The Rosary Garden by Nicola White (best books to read now TXT) 📕

talking about it. The thing that couldn’t be spoken had re-entered the world.

‘It was your baby, wasn’t it?’ Ali made her voice soft.

‘What? – no!’

‘It would have been my brother or sister.’

Her mother put a quick hand to Ali’s shoulder. ‘Really, it wasn’t. God, things were bad enough, but no, not that. I can’t believe you thought that.’

Ali looked back at her. ‘Then who?’

Ma hesitated. ‘It’s funny, I never really asked Una about it. It was such an odd time. All I could think about was losing your father – I’d nothing to spare for someone else’s troubles. I always presumed it was Joan’s. Do you remember Joan?’

She did. Freckle-faced Joan, who did all the cooking at her uncle’s farm. She had been timid in company, but sweet and funny when the two of them were alone in that big kitchen. Joan sang her silly songs, and let Ali help hold the big knife to mark the cross on the brown bread before it went into the range.

Her mother reached for the glass on her bedside table. ‘She came from an odd family, you know. I’m not sure what went on there. I’d no idea she was pregnant. She still comes to the farm sometimes, Una says, looking for her job back – though she’s been in and out of hospital mostly. Damascus House – you know, psychiatric.’

‘Because of what happened to her baby?’

‘Well, she was always a bit not-there, a bit wandering. I really did think you’d forgotten.’

Ali stood up and wandered over to the work table. ‘Some of these things have been here for ever,’ said Ali. ‘If you can’t mend them, you should get rid of them.’

‘Hey,’ said Ma, ‘what’s all this about you campaigning for better sex education?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘Or more contraception, or something.’

‘Don’t remind me. I feel such a fool.’

A raucous burst of Italian came from the TV. Ali lifted her eyes. A young man was being chased through a market, but he was laughing as he ran. She wished she could run with him.

‘Mary O’Shea wants me to go on her radio show to talk about it again.’

Her mother tilted her head, then quickly shook it. ‘I’m not sure that’s—’

‘I don’t want to – I’m never leaving this house again.’

‘Don’t be melodramatic.’

Ali ran her finger down the sharp chalky edge of the broken soup tureen.

‘Leave it, please,’ said Ma. ‘I did buy you that doll, you know.’

‘What?’

‘The doll you were looking for. Baby Tears or whatever it was called, but I couldn’t find it to wrap it for you. I thought I was going mad … Well, I was going mad, those days.’

‘I know.’

‘You should go to bed, love. It’ll feel better in the morning.’

Ali went over and bent to kiss her mother goodnight. She could hardly bear the intimacy of the smell of her warm bed.

She didn’t go up to her room, but crept downstairs to stand outside Davy’s door. No light shone from under it. Ali pressed her ear to the yellowed paint of one panel and listened hard. There was a gently whooshing sound that could have been his breathing, deep in sleep, but might just as well have been the sound of her own blood circulating.

‘Davy?’ She spoke quietly into the crack of the door jamb.

‘Yeah?’ She jumped as the reply came from behind her. Davy emerged from the dark of the back hall, grinning, a glass in hand.

‘You bastard.’

She followed him back to the kitchen and turned on the small light over the cooker. On the table stood a bottle with a yellow label – Queen Anne Whiskey emblazoned in garish script.

‘What are you doing drinking in the dark?’

‘Pull up a pew. I’m having a wake.’

Davy was drinking from the glass with The Flintstones drawings on it, one she loved when she was a kid. She fetched a glass from the draining board – a fancy-looking stemmed one from a petrol-station giveaway.

‘What are we having a wake for – my reputation?’

‘Nobody made you do it.’

‘I don’t remember half of what I said. It was a nightmare.’

The whiskey was harsh and smelt of disinfectant. She went to the sink and diluted it.

‘Some other shite will come along and eclipse it soon enough. That’s my philosophy.’

She sat across from him, took her packet of ten out of her dress pocket and lit a cigarette. ‘So, what are you celebrating?’

‘“Celebrate” is too strong a word,’ said Davy, flapping his hand to divert the smoke. ‘More of an ending. My family needs me, it seems.’

‘You’re going back already? We’re your family too.’

‘I can’t go on living off your mother.’

‘I do.’

Davy laughed and poured himself another drink, pointed the bottle at her. Ali put her hand over the top of her glass.

‘Thanks, but it’s disgusting.’

‘Two ninety-nine: it should be disgusting.’ He hit his glass against hers forcefully, a dull thunk. ‘Brendan’s got this business thing’ – Davy spun a hand in the air, looking for words – ‘gaming machines in pubs. He needs a hand. He’ll pay.’

She watched his hand come to rest on the table and thought about touching it.

‘Can I come with you?’

‘Don’t know if you’re strong enough; those machines are bloody heavy.’

‘Seriously. I’d like to get away from Dublin, Davy, far away from Mary O’Shea.’

‘I wouldn’t run away from her.’ He leered over the rim of his glass.

‘Shut up. Will you ask Una if I can come and stay?’

‘No need to ask, sure. Her darling niece. You haven’t visited them in years …’

She swirled the last of her whiskey and water round the glass. ‘I was talking to Ma just now about the time we stayed with you, you know.’

Davy frowned into the depths of his drink.

‘Do you remember, Davy?’

When he looked up, his eyes swam with the effort of focusing. Ali left him at the table, kissing the top of his head as she passed and making him promise to go to bed soon.

At the sink in her bedroom she held on to the edge while waiting for