Chapter Three

Mrs Murphy had been busy upstairs. Frank’s bedroom had been Mr Sheen’d and Shake-and-Vac’d and Cif’d. The bed linen had been stripped, and the curtains taken down. A glance through the window told Río that they had been Ariel’d in Mrs Murphy’s machine, because they were billowing about brightly on the washing line in her back garden. Neither sister made a move to open the wardrobe door.

The attic, next. As Río climbed the stairs, she felt like a revenant. The ghost of her childhood self resided here, the little girl who had sat on the steps, hugging her knees to her chest and listening to the raised voices coming from the sitting room below. Looking back at Dervla, who was following her up the staircase, she sensed that her sister felt exactly the same way.

Neither of them had been in their attic bedroom since they had packed their bags and left Frank’s house for the last time, full of hatred and rage. At the top of the stairs, the door hung off its hinges. As they passed through into the room, they reached for each other’s hand.

The place was catastrophic. It was clearly a repository for everything Frank had decided he no longer needed. Trunks, boxes, old shoes, books, clothes, broken furniture–all lay as if they had been slung there by some giant hands. The beds had been dismantled, and dumped in a corner. Cobwebs big as mantillas hung from the ceiling, and a rather pretty fungus filigreed a section of wall. The glass in the skylight was broken, and the surface of a table that stood beneath was so blistering with damp it resembled a bad case of adolescent acne. The place smelled dank.

‘OK,’ said Dervla. ‘I’ve just knocked a couple of hundred grand off the asking price.’

‘We’ll never get this sorted before the funeral!’ wailed Río, looking around in dismay.

‘You’re right. But it’s not as if we’ll be inviting people into the attic. We’ll just have to concentrate on the downstairs.’

‘What are we going to do with all this crap?’

‘We’re going to hire a skip.’ Dervla moved into the centre of the attic, stepping over a rusty fire guard and kicking a cushion out of the way. ‘Look,’ she said, stooping to pick up a velour elephant. ‘It’s Ella. Remember how you couldn’t sleep without her, and Mama had to send a taxi to pick her up from some place once?’

‘I’d left her behind at a birthday party, and Dad was too “tired” to drive.’ Río took the elephant from Dervla and brushed dust from her ears. ‘I wondered where she’d got to. I’ll hang on to her now I’ve found her. She’ll be useful for hugging when I’m feeling blue.’

‘She’s probably the only thing here worth salvaging.’

‘She smells a bit musty. She’ll have to go through the washing machine.’ Río set Ella on top of a magazine rack. ‘Poor darling. She’ll hate that.’

Dervla raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you think you’ve reached the age where it’s time to put childish things behind you?’

‘It’s never time to do that. Oh, look! There’s my copy of The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey.’ She picked up a book that had a picture of two children on the front, perched on a cart drawn by a little grey donkey.

‘It’s mine, actually,’ said Dervla. ‘Grandma gave it to Mama, and Mama gave it to me.’

‘She did, did she? Lucky old you. It’s a first edition–with illustrations by Jack B. Yeats. It could be worth a lot of money.’

‘It’s mine,’ repeated Dervla. ‘You got the Arthur Rackham Midsummer Night’s Dream—’

‘That Dad ruined by spilling Guinness all over it.’

‘And I got The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey. Look at the flyleaf. It’s got my name on it.’

Río looked. The words ‘Dervla Kinsella’ were there, all right, printed in Dervla’s neat hand. She shrugged, and handed it over. ‘I hope you get a good price for it.’

‘What makes you think I want to sell it?’

‘I dunno. I guess, when I visualise your penthouse, I picture a place that’s not cluttered with books and keepsakes and stuff. Like a showroom kind of joint.’

Río saw Dervla stiffen. ‘You don’t have the monopoly on art and literature, Río, just because of your boho credentials.’

Ow. Río had clearly hit a nerve here, by labelling Dervla as some kind of philistine. She’d have to backtrack. She realised with sudden alarm that she didn’t want to have Dervla revert to spiky mode. In the past hour they’d started to unravel a lot of tangled history–a cat’s cradle of loose ends and missing threads and dropped stitches. Río had her sister back in her life, and she wanted to keep her there: she needed an ally to help her through this horrible time. Frank may have been an irresponsible and neglectful father, but he’d still been family. Now that Finn was on the verge of disappearing from her life, Dervla was the only family Río had left.

‘I just–I’d just have thought you were the kind of gal who prefers minimalism.’

‘But I also like to surround myself with beautiful artefacts. I embrace the aesthetic that decrees that one should have nothing in one’s life that is neither beautiful nor useful. And I happen to consider this book rather beautiful.’ Dervla hugged The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey to her bosom. ‘Mama used to read it to me.’

Río wanted to remind Dervla that Mama had used to read it to her too, but decided against it. She didn’t want hostilities to resume at any second. Instead she started to root through a cardboard box full of old books and papers, and said: ‘Whereabouts exactly in Galway is your apartment?’

‘It’s in the Sugar Stack development, by the docks. Do you know it?’

Río did. Privately, she thought the development was hideous. ‘Oh–the Sugar Stack! Of course I know it. It’s…astonishing.’

‘Yes. It’s been nominated for an award for best city-centre residential development.’

‘How do you find city life?’ Río was genuinely curious. The only time she had lived in the city had been in a kind of commune, with baby Finn and a load of arty vagabonds. She hadn’t a clue how it might feel to be a high-flying achiever type like Dervla. ‘I mean, I know you’ve lived there most of your life, but it’s so different from this sleepy ville.’

‘I love it. I love the buzz.’

‘Isn’t it stressful?’

‘Luckily, I thrive on stress. Did you never feel the urge to leave Lissamore?’

‘Never. I wanted to be somewhere I could put down roots for Finn, somewhere I knew people. I’d have hated him growing up as a latch-key kid in some inner city flat or commuter town semi.’

‘What makes you think you’d end up living in a place like that?’

‘Anything else would be out of my league, Dervla. Because I’ve no qualifications I’d have had to take some low-paid work and slog all hours of the day. Anyway, village life suits me–I love being part of a community. When Finn was growing up here there was always someone to mind him. And I couldn’t ever live more than a mile from a beach. Can you blame me?’ Reaching into the box, Río produced an out-of-date calendar that featured images of Coolnamara’s beaches and the islands on the bay. ‘I love to be reminded that we live on the most westerly stretch of Europe.’

‘Hey!’ said Dervla, peering at the calendar. ‘I sold that cottage last year–the little pink-washed one on Inishclare. Got a good price for it too.’

Beneath the calendar was a once-glossy brochure with red wine rings on the cover. ‘Look,’ said Río. ‘It’s a PR puff for the Sugar Stack. I wonder what Dad was doing with this?’

There was a moment of silence, then: ‘I gave it to him,’ Dervla told her in a rush. ‘I guess I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted him to be able to show it to neighbours and say: “Look how my girl’s made good. Look where she’s living now.” Pathetic, isn’t it?’

Río shook her head. ‘No. It’s not pathetic. I always had a dream that he might look in through Fleur’s window and see my paintings on the wall and be proud of me too. It’s the same thing, really. You wanted him to be proud of your success, and I wanted him to be proud of my creativity. It’s ironic, isn’t? We’ve no one to be proud of us now.’

‘You have Finn,’ Dervla pointed out.

‘And you have me!’ Río said with a smile.

Dervla gave her an uncertain look. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes. I’m really, really proud of you. Every time I drive past a property that has your name up outside it, I always get a kind of buzz. Have done, ever since I saw the first one–when was it? About fifteen years ago? You’ve come a long way, Dervla. Imagine being nominated as Entrepreneur of the Year!’

‘It doesn’t mean that much,’ Dervla told her. ‘I’m much prouder of the fact that I live in a penthouse at the top of the Sugar Stack. That’s a real achievement, in my eyes.’

‘It is incredibly exclusive, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Dervla, with just a trace of smugness. ‘It’s probably the most exclusive address in the city. Adair Bolger was responsible for the development, you know.’

‘The bloke who owns Coral Mansion?’

‘Coral Mansion?’

‘That’s what the locals call it. He calls it the Villa Felicity.’

‘Yes. That would be Adair.’ Dervla set down the calendar, and opened her book. ‘The turf-cutter’s cottage,’ she said, regarding the illustration on the first page, ‘at the edge of the bog.’

‘And the lights of home shining through the darkness,’ added Río. ‘I remember that picture so well.’

Dervla gave Río a level look. ‘I am sorry, you know, Río. About Coral Cottage. But you know it would have been an absolute nightmare to restore–a complete money-pit. Knocking it down was the only viable option. And Adair had everything on his side. Money, contacts, influence…’ She trailed off, and looked back down at the picture.

‘I know.’ Looking at her sister’s downcast eyes, Río had a suspicion that the all-powerful Adair Bolger was not solely to blame for the destruction of her dream. Had Dervla been motivated too by a desire to get even with her sister over the Shane debacle? Río pushed the thought away. That was all in the past now, and if she and Dervla were to resurrect their relationship they would have to work hard at letting bygones be bygones. ‘I would never have been able to afford to put the joint right, anyway. It was just a silly dream.’ She tossed the Sugar Stack brochure back into the box. ‘Show me the picture of Seamus and the eagle!’

‘When he steals the bird seed?’

‘Yes. I love that one!’

Dervla leafed through The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey until she found the illustration, and as they looked at it, memories came flooding back to Río of her and Dervla tucked up in bed with their mother reading to them, and how she’d pause now and then to show them the illustrations. And she remembered how safe she’d felt, and how fuzzy and warm with love for her mother and sister, and she decided there and then that she’d never let Dervla go again.

‘Now start to work!’ announced Dervla, echoing the words of the Wise Woman in the story. She laid the book down and put on her bossy big-sister face. ‘We’ve stacks and stacks to do. You take that side of the room, and I’ll get cracking on this half.’ Negotiating her way past a broken clothes horse and a wire cat basket, Dervla set about untangling a Gordian knot of electric cable.

On the other side of the room, one door of a double-sided wardrobe stood half open, as if inviting Río to examine its contents. She crossed the floor on cautious feet, wishing she could take off her shoes, which were beginning to pinch. She knew it was unlikely that there would be mice lurking in the attic, but she had inherited their mother’s fear of creepy-crawly things, and there could be lots of spiders. Stepping gingerly over a raffia basket that looked as if it might once have belonged to a snake charmer, she glanced at Dervla, who had finished twisting the cable into a neat figure of eight and was now busy pulling open drawers and delving into boxes and upending cartons. Río admired her sister’s sang-froid, but then she supposed Dervla was well used to exploring old houses. It was funny. When they were growing up, Río had been the feistier of the two–the tomboy to Dervla’s Barbie. Río had plunged into the sea with panache while Dervla shivered in the shallows. Río revelled in stormy weather, dancing in a garden lit by lightning, while Dervla hid under the bedclothes. But Dervla had always been the cleverer of the two, and that, Río supposed, was why Dervla lived in a penthouse apartment and drove a nifty little Merc while Río lived in a rented doll’s house and drove a hackney cab.

The door of the wardrobe creaked spookily when Río tugged on the handle. This is like the scary bit in the movie, she thought, the bit where you put your hands over your eyes and tell the stupid girl to get out of there right now because—

‘Jesus Christ!’ came a screech from behind her. Río spun round to see Dervla clutching her hands to her heart. ‘Jesus Christ, W.B.! You gave me such a fright!’

‘What happened?’

‘Bloody W.B. jumped out at me from behind a box.’

W.B. stalked indignantly towards a threadbare sofa that sagged like a sinking ship in a sea of junk. He leaped onto it and began to wash himself self-importantly, as if to reinforce his status as top cat in the household’s hierarchy.

‘That cat always did have a wicked sense of humour,’ said Río, turning to resume her inspection of the wardrobe. Dervla’s yell had fazed her not a little, and her heart was ricocheting against her ribcage as she pulled again at the handle.

Behind the right-hand door was a rail upon which hung a confusion of fabrics: the dresses, skirts, blouses and scarves that had belonged to their mother. Running a hand along the hangers, Río paused now and again to rub the collar of a chenille cardigan, a corduroy jacket, a merino sweater, remembering how the material had felt against her face when she had cuddled up with her mother on the sofa and leaned her head on her shoulder.

Mama had always smelled of vetiver, from the fragrance she favoured. Río hadn’t been surprised when she’d learned from an aromatherapist that vetiver was renowned for its calming properties. She took a step closer to the wardrobe, hoping to get a trace of her mother’s scent, but the clothes just smelled of mildew.

The door on the left-hand side of the wardrobe refused to yield when she tried the handle. She tugged and tugged, thinking it might be locked, when it gave abruptly, catching Río off balance. She stumbled backwards and fell clumsily onto the sofa where W.B. was grooming himself. Dust rose at the impact, and W.B. slanted her an indignant look.

‘Sorry, puss,’ she said, giving his ears a rub before turning back to face the wardrobe. There, behind a veil of dancing dust motes, suspended like ghosts of girls, were two kimonos. They were of fine foulard silk, patterned with birds and flowers. Frank had brought them back as presents for his daughters after a junket to Japan, and had instructed them how to wear them. The most important detail to remember, he had told them, was always to fasten them at the front with the left-hand side over the right. Right folded over left, he’d said, was bad luck, because that was the way the Japanese dressed their dead. One kimono featured a bird of paradise motif, the other, sprigs of cherry blossom. Below the kimonos on the floor of the wardrobe lay a small valise, the lid of which was open. It was crammed with letters.

‘Dervla,’ said Río, ‘come here.’

Dervla looked up from the filing cabinet she was rummaging in. ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘Our kimonos. The ones Dad brought back from Japan.’

Dervla joined Río by the open wardrobe door, and stood looking at the wraithlike garments. They were both suspended from misshapen wire hangers, and as they swayed gently from side to side, it was plain to see that the one with the cherry blossom motif had been arranged to be worn by a living girl, while the one with the bird motif was arranged to be worn by a dead one. The kimono with the bird of paradise emblazoned upon it had belonged to Río.

Río shuddered. ‘That’s really spooky,’ she said. ‘That’s horrible. Who could have done it?’

‘I didn’t do it,’ said Dervla hastily. ‘I didn’t hate you that much.’

‘Then Dad must have done it.’

‘Don’t be daft. It was probably somebody who came in to do housework for him,’ suggested Dervla.

‘No. None of the neighbours would ever have intruded as far as the attic. And anyway, who would have known the significance of the way they’re folded? Look how neatly the sashes are tied. It had to be someone who knew what they were doing. It had to be Dad.’

‘Making a drunken mistake.’

Río shook her head. ‘No. This has been staged. This was done with intent. There’s some kind of message here. A message from beyond the grave.’

‘Get a grip, Río! This is no time for melodrama.’

‘I’m not being melodramatic. We were meant to find this. And we were obviously meant to read those letters too.’

Río steeled herself, then bent down to pick up the valise. She recognised it as having belonged to her grandmother. It was one of those silly little cases lined with frilly-edged elasticated silk that had once contained manicure kit and hairbrushes and lotions and potions for personal grooming while travelling. But its function as a vanity case had become redundant once their grandmother had died, for Río and Dervla’s mother, Rosaleen, had never had an opportunity to travel anywhere.

Río carried the case over to the bockety sofa and sat down beside W.B. Dervla brushed dust off the armrest before perching herself at an angle that would allow her to look at the letters over her sister’s shoulder.

The first letter Río drew out of the case was in an unfamiliar hand. Because there was no envelope, it was not possible to tell who had been the recipient. ‘“Darling one,”’ Río read out loud. ‘“It’s only Tuesday, and already I miss you unspeakably”’

‘Who could “darling one” be?’ asked Dervla. ‘Our father?’

‘No,’ said Río, scanning the page. ‘This was written to Mama. Listen.

Río raised her eyes from the page, and regarded Dervla. ‘Mama must have had a lover,’ she said.

‘A lover? Mama?’ Incredulity was scrawled all over Dervla’s face. ‘No!’

‘What else could this mean?’

‘But…Mama?. Mama was a kind of saint–she was such a good person! She was so wise and gentle, and she put up with Dad for all those years…Oh God. Maybe that’s why?’

Río nodded. ‘Maybe putting up with Dad was just too much.’

‘But who might–the lover have been?’

Río looked down at the bunch of letters. ‘Looks like we’re going to find out.’

‘Is there a signature?’

‘Not on this one. It’s just signed “P”.’

‘A date?’ said Dervla, leaning over and taking a second letter from the valise.

‘No.’

‘There is on this one.’ Dervla unfolded a sheet of pale blue vellum. ‘October, 1970.’

‘What does it say?’

Dervla stopped short, and bit her lip. Río heard herself saying, in a peculiarly calm voice: ‘Give me that letter.’

‘I…I’m not sure that we should—’

‘Give it to me.’

Wordlessly, Dervla handed it over.

“‘I felt so jealous’”, murmured Río, “‘to know that everybody will imagine Frank to be the father of our baby. If it’s a girl, my lovely Rosaleen, I should hope that you might call her Ríonach…’”

Río let the letter fall onto her lap.

There was a pause, then Dervla rose to her feet. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that we should finish reading these letters over a bottle of wine. Come on.’

‘I don’t think I can stand up.’

‘Come on, Río–we’ve got to get out of here. This attic is starting to do my head in. It’s like the set of a scary movie.’

Dervla made a move to help Río up from the sagging sofa, and as she did so, Río noticed that she had a manila envelope in her hand. ‘What’s that?’ she asked numbly.

‘It’s our father’s will,’ replied Dervla.

‘You mean, it’s your father’s will,’ said Río. ‘I’ve clearly yet to find out who my father is.’