When All Is Said(27)

Oh, he was good. It was like he’d been waiting for that moment for years. I couldn’t help but smile. But it was you who shook his hand and drew him away. As I stood there looking over at the pair of you, I noticed his ill-fitting suit and the sunken cheeks. When I’d first met him he was a young man, handsome and strong, but now he wore more than signs of age. He held his hollow body, like it might cave in if someone were to grab his shoulders and push down. Cancer, not that I knew it then. He died three months later.

‘The wedding! What about the wedding, Maurice?’ Your mother shrieked at me the day she heard the news of Jason’s passing. ‘They’ll still go ahead with it. I mean Hilary will still keep the hotel going won’t she?’

‘Might we let the man rest first, Sadie? Give his wife a chance, before you start badgering her.’

‘Thank you, Maurice. Thank you for pointing that out to me because I was just about to march up there to ask her about it. What kind of woman do you take me for, Maurice Hannigan?’

When my full name was used, I knew to shut up.

‘I’ll ring Kevin. What time is it over there? I can never figure this out. Maurice? Maurice, what time is it over in the States?’

There was a deluge of calls back and forth. All sorts of scenarios were discussed between the pair of you from the hotel closing down permanently, to, the Lord preserve us, marquees – in our garden no less. I fairly shifted in my chair at that one. But after three weeks of speculation and worry and a massive phone bill, it all died down. The hotel went on as normal, much to my despair.

‘Maurice, do you not care about your only child’s wedding? It’s like as if you wouldn’t mind if the whole hotel went up in smoke.’

‘If only dreams could come true, Sadie.’ A clever man would not have said that. Instead, he would have protested at such an injustice being levelled, proclaiming his unquestioning support for his son’s wishes.

‘You and your stupid feuds. You’re a petty little man, who can’t see what he has in front of him. Your son, our beautiful boy, is getting married and wants to do so in that hotel and all you can think about is how mean they were to you when you worked for them. Well get over it. Bosses aren’t meant to be nice. But you know who is supposed to be? A father. Yes, loving and kind, apparently. You’re doing a grand job of that one now, aren’t you?’

She rose from the chair, threw her knitting on the sofa, walked past me, slamming the sitting-room door. There was no dinner, or tea, or supper to be had in our house for seven long days thereafter. No stews, no scones, no freshly baked soda bread, although I did arrive home one day as its aroma wafted through the air. But as I could find no evidence of its existence I assumed my longing was playing tricks on me. As it turned out, however, while I ate shop-bought bread and butter sandwiches on the sofa, she enjoyed the soda bread in our bedroom. For it was there she was holed up in protest. Door locked and radio on. I slept in your room. How she had survived without the telly I’ve no idea. Although, I suspect, her being a dab hand with the VCR, she was taping everything in the evening and watching it during the day when I left. A clever woman. A woman in whose hands a grudge was respected and played out to its fullest potential. On day seven, I waved the white flag.

It had taken me the full week to think of something that would end the war. I ruminated on it in great detail, thinking through the pros and cons of each option with both Tony and Molly. Flowers and Dairy Milk chocolate wouldn’t cut it this time. But after a glass of whiskey at Hartigan’s, we had it. I slipped the envelope under our bedroom door, leaving a corner sticking out on my side so I’d see when she picked it up. And when I saw it disappear, I left her to it and went to my refuge on the sofa. She was down in less than a minute. Sat beside me and laid her head on my shoulder. We didn’t say anything for a while, but our hands found each other. In silence, we looked across at the family photo of the three of us over the fireplace, soon to be replaced, I had already been told, once Rosaleen said ‘I do.’

‘You’re a good father.’

‘There’s always room for improvement,’ I answered, relieved at my reprieve.

‘Have you told them yet?’

‘Sure, didn’t I ring them Thursday. It’s all arranged. They’ll be home in three weeks for a weekend treat in the hotel. It’s all paid for.’

‘And you arranged all that yourself?’

‘I’m a grown man, Sadie.’

‘I know, but that can’t have been easy, going in there on your own and all.’

‘Sure, I was fine. It took me all of five minutes to arrange the rooms.’

‘The rooms? Maurice, you do know they’re living together over there.’

‘They can do what they like over there. But over here they’ll have two rooms for three nights.’

There was of course a small lie in what I’d told her: it had bothered me, and bothered me greatly to walk into that place, voluntarily. But my desperation gave me the incentive to stand at that reception desk to arrange a weekend visit home for the pair of you. As the girl approached me from the rear office, I had to brace myself.

There she was – my Molly – or at least how I’d always imagined her, all confidence and smiles but with a lovely air of modesty dancing around the edges. I swallowed hard as my hands held on to the reception counter and I came to my senses. You see, despite it all, I could see them in her.