She bolted for the front door and fitted her key, Dub and Pete hurrying after her. As soon as she saw the light from the living room she knew that the television was on and the lights off. Her brothers, Marty and Gerry, were home from London.
They looked up at her from the settee, side by side, cups of tea and the trail of biscuit crumbs on the arms. Marty slipped his eyes back to the television but Gerry tried a smile, sensitive enough to be a little shamefaced about his sudden appearance.
“All right?”
She didn’t answer him.
Marty had changed his style since he moved to London. He had grown his hair long and was dressed in a threadbare checked shirt, jeans and scuffed Converse trainers. Gerry had stuck to a plain T-shirt and jeans, clothes his mother could have bought for him in a charity shop.
“Not pleased to see us?” Marty kept his eyes on the television screen.
“I know why you’re here.”
Pete squeezed past her legs and threw himself at his uncles. They caught him, making a fuss of him without smiling. Gerry let Pete slide down his legs and yanked him back onto the settee by an arm and a leg.
“Mum phoned ye about her?”
Marty answered for both of them. “Aye.”
“It’s more complicated than you think. You both know what Mary Ann’s like. She can’t talk about things, describe things.”
“Is she pregnant?”
“No,” said Paddy sharply, worried about Pete picking up on the conversation. “Just, you don’t know what’s going on.”
Pete pulled himself free. “Where’s BC?”
“Visiting his dad,” said Gerry. “He’ll be back soon.”
Dub sat down in an armchair that their father had always used, nodding his hellos. The boys had known him forever and didn’t question his presence, just nodded back, glancing at the television again to break off contact.
A sudden clack of plates from the kitchen announced Trisha’s presence.
“You two keep Pete in here,” Paddy ordered her brothers and stepped into the kitchen.
Standing facing the door as she came in, beyond a table set with five places, Trisha glared at her, bitter as a Mafia widow.
“Mum-”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Mum-”
Trisha had raised five children, her husband had been unemployed for five years before he died, had a breakdown that no one ever acknowledged and died a terrible death, but Paddy had never heard her shout as savagely as she did now. “You didn’t tell me.”
Shocked by the violence of her own voice, Trisha clutched the back of a chair to steady herself. The Church was the only certainty left to her.
“Sit down, Mum.” Paddy took her arm and backed her into a seat, pushing her up against the table to trap her. The teapot was underneath the tea cozy, the tea still warm enough if a little stewed. Paddy poured out a cup and put milk in it, setting it in front of her mother, taking a seat next to her and ordering her to drink.
Holding the cup with two hands, Trisha lifted it to her mouth, gurning at the strong tea but taking another sip anyway.
“She only told me three days ago,” said Paddy. “When did you hear? Mary Ann was here three days ago, wasn’t she? Did she tell you then? Because if she did you’ve known longer than me and I should be shouting at you.” Her mother looked out into the living room again. “So you called them and told them to come home. For what? To batter Father Andrew? Why?”
“Because of what he did to her.” Trisha’s face contorted with shame and pain.
“He didn’t rape her, Mum. She’s in love with him.”
“In love?” Trisha slammed the cup down on the table. “In love? What would you know about that? Love isn’t taking a shine to someone you’ve met once or twice, it’s living together year after year, getting through bad times, caring for each other, nursing each other.” She was rocking back and forth in the chair, missing Con, her softer self.
In the living room someone turned up the television to keep the sound of the conversation from Pete.
Paddy couldn’t bring herself to mention her father directly. It would hurt too much. “Mary Ann’s grown up. She knows her own mind.”
“She knows nothing about life.”
Paddy took her hand and Trisha melted towards her. “You’re kidding yourself. She’s seen more than you or me or both of us. She works in a soup kitchen and she’s been beaten up more than once. She might not know anything about our world but she knows a lot of stuff we don’t.”
Trisha looked deep into her bitter tea. “He’s a man of the Church. A priest. How could he?”
“And you think she’s passive in this? Because she’s a woman?”
Trisha yanked her hand away and showed Paddy her palm. “Don’t you bring your women’s lib into this.”
“For fucksake, Mum, Mary Ann isn’t a child. We’re none of us children anymore. Women can instigate relationships. It’s not like the old days. We’re not all sitting against the wall waiting to get danced.”
Trisha looked despairingly at her cup. Her white roots were showing and her back was bowed. She looked old and spent.
“Mum, she’s nearly thirty. She’s a woman.”
Trisha turned on her. “I suppose you’re pleased. You never wanted her to take her final vows, did you? You never take communion, never go to confession.”
But Paddy wasn’t going to act sorry. She had been hiding her lack of faith since she was seven. For a long time she genuinely believed that everyone in the family would get marked down on the Final Day because of her, that she herself was damned to hell by a God she didn’t like or respect. It was a terrible load and she’d been carrying it alone. “I don’t get religion,” she said defiantly. “But I love Mary Ann and I want her to be happy. Battering her boyfriend won’t make her happy. I hope she gets married and has fifty children. She’d be a brilliant mum.”
The possibility that there would be a time beyond this moment, that Mary Ann might marry and give her grandchildren, hadn’t occurred to Trisha. She sipped her tea and thought, catching her breath to speak but stopping.
Paddy could see it all unraveling: Trisha would send the boys to see Father Andrew. They were so protective of Mary Ann she knew it would get physical as soon as he opened the door. The housekeeper would call the police and the boys’d be up on a charge. The story would get out, everyone would be ruined and Trisha’s shame would be compounded.
“Being happy isn’t all there is to life,” Trisha said eventually. “There’s doing the right thing and duties and honor.”
“Is it honorable to lie and pretend she has a vocation if she doesn’t? Because she’ll do that to please you. Mum…” Paddy started crying before she even spoke his name. “Dad wouldn’t want this.”
Trisha’s head dropped forward. Con’s name had been unspoken since they emptied his clothes from the cupboard.
They sat together, clasping hands until their fingers turned white, crying silently while the ghost of Con flitted cheerfully around the kitchen, making tea, emptying bins, arranging chairs for visitors, showing off lucky finds from his aimless walks.
Finally, Paddy licked the wet from her lip, forced a breath into her chest, and spoke. “My gentle wee daddy wouldn’t want this.”
II
Sitting on her old bed, looking across at Marty perched on Mary Ann’s, Paddy realized that she couldn’t remember seeing her brother in this room when they all lived at home. He and Gerry had their own bedroom, their own hangouts, their own secrets. Neither of the boys was a talker. Since they moved to London they phoned their mother once a week to tell her they weren’t dead and lie about their chapel attendance, but that was as intense as the interaction got.
Marty was wary when she caught his eye in the gloomy living room and nodded him out to the hall, led him up the steep carpet-padded stairs, to sit under the bare lightbulb on the two narrow single beds with balding chenille bedspreads. His knees stayed together, steadying hands on either side of his thighs, looking around at the unfamiliar walls and the half-pulled curtains.