The O’Hara Affair (48 page)

Christian flew home immediately. His sister Josephine came from Australia, and his daughter Megan from the UK, while his ex-wife Valentina flew in from Tuscany. Nemia returned from Malta to pay her respects and pack her bags before heading off to care for her mother in London.

On the evening before the funeral, all six of them went for dinner in O’Toole’s.

‘What a fabulous send-off,’ said Nemia. ‘Dancing to Cliff Richard with a beautiful boy and swigging back gin and tonic.’

‘And being read
The Selfish Giant
,’ said Josephine. ‘The most beautiful, uplifting account of death ever written. I can’t thank you enough, Dervla.’

Dervla felt guilty. She could hardly tell Josephine the kind of black thoughts that she’d been harbouring about her mother-in-law during the days leading up to her death. But Nemia was right: Daphne had had a damned fine death. She was glad that the old lady had had her teeth in, and had not been wearing nappies. She was glad that she’d been wearing lipstick, and her favourite pale pink nightdress, and that she’d had a bath that day, and that she’d been spritzed with
Je Reviens
. She liked to think that the last things on earth Daphne might have seen were a pair of pristine white peacocks, that her last breath had been scented with jasmine, that the last sounds she’d heard were the strains of the clarinet concerto from the kitchen.

‘I know it’s not kosher to ask,’ said Megan. ‘But how much was granny worth?’

‘Not much,’ said Christian, gloomily. ‘There’s her collection of japonaiserie, but that’s about it.’

‘But I thought money had been invested from the sale of her flat in London?’

‘It was invested by her broker in Northern Rock.’

Megan’s face was a picture of disgust. ‘Northern Rock? What a fucking plonker!’ she said. ‘So it’s all gone?’

‘More or less. The broker did her no favours over the past decade. We’d have been able to carry on caring for her for another couple of years, and then we’d have had to apply for state aid.’

This was news to Dervla. Sweet divine Jesus! She’d been checking out residential care that cost in the region of €1,500 per week, when all the time Daphne’s finances were leakier than a sieve! She felt a little dizzy, suddenly.

‘State care would never have been an option for Mummy,’ said Josephine, categorically. ‘We’d simply have had to club together and cover the cost ourselves.’

‘Yes,’ said Christian. ‘We’d have had to find the money somehow.’

‘Find the money somehow?’ said Megan, looking even more disgusted. ‘Hel
lo!
Megan calling planet Dad? Where does your daughter come in the pecking order? I am an impoverished student whose parent contributes a measly thousand a month to her education. How can you justify paying that kind of
stupid
money to keep a batty old woman in the lap of luxury when I am living in a crappy bedsit and can barely afford to pay for my course books! Do you know how much a textbook on applied psychology cost me? Thirty-five fucking pounds!’

‘Megan! That’s enough!’ said Valentina sharply. ‘This isn’t about you.’

‘It shouldn’t be about money, either,’ said Nemia. ‘Where
I come from, we take care of our old people because we respect them.’

Maybe, thought Dervla. But I bet your old people are healthier than ours, and younger. I bet most of your old people die from ‘premature’ natural causes, and I bet most of them have happier deaths, surrounded by family and friends – not alone in a care home or lying on a trolley in A&E.

But she kept her lip zipped.

Across the table, she saw that Valentina was watching her. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘I’m actually feeling a little under the weather,’ said Dervla. ‘I could do with some fresh air.’

Valentina rose to her feet. ‘So could I. Come on. We’ll go sit on the sea wall for a while.’

They descended the stairs of the restaurant and crossed the road. To the west, the sky was a cyclorama, displaying dramatic plumes of crimson and purple cloud. A seagull perched on the wall gave them a resentful look and took off as they sat down.

‘I must say, I’m glad of the chance to have got you on your own. I’m so grateful for your hospitality,’ said Valentina.

Dervla had accommodated most of Christian’s extended family in Daphne’s cottage. Valentina was sleeping in Daphne’s old room, Nemia was ensconced in the room that had once been hers, and Megan had been put up on a futon that Dervla had borrowed from Fleur.

‘You’re very welcome.’

‘Fabulous sunset.’

‘Yes.’

There was a pause, and then Valentina said, ‘How did you find looking after our mother-in-law?’

‘I found it…very difficult.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘Did you know Daphne well?’

‘Yes and no. In the early days she was wonderful, I’m sorry you didn’t know her then. She helped us out financially when we were first married, and she spoilt Megan rotten. But then, after Christian and I divorced, I didn’t see her for some years. I found the change quite shocking. That’s why – when Christian told me you were taking over the caring – I felt some concern for you. I wasn’t sure you could handle her.’

‘I had to handle her, Valentina. I was being paid to handle her.’

‘She thought I was the maid the last time I visited her in London.’

Dervla laughed. ‘I can relate to that! She made me feel like Dobby the house-elf – she even used to whistle for me when she wanted me to do something for her. And she threw a spoon at me once because her cornflakes tasted of dust.’

‘She threw a spoon?! How did you resist the impulse to throw it right back at her?’

‘It’s like I said. I was being paid to look after her, and you don’t throw missiles at your employer. I have a fiercely strong work ethic, Valentina, and if I undertake to do something, I damned well make sure that I do it to the very best of my ability.’

Valentina gave Dervla a quizzical look. ‘If you
weren’t
being paid, do you think the same high standard would apply?’

‘Oh, God! That is such a tough question! I honestly don’t know. I mean, there were times when I wanted to turn around and say, “Get your own fucking breakfast, you spoilt cow!” Or, “Wipe your own fucking arse, you smelly old bitch!” – excuse my French – and then take to my heels and leave her to it. But you don’t, do you? You just don’t.’

‘You
wiped
her?’

‘Of course. Someone had to do it. It made me laugh when
she told me that she was “perfectly capable of looking after myself thank you very much”. And it made me wonder – if I did walk out on her – what would Daphne have
done
? I mean, what happens to old people who have
no one
to care for them? You know those boreens you pass all over Coolnamara, that lead to derelict-looking cottages, miles from anywhere? Lots of them aren’t derelict, you know. Lots of them have people living there still – some old farmer, or some old farmer’s widow. Or a couple, maybe, one looking after the other, trying to get by, the blind leading the blind – literally. And nobody fucking
cares
! And if medical science intervenes and they get their new hip or knee or miracle cure or whatever – what then? They’re sent back home and expected to get by on a paltry handful of euros a week.’

Valentina was looking at Dervla with interest.

‘I’m sorry for the rant,’ apologized Dervla. ‘It’s just that I’ve been thinking more and more about this since I had to take care of Daphne, and I’m convinced it’s going to be the next huge political issue. Who’s going to take responsibility for our ageing demographic? The so-called “community”? I don’t think so. Not so long ago in Mayo, an old woman’s body was found decomposing in a bedroom. She’d been dead for a year.’

‘Oh! Had she been living on her own?’

‘No. She’d been living with her brother and sister.’

‘Dear Jesus!’ Valentina’s expression of horror changed to one of gravity. ‘Why don’t you run for election?’ she said.

Dervla laughed. ‘How funny! Christian’s always saying that to me when I go off on a rant.’

‘Well, this is clearly something you feel very passionately about, so why not do something about it?’

Dervla looked dubious. ‘I’ve never considered a career in politics.’

‘Why not? You’re intelligent, you’re articulate, and –’
Valentina raised an amused eyebrow ‘– I imagine you’ve the requisite machiavellian streak.’

Dervla returned the smile. ‘I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or an insult.’

‘Name me one successful estate agent who hasn’t used at least some of Machiavelli’s principles.’

‘You’re right,’ conceded Dervla. ‘Plus I learned a lot of base cunning in my dealings with Daphne. I could have been a role model for Gollum in
Lord of the Rings
.’

Dervla suddenly remembered a story from a book she had loved as a child, about a little old lady called Granny Farthing, whose mind was like a garden, all full of lovely thoughts. And the fairies took those thoughts and planted them in Granny’s garden, so that everyone might see what pretty flowers Granny Farthing could grow. Once upon a time Dervla had imagined that that was what happened in your ‘twilight’ years – you turned into a storybook little old lady. Storybook little old ladies are meant to be sweet and rosy-cheeked and loveable. Storybook little old ladies are meant to smell of lavender, and wear their silvery hair in a bun, and do things like knit tea cosies and pass on words of wisdom and tales of yore, and smile upon their grandchildren. They never say ‘fuck’, they never fart, they never pick their noses, they never wet the bed.

How would she and Christian end up? Dervla wondered. What would the future hold for them when – if – they survived to Daphne’s age? Would they be shouting at each other and throwing spoons? Would they find it commonplace to come across giraffes in the garden? Would they be listening to some ‘animator’ playing the guitar in a day room painted in shades of soothing peach and dove grey?

Oh!
Oh!
She gave a shudder. It didn’t bear thinking about.

‘Goose walk over your grave?’ asked Valentina.

‘Something like that.’

The sun had sunk beyond the horizon, leaving a legacy of mandarin sky. Dervla and Valentina regarded it in silence for a long moment, and then Valentina said, ‘You’re good together, you know – you and Christian.’

‘Thank you. I’m very glad we found each other.’

‘I’m glad too. I’m fond of my ex-husband.’

‘What’s your new one like?’

Valentina laughed. ‘Gio? He’s fat and fond of his pasta and wine. But we have a good life.’

‘Sometimes I think I’d like to grow fat on wine and pasta and retire somewhere like the Tuscan hills.’

‘You’re far too young to retire, Dervla!’ Valentina reproached her. ‘Besides, the Old Rectory is beautiful.’

‘It is. But we can’t afford to live in it.’

‘Why don’t you live in the cottage now it’s empty, and let the big house?’

‘Now there’s a thought,’ mused Dervla. ‘It would make sense for us to down-size, and we’d get a lot more rent for the big house than we would for the cottage. I’ll talk it over with Christian later.’

But later that evening it slipped her mind to mention it, because Christian’s mind was on matters amatory.

After he’d fallen asleep, Dervla made her way up to her turret room, where her laptop awaited her. She wanted to note down some thoughts that had been clamouring for her attention since her chat with Valentina earlier that day. She flexed her fingers, and typed the following:

• Youth culture versus respect for the old. In some parts of the world, the greatest compliment is to call someone an ‘old’ man.
  
• Older people’s dependency on the social infrastructure is the result of compulsory retirement, poverty, and diminished status in the community. This dependency = lack of respect = ageism.
  
• Women live longer, ergo older women suffer most from ageism.
  
• Life expectancy is increasing, but so too is
  active
  life expectancy. People are enjoying good health longer than their ancestors thanks to advances in medical science. But people are also being ‘kept’ alive longer due to medical science.
  
• Our carers – slaves to a system that needs urgent overhauling.
  

By the time Dervla had finished, she’d notched up another dozen or so bullet points. She could have gone on, but it was after one o’clock in the morning, and she needed to be on the ball for Daphne’s funeral. She’d just have to delay writing to her political rep until after Christian’s family had gone back to their respective homes.

Moving to the window, she looked out over the sleeping countryside. She was wide awake – raring to go and fighting fit. Dervla Vaughan, née Kinsella, was back in the arena.

Fleur had treated herself to a long bath with L’Occitane oils, a glass of chilled Sancerre and a Penny Vincenzi novel, accompanied by Dean Martin on the stereo and a long chat with Río on the phone, during which Corban O’Hara’s name had not once been uttered without the prefix ‘bastard’. She had slathered her face in vitamin E cream and put on her robe and her gel-lined moisturizing socks, and was looking forward to comfort food. Macaroni cheese, or mash, or a stuffed baked potato.

She was standing in the kitchen regarding the contents of her fridge when her door bell rang. She froze. Corban? Hardly. She hadn’t seen him since the night he’d blundered bear-like into the dark at Díseart. That night, she had taken Bethany home and made cocoa for her, and they’d stayed up late chatting, and it had felt like having her beloved Daisy back – although Bethany and Daisy were very different creatures.

Bethany had found an issue of one of Daisy’s old
Cosmopolitan
magazines in the spare room, and she and Fleur had discussed the issues aired on the problem pages and criticized the gear on the fashion pages and read each other’s horoscopes from last year, to see if any of the predictions had come true, and oh! it had been fun to have Bethany
as a friend in real life and not just in a virtual world. They had done one of those silly quizzes to rate your self-esteem, and Bethany’s score had been higher than Fleur’s! (Fleur
had
cheated a little…) Maybe it was Bethany at the door now? She hoped so.