Strange Sally Diamond(94)

‘But your mother was chained to a wall, you never saw her. You never saw me.’ He didn’t answer.

He was even less communicative with me than before, but he was businesslike about the money and, after all, he worked in banking so he knew what he was doing. He suggested that I transfer the money into cryptocurrency as he had no way of setting up an Irish bank account yet. I assured him that I could give him as much cash as he needed until such time as we were able to regularize his citizenship and identity, but he was afraid of the publicity that would inevitably follow if the media were to get a sniff of the fact that the infamous Conor Geary had a living son in Ireland. I could see his point. It would be impossible to keep a big story like this private.

I didn’t know anything about bitcoin, but Peter already had an account. All I had to do was go to my bank and direct them to make the transfer. The bank made a fuss and the bank manager was called to talk to me and tried to persuade me that my transaction was most unorthodox. I reminded her that it was not illegal and that it was my money.

The day after all of his money was transferred, Peter said he wanted to go travelling around Ireland for a while. I thought it was a good idea. We had spent nearly ten weeks cooped up together and, much as I enjoyed getting to know my brother, his resistance to any change or progress frustrated me. I’m sure I had been that bad too before therapy, but I made an effort with people when Angela asked me to. He made none.

Strangely, he didn’t say goodbye. He was gone when I woke up the next morning. The night before he left, I was playing the piano when he came in from one of his walks. He said, ‘Dad used to play the piano, you know? When we lived here, in Ireland. He was as good as you are. I’m sorry, but I can’t bear the sound of it.’

I slammed the lid shut.

He had left the place spotless, although I thought it was strange that he had taken all of his belongings with him. He had also taken Toby. I was annoyed about that.

Mark thought his sudden disappearance without a word was alarming. I hadn’t told him about the money.

As usual, I defended Peter. ‘He’s gone travelling. You could see how overwhelmed he was by everything. Maybe he’s looking around for a place to live. His holiday visa expires at the end of the month. He’ll go to the guards soon. I think he’s decided to stay in Ireland. I hope so.’

I saw so much of myself in him. I was full of warm feelings for him. Maybe I loved my big brother.

I called Peter a few times but he never answered his phone. Mark grew more concerned.

A week later, I got a text from Peter.

Mary, I’ve thought about it a lot. I don’t fit in here and I don’t feel like your brother or Mark’s nephew, no matter how hard I’ve tried. I’m in Dublin Airport. I’m going back to New Zealand. It’s best for everyone if we don’t keep in contact. I don’t want to hurt you and I’m grateful for the money. I will put it to good use. I wish you and Mark all good things. You did your best. I’m not right in the head and no therapy is going to fix me. I’m better on my own.

I wrenched clumps from my hair and screamed until Martha came running from across the road.





53


Peter, 2020


When Mark said ‘cottage’, I imagined a small thatched one-room place like you saw on Irish tourism posters in New Zealand, and although it had a slate roof and small enough frontage, everything was new and modern and clean inside. There was a stream running under glass bricks all the way through the house. I’d never seen anything like it. Mary was not what I expected at all. She stared into my face until I looked away. We didn’t know what to say to each other and then she shook my hand and went into another room and played the piano. It brought back memories of Dad when I was a small boy, locked in that bedroom, listening to the music he played. Mark told me that it was the shock, that she’d be okay in a few minutes. He seemed to be comfortable here. He’d pointed out his apartment on the way into the village, but Mark and Mary seemed close, I guess like family should be.

We had sandwiches and tea and, later, wine and a pasta meal. I wasn’t used to talking so much but they had endless questions, about Denise, about what Mary had been like as a girl. She kept correcting me: ‘My name is Sally.’ I couldn’t help getting it wrong, but I got the hang of it. I was relieved when they finally said that a taxi was on its way to take me to the hotel in the next town. I was exhausted from the talking and all the withholding of information. I had to be so careful about what I said and what I didn’t say.

Back at the hotel, I slept fitfully. In the hostel in Dublin, I hadn’t dreamed at all and thought it was a sign that I was finally in my rightful place, but having spent the evening with Mark and Sally, they all came back to haunt me, Lindy, Rangi and Dad.

Sally came to collect me the next day and we went to a cafe in her village. This time, I asked her the question that had bothered me. Why did she not remember me? Hadn’t our mother told her about me? She explained something about her psychiatrist father medicating her. She had no memory of our mother. I was relieved and jealous. Relieved she didn’t know what I’d done to our mother but jealous that she could forget it all. There were so many things I wanted to forget. She asked about our father, and I could see she was upset that he had treated us so differently. ‘He hated women,’ was the only explanation I could give. It seemed inadequate but the only thing I could say.