Bone and Blood (4 page)

‘I'm sorry for sending you away.'

Quatsch. Nonsense. Brigitte bit her tongue. I was the one who went and left you here at the mercy of the parish pump. Irish eyes are smiling. German whips are cracking. Both guilty. Both innocent

‘No, Mammy. No, Mammy, no. You didn't send me. I wanted to go.' No more to be said. ‘All in the past now. You did your best for all of us. Shall we say a decade of the rosary?'

No word of the scandal in walking out with a protestant boy from Manorhamilton. Brigitte had long forgotten him. Poor Mammy. He wasn't the reason for going and not coming back. She had told Mammy that Katharina's father was a Catholic. Would it be a comfort or hurt her more? A married man. None of it matters now.

She tried to tell Katharina later but the words would not come. The grief shocked her. Missing Mammy after all these years. Memories of the early days in Berlin. A happy missing in the days when she swung herself onto the tram and thought if Mammy could see me now. Mammy alive and busy. Back to the days of no Katharina. The time between and the day Katharina came with news of cancer. Time of being Mammy. She wanted to look after her baby again but Monika took over. Did Katharina want her to or did she do it to please her? No pleasing Mama.

Katharina and Monika. We want to live together, Mama. Forty she was then. Too old to have children. Too late to marry. Forty years and then nothing. At least Brigitte had her work for a couple of years more. Then nothing. Nix. There was no reason not to go to Ireland to look after her own mother. Those weeks in Leitrim it was good to be needed. A second stroke drew the inevitable closer. The hospital was rampant with infection. Better off at home. A steady decline with a very low level of consciousness blurred the days into forever. There was no jealous fighting for the right to sit up at night any more. Liam was always in and out of course. Even Marion – give her due – took her turn to sit with their mother in those last days. One early morning while Brigitte prepared the mixture the doctor had prescribed to substitute for food, she heard her mother call ‘Mammy, Mammy, Mammy'. It was not the first time but now it was followed by a murmured litany of names of people already dead. Yet there was no sign of full consciousness. It was more like talking in her sleep. Brigitte felt her bones say ‘Ring Liam'.

Within minutes, she heard the key turn in the front door. ‘Is she gone?' Liam asked it like an accusation but she shook her head. They sat one on each side of the bed and waited for the doctor who took one look and said, “It won't be long now” before leaving again. The next two hours they waited with the rattling breath, wondering which would be the last. When it came, it was more of a final shudder than a breath.

Waiting there by the bedside for something to happen next, for someone to come who knew what to do. ‘Death is always sudden no matter how long you wait for it.' It was Mary's voice and Mary's hand in hers. Then Mary's son turned up and Mary said, ‘I'll go and make a nice cup of tea. You'll take one too Jim, won't you?' She last saw Jim when they were at school together; he looked now like his own father. Puzzling through the blur of sleeplessness. Why is he here in his dark clothes talking to Liam before they had put the word out of her mother's death? Then she saw his father in him – his father with the taxi and the hearse. His father dead, he was the undertaker now. In his wake, neighbours she hadn't seen for sixty years came, carrying food and murmuring: sorry for your loss; died at home; in her own bed; of all of them you look the most like her; long life; hard work; good death; lucky you could come from Germany mingling with the hail Mary, holy Mary, mother of God. Girls, she had been to school with, turned into their own mothers.

Where shall I put this? Where shall I put that? What about your mother's bedroom upstairs? Brigitte could nod and leave them to it. Later after a rest in her mother's bed, she brought them two clean white sheets, the last from the pile she had ironed under her mother's eye of approval on those days she sat up. Two linen sheets, saved from a pile inherited from Biddy's grandmother, who was given them when she left service when the old woman she looked after died. Biddy replacing the arms her mother had used to wash and iron those sheets before her father died. She put her face between the stiff sheets, breathing the smell of a clean death. She was glad her mother had that.

Peggy-now-Margaret arrived late and then went to bed, tired after the long drive. It was John-Joe, now Joe, who was so like her father, who did most to bring her mother's presence back into the house as it emptied of neighbours. Joe made her life and death merge with his talk of the Celtic tiger and the days when her father turned from cattle to sheep and Liam going back again now to cattle. Cycles and rotation. She stepped back from the arrangements. It was down to Liam and so it should be – he was always her mother's favourite and hers too. Peggy, please-remember-to-call-me-Margaret-not-Peggy, was last as she had to come from Dublin. Her son would pick up James from Boston on the way. Liam was business-like and good-humoured but she knew he was the one who would grieve most. The one who came every morning for all those years of her mother living alone. Peggy was quick to point out that he had to come anyway to feed the cattle he had on the farm. Self-interest is quick to spot self-interest. No shame in that.

Brigitte kept that image of the last rosary, with all her siblings together for the first time in half a century, as a comfort when images of the past brought their ghosts into the present. Peggy led the rosary. James stood at the head of the coffin. He died in the States three years later, as lavishly as he had lived, by Peggy's account. Michael's large red nose was beacon to how he had spent the small fortune he had earned in the building trade in England. John-Joe, now the local big time business man, stood beside Michael, looking lost without his wife, Marion, beside him. He had taken over a petrol pump in the village street and turned it into one of those garage-supermarkets. His children sold the business and the big house when Marion died at the height of the property boom in Ireland. Apparently he was now in a nursing home. Beside him, Liam with his jaw set. Liam who thought more of the animals on his farm than he did of his brothers and sisters who had let him down so badly in their mother's final months.

There was a comfortable finality in leaving for the last time. It wasn't the narrowness of the place. She was surprised to find how much things had changed. Young women who had children outside marriage were accepted now. There was none of the dramatic, ‘Don't come and darken my door again with your bastard.' The ritual of Sunday Mass was still observed but very few young people were there. Everybody had cars. They shopped and shopped in shops that had not existed before. They visited less. It seemed as if the Irish family she had left behind didn't exist any longer for anyone.

When she got back to Berlin, she felt once more the joy of public transport, of anonymous city lights and department stores. She looked up friends and organised outings for Kaffee und Kuchen. Back to the days when she first swung her way on trams in search of the best coffee and cake. The grief hit her later. She swung between the past and present, between despair and moments of relief, knowing she would never go back to Ireland. When Katharina worried about her in the down days, she said, ‘Maybe I will' – just to please her.

They were all going over to Gran's – to offer their sympathy.

‘So what relation is Brigitte to me, Dad?' Aisling asked when they were in the car.

‘I don't know whether there's a name for it. Maybe great-aunt? She's your Gran's sister and you're going to represent your Gran – don't forget that.'

‘So her daughter, Katharina, is your cousin.'

‘That's right. I think it means she'd be your second cousin or maybe it is first cousin, once removed. Ask your Gran.'

‘What age was this Katharina?'

‘Well she was born in 1945, so that would make her nearly 60. Poor woman – worked hard all her life by all accounts and didn't live until she could pick up a pension. I can't think of anything more galling.'

Diarmuid opened the front door with his key and called out, ‘Mother, it's us.' Gran was sitting in her usual position in her armchair by the fire watching TV. Her father had taken that into account.

‘She'll throw us out when the ‘Late Late Show' comes on. The TV will be off because she'll not want us to know that she's going to watch it at all. Anyway Aisling has to get to bed early if she's going to make that early flight.'

Her dad knew that Gran wouldn't be best pleased with him letting Aisling go alone – that was probably the reason for the odd look that came in her direction – but Aisling wasn't prepared for the disapproval to overflow onto her.

On a Friday, her Gran always looked like she was dressed for Sunday Mass. She took a taxi every Friday to get her hair done and after that she would meet her friend, Anna, for coffee. She would stay dressed up for the Late, Late Show and would allow herself a little glass of sherry or port or Bailey's. She must have kept to her usual Friday routine. The lamb-white cap of curls and the fact that she was still wearing a silk scarf around her neck were sure signs. The scarf was one that Aisling liked because it was the colour of a vivid sky shot through with bits of scattered cloud. She had probably spent most of yesterday evening choosing the combination of clothes – blue blouse, grey cardigan and skirt with its two front pleats combining with the cameo brooch at her throat.

Gran went straight into her Dad, ‘So you're too busy now to go to a funeral. I'll have to make sure that I die at a convenient time myself if I want any of my relations to be there.'

‘Oh come on, Mother, if it was Aunt Bridget herself, I would make more of an effort but I don't even know this cousin and it's not as if she's bothered much about us over the years.'

Her Dad's tone always carried the defensive guilt of a little boy. Why did he have to justify going or not going to his mother?

‘Oh, it's very easy to speak ill of the dead.' Aisling loved to see her Gran making her dad squirm and she made the mistake of letting a smile show.

‘And I don't know what you're laughing at – if the funeral was in Belleek rather than Berlin, you'd hardly volunteer to go.'

Aisling had long ago learnt to say nothing and just wait a while. It was too soon to tell Gran her hair looked well. ‘Will I make a cup of tea?' Distraction was the only way to deal with Gran when she was in one of her moods. That question didn't need an answer. It just meant she could head off to the kitchen.

‘Nobody even asked if I wanted to go myself,' she heard her Gran say as she left the room.

So that was it. Her father and mother exchanged glances. Aisling left the door open so that she could hear them from the kitchen.

‘Well, it's not too late. But you said last time we went to Spain that you hated travel and you would never get on a plane again.'

‘That was different: that was holidays. This is a funeral.'

Aisling was glad they couldn't hear her giggle, which reached the surface as the kettle boiled. She hunted around the drawers for one of Gran's stores of Marks and Spencer's chocolate biscuits. She usually sampled a few. Her dad had brought a few scones from the fresh bread stand in the garage. He and Mum would cop it for that too, the mood that Gran was in. She would be sure to give out about everybody buying scones instead of baking them ‘and the price those places charge.' She hoped she wasn't serious about going to the funeral – that would be a rather different trip. She buttered the scones and brought in the tray.

‘Oh fresh scones – hardly homemade, I suppose.'

‘No, Mum, they have so much fresh stuff for sale, it's easier to buy than to bake when you only want a few.'

‘What did you pay for these?' Gran looked from her dad to her mum.

‘I don't remember, Mother.' Diarmuid answered quickly.

‘Yes, it's all very well for some – more money than you know what to do with. But when you're on a tight budget like I was when you were growing up or now on my pension, you wouldn't dream of buying what you could bake yourself. Kathleen told me she paid 48 cents for one the other day. I said, ‘More fool you, Kathleen; you can bake them and freeze them you know. If it weren't for these pains of mine, I'd still be doing that. God knows maybe I should. If I could sell them at that price, I could supplement my pension.'

At least the topic had shifted. And it would soon be time for the ‘Late, Late Show'. But Gran wasn't ready to let go that easy. ‘I suppose you haven't even said a prayer for her. That's gone out of fashion too – like going to Mass. Poor Bridget. It's hard to be so far from your own at a time like this.'

‘I thought we'd say a few prayers with you, Mother – maybe a decade of the rosary.'

‘A decade indeed. So now the Rosary is rationed.'

‘We can say the whole thing if you want.'

Aisling hoped her father caught the wordless Dad-you-are-such-a-hypocrite glance she shot at him.

‘You lead then.'

The entertainment of her father forgetting the first half of the Hail Mary was nearly worth kneeling there with one eye on the clock. Luckily her Gran didn't expect any of them to remember what the sorrowful mysteries were. By the time it got to the 4
^th
mystery and Aisling's turn, she could rattle off the Our Father and the ten Hail Marys and the Glory be to the Father in record time.

The last time she had said the rosary was when Michael died. Her Gran was there at the house waiting for them when the undertakers brought him back to the house. Most people didn't have a wake in the house these days. Most people in Dublin anyway, though they probably did in the country still. When they brought Michael back from Leitrim, Gran and Mum both wanted a wake so there was no question of not having one. Her Mum wanted Michael to come home with them one last time even if it was in a coffin.

Aisling wished now she had slowed down her decade of the rosary as she saw that her Gran was the one now with her eye on the clock – the Late-Late Show would start any minute. It would be fun to see her squirm a bit for a change. What about this second cousin in Berlin; would there be a wake? Hardly likely. It was an Irish thing, or a country thing anyway. Aisling knew nothing about her and had never heard the name of any uncle. He was probably dead.

‘What about her husband, is he dead too?' Aisling's question hung in the air for a few seconds and her Dad gave her one of those – not in front of Gran looks. Well she should have been warned if there was something she shouldn't ask about.

But her Gran wasn't a bit put out; the ads were still on the telly, which she'd switched on the minute they had finished the rosary. ‘Poor Bridget never got married. As far as I know, she adopted Katharina, one of those poor war orphans. Bridget gave her the very bread out of her own mouth by all accounts – not that she got a lot of thanks for it. But sure if it was thanks we were waiting for, we'd wait a long time.'

‘Are you sure you don't want me to make arrangements for you to go, Mother? It's not too late if you really want to. It can be done; we could get you a wheelchair to take you through the airport.' Her father knew rightly the offer was just a gesture.

‘Me in a wheelchair! How could you, Diarmuid?' Her Gran knew too.

Diarmuid's voice was warm with satisfaction now, ‘I think it would do Aunt Bridget good to come home for a while when it's all over and she'll not do that if we all go over there now. I'd be happy to pay for that if you want to invite her.'

‘Yes, I'll ring her again to-morrow.' That was it – another sly glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. Count down to the “Late, Late Show” and they could excuse themselves.

‘I'll have an early night to-night, I think.' Gran could be a real hypocrite too sometimes.

Aisling waited until they were in the car before she asked, ‘So what's all this about Katharina being an orphan? So she's not a real cousin?'

Her mother spoke for her father, ‘I think it's what your Gran wants to believe. No-one really knows the full story but Katharina is Bridget's daughter; that much is sure. There were so many different stories, we never knew which one Bridget told to make it easier for her parents; which one was the truth; and which one was pure fabrication. Your uncle Liam always said that the father was in the German army.' Her mother imitated his Leitrim lilt but made it slower, ‘And what could be wrong with that – weren't we all fighting the British then?'

She switched back to her own voice, ‘There were other stories about an American soldier but Katharina was born too soon after the end of the war for that. Anyway whoever it was, it's fairly sure they were never married. That's probably why Bridget never came back to Ireland. Well they couldn't to begin with. Berlin wasn't the easiest place to travel to. Even when it came to our time to travel in the late 60's, your Gran was never keen. She used the excuse of the wall going up and people being killed. She made it sound as if Aunt Bridget was right in the middle of it. The real reason was that as long as Bridget was in Berlin and didn't have much contact with the family, there was less scope for scandal. Anyway, from accounts we heard, Berlin seemed to be stuck in a time warp.'

‘I'm surprised you didn't make an effort. I thought that would be just up your street, Dad – a bit of living history. The Berlin Wall came down some time in the late 1980's, didn't it?'

‘November 1989. I'm surprised you don't remember that date. The end of the German Democratic Republic and the unification of Germany followed on really quickly. It was the death knell of the Soviet Bloc.'

‘I was only born in 1983 remember. I wasn't watching the news at 6 years old. And the Soviet Bloc is history now.'

‘I suppose so,' her dad frowned and she could hear him slipping into history lecture tone which she mocked internally in half listening mode, ‘Your aunt was in the bit of Berlin controlled by the Allies at the end of the war but she was close to the Wall by all accounts.'

‘So I'll be visiting an interesting specimen of social history. I'm surprised you're not coming with me.'

‘Well I would love to but… '

‘Just think, Diarmuid,' Her mother sighed, ‘ Michael was just born.'

Danger zone of life BMD and life AMD – life-before-Michael-died and life after-Michael-died. Dad kicked the ball back into history.

‘No need to be sarcastic, young lady. Remember, it
is
part of living history not something only in schoolbooks. And apparently Berlin has a real buzz these days. Now it's the capital city again. Seat of government. Media hub and so on.'

‘Be careful of what you say about the war to Brigitte. She was in some camp for a while during the war – somewhere near Berlin,' her mother added.

‘A prisoner-of-war camp? What did she do to get in there?'

‘Well, it wasn't a prisoner of war camp – more some sort of labour camp. They rounded foreigners up apparently.'

Her father butted in, ‘Where did you hear that, Mary, surely I would have known about it?'

‘I don't know the full story but apparently your uncle Liam talked to her a lot when she came over to look after your grandmother that time.'

‘Oh,Liam! Well it could be hard to sort the fact from the fiction. You'll have to be a bit more tactful than usual, Aisling.'

‘Look who's talking!'

‘Don't worry. Just don't ask too many questions. Let Aunt Bridget tell you what she wants.'

Aisling said nothing – a funeral, a relative older than God and historical research; maybe Berlin could be more boring than being stuck at home. Still it wouldn't be for long and it would make the break from being the good daughter. There must be clubs and cool places to hang out in Berlin. Maybe the buzz her father talked about had some connection to the Love Parade. Berlin was bracketed in her memory with the Love Parade. She reminded herself again to Google it. She'd have time to look at the guide at the airport if not before. It sounded as if there would be a few skeletons in the aunt's cupboard worth a rattle too. Gran always censored out the more colourful bits of family history except maybe when she had a few sherries at Christmas.