Strange Sally Diamond

1

‘Put me out with the bins,’ he said, regularly. ‘When I die, put me out with the bins. I’ll be dead, so I won’t know any different. You’ll be crying your eyes out,’ and he would laugh and I’d laugh too because we both knew that I wouldn’t be crying my eyes out. I never cry.

When the time came, on Wednesday 29th November 2017, I followed his instructions. He was small and frail and eighty-two years old by then, so it was easy to get him into one large garden waste bag.

It was a month since he’d been up and about. ‘No doctors,’ he said. ‘I know what they’re like.’ And he did, because he was a doctor, of psychiatry. He was still able to write prescriptions, though, and would send me to Roscommon to get those filled out.

I didn’t kill him; it wasn’t like that. I brought him in tea that morning and he was cold in his bed. Eyes closed, thank God. I hate it on those TV dramas when corpses stare up at the detective inspector. Maybe you only have your eyes open if you’ve been murdered?

‘Dad?’ I said, though I knew he was gone.

I sat on the end of the bed, took the lid off his beaker and drank the tea, missing the sugar I put in mine. I checked his pulse first, but I could tell by the waxiness of his skin. Only, waxy isn’t the right word. It was more like … his skin didn’t belong to him any more, or he didn’t belong to it.

Dragging the waste bag across the yard to the barn was hard. The ground was frosted so I had to heave the bag up on to my shoulder every few minutes so that it wouldn’t rip. Once a month, when he was well, Dad would empty the bins into the incinerator. He refused to pay the bin charges and we lived in such a secluded spot that the council didn’t chase us about it.

I knew that corpses decomposed and began to rot and smell, so I carefully placed the bag into the incinerator barrel. I splashed some petrol over the top and set it going. I didn’t stay to hear it burn. He was no longer he, it was a body, an ‘it’, in a domestic incinerator beside a barn in a field beside a house at the end of a lane, off a minor road.

Sometimes, when describing where we lived over the phone, Dad would say, ‘I’m off the middle of nowhere. If you go to the middle of nowhere and then take a left, a right, another left until you come to a roundabout, take the second exit.’

He didn’t like visitors. Apart from our doctor, Angela, we had callers maybe once every two years since Mum died. The last few fixed the car or installed a computer, and then a few years later, another man came and gave Dad the internet and a newer computer, and the last one came to improve our broadband. I stayed in my room on those occasions.

He never offered to teach me how to use the computer, but explained all the things it could do. I watched enough television to know what computers could do. They could bomb countries. They could spy on people. They could do brain surgery. They could reunite old friends and enemies and solve crimes. But I didn’t want to do any of those things. Television was what I liked, documentaries, nature and history programmes, and I loved dramas, fantasy ones set in the future or Victorian ones set in great houses and beautiful dresses, and even the modern ones. I liked watching people with their exciting lives, their passionate love affairs, their unhappy families and their dark secrets. It’s ironic, I suppose, because I didn’t like people in real life. Most people.

I preferred to stay at home. Dad understood that. School had been horrendous. I went to all the classes, tried to avoid other girls and went straight home afterwards. They said I was autistic, even though my psychiatrist dad had told me I definitely wasn’t. I joined no clubs or societies, despite Mum’s pleading. When I did my final exams, I got two As and two Bs and two Cs in Honours subjects and a pass in Maths and Irish. That was twenty-five years ago, after which we moved again, to a bungalow at the end of a tiny lane, a mile outside the village of Carricksheedy.

Weekly shopping trips were always an ordeal. I sometimes pretended to be deaf to avoid conversation, but I could hear the schoolchildren’s comments. ‘Here she comes, Strange Sally Diamond, the weirdo.’ Dad said there was no malice in it. Children are mean. Most of them. I was glad I was no longer a child. I was a forty-two-year-old woman.

I would collect Dad’s pension and my long-term illness benefit from the post office. Years ago, the post office wanted us to set up direct debits to our bank accounts for our benefits and pension, but Dad said we should at least try to maintain some relationships with the villagers, so we ignored the advice. The bank was all the way over in Roscommon, eleven miles away. There was no ATM in Carricksheedy, though with most businesses, you could pay with your bank card and get cash back.

I also collected Dad’s post because Dad said he didn’t want a postman poking his nose into our business. Mrs Sullivan, the postmistress, would shout, ‘How is your dad, Sally?’ Maybe she thought I could lip-read. I nodded and smiled, and she would put her head to one side in sympathy as if a tragedy had occurred, and then I would go to the large Texaco garage. I would buy what we needed for the week and get home again, nerves abating as I turned into the lane. The round trip never took longer than an hour.

When he was well, Dad would help unpack the shopping. We ate three meals every day. We cooked for each other. So, I prepared two meals and he prepared one, but the division of labour was even between us. We swapped duties as age took its toll on him. I did the hoovering and he unloaded the dishwasher. I did the ironing and the bins and he cleaned the shower.

And then he stopped coming out of his room, and he wrote his prescriptions with a shakier hand, and he only picked at food. Towards the end, it was ice cream. I fed it to him sometimes when his hands shook too much and I changed his bed linen on the days when he could no longer control himself and didn’t make it to the chamber pot under his bed, which I emptied every morning and rinsed out with bleach. He had a bell beside his bed, but I couldn’t hear it from the back kitchen, and in the last days, he was too feeble to lift it.

‘You’re a good girl,’ he said weakly.

‘You’re the best dad,’ I’d say, though I knew that wasn’t exactly true. But it made him smile when I said it. Mum had taught me to say that. The best dad was the dad in Little House on the Prairie. And he was handsome.

My mum used to ask me to play this game in my head. To imagine what other people were thinking. It was a curious thing. Isn’t it easier to ask them what they think? And is it any of my business? I know what I think. And I can use my imagination to pretend things that I could do, like the people on television, solving crimes and having passionate love affairs. But sometimes I try to think what the villagers see when they look at me. According to a magazine I read one time in Angela’s waiting room, I am half a stone overweight for my height, five foot eight inches. Angela laughed when I showed her the magazine, but she did encourage me to eat more fruit and vegetables and fewer carbs. My hair is long and auburn, but I keep it in a loose bun, slightly below the crown of my head. I wash it once a week in the bath. The rest of the week, I wear a shower cap and have a quick shower.

I wear one of my four skirts. I have two for winter and two for summer. I have seven blouses, three sweaters and a cardigan, and I still have a lot of Mum’s old clothes, dresses and jackets, all good quality, even though they are old. Mum liked to go shopping with her sister, Aunt Christine, in Dublin two or three times a year ‘for the sales’. Dad didn’t approve but she said she would spend her money how she liked.

I don’t wear bras. They are uncomfortable and I don’t understand why so many women insist on them. When the clothes wore out, Dad bought me second-hand ones on the internet, except for the underwear. That was always new. ‘You hate shopping and there’s no point in wasting money,’ he would say.

My skin is clear and clean. I have some lines on my forehead and around my eyes. I don’t wear make-up. Dad bought me some once and suggested that I should try it out. My old friend television and the advertisements meant that I knew what to do with it, but I didn’t look like me, with blackened eyes and pink lipstick. Dad agreed. He offered to get different types but he sensed my lack of enthusiasm and we didn’t mention it again.

I think the villagers see a forty-two-year-old ‘deaf’ woman walking in and out of the village and occasionally driving an ancient Fiat. They must assume I can’t work because of the deafness and that’s why I get benefits. I get benefits because Dad said I am socially deficient.

2

Thomas Diamond wasn’t my real dad. I was nine years old when he first told me. I didn’t even know what my real name was, but he and my mum, who was also not my mum, told me that they had found me in a forest when I was a baby.

At first, I was upset. In the stories I had read, babies found in forests were changelings who wreaked havoc on the families they invaded. I do have an imagination, despite what Dad often said. But Mum took me on to her knee and assured me that those stories were made-up fairy tales. I hated sitting on Mum’s knee, or on Dad’s knee, so I wrestled myself away from her and asked for a biscuit. I got two. I believed in Santa Claus right up until I was twelve years old and Dad sat me down and told me the sorry truth.

‘But why would you make up such a thing?’ I asked.

‘It’s a fun thing for children to believe, but you’re not a little girl any more.’

And that was true. I had begun to bleed. The pain of the periods replaced the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny, and Mum and Dad began to explain other things. ‘If Santa Claus doesn’t exist, does God, or the devil?’ Mum looked to Dad and he said, ‘Nobody knows.’ I found that concept difficult. If they knew for a fact that Santa Claus didn’t exist, why didn’t they know for sure about God?

My childhood was replaced by duller, less colourful teenage years. Mum explained that boys might take an interest in me, that they might try to kiss me. They never did, except one time when I was fourteen and an old man tried to force his mouth on to mine and crept his hand up my skirt at a bus shelter. I punched him in the face, kicked him to the ground and stamped on his head. Then the bus came and I got on, and was annoyed by the delay as the bus driver got off to help the old man. I watched him rise slowly to his feet, blood trickling from his head. The driver asked me what had happened, but I stayed silent and pretended that I couldn’t hear him. I got home twenty minutes late and missed the start of Blue Peter.

When I was fifteen, I heard a girl in my class telling two others that I had been a feral child, found on the side of a mountain and then adopted by the Diamonds. She said this in the toilets. I was sitting on the cistern, my feet on the lid of the toilet in a cubicle, eating my lunch. ‘You can’t tell anyone,’ she said. ‘My ma heard it through a friend of hers who used to work for Dr Diamond when it happened. That’s why she’s so weird.’

The other girls did not keep it a secret. For a few weeks, they tried talking to me, asking me if I liked mountain climbing and if I ate grass. Stella Coughlan told them all to leave me alone, that it was none of their business. I ignored them all. I didn’t ask Mum and Dad about it. I already knew I was adopted and I also knew that babies can’t survive on mountains and that stupid girls make up things to be spiteful.

Mum died the year after I left school. We had been fighting a lot. She had wanted me to go to university. She had filled out my university application forms against my wishes. She thought I should study Music or the sciences. I love music and playing the piano is probably my favourite thing to do. Mum had a teacher come to the house to give me lessons when I was nine. I liked Mrs Mooney. She said I was a gifted pianist. She died when I was in my teens and I didn’t want another teacher, so I taught myself to get better at it. I didn’t want to take any exams. I just liked playing.

Mum said there were many options open to me. But I did not want to meet strangers and I did not want to leave our new home. Dad said I could do an Open University degree, but Mum said I needed to be ‘socialized’ because I would never leave the house or get a job if I wasn’t pushed. I said I didn’t want to leave the house, and she was angry.

The week after that argument, she had a stroke, while working in her GP practice in the village, and died in hospital. The funeral was in Dublin because that’s where all her family and old friends lived. She had always visited them regularly. On the few occasions her sister, Christine, had visited us, I had followed her around like a dog. She was like a glamorous version of Mum. Dad would stay in his study when she visited. Mum said that Dad made Aunt Christine feel unwelcome. After Mum died, she stopped visiting but always sent me birthday cards with money in them.

Dad asked me with wet eyes if I would come to Mum’s funeral, but I declined. I needed to sort out Mum’s clothes and see which could fit me and which would go to the charity shop. I asked Dad to bring back a recipe book from Dublin because Mum had done most of the cooking and, while I was excellent at helping her peel vegetables, I wasn’t so adept at pulling together a full meal. But I knew I could learn from books.

When Dad returned after two days in Dublin, he asked me if I was sad and if I missed Mum, and I reassured him that I didn’t and he wasn’t to worry about me. Dad looked at me in that funny way he had sometimes and said that I was probably lucky to be the way I was, that I could probably avoid heartache for my whole life.

I know I don’t think in the way that other people do, but if I could stay away from them, then what did it matter? Dad said I was unique. I don’t mind. I have been called so many things, but my name is Sally. At least, that’s the name Mum and Dad gave me.

3

In the days after Dad died, it was quiet. Maybe I did miss him? I had nobody to talk to, nobody to make tea for, nobody to spoon-feed ice cream to. Nobody to wash and change. What was I for? I wandered around the house and, on the third day, I went into his office and idly opened his drawers, found a lot of cash and Mum’s old jewellery in a metal box. Lots of notebooks documenting my weight and height and development going back decades. A fat envelope addressed to me on his desk. Files and files with my name on them in different categories: communication, emotional development, empathy, comprehension, health, medication, deficiencies, diet, etc. Too many to ever read. I looked at their wedding photo on the mantelpiece, and remembered how Mum said they never felt like a complete family until they found me. I had long since been disabused of the notion that I was a foundling child. They had adopted me in the ordinary way, Mum said. She had asked if I was curious about my birth parents, and when I said no, she beamed at me. I felt good when I made my parents smile.

I looked at Dad’s old photos of his working days, presenting papers at conferences in Zurich. Photos of him with other earnest-looking men in suits. Dad mostly studied and wrote academic papers but sometimes, if called upon in an emergency by Mum, he might attend to a local patient in Carricksheedy or beyond.

He studied the human mind. He told me that my mind worked perfectly but that I was emotionally disconnected. I was his life’s work, he said. I asked him if he could reconnect the emotions and he said that all he and Mum could do was love me and hope that, one day, I would learn to love them back. I cared about them. I didn’t want any harm to come to them. I didn’t like to see them upset. I thought that was love. I kept asking Dad, but he said I shouldn’t worry, that whatever I felt was enough, but I don’t think he understood me. I got anxious sometimes, if there were too many people around, or if I didn’t know answers to questions, or if a noise was too loud. I thought I could recognize love from books and TV, but I remember watching Titanic one Christmas Day and thinking that Jack would have died anyway because he was a third-class passenger and a man, and Rose would most likely have survived because she was rich and it was ‘women and children first’, so what was the point of adding in the love story that wasn’t even factually true. Dad was sobbing.

I didn’t like hugging, or to be touched. But I never stopped wondering about love. Was that my emotional disconnection? I should have asked Dad when he was alive.

Five days after Dad died, a knock on the door came from Ger McCarthy, a neighbour who leased a field behind our barn. I was used to him coming and going up the lane. He was a man of few words and, as Dad used to say, he was ‘a great man for asking no questions and making no small talk’.

‘Sally,’ he said, ‘there’s a wild smell out of that barn of yours. My cattle are all accounted for, but I’m after thinking that a sheep strayed in and got caught in there and died or something. Would you like me to take a look, or is your dad up to it?’

I assured him I could deal with it. He went on his way, whistling tunelessly, his overalls splattered with mud.

When I got out to the barn, the smell from the incinerator barrel made me gag. I wrapped my scarf around my mouth and opened the door. It hadn’t burned properly. I could see the full shape of the body. There was an oily substance around the bottom of the barrel. Flies and maggots swarmed around it. I set the fire going again with rolled-up newspapers from the house and logs from the barn.

I felt disappointed with myself. Dad should have been more specific with his instructions. We burned organic matter regularly. Corpses were organic matter, weren’t they? Maybe crematoriums were hotter. I would look it up in the encyclopaedia later. I poured in the rest of the petrol to get the fire started, hoping that a second burning would do the job. I pulled at my hair to calm myself.

I went to the post office to collect my benefits, and Mrs Sullivan tried to give me Dad’s pension too. I pushed the cash back towards her and she looked at me quizzically and shouted, ‘Your dad will be needing his pension.’

‘He won’t,’ I said, ‘because he died.’ Her eyebrows went up and her mouth opened.

‘Oh my God! You can speak. I never knew. Now, what did you say?’ and I had to repeat that I wouldn’t be needing Dad’s pension any more because he was dead.

She looked behind me at the butcher’s wife. ‘She can speak,’ she said, and the butcher’s wife said, ‘I’m amazed!’

‘I am so sorry,’ Mrs Sullivan continued to shout, and the butcher’s wife reached out and put her hand on my elbow. I flinched and shrugged off her touch.

‘When is the funeral?’ she said. ‘I never saw it on the death notices.’

‘There’s no funeral,’ I said. ‘I cremated him myself.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Mrs Butcher and I told her that I had put him in the incinerator because he had told me to put him out with the bins when he died.

There was a silence, and I was turning to leave when Mrs Butcher said, with a tremor in her voice, ‘How did you know he was dead?’ And then Mrs Sullivan said to Mrs Butcher, ‘I don’t know who to call. The guards or a doctor?’

I turned back to her and said, ‘It’s too late for a doctor, he’s dead. Why would you call the guards?’

‘Sally, when somebody dies, the authorities have to be notified.’

‘But it’s none of their business,’ I protested. They were making me confused.

When I got home, I played the piano for a while. Then I went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea. I took the tea into Dad’s office. The phone began to ring and I turned it off. I looked at the envelope on his laptop with ‘Sally’ written on the front, and ‘to be opened after my death’ in Dad’s shaky handwriting. It didn’t say how long after his death I should open it, and I wondered if it might contain a birthday card. My birthday wasn’t for another nine days, so I was going to wait until then. I would be forty-three years old. I felt like it was going to be a good year.

It was a large envelope and, when I picked it up, I could feel that it was thick and that it contained many pages. Maybe it wasn’t a birthday card. I put it into the pocket of my skirt. I would read it after Murder She Wrote and Judge Judy. I settled myself into the living room on the sofa I used to share with Mum. I looked at Dad’s empty armchair and thought about him for a few minutes.

I was soon distracted by the goings-on in Cabot Cove. This time Jessica Fletcher’s gardener had been up to no good with the rich lawyer’s widow and she killed him when he refused to leave his wife. As usual, Jessica outsmarted the Sheriff in solving the crime. During one of the ad breaks in Judge Judy, I heard a knock on the front door.

I was shocked. Who could it be? Perhaps Dad had ordered something on his computer, though that was unlikely because he hadn’t used it for about a month before he died. I turned up the television loud as the knocking continued. It stopped and I had to rewind the TV because Judge Judy had started again and I’d missed a bit. Then a head appeared at the window to my left. I screamed. But it was only Angela.

4

Dr Angela Caffrey had been Mum’s business partner and took over the practice after Mum died. I had visited the practice many times over the years. I didn’t mind Angela touching me or examining me, because she always explained clearly what was going to happen. And she always made me better. Dad liked her and so did I.

‘Sally! Are you all right? Mrs Sullivan told me Tom has died, is that right?’

I stood awkwardly at the door to Dad’s study in the hall. In the past, Dad always invited Angela into the sitting room and offered her tea, but I didn’t want her to stay long. Angela had other ideas.

‘Shall we go through to the kitchen, and you can tell me all about it?’

I led her down the steps to the kitchen.

‘Oh, you have the place spotless, your mum would be so proud. You know, I haven’t been here for ages.’ She pulled out Dad’s chair from the table and sat down on it. I stood with my back to the range.

‘So, Sally, did your father die?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, poor Tom! Was he ill for a long time?’

‘He slowed down a lot and then he went to bed about a month ago and didn’t get up.’

‘I wonder why he didn’t call me? I’d have come straight out. I could have made sure he was comfortable.’

‘He wrote pain med prescriptions for me to get filled in Roscommon.’

‘He wrote prescriptions for himself? That’s not exactly legal.’

‘He put them in my name. He said he wouldn’t go to jail and neither would I.’

‘I see.’ She paused. ‘And when exactly did he pass away?’

‘I found him dead on Wednesday when I brought him in his tea in the morning.’

‘Oh my dear, that must have been so distressing. Now, I don’t want to pry but Maureen Kenny –’

‘Who?’

‘Maureen, the butcher’s wife? She said that you said there was no funeral and that you had him cremated on your own.’

‘Yes.’

‘And where was this cremation held?’

‘In the green barn.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The green barn.’

‘Here? Behind the house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you not think to call someone? Me, the hospital, an undertaker?’

I felt like I was in trouble, like I’d done something wrong.

‘He told me to put him out with the bins.’

‘He … what? He was joking, he didn’t mean that!’

‘He didn’t tell me it was a joke.’

‘But how can you be sure he was dead?’

‘He wasn’t breathing. Do you want to see the incinerator?’ I asked.

Her eyes opened wide. ‘That’s not the way to dispose of … Sally, this is serious. Only a medical professional can certify a death. Didn’t he leave any instructions about his funeral?’

‘No, I don’t …’ and then I remembered about the envelope. ‘He left this for me.’ I pulled it out of my pocket.

‘And what does it say?’

‘I haven’t opened it yet.’

I was getting bothered with all of this talking. Either I don’t talk at all, or I talk too much and I say things that don’t make sense to anyone but me.

I put my hands over my ears and Angela moderated her voice.

‘Would you like me to open it? May I read it?’

I threw the envelope at her and went to the piano, but it didn’t calm me. I went to my room and crawled under the duvet and the soft blue blanket. I began to pull hair from my head. I didn’t know what to do. I wondered when Angela would leave. I listened to hear the front door shut.

5

A soft knocking sound woke me up. It was dusk outside. I must have blacked out. It happens when I am distressed, though it hadn’t happened in many years.

‘Sally?’ Angela whispered. I looked at my watch. She had been there for three hours and twenty-five minutes.

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve made some tea and beans on toast. You should get up because we have to talk.’

‘Is there sugar in the tea?’

‘Not yet,’ she said, ‘but I’ll add some.’

‘Which mug did you use?’

‘I … I’m not sure.’

I opened the door and followed Angela down the hall.

She gave me my tea in Dad’s Scrabble mug. I added a spoon and a half of sugar and an extra teaspoon of milk. She had made herself tea in a china mug that neither Dad nor I had ever used.

‘So, I’ve read your dad’s letters –’

‘There’s more than one?’

‘Yes. It’s okay, love. The thing is, I have to call the guards, and they will want to talk to you. But I don’t want you to worry because I’m going to be with you, and I’ll explain your condition to them and I’ll make sure they are gentle with you. But, and this is the hard bit, they will probably want to search the house and you should come and stay with Nadine and me for a little bit, while they carry out their enquiries.’

‘What enquiries?’

‘It’s just that … it’s … unusual to burn a body of a family member, it’s not legal, and I’m so sorry to tell you this, love, but there were funeral instructions in his letter … among other things.’

‘Oh. Why would the guards want to search the house? On TV, they always leave a terrible mess.’

‘They’d want to reassure themselves that your dad died of natural causes, but it’s clear in his letter that he knew he had little time left. It’s obvious that he trusted you, and that he loved you. I’m confident the post-mortem will show that he was already dead.’

‘I don’t want visitors and I don’t want to come to your house.’

‘Sally, if I can’t control this, you might end up in a prison cell for a few nights or more. Please believe me. Your mum and dad would have wanted me to help you. In the letter, your dad said you should ring me when he died.’

I pulled at my hair again. She reached out but I flinched away from her. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,’ she said.

‘But he didn’t say when to open the letter. He just wrote to open it after he died. I didn’t know I was supposed to open it that same day.’

‘I know, but I’m afraid there is going to be a lot of fuss now. I’m going to call the guards, and they will want to interview you. You might need a solicitor. But I will be with you and I’ll explain anything that your dad hasn’t explained in the letters, although he was thorough.’ She paused. ‘There are things in the letters that you may find … upsetting. But we will take it slowly. Your dad only wanted you to read one section per week. There are three different parts.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, there’s … a lot to take in. I thought your mum and dad were open with me about your circumstances, but it seems there was a lot they kept hidden from everyone.’

‘About me?’

‘Yes, Sally. But we can discuss that another time. I have to call the guards now. Would you like a mild sedative before they come? To help you stay calm?’

‘Yes please.’

6

Two guards came, not one. One man, one woman. I didn’t look at their faces. They were nice and calm until I told them I’d put my dad in a refuse sack and then into the incinerator. The smaller one raised her voice. ‘What in the name of God did you do –’

Angela asked her to lower her voice. The pill that Angela gave me made me feel like I was in a kind of dream world. They said they would have to get a forensics team straight away and that I needed to pack a bag and leave the house, but that I must leave out the clothes I had worn the day my father died. They groaned when I presented them with a neat pile, freshly laundered. Angela said she needed to give a copy of Dad’s letter to the guards and she photocopied it in his office while I went to my room to pack a bag. The woman guard followed me, tutting. I used Dad’s suitcase. I didn’t have one of my own. He wouldn’t mind. It was dark, and it was after my bedtime.

‘Will you please not make a mess?’ I said. The man said they’d do their best and the woman made a harrumphing noise and said, ‘You’ll be lucky.’ Angela gave the man the photocopied pages and asked him to make sure that they were given to the highest-ranking officers in the investigation. He nodded. He said little. He asked for the keys of the Fiat. I gave them to him but asked him to make sure they repositioned the seat when they were finished going wherever they needed to go in it. They said they would need me to come to the station in Roscommon in the morning. Angela said that she would bring me there herself.

As I left the house, I heard the woman guard say ‘Fucking psycho’ to the man, but he noted that I heard and shushed her. She turned to look at me and I was able to read disgust on her face.

I don’t know why she was disgusted. The house was spotless. As I walked towards Angela’s car, four patrol cars arrived through our gateway and people started putting on white plastic suits over their clothes. They set up these huge light beacons pointing towards the house and barn. Angela said they were treating it as a crime scene.

I was feeling a little drowsy but I wanted to stay. In lots of dramas, police planted evidence or contaminated the scene. I needed to make sure that wouldn’t happen. Angela assured me that it wouldn’t.

We didn’t say much on the drive to her house, but I looked at her then while she watched the road. She was a nice rounded shape. Like grannies in old TV shows. She had curly grey hair. She wore a check shirt and a denim skirt and black ankle boots. I liked the way she looked. She glanced over at me and smiled and frowned at the same time. Dad always warned me about mistaking people for how they look with how they act, but we both liked Angela.

7

I woke up in a strange bed in a strange house, although my own blue blanket was on the bed. I had packed it last night. I opened my mouth to scream, but Dad had always said that I mustn’t do that unless I was in danger. Was I in danger? I would shortly have to explain again why I had disposed of my dad. I shut my mouth and didn’t scream. I remember Mum saying that if you tell the truth, nothing bad can happen to you.

I heard some commotion outside the bedroom door. ‘Hello?’ I called.

‘Sally, I’m leaving some green towels inside the bathroom for you. The shower is easy to use. We’ll see you downstairs for breakfast in about twenty minutes, okay?’

It was Nadine’s voice. Nadine was Angela’s wife. I had met her around Carricksheedy several times. She was younger than Angela and wore her long blonde hair in a ponytail. She walked their dogs and tended to their chickens and designed furniture for her job. I didn’t like the dogs and always crossed the road. ‘We’ve put the dogs outside so you don’t have to worry, okay?’

Dad went to their wedding. I was invited too but I didn’t go. Too much fuss.

Their bathroom was like you’d see in a hotel in a film, or in an ad for bathrooms. I sat on the toilet and then washed my hands and brushed my teeth before stepping into the large shower stall with one glass wall. We had one family bathroom at home and a separate toilet, and the shower was a rubber hose attached to the bath taps. Because of the electricity bills Dad didn’t like us to take baths, except for once a week, so we made do with the shower. Angela and Nadine’s shower was great. When I was finished, I combed out my hair in my room, pinned it up and got dressed, made the bed and went downstairs.

It was bright. The sun streamed in through glass doors and it was open plan. Modern. Every wall was straight, corners were sharp. I’d seen homes like this on TV in the ‘afters’ of a home-improvement show. Dad loved those. He always laughed at the homeowners. ‘More money than sense!’ he’d say, or ‘Notions!’

Angela stood at the grill, flipping sausages and bacon. ‘Will you have a fry, Sally?’

I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten the beans on toast the night before because I’d been so disturbed.

‘Yes, thank you.’

Two dogs were outside the window staring up at Angela as she turned the rashers once more.

‘The boys look hungry,’ said Nadine, and she grinned and waved at them. They barked in response.

‘What boys?’ I asked.

‘The dogs, Harry and Paul.’

‘They’re funny names for dogs.’

Angela grinned, ‘We called them after our ex-husbands,’ and then they both laughed. I grinned too even though I thought it was a bit rude to their ex-husbands.

I was seven hours and fifteen minutes in the garda station. They took my photograph and fingerprints. They left me in a room by myself for the first forty-seven minutes and then two women came in, wearing suits, Detective Sergeant Catherine Mara and Detective Inspector Andrea Howard, shortly followed by a grumpy man who introduced himself as Geoff Barrington, my solicitor. Howard turned on a tape recorder and they introduced themselves for the tape. I didn’t want to look at them, so I looked at the wooden table and the scratches in it. Someone had engraved the word ‘cunt’ into the table in spiky capitals. That was an extremely rude word.

They asked me three times to tell the story of my dad’s death, and I got a bit annoyed at having to say the same thing over and over again. Geoff sighed deeply and said the best thing for me to do was to answer their questions. They asked me why I didn’t know that a domestic incinerator wouldn’t be hot enough to burn human remains. I shook my head. And they asked me to speak out loud for the record. I said I didn’t know because we burned everything else that wasn’t plastic.

Then they asked me about the letters and why I hadn’t read them. One of them laughed when I said I’d been considering waiting for my birthday. I got angry then. ‘Why are you laughing?’ I shouted. Geoff put his hand on my arm, and I shook it off.

‘Sally, do you wait for your birthday to open all of your mail?’

‘I don’t get any mail,’ I answered.

He scribbled in his notebook again and asked them to refrain from laughing as it triggered his client. I stared at him then. He looked as tired as I felt.

Mara asked me my date of birth even though I’d been asked that twice already. They asked me about my real date of birth, and I wasn’t sure what they meant. Then they asked me about my adoption and if I knew who my birth parents were and I was surprised because I didn’t understand how this was relevant. I told them that Mum and Dad had adopted me from an agency when I was six years old and that I knew nothing about my birth parents. They asked me what my earliest memories were and I told them that it was when I blew out candles on my seventh birthday. They asked in several different ways if I remembered anything before that and I said no, and then they asked me to try to remember and I told them that my dad had always told me that I didn’t have to remember things I didn’t want to.

‘But,’ said Howard, ‘you must remember something from early childhood?’ I shook my head. They asked me to speak out loud for the record. ‘I don’t remember anything before my seventh birthday,’ I said. Geoff asked to speak to them outside the room.

Shortly after that, Angela came in with a burger and chips from Supermacs. Another guard stood in the corner of the room. I offered him some chips but he refused. ‘You’re all right,’ he said. I liked him. He looked a little bit like Harrison Ford when he was young. I would have liked to talk to him. But he went back to saying nothing, and looking at his shoes. I look at my shoes when I’m uncomfortable too.

Angela told me that the police would be at my house for a few more days and that I might be charged with a crime.

‘What crime?’ I asked.

She didn’t answer. ‘Let Geoff do his job. Honestly, he has your best interests at heart.’

8

I spent five nights in Nadine and Angela’s house. Geoff talked mostly to Angela and ignored me, which most of the time suited me, but all the time, they were talking about me. Angela would check occasionally that I understood what was being said, but he didn’t address anything to me, except the last time when we were in his office in Roscommon town, and he tried to shake my hand as he said goodbye, and I snapped mine away. It’s easier to look at someone when they’re not looking at you. He was handsome and I suppose he did his job properly because he said that the charges of Illegal Disposal of Human Remains would most likely be dropped under the circumstances. Angela said it was because of my condition.

Geoff and Angela agreed that it would not be lawfully possible for her to become my legal guardian or me to be made a ward of court as I was an adult and I had nearly always made my own decisions, even if some of them were ‘misguided’. But Geoff said it might be a condition of the court that if I had a serious dilemma in the future I would ask Angela or a guard. Like, for example, if I ever thought of incinerating a body again, Angela would assess the situation and tell me what to do. I thought that wasn’t a good example to give. I was hardly going to endure this kind of fuss again.

Geoff said my father left me money in his will. He didn’t know exactly how much, because a lot of it was tied up in shares and bonds, and he was going to unravel it all, but ‘Enough to keep you going for a good while, if you’re careful,’ he said. But I have to pay bin charges from now on and divide up my rubbish into compostable, recyclable, soft plastics and glass, and I will have different-coloured bins for each one and I will leave them at the gate on alternate weeks and bin men will come and take them away in their smelly truck. The postman will deliver post to the house, but I was assured he would never come into it. Angela says it will be much more convenient.

I didn’t like staying at home on my own then because people kept turning up at my door. They wanted to interview me, or to get my ‘side of the story’. They are a lot more interested in my adoption than my setting my dad on fire. I was confused by this. What could one have to do with the other?

Now everyone in Carricksheedy stared at me. A few of them smiled and put their heads to one side. Sympathetic. Some of them crossed the road when they saw me coming, and that was fine with me. Some of them began to say hello, even the young ones from the Texaco when they lifted their heads from their phones. They said, ‘Hi, Mary!’

My name is Sally, no matter what they called me.

The police made a terrible mess of the house. I couldn’t help screaming when I saw it. Angela and Nadine were with me. Angela made me breathe and count until I could find my centre and, when I did, we set about putting the house in order. After a while, I asked them to leave because they didn’t know the exact place for everything, and it was easier to do it myself.

When she left on the third night after I came home, Angela said that she would call in twice a week to see me and that I was always welcome in her house. She handed me the first part of Dad’s letter. She told me that I wasn’t to feel sorry or sad. I knew by then that trying to burn Dad’s body was the wrong thing to do. Everyone had told me so. When I am told something once clearly, without jokes or ambiguity, I understand completely. You’d think it was something I’d been doing for years, casually burning bodies, the way they went on about it. It was one body, and he had told me to do it, more or less.

When the house was finally set to rights, it was 13th December at 8 p.m. and I sat down to watch Holby City. In this episode, it was Essie’s birthday, and I remembered that it was my birthday. I paused the television. How could I have forgotten? I never forget. But there had been so much distraction.

Over the past decade, I had made my own birthday cake from the Delia Smith recipe book. Even though I knew the recipe off by heart I liked to take down the cookery book. I liked Delia. Her photo on the cover was smiling and she was wearing a red blouse. I had always had at least one blouse like hers. Bright red and buttoned to the neck. She was reliable. I thought if I ever had a best friend, she’d be somebody like Delia.

It was too late to start cooking a birthday cake but I was forty-three. I decided to read Dad’s first letter after Holby City was over. When it finished, I turned off the television. There were two pages. Every time Dad got a big letter, he used to drink a glass of whiskey while he read it. Now I was in charge of the house and it was time to do things like Dad did them, except for burning the rubbish obviously.

1st November 2017

Dearest Sally

I guess we both knew that this day would come soon and I’m sorry if you’re sad about it, but I understand if you’re not.

The first thing you should do is ring Dr Angela Caffrey. Her number is 085-5513792. Let her know that I have died. She might be surprised as I’ve kept away from her for so long but, like yourself, I don’t like fuss and the prescriptions you’ve been filling for me in Roscommon have kept me pain-free. I worried that my mind might start to go, but when I go to bed tonight, I think I might stay there until the end. Getting up and dressed has caused me a degree of discomfort this last while, and I know you’ll be a good girl for bringing me my meals and taking care of me.

I have pancreatic cancer. It started out as back pain a few months ago and a consultant in Dublin confirmed it was terminal. I think it’s very advanced now, so you shouldn’t have to mind me for long. If it goes on longer than six weeks, I’ll ask you to ring Angela to get me moved to some godawful palliative care unit. Also, if I lose consciousness, you will call her. I know you don’t like speaking on the phone but you’ll do it because you’re a smart girl.

As regards my funeral arrangements, I realize that I was never clear about the details so please ring O’Donovan’s undertakers in Roscommon. Angela will help you with that. Ordinarily, I should be buried with your mother above in Dublin, in Glasnevin, but you know I don’t like Dublin much. You and I are alike in that way.

The accounts are all up to date. You have a bank account with the AIB in Roscommon town. The manager there is Stuart Lynch. He’ll be understanding and there is more than enough money in that account to tide you over until probate goes through and you inherit everything. Your mother came from a wealthy family, and we have lived frugally specifically so that you could enjoy a debt-free life after my death. Our solicitor is Geoff Barrington at Shannonbridge. He knows everything he needs to know about you, and he’ll make sure you are well looked after. He knows things that you don’t know, but we’ll get to that later.

I’d like the funeral service to be held in St John’s Church of Ireland in Lanesborough. It’s such a pretty church and the graveyard is a nice spot. I’m not going to make too many demands, but I’d love if you could arrange for the choir to sing ‘Be Thou My Vision’. I was in the school choir when I was a little boy. That was my favourite song, because we used to change some of the words around to make each other laugh. Oh dear, we got up to some mischief in those days. I am rambling.

You don’t have to attend the funeral if you don’t want to, but I would like you to be there if you think you can manage it. I don’t think there’ll be more than ten people there and you’ll know all of them. Some of the nosey parkers from Carricksheedy might show up but you could ignore them. I think I have given you enough trouble already and you will have a busy week, so I’d like you to take things slowly. Please don’t read the next part of the letter until next week.

Your loving Dad

I finished the whiskey and rang Angela. ‘There has to be a funeral,’ I said.

‘I know, love. If you don’t mind, I’ve already set things in motion? I have a copy of your dad’s letter here. I rang the undertakers. The coroner has agreed to release the remains as soon as we want so we don’t have to do much planning. The only thing is that St John’s doesn’t have a choir. I didn’t know that your dad was a churchgoer?’

‘He wasn’t, but sometimes in the summer, when Mum was alive, we’d go out and have a picnic out there.’

‘In the graveyard?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Do you want to go, Sally?’

‘No, but I will.’

‘It’s just that, because it was a national story, there might be –’

‘He wanted me to go.’

‘I know, but –’

‘I’m going. Will you and Nadine come too, please?’

‘Of course we will. But –’

‘Thank you. Have you got a date yet?’

‘I was waiting for you to read the letter and decide.’

‘Can we have it tomorrow?’

‘I’m afraid that’s too soon to arrange everything. Perhaps next Tuesday?’

‘That’s nearly a week away.’

‘I don’t think it can be done sooner. I’ll have to warn the guards.’

‘Why?’

‘Lots of people are interested in you, Sally. I guess you don’t realize how unusual it is to burn your father’s body, and there are other things … in the letters.’

‘I guess my birth name is Mary? A few people have greeted me on the street.’

‘Please, don’t buy any newspapers or listen to the radio or watch the news.’

‘Why?’

‘You are headline news and so much of what they are saying is speculation. It would be impossible for anyone to glean the truth. The facts are in your dad’s letters.’

‘I’m not allowed to read another one until next week.’

Angela sighed deeply.

‘I have to go now. Line of Duty is on,’ I said.

‘Okay, love, do you want me to call around tomorrow? Do you need anything?’

‘No, thank you.’ I hung up.

9

The next Saturday morning, I was mopping the kitchen floor when I heard a noise outside and saw a boy on a bicycle passing the kitchen window at the back of the house, cycling over rough grass, heading towards the barn. He was followed moments later by two more boys and a smaller girl who was sitting on the back carrier of one of the boy’s bicycles. It didn’t look safe to me. I’m not good at guessing ages but I thought the boys might be somewhere between twelve and eighteen. Lanky ones and Black ones and freckly ones.

I opened the back door and stepped outside.

‘What are you doing here?’ I called out.

‘Shit, it’s her!’ shouted the lanky one and the small girl screamed. The boys swerved their bikes and pedalled furiously towards the side of the house. ‘Strange Sally Diamond, the weirdo!’ shouted the freckled boy as he disappeared from view. The Black boy was barely looking where he was going and bumped over the shovel lying in the grass. As he did, the girl fell off the back of his bike and banged her head on the shovel’s handle as it lifted against the weight of him and his bicycle. It was like something I had seen on a Bugs Bunny cartoon. He didn’t stop. The boys all sped off.

I expected the girl to cry. She had been screaming hysterically since she saw me. But she lay flat on the grass, still and silent.

I moved towards her cautiously. Her eyes were closed. I put my hand on her face and it was hot. I put my arm around her narrow chest and it rose and fell with her heartbeat. She wasn’t dead. I suspected concussion. Dad had given me a course in first aid, and every year on 1st October we refreshed it. It was to protect myself, he’d said, but he also said I could help other people if I happened upon an accident. I had never happened upon an accident before. I lifted her head and, sure enough, I could feel a swelling at the back of her head underneath her hair. There was no blood. No immediate need for alarm. I picked her up from the grass and carried her, one arm under her bottom, the other cradling her head over my shoulder. I took her inside and laid her down on the sofa in the sitting room. I covered her with a rug to keep her warm, as I hadn’t lit the fire yet, and then went to get ice from the freezer in the kitchen. I emptied a full tray of ice cubes into a clean hand towel and returned to the sitting room. I gently lifted her head and applied the home-made ice pack to the swelling. Her eyes fluttered open, and they widened in shock when they saw me. She screamed again and I knew that she was frightened.

‘Does it hurt?’ I asked.

She scrambled backwards from my touch, and I realized that I hadn’t minded touching or holding or carrying this girl while she’d been knocked out. I held out the ice pack and said, ‘You should hold that to the back of your head and lie still for a while. You are concussed. I’ll have to ring Dr Caffrey. Would you like a glass of brandy?’

She shook her head and then winced.

‘You must try to keep still. Are you pretending not to be able to talk? I do that all the time. Are you like me?’

She stared at me and her eyes filled with tears. She had a pretty little face. After a few moments, her lips trembled and then she said, ‘I want my mum.’

I sighed. ‘So do I, but I only noticed recently, after my dad died. Is your mum alive?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice grew more high-pitched. ‘Will you ring her, please?’

Ah. A question. A question I didn’t like. I didn’t like speaking on the phone to strangers.

‘I’ll ring Dr Caffrey and she can ring your mum, okay?’

‘Okay.’

I remembered that children love sweet things. ‘Would you like a chocolate biscuit?’

‘Can you ring my mum first?’

‘Fine.’

I went to get the phone from Dad’s study and brought it back into the sitting room. She was sitting up now on Dad’s chair on the other side of the room, but she held the towel of ice to her head.

As I was about to ask for her number, she asked, ‘Can I ring Mum myself?’

That seemed like a good idea. I passed her the phone. She dialled furtively. I don’t think she wanted me to see the number.

‘Mum, can you come and get me, please? … I’m in –’ she looked up at me – ‘Strange Sally Diamond’s house … Yes, I know. She’s here … In the room with me. I was on Maduka’s bike. He cycled away and I fell off … I don’t know where he is … please come and get me … hurry … no,’ she whispered, ‘but she asked me if you were dead … I don’t know … Maduka and Fergus and Sean wanted to see where she – you know –’ she looked up at me again – ‘where she did it …’

Then a stone came crashing through the window of the room and landed at my feet. I looked out to see the two white boys picking up stones from the gravel drive and hurling them towards the window. The girl ducked down in the chair. The back of the chair would shield her from flying glass.

I ran to the front door.

‘Let her go!’ said the freckled boy.

‘She is concussed because you, Maduka,’ I pointed to the Black one, ‘dropped her off your bike and she hit her head. She’s on the phone to her mother right now.’

‘Oh man, I’m going to be in so much trouble.’

‘You’ve broken my window. Drop those stones right now.’

‘Killer Sally Diamond!’ said the lanky one, but they dropped their stones.

The girl came to the door. She still had the phone in her hand. She looked up at me and handed me the phone. ‘Mum wants the address.’ I didn’t want to talk to her mum. I didn’t want any of these children on my property and I didn’t want a broken window. ‘You,’ I said, pointing to Maduka, ‘tell her where I live.’ Maduka approached and I could read fear in his face too.

He took the phone from me. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said in a low voice and wandered away with the phone. I didn’t look at the other two boys’ faces but I noticed them picking up their bikes and edging slowly up the driveway towards the gate. By the time Maduka handed back the phone, they were gone.

Maduka and the girl sat on the sofa together while I cleaned up the broken glass and set the fire going. They whispered to each other as I cut up a piece of cardboard and taped it to the window.

Then I gave them chocolate biscuits and they took one each, sniffing them first, and then Maduka licked his and nodded to the girl and they both ate their biscuits in a hurry, dropping crumbs into their laps. We sat in silence.

Eventually, Maduka coughed and said, ‘Did you do it?’

I avoided looking at him.

‘Do what?’ I’m not normally good at guessing but I had a good idea what he was going to ask.

‘Kill your own dad and then burn him? I mean, did you burn him alive?’

‘No. I did not. He was dead that morning when I brought him his cup of tea, so I put him out with the bins and we always incinerate most of our rubbish so I thought it was the best thing to do.’

‘Are you absolutely sure that you did not kill him?’

‘One hundred per cent. I took his pulse. Nothing. The guards agreed that I didn’t kill him. I made a mistake by burning his body. I didn’t know that I wasn’t supposed to do that. If I had killed him, I’d be in jail, wouldn’t I?’

‘That’s not what they said at school.’

‘Schools are full of liars. When I was at school, everybody lied about me. It was a dreadful place.’

The children looked at each other. Maduka said, ‘Fergus said that I smell.’

‘Of what?’

‘I don’t know … I guess that I smell … bad.’

I approached him without getting too close and sniffed the air.

‘See? They are liars. You don’t smell of anything. Why are you hanging around with eejits like Fergus? Was he the freckly one?’

‘No, he’s the tall one.’

The girl smiled. ‘My name is Abebi.’

‘You don’t look like a baby.’

She giggled and spelled her name. I smiled back at her.

‘Do they say that you smell too?’

‘No, but some girls say I should keep washing so that my face would be white.’

‘Stupid girls.’

Their mum came to collect them. I heard and then saw the car in the driveway. I told them to go on out. The boy said, ‘I will make Sean and Fergus pay for your window. I told them not to throw stones, but they wouldn’t listen.’

‘Do they have jobs?’

‘No, we’re only twelve,’ he said.

‘I’ll pay for the window, then. I have lots of money now.’

He smiled. ‘Thank you.’

‘Do you want to come to my dad’s funeral on Tuesday?’

Abebi looked up at me with her big eyes. ‘We have school.’

‘I wouldn’t bother going to school if I were you,’ I said. ‘Waste of time.’

The mother was outside putting the boy’s bicycle into the boot of her car. She did not approach the doorway but she was craning her neck to see me. I stood back behind the door, out of sight. She was a white lady. I heard her shouting at the children, ‘Hurry up! Get out of here! Wait until I get you home!’

I played Mum’s game of trying to imagine what she thought of me and I realized that she must be scared. Maybe a lot of people were scared of me. Except perhaps those two children. I liked them. Maduka and Abebi. I forgot to ask Abebi what age she was. I wanted to know. I wanted to know what house they lived in and what TV shows they watched and if their dad was nice like mine.

10

The next day, early, there was a knock on the door. It was Angela. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her lips were thin. This meant she was annoyed.

‘Sally! What were you thinking? You can’t take strange children into your house!’

‘I did not invite them. They trespassed. I treated one of them for concussion and I gave them chocolate biscuits.’

‘You told them not to go to school!’

‘I liked them.’

‘Yes, well, it took me a while to calm down their mother and explain your situation. Sally, please, try to think about the consequences of your words and actions, especially with children. I’m a full-time GP. I had to get a locum in last week while I dealt with your crisis.’

‘What crisis?’

Her face was red, but then she cracked a smile and then laughed out loud. ‘Sally, you are a crisis. You don’t mean to be, but if you have doubts about anything, you must ask me, okay?’

‘But I don’t have doubts about anything.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of. Mrs Adebayo understands everything now, but all she had heard were the rumours that you’d killed your dad. I talked her around and, luckily, the children did say you were nice to them.’

‘The white boys broke my window.’

I showed Angela the damage and asked her to call a glazier.

‘Sally, I know it’s hard for you, but you are going to have to learn to do things for yourself. Like calling a glazier. Oh God, you don’t have a smartphone, do you? Or a laptop. But you know how to look up the Golden Pages? You still have one, don’t you? I saw it on the hall table.’

I nodded.

‘Well, find one that’s local to here and ask them to come out and fix it.’

I started to pace the room.

‘Sally, I know your dad meant well, but he was overprotective. You should have gone to college. Jean was right.’ Jean was my mother’s name. She and Dad had argued over whether I should go to university. Dad won.

‘I don’t like talking to strangers.’

‘Well, you brought two strangers into your house yesterday, and you had no problem talking to them. Did you invite them to your dad’s funeral?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? They are children.’

‘I liked them.’

‘Well, there you go. So you don’t dislike all strangers.’

I hadn’t thought of it like that.

‘So, find a glazier in Roscommon and ask them to come out and fix the window, okay?’

‘But what if he’s mean, or if he attacks me, or if he’s one of those that thinks I killed my dad?’

‘Most people know the truth, and the ones that don’t are, well …’

‘They’re scared of me?’

‘I’d say the glazier will come out, fix the window and get out as soon as he can.’

‘So I won’t have to make him a cup of tea?’

‘You won’t have to do anything except pay him.’

‘In cash?’

‘Yes, he’ll probably prefer that. Look, I have to go. I’ll be late for work. Ring me only if there are any problems. Put your phone back on the hook, so that I don’t have to keep coming out to the house. I’ll see you on Tuesday at the funeral, but I am busy.’

I knew I should say sorry. ‘Sorry, Angela.’

‘Fortunately, you’re yesterday’s news. The media circus has moved on. A county councillor has been accused of taking six million euro in bribes and a man in Knockcroghery murdered his best friend yesterday. I have to go. Bye!’ And she left, leaving a whiff of antiseptic after her. I liked that smell. She was always clean.

As she was getting into the car, she called out, ‘Oh, and we’ll have to do something about Christmas. You’ll come to us.’

The initial phone call to the glazier was not as difficult as I imagined. I practised a few times before I lifted the phone. The directions to the house were the most difficult part. There would be a call-out fee of €80 since I lived so far out of Roscommon and then I’d have to pay for the glass and the time spent to fit it, and I would have to measure the window and call them back. The woman’s voice was pleasant and foreign, though I couldn’t place it.

I measured the window and called the lady back. This time, her attitude was different, and because I couldn’t see her face, I could not tell her mood. She verified my name and the address again, and then asked if I was the daughter of Thomas Diamond.

‘Yes,’ I answered.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Alex will be there in the morning about ten a.m.’

Alex arrived promptly, fitted the window and was gone in less than an hour. He barely spoke to me and I stayed in the kitchen. I counted out the cash and then he said, or mumbled, ‘I’m sorry about your father.’

‘I shouldn’t have tried to burn him. That was a misunderstanding.’

He said nothing more and got into his van and drove away.

11

Tuesday 19th December was the funeral service. I drove myself to the church despite Angela’s offer. She said it was normal to travel in a cortège behind the hearse, but I couldn’t see the point. Two guards stood at the gates and kept the photographers at bay. Contrary to what Angela had predicted, I was still news. I noticed people with mobile phones holding them up towards me as I approached the church. The whole village must have shut down because everyone was there. I didn’t know most of their names, but I recognized all the faces.

I wore the black coat that Mum had worn for funerals. I had a green dress on under that (also Mum’s) because she’d been buried in her black dress. I also wore my black boots and a red sequinned beret that Dad said was for special occasions. I’d worn it once when we went to Fota Island Wildlife Park when Mum was alive. That was a good weekend. But this was a special occasion too.

The faces I recognized all wanted to take my hand and shake it. I snatched it back each time, but then Angela was by my side. ‘Shaking hands is a way of them sympathizing with your loss. Please try and let them. Nice hat, by the way. I think your dad would have approved.’ I had seen funerals on television. I knew shaking hands and crying and blowing your nose were expected. I asked Angela for one of her pills.

I let my hand be shaken by about forty people then. In the middle of it, Angela hissed at me, ‘You’re supposed to shake their hands too.’

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like all these people being there. I’m sure some of them barely knew my dad, but they all had something to say about him.

‘He was good to us when Mammy had her breakdown, God rest her soul.’

‘He always had his eye out for a bargain.’

‘If it wasn’t for your dad, I’d be in the river,’ said one rheumy-eyed old man. I knew that Dad had very occasionally seen patients of Mum’s when she begged him back in the day.

Nadine led me away by the elbow. I don’t mind people touching my elbow. ‘Some friends of yours have come,’ she said and I didn’t know who she was talking about, but behind the mob of locals, I spotted Abebi and Maduka and their mother and, I assume, their father.

I ignored the other mourners and went straight over to them. Mr Adebayo said, ‘My name is Udo and you’ve seen my wife, Martha. I want to offer my condolences and to apologize for my children trespassing on your property on Saturday. Maduka admitted on the way here that his friends broke your window. Please let us reimburse you for your costs.’ He spoke fast. I think his accent was Nigerian. So, the children were not adopted like me. Maduka’s face was tear-stained.

Martha spoke then. ‘We have warned them never to bother you again.’

‘You don’t have to pay me for the window. It’s already fixed and paid for. The glazier was scared of me. I think the boys were worried that I’d put Abebi into the incinerator. Not their fault.’

Here I was, talking too much. And then I did something else unusual. I put my hand out and rubbed Maduka’s face. ‘They are good children. I don’t think their friends were. Sean and Fergus.’ I have an excellent memory.

‘I’m not allowed to play with them any more,’ said Maduka. Martha muttered about them being a bad influence.

‘I thought the least ours could do is come here to show how sorry they are about everything,’ Martha said. Abebi let go of her mother’s hand and looked up at me. ‘We are doing the nativity play on Thursday. I’m playing the Virgin Mary. Will you come and see us?’ I was considering the invitation when we were distracted by the arrival of the hearse.

I tried to think what kind of mess was in the coffin. Poor Dad. I should have called Angela that day. But he should have written ‘Open on the Day I Die’ on the envelope. In capital letters. Underlined.

Everyone in the churchyard went quiet and Angela guided me to the back of the hearse where they were unloading the coffin on to a clever fold-up trolley. We walked behind the undertakers and followed them into the small, pretty church. Nadine told me she had organized flowers. I thought it was a waste to buy flowers for a dead man but I also knew not to voice all my thoughts. The ruddy-cheeked vicar came to shake my hand. I put them both in my pockets.

He had asked me to visit him the night before, but I told him over the phone that I didn’t like meeting strange men. He reminded me that he had met me several times when I was a young girl when I used to go to church with Mum. I told him he still qualified as a strange man, so he agreed to discuss the arrangements over the phone. He asked some questions about Dad and I told him the answers.

‘Our numbers are dwindling every year. I don’t suppose you would consider attending, even on an irregular basis?’

‘No,’ I’d said, ‘it’s very boring.’

The church was stiflingly warm. I don’t think it had ever seen so many Catholics in it. I was an Anglican technically, but Dad and I agreed some years ago that we were atheists.

We took our seats at the front pew, Nadine and Angela on either side of me. Mrs Sullivan, the postmistress, and Maureen Kenny and her husband, the butcher, stood behind us. Ger McCarthy stood in the pew opposite ours. I had never seen him in a suit before. And he was clean-shaven. I looked for Maduka and Abebi but they must have been down the back.

It was the usual boring stuff except that the coffin was in front of us. The vicar made a sermon about how my father had been such a big part of the community, which was a surprise because Dad avoided the community as much as I did. Angela made a speech in which she remembered my mother and said that no matter what mistakes had been made after my father’s death, he would be proud of me today. There was a smattering of applause after that, and I knew Angela was right, because Dad often said how proud he was of me. I grinned at Angela.

After the ceremony, we went out to the graveyard where we used to picnic, and a hole had been dug for my dad’s coffin. Half of the people left then. Ger McCarthy shook my hand and said he was sorry for my trouble. Quite a lot of people said those same words before they drifted away. But I spotted the Adebayo family and I was glad they’d stayed. It started to rain heavily like it does at funerals on TV. The coffin was lowered into the hole and finally we could leave.

Angela had said those who attended the funeral might expect to have been invited back to the house. Some neighbours had given her food, sandwiches, pies and cakes. It was traditional, apparently. But I didn’t know them. Why would I invite them to my house? I was told the villagers were now going to the pub. Nadine and Angela invited me to their house, but I was tired and wanted to go home to bed.

As I approached the car, Abebi came up beside me and said, ‘We’re sorry about your daddy and we’re sorry about trespassing.’

Her family were behind her. Udo said, ‘If there is anything you need doing around the house, I’m sure Maduka would be happy to attend to it, or I can if it’s too difficult for him.’

‘Just … please …’ said Martha, ‘don’t tell them not to go to school. They like it.’

I said nothing for a moment and then I asked, ‘Could they come for afternoon tea one day after school?’

Martha looked at Udo. Abebi put her soft little hand in mine and I didn’t pull away.

‘I’m not sure. They have homework …’ said Martha.

‘I was excellent at homework. Maybe I could help them?’

‘We’ll see, after the holidays?’

‘How are you spending Christmas?’ It seemed like the question I heard most people asking. I wanted to keep the conversation going. Most unusual for me.

‘The regular family day. Church in the morning. Then Santa Claus and turkey and hyper chocolate-filled children and a TV film in the evening.’

‘May I come?’ I asked.

Angela was behind me. She laughed and touched me on the elbow. ‘You’re so funny, Sally. Don’t worry, Martha, she’s coming to us for Christmas.’

I hate it when people laugh at me. I pulled at my hair.

‘I don’t always say the right thing.’ I knew I’d got it wrong somehow. ‘I’m socially deficient, you know.’

‘I wish you’d stop describing yourself that way,’ Angela said.

I had learned that those two words were useful in situations of confrontation or confusion. There was a pause in the conversation. Martha and Angela were both blushing. I stared at them each in turn.

‘I like your hat,’ said Martha.

‘Thank you, it’s for special occasions.’

12

I played the piano when I got home. It’s calming. But I felt tired and went for a nap. I woke as dusk was settling, remembering it was almost the shortest day of the year. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I put some of the food from the neighbours in the fridge and freezer. I thought about how they must see me. The people who prepared food weren’t scared of me. I doubt that most of the people in the church were scared of me. Nadine said that I’d made a mistake and they knew I was unusual. I know she meant socially deficient.

As I put a beef stroganoff into the microwave (it came with helpful instructions from ‘Caroline in the Texaco’), I realized it was nearly a week since I’d read the first of Dad’s letters. I ate my dinner and poured a glass of whiskey. The food was tasty. I was surprised. Dad had always said there was no point in me trying new things because I was so set in my ways. I’d have to find Caroline in the Texaco and ask her for the recipe. I am good at following recipes.

I opened the envelope and pulled out the second part of Dad’s letter.

Dearest Sally,

I have spent most of your life keeping you away from psychotherapists, psychiatrists (apart from me) and psychologists.

My profession would never admit this but most of what we do is not very scientific, more like guesswork. Every decade or so, we come up with new labels to categorize people. You could have been diagnosed with anxiety disorder or PTSD. Some might even have said you had Autistic Spectrum Disorder, or that you had an attachment disorder. The fact is that you are a bit odd, that’s all.

You are you. As unique and different as every other person on the planet. Your oddities are not disabilities (although we call them disabilities to get your welfare allowance), they are mere quirks of your personality. You don’t like talking on the phone and I don’t like cauliflower. Are we so different?

I have never been able to diagnose you because none of those categories make sense of the person you are. No label would be able to account for all the contradictions of your behaviour. Sometimes, you are curious. Other times, you couldn’t care less. You are emotional about things that wouldn’t matter to other people but can be unmoved by things that would devastate others. You don’t like talking to strangers, but occasionally I cannot stop you talking to them; remember when the Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the house?

Most of the time, you don’t like when people look at you, but sometimes you stare people in the face, examining them. (I guess that you want to know more about them. I need to remind you that makes people a little uncomfortable.) Your behaviour has always been inconsistent. It is not bad. But you don’t fit any diagnosis of which I am aware.

The issue now is that I don’t think it’s wise for you to live alone out here. I may have been unwise to indulge your self-isolation. I’m not sure that you ever feel lonely. Your decision-making processes aren’t always what we refer to as ‘normal’ and that can lead to trouble and uncomfortable situations. I think you need guidance. Sometimes, you become confused about issues that are important. Your reluctance to approach people is to your detriment. I know that you like and trust Angela, but you cannot depend on her for everything. She runs a busy practice. And she and Nadine need time with each other also so you can’t go running to them with every question. I have made you dependent. That was my mistake.

I feel responsible for you being such a loner and this house doesn’t help. It has already begun to deteriorate here and there, like me. And it is too isolated, like you.

The car isn’t going to last forever and, while you could easily get another car, I think your mother was right all those years ago when she said we should find a way to socialize you. I know you hated living in Roscommon town but you need to be around more people. Would you consider moving into Carricksheedy village? Also, you don’t need a three-bedroom house. It was selfish of me to allow you to spend your time alone in this house with only me for company.

We have let the back field grow wild and unkempt. Do you remember when your mother maintained it as a wildflower meadow? It hummed with bees and butterflies in the summertime. It is one of my many regrets that we did not keep that up. You made up a song about it. Please keep up that singing and playing the piano for the rest of your life, it brings you peace and no doubt could bring joy to others.

I think Ger McCarthy has had his eye on the land for a while. He asked me about it a few years back but I was afraid to make changes that might upset you. I treated you like a child. I’m sorry, my love. He’d probably renovate the house and farm the land that adjoins his own. He’s already leasing the second back field, as you know. I’d advise you to sell to him, but be guided by the estate agent. This house is a good-sized bungalow with big rooms, although neglected. But the acres surrounding it are fertile and ideal for cattle grazing. As secluded as we are, the village is spreading outwards. There are apartments on the main street now. Who would have thought it? Maybe you should see if there is one for sale?

Would you consider getting a job? I can’t think of anything that would suit you but I think getting away from home on a regular basis would be good for you.

By the way, you don’t have to worry about the bills, they all are on a direct debit and Geoff Barrington will see to it that they continue to be paid while probate is processed.

In the beginning I thought it was funny that you pretended to be deaf. But now, I think it was unwise. You should talk to people. Ask them about themselves. A simple ‘How are you?’ is enough to start a conversation. Try to look them in the face. Even if you don’t want to know the answer, you will eventually develop friendships. The only opportunity you had to do that was in school and, despite your unhappy experience there, there were some nice girls who tried to help you. Remember them? In the outside world, you will find more people who are kind than people who are not. Seek them out.

Janet Roche runs a painting class and it would be a nice way to get to know people. Ian and Sandra in the library in Roscommon run all kinds of groups and I know they run a class to teach people how to use computers. It doesn’t cost anything. I’d start with that if I were you.

That is all for now, my love. Have a good week. Before you open the last letter next week, I want you to have a good meal and a small whiskey. There is a lot of information to take in and I don’t want to bombard you with everything all at once.

Your loving Dad

Why would I move house? I liked living here. I didn’t want to be in the village, and I certainly didn’t want to socialize. I could be a childminder perhaps. To Abebi and Maduka. Martha and Udo might let me look after them sometimes. They wouldn’t have to pay me.

Another curious thing. Dad had said PTSD in his letter. I knew that meant Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. What trauma was he talking about?

13

The next day, I went to the post office. There was a long queue of people chattering as I opened the door but, as they turned and saw me, a hush descended. The woman in front of me had been at the funeral. ‘We never knew you could talk,’ she said.

‘How are you?’ I asked, as Dad had suggested, but instead of answering, she said, ‘I’m Caroline from the Texaco, I dropped a casserole to your door a few days ago. It must be hard to prepare meals or to think straight when you’re grieving.’

‘It was delicious,’ I said. ‘May I have the recipe?’

I looked her in the face. Her lipstick was red and her eyes were blue, and I think she might have been a bit younger than me, but I am not good at guessing ages.

‘Sure, will I email it to you?’

‘I don’t use a computer, but I’m going to take some classes after Christmas in the library. They are free.’ I had ascertained this by phoning the library that morning and the conversation was easy and the man, Ian, was nice.

‘Do you have a mobile? I could text it to you?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll write it out, then, and you come see me in the Texaco and I’ll give it to you.’

‘Thank you. I think straight, by the way, but I am emotionally disconnected so I don’t process grief in the normal way. How are you?’ I thought I’d try again.

‘Busy,’ she said and held out a sheaf of envelopes. ‘Trying to get Christmas cards into the post before it’s too late.’

The postman had delivered cards to the house over previous weeks. Some were addressed to Dad and some were addressed to me. I thought I should probably open them.

I couldn’t think of anything else to say to Caroline.

The queue had moved slowly, many customers pushing unwieldy parcels through Mrs Sullivan’s open window at the counter.

‘So, where will you be spending Christmas?’ Caroline asked.

‘Angela and Nadine have sort of invited me, but I’m not sure if I’ll go. I might stay at home.’

‘The lesbians?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ and I looked into her face again and there was a frown on it. What had I said that was wrong?

‘You wouldn’t want to be hanging out with them much. I go to a doctor in Roscommon since your mum died. People might think you’re one of them.’

‘One of what?’

‘You know. Lesbians.’ She whispered the word.

‘Well, I’m theoretically heterosexual,’ I said.

She stared at me and gave me a confused face.

‘I’ve never had sex, so I can’t be one hundred per cent sure.’

She turned away then and it seemed like the conversation was over. But that had been an actual chat and I was proud of myself. She took her phone out of her pocket and started scrolling. After she had been served, she nodded at me before leaving. ‘Goodbye,’ I said, ‘it was nice to chat,’ but she didn’t reply.

At the window, Mrs Sullivan put her head to one side. ‘Sally,’ she said, ‘how have you been?’ She still shouted as if I was deaf.

‘Fine, thank you. I need to get an address for Martha Adebayo, please. She isn’t in the phone book.’

‘Martha the yoga teacher?’ she shouted.

‘I don’t know what she does. She has a husband called Udo and two children.’

‘I know who you mean. Her studio is down Bracken Lane by the butcher’s,’ she said. ‘Sunflower Studio. I don’t think I can give out her home address. Why do you want it?’

I pretended to be deaf again and turned around and left. ‘Happy Christmas!’ she called after me. I didn’t return the greeting.

‘Poor thing,’ she said to the man behind me. ‘I think her hearing comes and goes.’

I walked up the hill and turned left on to Bracken Lane at the butcher’s shop. The Sunflower Studio was right next door. I remember when it used to be a florist, but then a supermarket opened up in the village of Knocktoom, five miles away, and gradually the florist, the grocer’s and the bakery all closed, leaving only the small Gala supermarket and the Texaco.

A large glass shop window revealed six women and one man with their backs to it, legs stretched, bums in the air, arms reaching forward. Martha stood with her back to them, and they all rose and reached their hands to the ceiling with splayed fingers and then bent forward as she did, dropping their arms and shoulders and shaking their hands to release tension. I had followed an exercise class like this on morning TV a few years ago. Dad used to join in sometimes. He said it was good for me to get exercise, but apart from long walks around our land, I hadn’t done that much recently.

The class was over. The students all retrieved layers of clothes from neat piles on a shelved unit and started to put them on. I guessed there were no shower facilities here and I thought again about Angela and Nadine’s perfect shower.

I heard Martha’s voice then. ‘Sally! Come in. Did you want to sign up for a class?’

I pushed through the door as the others passed me. I didn’t look up until we were alone. ‘How are you?’ I said.

‘Not bad. A bit sweaty.’ The room was warm and I could see the florist’s counter was still there. She went to a water fountain. ‘That’s the last class before Christmas, but you’d be welcome to join us on 4th January. A hundred euro for eight classes. I’m sure you could do with some loosening up?’

‘Would you like a childminder for free?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I know I have no experience but my mum always said I should get a job and your children are the first children that I’ve met that I liked. I could feed them, and I’ve done a first-aid course so they’d be perfectly safe, and I was a good student so perhaps I could help them with their homework.’

All the words rushed out of me and I looked into her face to see if she understood me.

‘And I’ve stocked up on chocolate biscuits and I promise I won’t tell them not to go to school. I would do exactly what you tell me. You could write it down for me. I’m excellent with instructions. I could collect them and drive them home, as often as you like.’

She was grinning. This was a good sign. We sat on two chairs while she drank a plastic glass of water.

‘I’m so glad you like my children.’

‘So, about the childminding?’

‘Look, no offence, Sally, but I’m not sure you’re the right … fit for that kind of job. Besides, I only work part-time, I can be home when school finishes. We don’t need a childminder.’

I was annoyed. ‘Why do you think I’m not the right fit?’

‘Sally, you have no proper qualifications. I’m glad you like my kids but the fact that they are the only kids you like is … weird. What if they misbehaved with you? I don’t know how you would handle discipline if you were angry with them.’

‘Usually, when I am angry or depressed, I pull my hair out,’ I said.

‘Oh my God! Don’t you see how that would upset them?’

‘I wouldn’t pull their hair out, and sometimes I play the piano to calm myself.’

‘I’m sorry, Sally. If you’re looking for a job, I don’t think childminding is right for you. But, you know, I honestly think yoga might help you to cope with stress. Think about it. First two classes for free. What do you say?’

She was smiling again. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said and turned to leave. ‘Will you tell Abebi that I’m not coming to the nativity play? Children are usually terrible actors.’

She laughed. I guess she thought I was joking. ‘I understand. Well, I suppose you wouldn’t be missing much.’

I went towards the door.

‘Hey, happy Christmas, Sally!’ she said.

‘Happy Christmas, especially to the children,’ I said.

14

On Friday 22nd December, in the afternoon, there was a knock on the door. It was the postman, with a parcel delivery, a small enough box, but too big to fit into the letter box. I put it with all the cards and letters. Later that evening, it occurred to me that I should open them all. What was I waiting for? Waiting to open envelopes had already caused me enough trouble. There were ten or twelve cards addressed to Dad – some were postmarked before his death – and a few were addressed to me.

3rd December

Christmas greetings to you and Sally, love from Christine and Donald! X

P.S. I hope another year doesn’t go by before we get to see you. Please visit us soon, and bring Sally. I bet she hardly remembers us but we’d love to see her again. She should know she has other family.

Christine was Mum’s sister, the glamorous lady who looked like a film star. I remembered Mum used to go on foreign holidays with her and visit her in Dublin, and their long phone conversations. There was a phone number and an address in Donnybrook, Dublin 4.

Then another card addressed to me in the same handwriting:

16th December

Dear Sally,

We were so sorry to hear of Tom’s death. I have tried phoning you many times, but perhaps you have changed your number. We last saw you when you were a teenager, you may not remember. I am your mother’s sister. Jean and I were close but your dad seemed to withdraw from the world after Jean died and, although I tried to keep in touch, he was reluctant to maintain contact.

We often thought of you both but respected your father’s wish for privacy. Unfortunately, Donald is not in good health, and we cannot make it to the funeral, but he is convalescing at home now. We would love to come and see you and help in any way we can.

I saw from the newspaper coverage that you must have been confused at the time of Tom’s death. We were in touch with the guards to explain that you have a condition and were so relieved that the matter was resolved. I also spoke to Dr Angela Caffrey and I was happy that you had a loyal and trusted friend of Jean’s to speak on your behalf. PLEASE do call. We would love to see you as soon as possible. You might consider joining us for Christmas?

She signed off with love and her phone number.

There was a letter, handwritten, one page, ripped out of a copybook. The handwriting was terrible. The address was incomplete too, but the letter had found me.

Saly Dimond

You are the spawn of the devil and you wil get your punishmen. How dere you burn the good man like that after he tuk you in and saved you from hell. Hell is were you belong. Im prayin to the Virgin Mary that you go there soon, you bich. Its to late for repentesne. The appel dusnt fall far frum the tree.

No signature and the paper was almost torn in places where the biro had been dug into the page. Dad and I had agreed long ago that hell didn’t exist but the writer obviously hated me and that made me feel anxious. The next card took my anxiety away.

Dear Sally,

You might not remember me but we were in school together in Roscommon from 1st Year to 6th Year and we often sat beside each other in class (because nobody else wanted to sit with us!).

I am terribly sorry to hear what happened with your dad. Because I remember how you were, I can totally understand how you made such a mistake and I want you to know that most people would feel the same way as me, if they knew you like I did.

We never spoke much in school but I tried not to speak to anyone because my stutter was so bad. I am much improved since then. Shortly after I graduated from college, my grandmother died and my mum inherited some money and she spent a small fortune on private speech and language therapy for me. I won’t ever be making public speeches, but I can hold a conversation now without getting totally stuck and I guess that with age and the love of a husband and two great kids, I have grown in confidence.

I often thought about you over the years and was surprised that you didn’t go on to study music. You were the most incredible pianist. I used to sit outside the music room sometimes to listen to you play, and I wasn’t the only one. But I’m guessing that perhaps you were afraid of leaving your parents, or maybe social anxiety kept you home? I don’t blame you. I was terrified to go, but it was so much better than school. We were both targeted by bullies there.

In college, I found friends for the first time who were much more understanding. I got involved in social justice societies and I now work as a fundraiser for homeless services. It’s tough now, the campaigning is endless.

I don’t want to bring you down by revisiting your early memories. I had no idea that all that shit had happened to you before we met in school. I mean, it’s no surprise that you are the way you are, but I never saw any harm or malice in you – you were a bit unusual, that’s all. If you ever want to get in touch, my deets are below. I guess I wanted you to know that there are plenty of people like me, who admire you, firstly for surviving such horrific adversity as a child, and secondly, for living your life on your own terms. I came to your dad’s funeral and I thought the red hat was a classy touch – a bit unusual for a funeral, but that’s you! I remembered you well enough not to try to approach you or shake hands. You were looking at the ground the whole time, like in school. I just want you to know I was there, I guess.

I wish you well, old pal. (Is it okay to say that? I feel like we were sort of pals back in the day!)

All the best

Stella Coughlan

I remembered Stella perfectly well. Her stutter was bad. She would turn crimson when anyone tried to talk to her, and if a teacher asked her a question, I could smell the sweat gather under her arms. She shared chocolate with me sometimes, wordlessly. She was not unkind. And yes, the bullies targeted her mercilessly. She got it worse than me because I rarely reacted. Mum taught me that. Stella often cried silently beside me. I could tell by the way her shoulders shook, but I didn’t know what to say to her. Would I call her some day? Maybe.

There was another nasty one, accusing me of patricide, but offering to pray for my soul, with perfect spelling and a signature. The other cards were mostly a range of condolence and Christmas cards from people who I half knew or names I had heard Dad mention. That left two more letters and the parcel. Both letters were from journalists, asking for my ‘story’ and making implications about my tragic childhood. ‘The nation deserves answers,’ said one. The other offered me €5,000 for an ‘exclusive’.

What had happened to me before Mum and Dad adopted me? And how did ‘the nation’ know all about it when I didn’t? I was tempted to ring Angela, even though she might be annoyed. It must have been something bad. Whatever it was should not matter as I couldn’t remember it. I had not ever tried. But now I recalled how the guards seemed to find it unusual that my first memory was my seventh birthday party. Did other people have memories earlier than that? My memory is excellent. I felt a strange buzzing in my head. My hands were shaking. I think this was nervousness. I played the piano for a little while until I felt better.

Then I picked up the box. I unwrapped it carefully and put the paper in the drawer where we kept all the paper for lighting fires or rewrapping.

It was a long shoebox and, when I opened the lid, I immediately felt a warm glow in my stomach. A small teddy bear lay in tissue paper and I grabbed him out of the box and hugged him to my chest. The warmth in my stomach reached all the way to my fingers and toes. I held him out in front of me. He was old and well worn, missing an eye, stained and patched, but he made me feel so … something. I clutched him again, confused. Why did he have this effect on me? Why was I so immediately warmed by his presence? Why was I calling it ‘him’ in my mind?

‘Toby,’ I said. He didn’t reply.

I rummaged through the box, looking for a letter or a card. On a yellow Post-it note was written:

I thought you’d like to have him back.

S.

15

I knew this bear. I knew his name was Toby. Did Mum give him to me? I have an excellent memory. Why couldn’t I remember? He smelled musty and dirty but also of something familiar. I was overrun by emotions I couldn’t understand. I was laughing and excited and agitated. I wanted to find ‘S’ and make him or her explain. I badly wanted to ring Angela, but I heeded Dad’s warning. Who could I talk to about this? Dad said that he would explain more in the next letter, but I wasn’t allowed to open it until Tuesday. This was one of those situations when I needed guidance. It was late. Dad always said it was not proper to phone anyone after 9 p.m.

I stood up and stumbled to my bedroom, feeling dizzy but in a good way. I got ready for bed without letting go of Toby. I talked to him, explaining what I was doing, welcoming him to his new home. I hoped he’d be happy here. I imagined his answers. I wrapped my arms around him and felt so light-headed that I don’t know whether I fainted or drifted off to sleep.

I had dreams that night, vivid, of a thin woman with long hair. I was sitting on her lap. This was strange because I never sat on anyone’s lap. It was also strange because I’d never had a dream before.

The next day, I rang my aunt, Christine.

‘Oh, my darling,’ she said, ‘it is so good to hear from you, we have been so worried about you.’

‘Do you still have that red coat?’ I asked.

‘What? Oh … that was such a long time ago. I’m delighted you remember. It must be twenty years since I saw you.’

‘You looked like a film star. I loved that coat. Aunt Christine, do you remember anything that happened to you before you were seven years old?’

There was a pause.

‘Well, yes, I have a few memories – getting an ice-cream cone from my dad, your grandfather –’

‘What age were you?’

‘Maybe three or four?’

‘I thought people’s memories only started when they were seven?’

‘Well, it’s different for everyone.’

‘I think something bad happened to me when I was younger than that.’

There was another pause.

‘Sally, may I come and visit you?’

‘Why?’

‘I think it would be best if I could speak to you face to face.’

I warmed up at the thought of seeing her again.

‘I could be there by lunchtime today?’

‘Will you want lunch?’

‘No, a cup of tea –’

‘I can make ham sandwiches.’

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Don’t bring Donald, okay?’

‘Well, fine, he’s recovering from an operation, but why don’t you want to see him?’

‘Dad said he was a lazy oaf who married you for your money.’

She laughed.

‘Why are you laughing?’

‘Your dad. Talk about projecting …’

‘I don’t understand. I don’t like it when people laugh at me.’

‘Goodness, I’m not laughing at you. Look, don’t worry, I won’t bring Donald.’

I hung up shortly after we had done the goodbye thing that annoys me: ‘Goodbye,’ ‘Bye,’ ‘Goodbye,’ ‘See you later,’ ‘Yes, goodbye,’ ‘Bye, then.’ So tedious.

Two hours later, I went to the kitchen to make the sandwiches. I had fashioned a sling out of an old scarf of Dad’s to carry Toby as close to my heart as I could. I told him about our expected visitor. I asked him again who ‘S’ was. I didn’t expect an answer, but it was nice to talk to him. I didn’t feel alone.

When I answered the door, Aunt Christine was there, carrying a large bouquet of flowers.

‘Darling! Oh my, it’s been too long. You are so tall! And beautiful!’

Aunt Christine used to look like a stylish version of my mum. But now, she was disappointingly old. I nearly said it. The skin around her face had all fallen downwards, though her eyes were bright with golden eyeshadow and spiky lashes. That made sense. Mum was dead so long. I felt comfortable with her until she reached out to touch me and I backed away. ‘Sorry!’ she said, putting her hands in the air as if she were under arrest. ‘You used to let me hold your hand, you know.’ This was true, but I was out of practice.

We went to the kitchen and I turned on the kettle and set about making tea. I watched her. She looked at me and smiled. ‘How are you? I see you don’t have any decorations up?’

‘No, Dad and I agreed they were for children.’ Aunt Christine frowned.

‘I got all these letters,’ I said. ‘Some people want to be my friend. Some people hate me. They wrote that I was a spawn of the devil.’

‘May I see?’

I showed her the assorted mail.

‘Well, these can go straight into the bin,’ she said, lifting the nasty notes and the letters from journalists. I agreed. I didn’t want to keep any of them, except the letter from Stella, my classmate, and the note from ‘S’.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine. Dad said I should move into the village. He says it’s unhealthy for me to live here on my own.’

‘Aren’t you lonely here?’

‘I’ve got Toby,’ I said, pointing to my bear.

‘Toby isn’t a person, darling.’

‘I know. I’m not stupid.’

She said nothing. We stared at each other. Her head was to one side and her eyes were soft.

‘What happened to me before I was adopted?’

She looked away then, out of the window, at the floor and then back at my face. She asked, ‘May I take your hand?’

‘What for?’

‘Touch can be comforting, you know. And it’s not a nice story.’

I let her take my hand and put it between hers.

‘Jean said that you … were medicated, that you don’t remember anything at all?’

I shook my head.

‘Your mother, your real mother, I mean, she … died.’

‘What did she die of?’

‘She was kidnapped by a man, when she was young, when she was … a child.’

I had seen films and dramas about men who kidnapped young women.

‘Did he lock her in a cellar?’

‘Yes, well, no, it was an extension at the back of his house. He lived in a large house on a half-acre of land in South Dublin. He kept her there for fourteen years.’

My head started to buzz. ‘Stop talking, please.’

She stroked my hand.

I turned away to refill the teapot. I picked up a sandwich and ate it. Aunt Christine sat silently.

‘Would you like one?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Would you like a sandwich?’

‘No. Darling, I’m so sorry. It’s a terrible story. Is there a friend I can call? What about Angela?’

‘Yes, I’ll call her.’

I picked up the phone. Angela didn’t work at weekends so I thought I wouldn’t be disturbing her.

‘Angela? My Aunt Christine is here. She told me that my real mother was kidnapped –’

‘Fuck.’

‘What?’

‘I wanted to be with you when you opened the last letter from your dad. It explains everything … well, most things. May I speak to Christine?’

Aunt Christine took the phone out to the hall. I couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying but I could hear her voice getting high-pitched. And then I heard her hang up the phone. When she returned to the kitchen table, her eyes were wet with tears.

‘Sally, I’m afraid I’ve made a mess of this. Angela is on her way. Let’s talk about other things until she gets here.’

‘Do you think she loved me? My real mother.’

She picked up a sandwich. ‘Oh, I think she loved you with all her heart.’

‘How do you know?’

‘These sandwiches are delicious. Let’s wait for Angela, will we? Shall I make more sandwiches for her?’

‘I’ll make them. It’s lucky that Toby doesn’t eat, otherwise we’d run out of bread.’

‘What age are you now, Sally?’

‘Forty-three. What age are you?’

‘Sixty-seven.’

‘Did my real mum get married?’

‘No … let’s wait for Angela.’

‘Okay. Do you want to hold Toby?’

She hadn’t seen him properly and I wanted to show him off.

‘Goodness, he is a little battered, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he’s getting in the bath with me tonight.’

‘Oh, that might not be a good idea, to immerse him. It could destroy him. He’s old. Shall we try to give him a scrub now? A gentle one, while we wait for Angela?’

Aunt Christine filled the washing-up basin with sudsy water and used a nail brush with light strokes while I held out Toby’s arms and legs. The water swirled with brown foam.

‘I wonder where he’s been?’ she said.

‘I don’t know. He came in the post yesterday with that note, signed “S”, but I knew at once that he was mine, and that his name was Toby. But I don’t know where I got him. Maybe Mum gave him to me, but I don’t remember, and my memory is normally excellent.’

‘“S”?’ she said, and I moved over to find the note again.

‘Do you know who “S” is?’

Aunt Christine almost dropped Toby into the water, and I caught him just in time.

‘Oh God, we shouldn’t have touched him, or washed him!’

‘Why? He was dirty. He needed it.’ I took over the gentle washing now, rubbing his little face and his soft brown snout with a J-Cloth. Aunt Christine began to pace the room, wringing her hands together.

When the doorbell rang again, Aunt Christine leapt up to answer it. I could hear them whispering in the hallway as Angela embraced her. How easily they seemed to hug one another, even though it must have been years since they’d met.

Angela strode into the room. ‘Sally, I think you shouldn’t touch that bear.’

‘Why?’

‘Put it down, please.’ Her voice was firm.

‘He’s mine. His name is Toby.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I don’t know how. I just do. I love him.’

I startled myself with the strength of my words. I had a strong need to protect this toy and to keep him close. I could see Angela was surprised.

‘You shouldn’t have touched it.’ She looked at the scrubbed bear. ‘I think it’s too late now. He’s been handled and washed.’

Aunt Christine’s voice went high. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know until after we started washing it. I haven’t seen Sally in over twenty years. I thought it was hers.’

I began to feel anxious. ‘He is mine. I can … feel it. I’m keeping him.’ I clutched his damp body to mine and felt the wetness on my chest.

‘It may be evidence,’ said Angela. ‘Do you have the wrapping paper it came in?’

‘I don’t understand!’ I shrieked. ‘You’re not making sense.’ I felt utterly lost and the buzzing in my head had not stopped. I began to pull at my hair, as Angela softly asked me how and when he was delivered. ‘May I put my arm around you, Sally?’ I nodded, and it felt warm and natural to have an arm around my shoulders as I held Toby tight. We stayed like that for a little while until my anger subsided.

‘We should go into the sitting room and relax a bit. It’s been a shock, and we have more information for you,’ said Aunt Christine.

‘First, I need the wrapping paper,’ said Angela.

‘There was a box as well,’ I said.

I found the box and the paper. ‘The stamps on this are from New Zealand. Express post,’ said Angela ‘The box comes from a shoe shop. The guards will finally have a lead.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I think you need to read your dad’s last letter, and then I’ll answer the questions that I’m able to answer, okay?’

We all went into the sitting room. I was so dizzy. Aunt Christine asked Angela if she might have some medication that would pacify me.

‘Sally needs to be fully able to absorb this news.’

I retrieved Dad’s letter from his office. ‘I’m supposed to wait until –’

‘Your dad would be okay with it, Sally, honestly,’ said Aunt Christine.

They guided me to the sofa and sat either side of me. I asked them to sit on the other chairs.