Chapter 33
The telephone rang. Sorcha opened her eyes and absorbed the greyness of the early morning. The telephone lived on Con’s bedside cabinet. She lay there for a few moments more, hoping he’d wake up and answer it. He didn’t, so she threw off the covers and padded round the bed to pick up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to Sorcha Daly?’
‘Mammy? It’s me.’
‘Sorcha, how are ye?’
‘I’m okay. And you, Mammy? How are you?’
‘Well now, Sorcha. I have some bad news for you.’
‘What, Mammy?’
‘Your daddy passed away yesterday. He had a heart attack. I was wondering whether you might come home for the funeral. It’s tomorrow.’
‘Oh, Mammy, are you okay?’
‘I’m coping. The neighbours have been fierce kind. It was the shock more than anything. He was walking home from a meeting in the community hall and dropped dead there and then, in the middle of Connolly Street.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mammy, I really am.’ Although Sorcha struggled to feel sorrow in her heart for her dead father, there was plenty of compassion for her mother. ‘You say the funeral’s tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’d have to fly over today.’
‘Would you, Sorcha? Oh, would you?’ There was desperation in her mother’s voice.
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you. Apart from anything, it would be grand to see you. And Con, if he’s of a mind to come. I . . .’ The catch in Mary’s voice betrayed her bravery. ‘There’s a lot to organise.’
‘Mammy, I can’t promise but I’ll do my best. I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve news.’
‘Do you have the office telephone number?’
‘Somewhere, but give it to me again.’ Sorcha searched in Con’s bedside drawer, finding a felt-tip pen and an empty cigarette packet. ‘Okay.’ Sorcha scribbled the number down. ‘I’ll ring you back as soon as I can.’
‘Bye, Sorcha.’
She put down the receiver and sat staring into space. A hand on her naked back made her jump out of her skin.
‘Steady on, it’s only me. Who was that?’
‘My mother.’
‘Your mother? What did she want?’
‘She called to tell me that my daddy died yesterday.’
‘Ah.’ Con lapsed into silence, trying to gauge his wife’s reaction. ‘Do you want sympathy, Sorcha?’
She turned around slowly and looked at him. ‘No. But he was my father. I’m sorry he’s dead. He was only in his fifties.’
‘How’s your mammy?’
‘She sounds as though she’s not really taken it in. Con, the funeral’s tomorrow. I must go home for it and I should probably stay a few days afterwards.’
‘Of course you must go. Jenny’s in at nine. We’ll get her to organise the flights.’
Jenny was Con’s part-time secretary who came in to deal with the sacks of fan mail and any general administration required.
‘And what about you?’ she asked quietly.
‘What about me?’
‘Would you not think it appropriate to come with me, at least for the funeral?’
Con looked at her in surprise. ‘Me? Go back to Ballymore for the funeral of the man who wanted to throw me in jail?’ Con shook his head. ‘No, Sorcha, I don’t think so.’
She bit her lip. ‘But, Con, remember how we said that one day we’d go back and everyone would want to know us in Ballymore? Surely this is the moment?’
‘I’m not a hypocrite, Sorcha. It would be wrong of me to attend the funeral of a man I disliked and who disliked me.’
‘And what about me? Maybe I need you by my side.’
‘Be honest, Sorcha, you can’t be sorry he’s dead. You hated him.’
There was a pang in Sorcha’s heart. ‘That isn’t the point.’
Con was reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No! If you can’t understand why I’d like you to be by my side when I return home after all these years, then forget it, just forget it.’ She shuddered, stood up and reached for her dressing gown. ‘I have a lot to do if I’m to leave this afternoon.’
‘Ah, Sorcha, please. Let’s not have another argument. If you’re sorry, then I’m sorry your daddy’s dead. But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t come to Ballymore today. You know the band’s deep in rehearsal for the Central Park gig next week.’
‘Rehearsals haven’t mattered a damn when you’ve had a sit-in or a protest to go to, have they? But then I suppose I have to accept that me and my feelings come bottom of your list of priorities. After all, I’m just your wife! You couldn’t give a damn how I feel, could you?’
‘Sorcha! Sorcha, please!’
She’d already left the room, slamming the door behind her.
With a sigh, Con sank back onto the pillows.
Sorcha heard Con’s car screech out of the drive on his way into the studio in central London. Then she went to Jenny’s office to organise her flights.
‘Con was looking for you.’
‘I popped out for some fresh air.’
‘Oh. Well, he said to say that he’d try and get home before you left, but if he didn’t, you’re to leave a number where you can be contacted.
I’ve already called Aer Lingus. The direct flight to Cork is full.
You’ll have to change at Dublin. The plane leaves Heathrow at two thirty, arriving in Dublin at half past four.
There’s a ten-to-six flight down to Cork, which arrives in at ten to seven.
I’ve held this afternoon’s travel, but the airline needs to know when you’re returning. ’
Maybe never, Sorcha thought as she stared at the corkboard behind Jenny’s desk. She had stuck particularly funny fan letters onto it, along with promotional shots of Con and the band. She shrugged. ‘I’ve really no idea.’
‘Then I’ll organise an open return.’
‘Yes. Thanks, Jenny. I must go up and pack.’
‘Of course. I’ll order a car for you for half past twelve. That should give you plenty of time. And, Sorcha?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m really sorry about your dad.’
‘Thank you. I’ll see you later.’
Sorcha’s taxi arrived in Ballymore at just after half past eight that evening. She felt exhausted from the long day of travelling.
She hadn’t wanted to brood on either the situation she’d left behind or the one in front of her, so she’d spent the journey with her head buried in the pile of glossy magazines that she’d bought herself at the airport.
Darkness had only just fallen in the village. She remembered going to bed as a child at nine o’clock with the sun just setting. There were only six hours of darkness in high summer.
Sorcha looked out of the taxi window at the familiar landmarks. Little seemed to have changed, apart from the odd shop closed up because its owner had presumably died, and a new tea room on the corner.
When she’d lived here, she’d hardly been able to wait to leave for her new, exciting life with Con in London. She’d thought Ballymore dull, the people insular. Back then, Sorcha could not understand why anyone would want to live out their life here.
But now, there was something comforting and secure about its unchanging, quaint nature.
‘That’ll be five pounds, thank you now, Sorcha.’ The taxi stopped in the square in front of her parents’ house.
The familiarity of a stranger using her first name was strikingly different from the impersonal attitude of London.
The taxi driver got out, opened the boot and placed her suitcase on the pavement.
‘There you go, and a pound for your trouble.’
‘That’s grand altogether. Thank you. Have yourself a good stay.’
Sorcha smiled ironically. ‘Thanks. Goodnight.’
As the taxi drove off, Sorcha picked up her suitcase and walked to the front door of her house. She rang the big brass bell.
A few seconds later the door opened.
‘Sorcha! Sorcha! Oh, I can hardly believe it’s really you.’
Her mother pulled her into her arms. Sorcha dropped her suitcase and returned the hug. When they pulled apart, their eyes were full of tears.
‘Come in, come in.’ Mary picked up the suitcase and walked up the stairs.
The smell was so familiar – brass polish and disinfectant, liberally applied in the hall every other day on the doorknob and tiled floor. For a moment, everything spun around her and Sorcha caught the banister to steady herself.
Mary stopped and turned around.
‘Are you all right?’
Sorcha nodded. ‘Fine, Mammy.’
‘Your daddy’s in there, but we’ll share a tot of whiskey before we go in to see him.’ Mary had reached the top of the staircase and was indicating the dining room.
Mary left Sorcha’s case outside the kitchen, ushered her inside and closed the door firmly behind her.
‘Now, let me look at you.’ She smiled as her eyes ran over her daughter. ‘I think, Sorcha O’Donovan, that you have grown into a real beauty.’
‘And you don’t look a day older yourself,’ lied Sorcha.
‘Do I not? Well, it’s kind of you to say, but I know the years have not treated me kindly.’ Mary smoothed down her dress over her bulging hips. ‘Sit down, sit down. I’ll pour us both a drink.’
The bottle was on the table, a third empty. Mary filled up two glasses and passed one to Sorcha.
‘Well, ’tis an ill wind, as they say. I lose a husband but my precious daughter returns. Slainte.’ Mary raised her glass and took a large gulp. ‘Ah, there’s no doubt it helps calm the nerves, but I’ll be langers if I have much more.’
‘And you have every right to get a little tipsy, Mammy. The shock must have been terrible.’
‘It was, it was. Sean Moloney, the young guard, arrived at my door last night to tell me what had happened. The doctor had been called, but there was nothing he could do.’ Mary gave a little hiccup and blushed.
‘Excuse me. I’m not used to the hard stuff.
So, they brought him back here and John the undertaker arrived first thing to measure up.
I put him in his best Sunday pinstripe suit and chose a cedarwood coffin.
I’ve spent the day opening and closing the door.
You know how it is here. The whole village arrived to pay their respects.
I ran out of sherry at lunchtime and had to run to Nora Connolly’s to get some more. ’
‘You seem to be coping very well, Mammy.’
‘Thanks be to God, it was quick. That’s what people have said to me. I don’t think he would have known what was happening.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’
Mary took another gulp of whiskey, which left her with an empty glass. ‘Want a top-up?’
Sorcha shook her head.