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

down on their heads and she turned to see the small coffin being carried in on the shoulders of six men, one of whom was Ivor. His hair was combed back and flattened with some lotion or oil that darkened it. His expression was full of effort. She looked down at her hands as he came level, couldn’t bear the chance that their eyes might meet. It seemed unbelievable that Joan lay inside that box. All through the mass she berated herself for her role in freeing Joan from Damascus House, and again for making her angry outside the dance. It would be easier to think it an accident – join in the church’s version – but she just could not.

A choir of reed-voiced pensioners struggled into the sweet first lines of ‘Bring Flowers of the Fairest’. The coffin was hoisted once more and the men stepped it back down the aisle. Ivor was on the opposite side of it now, screened from view. After the coffin came Joan’s mother, the thin woman who had pressed the medal on her, not knowing she’d need all of Mary’s compassion for herself. A ruddy-faced man in a tight black suit walked in line with her, presumably Joan’s father. They didn’t touch or lean on each other, staying as far apart as the aisle would allow.

Ali joined the rest of the congregation in following the coffin as it was carried down the street, an empty hearse driving behind the crowd. The graveyard was the new one – a field at the edge of town with two and a half rows of shining stone tablets adorned with wreaths, small statues and domed displays of plastic flowers. Most of it was plain mown grass awaiting the dead to come: many of those in this crowd, no doubt. Her mind was turning morbid. Ahead she could see the two mounds of earth that marked the hole where the procession would end.

The women of Buleen gathered close around the grave, murmuring Hail Marys together, a decade of the rosary. The men were scattered to the periphery by some invisible force, many solemn with clasped hands, observing the backs of the women, others starting to chat in low voices, just like they were attending any village occasion – the perpetual banter. A soft, sieved rain billowed down the valley, but few took shelter under umbrellas. Coat shoulders darkened. Ali hadn’t even a jacket to protect her, was soon soaked through in her black cardigan and skirt. She moved into the crush of bodies for shelter.

She caught sight of Roisín and Una on the other side of the crowd, but otherwise didn’t know many people there. Joan’s family came from Ennisbridge, two miles up the road and a world away. On the opposite edge of the graveside she recognised Peggy Nolan’s pale-blue mac. The woman beside her shared her umbrella, holding the big black wing of it low over both their faces. Dr Nolan stood several paces behind them, straight as a soldier.

Ali wondered how well the Nolans had known Joan. She thought of Dr Nolan on that Christmas Day, the present in his hand, the daughters in their good coats. Had he been brought into the secret of what had been found? She vaguely remembered the two Nolan girls sitting side-by-side in the living room, obediently bored. Their father out of the room, possibly with Joan.

The first note of a laugh broke through the air and was immediately stifled. Ali wheeled round to see Davy looking down at the ground, kicking a stone away. The fellow beside him had a guilty hand near his mouth, and his eyes checked the crowd. They couldn’t keep quiet for ten minutes; always the jokes, always the bit of crack, even here. She turned back to the gathering at the graveside and noticed that a few of the women were also looking over to Davy and his crony, among them Peggy Nolan, whose placid face was unusually alive, eyes burning as she looked at the boys. Ali thought of Peggy standing at the edge of the dance floor in the marquee, that same still attention. At that moment the woman beside Peggy lifted the umbrella that hid her face.

It was just for an instant.

The woman’s eyes met Ali’s and the umbrella dipped down again. She was wearing her veil as usual, looked no different than when she stalked the corridors of St Brigid’s, but Ali’s first shocked thought was: Antoinette Nolan.

It was as if two different photographs – one of Peggy’s prim, dimly remembered teenage sister and one of Sister Bernadette – had been superimposed and found to be identical. Sister Bernadette was who Antoinette Nolan had grown up to be: the colouring, the posture, the pale hand that still rested on Peggy’s shoulder, all so vividly obvious now. Peggy had said her sister was in Dublin; that was all. She didn’t say she was a nun.

The prayers ended and the crowd loosened, moving back from the grave as two men with shovels approached the hole. Ali pressed forward through the shifting bodies towards the spot where Sister Bernadette and Peggy had been standing, but when she got there, they were gone.

Most mourners had regrouped around the Dempsey family, queuing to shake hands and express their sympathies. Ivor was standing beside his father, his tallness marking him out. Ali was tempted to leave, but the right thing was to pay her respects, to let him know she had shown up. She pulled her damp cardigan around her and pressed into the mass of bodies once more.

She was an arm’s length away from Ivor before he noticed her, his eyes locking onto hers as he reached for her hand, pulling her close.

‘You. You’re here.’

‘I’m so sorry—’

An old man pushed in beside her and started to talk into Ivor’s face. He was saying how Joan was in a better place now, and Ivor was answering, but his fingers held Ali’s firmly, keeping her close