When All Is Said(57)

The spoon shook in the saucer that she put down in front of me.

‘Oh, blast it, milk,’ Emily said, about to turn and go back.

‘Not on my account,’ I said, ‘I drink it black.’

And then I laughed quietly to myself, as I thought of you and your coffee drinking.

She sat to her seat again.

‘Shall we start again?’ she asked, looking at me like she might a child who’s just bumped their head.

I nodded and waited, not willing to make the effort just yet.

‘Why give it back now?’

Her voice was so gentle, almost a whisper.

I coughed and waited and then said:

‘I was clearing out Sadie’s stuff last night and I came across it. Forgot I had it and now here it is.’ I needed the lie to offer her some logical explanation.

‘But it was you who kept asking me about it all these years.’

I looked at her and imagined the guilt she could see on my face. But still I offered no further explanation that would be forgivable. She watched me anyway, hoping.

‘And what am I to do with it now?’ she asked when she eventually realised nothing else was forthcoming. ‘What plan did you have? Am I to keep it or…’ she said picking it up and looking at me, ‘am I to tell him?’

I took a sip of the coffee and winced, I mean how do you drink that stuff? There’s nothing nice about that bitter muck. But still, I persevered, happy to have the distraction of its torture for a moment or two. And mad as it may sound, it felt like I had a bit of you with me, an ally, I suppose.

‘It’s up to you,’ I said, ‘I’m done with it now.’

Her face grew sad and worried.

‘He’s very ill you know. Uncle Thomas. Pneumonia. He’s in hospital. Mummy and I are going over soon. I suppose I could bring it.’ She looked at me like I was the wise one among us. The one with all the answers. Did she not know by now how disappointing I was at that?

‘Whatever you think is best.’ Selfishly, I felt lighter in myself, a burden lifted, finally ready to get on with my own plans. I drifted off to them for a moment or two, continuing to drink the coffee. And when only half of the black stuff remained in my cup, I managed the words I should have offered long ago.

‘I’m sorry for taking it, for keeping it. For everything.’

She said nothing, just nodded and looked down at the King that never was, once more before I took my leave.

I didn’t hear from Emily for some weeks after. But one evening my mobile rang. I’d been expecting a call from Anthony, my newly appointed estate agent, and so I hit the button eager to hear about his progress in selling me off to the highest bidder.

‘He’s dead, Mr Hannigan, Uncle Thomas is dead,’ was all she said. ‘Can you come over?’

I parked the Jeep outside the hotel even more badly than was my wont of late. I’m not the best at judging spaces these days, have had a few near misses, but until I actually hit something I’ll not worry too much. When I got inside, Donna, the young one from the last time, led me through the reception office and down a warren of different hallways until I couldn’t tell which way was north. She put me into a cosy lamp-lit room.

I took my seat in a chair that must’ve been from the time of the old house. It still bore a trace of luxury. Its red flowers and cream background hadn’t lost their colour but the armrests were beginning to strain under their years, and the thinned fibres rolled easily under my fingertips. I let them be. Not wishing to add to the chair’s demise, I rose slowly and awkwardly, the lowness of the cushion having all but swallowed me up in its comfort. For the life of me I couldn’t place this room in the house. I made my way to the window, to give myself some bearing. But to no avail. It would’ve meant turning off the lamps.

‘It’s the old pantry with a little bit added on,’ Emily said, when she arrived, catching me squinting through the window, my hands cupped over my eyes, trying to block out the light. ‘Daddy converted it. It’s tiny I know but it suits me. It was his office.’

Emily looked pale and exhausted as she stood in the middle of the room holding two glass tumblers in her hands.

‘Here, we’ll need these,’ she said, putting them on the low table that sat between my seat and an exact replica, opposite. I made my way back over, and took my Bushmills.

‘I don’t remember the pantry much,’ I said, looking around, putting off the inevitable a little longer, ‘though my mother would have. She worked here too, you know.’

I lowered myself wearily into the chair.

‘Yes, you’ve told me.’

‘Of course. One of the many pitfalls of being old: the brain can’t recall how many times it retells the same story.’

I took a good deep swallow, letting the whiskey warm whatever bits of me it touched. I sighed at the pleasure.

‘Was it the coin that did it, Emily?’ I said then, finally taking the bull by the horns.

She looked down at her drink, the air of the room beginning to ruffle at the edges as she shifted in her chair. She lifted her hand to her mouth, her elbow leaning on the armrest. Her fingers began to pull at her lips.

‘He didn’t see it at first,’ she began, still not looking at me but at the floral patterned rug that spared the pink carpet that had seen better years beneath. ‘I held it in my hand trying to show him as he lay in the bed but he wouldn’t look. I had to call him: Uncle, Uncle look. Look at what we found. But he didn’t, he just kept his eyes on Mummy. In the end, I had to take his hand and place it in his palm. Instant recognition. Instant. He got so agitated, though. Began to struggle, moving his head from side to side, whimpering like a baby. Emily, what is it, what have you given him? Mummy kept asking over and over, getting equally worked up. What’s he looking for? Emily what’s going on? It dawned on me that he was trying to see that I wasn’t playing a trick on him. He was looking for his own one that he’d hidden under his pillow. I freed it from its black velvet box so he could see at last the two, side-by-side. He cried. I watched him. He didn’t smile like I’d hoped he might. His face just wrinkled in utter pain, not relief, not joy, but pain. He closed the coins in his fists and pulled them to his heart and cried, long, loud heaving sobs until…’