I cried the entire way home, so embarrassed, so disappointed, so angry. All of those emotions were directed at myself. My head thumped as the male voice on the radio entered my ears and got closer and closer to my brain, and as the alcohol left its calling card. About thirty minutes in, Arthur pulled the car over outside a shop.
‘What are you doing?’ Rosaleen asked.
‘Could you get some bottles of water and some headache tablets?’ he asked quietly.
‘What? Me?’
There was a long silence.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked him.
‘Rose,’ he merely said.
I’d never heard him call her that. It struck with me as familiar—I’d seen it somewhere, heard it somewhere—but I couldn’t think. Rosaleen looked back at me and then at Arthur, her worst fear having to leave us two alone. I thought fast. Eventually she got out of the car and practically ran into the shop.
‘Are you okay?’ Arthur asked, looking at me in the mirror.
‘Yes, thanks.’ My tears welled again. ‘I’m so sorry, Arthur. I’m so embarrassed.’
‘Don’t be embarrassed, child,’ he said softly. ‘We all do things when we’re young. It will pass.’ He gave me a small smile. ‘Just as long as you’re okay?’ He gave me a look then, a worried look of a paternal concern over what I’d done.
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you.’ I rooted for my tissues again. ‘It wasn’t…he didn’t…I knew what I was doing.’ I cleared my throat awkwardly. I could see Rosaleen at the end of a long queue, anxiously looking out to us in the car.
‘Arthur, this depression that Mum has, does it run in the family?’
‘What depression?’ he asked, turning round in his seat.
‘You know, the depression that Rosaleen told Dr Gedad that Mum has, this morning.’
‘Tamara.’ He looked at me and knew what I was at. He checked Rosaleen in the shop. There were three people in front of her. ‘Tell me straight.’
‘I made an appointment with Dr Gedad to see Mum this morning. She needs help, Arthur. There’s something wrong.’
He seemed extremely worried by this. ‘But she has her daily walks, at least. She gets some fresh air.’
‘What?’ I shook my head. ‘Arthur, she hasn’t left the house since we arrived.’
His jaw hardened and he gave a quick glimpse—good win, very dead—at Rosaleen in the shop. ‘What did Dr Gedad say when he saw her?’
‘He didn’t even get up the stairs. Rosaleen told him that Mum has suffered from depression for years and that Dad knew about it but he decided never to tell me and…’ I started crying, unable to finish. ‘It’s all lies. He’s not even here to defend himself, or to be able to tell me…it’s all lies. Though I know I’m not one to talk,’ I sniffed.
‘Here, Tamara, hush now. Rosaleen is just trying to care for her the best that she can,’ he said quietly, almost whispering, in case she’d hear him from the shop. There was only one person in front of her in the queue now.
‘I know, Arthur, but what if it’s the wrong way? That’s all I’m saying. I don’t know what happened between them years ago but if there’s anything—anything—that Mum did to Rosaleen to hurt her or annoy her, do you think that this could be…’
‘Could be what?’
‘Could be a way of maybe, getting her back? If Mum did something to her, lied in anyway…’
The door opened and we both jumped.
‘Gosh you’d think I was the bogey-man,’ Rosaleen said, offended and worried as she sat in. ‘Here.’ She dumped a bag in Arthur’s lap.
He looked at her then, a cold long stare that chilled me, made me want to look away. He passed the bag back to me. Rosaleen seemed surprised.
‘Here, this might help,’ he said, then started up the engine.
None of us spoke for the next hour.
When we arrived back at the gatehouse the sky had clouded over and darkened the bright day. There was a chill in the air and the clouds promised rain. The breeze was welcoming to my muffled head. I took a few deep breaths before going into the house and making my way upstairs.
‘You’ll know you won’t be going anywhere for a time to come,’ Rosaleen said.
I nodded.
‘There’ll be a few tasks for you to do around here,’ she added.
‘Of course,’ I said quietly.
Arthur stood by and listened.
‘Stay within the grounds when you’re out,’ he added, and it seemed to take him a lot to say it.
Rosaleen looked at him, surprised and then annoyed that he’d stepped in. He didn’t meet her eye. Obviously her plan had been to keep me inside the house where I couldn’t cause any trouble. Arthur wasn’t being so strict.
‘Thank you,’ I said, then went upstairs to Mum.
She was asleep in bed. I crawled in beside her and wrapped my arms around her, squeezing her tight to me. I breathed in the scent of her freshly washed hair.
Downstairs a storm brewed as I heard Rosaleen and Arthur’s voices in the living room. First they were just talking, then it grew louder and louder. Rosaleen tried to hush him a few times but he shouted over her and she gave up. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I didn’t even try to. I’d given up poking my nose in where it didn’t belong. All I wanted was for Mum to get better and if Arthur’s raised voice was going to get me that, then fine. I scrunched my eyes shut and wished that today had never happened. Why hadn’t the diary warned me?
The argument between Rosaleen and Arthur became worse. Unable to listen any more, I decided to leave, to give them and me the space we needed. I hated that I’d brought this upon them too. Before we’d arrived, they’d been so happy with their life, their little routines, just the two of them. My arrival had caused a rip in their relationship and it was slowly tearing more and more with each day. As soon as there was a break in their argument, I knocked and Arthur called out to me to enter.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m just going out for a walk to clear my head. Around the grounds. Is that okay?’
Arthur nodded. Rosaleen had her back to me and I could see her fists clenched by her side. I quickly closed the door and left. It would be light for another hour or so, which gave me enough time for a brief walk and the opportunity to clear my head. I wanted to go to the castle but I could hear Weseley and his friends gathered. I wasn’t in the mood for them, I just wanted to be alone. I turned in the opposite direction and headed towards Sister Ignatius, despite knowing I wouldn’t call in to her. At this hour I didn’t want to cut through the woodlands. I stayed on the path and kept my head down as I strode by the dark gothic entrance, still chained up and left to rot.
As soon as I had the chapel in sight I realised I’d been holding my breath. I could see Sister Ignatius’ house from here, and so felt safe enough to go inside. It was only big enough to hold ten people at most. Half the roof had caved in but above it the oak trees bent their branches to protect it. It was quaint. No wonder Sister Ignatius was so fond of it. There were no pews. I assumed it had been dressed for the more recent ceremonies. Above the altar, a simple but large wooden cross had been secured to the stone wall. I guessed Sister Ignatius had something to do with hanging it there. The only other thing that stood in the chapel was a large oversized—good win, very dead—marble bowl, chipped and cracked in places around the rim, yet it was still solid, firmly fixed to the concrete floor. Spiders and dust lived in it now, but I imagined generations upon generations of Kilsaneys all gathering here to baptise their children. There was a wooden door that led to the small graveyard beside. I chose not to go through that but instead returned through the main door where I’d entered. From behind the gate that protected the graveyard, I strained my eyes to read the headstones, though many were covered in moss, ravaged by time. In an oversized crypt rested an entire family: Edward Kilsaney, his wife Victoria, their sons Peter, William and Arthur and their daughter, something beginning with B. The rest had eroded with time for the
unfortunate soul whose name began with B. Maybe Beatrice, or Beryl, Bianca or Barbara. I tried to give her a name. For Florie Kilsaney ‘Farewell thy mother, we mourn thy loss’. Robert Kilsaney, who died at one year old, 26 September 1832, then his mother Rosemary, followed him ten days after. For Helen Fitzpatrick in 1882, ‘Husband and children bear her in tender regard’. Some were just names and dates, and were all the more mysterious for it: Grace and Charles Kilsaney 1850-1862. Only twelve years old, both born and died on the same day. So many questions.
Each gravestone that was clear enough to make out had various symbols on it. Some had arches, some doves, arrows, birds, others had spooky-looking animals, the symbolism of which I had no understanding of but wished to know. I planned to ask Sister Ignatius whenever I felt I could face her. I scanned the headstones again, not feeling as scared as I had been the first time I’d passed by. Maybe I’d grown up a little bit at least. A large cross climbed high up to the sky, with various names added as families joined one another, their names and inscriptions more legible as the years went by. The newest and freshest inscription was at the bottom and as soon as my eye rested upon it, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it earlier. On the bottom of the cross was a large block of stone with the most recent names upon it. On the ground before it was a bunch of flowers—fresh flowers—tied together with long grass. I climbed up on the fence to see the engraving. ‘Laurence Kilsaney 1967—1992 RIP’.
Only seventeen years ago. He must have died in the fire in the castle. Which made him only twenty-five. How sad. Even though I didn’t know Laurence, or any of his family, I started to cry. I picked a few wild flowers, tied them together with my hair bobbin and, against my better judgement, jumped over the fence. I laid the flowers on the grave and reached out to touch the gravestone, but just as my fingers touched the cold stone, I heard a noise behind me: a click. The hairs rose on the back of my neck. I spun round, expecting to come face to face with a stranger, so close I felt their breath on the back of my neck. I looked in every direction, almost dizzy with the effort of trying to focus. Just trees, trees and more trees as far as my eye could see. I tried to tell myself I was spooked because I was standing in an ancient graveyard surrounded by generations of a family who’d been lost to plague, war, suffering, fire and, more humanely, to old age. I tried to tell myself that, but somebody was there all right, I was sure of it. I heard a twig snap and my head darted around to follow the sound.
‘Sister Ignatius, is that you?’ I called. The response was merely my trembling voice echoing back to me. Then I saw the trees move, heard the rustle moving further away, as somebody pushed their way through the trees in the opposite direction.
‘Weseley?’ I called, the tremble in my voice echoing back.
Whoever it was had left in a hurry. I swallowed hard and rushed from the grave, climbed over the fence and moved quickly away, shaking myself out as though I’d walked through a giant spider web.
I hurried back to the gatehouse, turning around over and over again to make sure I wasn’t being followed. It was dusk by the time I got back to the house. Rosaleen was in the living room knitting, with the television on quietly in the background. Her face looked haggard, weary from fighting. Arthur was in the garage in the back garden, making an angry racket. My curiosity had been killed. I no longer cared what they had in there. I felt I was chasing a secret and now the secret was chasing me. I was afraid. I just wanted the time to pass so that Mum would stop her grieving, get better and we could move on from here and this place that felt so haunted by the ghosts of the past, a past that, despite my having nothing to do with it, was dragging me further and further into it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Purgatory
I was grounded for the next two weeks, going up and down the stairs for breakfast, lunch and tea, and doing whichever chores Rosaleen decided would be appropriate punishment, such as vacuuming the living room, polishing the brass, removing all the books from the shelves and dusting, watching her tend to her vegetable and herb garden while explaining to me what she was doing. I think she enjoyed the entire thing, babbling away to me chirpily as though I was a toddler and everything she said was the first time I’d ever heard it. I think it gave her a lease of life to have so many drained souls living around her, like a vampire. The more exhausted we got, the stronger she grew. I couldn’t even bring myself to read the diary. It was as if I had given up on everything. Every day that went by I felt there was more life coming from Mum’s room than from mine. The more energy I lost, the more she gained. I would hear her pacing the room like a caged lioness.
I was rebelling against the diary. I held it responsible for getting me in this position in the first place. I felt that every decision I had made up until this point had been because of what the diary said and I didn’t want that life any more. I wanted control over my days. I wanted to lie in bed and let the world pass by under my nose, just like it had before.
Every day I waited for Marcus to call. He didn’t.
Every day Sister Ignatius called by. I was so mortified, I refused to see her. I’m sure she knew what had happened; I’m sure the whole town knew. So much for my new start. I didn’t want a lecture. I didn’t want a stern stare. I missed the honey extraction, which I’d promised to do with her, I missed going to the market. Yet every day she called round. I should have helped her, but instead I lay in my bedroom, hiding under my bedclothes, mortified at the very thought of what had happened. Arthur made a few attempts to see Mum. He’d wait until Rosaleen was out in the back garden and he’d knock lightly on her bedroom door. If he thought she was going to call out to him to enter, then it was clear he really didn’t get it. After a minute or two he’d just walk away.
One night, Rosaleen and Arthur had another fight. I heard Arthur say, ‘I can’t do this any more.’ Then he stormed up to Mum’s bedroom, where he stayed for fifteen minutes. Rosaleen listened outside the door the entire time. I couldn’t hear him talking.
On Sundays I stayed in bed all day. I heard the sisters honking the horn to get me out of bed, but I didn’t move. I didn’t even look out the window. I just want to hide away from them all. I wondered if maybe I should contact Marcus, maybe I should write to him. But I did know what on earth I should say. All I could think of was sorry and that wasn’t enough.
One day the removal van arrived with all of our stuff from Barbara’s husband’s warehouse. I watched them back the van down the trail that leads to the garage and didn’t feel an ounce of excitement. Those things didn’t belong to me any more. They belonged to that girl who used to live in that house. It was not who I was any more. I didn’t know who I was any more. I fell back asleep again. I woke up when I heard the doorbell ring. It was Sister Ignatius again. She was being very persistent. At first I just thought she was friendly, then concerned, but that day she was a little frantic. I listened to her from my bedroom. It was all mumbling, but then Sister Ignatius raised her voice.
‘Are you just going to muffle muffle lie up there and let her think she’s done something wrong, let that poor boy muffle muffle all that?’
Muffled words.
‘Tell her that she must come to see me.’
Muffle, muffle.
Then the door closed. I looked out the window, just peered above the windowsill, and I saw Sister Ignatius, wearing a floral shirt and skirt, head down and walking away. My heart broke for her but also, in a weird way, it lifted. She was telling Rosaleen to make sure I didn’t feel guilty. Maybe she’d forgiven me after all. Even thinking that that was possible lifted my spirits. It gave me hope, made me think I was overreacting and that I should just learn from everything and get over it.
That night I couldn’t settle, I couldn’t sleep at all. I took the diary from the floorboards and waited and waited for the words to appear, hoping that by ignoring it I hadn’t made it all disappear. When it finally arrived it made me sit up and take notice.
Wednesday, July 22
I called Marcus today. I
found his name in the phone book. There aren’t many Sandhursts in Meath. Turns out his dad is a big legal eagle and has a famous firm in Dublin. How much more embarrassment could I have caused Marcus? I was terrified I was going to have to speak to his parents first but some woman answered, sounded all official and then put me straight through to him. As soon as he heard my voice I had to plead with him not to hang up. Then when I’d convinced him, I had no idea what to say. I apologised so much, going on and on and on, that he eventually stopped me. He said that all the charges had been dropped. Hadn’t I been told?
No.
I asked him if his dad had arranged that. He couldn’t believe I’d asked him that. He said I’d far more problems than he’d thought if I didn’t know. He wished me well and hung up.
What on earth was he talking about? If I didn’t know what?
I called Marcus the next day, feeling less nervous knowing his dad wouldn’t answer. It all went exactly as I’d written except instead of my asking if his dad had arranged for the charges to be dropped, I asked, how they had been dropped. An entire night to think about it and that’s the best I could come up with. I still didn’t get any answers. In fact, he may have hung up sooner.
Thursday 23 July
I spent time with Mum in her bedroom before I went to bed. She was humming a tune to herself. I don’t know what it was but it made her smile. I told her I’d something for her and I took the glass tear out of my pocket and laid it down beside the bedside table. She stopped humming as soon as she saw it. She lay on the bed, her eyes turned enough for her to see it. She just kept staring at it.
‘It’s pretty, isn’t it?’ I said.
She looked at me, a sharp look that took me aback a little, then she stared at the glass tear again. It seemed like its very presence offended her and so I reached for it, to take it back. Her hand came up quick and landed on mine. It didn’t hurt but I got a shock and so I just left it with her.