The Kinsella Sisters (6 page)

‘Sorry, puss,’ she said, giving his ears a rub before turning back to face the wardrobe. There, behind a veil of dancing dust motes, suspended like ghosts of girls, were two kimonos. They were of
fine foulard silk, patterned with birds and flowers. Frank had brought them back as presents for his daughters after a junket to Japan, and had instructed them how to wear them. The most important detail to remember, he had told them, was always to fasten them at the front with the left-hand side over the right. Right folded over left, he’d said, was bad luck, because that was the way the Japanese dressed their dead. One kimono featured a bird of paradise motif, the other, sprigs of cherry blossom. Below the kimonos on the floor of the wardrobe lay a small valise, the lid of which was open. It was crammed with letters.

‘Dervla,’ said Río, ‘come here.’

Dervla looked up from the filing cabinet she was rummaging in. ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘Our kimonos. The ones Dad brought back from Japan.’

Dervla joined Río by the open wardrobe door, and stood looking at the wraithlike garments. They were both suspended from misshapen wire hangers, and as they swayed gently from side to side, it was plain to see that the one with the cherry blossom motif had been arranged to be worn by a living girl, while the one with the bird motif was arranged to be worn by a dead one. The kimono with the bird of paradise emblazoned upon it had belonged to Río.

Río shuddered. ‘That’s really spooky,’ she said. ‘That’s horrible. Who could have done it?’

‘I didn’t do it,’ said Dervla hastily. ‘I didn’t hate you that much.’

‘Then Dad must have done it.’

‘Don’t be daft. It was probably somebody who came in to do housework for him,’ suggested Dervla.

‘No. None of the neighbours would ever have intruded as far as the attic. And anyway, who would have known the significance of the way they’re folded? Look how neatly the sashes are tied. It had to be someone who knew what they were doing. It had to be Dad.’

‘Making a drunken mistake.’

Río shook her head. ‘No. This has been staged. This was done with intent. There’s some kind of message here. A message from beyond the grave.’

‘Get a grip, Río! This is no time for melodrama.’

‘I’m not being melodramatic. We were meant to find this. And we were obviously meant to read those letters too.’

Río steeled herself, then bent down to pick up the valise. She recognised it as having belonged to her grandmother. It was one of those silly little cases lined with frilly-edged elasticated silk that had once contained manicure kit and hairbrushes and lotions and potions for personal grooming while travelling. But its function as a vanity case had become redundant once their grandmother had died, for Río and Dervla’s mother, Rosaleen, had never had an opportunity to travel anywhere.

Río carried the case over to the bockety sofa and sat down beside W.B. Dervla brushed dust off the armrest before perching herself at an angle that would allow her to look at the letters over her sister’s shoulder.

The first letter Río drew out of the case was in an unfamiliar hand. Because there was no envelope, it was not possible to tell who had been the recipient. ‘“Darling one,”’ Río read out loud. ‘“It’s only Tuesday, and already I miss you unspeakably”’

‘Who could “darling one” be?’ asked Dervla. ‘Our father?’

‘No,’ said Río, scanning the page. ‘This was written to Mama. Listen.

Río raised her eyes from the page, and regarded Dervla. ‘Mama must have had a lover,’ she said.

‘A lover? Mama?’ Incredulity was scrawled all over Dervla’s face. ‘No!’

‘What else could this mean?’

‘But…
Mama?.
Mama was a kind of saint–she was such a
good
person! She was so wise and gentle, and she put up with Dad for all those years…Oh God. Maybe that’s why?’

Río nodded. ‘Maybe putting up with Dad was just too much.’

‘But who might–the lover have been?’

Río looked down at the bunch of letters. ‘Looks like we’re going to find out.’

‘Is there a signature?’

‘Not on this one. It’s just signed “P”.’

‘A date?’ said Dervla, leaning over and taking a second letter from the valise.

‘No.’

‘There is on this one.’ Dervla unfolded a sheet of pale blue vellum. ‘October, 1970.’

‘What does it say?’

Dervla stopped short, and bit her lip. Río heard herself saying, in a peculiarly calm voice: ‘Give me that letter.’

‘I…I’m not sure that we should—’

‘Give it to me.’

Wordlessly, Dervla handed it over.

“‘I felt so jealous’”, murmured Río, “‘to know that everybody will imagine Frank to be the father of our baby. If it’s a girl, my lovely Rosaleen, I should hope that you might call her Ríonach…’”

Río let the letter fall onto her lap.

There was a pause, then Dervla rose to her feet. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that we should finish reading these letters over a bottle of wine. Come on.’

‘I don’t think I can stand up.’

‘Come
on
, Río–we’ve got to get out of here. This attic is starting to do my head in. It’s like the set of a scary movie.’

Dervla made a move to help Río up from the sagging sofa, and as she did so, Río noticed that she had a manila envelope in her hand. ‘What’s that?’ she asked numbly.

‘It’s our father’s will,’ replied Dervla.

‘You mean, it’s
your
father’s will,’ said Río. ‘I’ve clearly yet to find out who my father is.’

In the kitchen, Dervla handed Río her cuddly toy elephant. ‘Here’s something for comfort,’ she said, ‘until the anaesthetising effect of the alcohol kicks in.’ She refilled their glasses and set them on the table, where Río had upended the vanity case. Letters littered the pockmarked tabletop. There were about thirty of them. ‘We should maybe try to sort them into chronological order,’ Dervla added, really just for something to say to fill the dreadful silence that had reigned in the house since Río had made the discovery that Frank was not her natural father.

Río shrugged, then selected a letter at random. ‘Let’s get our priorities right,’ she said, unfolding the pages and turning to the last one. ‘We should first try to find out who wrote them.’

Another silence fell. Then: ‘Well?’ said Dervla.

‘Patrick. His name is Patrick.’ Río leaned back in her chair. ‘Wow. That’s helpful. My father happens to have one of the commonest names in all of Ireland.’ Picking up her wineglass, she drained it in one sustained gulp. ‘Yeuch,’ she said, and belched.

‘We don’t know he’s your father,’ Dervla pointed out, without much conviction.

‘Dervla–think about it. This Patrick geezer clearly swept Mama off her feet. It’s like we said earlier: maybe putting up
with Dad was just too much for her. If you were married to a man like him, could you have kept faithful?’ Río picked up another letter. ‘Look, here’s a love poem.

‘Sheesh. I wonder, did he write that?’

‘It’s Catullus,’ said Dervla.

‘What?’

‘Catullus. He was one of the greatest Roman love poets.’

‘You’re kidding!
Finn
could write better poetry than that.’ Río looked glumly at her empty glass. ‘Dervla. Could you be a sweetheart and nip out to the shop for another bottle? I feel like getting very, very drunk.’

‘Who could blame you?’ Dervla reached for her bag. ‘I’ll be back in five.’

As she made for the front door, WB. stuck his furry face out between the top banisters, looking like the Cheshire cat in
Alice in Wonderland.
Curiouser and curiouser, thought Dervla, shutting the door behind her.

Could it be true? she wondered, as she made her way along the main street of the village, which was still decked out in festive Christmas lights. Could it really be true that she and Río were half-sisters? She’d always been aware that they were quite different types–not just temperamentally, but physically too. Río had an unruly mass of red-gold hair, while Dervla wore hers in a sleek dark bob. Río had an unashamedly voluptuous figure, while Dervla’s was lean and androgynous. Río’s eyes were green, Dervla’s conker brown. Río took after their mother, while Dervla favoured their father.
Her
father…

Who would know? Who in the village might possibly know the identity of Rosaleen’s secret lover? For lovers they certainly had
been–a cursory glance at a single sentence in one of the letters had told her that: ‘My darling, my darling–I worship the place between your legs, and your buttocks, and your beautiful, beautiful breasts…’ Dervla hadn’t wanted to read on.

She thought of their poor mother, trapped in a wretched marriage, tied to a man who–while never physically abusive to her, as far as Dervla knew–had certainly inflicted massive emotional damage on Rosaleen. Dervla had sometimes wondered if the stress of being married to Frank had contributed to the cancer that had killed her. Perhaps the only joy she’d had in her life had been those snatched meetings with a man called Patrick. Where had they consummated their passion? In his house? Or in theirs, while Frank was comatose or ensconced in the pub? She pictured the couple exchanging covert glances, touching hands surreptitiously, stealing kisses. She imagined their mother making excuses to go to the beach, where the secret place was that Patrick left the letters that meant so much to her.
You tell me my letters help ease the pain of your joyless marriage…

Why–
why–
if the marriage had been so joyless, had Rosaleen stuck it out? But even as she asked herself the question, Dervla knew the answer. She’d said it herself, earlier, when they’d cracked open the wine in Frank’s kitchen. Rosaleen had done it for her daughters. Had she kept the letters for her daughters too? Had she held on to them so that some day in the future Río might know the truth of her paternity? It wasn’t the kind of thing a mother could easily admit to; had this been Rosaleen’s way of communicating with her daughter from ‘beyond the grave’, as Río had put it? Or had she held on to the letters simply because they were the most precious things she owned? Proof that she had been adored?

It did not cross Dervla’s mind to be censorious. On the contrary, she was glad, so glad for her mother! Rosaleen deserved to have had some romance in her life, even if it had been clandestine. Dervla remembered the rare occasions on which her
mother had laughed, and wondered had she laughed that way with Patrick, too. She hoped so.

Questions came crowding into her mind now. Had Frank guessed that Rosaleen had been having an affair? Or had he only learned about it after her death, through her written testimony? Where had Rosaleen kept the letters hidden? When had he found them? Dervla pictured her father hunched on the bockety sofa in the attic, reading the fulsome expressions of love for his wife that were written in another man’s hand. How had he felt when he discovered that Río was not his daughter? Or had he always suspected it? How was Río feeling now? To find out on the day of your father’s death that he was, in fact, not your real father must be some kick to the head. No wonder her sister craved alcohol.

In Ryan’s, the local shop, Dervla responded to the expressions of sympathy that came her way, the offers of help, the solicitous enquiries. Everybody wanted to reminisce about Frank, and tell her what a ‘character’ he was. ‘Character’ was a very useful word to use about a deceased person, Dervla decided. A bit like the obituaries that referred to a stonking misanthropist as someone who ‘didn’t suffer fools gladly’ or a roaring alcoholic as a ‘bon vivant’.

She selected a pricy bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape for her and Río to share, then waited for ages at the cash register while Mr Ryan regaled the queue with a lengthy anecdote about Frank Kinsella’s wit and wisdom. By the time Dervla left the shop, a glance at her watch told her that she had been gone fifteen minutes longer than the five she’d promised Río.

She hurried back down the main street, keeping her head low in the hope that her demeanour might discourage people from engaging her in conversation. But Tommy Maguire was at the door of his pub, and she couldn’t pass by without acknowledging him. He spent five minutes offering his condolences, and ended by telling Dervla how much he would miss her father’s custom.

You betcha, thought Dervla darkly, as she finally disengaged
and hotfooted it back to the Kinsella family home. As she let herself in, she waved at Mrs Murphy, who was gazing through the window next door with her phone clamped to her ear, probably trying to get through to the radio programme to complain about the cost of funerals.

In the kitchen, Río was sitting at the table, perusing a document. Dervla saw at once that the stapled A4 typescript was their father’s will.

Río looked up as Dervla came through the door, and gave her a mirthless smile. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ she said.

‘Oh! I hate that question,’ said Dervla, reaching for the corkscrew. ‘Just bring it all bloody on.’

‘Brace yourself. Frank divided his estate into separate entities–dwelling and land.’

‘Well, that’s probably fair enough,’ said Dervla cautiously. ‘With planning permission, the land could be worth almost as much as the house.’

‘In that case, you’ll be glad to know that you’ve inherited the lion’s share.’

Dervla bit her lip. That clearly meant that Frank had bequeathed the house to her. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘So you’ve inherited the garden.’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Did he…could he have left it to Finn, then?’

Río shook her head.

‘So who
did
he leave it to?’

Río gave Dervla a mirthless smile. ‘He left it to Mrs Murphy,’ she said.

‘The ironic thing,’ Río said to Finn a couple of hours later, after she’d dried the copious tears she’d wept upon returning home, ‘is that we’d thought it would be a nice gesture to let Mrs Murphy have a memento of Dad. Some memento, eh?’

‘Maybe she’ll do the decent thing and refuse to accept it.’

‘Refuse to accept a prime wedge of real estate with development potential? Are you out of your mind, Finn? And even if she declined, her sons would be in like the clappers to claim it on her behalf.’

Frank had known full well the passion Río had felt for that garden. She had tended it for years, growing the kind of plants that her mother had told her would thrive beside the sea, in the inhospitable soil of Coolnamara. She had brought in topsoil and compost and mulch to nurture her plantlings; she had even gathered donkey dung, which was the best fertiliser she knew of, and seaweed to wrap around the roots of saplings to keep them cosy in winter. She’d kept the pond clean–even though the koi no longer swam there–and she’d pruned and weeded and mowed and strimmed.

She had done it because she knew Rosaleen would have wanted her to do it, and any time she spent in that garden, she felt as if her mother were smiling down at her beneficently from the blue-and-white-washed Coolnamara heaven.

And then one day around two years ago her father had told her that he’d lost the key to the back door.

‘That’s all right,’ Río had reassured him, ‘I’ll get a locksmith in.’

‘No,’ Frank had said mulishly. ‘I don’t want to set foot in that garden ever again, and I don’t want you going out there either.’

‘But Mama would want me to take care of her garden for her,’ Río had protested.

‘What she wanted doesn’t matter any more. She’s dead, and her garden should be allowed to die with her. It’s morbid, so it is, to keep it alive when she’s not here to enjoy it.’

‘But don’t you want to be able to enjoy it, Daddy?’

‘I never enjoyed it. I hated it, and I resented the time your mother spent looking after it. She took better care of that effing garden than she did of me.’

Can you blame her? Río thought, but didn’t say. What she did
say, with a stroppy toss of the head, was: ‘Well, you’ve only yourself to blame if the place gets so overgrown you lose all your light.’ Which was exactly what had happened.

And now Río wondered if perhaps it had been around that time that Frank had discovered the letters written to his wife by the man called Patrick. Had that been why he’d denied Río access to the thing he knew she loved best, and allowed the garden to become a wasteland? And had that been when he’d tampered with her kimono and drawn up his will so that she, the bastard offspring of his wife’s lover, would not profit from his death?

She had never loved Frank. Now Río hated him. She had done her filial duty by him and looked after him without ever having received a word of thanks, and now she felt as though he’d shown her two fingers and slammed a door in her face as he’d made his final undignified exit from this life.

What was she to do now? What would become of her? She knew it was venal, but she’d always expected to inherit half of Frank’s property, and hoped she might one day have enough capital to put a down payment on a place of her own. A place of her own! That dream was now as vestigial as the dream she had once woven around Coral Cottage and her orchard and her marmalade cat.

Money was at the root of her problems–of course it was. Money–or the lack of same–was always a worry for Río, and money was especially tight off-season when there were no tourists around to be ferried to and from the airport. There were fewer people too, clamouring for pints of the black stuff in O’Toole’s bar where she worked so hard at charming them. And once Finn was off travelling she’d be hard-pressed to pay the rent on her house without his weekly contribution. Her landlord had hinted that a hike was due.

She shook the thoughts away. She wouldn’t think about that stuff now; she’d think about it once the funeral was over and Finn was gone. In the meantime, she would have to put a brave
face on things. She would have to play-act very hard indeed, because she knew that if she wept and wailed as she had done earlier in the evening, Finn would not leave Lissamore and set off on the adventure that was his life–he would stay here for her.

‘Ma?’ he said to her now. ‘I’ve been having second thoughts about going away. I mean now that Grandpa’s dead and–and all this stuff has happened, it wouldn’t be fair on you if I upped and left. I think it’s best if I hang around for a while.’

Oh God. He
was
thinking about staying for her! No, no–she refused to allow him even to consider that option. She would not become one of those needy mothers who clung on to their children and ruined their lives.

‘Don’t be daft,’ she said smartly. ‘You know me, Finn. I’m resilient. I bounce back–always have. I won’t allow the bastard to get me down. I just won’t.’ She reached for the phone. ‘Now that I’m all cried out, I’d better phone your father. Tell him about Frank.’

‘I already did,’ said Finn. ‘He said he’d phone you later, and he said he was mightily sorry for your trouble.’

Río smiled. ‘Begorrah, and did he now?’

‘He did. It seems you can take the man out of the bog, but you can’t take the bog out of the man, even after twenty years in Lala Land.’

‘How is the fecker?’

‘He seemed grand. He’s working.’

‘Let me guess. In McDonald’s? Or Burger King?’ joked Río, stapling on a grin. She’d smile and smile and joke and joke, and she’d get through the next couple of weeks somehow until Finn was gone from her, and then she’d launch herself into the fray again, because Río
was
resilient. She’d gone through tough times–name her one single parent who hadn’t–but she’d always somehow emerged on the other side battle-scarred and weary, but otherwise intact.