The First Time I Said Goodbye (31 page)

My mother shook her head. “Your daddy healed my broken heart. But I broke my heart myself, Annabel, and I broke someone else’s at the same time. Someone who never did anything wrong, who just loved me. And if this is my chance to make it better . . . then I have to take it.”

She turned the page of the album and I saw her staring out at me – in her organza dress and her court shoes, and a handsome man in uniform by her side, his hair wavy and brushed to one side. Though it was a black-and-white picture I could swear I saw the twinkle in his eyes.

“He was so very handsome,” she said, her hand resting on the page.

“You were beautiful too, Mom. You still are.”

She squeezed my hand and sighed. “You say the nicest things. I must have raised you well.”

She sat back and I sat and looked at her. “So, Mom, tell me what happened – what the letters don’t tell. How you ended up going after him after all? And what happened? How did it not work out?”

Chapter 27

I suppose I fooled myself into thinking you were with me anyway. That you would understand once I told you. But I see now I left it much too late.

* * *

Derry, February 1960

On the second night of Ernest Hegarty’s wake, Stella stood in the back yard trying to get a breath of air. Her feet ached from running back and forth with pots of tea and plates of sandwiches all day.

The mourning had taken on a strange atmosphere with the men of the family, Ernest’s old work mates and neighbours sipping whiskey, smoking and regaling stories of some wild nights passed.

The days had been strange – a rollercoaster of emotion which knocked Stella for six and yet still she hadn’t cried. She had been too busy, she told herself. There were things to be done. The room had to be prepared – the mirrors covered, the clocks stopped. Her father’s best suit had to be pressed and laid out for the undertakers to dress him. The younger boys had been despatched to Mrs Murphy who had bought them a bag of sweets each from the corner shop to try, in some way, to soften the blow of their loss. It had distracted them, for a while, but there was no denying they looked lost as they sat, in their Sunday best, on Mrs Murphy’s sofa with not a word of cheek from either of them.

The neighbours had rallied round and while Kathleen had helped the undertakers as best she could, Stella supervised the arrival and arrangements of kitchen chairs in the wake room and trays of good crockery and spare teapots. The milkman left extra milk and a box of tea and told her not to worry about paying. The bakers sent up a tray of buns and several loaves, while the butchers sent up several pounds of their finest ham. Neighbours arrived with pots of soup – “You must eat, keep your strength up” – and Stella had accepted them all gratefully while Dolores had sat staring at the wall, her grief having rendered her incapable of helping in any fashion. She only moved from her chair when Hugh Doherty arrived, and she threw herself into his arms sobbing while he shushed her and reassured her he would take care of her. The older boys were worse than useless. Consumed by his grief, Peter had gone and spent what little money he had in the pub and had returned home in a state. James had been not far behind and it had taken every ounce of strength Stella had not to beat them up the stairs with the wooden spoon. When they had sufficiently sobered up she had lectured them on respect as they snivelled like schoolchildren. They had promised to behave themselves but she knew that when it came to reliability it was down to herself and no one else.

Kathleen was doing her best but her grief was felt most keenly and though she tried to be strong, Stella knew that all her energy was being used to stay upright and not fall onto the floor and stay there.

So it was Stella who had fed the priest and thanked the undertakers kindly, telling where best to sit the floral arrangements and candles and where to burn the incense. She had prayed with the local priest and discussed the appropriate readings for the funeral Mass with her mother while arranging for a few of the factory girls, known for their singing, to sing the psalms at the graveside as her father was interred. She stopped occasionally to sit for a while, to drink a cup of tea her mother insisted she drink or to listen to a story from one of her father’s friends when it seemed no one else was listening. She had made sure her mother had something suitable to wear and had borrowed a black coat from one of her friends.

And she had not slept.

She had not kissed her father either. Or touched him. While he no longer looked so strange, and looked more at peace laid out in his coffin, she could not bear to feel him cold. She did not want to kiss him – to say that goodbye – so while she did the dutiful daughter routine and sat by his side greeting mourners as they traipsed in and out, a part of her felt like a fraud – unable to let go herself.

Sitting on the step now, her shoes off and her feet against the cold ground to ease the ache in them, she realised just how tired she was. But she needed to stay strong. She needed to get through that night – awake by her father’s side. And she needed to be there to hold her mother up the following day. She rested her head on the doorframe, closing her eyes, and despite the biting cold drifting off into a half-asleep state.

She was woken by Mrs Murphy settling beside her and handing her a cup of tea. “Stella, pet. I’ve been watching you and you’ve not stopped or rested. You’ll not be any good to anyone if you don’t take it easy and take some rest.”

“I’ll rest after tomorrow,” she said.

“That’s when your mammy will need you most, pet. It’s one thing – all this fuss and carry-on with a wake – but it’s not then you have to worry about. It’s what happens afterwards when the house falls quiet again that she will need you most. There will be a lot to be done, Stella. And you’re the reliable one. She’ll need you.”

Stella knew what Mrs Murphy was getting at. She didn’t need her to spell it out any further. She knew because the thought had entered her mind the moment her father had exited her life. She was the reliable one. The sensible one. The one Seán had climbed into bed beside the night before and sobbed to, as she hushed him into sleep before spending a night staring at the ceiling thinking that no matter how it would break her heart there was no way on earth she could leave now.

And it wasn’t just that her family relied on her for what she did around the house but also because she knew her mother would not recover from this easily. And with one wage now – the wage that put the roof over their heads in the first place – there was no way the family could manage without her own contribution. No, she would have to stay and she would have to direct more of her wages into the house to keep them afloat. Maybe if the older boys found work she could think again – but then again could she trust them not to drink their wages down the pub? She was sure their
priority would not be making sure the wains had shoes on their feet and food in their tummies. She had mulled it over through the night and it seemed the only way forward.

So when the postman had dropped off her passport among the condolences the following morning it had seemed particularly cruel. She had hidden it in the bottom of her drawer and mentioned nothing to anyone – not even to Molly Davidson who had come to offer her sympathy and had told her life was too short not to take risks. She had just nodded and offered a sad smile while thinking that it was one thing to take a risk with your own life but not with that of the family that needed you.

“Mrs Murphy,” she said, on the cold step, “thank you for your kindness. I know what my mother will need and I intend to be here to support her as much as she needs me. You have nothing to worry about on that score – please believe me.”

“Good girl, Stella,” Mrs Murphy said, understanding perfectly well what she was being told. “Your daddy would be very proud.”

* * *

Mrs Murphy had been right, of course, about the quietness of the house after the funeral. With not even the clocks ticking the place seemed almost desolate. There was no music playing on the wireless. The younger boys had gone to play in the street and Stella watched them through the curtains kicking a football half-heartedly, as if they were doing it just to amuse her. Dolores had gone for a walk with Hugh and the older boys had gone to the bar with some of their neighbours for one last toast for Ernest.

Kathleen sat in the empty front room – just a few chairs left, the mirrors still covered, the rest of the furniture shipped out to neighbours to accommodate Ernest’s coffin. She sat and she stared at the wall, her face sheet-white. She had maintained her decorum through the Requiem Mass, while all around were falling apart. Stella, yet to break down, had held her hand, hugging Seán into her on the other side. But as they walked to the cemetery to lay his remains to rest, she thought her mother might collapse. As they lowered Ernest into the ground Kathleen’s sobs had echoed through the city cemetery and had cut through Stella like a knife. And yet, she found even then, as she gave herself permission to cry, no tears would come. She stood, angry at herself while mourners passed on their best and she walked away, dry-eyed, wondering what part of her was broken.

Looking at her mother now, in her chair, she wondered perhaps if her mother was broken enough for both of them.

“Mammy,” she said softly. “Why don’t you go to bed? You’ve not slept. You need a wee rest and I’ll bring you some soup later.”

Kathleen nodded and Stella helped her upstairs and slowly helped her change into her night clothes before tucking her into her bed, trying not to think about the fact her father had died there not two nights before.

She kissed her mother softly on her forehead. “Try not to worry, Mammy. Try just to rest. You must be exhausted. I’ll take care of the children and get the house back in order. You take as long as you need.”

Kathleen rolled onto her side and, with a soft sob which was almost as heartbreaking as her cries at the graveside, she fell into a deep sleep.

And she didn’t get out of her bed for two more weeks.

* * *

Stella fell into a routine of sorts. She talked to her supervisors at the factory and they let her leave for home half an hour earlier to make sure to have dinner on for the family. She would get up half an hour earlier in the morning to put the porridge on and stay up later at night to make sure the school lunches were prepared and all the clothes washed and ironed for the morning. She would rake out the fireplace and set it before she left for work, instructing the older boys to light it in the late morning, and Dolores would help her peel the potatoes for dinner. Each night it felt like a slap in the face to set two places less at the table. She would set a tray for her mother and carry it upstairs and coax her into eating. Kathleen rarely spoke and if she did it was to tell Stella that she was a great girl and that she would be lost without her. There was no mention of Ray. No mention of the move to America. No one asked and Stella didn’t mention it. Meanwhile a letter had arrived – from Ray, unaware of her great loss and wondering why she had not been in touch. Just like her passport, she stashed that letter in her bottom drawer and the suitcase that she had been filling at the bottom of her bed was now back on top of the wardrobe. She said nothing still and, the times she spent not caring for her family, she spent wondering just how she would break the news to Ray that she could no longer come. She knew, in her heart, that he would not let her go easily. But she could see no other way. She had tried to convince herself that it would be okay. That her family would be okay. But she knew in her heart of hearts that it was down to her. She had even considered asking Ray to move back to Ireland when he was demobbed – but to what? No jobs? No prospects? When he had it all waiting for him at home? A refurbished basement apartment. A job which no doubt paid better than anything that could be offered in Derry. And what kind of a wife would she be to him anyway? Overnight she had inherited a ready-made family – her own family admittedly – but one which she would have to take care of for a long time. The boys were young. Her mother – God love her – she didn’t know when she would get out of bed and when and if she did how well she would be. She couldn’t imagine Kathleen without Ernest. The pair had been completely and utterly inseparable – much like she had hoped she would be with Ray. She knew she had been with him only a few months – and she wouldn’t dare in her mind compare her relationship with him to that of her parents, thirty years married, but she felt in a way she understood what her mother was feeling. But she was about to tear apart the great love of her life. She had wondered if she had been melodramatic to think that way – to imagine her and Ray’s relationship to have been some great love affair in the grand scheme of things, but she felt it was. She felt he had taught her so much, that theirs was a unique connection. So because she knew he would pursue her, she knew she had to make the break as clean as possible and the only way to do that was to lie. Lie and tell him it was never true. That she never loved him.

In the darkness of the night, when the younger ones were in bed and she was alone by the fire she put pen to paper and wrote.

Dear Ray,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am sorry that I have not written but it has taken me time to find the right words. This is not an easy letter to write and it won’t be an easy letter to read and for that I am sorry. I am more sorry than you could ever know. If there was any other way I would find it, but I’m sorry.

You should never have put your faith in me. I was never worthy of the love you gave me. I played along, because I was caught up in what we had. I was caught up in what you offered me – what you thought of me, what you made me believe. But it wasn’t real. You must have known that? It was a fantasy and I’m afraid to say, Ray, I used you. I was going to go along with it but you are too decent a man for me to do that. You deserve better. You deserve a love affair with someone who loves you back – not just someone pathetic like me dreaming of a life in America.