pride and joy, the small front garden beautifully manicured and tended. Flower beds and garden ornaments guide us along the concrete path to her front door, which Alex knocks on while Lily and I shiver behind him.
The door opens and Marie is standing dressed all in black, face solemn. ‘Alex,’ she nods at him before looking at me. ‘Heidi,’ she says, offering me a half-hearted kiss on the cheek. ‘Come in,’ she says as Kathleen calls out, ‘We’re through in the living room.’
We follow her through a small hall into her lounge, where I notice a row of sympathy cards lined up on her mantlepiece, declaring how very sorry people are for her loss. It strikes me as more than a little odd, given how long ago their marriage ended, but I realise that saying anything to that effect wouldn’t be received well. So I keep quiet and let Marie continue acting the part of the grieving ex-wife with aplomb.
‘Here, let me help you with your things,’ Kathleen says, taking the changing bag from me and trying to help me out of my coat, even though I’m more than able to take it off myself.
Marie adds, ‘Ciara has just nipped out to the shop but she’ll be here soon. As will Father Brennan. Joe should be home in about an hour.’
She looks fidgety, on edge. Her nervous energy adds to my own.
‘I’ve cleared the box room upstairs for him,’ she says. ‘Ciara asked that the house be closed, so I figured we wouldn’t need that much room.’
‘Thank you for doing this for him,’ I say, because it feels like the right thing to do.
‘Why wouldn’t I do it? It should be from his own home, but I’ll do my best for him. And I suppose this was his home for a time, and most of that time it was a happy home.’
Her tone is sharp, her comments pointed. I want to turn and leave, but that would only give them something else to think badly of me about.
‘Of course,’ I mumble and turn my attention to my still-sleeping daughter, taking her out of her car seat and slipping her out of her snowsuit.
It feels too warm in Marie’s living room. I can’t have Lily overheating. It’s bad enough that I can feel the first prickles of sweat on the back of my own neck.
The doorbell rings, a sharp, shrill noise that, given that we are all on our nerves at the moment, makes us jump. Marie takes a deep breath as if settling herself and goes to answer the door. I hear her tone, markedly more welcoming than she was with me.
‘Come in, Father,’ she says. ‘You’re very good to come, and this not even your parish.’
‘Sure, he’ll be buried from his own church, even if he couldn’t be waked from his own home. How’re you all holding up?’
Father Brennan speaks in hushed tones. A soft Donegal lilt that I sometimes swear they train priests in at the seminary in Maynooth.
‘As best as can be expected,’ Marie replies, although to me she appears to be in her element as chief mourner. ‘Sure, you go on in to the living room and I’ll bring through some tea.’
He walks into the room, nodding, as always, to me and then lifting one of his long, pointy fingers and trying to tickle a still-sleeping Lily under the chin.
‘A blessing in these dark times,’ he mutters.
I resist the urge to slap his hand away.
Father Brennan is a small man, whose shoulders always seem to slump and whose head always seems to be nodding in some perpetual motion, so it looks, at least, like he is always listening to you. Joe had a great deal of time for him. I did not. Something about him gave me the creeps – perhaps it was the way he regarded me up and down every time he saw me.
He sits down and doesn’t even try to make small talk, something for which I am eternally grateful. He speaks, of course, when Kathleen comes into the room, asking her how she is. Telling her it’s an awful business altogether and that he is here for her should she ever need his counsel.
She thanks him for his time, sits down and straightens her skirt, and we fall into silence while waiting for Marie to arrive with the tea.
‘Maybe I should offer to help,’ I say to no one in particular.
‘I’m sure she has it under control,’ Kathleen says.
I interpret that as a clear message that I’m not wanted in Marie McKee’s kitchen. The front door opens again and I hear Ciara shout her hellos as she comes in. Once she takes her seat in the living room I will feel truly outnumbered.
I try to remind myself to breathe.
Ciara comes in, closely followed by her mother.
‘Did you really not find that prayer book?’ Ciara asks as if I’d not looked hard enough, or had hidden it just to be difficult.
‘I looked high and low and couldn’t see it,’ I say. ‘I’ve not seen it in days.’
Marie sighs deeply. ‘That’s a shame, you know.’
‘I could have sworn I saw you with it. The day he died?’ Ciara’s tone is accusatory.
I shake my head. ‘No, you have to be mistaken. I did see his diary, when I was with you, but you took it from me, remember?’
‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘because you were prying in it. I remember now.’
I blush. I want to say something back to her but I’m aware we have an audience and none of that audience would naturally fall on my side.
Father Brennan’s head turns between the two us, as if he’s watching a tennis match and it’s Ciara’s turn to serve.
He interjects, ‘Sure, never worry,’ clearing his throat. ‘I knew Joe well. We can still make his requiem Mass a fitting one. I know these must be very difficult times. Very difficult, indeed,’ he says with a shake of his head. ‘But we do owe it to Joe to try to remain civil to each other and I must say, to you all now, that if anyone feels they wish to chat to me, privately, the sanctity of the confessional is as good a place as anywhere to get something off your chest.
‘We know that something very disturbing happened, perhaps, as it has been suggested, with some good intention behind it. A merciful release from the suffering that may have awaited Joe, but that suffering has to go somewhere. And it will eat at the heart of us all, not least the person responsible. God is good, He is forgiving, even of the most serious of sins. But you must repent.’
I don’t dare speak. I am holding so much inside that I’m afraid to.
It seems I’m not the only one. We descend into silence, only disturbed by Lily waking and starting to fuss. She needs her nappy changed and I lift her bag.
‘Where can I change this little one?’ I ask Marie, grateful for the reprieve.
Ciara is on her feet. ‘I can take her and change her for you,’ she says. ‘You can sit here and talk to Father Brennan about the Mass, since you knew my father better than anyone. I’m sure this wee dote won’t mind her auntie Ciara changing her. Won’t you not?’ she says, cooing at my daughter as if she has been a permanent fixture in her life.
She seems terribly eager to get out from under the glare of Father Brennan’s eyes.
I want to tell her to leave my baby alone. Not to touch her. But I’m aware I’m already walking on eggshells and causing an even bigger scene could be disastrous.
‘Ah now,’ Ciara soothes as Lily wriggles in her arms. ‘There’s no need for that! I’ll just get you a fresh nappy on,’ she adds, reaching for the baby bag.
I don’t want her taking it – it has my phone, my purse, other random items from my life inside.
‘I’ll get you a nappy and wipes,’ I say, trying to take the bag from her.
‘Now, Heidi, I’m sure I can figure out what is what myself,’ Ciara says, turning and walking upstairs with my baby and my worldly belongings.
I am frozen to the spot, unsure of how to react to this ambush but aware that four sets of eyes are looking at me and waiting for my reaction, including Alex, who I need to believe in more than anything. I try to settle myself, turn and nod towards Father Brennan and Marie before taking a seat beside them.
Father Brennan clears his throat, a guttural sound that has a hint of phlegm about it. I feel mildly queasy.
‘I know how difficult this must be,’ Father Brennan says. ‘But, Heidi, maybe you might know what his favourite readings were, or maybe his favourite hymns. I’ve a soloist from the choir who is available to do some singing if you want?’
I try to focus on what he is saying but I’m distracted listening for the sound of crying from upstairs.
‘Heidi …’ I hear Marie speak my name.
‘Sorry … I, no. I can’t think. He always, I suppose, he liked that hymn ‘Be Not Afraid’. He used to sing that, after my mother died. I remember that.’
As soon as I say it I want to take it back. I don’t want any memories from then. From that time after she was gone and things just became worse.
‘That’s a grand one,’ Father Brennan says and Marie nods.
‘But don’t feel you have to use it,’ I say as I hear a squeal from my baby echo through the hall. ‘I mean, Marie, maybe you would know more.’
Lily is quiet again. I’m still incredibly uncomfortable. I feel as if all my nerve endings are fizzing.
‘Father, you’ll know, no offence, I’m not a big churchgoer, so I’m fine with whatever you choose,’ I say.
I wonder, could I make my excuses and escape for some fresh air? I don’t care that the sleet has now turned to snow. I just need to breathe.
I make to stand up.
‘Now, have you thought about the Prayers of the Faithful at all?’ he says, stopping me. ‘Would you want to say them, or are there any friends or relations who might? I know some people even like to write them themselves, within reason, though. This is a Mass, after all.’
I shake my head. I don’t want to say them or write them. I’d be happy to drop him off at the cemetery gates and be done with the whole thing.
‘I can sort that out, Father,’ Marie says, her voice solemn.
‘Now, can I check family names? You know I’ll be wanting to mention you all in the homily – and I’d hate to leave anyone out. So there’s yourself, Heidi and Ciara, of course. Marie, you were his wife.’
‘They were divorced,’ I say. ‘More than twenty years ago. He was with my mother, until she died. Natalie. Her name was Natalie.’
I’m shocked to feel tears spring to my eyes at the mention of her name. Then my stomach lurches. He won’t be buried in the same plot as her? Oh Christ, I don’t want him there. I don’t want him near her. I feel a panic build in me. I should’ve said to the undertakers. But surely Ciara wouldn’t want to give any legitimacy at all to Joe’s relationship with my mother? She wouldn’t want them buried together. But I should check anyway. To be sure.
I hear a wail from Lily again and I have to close my eyes and force myself to sit on my hands not to run directly to her and pull her from Ciara’s arms.
Marie pales, looks at me like I’m quite mad. I hear Marie say something, which I can’t catch because there’s a buzzing in my ears, and I blink to try to bring myself back into focus.
‘Sorry?’ I ask. ‘What was that?’
I see Father Brennan has turned a funny shade of puce.
‘I don’t know how you don’t know this, Heidi. But Joe and I were never divorced. We were separated yes, but legally and in the eyes of the Church, we were still very much married.’