I Saw You (7 page)

Margaret knelt before her daughter’s grave. ‘Hello, my darling,’ she said, her voice low. ‘And how are you today?’ She set to work clearing the
weeds that had taken over the gravel, which marked Mary’s resting-place. ‘Such a mess. All those years I’ve been away I should have got someone else to take care of it,
shouldn’t I?’

The pile of weeds grew. As she cleared away the accumulation of rubbish she found the stones and shells she had brought from New Zealand when she had come back to Dublin for Jimmy
Fitzsimons’s trial. She had gathered them from the beach below the house in Torbay. Now she took a large bottle of water from her basket and a cloth and cleaned the dirt from them.
‘There, now, that’s much better, isn’t it? Look how the paua shell shines. Such beautiful colours. Do you remember when we used to go snorkelling? You didn’t like it at
first. But when you learned how to breathe and open your eyes under water it was so beautiful. And do you remember the time we saw the little octopus? And he was so shocked to see you, he shot
away. And you got a fright too. And you swallowed all that seawater. Do you remember?’

She sat back on her heels. It was much better now. It was tidy and weed-free, and the shells and stones looked like they belonged there.

‘I had to pull you out of the sea and you scraped your leg on the rocks when I was trying to lift you up. And the salt water stung so much you started to cry. And the only way I could stop
you crying was to promise that we’d go to the ice-cream shop on the way home.’ She smiled at the memory of that day, stood up and stretched. Her thigh muscles were stiff from the
unnatural position. She stretched to ease out her back and shoulders. It was another sunny day and warm enough to have left the house without a coat. She pulled a large rubbish bag from the basket,
stuffed the weeds into it and tied it tightly in a knot. She looked around for a bin. It was busy here today. From where she was standing she could see the stone walls of the chapel. A large crowd
was outside and, as she watched, a group of black-clad pall-bearers slid a coffin from a hearse and shouldered it inside.

She looked down at her daughter’s headstone. She read out the inscription:

Mary had loved William Blake’s work. She had carried a copy of
Songs of Innocence and Experience
everywhere with her. It had never been found. Above the inscription, Mary’s
name and her dates of birth and death were carved: 1975–1995. She would have turned thirty this year. She could have been a mother. She could have been anything. And I could have been a
grandmother, Margaret thought. I could have seen the future spreading out towards infinity. Generations of my descendants. Keeping my memory alive. But there is none of me now. No one to look in
the mirror and recognize me in their features. No one to remember her birthday. No one to weep for her or mourn her. No one to put up a headstone and tend her grave. For a moment she thought she
would collapse with the weight of her despair.

She bowed her head. ‘Bye-bye, sweetheart. I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, my darling.’

She walked slowly down the path, past angels and saints and Christs crucified. Then she stopped and put her hand into her trouser pocket. She pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. Se
turned towards the chapel. The faint sound of music drifted out as she walked past the front entrance and around towards the back. She dumped the plastic bag in an already overflowing bin and went
on towards the line of yews she could see in the distance. The security guard in the little hut at the front gate had written down the number of the grave and pointed out the way to her.
‘It’s over there beside the trees. You see the big tomb with the angel on top? Well, the one you’re looking for is beside it. What was the name again?’ He looked down at the
hard-backed ledger on the desk. ‘Holland, was it? Died in 2000. Yeah, here it is, Patrick Charles Holland. You can’t miss it.’

The big tomb with the angel on top held Patrick’s father and mother and his baby sister, who had died when she was three. Patrick’s headstone was more modest. Black marble with the
inscription picked out in silver. The grave was covered with marble chips and a large bunch of white lilies filled the still air with their cloying sweetness. Margaret put down her basket. She
closed her eyes. The words came to her lips:

Never forgotten, the old words, the old ways. A decade of the rosary. In times of trouble, at moments of crisis, the words came unbidden. Her father had been a man of strong faith and
conviction. A conservative Catholic. Reared in the old way, his belief dominated by fear more than love. She hadn’t realized until she became pregnant with Mary. She’d thought his
sophistication, his education, his interest in books and music, the theatre and cinema meant something to him. They did, but not as much as his religion. When she’d told him about the baby
she’d thought he would forgive her, that he would understand, that after a period of anger and grief he would continue to love and support her. But she had been wrong. He had listened in
silence to her words. Then he had exploded with a fury she had never seen before. She wanted him to tell her that everything was all right, that he would look after her, but instead he had hit her
across the face, the full force of his body behind his hand. And when she reeled backwards, losing her step and falling to the floor, he had stood and stared at her. And when she reached up to him
and called to him for help, he had turned away.

She had prayed that night as she lay in bed. But the merciful God did not answer. And in the morning she left the house without speaking to her father. She never spoke to him again. She went to
London, to an abortion clinic, but something happened there. The merciful God intervened. As she was lying on the trolley, the IV already in the back of her hand He gave her the strength to say no.
That she would not have the abortion. That she would find another way.

But where had the other way led? She had been lulled into a false sense of security by all those years in New Zealand when she had been out of reach. She should never have left. She should never
have come back to Ireland. The old God was a vengeful God. He had lain in wait for her. And He had pounced and taken the only thing that mattered.

But still the words came. And she began to pray again, over and over, a repetitive drone that dulled the pain, closed down the senses so at first she didn’t hear the voice, a girl’s
voice: ‘Hi, sorry, I was wondering, do you know where I could get some water?’

She half turned. The girl had a bunch of bright marigolds in one hand and a glass vase in the other. She was small and slight with glossy brown hair that hung down her back. Her eyes were grey
and her skin was sallow with a faint blush of pink across her cheeks. A row of silver rings decorated her ears and a couple of heavy silver chains were looped around her neck. She was wearing a
long red skirt and a white blouse with an embroidered yoke and puffed sleeves. She might have stepped from the pages of a picture book.

‘Oh, I’m not sure. Perhaps if you ask the guy at the gate. He’d know.’ Margaret tried to smile as she spoke.

The girl frowned. ‘That’s a nuisance. I don’t feel like going all the way back over there.’ She looked for a moment as if she might cry.

‘Here.’ Margaret held out her bottle. ‘There’s a bit left in this. Take it if you like.’

The girl smiled and took it. ‘Thanks, that’s great.’ She opened the bottle and emptied it into the small glass vase. She pointed towards the flowers on Patrick’s grave.
‘They’re lovely, those lilies you brought. Except they make me sneeze. I’ve an allergy to the pollen.’

‘The flowers? Oh, they’re not mine.’ Margaret shook her head.

The girl looked at her in a puzzled way. ‘You didn’t put them on Uncle Patrick’s grave?’

‘Uncle Patrick?’ Margaret said. ‘He was your uncle, was he?’

‘Not my real uncle, not by birth, but he was a really good friend of my father and I always called him Uncle.’ The girl stared at her feet. She was wearing red leather clogs. The
kind that have a wooden sole. ‘My father died when I was little and he’s buried over there.’ She waved the bunch of flowers in the direction of the trees. ‘I thought
I’d come and see him today. It’s so nice here in the summer. It’s quiet and no one bothers you.’

‘Yes.’ Margaret smiled at her. ‘I know what you mean. They’re funny places, graveyards, aren’t they? Surprisingly beautiful, despite all the grief and sorrow they
contain.’ She paused. ‘Your flowers are very pretty. I love marigolds. Did you grow them yourself?’

A flush spread across the girl’s face. ‘I didn’t, actually. I pinched them from a neighbour’s garden. I would have asked her but she was out. Anyway, I’m sure she
wouldn’t mind. I’ll tell her when I go home. I will.’

Margaret wanted to laugh. The girl seemed suddenly awkward, embarrassed and very young.

‘Well, I’m sure it’s OK. After all, it’s in a good cause, isn’t it?’ She bent her face to the flowers. ‘Mm, I like their smell. Marigold flowers are
supposed to be really good for blood circulation. Apparently the Arabs feed them to their horses.’

‘I didn’t know that. My father liked horses. He used to keep them once, so my mother says. When he was alive he had a lovely house and lots of land up in the Wicklow mountains. And
he had horses up there. And deer. Anyway, I’d better do this.’ She pushed the flowers carefully into the vase. ‘Are you related to Uncle Patrick? I’ve never seen you before.
Although,’ she cocked her head on one side so the silver rings in her ears jingled, ‘you do look a bit like his wife, Auntie Crea. In fact, I thought that was who you were when I saw
you first. You’re not her sister or something, are you?’

‘No,’ Margaret said. ‘I’m an old friend of Patrick’s from years ago. I’ve been living abroad for a while.’

‘Oh, I see. OK, well, I’d better go. It was nice talking to you. But . . .’ She looked away towards the group of headstones under the tall yews.

‘Sure, of course.’ Margaret smiled. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Yes, you too. Of course, I should have brought more flowers. My sister is here too. Although she’s in the new part, down by the road. It’s not as nice there. It’s noisy
– traffic, you know.’ The girl seemed suddenly stricken, as if tears would come at any moment.

‘Your sister? Oh, I am sorry. Was she older or younger than you?’ Margaret wanted to touch the girl. Give her comfort.

‘She was older. Quite a lot older. I’m nearly eighteen and she was in her thirties. She was my half-sister, really. My father wasn’t her father, you know?’ The girl
scuffed the ground with the toe of her clog.

‘How very sad. For you and your mother too.’ Margaret murmured. ‘Don’t worry about the flowers. I’m sure she’d understand. Why don’t you just go and see
her anyway? She’d like that.’

‘Do you think so?’ The girl’s expression brightened. She looked hopeful. ‘They like it when you come to visit. The dead, that is. I’m sure they must be bored and
lonely. I try to remember as many funny and interesting things to tell them as I can. I read to them too. You don’t think that’s stupid, do you?’

‘No, it’s great. My daughter’s here too. And because I’ve been away I haven’t visited her for ages. I’m sure she’s missed me. But it’s lovely that
you care so much. What do you read?’

The girl reached into a big patchwork bag and pulled out a paperback. ‘I’ve been doing Shakespeare’s sonnets in school. For the Leaving Cert. And I love them. They’re
difficult to understand but the language is so beautiful. So I read them aloud and, actually, it helps. Listen to this.’ She cleared her throat and flicked over the pages.

She broke off. ‘Isn’t that lovely? “Kissing with golden face the meadows green. Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.” I love it.’

‘Yes, I love it too.’ Margaret picked up her bag. Tears had suddenly filled her eyes.

‘Well, I’d better go.’ The girl shoved the book back into her bag. ‘Thanks for the water and . . .’ she smiled ‘ . . . well, just thanks.’

Margaret watched the bright figure thread her way through the graves. Then she turned back towards Patrick’s headstone. She bent down and fiddled with the flowers. ‘I’ll come
again. I won’t leave it so long next time.’ She picked up her bag and walked away down the gravel path. A robin hopped ahead of her, jumping on its springy legs from grave to grave,
then fixing her with its bright eye. She clicked her tongue at it and it chattered back. Then, with a flurry of its smooth brown wings, it flew up into the dark branches of a spreading evergreen
oak. She could see the girl now, her skirt a patch of brightness in the gloom. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground, the book in her hand. She lifted her hand as Margaret passed.

Margaret waved back, then went over to join her. ‘I was just curious – I hope you don’t mind. I was wondering who your father was.’ She leaned down to look at the
inscription.

‘James de Paor,’ the girl said, with pride in her voice. ‘He was a barrister, like Uncle Patrick. Are you a barrister too?’

‘No, I’m a doctor,’ she paused. ‘You must have been very young when he died. Only a baby.’

‘Not quite a baby. Nearly one. I don’t remember him. Although everyone says I look like him.’ She uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again. ‘It’s funny,
isn’t it? Inherited characteristics. My mother says I sometimes say things that remind her of my father. And I have likes and dislikes, different foods, you know, that she says are the same
as his. I sometimes think it’s that she wants me to be like him so she’s made me like him. You know what I mean?’