‘This is so unhealthy,’ said Marcella. ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this.’
‘We’re doing it,’ Ingrid said. ‘I have to know.’
Ingrid sleepwalked through her life for the next two weeks.
She presented three shows on television and attended her first public function, a lunch for a child-abuse charity where she was the guest speaker.
‘They’ll understand if you can’t do it,’ Gloria said.
Ingrid shook her head. ‘This is different,’ she said. ‘I said I’d be there and I will be.’
In the mental tally of personal suffering, Ingrid felt that what she was going through was nothing compared to the pain of children who’d been sexually abused. She’d met victims of abuse for a television series and would never forget the sense of pain and betrayal the people lived with, even decades later. She believed that one day she’d be able to close her eyes and not think of David’s death or disloyalty. People who’d been abused as kids could never totally forget.
For the lunch, she wore a black lace shift and posed for photographs with the charity’s directors.
‘You’re so good to be here today,’ murmured the chair
woman, an elegant brunette clad head to toe in what looked like size-6 Lanvin.
‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything,’ said Ingrid, and held the chairwoman’s hand briefly.
When the chairwoman had had three glasses of champagne and lapsed into the inevitable toying with her lunch, she admitted to Ingrid that this wasn’t a pet charity she’d chosen by chance.
‘Nobody knows why I do it except my husband. He knows I want to help other kids not go through what I did.’
Ingrid had been shocked. This woman didn’t look like someone who’d been abused, but then, who did?
She went home that night and read the book Abra told her to buy about life and gratitude.
It was like homework: read a few pages of the book and see how she felt. Until now, Ingrid had been going through the motions of reading it. After today, she felt humbled again.
Her pain was bad but there was worse. Much worse.
Gratitude, the book said, should be a part of every day of your life.
Ingrid read it again. She closed her eyes and repeated it.
Ethan was safe, he’d emailed from Australia where he was hanging out - his words - with his friends in Cairns. Molly had gone on an actual date with a man named Mark, who was a friend of Natalie’s friend’s husband. Very convoluted.
But it had been good. They’d gone to see a movie in the Irish Film Centre and had had dinner afterwards.
Ingrid couldn’t remember the last time Molly had gone on a date, never mind a date which she’d enjoyed with a man she wanted to see again.
Ingrid knew she had things to be grateful for. She would say thanks for them. She would try to live her life again instead of hiding in a shell.
After two weeks, Marcella had failed to find out anything about David’s mystery woman. Her scheme had been to meet
up with some of his closest friends on the pretext of discussing how they felt Ingrid was coping and seeing what information she could ferret out on the liaison.
It wasn’t working at all. Marcella was marvellous at getting information from people but she was convinced, she told Ingrid, that none of them knew anything about David having an affair.
‘Obviously, I don’t come out and ask, “Did David Kenny confide in you about another woman?”’ she said. ‘But when people discuss how sad it is and how you two loved each other so much, it’s easy enough for me to work out if they’re lying because they know a different story entirely.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ingrid miserably. She knew that Marcella couldn’t ask outright but she was becoming obsessed by knowing more about David’s affair. If only she knew something, anything, she’d be able to move on.
Part of what made her so good at her job was her interest in what made people tick and yet here she was, knowing almost nothing about a part of her husband’s life, and it was driving her crazy. Finally, she had a brainwave. She’d visit Great-Aunt Babe, David’s only surviving relative. David had often visited Babe and perhaps, with her being so unconventional in her ways and not at all judgemental of others, he might have confided in her. It was a long shot, but Ingrid was desperate.
Sheltering Pines was less of a home for the elderly and more of a retirement community for people who wanted to feel safe, yet not have to live cheek-by-jowl with lots of other people either. When Babe had first moved in, around fifteen years ago, she’d occupied a little one-bedroomed unit in one of the two-storey apartment blocks, with its own balcony and a view of the sea. Now that she’d grown frailer, she’d moved into the big house itself, which was laid out along hotel lines with single-or double-bedroomed units with a living room and kitchenette. Babe could choose to cook for herself or eat in the dining room with her friends.
She was delighted when Ingrid phoned to ask her out to dinner.
‘Marvellous,’ Babe said. ‘I’d love that. Everyone will be so jealous.’
When Ingrid arrived at Babe’s door at seven that evening, Babe was dressed as if for an evening at the opera. She wore a long lilac silk skirt, matching jacket, a white furry collar wrapped around her neck, and a mother-of-pearl brooch on her breast.
‘Too much?’ said Babe, getting slowly to her feet, which were clad in pink Chinese embroidered slippers.
‘Lovely,’ said Ingrid.
‘I hate not getting the wear out of clothes,’ Babe went on.
‘It’s such a waste. I bought this in Madame Nora’s in, oh…’
she paused. ‘I think it was 1973, and it’s only been out of the wardrobe a few times since then. Molly can have it when I’m gone; she loves old clothes.’
Ingrid winced. ‘Don’t talk like that,’ she begged.
‘We talk like that here all the time,’ said Babe calmly. ‘This isn’t a health spa, Ingrid. It’s where people go when they’re too old to live on their own. Next stop: the hereafter. Of course, a lot depends on your vision of the hereafter. Beatrice, who lives next door, has her money on heaven, and she’s been to Lourdes twice already this year to be in with a chance. She says I’ve ruined it for myself because I have a dream-catcher over my bed. Heathen things, apparently!’ Babe went on, ‘I’m toast when it comes to the hereafter.’
Despite herself, Ingrid burst out laughing.
‘See? I knew I’d cheer you up. Being sad never helped anyone. At least if you try to smile, you’re in charge of that one thing.’
‘How did you get to be so wise?’ asked Ingrid, opening the front door of Babe’s room and gently helping her into the corridor.
‘The benefits of being nearly ninety,’ Babe said serenely. ‘If
there are any physical benefits, you’re too old to take advantage of them.’
‘Hey, Babe, I like your friend. She’s a hot tamale! Are you going out to meet boys?’ whooped one old man as they passed.
Ingrid had never thought she was ageist until that moment, but she was stunned. He had to be a hundred if he was a day. With his frail hairless skull he looked as fragile as a museum exhibit, and he was joking about dates?
‘Don’t talk to my guests like that, Tom, you old rascal,’
roared Babe back. ‘I don’t date boys, I date men. And if I was going out to meet a man, do you think I’d tell you, with your telegraph mouth?
‘He’s a dirty old man, that one,’ she whispered to Ingrid.
‘I heard that!’ roared Tom.
‘Good!’ said Babe spiritedly.
Apart from a brief hello to a little old lady shuffling along on a walker, they made it to the lobby unmolested.
‘You want to talk about David, don’t you?’ Babe said. ‘I can see it in your eyes. I thought people were better at doing that nowadays. When I was younger, you had about six months’ grace to talk about them, and then you were supposed to get on with it. Smile, look cheerful, start knitting hats for small babies or volunteering for a charity. The dead were the dead, except in November when it was time for the lists of the dead. Always hated that phrase, it sounded so sad, like there were legions of dead people waiting silently to be put on the list and remembered.’
‘I think that was the general idea,’ Ingrid said.
‘Sad, so sad. You’ll have Masses said for me when I’m gone, won’t you?’ For the first time, Babe’s liveliness deserted her and she looked anxious. Scared, even.
Babe had never been religious. Ingrid could remember sitting beside her at a family wedding and hearing Babe muttering, ‘As long as this getting married in a church makes them happy … Can’t see the need for structured religion myself.’
But despite her fighting talk about the hereafter, Babe was frightened.
‘Of course I will, Babe,’ Ingrid said. ‘Scores of them. I’ll get some from those missionary fathers who do whole books of Masses and promise to say them for you for years, OK?’
‘Silly of me,’ Babe said, dabbing at one eye as she got carefully into Ingrid’s car. ‘I’ll probably be going down below, anyway. I broke every single one of the rules, and I haven’t been to Holy Communion since 1949. It’s like being on the Church’s Ten Most Wanted List. They haven’t got round to excommunicating me, but they have a place for me down there, with fires, pain and twenty-four-hour sport on the television.’
‘You don’t have to joke,’ Ingrid said quietly.
‘Joking helps. David’s dying must have set you thinking about death,’ said Babe.
Ingrid busied herself fixing Babe’s seatbelt, then her own; anything to keep from answering. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. She was staring straight ahead as she started the car and she could sense Babe looking at her.
‘Because when people you love die, you can’t think about anything else, can you?’ said Babe, and it seemed to Ingrid that she wasn’t talking about David either. ‘I’ve probably never told you this - well, it’s ancient history now, and who wants to hear an old lady talking about past loves. But there was a man I loved, a very long time ago, and when he died I was heartbroken, couldn’t see the point of going on. My death, everyone’s death was inevitable: it was going to happen and if I took charge, I could just die myself.’
‘Babe, you poor pet,’ said Ingrid.
‘That’s all I thought about for a very long time afterwards.
For years, in fact,’ Babe went on. ‘When would I do it and how: pills or cutting my wrists in the bath? And finally, I realised one day that I didn’t want to die. To be honest, I was terribly afraid that David’s death would have the same effect on you. You loved each other so much.’
‘No, I never felt like that,’ Ingrid said, and she felt the misery wash over her again. If only she hadn’t opened that damned drawer. She wished she hadn’t now; she didn’t need to know. She could have mourned David properly and not gone through this wondering if everything had been a lie.
Babe’s lover had died and she’d been so distraught she’d wanted to join him. All Ingrid could think about was that David was gone and she’d never know why he’d betrayed her and who with.
She drove out of the front gate of Sheltering Pines far too fast and had to brake suddenly as a truck came racing around the corner towards her. ‘Oh Jesus, Babe, sorry,’ she said, her hands racing to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘All right,’ said Babe, ‘it doesn’t worry me.’
Ingrid half laughed, half shuddered. ‘If Molly or Ethan had been in the car they’d be telling me I was turning into a crazy lady and wasn’t safe to be out on the road on my own.’
‘Nonsense,’ soothed Babe. ‘They’d never say that, they love you too much. Now, what’s really wrong?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Ingrid.
‘Ingrid,’ said Babe, with a shade of sternness in her voice, ‘I’ve known you far too long to let you tell me there is nothing wrong. What is it?’
‘I can’t talk while I’m driving, I’ll bang into something else.’
‘Fine,’ said Babe. ‘We’ll wait till we get there.’
True to her word, Babe chatted merrily as they drove, telling Ingrid about the Suduko league in Sheltering Pines and how everyone was becoming wildly obsessive about it.
‘It’s addictive,’ she said. ‘Like that crash stuff people take.’
‘Crack,’ corrected Ingrid automatically.
‘That’s it, crack,’ said Babe.
The old cook had gone to be replaced by somebody who shouldn’t be let near a kitchen, Babe went on. ‘Sweet woman, can only do two things with food: boil and boil.’ Still, Babe didn’t mind that much. ‘I eat so little these days, anyway,’, she said. ‘As long as I can get my soft mints, I’m fine. There’s this sweet young chappie on the second floor who does shop runs for all of us.’
Young meant in his seventies, according to Babe.
They settled into the restaurant, a small family-run place that David used to take Babe to, where she could get old Irish speciality dishes like coddle and bacon and cabbage.
Babe ordered bacon, while Ingrid, who had little interest in food these days, asked for grilled fish.
‘Now.’ Babe settled herself comfortably in the inside seat.
‘Tell me what’s bothering you.’
Ingrid hesitated, wanting to wait till there was nobody around to hear any of it. But she looked at the clientele and saw that no one was paying her the slightest bit of notice. It was now or never. She took a deep breath and started with the locked drawers and the flowers on the grave.
Babe didn’t appear in the slightest bit shocked, merely sad.
‘You’re sure it wasn’t a little fling?’ she asked finally.
‘Sorry - terrible words; an affair is an affair whatever way you put it.’
‘It didn’t seem like a little fling,’ Ingrid said, ‘Not from all the bits of papers and the letters. It looks as if it had been going on for some time, at least a year. I want to know who she is though. My friend, Marcella, has been looking into it.’