other. If Emma dropped Alexander and didn’t carry their baby to full term, well, the poor boy would be mentally scarred for life. I just knew that. Alexander is incredibly sensitive for a boy.
Easy for me, huh?
Oh, Julie, if only you knew.
8. The Wake
What with my dad’s funeral to sort out, and Alexander and Emma’s baby-news to come to terms with, Julie’s Galway escapade had to be moved to the back burner for a while. Gary called me several times that evening and in the end I simply told him Julie was having a holiday by herself and she didn’t want any company. He was very upset but I assured him Julie was simply working through a few issues from her past and the best thing he could do was leave her alone.
‘You know how she is,’ I reminded him. ‘She likes to handle things her own way.’
He had no choice but to agree with me though I knew he was going to start looking for her right away. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d hired a detective already. He’s very determined, is Gary Devine.
‘Where did you say she was again?’ he tried, at the end of our conversation. Which was rather cunning of him but he was desperate, I suppose. And it was right on the tip of my tongue to tell him the name of the spa but I remembered just in time.
‘I’m sorry, Gary. She didn’t say.’
Liar, liar.
I dialled Australia.
Oh, God!
It’s not easy telling your two beloved younger sistersthat the father you’ve all ignored for years has pegged out with his head on a supermarket loaf. I did my best to sweeten the pill. But still, they had to be told their father was alone when he left this life. Peaceful and quick, as it hopefully was, he was nonetheless alone in a shabby rented house, his last meal a humble can of chicken and mushroom soup. They were hysterical, needless to say. Their chirpy Australian accents disappeared in a heartbeat and their full-on Belfast snarls returned with a vengeance.
I had to cover the handset with my hand. It was nervous laughter, of course, but I felt bad about it. They said they’d be on the next flight and although I knew it would be hard for them, I was delighted. It was unsettling to think we hadn’t been together for ten years. And flights have got so much cheaper recently but there was always something coming up, important things to be done, too much on at work. And we never managed to arrange anything. But now, our father’s premature passing was uniting us in our own home town at last.
So Ann and Elizabeth were in the air somewhere as I identified Dad’s body and liaised with the funeral director. Bill was on the phone for hours, informing the long list of relatives and acquaintances. I was hoping they’d all make their excuses and leave us in peace to grieve. But no, they all wanted to come to the wake. I watched Bill’s face darken as he gave directions to Eglantine Avenue, over and over and over again. By the end, he was just saying, ‘Oh, you can’t miss it!’
The house had taken on an eerie, still quality as if it was preparing itself for an important occasion. Alexanderlay sobbing quietly in his room, still inconsolable over the temporary (or perhaps permanent) loss of Emma. But the other children were marvellous, tidying up at lightning speed. Which was a revelation for me, I can tell you, as it usually takes them several hours to put a pair of socks away. Bill was amazingly thoughtful. He did his best to get into the spirit of things even though I warned him it was going to get very weird. Well, Protestants are more formal about these things. I daresay it’s the influence of the British Royals. Stiff upper lip, no matter what. And why not? Making a scene never did any good, did it? Bill’s never been to a real belter of a wake, and I was worried for him and our precious children.
But I knew in my heart there was nothing I could do to stop the momentum. So I went crazy with a duster and just let events unfold. Wakes are like that, anyway. They take
Easy for me, huh?
Oh, Julie, if only you knew.
8. The Wake
What with my dad’s funeral to sort out, and Alexander and Emma’s baby-news to come to terms with, Julie’s Galway escapade had to be moved to the back burner for a while. Gary called me several times that evening and in the end I simply told him Julie was having a holiday by herself and she didn’t want any company. He was very upset but I assured him Julie was simply working through a few issues from her past and the best thing he could do was leave her alone.
‘You know how she is,’ I reminded him. ‘She likes to handle things her own way.’
He had no choice but to agree with me though I knew he was going to start looking for her right away. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d hired a detective already. He’s very determined, is Gary Devine.
‘Where did you say she was again?’ he tried, at the end of our conversation. Which was rather cunning of him but he was desperate, I suppose. And it was right on the tip of my tongue to tell him the name of the spa but I remembered just in time.
‘I’m sorry, Gary. She didn’t say.’
Liar, liar.
I dialled Australia.
Oh, God!
It’s not easy telling your two beloved younger sistersthat the father you’ve all ignored for years has pegged out with his head on a supermarket loaf. I did my best to sweeten the pill. But still, they had to be told their father was alone when he left this life. Peaceful and quick, as it hopefully was, he was nonetheless alone in a shabby rented house, his last meal a humble can of chicken and mushroom soup. They were hysterical, needless to say. Their chirpy Australian accents disappeared in a heartbeat and their full-on Belfast snarls returned with a vengeance.
I had to cover the handset with my hand. It was nervous laughter, of course, but I felt bad about it. They said they’d be on the next flight and although I knew it would be hard for them, I was delighted. It was unsettling to think we hadn’t been together for ten years. And flights have got so much cheaper recently but there was always something coming up, important things to be done, too much on at work. And we never managed to arrange anything. But now, our father’s premature passing was uniting us in our own home town at last.
So Ann and Elizabeth were in the air somewhere as I identified Dad’s body and liaised with the funeral director. Bill was on the phone for hours, informing the long list of relatives and acquaintances. I was hoping they’d all make their excuses and leave us in peace to grieve. But no, they all wanted to come to the wake. I watched Bill’s face darken as he gave directions to Eglantine Avenue, over and over and over again. By the end, he was just saying, ‘Oh, you can’t miss it!’
The house had taken on an eerie, still quality as if it was preparing itself for an important occasion. Alexanderlay sobbing quietly in his room, still inconsolable over the temporary (or perhaps permanent) loss of Emma. But the other children were marvellous, tidying up at lightning speed. Which was a revelation for me, I can tell you, as it usually takes them several hours to put a pair of socks away. Bill was amazingly thoughtful. He did his best to get into the spirit of things even though I warned him it was going to get very weird. Well, Protestants are more formal about these things. I daresay it’s the influence of the British Royals. Stiff upper lip, no matter what. And why not? Making a scene never did any good, did it? Bill’s never been to a real belter of a wake, and I was worried for him and our precious children.
But I knew in my heart there was nothing I could do to stop the momentum. So I went crazy with a duster and just let events unfold. Wakes are like that, anyway. They take
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