Things We Never Say (24 page)

There was a rustle at the side of the altar as the priest walked out, the organ music grew louder and the funeral Mass started. Abbey allowed her thoughts to drift as the priest spoke. She knew the words even though she seldom used them. She wondered if they were a comfort to the Fitzpatricks. She hoped they were.

When the priest talked about Fred, he described him as a much-loved member of the community and a man of strong faith. He added that he was sure that Fred and his beloved Ros were now happy together for all eternity.

Abbey couldn’t help wondering how things worked out in the afterlife in circumstances such as Fred’s. When there were other women involved. What kind of welcome would be waiting for him? Had Ros and Dilly met? Had they spoken about him? How did they feel about him, always providing you felt anything at all after you died? She would’ve liked the answers to those questions, but they weren’t the ones the priest was addressing.

Nor did he say anything about Fred having had another daughter. Of the fact that latterly he’d been consumed by guilt about what had happened to her. Or that he’d eventually found a granddaughter he hadn’t known about. Those topics were clearly ones for another day. Or, thought Abbey as she glanced at her watch, ones for a few hours’ time.

Suzanne listened to the priest’s words and bit her lip. Not because they made her sad but because she had to restrain herself from jumping up and shouting that it was all a lie and that her father hadn’t given a shit about anyone other than himself. And in making contact with Abbey Andersen, nice and all though she appeared to be, he still wasn’t thinking about anyone other than himself, because he clearly hadn’t cared about the impact knowing about her would have on the family. But what was the point in creating a scene? she asked herself. There was nothing to be gained by saying that he’d made her life and her mother’s life a misery with his attitude and his philandering and that it was fortunate there wasn’t a whole pew full of his extramarital offspring instead of a lone girl.

Put it out of your head, she told herself. It’ll all be over soon and you can forget about Dad and forget about Don and Gar too. You’ll soon be back in Girona getting to grips with business which is far more important.

That morning, while she was getting dressed, she’d received a phone call from Petra saying that she was working on another potential investor and that she was keeping her fingers crossed. Unfortunately, though, Beatriz was getting twitchy about the enterprise as she’d been approached by someone else looking for money. Swings and roundabouts, said Petra. If we can land one more member for our consortium, we’ll get the deal done. The call had frustrated Suzanne. Why was money always such a damn problem? Why did it always get in the way?

She glanced at her father’s coffin and tried not to think that he might have left her something. He’d been so hard on her before, so unwilling to understand her or to listen to her, that she could think of no reason why he might have changed now. But she was the successful one, wasn’t she? She mightn’t have had the chance to prove it to him, but she was. She deserved some damn recognition from him. It didn’t matter that he was dead.

Donald was thinking about his speech after the funeral Mass. As the eldest son, it was his task to say a few words about his father, to bring him to life (at least metaphorically) for the people who’d come to say goodbye to him. Donald was quite good at this sort of thing – being able to talk about every conceivable topic was an important part of being a sales director – but it was hard to know what to say about Fred. He’d been a tough father and an even tougher boss. He’d been cantankerous and difficult. He had a daughter that nobody knew about. Donald wasn’t planning on mentioning her. There was no need to pick at wounds, new or old. He’d stick to the positives and recall how Fred had worked hard at building the company from humble beginnings to the success it had become. A success which meant that he had died in his beautiful home on the hill instead of the two-up, two-down terraced house he’d started his married life from.

Zoey slipped her hand into her husband’s. She was thinking of Fred’s house too and planning what she would do to it if Fred had left it to her and Donald as he should have done. She remembered telling Fred how much she liked it, and, one day, him asking her if it was the sort of place she’d like to live, at which she’d nodded eagerly and said that it was perfect. She didn’t say that on moving in she’d immediately hire decorators because it needed a lot of upgrading to turn it into anywhere she’d actually live. It was a trophy home in a trophy location and that was what mattered. It would be great to invite her friends there and show off the magnificent views. They’d envy her more than ever then. And she deserved to be envied. She really did.

Gareth knew that Donald and Zoey had designs on the house. His brother had said as much a short time ago when they’d met for a drink. It had been after Fred had hurt his wrist and Donald had rung Gareth to discuss their father’s long-term care. Gareth had been quite insulted by the call, because, as he’d told Donald, Lisette spent a lot of time looking out for Fred. She did his shopping every week, he’d said. Called in to see him every Saturday. Which wasn’t always convenient, but she did it anyway. And she’d continue to do it. Donald had been taken aback at that, Gareth knew. Donald and Zoey dropped in to Furze Hill from time to time, but not regular as clockwork like Lisette.

Gareth had seen the flicker in Donald’s eyes when he realised that Gareth had a greater toehold in Furze Hill than him. Nevertheless, he’d made his comments about being the eldest and Fred’s business partner (a low blow that) and had said that their father had talked about a family member taking the house over after his death. Gareth had said that Lisette loved Furze Hill, a comment that he knew had startled his brother. Seeing the look on Donald’s face had given Gareth great satisfaction. Sometimes, he thought, Donald could be too damn cocky for his own good. But maybe he had a reason to be. Maybe he knew things that nobody else did.

Lisette had a headache. It had been with her ever since the news of Fred’s death, and nothing seemed to shift it. The previous evening Suzanne had seen her reaching for the Panadol and had offered her some tablets from her own bag. Like horse tablets, Suzanne had said, and with a dosage to match. Got rid of the worst of everything. But Lisette didn’t like taking tablets at all; she’d only started swallowing Panadol out of desperation. She’d tried meditating later on, in the bedroom, but of course that had been useless because the only meditation she’d done had been on Fred’s will. She wished she’d looked at the copy she’d seen peeking out from under the papers that day. Maybe he’d even wanted her to look. Maybe it would have been worth a row with him.

She rubbed the back of her neck.

Or maybe not.

Because her grandparents had been cremated, Abbey had never been to a burial before. She followed the crowd of people as they gathered around the open grave. She heard one of the mourners comment that Fred was joining Ros at last, and she supposed that the Fitzpatricks had some kind of family plot. Which was a bit spooky, she thought, if practical.

In fact the whole thing was vaguely spooky from Abbey’s perspective. There was a finality about putting a coffin in the ground that passed you by at a cremation. It was more primeval, somehow. The heat of the sun was scorching the backs of her bare legs and she moved a little so that she was in the shadow of another mourner. Ryan glanced enquiringly at her but she mouthed back that everything was fine, even though the heat was making her feel slightly dizzy.

The words of the priest were being carried away on the warm breeze, so it was difficult to hear the latest set of prayers. A man and a woman, like her at the edges of the crowd, were holding a whispered conversation about whether it would be OK to slip away immediately afterwards or if they needed to go to the nearby hotel where the family had organised refreshments for the mourners. Abbey wished she could slip away too. But the plan, according to Ryan, was that she’d accompany him back to the hotel, and then afterwards the family would get together and talk with her.

The day after tomorrow, she thought. All this will be over and then I’ll be back home. And my worries will be my own again. Worries like sorting out my finances and finding a place to live. The previous night, after she’d gone to her room, she’d googled apartments in San Francisco and had despaired of finding anything suitable. Nearly everything seemed to be out of her reach, but she hadn’t been able to keep her attention on her search anyway. Looking for an apartment had seemed like part of another life.

She realised that the priest had finished speaking and that the crowd around the grave was beginning to disperse. Ryan took her by the arm.

‘It’s only a few minutes to the hotel from here,’ he said.

‘Is it formal?’ she asked.

‘Huh?’

‘The refreshments. Do they make speeches, that sort of thing?’

‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Ryan told her. ‘It’s just a way of people being able to say a few words to the family in more relaxed surroundings. They have some food, something to drink …’

‘Like a wake?’

‘Well, no. The body’s usually there for a wake,’ Ryan explained. ‘This is very relaxed, I promise you.’

‘That suits me. All I want is for the family to know that I’m sorry about Fred and that it was good meeting them.’

‘Sounds perfect,’ said Ryan. ‘Ah, Alex, there you are.’

His colleague from the law firm had come over to them.

‘What a day,’ said Alex as he ran a finger around the inside of his collar. ‘You’d swear it was high summer.’

‘A cracker, isn’t it?’ agreed Ryan. ‘You feel like you should be going to the beach rather than a cemetery.’

‘You’re coming back to the hotel?’ There was a question in Alex’s tone and yet Abbey could also hear that it was a command.

‘Of course,’ said Ryan.

‘Good,’ said Alex.

Abbey looked from one to the other. There was something going on here, she thought, although she had no idea what it was.

‘Are you?’ she asked.

‘What?’ Alex turned to her.

‘Coming back to the hotel?’

‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘Fred was a friend as well as a client. He used our firm from the start. Worked with my father before me.’

‘Did you like him?’

‘He could be difficult,’ conceded Alex. ‘But I got on well with him.’

They walked along the gravelled pathway towards the car park. Alex’s Lexus was at the opposite end to Ryan’s Golf.

‘I’ll see you there,’ said Alex, and walked away from them.

The sun had been shining directly into the car, and Abbey gasped as a blast of warm air hit her when she opened the door.

‘I should’ve bought a convertible,’ said Ryan.

‘I like convertibles,’ said Abbey.

‘D’you have one?’

She shook her head. ‘Are you crazy? I can’t afford a car. Jeez, right now I can hardly afford an apartment! Although when me and my mom were in Latin America, we drove everywhere in …’

‘Convertibles?’ He sounded surprised.

‘No.’ She laughed. ‘Open-topped jeeps.’

Ryan laughed too. Then he put the car in gear and joined the queue to leave the car park.

Suzanne recognised many of the people who came to the hotel after the funeral, among them Mrs Farrell, who’d lived across the road from the Fitzpatricks in East Wall, along with her daughter Adrienne. Mrs Farrell looked exactly the same as she always had – squeezed into a suit that was at least one size too small for her and cheerfully allowing her white blouse to strain across her sizeable chest. Suzanne had always envied Adrienne her easy-going parents; she’d been one of the clique of cool girls who wore short skirts and copious amounts of make-up and had a different boyfriend for every day of the week. Though she wondered whether she should envy her now. Adrienne, while still trowelling on the make-up, wore a permanently dissatisfied expression and looked older than her thirty-nine years. Would that have been me if I’d stayed? wondered Suzanne. Did Dad actually do me a favour by making me leave? The thought shocked her.

Adrienne Farrell was looking in her direction and Suzanne, not feeling able to talk to her even though she knew that the aftermath of a funeral was exactly the place for meeting up with old acquaintances, turned to the long trestle table from where a waiter was dispensing tea and coffee. She asked for a black coffee and then moved to a corner of the room where she could observe other people without being seen herself.

She watched Lisette walking around the room shaking hands with people as though she was the hostess for the day – which, Suzanne supposed, she might well be. She was the senior Mrs Fitzpatrick these days after all, wasn’t she? Not that Deirdre would feel too happy about that. Suzanne had already seen her ex-sister-in-law shoot a few daggered looks in Lisette’s direction. As well as in the direction of the woman who’d usurped her, the beautiful Zoey. Seeing Deirdre prowl around the room, Suzanne felt a bit sorry for her. It was as though she hadn’t been able to let go, hadn’t been able to leave the Fitzpatricks behind.

Am I the only person in the world to happily extricate themselves from a marriage? she wondered. The only one who sailed through a divorce without acrimony? She hadn’t heard from any of her ex-husband’s family since her split from Calvin. They’d never been very close, of course. But the Fitzpatricks weren’t all that close either. Maybe it was different in Ireland, though. Maybe in a country with fewer than five million people, it wasn’t possible to completely cut the ties that had once bound you. That was why she’d been right to go.

She saw Abbey Andersen, looking cool and smart in a black and white dress and high-heeled sandals. She was alone, and Suzanne walked over to her.

‘How are you today?’ she asked.

‘Grand,’ said Abbey, pleased to be able to use her favourite new word. ‘I’m grand. And you?’ Her voice softened. ‘The priest said some nice things about your dad. Donald, too.’

‘Never speak ill of the dead.’ Suzanne gave her a wry smile. ‘Nobody would’ve got up there and said that Fred was a womanising sod who lobbed a grenade into the bosom of his family before he departed this life.’