All That I Leave Behind (21 page)

As she said the words, Mary-Pat knew that they were true, strictly speaking, but she also knew that they weren’t the whole truth. How to explain to Graham that feeling she’d had, ever since the wedding, that her whole life had been turned upside down, that everything she’d believed about herself no longer made sense, after Daddy had said what he’d said. I’m the carer, the one who looks after everyone, she’d thought. I didn’t want the job, but I got it and I did it well, and I thought it counted for something. Only now did she understand that it had all been a waste. Caring for someone who didn’t deserve it, making that daily pilgrimage to St Benildus’s,
Racing Post
in hand, like an eejit. She’d gone in to see Daddy for a couple of weeks after the wedding, telling herself that he still needed her, that if she didn’t go, he’d miss her. But that wasn’t true. She hadn’t been to see Daddy in an age now, but she couldn’t go there, she just couldn’t. She needed time, time to work things out, and she knew that he’d only muddle up her feelings by making her love and hate him at the same time.

To think, she’d put … that man before her own sister, had banished her from her life, for what? So that she could keep a lie intact?

Graham was like a bloodhound, she had to give him that. He’d sniffed out the lie, interrupting her, politely but firmly. ‘Yes, but why are you here?’ He hadn’t been impatient or annoyed, just smiled encouragingly when Mary-Pat had stopped in her tracks and looked at him blankly. Shite. The game’s up, she’d thought.

‘I’m not sure what you mean …’ she’d ventured. He hadn’t offered any explanation, just a shrug of the shoulders. They’d spent the next half an hour in complete silence, while Mary-Pat covertly examined the nice pictures on his wall and admired the tasteful wallpaper with its subtle print, the exotic statues lined up on his bottom bookshelf.

It’d be nice to have a lifestyle like Graham’s, she’d thought, as she’d settled herself into the expensive-looking leather sofa, where everything looked as if it had cost real money, not a cheap imitation of it. She wouldn’t want to be like Junie, mind, that was taking it too far, but just quiet taste that looked as if it had cost just enough, with a few touches of the foreign to make it look as if she’d travelled. She’d wondered where he’d got the pretty carved masks on the wall from, with their round, painted eyes and funny smiles: the home store in Kildare Village might have some. Of course, she’d only be pretending that she’d travelled – herself and PJ having ventured as far as Lanzarote the sum total of once when PJ had been flush and they fancied something different to their usual week by the sea in Wexford –

‘Mary-Pat, time’s up.’ Graham’s voice had been gentle, but she’d still jumped in fright.

‘What? But I’ve only just arrived,’ she’d begun.

‘Actually, we’ve been here fifty minutes.’

‘We have? But we haven’t discussed anything, like my panic attacks or my family or what have you.’

Graham had nodded. ‘Well, we have next week. Maybe you can think about the question I asked you in the meantime?’ And he’d got up then and Mary-Pat realised that she would have to, too.

But the funny thing was, Mary-Pat thought about that question for the rest of the week, when she was making the dinner or walking the dog or pretending to listen to that eejit Imelda at the minimarket, going on about the weather and everyone who might be sick or dying in Monasterard.

She even thought about it when she went for a power walk with the girls – her first in ages – and only half-listened to the gossip and chatter as they strode along, out past the creamery and left at Sean O’Reilly’s, her eyes flicking over the outline of Pius’s roof as they crossed the bridge over the canal and then turned left, following a narrow path at the bottom of Sean’s field of corn, now ripe and golden after the hot summer.
The stalks were a dull, sludgy brown, the same colour as the earth to which they would return, and the cobs a rich, buttery yellow. Mary-Pat could taste the sweet kernels in her mouth as she walked past, imagined eating them with a nice slab of melted butter, never mind that they stuck in your teeth. The other two, Mary-Lou and Mary-Pat’s oldest friend, Bridget, were chattering away about Christmas, of all things, and Mary-Pat tuned out for a few seconds, enjoying the smell of the rich brown earth and the damp grass. Autumn had always been her favourite season.

‘Did you hear about Frances O’Brien? She’s running for the town council. She came around the other week, canvassing,’ Mary-Lou said. ‘She’s a fierce holy-Joe, so she is – or should that be “Josephine”.’ She chuckled.

At the sound of Frances O’Brien’s name, Mary-Pat suddenly tuned back in again. Rosie had been all gung-ho about seeing the woman after she’d dragged Pi to the parish house. Even the thought of it made Mary-Pat’s heart nearly stop in her chest. She wasn’t sure how she could prevent it, how she could spare poor Rosie the pointless visit, because Mary-Pat knew it would be pointless. Frances O’Brien wasn’t about to tell her anything, not any time soon.

At the mention of the name, Bridget shot Mary-Pat a look and said vaguely, ‘Is that so? Well, it’ll be nice to have a woman’s touch on the council. I’ve had enough of that fat Pat Mooney with his sweating and his greasy handshake. Gives me the creeps, that fellow does.’

Thank you, Bridget, Mary-Pat thought, as her friend tried to move the subject away from Frances O’Brien.

‘Oh, he’s some class of mover and shaker, the same Pat Mooney,’ Mary-Lou agreed, taking the bait. ‘God knows what he gets up to half of the time, and that’s not even the politics – did you hear, he was supposed to have bribed John-Paul O’Sullivan to get the Lidl built on the Dublin Road. “Bringing Jobs to Monasterard” – bringing brown envelopes, more like.’

‘Oh, be careful, Mary-Lou.’ Mary-Pat laughed. ‘He might sue you for defamation of character if he hears you, and you know he has eyes and ears everywhere.’

Mary-Lou was off now, cheeks reddening with indignation. She was a bit excitable, was Mary-Lou. ‘If I thought I could knock the so-and-so off his perch, I’d even vote for that woman, in spite of all her holy-moly. She asked me if I believed in the power of prayer – can’t see what that has to do with voting, but sure it could be worse. Anything’s better than Fat Pat. Do you know, there’s a rumour going around that he’s visiting that young one at the minimarket every night. Can you imagine? He leaves the wife at home and drives up Main Street, bold as brass, and then pulls in to the shop in broad daylight. Doesn’t seem to care who sees him.’

Mary-Pat’s ears were aflame, her throat tightening as she dropped ever so slightly behind Mary-Lou so that she wouldn’t have to walk beside her. She didn’t want her to see the expression on her face. She wasn’t stupid, Mary-Lou, she’d know something was up. And then the story would be all over town.

‘Who is she anyway? Haven’t seen her around here before. Is she a blow-in or what?’ Bridget asked, oblivious.

‘Foreign,’ Mary-Lou said, nodding her head as if that explained everything. ‘I tell you, ever since she got the job, the lads have been flocking to that minimarket like bees to honey. Men: sure they’re pathetic, they’re so obvious.’ And then she turned. ‘Mary-Pat, are you not able to keep up?’

Mary-Pat saw her chance and pretended to huff and puff a bit, putting her hands on her hips and stopping for a few seconds, as if to draw breath. ‘You know, girls, I think I’ll call it a day. I’m knackered. I’ll cut back along the canal and go into Pi for a bit. I’ll be better able for it next time,’ and she turned with what she hoped was a cheery wave and bolted for the safety of home. Christ, it was worse than she thought. Her husband was just a fool, a complete and utter fool. And she was a worse one to let him away with it. She’d have to do something about it, she thought, something that would make him sit up and take notice.

In the meantime, though, there was that question. The answer had only occurred to her when she was back in Graham’s sitting room the next day, looking out the window at the trees, their leaves now russet and yellow. They’d been sitting there in silence for a full twenty minutes, Graham perched on a cream armchair, like a bird, eyes bright, Mary-Pat half-disappearing into his squashy sofa, when she said, ‘I’ve thought about your question.’

He didn’t say anything, just gave her that watery smile, and when the urge to beat him over the head with one of those masks had passed, she said, ‘Do you know, my husband is seeing another woman?’

He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward slightly in the chair. He cleared his throat and said, ‘I see.’

‘Yes, this blonde young … young woman at the minimarket.’ It sounded so silly when she said it out loud, as if she were hanging around at the till in a pair of denim cut-offs, the way they did in the movies, offering people fill-ups in a sultry southern accent, instead of behind the counter wearing a green check pinny and doling out breakfast rolls. But Mary-Pat knew that appearances could be deceptive – she’d seen it often enough with Daddy.

Graham said nothing, merely nodded, and Mary-Pat took this as a signal to continue. ‘He goes in to see her every day at lunchtime …’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because,’ Mary-Pat cleared her throat as the hot flush of shame crept up her neck, ‘because I follow him.’

Graham’s face betrayed no evidence of judgement as he asked, ‘And what do you do then?’

‘I wait outside in the car and I watch through the window.’

His features softened and Mary-Pat thought she saw an expression that looked suspiciously like pity on his face. ‘You don’t have to feel sorry for me,’ she said.

‘Is that what you think?’

‘What?’

‘That I feel sorry for you.’

‘You have a look on your face.’

‘What kind of look?’

‘A look like –’ and Mary-Pat did as polite an imitation as she could manage of his sympathetic gaze, which, by the look on his face, he seemed to find terribly amusing, the flicker of a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

‘Do I look that bad?’ He half-smiled.

‘You’re all right,’ Mary-Pat said gruffly, looking down at her shoes. She had never been as mortified in her whole life. She was used to speaking her mind and not giving two shits about it, but this was different. She didn’t want to upset the man, to cause offence. He seemed so fragile, as if the smallest thing would make him disappear in a puff of beige smoke.

‘It must be a very busy place, the minimarket,’ Graham said neutrally.

‘Oh, God, yes, sure the whole town goes in there, the Centra at the other end is too expensive altogether.’

‘Aha.’ And then, as if he’d only just thought of it, ‘So would there not be other people going in and out, as well as your husband?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose …’

‘Particularly at lunchtime?’

‘Are you saying that I’m imagining it?’ The cheek of it, Mary-Pat thought as she attempted to pull herself upright on the sofa.

He smiled, and his brown eyes were soft. ‘No, Mary-Pat. I’m not.’

‘Because I’m not, you know,’ Mary-Pat huffed, crossing her arms as best she could, given that she was half-buried in a cream sofa. ‘I know what I saw.’

‘I just think that you should talk to him.’

Mary-Pat shook her head, tears blurring her vision as she reached in her handbag for a tissue, to find that a box was gently pushed under her nose. ‘Thanks.’ She blew her nose, honking into the tissue, trying to collect herself. ‘Look, I want to talk to him: it’s just that I have no idea where to begin. It’s not just him going to the minimarket, it’s just … she makes him laugh. I can see it through the window. She says something and he throws his head back and roars – I can hear him from the Jeep. And it really upsets me, because he used to laugh like that with me. He used to find me funny.’ And sexy and gorgeous, all of that, she thought, not knowing if Graham was quite ready for her sex life just yet. There were some things you couldn’t discuss with a strange man, she thought. ‘It kills me, knowing that I’m not enough for him.’

Graham leaned forward onto his knees, the fawn of his jumper crinkling as he did so. There was another long silence, after which he said, ‘Have you ever felt you weren’t enough for someone before?’

Mary-Pat shook her head, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, is this the first time you’ve felt like this, that you’re not enough?’

Mary-Pat opened her mouth but no words came out, and so she shut it and then opened it again, like a goldfish. She shifted slightly on the sofa and looked at her feet in their white bulky trainers, at her legs in their navy tracksuit bottoms, so solid, so strong, as if they anchored her to the ground.

‘No,’ she finally said, her voice no more than a whisper.

There was a long silence, and when she looked up, Graham was looking at her expectantly. She sighed and reached down into her handbag and pulled it out, the shell. It filled her hand, its matt black surface marked with bumps and craters. She turned it over and looked in to the lovely mother-of-pearl centre. It felt warm in her hand, solid. ‘My mammy gave me this,’ she said, and when Graham didn’t reply, she added, ‘I never knew about it until a few weeks ago. All these years, I thought she’d left without a single word. I could never make sense of it, you know, the way she left like that. But she didn’t. She left me a message.’

‘What kind of a message, Mary-Pat?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mary-Pat said. ‘I suppose I’ll have to find out.’ And with that, she felt the tears come, a tidal wave of them, which she didn’t have the will to stop. So she just let them come, flowing down her face and onto her hands, splashing onto the surface of the shell, then sliding off. She didn’t even bother reaching for a tissue or wiping them away, she just waited, wondering as she did if they would ever stop, or if she would simply cry for ever.

T
he
funny thing is that it was only when we moved to the house, the place I’d imagined so often in my dreams, that things began to go wrong. That the unhappiness began to take a grip on John-Joe. The unhappiness and the fear. I suppose it’s hard not to succumb to it when you suddenly realise that you’re not living in a dream any more. When the reality is ten draughty rooms that need heating, three tiny children that need feeding and a vegetable patch that stubbornly refuses to yield more than a few rotten potatoes. How ironic that it was the soil in the old hovel that produced the best crops; this stuff is awful: big hard lumps of clay that stay waterlogged and are impossible to dig. John-Joe says that it’s because we’re closer to the canal so the soil is damp, and I’ve managed to settle it now, but it’s taken me almost two years of hard work, adding compost and not over-digging. I have a fine crop of leeks and cabbages laid down now and even garlic, and I’ve sewn some hardy lettuces, including lamb’s lettuce, under a big sheet of polythene.