Moving On

Funeral

Funeral

ON A SATURDAY IN SEPTEMBER, IRIS AND ULTAN were married in a Dublin church, Juliet and Grace their bridesmaids. Ellen watched her father walk his youngest daughter up the aisle, and saw how proud and happy he was, and felt a stab of quiet sorrow that she’d never had the chance to be the bride on his arm.

Iris’ family on her mother’s side were polite on being introduced, but largely kept their distance from Ellen and Joan. The exception was Iris’ grandmother, who sought Ellen out to tell her she’d read and enjoyed Mother and Daughter – a gift from Iris – and expressed delight when Ellen told her she was writing a sequel.

‘I loved all the twists and turns you put in along the way,’ she said. ‘Real life is full of them, isn’t it? I remember the shock we got when Sarah told us she was pregnant.’

‘Sarah?’

‘Iris’ mother,’ the older woman said quietly. ‘My daughter,’ and in this way, Ellen learnt the name of her father’s mistress.

‘Of course. I’m so sorry. You must miss her terribly.’

‘Yes, every day . . . but now Iris is such a blessing to us.’

‘She’s a sweetheart,’ Ellen agreed. Twists and turns, indeed.

Joan told Ellen, over slices of lemon drizzle wedding cake – baked, as it turned out, by the same grandmother – that she and Seamus were thinking of having a fifth child. ‘Are we mad?’ she asked, jiggling two-year-old Gary on her hip, and Ellen said no.

They weren’t mad, they were lucky. They’d found one another, she and Seamus, and they’d lasted.

In November, Danny’s father suffered a heart attack and didn’t survive it. Ellen’s father rang to tell her he’d seen the death in the paper. ‘I thought you’d want to know,’ he said. ‘He was only seventy-nine.’

She emailed Danny.

I’ve just heard about your dad. I’m so sorry. I’ll see you at the funeral xxx

She remembered his father saying a few words at the wedding in California, welcoming Bobbi to the family. How long ago that seemed now, with so much having changed.

Danny was quiet and sad when they met. She hugged him and Bobbi, and she said hello to Cormac and Matthew, ten and six, who had their mother’s eyes and their father’s height, and who looked tired after flying all the way from California to the funeral of a grandfather they scarcely knew.

‘I talked to him a few days before,’ Danny told Ellen later. ‘He was planning to replace the boiler. When Vincent rang to tell me he’d died, I thought he was joking. I can’t believe he’s gone.’

Vincent was his oldest brother. She didn’t know what to say. It was after the mass, after the burial. They were sitting on the stairs of his family home, people milling about below. She took his hand and they sat in silence, listening to the clatter of teacups and the disjointed conversations that floated up. Funerals really were sociable affairs in Ireland.

‘I’d like to move home,’ he continued after a while, ‘but Bobbi wants to stay in the US.’ Bobbi was downstairs, talking to her in-laws.

‘You don’t like living in Palo Alto any more?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s not Palo Alto. I feel I’ve been in America long enough. I miss Ireland – and I’d prefer the boys to grow up here. And now Mam’s on her own, I’d like to be closer to her.’

‘And you could carry on with your job?’

‘I could work anywhere there’s internet, and so could Bobbi, but if she wants to stay put . . .’

More silence fell. Their silences had always been easy.

‘Your boys are lovely,’ she said finally.

He smiled. ‘They’re the two best things in my life right now.’

No mention of his wife.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘we haven’t even talked about your book. I was so delighted for you, and sorry I couldn’t get to the launch. How’s the new one going?’

‘Halfway through, going OK I think. You should meet my editor.’ She described Tony, just to cheer him up. She exaggerated the bow ties and the drama. ‘He’s very kind, and always there if I need him.’

He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Married?’

She laughed. ‘Very happily, for years: his wife came to my launch. And if that wasn’t enough, he’s closer in age to my father than he is to me.’

‘That’s a shame. And how are things between you and Leo?’

‘They’re OK. He stays with us now when he comes to see the girls.’

She’d offered the accommodation, feeling that she should, with two empty bedrooms in the house, and knowing the girls would love it. He slept in the room that had been Ellen’s, and they shared the main bathroom, but had yet to bump into one another on the landing.

Two Saturdays a month he came, sometimes three, and he stayed just one night. In the mornings he made pancakes like he used to do on Sunday mornings in London, and she saw how good he still was with the girls, and was glad to see it.

He’d made no more mention of Juliet and Grace going to stay with him. He rang them often, every few days. The girls took it in turns to talk to him, and sometimes he and Ellen spoke briefly too. They’d moved on, both of them. She’d survived her second broken heart.

‘And Claire?’ Danny asked.

The name brought a dull twist of pain. ‘Never spoken of. She still sends presents to Juliet on her birthday and at Christmas, and puts something small in for Grace too.’ Never a note for Ellen. ‘I’d prefer she didn’t, but for Juliet’s sake I say nothing.’

‘I’d forgotten she was Juliet’s godmother. Any romance for you in Galway?’

She shook her head. ‘Not really looking, to be honest. I’m busy writing – and I still do the odd freelance job, for Creative Ways and a couple of Dublin agencies – and since I don’t have Dad around here to help out with the girls, they take up the rest of my time.’

‘That’s a pity. That you have nobody, I mean.’

‘Not really. I’m fine.’

Another little silence. Out of nowhere, the memory came to her of Danny telling her he had feelings for her, and wanting to act on them, and her turning him down in favour of Ben. Who knew how it might have gone between them?

Someone called him from downstairs then. She remained where she was for a while as people passed her on the way to and from the bathroom.

She thought they would have made it, like Joan and Seamus.