Grace After Henry Read online

  ‘No. Oh wait, yes they did. Because everybody is dying to get in.’

  ‘That’s my favourite one.’

  We had only been walking a couple of minutes when Andy stopped. ‘Here.’

  We were standing in front of a plain black slab with three people’s names, dates of birth and dates of death etched into it. There were no flowers save for a row of dandelions growing near the headstone. From the dates of birth I deduced that the other two were Frances’s parents. My arm brushed against Andy’s.

  ‘Was she an only child?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Be kind of fitting if she was, though, ay? An only child has twins and manages to make both of them only children too.’

  ‘When I was a kid I thought the saying was lonely child,’ I told him, reading the names again. ‘I’d tell people, “I’m a lonely child.”’

  ‘Me too,’ he said.

  I kept my arm against his. ‘Henry never did.’

  A significant crack ran diagonally down the tombstone but the lettering had held up: Jackie and Tom Clinch. I guess that made them Henry’s grandparents. The bed of the grave was more moss than pebbles. Before Andy’s visits, I doubted if anyone had stopped at this plot in years – maybe not since Frances had died. Then I noticed the date of death and gasped. ‘Her parents died after her,’ I uttered, horrified.

  ‘If the parents had gone first, they probably wouldn’t have been buried here. They weren’t from Dublin.’

  I glanced back the way we’d come and couldn’t believe how close it was to Henry’s grave. So this was why Isabel and Conor had buried him here when their families were both interred on the other side of the city. Surprisingly considerate for people who’d never bothered to tell him this woman existed. I read the names and dates again. ‘Poor Frances.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I rolled up my sleeves and scrambled around to the edge of the grave.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Andy, still standing at the foot of it.

  I reached into the centre and with both hands around the stem, yanked the first stubborn weed from its bed. ‘Making amends.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  ‘Do you take milk with your tea, Grace? I forget.’ Conor gave me a look, apologising for his wife, and shouted through to the kitchen. ‘She takes a large dollop, dear. Even I know that.’

  ‘It’s hard to remember all these little things,’ said Isabel, appearing at the dining table with the bone-china tray, ‘when it’s been so long.’

  I leaned over to help take the jug and matching sugar bowl but Isabel got there first. ‘It’s all right, Grace. You’re the guest.’

  I had served Christmas-Eve dinner at this table on several occasions. I had spent a bank holiday weekend running up and down those stairs with basins and clean towels when Isabel was particularly sick with her stomach and Conor and Henry were away at some relative’s stag party. I hadn’t been a guest in this house in years.

  The box of pastries I’d brought sat ignored and unopened on the table that was eternally set for a dinner party, even though Henry’s parents rarely socialised. And while Isabel was making a very clear point about how long it had been since they’d seen me and about the many unreturned phone calls, Conor was acting like everything was fine. We could as easily have been gathered for morning coffee as for the inquest into his son’s death.

  ‘Scooter! Scooter! Down, boy. Leave Grace alone.’

  The old Labrador slumped from my knee to the carpet and plodded over to Conor. I wasn’t used to affection from the Walshes’ dog. I was used to being in this house with Henry and when that was the case Scooter only had eyes for him. ‘Blind as anything now, aren’t you, boy?’ said Conor. ‘Only recognises people by their smell.’

  ‘Your flowerbeds are beautiful, Isabel,’ I said, craning my neck to see out into the back garden. ‘So much colour.’

  ‘Those,’ she said, throwing an indifferent glance towards her beloved garden as if the plants had sprung up by accident. ‘Gardenias. They’ve been there for months. But I suppose you wouldn’t have seen the garden since the pansies, or was it even the lavender?’

  ‘I’m sorry I never made it over for dinner. I was busy. With work, and the house, and you know how it is now—’

  ‘You don’t owe us a word of an apology,’ said Conor, placing a hand on the one I had outstretched towards his wife. ‘You have your own life to be getting on with, and we’re happy to see you doing that. Isn’t that right, Isabel?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I’m getting on with my life,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I haven’t been . . . I’m just . . . I’m doing my best.’

  ‘We all are. Isn’t that right, Isabel?’ His voice sharper this time. ‘I’m telling Grace how we’re all doing our best.’

  ‘Well, of course we’re all doing our best,’ she snapped, but softened when she finally looked at me. ‘We all find a way to survive.’

  I returned her thin smile with grateful gusto. I should have called, should have visited, but if they’d known the truth they wouldn’t have wanted me to; I’d have been coming with questions, not cakes. Isabel was wearing the linen shirt I’d picked out and Henry had bought the previous Christmas. Fitted when she modelled it for us on Stephen’s Day to prove she didn’t need the gift receipt, it now hung from her thin frame. Henry and Conor spent a lot of time worrying about what Isabel’s health could handle – foreign trips, big parties, going back to volunteer at the Oxfam shop after bouts of illness – but they never considered she’d have to handle a public inquest into her son’s death. Had Conor ever considered she might one day be subjected to a private inquisition into her son’s adoption? My gaze wandered back to the family portrait on the piano taken at Henry’s graduation and the broad smile and tall stature shared by all three of them. How could they never have told him?

  ‘Exactly,’ said Conor, as if the wrongs of the world had all been resolved. ‘Now, who’ll have tea?’

  ‘I just wish the driver would say sorry,’ Isabel blurted out. ‘If he could just say sorry I know I’d feel so much better, I’d be able to sleep.’

  ‘Not this again.’

  ‘Well, why not, Conor? We’ve given our word we’re not going to sue; I’m not interested in their money. I just want him to acknowledge the part he played in our son’s death.’

  ‘Isabel.’

  I made a great lunge for her hand.

  ‘We talked about this,’ continued Conor. ‘They’re not going to say sorry because that would be admitting culpability.’

  ‘His blood was encrusted on their tyres, Conor! Of course they’re culpable!’

  I looked at the cup of tea before me, the milk forming a wispy skin in the centre, and waited for the nausea to pass. Please don’t tell me I’m going off tea now too.

  ‘If he could just apologise I’d be able to sleep at night, I might be able to get up in the morning. And you would be able to spend a whole day at the office without worrying you’ll have to come rushing home because your useless wife can’t find the willpower to sit up straight.’

  ‘Isabel . . .’

  ‘How could he not need to say sorry?’

  This was not the kind of household where dirty laundry was aired. Nor was it a place where you registered another’s tears. I followed Conor’s lead and removed my cup from its saucer, the other hand still on Isabel’s. I couldn’t stomach the tea, though, so I just hovered it there in front of my mouth, elevated in the air.

  ‘We have been over this,’ said Conor sternly. ‘Over it and over it and over it. They’re not going to admit culpability.’

  ‘I just want an apology!’

  ‘Or say they’re sorry, because it would leave them open to a civil case. They will accept the coroner’s ruling – which will say that he died by misadventure; they were at fault but ultimately it was an accident. That will do us.’

  ‘It won’t do me! How could it. How can I . . .?’ She took her hand away from mine and wiped at the
side of her eyes where brown, perfectly applied eyeliner was starting to pool. ‘I can’t . . .’ She blew through her nose. ‘I don’t know if I can take this.’

  ‘Please, Isabel, no dramatics today. It’s tough for us all. Have some sugar, it’ll help.’ He pushed the bowl towards her and she looked from it to him, her eyes round. ‘Oh, come on. I didn’t mean it like that. We’re hardly going to avoid sugar – the s-word, Isabel – for the rest of our lives, don’t be so—’

  But before he had finished the sentence Isabel stood from her chair, the dainty white china bowl in hand, and hurled it at the piano nobody played but which has been in Conor’s family for generations. The bowl smashed into a dozen pieces just inches from the family portrait. I thought how lucky it was that the cover was always closed; you’d never get the sugar granules out from between the keys.

  Conor said nothing, nor did I. I had never seen her act like this. Isabel did not act out. I had certainly never known her to take any sort of stand against her husband. She stormed out of the room and upstairs.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Conor, looking suddenly tired as he rose from his chair and started to collect the pieces of china. He grimaced like Henry, though I suppose that could as much be nurture as nature. ‘It’s been tough.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, hating how much like an outsider I sounded. ‘Trust me, I know. It’s been tough for me too.’

  We collected the larger shards and I got the dustpan and brush from where they always were under the stairs, and swept up the glistening grains. When Isabel came downstairs fifteen minutes later, she didn’t say a word, just walked through the front garden and climbed into the waiting taxi, leaving the door open for us to follow.

  FORTY

  The driver asked if we were off anywhere nice and the curtness of Conor’s responding ‘no’ was enough to ensure the rest of the journey passed in silence. The coroner’s court was held in an old Victorian building beside the city’s bus depot and not far from Custom House Quay. If I’d gotten in the taxi first I would have told the driver to avoid the stretch of road between the austere building and the river. I didn’t know the exact spot where Henry lost his life, just that he was ‘approaching Custom House’ when he was sucked under the wheel of the truck.

  What would we be doing today if that had never happened? I’d probably be at work, texting Henry to arrange what was for dinner that night. Or maybe he’d be texting me, checking in on the two of us, me and our unborn baby. Would our house look any different? Would Henry have made a mark on what little decoration there had been? Perhaps if he’d been here we’d have gone the whole hog, knocking down walls and ripping up floorboards. There was a version of me that had the energy for that, who relished it even – the adult-endorsed destruction. I watched the side of Conor’s face, his gaze directly ahead – was he worrying about what route we would take too? He’d have been at work. Isabel would be in her garden or maybe on one of her volunteer days. The taxi driver would be on another job in another part of the city. The coroner would probably still be sitting, a different devastated family in the gallery. Would Andy have come anyway? Of course he would. Why wouldn’t he? Sometimes I forgot he hadn’t actually been sent as a replacement.

  In the end we didn’t pass Custom House. I could see the building, an impressive hangover from the days of British colonisation, as we crossed a bridge over the Liffey in a matter of seconds, but neither parent turned to look. Isabel was sitting up front with the driver so I couldn’t see her face, but her head didn’t move. I wanted to reach my hand around the side of the seat, like my mother had done, and apologise for all this pain.

  ‘Nineteen forty, when you’re ready.’

  Conor handed the driver a twenty and we slipped out of the car. It was starting to rain and we ran straight into the building made of burnt red bricks. The lobby was crowded with people: a few firemen in their office wear; guards; people in suits; others in casual, everyday clothes; and my parents standing close together in the corner, wearing what they had worn to Nando’s.

  A woman with a small ring-binder notebook sat at the entrance deleting files from a Dictaphone. I hadn’t considered there would be journalists. I hadn’t properly considered any of this. Mam and Dad made their way through the crowd and I gave them both a hard embrace.

  ‘Arthur, Sarah,’ said Conor, holding out a hand.

  ‘How’s it going, Conor?’ said Dad, shaking it heartily. ‘Nice to see you, Isabel.’

  ‘Arthur,’ she responded with a nod. ‘Sarah.’

  But Dad wasn’t leaving it at that. He engulfed Isabel in a hug, almost knocking the woman’s delicate balance.

  ‘Excuse me a second,’ said Conor as a man from the sea of suits raised a hand in his direction. ‘That’s James, from the firm.’

  ‘We had a peek in the courtroom,’ said Mam. ‘Gorgeous room. Absolutely gorgeous. You’d know the English built it.’

  ‘You give the English credit for everything good in this country,’ said Dad.

  ‘If we’d built this place ourselves, it would have been made of wattle and daub and it’d have fallen down within the month. This place has been here for well over a hundred years, Arthur. And that’s down to the English.’

  ‘Probably funded it with all the potatoes they stole from us during the famine.’

  Mam threw an arm around Dad. ‘He’s very worked up today,’ she said to me. ‘We both are, to tell you the truth. How are you doing, pet? Are you holding up?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ I answered, taking the hand she was holding out to me. I had a sudden desire to crawl into Dad’s pocket and have Mam tell me everything would be okay. I hadn’t felt that yearning in years, not since I’d switched my allegiances to Henry’s pocket.

  Conor returned and introduced the man in formal wear. They worked together. ‘They’re running a little late today,’ said the lawyer, shaking each of our hands in turn. ‘Having trouble finding jury members. The guards have gone out to see if they can round up a few people.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Isabel. ‘From the street?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said the lawyer, whose name I’d forgotten as soon as I was told it, ‘if jurors fail to turn up the guards have been known to approach members of the public who happen to be passing. They need at least six jurors for a traffic accident hearing. It’s not unheard of for guards to phone up friends and family asking them to come down and sit in on the hearing.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ muttered Isabel.

  ‘It is a bit,’ agreed Dad.

  ‘If you all wanted to go and get a cup of coffee, it’ll be at least another half an hour. This isn’t the most comfortable place to wait. There’s a coffee shop in the bus station across the road. I can give you a call when they’re ready.’

  ‘Isn’t there a waiting area, for members of the family?’ asked Mam.

  He shook his head. ‘And just to warn you, it’s not uncommon for family members to end up sitting beside witnesses when the court is particularly busy, which it looks like it will be today.’

  ‘Witnesses?’ said Isabel. ‘Who . . .?’ She looked at Conor. ‘You mean we could be sitting beside the driver?’

  ‘It’s unlikely,’ said the lawyer, catching Conor’s eye. ‘European Hauliers have enough lawyers with them to keep the driver entirely surrounded, but the courtroom will be busy so I’ll save you seats. There are a few journalists here too. Usually this sort of case wouldn’t attract much media interest but with the rise in cycling deaths this year . . .’

  ‘Okay, James, thank you,’ said Conor. ‘We’ll head over to the station. You have my number.’

  When Andy left my house the previous night, after dinner and some documentary that I half-watched, he didn’t say anything about hanging out today. I assumed he assumed I was at work and I hadn’t said anything to contradict that. I hadn’t slept much. I kept waking up with questions burrowing into my consciousness. It was like my brain knew the reality respite was up and suddenly it was spewing queries about bondi
ng and breastfeeding and whether people could be born sad. Google had very few answers. I had sent the form off to the maternity hospital and was waiting to hear back.

  In the bus station café, I looked around at our two sets of parents. The four of them dressed in their Sunday best and no sign of Henry. If this was going to happen it should be at the top table on our wedding day, not in the dingy surrounds of a bus depot where pigeons paced the floor like they were anxiously waiting on a delayed service.

  Mam made chit-chat about how much the roads in Ireland had improved since we joined the European Union and how when she was a young woman it took more than four hours to get to Galway. Conor and Dad made an effort to contribute – one mentioning a busy motorway, the other agreeing – and Isabel sat staring at her uneaten scone, not listening to a word. I told them about the time Henry and I got the bus to Galway for our second anniversary, all dressed up for dinner that night only to fall asleep for the entire journey and arrive sticky and damp.

  ‘I bet you both looked lovely,’ said Mam. ‘Henry was always a snazzy dresser.’

  ‘I don’t know about that now, Sarah. He had some fairly funny shirts.’

  Mam slapped Dad on the knee. Conor and I smiled.

  ‘He didn’t get his sense of fashion from me, anyway,’ said Conor. ‘That was his mother.’ But Isabel didn’t bite. ‘You always looked good together,’ he said, and I smiled back at his paternal pride though it almost broke my heart. It was wrong, the five of us here without him.

  There was a lull in conversation and we stared at Conor’s phone lying in the centre of the table.

  ‘I remember the first time I took Henry on a bus,’ said Isabel suddenly. ‘He wanted to sit upstairs right at the front above the driver. He thought he was flying. “Look, Mammy! We’re flying! Look, Mammy! Look!”’

  My parents smiled and Conor nodded fervently. ‘That’s right, that’s right. I remember you saying that.’

  ‘How did you get him home from the hospital?’ I asked before I could stop myself. ‘When he was born, I mean? How did you get Henry home?’