After the ceremony, we went out to the graveyard where we used to picnic, and a hole had been dug for my dad’s coffin. Half of the people left then. Ger McCarthy shook my hand and said he was sorry for my trouble. Quite a lot of people said those same words before they drifted away. But I spotted the Adebayo family and I was glad they’d stayed. It started to rain heavily like it does at funerals on TV. The coffin was lowered into the hole and finally we could leave.
Angela had said those who attended the funeral might expect to have been invited back to the house. Some neighbours had given her food, sandwiches, pies and cakes. It was traditional, apparently. But I didn’t know them. Why would I invite them to my house? I was told the villagers were now going to the pub. Nadine and Angela invited me to their house, but I was tired and wanted to go home to bed.
As I approached the car, Abebi came up beside me and said, ‘We’re sorry about your daddy and we’re sorry about trespassing.’
Her family were behind her. Udo said, ‘If there is anything you need doing around the house, I’m sure Maduka would be happy to attend to it, or I can if it’s too difficult for him.’
‘Just … please …’ said Martha, ‘don’t tell them not to go to school. They like it.’
I said nothing for a moment and then I asked, ‘Could they come for afternoon tea one day after school?’
Martha looked at Udo. Abebi put her soft little hand in mine and I didn’t pull away.
‘I’m not sure. They have homework …’ said Martha.
‘I was excellent at homework. Maybe I could help them?’
‘We’ll see, after the holidays?’
‘How are you spending Christmas?’ It seemed like the question I heard most people asking. I wanted to keep the conversation going. Most unusual for me.
‘The regular family day. Church in the morning. Then Santa Claus and turkey and hyper chocolate-filled children and a TV film in the evening.’
‘May I come?’ I asked.
Angela was behind me. She laughed and touched me on the elbow. ‘You’re so funny, Sally. Don’t worry, Martha, she’s coming to us for Christmas.’
I hate it when people laugh at me. I pulled at my hair.
‘I don’t always say the right thing.’ I knew I’d got it wrong somehow. ‘I’m socially deficient, you know.’
‘I wish you’d stop describing yourself that way,’ Angela said.
I had learned that those two words were useful in situations of confrontation or confusion. There was a pause in the conversation. Martha and Angela were both blushing. I stared at them each in turn.
‘I like your hat,’ said Martha.
‘Thank you, it’s for special occasions.’
12
I played the piano when I got home. It’s calming. But I felt tired and went for a nap. I woke as dusk was settling, remembering it was almost the shortest day of the year. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I put some of the food from the neighbours in the fridge and freezer. I thought about how they must see me. The people who prepared food weren’t scared of me. I doubt that most of the people in the church were scared of me. Nadine said that I’d made a mistake and they knew I was unusual. I know she meant socially deficient.
As I put a beef stroganoff into the microwave （it came with helpful instructions from ‘Caroline in the Texaco’）， I realized it was nearly a week since I’d read the first of Dad’s letters. I ate my dinner and poured a glass of whiskey. The food was tasty. I was surprised. Dad had always said there was no point in me trying new things because I was so set in my ways. I’d have to find Caroline in the Texaco and ask her for the recipe. I am good at following recipes.
I opened the envelope and pulled out the second part of Dad’s letter.
Dearest Sally,
I have spent most of your life keeping you away from psychotherapists, psychiatrists （apart from me） and psychologists.
My profession would never admit this but most of what we do is not very scientific, more like guesswork. Every decade or so, we come up with new labels to categorize people. You could have been diagnosed with anxiety disorder or PTSD. Some might even have said you had Autistic Spectrum Disorder, or that you had an attachment disorder. The fact is that you are a bit odd, that’s all.
You are you. As unique and different as every other person on the planet. Your oddities are not disabilities （although we call them disabilities to get your welfare allowance）， they are mere quirks of your personality. You don’t like talking on the phone and I don’t like cauliflower. Are we so different?
I have never been able to diagnose you because none of those categories make sense of the person you are. No label would be able to account for all the contradictions of your behaviour. Sometimes, you are curious. Other times, you couldn’t care less. You are emotional about things that wouldn’t matter to other people but can be unmoved by things that would devastate others. You don’t like talking to strangers, but occasionally I cannot stop you talking to them; remember when the Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the house?
Most of the time, you don’t like when people look at you, but sometimes you stare people in the face, examining them. （I guess that you want to know more about them. I need to remind you that makes people a little uncomfortable.） Your behaviour has always been inconsistent. It is not bad. But you don’t fit any diagnosis of which I am aware.
The issue now is that I don’t think it’s wise for you to live alone out here. I may have been unwise to indulge your self-isolation. I’m not sure that you ever feel lonely. Your decision-making processes aren’t always what we refer to as ‘normal’ and that can lead to trouble and uncomfortable situations. I think you need guidance. Sometimes, you become confused about issues that are important. Your reluctance to approach people is to your detriment. I know that you like and trust Angela, but you cannot depend on her for everything. She runs a busy practice. And she and Nadine need time with each other also so you can’t go running to them with every question. I have made you dependent. That was my mistake.
I feel responsible for you being such a loner and this house doesn’t help. It has already begun to deteriorate here and there, like me. And it is too isolated, like you.
The car isn’t going to last forever and, while you could easily get another car, I think your mother was right all those years ago when she said we should find a way to socialize you. I know you hated living in Roscommon town but you need to be around more people. Would you consider moving into Carricksheedy village? Also, you don’t need a three-bedroom house. It was selfish of me to allow you to spend your time alone in this house with only me for company.
We have let the back field grow wild and unkempt. Do you remember when your mother maintained it as a wildflower meadow? It hummed with bees and butterflies in the summertime. It is one of my many regrets that we did not keep that up. You made up a song about it. Please keep up that singing and playing the piano for the rest of your life, it brings you peace and no doubt could bring joy to others.
I think Ger McCarthy has had his eye on the land for a while. He asked me about it a few years back but I was afraid to make changes that might upset you. I treated you like a child. I’m sorry, my love. He’d probably renovate the house and farm the land that adjoins his own. He’s already leasing the second back field, as you know. I’d advise you to sell to him, but be guided by the estate agent. This house is a good-sized bungalow with big rooms, although neglected. But the acres surrounding it are fertile and ideal for cattle grazing. As secluded as we are, the village is spreading outwards. There are apartments on the main street now. Who would have thought it? Maybe you should see if there is one for sale?