‘Henry, son,’ he said, opening his arms to hug me, then thinking better of it. I offered my hand to shake. ‘It’s good to see you.’
I found, after a long train journey, years of resentment and a night of little or no sleep thanks to Felicity, I had nothing to say. Well, nothing amicable at any rate.
‘This isn’t a social call,’ I said, following the pathway marked River Contemplation.
There were two simultaneous emotions battling underneath my cool countenance: relief that he was doing well and bitterness that he had not sorted his life out sooner. He seemed happy, which made me want to smash his face in and also buy him a cup of tea, find out how he had turned everything around.
‘I’m going back to Ireland soon,’ I said, as if he even knew I’d been out of the country. ‘I’m chasing up a lead on a manuscript.’
‘I remember you used to love collecting books when you were younger,’ he said, as if this was some casual stroll down memory lane. As though, now that he had the time to reminisce, we could talk in a way we never had.
‘I used to collect memorabilia too. Remember when I found that letter from Tolkien?’ I couldn’t help it. How dare he suddenly claim a role in my life that he had never played.
I looked across at him to find his head hung in shame. Well, he could play the victim all he liked, I wasn’t going to get sucked in.
We had stopped walking and stood on the riverbank, both staring at the tranquil water moving slowly by. I could see the shadow of some fish treading water in the shallows. I sneaked a look at my father’s profile and saw an expression, or rather an openness that allowed me to see the man and not the caricature he had become to me. Perhaps even to himself. He looked hurt. I knew that feeling well.
‘There’s nothing I can say that will change what I’ve done.’
This was unexpected and different. Normally he was trying to manipulate my feelings, pleading and making excuses. This sounded like someone who understood the impact of his actions.
‘I am truly sorry that I wasn’t the father you both needed. I’m ashamed of how I treated you all and that’s what always drove me to drink again.’
‘So what’s different this time?’ I kept looking at my shoes, as though willing them to carry me away. For some reason I seemed to be rooted to the spot.
‘Honestly, Henry, I can’t promise that this time is different. But I’m getting good help here. For the first time I can see that addiction is an illness. Just knowing that has helped, somehow.’
An illness. I had never seen it that way either. It just felt like he was having his kicks and we were the ones paying for it. Like he preferred the drink to his family.
‘No alcoholic enjoys drinking,’ he said, as though reading my thoughts. ‘It’s all you think about from the moment you open your eyes, but it’s like swallowing poison.’
For the first time I could see that he was struggling too. He had become a monster in my eyes, but here he was, all human, and it took everything I had not to weep for everything we’d lost; beat his chest and tell him how much it hurt to lose him.
‘I have no right to tell you this and clearly had no part in it, but you’ve grown into a fine man. Henry. Son.’
I nodded, acknowledging his words but not quite sure what to do with them. I couldn’t stay any longer, it was overwhelming, and so I said I had a train to catch.
‘Do you think you might visit again? Bring your sister and Felicity, perhaps?’
‘Maybe. I’ll ask.’
We shook hands and he said he wished me luck with the manuscript. Even the knowledge that he’d listened to me and was interested in my life was unsettling. It was like meeting my real father for the first time and realising that the tyrant I had grown up with was simply a fake or an impersonator who got all the lines wrong. This was the man I was meant to call Dad, but I hardly knew him. A familiar stranger. As I walked away I had the clear sense that my life was like a play of two parts and the audience were just polishing off their drinks in the lobby, returning for the second act.
I checked my phone for the millionth time. Still no response from Martha. However, there was an email from Princeton University. I clicked on it and scanned through the message, picking up phrases here and there like ‘files relating to her personal life’ and ‘letter received shortly before her death’。 But the words that made my heart race were ‘Opaline Carlisle’。 I opened the attachment to find a scan of a tea-coloured letter dated September 1963.
Dearest Sylvia,
How wonderful it was to see you in Dublin last month and to see that you are in good health. I know Mr Joyce would have been thrilled that you were chosen to open the museum at the Martello Tower and it did feel as though all our lives had come full circle … To think that we were both incarcerated, albeit under very different circumstances. I’m sure you gave the Jerries what for!
Martha was right, I had been searching in all the wrong places. And not just for Opaline. Within a few clicks I had booked my flight back to Ireland.
Chapter Thirty-One
OPALINE
Dublin, 1923
I had arranged to meet Mr Hanna from Webb’s bookshop at Bennett & Sons, Auctioneers, on 6 Upper Ormond Quay that afternoon. I walked through the bright red door into a building that was plain but bright, owing to the large Georgian windows that faced the River Liffey.
‘First impressions?’ Mr Hanna asked as a young man handed us a catalogue before we took our seats.
‘Well, it’s not Sotheby’s,’ I said in a pinched, imperial tone, as though I were Queen Mary.
‘No, but the porter tastes better,’ he said and winked.
He had suggested we make a round of all the auction rooms to see if there were any hidden gems going at a good price. I recognised one or two dealers over from London and for a moment I wondered if I would see Armand there. It was a silly idea. To my knowledge, he had never even been to Ireland and, not wanting to speak ill of my new home, I couldn’t see that there would be anything to tempt someone with his eclectic tastes. A tall man with a magnificent white beard stood on the podium and welcomed us all. I immediately spotted something of interest in the catalogue and, as luck would have it, it was the first lot to come up.
‘Lot number 527, a book on Armenian Grammar gifted by Lord Byron to Lady Blessington as a keepsake when they parted at Genoa on 2nd June 1823.’
The bearded man’s assistant, a young woman with strawberry-coloured hair, held the book aloft in gloved hands to a rather subdued audience.
‘A reminder of her most enduring literary work, Conversations of Lord Byron with the Countess of Blessington, 1834.’
I turned my head slightly to try and read the room. There didn’t seem to be much interest.
‘Who is Lady Blessington?’ I asked Mr Hanna, nudging him with my elbow.
‘I’m not an encyclopaedia,’ he said, rolling his eyes playfully.
‘Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know, you know everything,’ I said, flattering him.
‘It’s a bit of a rags-to-riches story. She was born in Tipperary—’
‘She’s Irish?’ I interrupted him.
‘Why wouldn’t she be?’