They were on the brink of bankruptcy. She was on the edge of ruin.
Good God – she could be homeless by the time she had sorted through this mess.
*
After that, there had been no chance of sleep. She sat for she wasn’t sure how long, staring at the pages before her. The will was worthless – there was no house or surgery, not once all the debts had been repaid. There was nothing. She couldn’t even sell them, because it was unlikely the bank would allow it. No, they’d be more than likely knocking on her door as soon as it was deemed reasonable to ask her to move out while they put the place up for auction.
In the darkness, Elizabeth sobbed her heart out, once the panic had been driven away by anger. She had cried for the lives she might have lived, for the fact that she might have married someone else. Someone who could have made her laugh, someone who could have given her children; she’d have traded anything for that. So, she mightn’t have been the doctor’s wife and all lah-di-dah, but she might have had a roof over her head to see her into old age.
As the storm pushed back out across the sea, Elizabeth felt her own temper dying down. This was no time to lose her head. For the first time in years, her fate had been placed back into her own hands. It was up to her how she handled the narrow choices that were presented to her from here on in.
She walked through her house later that morning with fresh eyes; seeing everything from an immensely stirred perspective. Now, she picked up vases, assessed drapes and kicked sideboards calculating their value. She cursed woodworm and thanked her lucky stars for the storm that had pushed her from her bed. It was better to find out for herself than to be faced with bailiffs at the door.
*
An hour later she was driving her little runabout out to Shanganagh Cemetery. Of course, Eric wouldn’t care either way at this point, but she needed to let him know that she would sort out this mess. She, Elizabeth O’Shea, was about to stand on her own two feet and if the prospect scared her just a little, in a strange way it exhilarated her too.
Eric’s plot, the freshest in the graveyard, showed the signs of a stormy night. Thankfully, the undertakers knew enough to secure the many floral tributes beneath tightly secured netting mesh. The little wooden cross with his name spelled out across a brass plaque sat askew this morning. Elizabeth was alone in the graveyard and it was probably just as well, because she knew that anyone listening would think she’d lost her marbles.
‘Eric, I know that you thought what you did was for the best, but…’ she began, her eyes drifting across the various wreaths that had been battered by the wind. ‘But I found the letters in your desk and now…’ She felt her resolve cast off for a moment, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘The thing is, if you’d only said…’ It occurred to her; she’d done the same thing many times over the years as she’d washed dishes and prepared meals for them. She’d shaken her head, knowing that even if she tried to explain that she understood he wouldn’t have listened. ‘We could have sorted it all out and maybe…’ she stopped, took a deep breath. ‘Maybe, there was a way to make things right, maybe you wouldn’t have died so suddenly – if you didn’t have to do so much worrying. Maybe… we could have been happier.’ But of course, she knew that whatever else their union might have been – it was never going to be happy.
Unexpectedly, a rage as she’d never known before reared within her, burning her up from somewhere deep inside her belly.
Her eyes drifted from the plot before her; she couldn’t look at it now. Just yards away, the large grave that she’d tended for so many years seemed neglected by comparison. It wasn’t fair – none of it was fair. Eric buried here with flowers and all the fanfare of a local celebrity, and her baby was interred in a grave that didn’t even bear his name. She couldn’t stop shaking, and before she realised what she had done, she was peeling back the layer of green netting, hurtling flower arrangements across the graveyard, as though they’d been scattered by the wind and not the madwoman she’d become. Expensive wreaths of lilies, begonias and hydrangeas, baby’s breath and roses – were flying through the air, landing askew and rolling along the path – unwanted; begrudged. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to make Eric pay for everything he’d done to her – everything she’d let him do… and that made it so much worse.
Eventually, when the grave was empty of any floral tributes, she marched to its head, kicked the cross that bore his name viciously so it leant sideways as if to make away from her. She stood for a moment, surveying all the damage she had caused. There was no guilt, not one ounce of remorse for wrecking the hard work and the expensive gifts of mourners to her dead husband. Then she turned, unexpectedly convulsing with the sort of grief that comes from years of buttoning up the deepest emotions.