Every Time We Say Goodbye (3 page)

‘And we’d be lost without you.’ Marianne hugged her. ‘Now, let’s get some rest; it may be late but that young fella will be jumping on us at dawn.’

Marianne lay in bed and thought back over the day. It seemed so surreal and she found it hard to get to grips with the fact that Dominic was gone for good. She felt some guilt at her lack of emotion, but then the man she had loved – the funny guy, the good friend, the doting dad – had died some time ago. Of course Helen and Jo knew the truth. Though the three women were very different, their shared history had resulted in a bond that the years hadn’t weakened. So she hadn’t been able to hide what was going on from them. They had seen the change in Dominic – and in her, and had wrested the truth from her, although not all of it. Her eyes went to the dent in the bedroom door that fresh paint couldn’t quite hide, where he’d thrown her against it. She turned on her side and studied the faded blood stain on the carpet by the bed from the time when Dominic had flown into a rage over some imagined slight and slammed the drawer of the bedside table on her finger; it had poured blood and she’d lost the nail. Sometimes Dominic had been remorseful afterwards but there were occasions when he didn’t remember having attacked her, asking in all innocence and with some degree of concern, how she had hurt herself.

She’d hidden as much as she could from her friends. She knew Helen would have urged her to leave him or throw him out but she couldn’t have done it no matter how much she’d wanted to. But now it was over. Now he was gone and she was free to live her life without looking over her shoulder. And with that thought in mind, Marianne turned off the lamp and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

‘Johnny, are you awake?’

‘How could I be otherwise? You haven’t stopped fidgeting and sighing since we came to bed.’

Helen turned over yet again and pushed the duvet down a bit. ‘I’m sorry but it’s hardly surprising; my best friend buried her husband today.’

‘At least he was dead,’ Johnny muttered into the pillow.

‘That’s sick.’ Helen poked him with her elbow.

‘It was a joke. Look, sweetheart, it’s been a long day, get some sleep.’

Helen turned back around to face him. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Marianne and those poor little kiddies.’

He stroked her arm. ‘They’ll be fine and your worrying about them won’t help. Whatever lies ahead, won’t we be there for her?’

‘Yes, we will. You’ve been great this week, Johnny, I’m really grateful.’

‘How grateful?’ he asked, with a sly grin.

‘I thought you were tired . . .’ she retorted as he ran his fingers down the curve of her body until they came in contact with the bare skin of her thigh, making her shiver.

‘I’m never too tired for you, darling.’

Chapter Two

Kate spooned cereal into her mouth. She wasn’t hungry and hated cornflakes but if she didn’t eat, Aunty Jo would tell Mummy and then Mummy would worry and try to talk to her again. She was beginning to dread their little chats.

‘Why do you think you are so restless at night? Are you having nightmares? Do you want to talk about Daddy?’ she would ask.

‘No, no, no,’ Kate felt like screaming. ‘I don’t want to talk about Daddy. I just want everything to go back to the way it was.’

She’d been having nightmares ever since that night last week when she’d been woken by voices downstairs. She’d crept halfway down to find her granny in tears in her mother’s arms as two policemen told them that Daddy had collapsed in a restaurant and died before the ambulance had arrived. It couldn’t be true. Her dad was big and strong, well, except for the headaches and the times when he got angry. It scared her when he got mad – it had scared Andrew a lot – but Granny could usually calm him down. Mummy just left the room or took them out for a walk or a drive and by the time they came home, he was usually okay again or had gone to bed. Granny said he got cross because the headaches really hurt him and only rest made them go away. They had to creep around the house when he was resting but Kate had never minded that because he would be happy and funny again when he woke up and sometimes he even played with them.

But now he was dead and she’d never see him again. Even though she’d seen that horrible box being lowered into the grave with her own eyes, she still couldn’t believe it. She’d tried really hard to hold in her tears because it seemed to upset everyone when she cried.

‘Are you all right, Kate?’

She smiled and nodded at Aunty Jo who was looking at her with worried eyes. She liked Aunty Jo; she was so kind and gentle.

‘Rachel, elbows off the table.’ Uncle Greg frowned over his glasses at his daughter before returning his attention to the newspaper.

The comment caught Kate’s attention; wasn’t reading the paper at the table worse manners than having your elbows on it? In her house, the only rule at mealtimes was that you weren’t allowed to talk with your mouth full, which was fine with her as she loved to sit and listen to Granny tell her stories. Granny Dot had millions of stories and they were all hilarious. Andrew always wanted the ones about Daddy when he was little but Granny was too sad to tell them now. Kate could always tell when Granny was fed up ’cos she got a line right across the centre of her forehead and the sparkle went out of her eyes. Granny had lovely eyes. They were a strange bluey-green, like the sea in that painting in the principal’s office, and shone with mischief when she told them rude stories. Mummy always gave out to her but Kate knew she wasn’t really cross as she always ended up laughing too.

But it would all be different now. Still, no matter how much they’d miss Daddy, Kate figured breakfast at her house would always be more fun than at Rachel’s.

Di appeared, looking pale and tired and Uncle Greg started on her before she’d even sat down.

‘What time did you get in?’

‘Ten past one.’

‘I told you to leave at twelve.’

‘But you said I wasn’t to walk home alone,’ she reminded him, ‘and no one else would leave until it was over.’

‘You shouldn’t have gone out at all last night, bloody disrespectful—’

‘Dad wouldn’t mind,’ Kate blurted out, feeling sorry for Di.

Uncle Greg ignored her. ‘And I don’t want to see you wearing that muck on your eyes any more or you’ll be eighteen before you go out again.’

Di opened her mouth to protest but her mother gave her a look as she set a bowl of cornflakes in front of her. ‘Eat your breakfast, love.’

‘I thought you looked really pretty last night.’ Kate figured that if anyone could get away with being cheeky it had to be a kid whose daddy had just died. She smirked inwardly knowing her father would approve. He’d never liked Rachel’s daddy, always called him Greg-grudge, or G.G for short.

‘He hates people being happy; begrudges anyone the slightest bit of good luck,’ he’d said. Mummy had defended Uncle Greg but Kate had seen her smile at the nickname.

‘She looked like a little tart,’ he muttered now.

‘Greg!’ Aunty Jo said, looking cross.

‘Well, I’m sorry but she did.’ He folded his newspaper, pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Time one of us did some work. Don’t forget to leave my suit with the dry-cleaners, Jo; Di, cut the grass, and Rachel,’ his eyes softened a little when he looked at his youngest daughter, ‘behave yourself and look after your friend.’

He gave Kate an awkward pat on the shoulder as he passed and she felt guilty; maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

‘And for God’s sake, Jo, try and cook something edible for dinner tonight.’

Or maybe he was; wait till she told Daddy— Kate pulled up short as she remembered she wouldn’t be able to tell him; she wouldn’t be able to talk to him ever again. He was gone. He was dead.

‘Kate?’

She looked over to see Rachel staring at her, her eyes wide with shock, and realized that she was crying. Not quietly but in loud, gut-wrenching wails and though Kate really did try, she couldn’t seem to stop.

‘Go and brush your teeth,’ Aunty Jo told her daughters before crouching down and gathering her into her arms. Kate bawled like a baby, her whole body shuddering and shaking.

Finally, feeling drained and embarrassed, she pulled away and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry, love; why wouldn’t you be sad, you poor thing?’

Kate felt the tears start to well up again. ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ she said, pushing back her chair and fleeing upstairs to the loo where she locked the door and let the tears flow. When the shudders had reduced to hiccups she went to the sink and washed her face. She looked in the mirror; her eyes were all puffy and bloodshot. Mummy and Granny would know the minute they saw her that she’d been crying. Feeling even more miserable she opened the door to find Rachel sitting on the ground outside waiting for her.

‘You okay?’ Her friend scrambled to her feet and looked at her with large anxious eyes.

‘Yeah, fine, sorry.’ Kate sniffed.

‘That’s okay. Will we go outside?’

Kate shook her head. ‘No, I think I should go.’

‘You don’t have to. You can stay the whole day if you want to; Mummy said so.’

‘Sorry, Rachel, but I want to go home.’

Rachel hugged her. ‘I’ll go and tell Mummy.’

‘The poor child was a mess.’ Jo sat down on the stairs as she talked to Helen and cringed as she noticed the window beside the hall door badly needed cleaning; she’d see to it as soon as she’d finished the call.

‘Well, it’s hardly surprising,’ Helen was saying. ‘Imagine, that was the first funeral those poor children had been to and it was their dad’s. Still, maybe they’re all better off without him.’

‘They probably are and I can’t help thinking that Marianne is still young; maybe some day she’ll meet someone else.’

‘Do you think she’d want to marry again?’ Helen asked. ‘I’d have thought that the last couple of years would have put her off men for life.’

‘Still, life is easier if you have a partner,’ Jo insisted. Despite Greg’s shortcomings, being Mrs Buckley made her feel safe. The very thought of being alone in the world again made her shudder.

‘I suppose that’s true. I know a woman whose husband left her and people just dropped her because she was the odd one out.’

‘That’s terrible!’

‘Well, I think they did it for her sake; it was hard for her being surrounded by couples and what’s the alternative, set her up with a blind date?’

‘Did you drop her?’ Jo asked.

‘Sometimes,’ Helen admitted, ‘but I had more girls-only nights and invited her to them; she seemed to like that.’

‘You never invited me to girls-only nights,’ Jo said, feeling left out.

‘I gave up inviting you to things a long time ago, Jo,’ Helen retorted. ‘The only time you ever say yes to my invitations is if it’s the whole family or just you, me and Marianne.’

‘I know, sorry.’ It was true, Helen had invited her to plenty of things over the years but Jo just felt uncomfortable around strangers and could never think of a thing to say.

‘Anyway, Marianne will be fine. We just need to keep a close eye on her.’

‘Absolutely,’ Jo agreed. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for Marianne. If it wasn’t for her, Jo wasn’t sure she’d have made it through her time in St Anne’s. ‘She’ll be okay though, won’t she, Helen?’

There was a short silence before her friend replied. ‘Of course she will.’

And she would, Helen reassured herself after she’d hung up. Marianne had always had a cool head and there was no reason to believe she would lose it now.

Most of the kids at St Anne’s had grown cautious and suspicious the longer they were in the children’s home. After you’d been pinched, kicked, had a precious doll broken or sweets stolen, you learned to be on your guard. Not Marianne though. She was only a few months old when she took up residence and a more sweet-tempered baby you couldn’t find. At three she was moved from the nursery into a dormitory and eight-year-old Helen was charged with helping her to bathe, dress and brush her teeth. It was the best thing that had ever happened to Helen and she embraced her new responsibility with gusto. She had been four when she came to St Anne’s after her mother had died and her father had spiralled into depression and alcoholism and was no longer capable of looking after her. Helen was told he was sick and he would come and collect her when he was better. And so every time she heard the bell announcing a visitor, Helen was convinced it was her daddy coming to reclaim her but he never did. As she got older she grew quieter and spent her time wondering what she had done to upset him and if perhaps it was her fault that her mammy had died and that’s why he didn’t want her any more.

And then suddenly Marianne was there and it was as if she suddenly had a family again. Being Marianne’s carer also gave her a new status and won her respect from the other children, which rebuilt her confidence and gave her a new focus. No little girl was ever looked after as well as Marianne. Helen took her job seriously and went way beyond her brief: reading to her, nursing her when she was poorly and sneaking her treats when they came her way. The adoration in her eyes when Marianne looked at her was her reward, making Helen feel six feet tall.

And then Joanna Duffy had arrived and threatened Helen’s position. Jo was almost twelve and it was rare that older children came to the home; the corridors were full of Chinese whispers. She’d been a troublemaker; she’d stabbed her dad; she’d been raped by her brother. Helen had no idea where the stories originated but everyone took against the girl and the bullies set out to make her life hell. But soft-hearted, ten-year-old Marianne had rushed to the rescue and drawn her into their cosy little circle. Helen had felt threatened, afraid that she might be squeezed out given there was only two years between the other girls. But Jo was such a frightened little mouse that before long Helen had found herself mothering her too.

When the time had come for Helen to move out of St Anne’s, she was torn between feeling excited about the new life that lay ahead and sadness at leaving Marianne and Jo behind. They had been pretty traumatized at the time, too, though she reassured them that she would visit. And she had, every week without fail, and once a month she’d take them out. She put a lot of thought into their outings. She’d had little money and had to be creative, but there was a lot you could do in Dublin for free. If it was a nice day she would take them up to Phoenix Park or to the Botanical Gardens or to Dollymount to paddle, build sandcastles and play in the dunes. She would pack a picnic of dainty sandwiches, lemonade and crisps – forbidden in St Anne’s as they were too messy – and buy ice-cream cones for afters. On wet days she would take them to a museum or the National Art Gallery or window-shopping in the Ilac Shopping Centre off Henry Street where they could marvel at the clothes and stay dry. Sometimes, if she could afford it, Helen would treat them to beans and chips in Fortes café before returning them to St Anne’s.