The Story of Before (37 page)

I picked it up. Inside I found two blank sheets of notepaper: the letter I’d never written. I laid them out flat on the book, found a pen and went over to the window. Looking out, I could
see for miles. The whole countryside was quiet and still. The sky was pale blue, fading to white over the horizon, and above the frosted rooftops of Glengolden hung the silvery ball of the moon.
Trees were still bare and the peaks of the mountains were lacy with snow. I settled myself sideways onto the ledge and began to write.

When I started the letter, it wasn’t with any intention of sending it. I’d barely thought of David, or anyone from before, since we’d left Hillcourt Rise. I think my mind had
shut that part of my memory down, blocked it out, so I wouldn’t have to keep re-living what I might’ve done wrong. What I could’ve done differently.

What I wished I hadn’t done at all.

I asked him how he was, if he still liked Clonrath, whether he’d made any more friends. I wondered if he did much study after school, what his favourite subjects were, if he still played
the piano. I told him our new address, described our new house, said it was near the graveyard. I didn’t mention Kev’s name. Or what had happened. I didn’t mention any of that at
all. But at the very end, before I signed my name, I wrote:
I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.
I folded the pages and slipped them in the envelope. Then I went downstairs and took a
stamp from the tin Mam kept on the kitchen windowsill. I ran all the way to the postbox at the crossroads and didn’t think about sending the letter until it was out of my hands.

After three weeks, I gave up waiting for a reply. Not that I’d really expected he’d write back. And in a way, I was glad. I’d said what I’d wanted to say, that I was
sorry I hadn’t believed him. There wasn’t any need for him to respond. But I felt better knowing that I’d told him.

Mam and Dad planned to have a headstone on Kev’s grave in time for his first anniversary. It wasn’t something they’d been able to think about before then.
They talked about it in the evenings, and I saw Dad scribbling designs on a folded-out cigarette box. They didn’t include us in their discussions and though I felt I should be annoyed about
that, I wasn’t. I preferred the grave as it was. I liked the way only we knew who lay there. Kev’s name carved in stone – I wasn’t sure any of us were ready to see that.

On a sunny April Saturday, I set off across the fields for a visit. I’d spent the morning helping Dad in the garden and had only just managed to convince the others it was time they did
their share. Auntie Cissy had come to stay, and she and Mam were sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of tea when I left.

When I got to the graveyard wall I sat down. I picked at the powdery stone, grinding chips of loose slate into dust and brushing it to the ground. I wondered how long the wall would survive, if
it’d still be there years into the future, when there was nobody left who remembered us. It scared me there was so much I didn’t know. So much I would never find out. I looked up to the
sky – to the vast, pale blue blanket that covered the place where my baby brother lay. This was his home now. Close by him were my grandparents, Mam’s mam and dad, and it comforted me
to know they were there. Though they’d never met each other, they were family. They belonged together.

I dropped down from the wall and made my way into the graveyard, turning the corner after the big yew tree. When I got to Kev’s grave, I gasped.

I saw his name.

The letters straight and hard and exact. Lines cut into a heart of smooth white marble. Deep and lasting. Like scars that would never heal.

I read the words over and over. I didn’t want them to make sense. I didn’t want to understand them. But there was no way around the truth that they told. Through my tears I whispered
a prayer. And for the first time as I stood at his grave, I was able to tell Kev that I loved him.

That we all did. And that we would never stop.

I bowed my head. An airy silence rang in my ears, taut and fragile, waiting to be broken.

And then it snapped.

‘Hello, Ruth.’

I knew without turning around. And for a moment, I didn’t want to. But he came closer and touched my arm and I had to.

‘I got your letter,’ he said. ‘I . . . I didn’t know if I should reply.’

He’d changed. Grown so much taller. His hair was longer, parted in the middle now, unbrushed and curling down around his neck. Golden brown hairs that caught the sunlight grew above his
lips and all around his chin. He wore a striped shirt with no collar, the tail of it hanging out over frayed and faded jeans.

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I didn’t expect you to.’

‘I hadn’t planned on coming. Just decided this morning.’ He still wore his leather wristband, clicking it open and shut as he spoke. His voice trembled slightly. ‘A lad
at school, his parents took him out for the day. To Bray. For his sister’s communion. I asked for a lift.’

‘But it’s a long way,’ was all I could think of to say. ‘How will you get back?’

‘It’s grand. They’ll collect me from the village later.’

I bit my lip as I looked at him. ‘Why did you come?’

He glanced towards Kev’s grave. He swallowed. ‘I wanted . . . I just thought . . . It’s nearly a year now, isn’t it?’

I nodded.

‘Doesn’t seem like it,’ he said.

I couldn’t tell. Time had lost the meaning it once had. In some ways, it seemed like yesterday, and in others, it could’ve been a hundred years.

‘When did you get here?’ I asked him.

‘Couple of hours ago.’

‘And you’ve been here all that time?’

He nodded. ‘I . . . I was going to call to the house. But I wasn’t sure if . . .’ He took a deep breath. ‘Then I saw his name and I . . . I don’t know . . . I just
stood looking at it. For ages.’

‘It’s new,’ I said. ‘The headstone. It’s the first time I’ve seen it. It feels . . . different now.’

‘Does it make it worse?’ he asked. ‘Seeing his name, I mean.’

‘I’m not sure. All I know is it’s not the same.’

I moved back towards the wall and he followed. We sat down together, our feet kicking against the faking stone. We were silent for a few moments, neither of us knowing what to say. Then he began
to speak, answering the questions I’d asked in my letter. He was happy in Clonrath, he said. He’d made a few more good friends. He still played the piano, but had given up entering
competitions. Some lads from school had formed a band and he’d joined – he played keyboards and wrote all their songs.

‘We’re going to be huge,’ he said, grinning. ‘You’ll be seeing us on
Top of the Pops
.’

I gave him a smile. ‘I’ll watch out for you.’

He cleared his throat. ‘That day,’ he said. ‘The fight. On the green. I—’

‘It’s OK,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It—’

‘It’s not OK! I shouldn’t have dared him to hit me. And I shouldn’t have hit him back. If we hadn’t had that fight . . . If—’

I slid from the wall and faced him. ‘Stop! There’s no point. It won’t do any good.’ I looked away, tears burning my eyes. ‘I should’ve believed what you told
me. I should’ve guessed he was making all that stuff up. But there’s no point in wondering about the ifs and buts. None of it matters. Not now.’

‘But I do wonder,’ he said. ‘All the time. I think about how things could’ve been so different.’ He turned his head to look out over the fields. ‘If only . .
. Sometimes I hate him, you know. Then other times . . . I kind of think I understand. Not what he . . . what he did, but . . . I could’ve been him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My mother. My real mother, I mean. She could’ve kept me. She could’ve tried. And Liz, she could’ve given him away. To a family. Like mine.’ He faced me.
‘I’m not sorry I tried to be his friend, Ruth. I’m just sorry it worked out the way it did.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ I said. ‘It’s not anyone’s.’

He stood down from the wall. ‘Sometimes I think it’s all of our faults.’

We started walking, stepping on shadows the sun cast along the path. We were silent until we reached the gate.

‘I just feel so bad for you,’ he said as we left the graveyard. ‘For all of you.’

‘Don’t,’ I whispered, turning my face away. ‘We’ll be fine.’

He said I didn’t need to go any further with him but I wanted to. He’d come all that way. It was only right that I should. When we got to the village, we sat on the shop windowsill,
squinting against the sun.

I could have asked him lots of things. But I didn’t want to know. I had all the story I needed. I thanked him for coming, and I hoped he knew I meant it. He promised he’d write but I
didn’t say I would. I wasn’t sure.

I left him waiting outside the shop for his lift back to Clonrath. Before I turned the corner, I looked back and he waved.

I walked the long way home; I wanted to follow the road. Once out of the village, it was straight all the way. No twists and turns. As I came closer to the house, I could see Dad at the door,
surveying the front garden with a mug of tea in his hand. He saluted when he saw me and came out to the gate.

‘There you are,’ he said with a smile. ‘I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to. Dinner’s ready.’

I went inside and sat down at the table with my family. Mam, Dad, Cissy, Mel and Sandra.

We’ll be fine.

I wondered if I’d meant what I’d said to David. If I really thought we would. It wasn’t something I could be sure of. It was something I’d just have to trust.

I began working on
The Story of Before
during my Masters in Creative Writing in University College Dublin, so thanks are due to those who inspired me during that year:
Éilís Ní Dhuibhne who so generously pointed me in the right direction and gave such valuable instruction; James Ryan for his words of wisdom and kindness; and my fellow
students, many of whom read and critiqued first drafts of early chapters, particularly Colin Barrett and Mariad Whisker, and most especially, the two who continue to be with me every step of the
way – Jamie O’Connell and Claire Coughlan.

I am hugely grateful to my agent, Lucy Luck, and would like to thank her for her commitment, advice and enthusiasm. Likewise, my editor, Sara O’Keeffe – her suggestions and guidance
have made this a better book. Thanks to the team at Corvus, and also to the Arts Council of Ireland for their assistance while I was writing
The Story of Before
. And to my family – my
parents, my children and my husband, for their unfailing support, encouragement and belief – thank you.