Miriam's Talisman (13 page)

At one point I turned, laughing, from one small gathering to acknowledge the greetings of another. There, in the doorway, stood Paul. I think he had been watching me for some time. He wore an amused smile, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise as he lifted his glass to salute me. In this, at least, I had won his approval. And, apparently, the approval of others. I overheard snatches of conversation.

‘How like her grandmother she looks …'

‘Yes, I can see Miriam in her. She has her mannerisms, you know …'

‘Yes, that's just how she smiled …'

‘And her voice, she has her voice, but without the accent of course …'

‘I never realised, it's quite remarkable …'

I smiled and moved on, graciously receiving condolences and refilling glasses. I drank nothing myself, wishing to remain clear-headed and in command.

It was an illusion, of course, I realise that now. I was certainly not clear-headed. And as for being the one in command, well, I'd like to think some of it was me—yes, some of it
was
me. I'm not sure exactly when I began to change, but that day was when I first became aware of it.

I realised that I was hungry, so I encouraged people to sample the trays of delicacies on the lavishly laden table and soon I was helping myself. Paul came up beside me and took my hand, twisting the engagement ring he had given me around and around on my finger. It was something he often did, as if to remind me it was there.

‘How am I doing?' I asked.

‘You're doing just great. I'm very proud of you.' He selected a curl of smoked salmon and popped it into my mouth.

‘How's Hannah?' I mumbled through the unsolicited gift. ‘Did you manage to get through?'

‘Yes, I spoke to David. She's fine now, resting. I said everything was OK here and not to worry about coming back if they weren't up to it.'

I was relieved. I did not want to face them again today. Besides, this was my show now: I was centre stage and I wanted to keep it that way. I gave Paul a discreet hug as a reward and whispered, ‘Thanks. You're my hero. Just
to prove how grateful I am, when everyone's gone we'll finish that conversation we started in the bathroom.'

‘Well, that would be great except I'm on duty at six, or had you forgotten?'

‘Oh, damn.'

‘Still, there's always tomorrow. It's about time we spent an evening alone together.' He smiled at me and winked as he slipped back into the crowd.

Would some background music be appropriate? Would this be Miriam's next move or was I adding my own touch of whimsy to the proceedings? I moved over to the stereo and took a CD from the top of the pile. A selection of Celtic music, most appropriate. A folk band began to play a set of reels at an unbelievably fast pace. A few eyebrows were raised, to be followed by smiles. Yes, I had made the right move.

I looked around at the gathering and was satisfied. This is how Miriam would have wanted it. She wouldn't have tolerated any morbid repression. Those she had invited to be there, those whom she had loved, soon learned from my example and honoured her spirit by shedding their funeral masks. As ties were loosened, so were tongues, and anecdotes flowed with the wine—tales of her brilliance, of her friendship, of her endearing eccentricities. It was truly a party in her honour, a celebration of her life, and I moved among them all, producer, director and stage manager. Or so I thought.

‘Ah, there she is, there she is. Chloe my dear, oh, I'm so glad I managed to catch you.'

‘Doctor Sangster, I'm sorry. I tried to speak to you earlier. Thank you so much for being here today.'

‘It's Marcus, my dear. Do call me Marcus. Yes, yes, dear
Miriam. I don't know what we'll do without her.' The dear man, as Miriam would have called him, shook his head. His eyes were brimming with tears. ‘And such a beautiful service. Yes, well now, where is she? I do so want to introduce you to my wife. Miriam told her so much about you and she's looking forward to meeting you. Ah, there you are, Janet. Come along here, my dear, and meet Cliohna.'

A little bird of a woman was making her way towards us. I would have picked Janet Sangster from the crowd unaided. They were a complementary pair. Her grey-white hair, cut into a blunt bob, sat upon her head like a nightcap. She balanced two plates of assorted titbits in her fragile hands.

‘Here, Marcus, I've found you some nice lean chicken and a little salad. Now promise me you won't go sneaking up on those awful prawns. He will eat prawns, you know. He knows how they upset his digestion. He thinks I don't notice these things.'

I think she was addressing me at this point, but it was difficult to tell. Her violet eyes crinkled and squinted into a short-sighted smile while her spectacles bobbed on her breast, all forgotten, on a thin gold chain. At this point Marcus tried to introduce us, but his wife simply ignored this formality and continued to talk to me as if we had known each other for years.

‘It's not as if he won't suffer for it later. Your grandmother was always telling him, but would he listen?'

‘There, there, my dear,' he patted her arm gently. ‘Chloe doesn't want to hear about my petty troubles. I'm sure she has greater concerns of her own at present.' But the warmth in his voice belied the admonishment, and
her eyes sparkled in response. They had been married forever and obviously adored each other.

‘Chloe, my love,' he patted my hand this time, ‘if there's anything Janet and I can do to help…well…such a terrible shock to us all, such a sad, sad loss …'

‘Actually there is something. A favour I need to ask you.'

‘Of course, my dear, I'll help in any way I can.'

‘Well, I have to sort out all her personal belongings, you know, clothes and stuff. And then there's all her research material, reference books, documents, notes, that sort of thing. I had a brief look but there's so much that I don't really understand. I would appreciate some expert guidance.'

‘My dear, it would be an honour, a privilege, to be allowed …'

‘Not at all. I wouldn't know where to start. Besides, I'm sure you're the only person she would trust with her work. Perhaps I could talk to you about it sometime soon?'

‘Now, Marcus, we should be inviting Chloe round for dinner, then you two can sort things out and I can make sure she gets a decent meal. I shouldn't think you've been looking after yourself over this last week have you, my dear? Don't you think she looks a little pale?'

‘Sounds wonderful. Yes, I'd love to.'

‘Well, you just call us as soon as you're ready and we'll fix something up.'

‘And your poor mother, my dear,' Marcus said. ‘So distressed. Is she recovering now? I do hope someone is looking after her.'

‘Yes, thank you. She's fine now. David took her home to rest.'

‘Yes, best thing to do. Fine woman, Hannah,' said Marcus. ‘Strong, capable, always was. Knew her when she was your age, you know. Last person I imagined would break down like that. Very strange.'

I found we were standing next to the bookcase, an easy distraction. I ran my hand along the row of green bindings.

‘You must know Miriam's work better than anyone,' I said. ‘You've read all her books, of course?'

‘Oh, yes. Invaluable, invaluable.'

‘But it isn't history, is it? I don't understand why the collecting of folk tales should be so important to historians.'

‘Ah, but it
is
history. It's the history of the development of a group consciousness, of the evolution of cultural and race memory.' We had caught the attention of some people nearby who turned towards our conversation. ‘These stories tell us what moved those people, what they feared, the inner strengths that helped them survive—what made them tick, if you like. Without that understanding all their actions become meaningless.'

‘And that's what made Miriam's work so important?'

A small circle was gathering to hear the professor speak. Marcus needed little prompting.

‘Why, yes, indeed. You see, very little was written by the Celts themselves about their religion and customs, even at the height of their power. It wasn't until much later that things were recorded, not until the thirteenth century in fact, and then mostly by Christians. Not the best people to give an objective account. The Celts themselves relied upon their oral tradition, woven into folk tales and legends. The storytellers have always been
held in the highest esteem throughout Celtic history, even now.'

‘Just like Miriam?'

‘That's right. Through her stories Miriam was able to unravel history for the historians so that …'

I didn't hear the rest of his words. I had become aware of a transformation, a shift in the atmosphere, subtle at first, then growing, swelling, pressing down on me. No one else seemed to notice. They were all talking and listening, involved with each other, but I could no longer hear them. All sights and sensations in the room had fallen away, leaving one pure sound, that of a lone flute. I remembered now, that particular album, that particular track. ‘Lagan Love' it was called. She would play it over and over again. A slow air she said it was, a lament. The instrument sang and sobbed. Each note filled the air, piercing my head with liquid, vibrating sorrow as it rose, wavered, then died away. A tune to break your heart, she had called it, and she would close her eyes, tensed and listening with every sinew of her body, as if no other sound ever existed. That was how I heard it then, and that was all I heard.

And I knew he was listening with me. But where? Yes, it would have to be the garden. I was at the window now, looking out. And he was there, as I knew he would be. Closer this time, almost to the house. I could have reached out and touched him if not for the glass. This time his eyes were not focused on mine, but I knew he was listening with me. Tears trembled on the sweep of black lashes, and the eyes I had seen as yellow now flashed golden in the slanting sunlight. On his pale, translucent face was an expression of such utter grief and despair that I thought
I could not endure it. Both of us were motionless, for a second, for an eternity.

Then I was running through the room, pushing past guests with unseen faces, through the kitchen, scattering trays and glasses, before tumbling out through the garden door. He was gone of course, vanished, but where to? There had not been time and yet I looked to the orchard. Shadows slid across the lawn, pursued by the late afternoon. But not a branch stirred, not a leaf quivered.

‘Chloe? Chloe, where are you?'

I became aware of the voice, but could neither comprehend the words nor identify the speaker, only that it wasn't him.

‘Cliohna, is anything wrong?' I turned to stare at Uncle Greg's shoulders filling the kitchen doorway.

‘What? What did you say?'

‘I said, is anything wrong? You went rushing out of the house …'

‘No, I'm fine. It's nothing. I thought I saw someone I knew. I must have been mistaken.'

‘Must have been someone pretty important.'

‘No, not really.' I hurried back towards him, directing him towards the house, away from the garden even though there was no one there to see, nothing to hide.

‘You said earlier you wanted to speak to me,' I said.

‘Yes. I just needed to have a word about—Hey, what's wrong, lass? You're as white as a sheet. And you're shivering.'

‘Am I? I expect it's been a long day. Really, I'm OK. What was it you wanted?'

He folded his arm around me. ‘Nothing that can't wait. Perhaps you need a rest.'

‘No, please go on. Tell me.'

I wanted him to talk, to go on filling the spaces around us with questions and answers.

‘It's just that I need you to come into the office quite soon, perhaps before the end of next week, but only if you feel up to it. There are quite a few papers for you to sign. And there's a list of gifts for various friends. If you could help me identify them then I'll see that they are handed over.'

I nodded, his words washing over me, barely audible above the music still swirling in my head.

‘She left a letter for Harold Shaw with me, of course, but I won't send it off until I've managed to make contact and break the news. I've rung several times but so far there's been no reply.'

‘Harold Shaw? You said Harold Shaw?'

‘Yes, Harold. Miriam's husband. Your grandfather.'

‘Grandfather?'

‘Yes. Surely you knew that she was married? That Hannah had a father?'

‘Hannah's father's dead. He died in America. That was years ago.'

‘Oh, Christ, is that what they told you?'

‘Yes, I mean, no. That's what Hannah said.'

Greg took hold of my shoulders, turning me towards him.

‘Your grandfather, Miriam's husband, Harold Shaw, is still living. Whatever you were told about his death wasn't true.'

‘But why? I don't understand. Why would they lie about it?'

‘What can I say? It's a big thing, losing a father at such
an early age. Perhaps Miriam thought it was best that Hannah made a clean break. He did go back to America, to Boston. It's been a long time, but I have every reason to believe he still lives near there.'

‘Miriam never spoke of him. It's like he never existed for her.'

‘That's not quite true. They did keep in touch. Oh, only cards at Christmas, the occasional note with news of the family. But I do have an address and phone number. And she did write him a long letter to be sent in case of her death. I don't know about the state of his health. He would be well over seventy now. That's why I thought I'd better ring first, but so far I haven't been able to get through.'

We were standing by the kitchen door, silent while I took this in. I scraped at the woodwork with my thumbnail, detaching a loose flake of green paint. Of course I had a grandfather. Everybody had a grandfather: it was a genetic necessity. The flakes of paint crumbled between my fingers. So much needed doing. I would have to find a decorator. If Miriam's husband had been there he would have painted the doors. But he had melted into the past, a thing of anecdote and history, an unmentioned name at family gatherings. I had a grandfather. There was an address and a phone number. Press the buttons and up he would pop like magic, brought into existence like a rabbit out of a top hat.