The Godforsaken Daughter (34 page)

“I did
. . .
but when
. . .
when Daddy died, Mammy set the land.”

“Aye. Suppose you miss it, right enough? But sure you
. . .
you could always start it up again.”

Ruby nodded. How could she tell him that by this time tomorrow the will would be read and Oaktree Farm would no longer be hers? She tried not to think about it, focused all her attention on Jamie: noted the creased collar of his shirt that she could iron, a tear in his sleeve that she could mend.

“What’s
your
farm like, Jamie?”

“Oh, it’s not terrible big
. . .
just ten or so acres. Doz me all right. I would say yours would be a bit bigger than that.”

“Aye
. . .
a wee bit
. . .”

“Now how’s that tea? Will I get yins a fresh pot?” Biddy had appeared at the table. “And that’s a lovely sight: an empty plate.”

“That would be nice, Biddy,” Ruby agreed.

“And more of them buns, too!” Jamie called after her.

They talked some more. The conversation easy, words slipping between them like precious coins.

And the more Ruby listened to Jamie, the calmer she became. She drew strength from his unaffected ways. He was easygoing and kind, but also brave. Brave because he could play his accordion in front of all those people. Kind because he’d seen her distress and invited her for tea.

She thought back to that first meeting in the field all those weeks before. And how her father’s passing and her mother’s greed—“it’s my land and we need the money”—had brought their little worlds together.

Now that frail coincidence, and all it held—stood ready to be loosed.

Chapter forty-two

T
hey’d given him fourteen days to sort things out: Hanson and Webb. Except they hadn’t put it quite like that. They’d used that formulaic phrase “to put your affairs in order.” An expression usually delivered by doctors in sterile rooms to people facing the bleakest future.

Just fourteen days to “die.” For, in a way, he was dying—dying to his old way of life.

In the preceding days, he’d set about dismantling all that he held dear. He’d put the house on the market. Informed Maeve at the gallery that he’d be relinquishing his part in the business. Had visited Betty, Connie’s sister, to say he’d been offered a position overseas.

“You’d better tell me
where
exactly,” Betty had said. “In case
. . .
in case Connie turns up.”

“Sorry, Betty.” He’d hugged her. “When I get settled I’ll write to you. Promise.” Those parting words leaving her puzzled on the doorstep.

The hardest farewell he’d leave to the end: his father.

Now Henry stood in the home he’d shared with Connie for more than a decade, taking one last look around. She’d been drawn to it by the gardens, and the picture-perfect windows, where daylight thronged the glass; ideal for her work. It was their first home together, their first joyous shot at all things new.

Yes, they’d had many happy times in Hestia House. She’d insisted on calling it that, after the Greek goddess of hearth and home. There was a time not so long ago when he believed this home would be theirs for good. But oh, how very quickly things had changed! It was an end he’d never seen coming.

And very soon now, another house in a far-off land. With that thought, the image of his dear father came quick in his mind, and the reality of what lay before him hit him like a tidal wave.

He could not allow himself to weep.

He wandered into the living room. On the table his letter, in the same spot where he’d left it all those months ago. He smiled at the memory. Was about to bin it, but changed his mind. He’d keep it and give it to Connie. The letter she’d now finally get to read.

The thought of seeing her again made him leap with joy.

He raced upstairs. Hauled down their suitcases from the attic space. He’d pack one with Connie’s clothes and effects. She’d like that: having something back of their old life together.

A couple of hours later, he pulled up outside his father’s place in Lisburn.

The time had come to say his last good-bye.

He found Sinclair having tea with his housekeeper, Mrs. Malahide.

“You haven’t met Matilda, Henry, have you?” Sinclair getting up, smiling, happy.

“No
. . .
no, we haven’t met,” Henry said. “Thanks for taking care of the house.”

A tall woman rose to greet him. Henry was surprised. He’d expected his father’s “help” to be the quintessential Belfast cleaner type: hair-rollers, housecoat, cigarette permanently in hand.

Matilda was anything but. Tall, with grayish hair worn in the inverted teacup style favored by Her Majesty, she cut a striking figure in a navy-blue dress and sensible brogues.

“Do call me Tilda. I knew Dymphna would do a good job,” she said in the voice of an adroit headmistress. “Very dependable girl.”

Sinclair saw Henry’s confusion.

“Tilda runs the cleaning business, Henry. Sweeping Beauties. Wonderful name, don’t you think?”

Henry grinned. “Well, your sweeping beauty did a very thorough job.”

“Glad to hear it, Henry.” She plucked her bag from the sofa. “Now I really must be off. You two have lots more interesting things to discuss, I’m sure.”

Sinclair saw her out.

“Would you like to eat here this evening or shall we go out?” Henry overheard his father say through the partially opened window.

“Let’s go out,” Tilda said. “Treat ourselves for a change. He’s very handsome, your son.”

“Takes after me.”

They chuckled.

Henry was surprised. His father wasn’t the easiest man to get along with. The judge’s wig and gown hard to shrug off. But he was glad—glad that he would not be on his own.

He heard Tilda’s car take off. Sinclair reappeared.

“Didn’t expect you, Henry. You didn’t say.” He made a beeline for the kettle. “Shouldn’t you be at work? No word of Connie, I suppose? Cup of coffee?”

Henry braced himself. “A brandy would be better.”

Sinclair turned, kettle in hand, eyebrows raised. He checked the clock. “Really
. . .
at this hour of the day? I hope you’re not turning into one of your patients.”

But already Henry was by the drinks cabinet.

A pause.

A tightened brake of fear.

His hands trembling with the glasses.

“There’s something wrong, son. Isn’t there?”

Henry kept his back turned, willed himself to be strong.

Then: “I have to go away, Dad.”

Not the customary “Father” but “Dad.”

He took the drinks to the table.

Sinclair sat down slowly, his eyes never leaving Henry’s face.

“Away
. . .
where?”

“I can’t say.”

“I-I don’t understand.” Fear already in his voice. “What have you done, son?”

“I’ve done nothing. But this
. . .
this is the price I have to pay.”

He gulped the brandy down to keep the tears in check. There was no easy way to . . .

“This concerns Connie, doesn’t it?” Sinclair stared at the glass.

Henry knew what he was thinking. She’d been trouble from the start. Flighty, a blithe spirit. The live-for-the-moment type who’d often stood before Sinclair in the dock. Act first, think later, and to hell with the consequences. And he was right on all those counts, as the past year had proven. It was Connie’s actions that had brought them to this pass.

“Is she
. . .
is she alive?”

Henry gave an imperceptible nod. His eyes filled with tears.

“But that’s
. . .
that’s
. . .
good. Isn’t it?”

The hesitation.

The falling timbre on those last two words.

“
She . . . she got mixed up with an undercover agent who’d infiltrated the IRA. She witnessed a murder. His cover was blown and they . . . MI5 . . . they had to get her out . . . out of harm’s way.”

There, he’d said it.

Silence.

The air charged with a damage done.

He sensed his father coming to terms with what he could not bring himself to say. He could not look his way and face the dawning realization in the eyes. The look that said: “You’re leaving me for good.”

“She’s in . . . she . . . Connie’s in . . .” The normally lucid and self-assured Sinclair stumbling over the words. “She’s in Witness Protection, isn’t she? I
. . .
I understand now. Yes, I understand.”

He placed his hand on Henry’s. The hand that should have been comforting, reassuring, only magnifying the sense of utter betrayal Henry felt. A touch, speaking its own language in the ruinous silence; a touch that said: “Son, you will not be here to hold me when I depart this life. This hand, the hand that took yours through those first uncertain steps of boyhood, will not be here to guide me ‘into that good night.’”

Henry couldn’t bear it. He stood up. A damburst of tears pent up and held in check for months, falling now like rain.

“It’s all right, son. You have to do what you have to do.”

With all the courage he could muster, Henry turned to face him. There were tears in the old man’s eyes. He held out his arms.

“A handshake from the heart, son. Come here.”

Through the open window, the menacing drone of a helicopter high up in the sky. Children at play: “That’s
my
ball, give it back.” A car door slamming and a woman’s voice: “I
told
you. Don’t play in the road.” The world beyond amplified, and the woman, the child, never knowing that their lives contained this moment. This precious moment—of a loss that only love could rescue—for ever carried forward by a father and a son.

“I’m sorry
. . .
so
. . .
so very, very sorry it has to be this way,” Henry said, finally allowing himself to be freed from his father’s embrace.

“There, there, son. You’ll be seeing
. . .
seeing Connie again. That’s all
. . .
all that matters. And you never know: there may be peace here soon, and you’ll both be able to come back.”

“Maybe, Dad
. . .
stranger things have happened.”

The feeble riposte because there was nothing more to say.

“I’ll be fine
. . .
Tilda
. . .
she makes a very good lasagna, you know.” The comment brought a weak smile. Sinclair lifted his glass from the table.

“Here’s to Connie,” he said, smiling bravely. “And . . . and your new life.”

They poured more drinks, sat in the easy chairs. Conversation less difficult as the fine brandy took hold.

Finally, after an hour, Sinclair got up, went and stood by the window.

“You’d best get going, son.”

“I know.”

Henry turning to go, blinded again by grief.

He got back into the car. Looked to the window where his father stood.

Sinclair raised his glass.

Henry raised his hand.

And that was how they parted.

Each holding fast their courage into that great unknown.

Chapter forty-three

T
he dreaded afternoon had arrived. The reading of Martha Clare’s Last Will and Testament was inching closer and closer. In an hour’s time Ruby would know her fate. She’d steeled herself for what lay ahead by recalling the words of Dr. Shevlin: “
The past is over
. . .
the future is new and full of possibilities
.”

Now, sitting in the kitchen of Oaktree, she tried to reassure herself that everything would be all right.

The previous afternoon, she’d had tea with Jamie in the Cozy Corner Café. That meeting had helped her a lot. She realized that she
could go
to places she and her father had visited without dissolving into tears. That she was no longer alone. Jamie would be there to help her through. He was her friend now. And she also knew that the support of Rose and Paddy was a given.

She sat at the table, gazing out the window: a surprise of tiny sparrows on the clothesline, a gentle breeze teasing the alder leaves. And beyond: the patch of flowers she’d planted in the field where her father fell.

“Please, Daddy, don’t
. . .
don’t let them take Oaktree away.”

She’d said it aloud to give weight to the words—her voice hollow-sounding in the empty house.

She got up, suddenly galvanized. Looked about the kitchen.

This was
home
. No matter what the future might hold, she’d always remember it as such. The place that had shaped her, borne witness to her hopes and dreams, the sorrow and pain down all the years of growing from child to girl to woman; an adult woman now. Yes, surely an adult finally, with the mother gone.

Slowly she climbed the stairs.

In the twins’ room she checked that their beds were nicely made, plumped the pillows again. They’d bought a car between them, so were driving up from Belfast and meeting her at the solicitor’s office for the reading.

Planning ahead, she’d done all she could well in advance to keep the peace. Had made a nice pot of spaghetti bolognese. Pasta was never a favorite with Martha, but Ruby had heard the twins enthusing about having the dish in a restaurant once, and thought she’d surprise them. It would be their first time at the supper table since their mother’s death.

May’s parting shot had been less than kind, though. In the aftermath of the funeral, she’d interrupted Ruby’s grieving to shout at her for being “out drinking and partying” the night their mother died. But Ruby had expected as much. She knew she’d been cruel to May in telling her she’d found the
reference
. The barb expertly aimed to let her sister know she’d read it. Looking back on the incident, she realized she probably shouldn’t have done that.

The reference. It was still in a drawer in her bedroom. No longer a secret. Martha’s death had shut the door on the shock and shame that only its discovery by the mother could bring. A daughter pregnant out of wedlock was the gravest sin a girl could commit.

Poor May had been faced with a terrible choice.

In her mother’s bedroom, Ruby wondered why Martha had been so harsh in that regard. Thanked her lucky stars that she—Ruby—had not been born out of wedlock, that she’d stayed at home and so evaded the dangers of the wider world. She felt a pang of sorrow for all the orphaned children being brought up by religious orders because of family shame.

She opened Martha’s closets, gazed on the serried ranks of frocks and jackets that would never again be worn. What would be done with them? Perhaps the twins would take care of that side of things. Ruby didn’t feel she had the right to make such a decision. They had been closer to their mother. That had always been the case.

The phone rang. She rushed downstairs.

“God, how are you, Ruby?”

“Och, Rose
. . . hello. . . .”

Rose, in full matchmaking mode, was determined to build on the great progress she’d made so far.

“Glad I got you in, ’cos Jamie was telling me yins had a great chat in Biddy’s, so he did. I was terrible pleased to hear that
. . .
’cos he’s a lovely fella, is Jamie, and he’s on his own like yourself.”

Ruby didn’t know what to say.

“Aye
. . .
he’s
. . .
we
. . .
we had a nice chat, Rose.”

“God, that’s great to hear. Now me and my Paddy were gonna drop by this afternoon with a cake I baked for you.”

“Thanks, Rose, that would be nice. But I have to go now. To
. . .
to Mr. Cosgrove’s, to hear Mammy’s will and
. . .”

She broke off, wondering whether she should confide her true fears to her new friend.

“Well, that’s very important, Ruby. I understand completely. There’s always tomorrow. Hope everything goes all right, and I’m sure it will, ’cos your mammy struck me as a fair-minded woman, so she did.”

Rose’s assessment was wide of the mark. How could she have any idea what Martha was
really
like? The comment had Ruby blurting out what was bothering her.

“I
. . .
I don’t know, Rose. May and June say they want to sell everything
. . .
to buy a house in Belfast.”

She broke down.

“Och, Ruby, dearie me . . .”

“So, maybe
. . .
maybe after today
. . .
I-I won’t have a home no more.”

“Now, Ruby, that’s hardly gonna happen. And even if it did, sure me and my Paddy have a big house here with three bedrooms and nobody to fill them. God-blisses-an’-savus, sometimes I wonder why we built such a big house atall. So you’ll never be stuck, Ruby. You’re only thinking the worst ’cos you’ve come through so much this last while, losing your daddy and mammy so close. So it’s very understandable that you might be feeling a wee bit down.”

“Aye
. . . maybe. . . .”

“So you go on into Mr. Cosgrove now. For, as they say, you’ll never plough a field by turning it over in your mind. What time did you say your wee appointment was at?”

Ruby checked her watch. The time was fast approaching.

“In half an hour, Rose.”

“Oh, you better get going then. But I’ll tell you what, Ruby: me and my Paddy are going into Tailorstown now to do a bitta shopping, and when we’re done we’ll wait for you in Biddy’s. For I’m sure you’d need a cuppa tea after a meeting like that. Is that all right?”

Ruby dried her eyes, feeling a bit more heartened. “Aye, Rose. Thanks
. . .
thanks very much.”

Mr. Cosgrove, a cynical toad in a pin-stripe suit and silk cravat, had been in the legal profession for far too long. He enjoyed his job, but the reading of wills could be a tricky business. All sorts of family skirmishes had broken out in his office down the years. For the most part, verbal harangues of the sort that would make Lucifer himself bridle. But there were those rather more unsettling occasions when Sergeant Ranfurley’s aid had to be sought. And that was unfortunate. Had there been a contest for brainlessness then the McGinty brothers would surely have claimed first prize. On learning their old man had drunk their four fields
plus
the hovel that was home, they not only laid into each other but Mr. Cosgrove, too.

He shook his head at the memory, as if trying to dislodge the ugly image of Jeremiah McGinty referring to him as the intimate part of a woman’s anatomy, while trying to throttle him over the desk.

He dunked another digestive in his afternoon cuppa and checked his list.

Next, the Clare sisters.

“Hmmm
. . .
might be tricky, that one.”

As if on cue, the buzzer sounded.

“The Clares are here,” his secretary announced.

“Right-o, Janet. Give me a minute, will you?”

He slid a box of tissues to the front of the desk—tears, an ever-present risk with the ladies—and repositioned a carafe of water, likewise always a feature, in case of fainting spells. There was a bottle of Bushmills whiskey in a cupboard, too, but that was rarely availed of. Not unless a solitary individual suddenly found himself—or, indeed, herself—the inheritor of some squirreled-away fortune that an ancient relative had never before disclosed.

Finally, he checked his zipper—always a good idea when dealing with the public—and pressed the intercom button.

“Send them in, Janet, please.”

“Ladies
. . . Ruby,
May, and June, I believe.” He got up, smoothed down his tie, and offered his hand. “How are you? Please take a seat there now.”

He knew Ruby, of course. Had seen her regularly in town with the mother. The twins, though, were a surprise. They looked nothing like their older sister: thin as whippets with Martha Clare’s delicate bone structure.

“Tragic business
. . .
the loss of your mother.” He made the obligatory tutting noises reserved for such occasions. “My condolences to you.”

The ladies murmured their thanks.

“Well, I expect you’ll want to get this over as quickly as possible,” he said, sitting down again.

Janet had left the door ajar. Another one of those little post-McGinty precautions, which had proved most useful in the past. The secretary would be an on-hand witness to the outbreak of any unpleasantness.

He snapped his fingers and called out, “Janet, have you got the Clare file there?”

Mr. Cosgrove enjoyed using the finger-snapping gesture when he had clients in the room. He’d seen a lawyer in an episode of
Kojak
use it once, and loved the air of busied authority the signal conveyed.

“Will that be all, sir?” Janet asked, placing the file in front of him.

“Thank you, Janet, yes. That’s all for now.”

He put on his spectacles, riffled through the file.

“Will this take long?”

He looked up. “Pardon me? Which one of you? May or June—?”

“May.”

Impertinent
and
impatient. Not a good combination. He studied her over the glasses.

“No, as a matter of fact, it won’t take long. Your mother’s will is quite a simple one, because your father saw to all the details in the first instance.”

May looked at June, who shrugged, and then looked at Ruby. Ruby made the Sign of Calm in her pocket. She’d learn about her future within the next few minutes. Rose’s kind words came back to her: “Three bedrooms here and nobody to fill them
. . .
so you’ll never be stuck
. . .”

“I don’t understand,” May was saying. “What’s Daddy’s will got to do with Mummy? He left everything
to
Mummy.”

“Indeed he did.” Now came the difficult part. Mr. Cosgrove eyed the slightly opened door. “Shall we proceed?”

He focused again on the page, cleared his throat.

“‘This is the Last Will and Testament of me, Martha Florence Clare, of Oaktree Farm, Five Lakeside Road, Tailorstown. To the role of Executor and Trustee of this, my Last Will and Testament, I hereby appoint my eldest daughter, Ruby Vivian Clare, to dispose of my estate as laid out by my husband, Vincent Alfred Clare, on the twentieth of September, nineteen seventy-six.’”

The twins exchanged worried looks.

“‘. . . and in the event that the aforesaid should die in my lifetime, I appoint my daughter, May Bernadette Clare, to act in her absence hereof.’”

May’s ears pricked up.

Mr. Cosgrove gave a little cough.

The show was about to begin.

“‘To my daughters, I leave the following legacies.

“‘One: To my daughter, May Bernadette Clare, I give, devise, and bequeath absolutely the sum of one thousand and five hundred pounds, to dispose of as she sees fit. Also my wedding ring and gold watch as to same.

“‘Two: To my daughter, June Elizabeth Clare, I give, devise, and bequeath absolutely the sum of one thousand and five hundred pounds, to dispose of as she sees fit. Also my engagement ring and seeded pearl necklace as to same.’”

Mr. Cosgrove eyed the ladies. He braced himself for the onslaught.

“‘Three: To my daughter, Ruby Vivian Clare, I give, devise and bequeath absolutely, all the rest of my estate, to—’”

“
What?!
” May shot to her feet. The solicitor blinked rapidly. So swift was her action that he was reminded of a False Water Cobra suddenly poked, he’d once seen in an Attenborough nature program.

Ruby was stunned. Hadn’t even registered her sister’s bolt out of the chair. She put a hand to her mouth. Had she heard him correctly? It couldn’t be true, could it?

“That
can’t
be right. It just
can’t be
.” May slapped the desk, hard.

Mr. Cosgrove shut his eyes briefly. He felt an attack of his dyspepsia coming on. Knew exactly the play of emotions the aggrieved party would now demonstrate. First the shock, then the anger, and finally the tears, coming in at third position. Always in that order. People rarely surprised him.

He shifted in the chair. It was time to engage the ploy of his old headmaster: stand straight, hold position, speak slowly, and if need be, raise the volume, to get the point across.

He got to his feet. “I would appreciate it if you
sat down,
Miss Clare. I have not completed the reading yet.”