Chapter Twenty-eight

Río reread the letter that had arrived in the post that morning. It still didn’t make sense, partly because it was written in legalese (Río was dyslexic when it came to legalese), and partly because it was quite simply ludicrous. It was from a Royston Brewer, Attorney-at-Law, and it was to do with a bequest from a Patrick Flaherty (deceased) of Big Piney in Wyoming.

Patrick Flaherty. This could only be the Patrick who had adored her mother, the Patrick with whom Rosaleen had had the passionate affair, the Patrick of the letters. This man Patrick Flaherty had to be her father. Río felt aflutter with apprehension. Her father had left her a parcel of land belonging to him in the Lissamore area. Well hallelujah! She had something to call her own at last, something maybe even to build a little house on! She, Río Kinsella, was a landowner at last!

A landowner like her heroine, Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind, a novel she had loved so much as a child that she had read and reread it until the spine had cracked and the pages had started to fall out. Scarlett’s passion for land echoed Río’s own. In these recessionary times people were selling cars and jewellery and yachts, but anyone in possession of land knew how very, very important it was to hang on to it until the recession was over. Just looking at the map that had been enclosed with the attorney’s letter made Río dizzy with a kind of proprietorial fervour.

There was, however, something odd about the map. The designated parcel of land was very clearly part of the garden of the Villa Felicity. The orchard, to be precise. There was no mistaking it. Río had looked at the map right-ways, sideways, and upside down. According to this map, she owned the best part of the land surrounding Adair Bolger’s house.

She’d always known that there had been a right of way through the orchard, but she–and hundreds of other local people–had presumed that the land belonged to what had once been Coral Cottage. She even remembered how her mother had always asked permission to use the short cut any time they went to fetch eggs from the old lady who lived there, even though it was a public right of way.

She needed clarification. Who was the best person to talk to? Dervla clearly didn’t have a clue, since she had handled the sale of Coral Cottage in the first place. But it wasn’t like Dervla to be remiss. Hadn’t she done a search? Or had she connived with Adair Bolger about the orchard? She’d certainly have known about the right of way, because the Bolgers had been careful to keep it open. They’d caused enough controversy when they’d extended their lawn out onto the foreshore.

But it happened a lot with rights of way, didn’t it? That they became incorporated somehow into other people’s properties? She knew someone in Dublin whose garden had once been part of an unused back laneway, but which had been annexed by a kind of osmosis. And, hey, if it could happen in a capital city, how much easier for it to happen in the country? Especially around the time of the Irish diaspora, when people had been forced to emigrate to obscure and farflung places like–well, like Big Piney.

What had her father done in Wyoming, she wondered. Would this Royston Brewer, Attorney-at-Law, be able to fill her in on him? Had she perhaps, siblings? Half-sisters or–brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, that she’d never known anything about? She felt like someone in a Frances Hodgson Burnett novel–except she was too old, of course. What an adventure!

She could start by Googling him. But as she scrolled through all the entries that came up when she typed in ‘Patrick Flaherty Wyoming’, she felt an increasing sense of unease. Did she really want to find out who her father was? Frank, the man she’d assumed to be her father all her life, had been a sad case, but what if her biological father was worse? What if he’d been a murderer, like the Michael Patrick Flaherty she’d just clicked on, who had shot a man in the back of the head after sharing a beer with him? There was something spooky about this, something not quite right.

The letters he’d written to her mother were in a drawer in her bureau. She took them out and regarded the handwriting. Her father’s hand gave nothing away. It wasn’t jagged or dramatic or scrawly. It wasn’t the kind of handwriting that you’d expect from a man besotted. The form belied the content.

And suddenly Río felt shameful. These letters had been written for her mother’s eyes alone; the words they contained were not addressed to her. Looking at them made her feel grubby, as if she were reading someone’s private journal. She didn’t want to go digging around in the past. She didn’t want to unearth secrets that should maybe remain just that–secret. It’s a wise child that knows its own father. Who had said that? Shakespeare? What did it matter who her father was? Río was her own woman. She didn’t need to dive into some murky gene pool to find out who she was.

She took the bundle of letters from their hiding place and carried them over to the stove. After burning them, she would visit the headland where the contents of her mother’s urn had been scattered, and cast the ashes of the letters too, out over the ocean. It was, she felt, a way of reuniting the lovers at last.

As Río reached for the matches, the final words she read, in her mother’s distinctive, swirly script, were: ‘I know what it is to be adored…’

And so, she thought with a smile, remembering Shane, did Río.

Dervla had just had a call from Río to do with the orchard adjoining the Villa Felicity. Did she know its provenance? Well, yes, Dervla did, and she knew full well that Adair Bolger had helped himself to it. She had warned him years ago that if it ever came to a dispute he would have to relinquish any claim to the pocket of land, and now it looked as if that was exactly what was going to happen. Imagine Río inheriting a prime piece of real estate! Even though it was unlikely that she could ever afford to build there, Dervla was glad for her sister. However, she hadn’t been able to proffer much advice right now because she was driving in a hurry to Coolnamara Castle where she was going to meet Christian’s family for the first time.

Dervla parked on the avenue that led to the hotel, and checked her appearance in the rear-view mirror. Hair? Check. Make-up? Check. Breath? Check. Oh! There was a tiny mark on her handbag. Wiping it off with a tissue, she unfurled herself from the driver’s seat. Christian’s Saab was parked further along the driveway, and she felt a sudden flash of anxiety as she high-heeled her way across the gravel and through the front door. Please God, let me make the right impression. Please God, make them like me.

The three of them were in the conservatory, as had been arranged.

‘Darling!’ said Christian, rising to meet her, and kissing her on the cheek. ‘You look wonderful.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dervla, looking not at him, but at the pretty, dark-haired girl and the elderly lady sitting on a rattan sofa next to the French windows.

Christian’s mother was immaculately groomed. She was dressed in plain black cashmere and she had a string of pearls around her neck that Dervla suspected were the real thing. Her hair had been styled in an elegant bouffant, and her mouth was lipsticked. There was an autocratic set to her head, and she sat very upright on the sofa. She was, Dervla thought, quite formidable-looking. Her granddaughter too was dressed in black, and Dervla had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that she’d been invited to a funeral. The table in front of the pair had been set for tea, with scones and jam and cream.

‘This is Megan, Dervla.’ Christian indicated his daughter, who gave a faux smile.

‘Pleased to meet you, Megan,’ said Dervla.

‘Yeah?’ said Megan.

‘And this is my mother, Daphne.’

‘How do you do?’ Dervla crossed the room and extended a hand, which Daphne took with a pleasant smile.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘I’m Dervla, who’s just been lucky enough to marry Christian,’ said Dervla, taking a seat across the table from them.

‘Yes. You certainly are lucky to have bagged a dish like him. He’s my son, you know.’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you have some tea, Dervla?’ said Christian.

‘Yes. I’d love some tea, thank you. And my goodness, those scones look scrumptious.’

‘They’re from Tesco’s,’ said Daphne.

‘Oh.’ Dervla looked at her uncertainly. She knew that the scones were baked here in the hotel, but she could hardly contradict her new mother-in-law so soon after meeting her for the first time. ‘Tesco’s do excellent baked goods,’ she said diplomatically.

‘Every little helps.’

‘Yes. It does indeed.’

‘Excuse me, sir?’ A man whom Dervla recognised as the hotel porter had approached Christian. ‘Do you mind if I ask you to move your car? It’s blocking the delivery entrance.’

‘Certainly.’ Christian rose to his feet. ‘Excuse me for a moment, ladies.’

Megan sneered at her father as he left the room, and then came the sound of ‘My Chemical Romance’ from her bag. The girl fished out her phone and, jumping up from the sofa, lurched through the French windows onto the terrace beyond. Here she proceeded to pace up and down, muttering into the handset. Dervla heard snatches of the conversation, which was peppered with such phrases as ‘fucking nightmare’, ‘fucking old bat’, and ‘fucking fruitcake’.

Dervla turned back to Daphne, who had helped herself to a scone.

‘What’s that you’ve got wrapped around your neck?’ the old lady asked.

‘It’s a scarf, Daphne. I got it in Liberty.’

‘Aha! Fancy yourself, do you?’

‘N-no.’

‘You do fancy yourself. I can tell by the way you sit. Have a scone.’

‘Thank you.’

‘They’re Tesco’s Finest.’

Dervla reached for a scone and bit into it. It felt like dust in her mouth. From beyond the French windows, Dervla could hear Megan growling, ‘I had to change her fucking dress and do her fucking hair. It’s like looking after a fucking baby’

‘Who did you say you are again?’ enquired Daphne.

‘My name’s Dervla, Mrs Vaughan.’

‘Dervla? Dervla? I’ve heard that name before. Did you marry someone I know?’

‘Yes, Daphne. I married Christian.’

‘You married Christian? My son, Christian?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t mean to tell me that you two are married?’

‘We are.’

‘Why did nobody tell me? That’s great news! Well, welcome to our family, my dear.’

Oh God, thought Dervla. What response could she give to that? ‘The weather’s lovely, isn’t it?’ she hazarded. ‘Although it has got a little cooler.’

‘Cooler, cooler, West Coast Cooler,’ said Daphne, struggling to get to her feet. ‘I need to spend a penny. Where’s the bathroom?’

‘I–I’ll take you,’ said Dervla, moving swiftly round the table to give her mother-in-law a hand. She clearly had difficulty keeping her balance, and Dervla could scarcely allow her to go careening off to the loo on her own, in case she did herself an injury. As she linked Daphne’s arm, she saw that the old lady had a dollop of cream on her chin.

They made their way out of the conservatory and through the lobby of the hotel to the corridor that led to the ladies’ room, Daphne singing, ‘When the Red, Red Robin Goes Bob-Bob-Bobbin’ Along’. Dervla could tell that people in the lobby were pretending not to look.

Once in the ladies’ room, Daphne entered a cubicle, and shut the door behind her without bothering to bolt it. Dervla heard fumbling noises coming from behind the door and then came the sound of a fart, followed by a loud sneeze. Daphne finally emerged looking rather less elegant than she’d done before she’d ‘spent her penny’. The cream on her chin had transferred itself to the sleeve of her black cashmere dress, which was rumpled around her hips, revealing a black nylon slip.

‘Allow me to straighten your dress for you, Daphne,’ said Dervla, stooping to tug at the hem. As she did so, she noticed that Daphne’s tights were at half-mast. There was only one thing for it: she’d have to pull them up for her.

‘Oh! Your hands are like stones!’ cried Daphne, as Dervla’s hands made contact with her thighs.

‘Yes. I have rather poor circulation, I’m afraid.’

‘What?’

‘I said I have poor circulation.’

‘You’re an awful mumbler, you know.’

‘Yes! I am!’ shouted Dervla.

‘There’s no need to shout.’

Task completed, Dervla straightened up.

‘Who did you say you are again?’ asked Daphne, peering into her face.

‘My name’s Dervla.’

‘Dervla? Dervla? I’ve heard that name before. Did you marry someone I know?’

‘Yes, Daphne. I married Christian.’

‘You married Christian? My son, Christian?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t mean to tell me that you two are married?’

‘We are.’

‘Why did nobody tell me? That’s great news! Well, welcome to our family, my dear.’

Oh. My. God, thought Dervla.

It got worse. On their return to the conservatory, she could hear that Christian and Megan were having a row on the terrace.

‘How could you have allowed them to go off together?’ Christian was saying.

‘I wasn’t going to stop them,’ came the retort. ‘Anyway, I’m fucking fed up of taking the old bat to the bog. She’s disgusting. She never washes her hands, and she sneezed all over my scone. I need a fucking drink. I deserve one after that fucking fiasco at the airport. Stupid fucking Nemia, forgetting to renew her passport.’

‘Deal with it, Megan. And stop saying “fucking”. It doesn’t suit you.’

Megan heaved a sigh.

‘I had no idea she’d got this bad,’ continued Christian. ‘If I’d known, I wouldn’t have dreamed of flying her over. Nemia should have warned me.’

‘Nemia thinks she’s had a stroke. The old bat’s, like, totally bananas. She hasn’t a clue who I am. When I told her I was Megan, she said, “But Megan’s only little! You can’t be Megan!’”

Feeling panic rise, Dervla helped Daphne back into her chair. The old lady dropped onto the cushion with an ‘Ooof!’ Then, ‘Who’s that talking out there?’ she demanded, as Christian came in through the French windows, looking sheepish.

‘Hi there, Mum,’ he said. ‘It’s just me and Megan.’

‘Come back in and finish your tea,’ commanded Daphne.

‘No way,’ Dervla heard from the terrace. ‘I’m going for a fucking walk.’ And Megan stormed off down the terrace steps like a thundercloud descending on the lake.

‘Where are we?’ enquired Daphne.

‘We’re in the conservatory of Coolnamara Castle Hotel, Mum,’ said Christian, sitting down next to her.

‘What for?’

‘For a nice stay. We’ve booked you into a lovely room.’

‘Did you tell them the name?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because they’ll know us, you know. They’ll know the Vaughan name. We’re a very well-known family.’

‘Yes, Mum.’ Christian sent Dervla a look of entreaty.

‘Stop giving each other private looks,’ said Daphne. ‘It’s rude.’

‘But we’re married,’ said Christian. ‘We’re allowed to smile at each other.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And do rude things.’

‘What do you mean you’re married?’

‘Dervla and I got married last week.’

‘Why did nobody tell me? I don’t believe that the pair of you are married!’ Daphne started to sing ‘Congratulations’. ‘That’s by Cliff Richard, you know.’

‘Yes,’ said Christian, wearily.

‘I love Cliff Richard.’

‘Mum?’ Christian laid a hand on her arm. ‘Do you mind if Dervla and I go for a stroll?’

‘Mind? Why should I mind? You can go wherever you like.’

Feeling like an ice sculpture, Dervla rose to her feet and walked onto the terrace. Behind her she could hear Christian saying, ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right here on your own?’ and Daphne’s imperious voice telling him that of course she’d be all right on her own and that he was to stop being such a fusspot.

Her new husband followed her onto the terrace, and Dervla turned to face him. He looked utterly stricken.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Dervla. I had no idea she’d got this bad, I really didn’t. I’m guessing that Nemia didn’t tell me because she wanted to hang on to her job until Mum made the move back to Ireland.’

‘You really hadn’t a clue?’

Christian shook his head. ‘I should have known that something was up when Nemia started making excuses not to put Mum on the phone to me. Any time I’ve rung of late I’ve barely had a chance to talk to her because her favourite programme’s just come on, or they’re about to sit down to dinner, or some such excuse.’

‘When was the last time you saw your mother?’

‘About a year ago. She was a little forgetful then–leaving pots on the stove and suchlike. That’s why we hired Nemia. But Nemia was really just a companion for her, you know–someone to cook and clean and keep her amused.’ Christian raked his fingers through his hair. ‘It’s been a shocking decline.’

‘Is it Alzheimer’s?’ asked Dervla.

‘It’s more likely dementia. She may have had a stroke. That can bring on dementia.’

‘She’s pretty far gone, Christian.’

‘I know.’

He looked so helpless that Dervla felt a great rush of sympathy for him.

‘I hope,’ he said, ‘I hope to God that you don’t think I asked you to marry me to act as a carer for my mother, Dervla. Nothing could be further from the truth, I promise.’

‘No,’ she said, moving towards him and taking him in her arms. ‘I don’t think that at all. I just feel so, so sorry for you.’

If she were honest with herself, Dervla would have to admit that she felt pretty damn sorry for herself too. She may have married her dream man, but no dream man came accompanied by a demented mother and a teenage daughter with attitude. Still, she could hardly blame Megan for her strop. If she’d had to ferry Mrs Vaughan over from London, and change her clothes and do her hair, she’d be feeling frazzled too. It had been a Herculean enough task escorting the old lady to the loo.

A kind of tuneless medley came from the conservatory. ‘When the red, red robin goes congratulations and celebrations!’ they heard. It was followed by a loud crash.

Dervla and Christian looked at each other, then legged it back into the room. The tea tray had crashed to the floor, and Mrs Vaughan was sniggering.

‘What a fucking mess,’ she said in cut-glass tones, looking directly at Dervla. ‘Come here at once, you, and clear it up before my husband gets home.’