The Living (26 page)

‘Thanks,' I said. I added this to my unwieldy heap of things to deal with.

Uncle Fintan, it turned out, had left instructions about funeral music: Bach and Fauré, Ó Riada's ‘Ár n-Athair' and an uilleann-piper to play at the end. The choir rallied round with grace and generosity, and after some dithering over whether it would be all right to have a Protestant organist, I contacted Tom's partner, Steve, who was willing.

George gave me the week off work and told me more than once that he'd do everything he could to help. He appreciated that he was not welcome in Swords, but he would see me at the church.

T
EXT MESSAGE.
M
ATTHEW
Taylor. ‘Heard the sad news about your uncle. I'm so very sorry. Hope you're doing OK. M. xx'

I kept that one for two days before deleting it.

A
T THE REMOVAL,
I sat in the front row, between Auntie Rosemary and Mum, and stood up to receive condolences when the ceremony was over. Most of the people I didn't recognize, but of course there were lots of relatives, and neighbours with familiar faces. Aidan and Sheila were there, and it was odd to shake hands with them, knowing – as they did not – that they would soon have to move house.

When George and Paula came past they nodded wordlessly at Auntie Rosemary, who nodded back, eyes full of grief. They didn't shake hands.

The church was full, and before half the mourners had filed past – each one clasping or hugging and nodding and saying ‘sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry' – my face ached from the awkward smiling, and the fingers of my right hand felt numb and useless. The church was too bright. Four white glass globes, suspended above the altar, glared at me. My feet were cold, my head hot, my heart heavy.

Towards the end of the apparently endless line, there came a group of four men who seemed to stand out from the crowd. It might have been the way they held themselves, heads hunching forward in earnest solemnity, or it might have been their lined faces, skewed noses, shrewd and watchful eyes. I felt Auntie Rosemary stiffen as the first of them approached and took her hand.

‘Patrick Spillane,' he murmured. His voice was low, and crackled with phlegm. ‘I knew your husband well.'

‘I know,' Auntie Rosemary said. ‘Thank you for coming.' When she let go of his hand she drew hers back towards herself as though it were hurt.

Spillane moved on to shake my hand, with ‘sorry for your trouble', and Auntie Rosemary said, ‘thank you, thank you, thank you,' and did not relax until all four had passed by.

When we finally left the bright space of the church and emerged into the barbarous evening, we found that it had started to snow. ‘The forecast was right,' Dad said, looking up at the flakes tumbling in silhouette against the streetlight. ‘They're saying it'll be country-wide.'

‘Snow was general,' I whispered faintly to myself.

Spillane and his three friends were among the few mourners still standing around in front of the porch. They huddled in dark overcoats, in a group on their own, collars turned up against the softly falling snow. Auntie Rosemary gripped my arm when she saw them. ‘Don't go anywhere, please,' she muttered. I laid my hand over hers and left it there, like a promise.

‘We wanted a word,' Spillane said, turning, his eyes beady, the eyebrows a single bushy line. He advanced on Auntie Rosemary, who failed to stop herself from recoiling.

Dad did a little sliding step on the tarmac, placing himself between the family and the four men. ‘Now, lookit. This isn't the time or the place,' he said, and I heard in his voice the rising intonation that meant he was about to lose his temper.

The group swung their attention to him, a gesture not without a hint of violence. Dad paused, took in a big shuddering breath and squared his shoulders.

And suddenly there was George Sweeney, inserting himself neatly into the group and saying, with his easy smile, ‘Ah, Packie Spillane, for goodness' sake, is it yourself? God, it's been years, hasn't it? You haven't changed a bit! Pity to meet on such a sad occasion. Oh – were you in the middle of? I'm sorry …'

‘No, no, no,' Dad said, ceding gratefully. ‘We need to be getting back: there'll be people arriving at the house.' He stretched out his arm like a harbour and manoeuvred Auntie Rosemary and me back towards Mum and Mícheál. We headed for the car, the black-coated driver holding open the door.

As we drove away I looked out the window and saw my old friends from the Special Branch swing out of a parking space across the road. I felt almost kindly towards them.

T
HE
S
WORDS HOUSE
was full of talk and laughter and the clatter of forks and plates, and even Auntie Rosemary seemed to have relaxed a little. The doorbell rang as I came through the hall, and I opened it as I'd been doing all evening.

George stood in the porch. He had a package in his hands, wrapped in brown paper, held slightly away from his body, almost reverently.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I won't come in.'

‘Hi.'

‘If I could have a word with your mother?'

‘Sure,' I said, and trailed off. I held the door wide open.

‘I'm not coming in,' George repeated.

‘Oh, grand, yeah. Sorry. I'll get her.'

I found Mum in the sitting room, and my whispered message sent her hurrying to the hall. A few minutes later she came back, carrying the brown paper package, to ask where Dad was. I pointed her to where he was holding court in the dining room. My attention was claimed then by Denise's parents, who were determined to express to me the full extent of their sympathy, and I forgot about George until later, when all the guests had gone.

‘Paddy?' said Mum, as we sat in the kitchen having one for the road. She looked utterly worn.

Dad visibly gathered his strength and began, ‘Rosemary? There was a deputation.'

‘What?' Auntie Rosemary's eyes were glassy, her face like a rubber mask.

I saw Dad hesitate, trying to pick out a safe route across the mire. ‘George Sweeney called to the door earlier. He didn't want to come in.'

Auntie Rosemary's expression was for a moment transformed, eyes blazing, mouth set in an unforgiving line. Then her lips parted, and she blinked slowly and let out a tiny sigh. ‘What did he come for, then?'

‘Fintan's … old friends,' Dad said, feeling his way. ‘George talked to them outside the church after we left. They were hoping.' He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut and passing the back of his hand over his forehead. ‘Ah. As a mark of respect.'

‘What respect?' Auntie Rosemary said, pausing dangerously on the consonants. ‘What do they want?'

Dad put both hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘They have a tricolour for the coffin,' he said softly. ‘George brought it round.'

Auntie Rosemary said nothing for a long time. Eventually she drew a breath that sounded as though it came from several miles beneath us. ‘No guns,' she said.

Dad said, ‘Ah, no, Rosemary, that was all over years ago.'

T
HE SNOW DIDN
'
T
stick. The next morning a stinging sleet swiped at us as we scurried from the funeral car into the church. We were early, of course, but the place was half-full already. Mum was driving me mad with her fussing over shoes and hair and flowers – more like a mother of the bride than a sister of the dear departed. I bit the insides of my cheeks and reminded myself that there are many ways of coping with grief. Just some are more tolerable than others.

Diane had asked me if I wanted to join the choir, but I'd declined. They sang beautifully without me, bringing a sweet salve to the bitterness of the day. I sang the psalm myself, alone at the lectern, looking down at the coffin, with its burnished fittings, its coating of fine water droplets, and trying not to think about how much I'd miss the man inside it.

After the ceremony the sleet had abated enough to allow the grand old tradition of standing around outside the church to proceed without undue discomfort. We huddled in little groups that dissolved and reformed in a ceaseless dance. The choir came and queued up to hug me, and I thanked them with brimming eyes.

Near the church gates I encountered George and Paula talking to a bulky man I recognized. ‘You remember John Lawless, Cate?' George said, putting a hand on my arm.

Matthew's supervisor. I concealed my wince well enough, I thought. ‘Yes, we met last summer at the Bell Books office.'

‘That's right,' confirmed Lawless. He enveloped my hand in both of his. ‘I'm sorry for your loss. Your uncle was a fine man.'

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘We'll all miss him.'

It was time to go to the cemetery. I drifted back towards my family at the car.

‘Hey,' said Mícheál as I reached them. He was looking over my shoulder. ‘Isn't that your boyfriend over there?'

A painful shiver spread rapidly from my neck to my toes. I forced myself to turn and look where Mícheál was pointing.

He was dead right. Over by the railings stood Matthew, by himself, apparently reading something on his phone. What the fuck did he think he was doing here? As I spotted him he looked up and saw me. I bit down hard on my tongue, stiffened my face and managed to keep hold of myself.

Mícheál said, ‘Are you not going over?'

I shook my head.

‘You have time, sure. Mam, Cate's boyfriend is here.'

No
. Idiot.

Mum had her arm round Auntie Rosemary. She looked over her shoulder at us. ‘What's that?'

‘We're not going this second, are we?' Mícheál persisted.

‘We are, yes, why?'

‘Cate's boyfriend is here.'

‘He's not …' I said. My throat was sudden agony. ‘I'm not talking to him. We don't have time.'

Mum scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes.

‘Look, he's over there by the railings,' Mícheál said. ‘Oh, no, he's gone.'

‘Come on, we're going,' I said. Without waiting for the undertaker's man, I wrenched open the door of the car and flung myself inside. After a few moments the others followed.

Mum was livid, I could see. She sat in beside me and murmured, with barely moving lips, ‘That was hardly appropriate, now, to use the funeral as an excuse to try and see you.'

‘I don't think that's what it was, Mum,' I whispered. I wasn't capable of speaking aloud.

‘Well, why else? Did he know Fintan? Had he any personal connection? Because the Brits don't go to funerals the way we do. It's not the done thing.'

I locked my jaw and looked away. My thoughts were spiralling into dark places. Because either Mum was right, and Matthew
had
come to see me … or he had come for other reasons, which I couldn't countenance at all.

We arrived at the cemetery, and the coffin was hefted by four sombre professionals. Dad, his face a mixture of reverence and sheepishness, shook out the tricolour and laid it across the top.

Walking to the grave, I fell back a little from the rest of the family. My fingers shook as I fished my phone out of my coat pocket.

Text message to Matthew Taylor. ‘Please just leave me alone.'

Send
.

I didn't know how I was going to get through this awful day.

J
ANUARY UNFOLDED LIKE
a stained, ash-strewn carpet: the aftermath of the excesses of December and the surreal week of Uncle Fintan's death. In my grief, I took pleasure in the return to austerity and silence, calm greyness after the relentless green and red and gold, welcome banality after the taut and solemn procedures of the funeral.

The filth of my flat, however, was getting to me. It was weeks since I'd done any kind of regular housework. I couldn't even walk around without shoes on, for fear of what I might feel underfoot.

I attacked it one Saturday, scrubbing the bathroom first from top to bottom, then tackling the kitchen. When both gleamed, I began to tidy my bedroom, which was silted up with dirty laundry, unfiled papers and plain old rubbish.