don’t want to be reminded of them. But my childhood was a happy one, even without a father. There was nothing that I wanted or needed to forget.
*
When Sandy goes to have his shower and I’m sitting, drinking another mug of coffee, my thoughts stray back to the postbox memory. I had told both him and Angela that I hadn’t talked about it to anyone before.
But that’s not strictly true. The memory had always been there, but after we moved to Drogheda it came more often and more strongly for a while. I told my mother about it once when she came into my room to say goodnight. I thought she might be able to tell me what it was about, but she said nothing for a long time and, when I looked up at her, there was a look on her face that I didn’t recognise or understand. It was as if she had turned into someone else. She sat on the edge of my bed without saying a word for so long that I became scared. And when I said, ‘Mamma! Mamma! What’s wrong?’ she turned and walked out of the room without a word, leaving me to put out the light and turn on my night light by myself.
Hours later, I woke, the bang of the front door echoing around the house and in my ears. Then silence. I got out of bed and opened my bedroom door. All the lights were on, but there was no sound. Starting with the kitchen, I walked around the house, ending up in the bedroom my mother shared with Dermot. The lights were on there, too, but the bed was empty.
In a panic, I opened the front door and stared out into the night. It was pitch black, the kind of darkness that had always made me nervous, that made me think I would be swallowed up by it. But my fear for my mother was greater than my terror of being devoured by the dark, and I ran towards the gate.
The lane that passed our house stretched up the hill to join the main road into town, but it also continued in a half-hearted way down to the river, which was already widening as it made its way to the sea. I looked back at the house, where the lights burned bright, making the darkness seem blacker still, and turned down towards the river. I broke into a run, stumbling over potholes that I couldn’t see. All I could think of was my mother and whether it was too late to save her.
When I got to the bottom of the hill, the reflection of the moonlight in the water created enough light for me to see the two figures ahead. My mother and Dermot were sitting on the low stone wall that ran along the river bank. He had one arm around her and his other hand held hers. They weren’t speaking. They just sat quietly and, for a moment, I thought, There’s nothing wrong; they just went out for a walk. Except that Mamma was wearing only her nightdress and no shoes or slippers, and Dermot was in his pyjamas.
‘Are you all right, Mamma?’
She didn’t answer, but looked through me with eyes that seemed more dead than alive.
‘She’s grand,’ Dermot said. ‘Nothing to be worried about. She’ll be fine in the morning, when she’s had a good sleep. We’ll get her home now.’
They stood up and I saw how gentle Dermot was with her. He held one of her hands and I held the other, and we walked slowly back to the house. Dermot made hot milky drinks for the three of us and, once she had drunk hers, put Mamma to bed. She fell asleep straight away.
I looked at the clock. It was nearly four o’clock and there was a grey light in the sky.
Hours later, when I woke, my mother was in the kitchen making scrambled eggs and acting as if everything was normal. But I was already blaming myself for what had happened. I had upset her by talking about the postbox memory and, because of that, she had gone to the river. There was no other explanation. I made a silent vow never to bring it up again.
Chapter Ten
Back in London, we’ve fallen into something like our old lives. Sandy has moved back in, but is so much in demand at conferences that he’s often away from home. He has even taken a break from the choir, a big
*
When Sandy goes to have his shower and I’m sitting, drinking another mug of coffee, my thoughts stray back to the postbox memory. I had told both him and Angela that I hadn’t talked about it to anyone before.
But that’s not strictly true. The memory had always been there, but after we moved to Drogheda it came more often and more strongly for a while. I told my mother about it once when she came into my room to say goodnight. I thought she might be able to tell me what it was about, but she said nothing for a long time and, when I looked up at her, there was a look on her face that I didn’t recognise or understand. It was as if she had turned into someone else. She sat on the edge of my bed without saying a word for so long that I became scared. And when I said, ‘Mamma! Mamma! What’s wrong?’ she turned and walked out of the room without a word, leaving me to put out the light and turn on my night light by myself.
Hours later, I woke, the bang of the front door echoing around the house and in my ears. Then silence. I got out of bed and opened my bedroom door. All the lights were on, but there was no sound. Starting with the kitchen, I walked around the house, ending up in the bedroom my mother shared with Dermot. The lights were on there, too, but the bed was empty.
In a panic, I opened the front door and stared out into the night. It was pitch black, the kind of darkness that had always made me nervous, that made me think I would be swallowed up by it. But my fear for my mother was greater than my terror of being devoured by the dark, and I ran towards the gate.
The lane that passed our house stretched up the hill to join the main road into town, but it also continued in a half-hearted way down to the river, which was already widening as it made its way to the sea. I looked back at the house, where the lights burned bright, making the darkness seem blacker still, and turned down towards the river. I broke into a run, stumbling over potholes that I couldn’t see. All I could think of was my mother and whether it was too late to save her.
When I got to the bottom of the hill, the reflection of the moonlight in the water created enough light for me to see the two figures ahead. My mother and Dermot were sitting on the low stone wall that ran along the river bank. He had one arm around her and his other hand held hers. They weren’t speaking. They just sat quietly and, for a moment, I thought, There’s nothing wrong; they just went out for a walk. Except that Mamma was wearing only her nightdress and no shoes or slippers, and Dermot was in his pyjamas.
‘Are you all right, Mamma?’
She didn’t answer, but looked through me with eyes that seemed more dead than alive.
‘She’s grand,’ Dermot said. ‘Nothing to be worried about. She’ll be fine in the morning, when she’s had a good sleep. We’ll get her home now.’
They stood up and I saw how gentle Dermot was with her. He held one of her hands and I held the other, and we walked slowly back to the house. Dermot made hot milky drinks for the three of us and, once she had drunk hers, put Mamma to bed. She fell asleep straight away.
I looked at the clock. It was nearly four o’clock and there was a grey light in the sky.
Hours later, when I woke, my mother was in the kitchen making scrambled eggs and acting as if everything was normal. But I was already blaming myself for what had happened. I had upset her by talking about the postbox memory and, because of that, she had gone to the river. There was no other explanation. I made a silent vow never to bring it up again.
Chapter Ten
Back in London, we’ve fallen into something like our old lives. Sandy has moved back in, but is so much in demand at conferences that he’s often away from home. He has even taken a break from the choir, a big
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