With All My Love (6 page)

‘Some people prefer to have their last memory to be of the loved one alive,’ the undertaker said understandingly.

As if Terence would even get a kiss from her when he was alive,
or
a prayer even, she thought with dark humour.

She was petrified that Tessa or Lorcan would appear at the funeral and had been on edge from the minute she’d driven into the car park of St Anthony’s, behind the hearse. ‘Can you see the Egans?’ she’d asked Lizzie, doing a quick scan herself of the various clusters of people waiting to follow the coffin into the church.

‘I don’t think they’re here. I’m sure they’d know you wouldn’t welcome their attendance,’ Lizzie assured her, taking a good look around to see if she could see Jeff’s parents.

Valerie had hardly heard a word the priest said. All she wanted was to get the hell out of Rockland’s as fast as she could. Knowing Tessa of old, she wouldn’t put it past her to cause a scene.

There’d been a good turnout at her father’s funeral, although she had no idea why. Nosiness probably, she’d thought crossly as she’d stood shivering outside the church, receiving the neighbours’ condolence, wishing the whole charade was over.

‘A terrible tragedy – what was he doing out on a night like that?’ Jonny Carroll, a nosy little git who liked to know everyone’s business, had asked her.

‘I’ve no idea,’ she’d said crisply.

‘Was he putting out rubbish or something?’ Jonny asked slyly, hoping to discommode her. She’d long got past the stage of being mortified by her father’s behaviour – not like when she was young – and she was damned if she was going to let that sly little turd of an accountant get to her.

‘How would I know, Jonny, and I hundreds of miles away in London? But one thing I do know, I hope Da didn’t take any of
your
advice about tax dodges. I don’t want the tax man after me.’

‘Ye were always a little madam,’ Jonny muttered, melting away into the crowd gathered at the church gates.

And you were always an obnoxious little bollox, she thought, remembering his hard groping fingers when he and Terence would come lurching home after doing the rounds of their elderly neighbours at Christmas.

Valerie had only spoken to a few more people. It had been bitterly cold with snow still on the ground, and she’d told the undertaker she wanted to go straight to the graveyard in case it snowed.

She had caught a glance of Jeff’s headstone as she followed Terence’s coffin up the cemetery path. The grave looked so fresh and well tended, with pots of red and yellow winter bedding. She felt, for the first time that day, like bursting into tears. She struggled to compose herself, desperate to avoid the memories of the last time she’d been in the graveyard when she’d said goodbye to Jeff. She’d kept her gaze straight ahead when the ordeal was finally over, and the priest had left the cemetery after giving her a kindly pat on the shoulder, wishing her well, and telling her how much the elderly people in the parish would miss her father.

What an irony, she’d reflected as she’d walked carefully down the graveyard path, trying not to slip on the ice, that Terence, who had smarmed and charmed half the widows and pensioners in the village in the hopes of being left something in their wills, had died suddenly and it was
they
who had prayed over his coffin.

In the space of a month, Valerie had cleared the house and put it up for sale. Now that she had power of attorney for Carmel she took the decision to sell, figuring that there was no point in letting the house go to rack and ruin; she certainly wouldn’t be going back to Rockland’s to live. It was just before the property crash hit and she’d made a fine profit on the three-bedroomed cottage, bought as a holiday home by an affluent couple from Dublin. Her mother’s pension plus a monthly contribution from Valerie paid for the nursing home, and in the meantime the proceeds of the house sale accrued a yearly interest, though it had fallen dramatically in recent years as interest rates fell. Nevertheless, when her mother eventually died, Valerie would have a nice nest egg indeed. It was this knowledge that had made her take a leap of faith and buy the villa in Spain. Yes, life had at last turned in Valerie’s favour until Tessa Egan’s letter had surfaced. If she’d despised her father she
loathed
Tessa, she thought irately.

She took a swig of her drink and gazed out across the garden to the shadowy dark sea that was starting to roughen up. The waves had ghostly whitecaps smashing against the rocks and she knew the wind had risen. She took another gulp of spritzer, agitated, restless, unnerved by all these memories that were crowding into her mind, unwelcome and unwanted. Even after all these years Tessa’s behaviour still rankled unbearably. Tears gathered behind Valerie’s eyelids and rolled down her cheeks.

She would never forget the sight of Jeff, as white as the sheet that covered him, in the hospital mortuary. She would never forget the marble cold of his forehead when she’d bent down to kiss him one last time. Now the past had come back to haunt her. Valerie drained her glass and stood up. She was tired. She might as well have an early night. If Briony hadn’t got her key she could ring the bell and Valerie would let her in.

She carried the two lounger cushions inside, put away Katie’s toys, washed her glass and locked up, leaving just a lamp on for her daughter’s return. She padded silently into Katie’s room and smiled to see her grandchild sleeping so soundly. Briony would never stop her from seeing Katie, surely? It was a different set of circumstances that had made Valerie take the path she’d taken. It would be unthinkable for Briony to be so cruel. A feeling of dread enveloped her.
Could
her daughter’s anger make her take that vengeful step? Had
she
not let anger and bitterness dictate the actions she’d taken after Jeff had died?

‘Don’t think about it. It was different then,’ Valerie muttered. She went back into the lounge to get her glasses and glanced down at the photo album on the sofa where she’d left it. She picked it up and flicked through the pages. Weariness enveloped her and she took the album with her into her bedroom. She loved her bedroom, with its airy pastel colours of duck-egg blue and lemon, and the white shuttered doors that reminded her of an ad for a holiday in the Caribbean. A small passageway lined with wardrobes led to the cream and lemon tiled ensuite. The wide double bed, with its white Egyptian cotton sheets and duvet, and lemon throw, dominated the room. Rugs on either side of the bed covered the cream and lemon speckled marble floor. It was a most relaxing room, the wide French doors fringed on the outside with sweet scented bougainvillaea and honeysuckle.

Valerie undressed swiftly, folded her clothes neatly and laid them on the white cane chair by the French doors. She hated clutter; she couldn’t sleep if anything was out of place. She slipped in between the cool sheets and felt some of the tension that was causing her head to throb begin to ease.

She reached for the album and opened it. A photo fell out of a torn plastic covering sheet and she picked it up and her heart gave a painful twist as she saw the image of herself and Lizzie with Jeff in the middle, his arms around them, laughing into the camera. She’d never been so happy in her entire life as she was then.

It had truly been the best time of her life, Valerie remembered, as the years disappeared and her thoughts drifted back to that glorious summer when everything had been absolutely perfect.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

‘I’ve something to ask you.’ Lizzie Anderson, Valerie’s best friend, tucked her arm into Valerie’s as they crossed the main street that ran ruler-straight through Rockland’s towards the small green, fringed by trees known as The Triangle, which sat in the centre of the village. A block of shops that included a supermarket, a newsagent’s, a butcher’s, a pharmacy, a café and chipper constituted the heart of the village. In summer flamboyant hanging baskets and window boxes of busy Lizzies, geraniums and petunias lent an air of Mediterranean gaiety and glamour for the tourists who came to buy ice creams, chilled drinks, cold meats and bread rolls for their picnics on the beach, or to have coffee or lunch in the small café. Tonight there was nothing of that Mediterranean buzz as the rain threatened and a howling south-easterly blew in from the sea.

The little whitewashed church with the narrow stained-glass windows on either side of the big wooden doors lay adjacent to the village primary school. On the other side of the church the large Victorian parochial house marked the intangible separation between the posh end of the village where the doctor, bank manager and ‘The Elite’, as Valerie’s mother called them, lived in big detached houses with sea views, and walled gardens whose mostly high, neatly trimmed hedges obstructed the view of the
hoi polloi.
At the end of the posh houses, a cobbled street that bisected the main road led to the railway station on one side and to a curved sandy beach on the seaside. It was a pretty village in summer but once the tourists were gone and the nights grew long, Rockland’s was dead boring, Valerie reflected as she and Lizzie skirted a large puddle beside the Ball Alley, where tonight, a hard-fought game of handball was in progress with some of the local lads.

‘What do you want to ask me? Something I’m not going to like, I just know by the way you’re saying it,’ Valerie said warily.

‘Please, please.
Pleeeeease
come to the match with me. I don’t want to go and stand on the sidelines on my own,’ her best friend pleaded. ‘I’ll do your maths homework for a week.’

‘Aw, Lizzie, I hate football.’ Valerie made a face.

‘You’re my best friend. It’s your
duty
to stand by me. I really fancy Phil, and he
asked
me to come to the match. Val, please.’

‘Oh, all right,’ grumbled Valerie, with bad grace. She didn’t particularly like Phil Casey, although she wouldn’t let on to Lizzie, who was totally infatuated. He thought he was ultra cool, strutting around, showing off with his new Walkman and his punk earring. If a real punk came near him he’d run a mile, Valerie thought scornfully. She couldn’t think of anything more boring than watching fellas kicking a ball around, with people screaming in her ear. What a waste of a Sunday afternoon, especially when she had a free house, a very rare occurrence. Her parents were going up to Dublin to visit an uncle in hospital and then they were going to visit Terence’s elderly mother. Terence had wanted her to come but she’d lied and said she had a maths exam the next day and she needed to revise. Terence put a lot of store on her studies. When she had got six honours in her Inter Cert he’d boasted about it for weeks afterwards, mortifying her everywhere they went. If she didn’t do well in her Leaving Cert he’d be devastated. He wanted her to go to college – preferably to study medicine, but law or accountancy would suffice. Valerie knew Terence well enough to realize that going to college wasn’t all about her. He wanted to be able to boast about his daughter ‘the doctor’ or ‘the lawyer’ or ‘the accountant’. Terence was a social climber and she was his ladder. He wanted to be as good as ‘The Elite’ at the grand end of the village, and Valerie was his stepping stone, his last chance to improve the family’s social standing, unless he won a fortune on the Sweepstakes.

Valerie had given him the one excuse she knew he would accept without question. She’d been looking forward to her few hours of freedom immensely. She had the new Hot Chocolate cassette and she was going to play it as loud as she wished and lounge on the sofa with Lizzie eating crisps and Trigger Bars – their last occasion of sin before going on a diet – and gossiping. Now Lizzie was changing their plans and wanted her to spend an afternoon shivering in a mucky field. But Lizzie was her dearest friend; what else could she do?

Lizzie was mad into boys. Valerie wasn’t any more, not since Gary Higgins, she thought glumly, frowning as she remembered that horrible night the previous year when he’d started snogging her under the cordyline trees in the middle of The Triangle.

It was the first time she’d been properly kissed, a French kiss, like the ones she’d read about in the romances she liked to devour. She had found it revolting. Gary Higgins, the village hunk, had walked her home from the hotel one night and told her he’d make a ‘real woman’ of her. She’d been scared but curious. He was a couple of years older than she. Until then she’d only been tentatively kissed by pimply, gangly youths with moon craters of acne on their faces, and damp, sweaty octopus hands that roamed all over her until she called a halt. She’d begun to think there was something wrong with her. All the Mills & Boons she’d devoured, all the
Cosmo
articles she’d read when she’d worked weekends in the local hairdresser’s, had led her to believe that she would feel hot and quivery and have mind-blowing orgasms, but all she felt as those boys slobbered over her and pressed their crotches against her, was dismay and disgust. Fortunately, she wasn’t alone. Lizzie confided that she felt the same. They couldn’t understand how Frances O’Connor and Anna McKenna and their gang were always boasting about shifting guys and having passionate sessions down on the boat strand behind the sheds.

‘I think they’re spoofing or else we’re frigid,’ Lizzie had fretted and Valerie had felt apprehension grip her as her best friend articulated a fear that caused her much anxiety. She wondered if frigidity could be inherited because she felt sure her mother suffered from the condition. Carmel had told her that men only wanted women for one thing and that she would be better off never getting married. ‘Be independent, Valerie. Never let a man have power over you. It’s different for you – you can have a career, you can earn your own money. Don’t give all that up to be some man’s skivvy.’

At night sometimes, when she was younger, she would hear the bed creaking in the room next door, Carmel’s murmured protests and her father’s hoarse guttural grunts. Valerie would jam her fingers into her ears and the growing revulsion she felt for her father deepened into an antipathy that would last until his death. Carmel had collapsed haemorrhaging one day, hanging out clothes in the back garden, and had to have a hysterectomy. She had moved into the small boxroom while she was recovering and had never returned to the marital bedroom.