Geoff and Angela agreed that it would not be lawfully possible for her to become my legal guardian or me to be made a ward of court as I was an adult and I had nearly always made my own decisions, even if some of them were ‘misguided’。 But Geoff said it might be a condition of the court that if I had a serious dilemma in the future I would ask Angela or a guard. Like, for example, if I ever thought of incinerating a body again, Angela would assess the situation and tell me what to do. I thought that wasn’t a good example to give. I was hardly going to endure this kind of fuss again.
Geoff said my father left me money in his will. He didn’t know exactly how much, because a lot of it was tied up in shares and bonds, and he was going to unravel it all, but ‘Enough to keep you going for a good while, if you’re careful,’ he said. But I have to pay bin charges from now on and divide up my rubbish into compostable, recyclable, soft plastics and glass, and I will have different-coloured bins for each one and I will leave them at the gate on alternate weeks and bin men will come and take them away in their smelly truck. The postman will deliver post to the house, but I was assured he would never come into it. Angela says it will be much more convenient.
I didn’t like staying at home on my own then because people kept turning up at my door. They wanted to interview me, or to get my ‘side of the story’。 They are a lot more interested in my adoption than my setting my dad on fire. I was confused by this. What could one have to do with the other?
Now everyone in Carricksheedy stared at me. A few of them smiled and put their heads to one side. Sympathetic. Some of them crossed the road when they saw me coming, and that was fine with me. Some of them began to say hello, even the young ones from the Texaco when they lifted their heads from their phones. They said, ‘Hi, Mary!’
My name is Sally, no matter what they called me.
The police made a terrible mess of the house. I couldn’t help screaming when I saw it. Angela and Nadine were with me. Angela made me breathe and count until I could find my centre and, when I did, we set about putting the house in order. After a while, I asked them to leave because they didn’t know the exact place for everything, and it was easier to do it myself.
When she left on the third night after I came home, Angela said that she would call in twice a week to see me and that I was always welcome in her house. She handed me the first part of Dad’s letter. She told me that I wasn’t to feel sorry or sad. I knew by then that trying to burn Dad’s body was the wrong thing to do. Everyone had told me so. When I am told something once clearly, without jokes or ambiguity, I understand completely. You’d think it was something I’d been doing for years, casually burning bodies, the way they went on about it. It was one body, and he had told me to do it, more or less.
When the house was finally set to rights, it was 13th December at 8 p.m. and I sat down to watch Holby City. In this episode, it was Essie’s birthday, and I remembered that it was my birthday. I paused the television. How could I have forgotten? I never forget. But there had been so much distraction.
Over the past decade, I had made my own birthday cake from the Delia Smith recipe book. Even though I knew the recipe off by heart I liked to take down the cookery book. I liked Delia. Her photo on the cover was smiling and she was wearing a red blouse. I had always had at least one blouse like hers. Bright red and buttoned to the neck. She was reliable. I thought if I ever had a best friend, she’d be somebody like Delia.
It was too late to start cooking a birthday cake but I was forty-three. I decided to read Dad’s first letter after Holby City was over. When it finished, I turned off the television. There were two pages. Every time Dad got a big letter, he used to drink a glass of whiskey while he read it. Now I was in charge of the house and it was time to do things like Dad did them, except for burning the rubbish obviously.
1st November 2017
Dearest Sally
I guess we both knew that this day would come soon and I’m sorry if you’re sad about it, but I understand if you’re not.
The first thing you should do is ring Dr Angela Caffrey. Her number is 085-5513792. Let her know that I have died. She might be surprised as I’ve kept away from her for so long but, like yourself, I don’t like fuss and the prescriptions you’ve been filling for me in Roscommon have kept me pain-free. I worried that my mind might start to go, but when I go to bed tonight, I think I might stay there until the end. Getting up and dressed has caused me a degree of discomfort this last while, and I know you’ll be a good girl for bringing me my meals and taking care of me.
I have pancreatic cancer. It started out as back pain a few months ago and a consultant in Dublin confirmed it was terminal. I think it’s very advanced now, so you shouldn’t have to mind me for long. If it goes on longer than six weeks, I’ll ask you to ring Angela to get me moved to some godawful palliative care unit. Also, if I lose consciousness, you will call her. I know you don’t like speaking on the phone but you’ll do it because you’re a smart girl.
As regards my funeral arrangements, I realize that I was never clear about the details so please ring O’Donovan’s undertakers in Roscommon. Angela will help you with that. Ordinarily, I should be buried with your mother above in Dublin, in Glasnevin, but you know I don’t like Dublin much. You and I are alike in that way.
The accounts are all up to date. You have a bank account with the AIB in Roscommon town. The manager there is Stuart Lynch. He’ll be understanding and there is more than enough money in that account to tide you over until probate goes through and you inherit everything. Your mother came from a wealthy family, and we have lived frugally specifically so that you could enjoy a debt-free life after my death. Our solicitor is Geoff Barrington at Shannonbridge. He knows everything he needs to know about you, and he’ll make sure you are well looked after. He knows things that you don’t know, but we’ll get to that later.
I’d like the funeral service to be held in St John’s Church of Ireland in Lanesborough. It’s such a pretty church and the graveyard is a nice spot. I’m not going to make too many demands, but I’d love if you could arrange for the choir to sing ‘Be Thou My Vision’。 I was in the school choir when I was a little boy. That was my favourite song, because we used to change some of the words around to make each other laugh. Oh dear, we got up to some mischief in those days. I am rambling.
You don’t have to attend the funeral if you don’t want to, but I would like you to be there if you think you can manage it. I don’t think there’ll be more than ten people there and you’ll know all of them. Some of the nosey parkers from Carricksheedy might show up but you could ignore them. I think I have given you enough trouble already and you will have a busy week, so I’d like you to take things slowly. Please don’t read the next part of the letter until next week.
Your loving Dad
I finished the whiskey and rang Angela. ‘There has to be a funeral,’ I said.
‘I know, love. If you don’t mind, I’ve already set things in motion? I have a copy of your dad’s letter here. I rang the undertakers. The coroner has agreed to release the remains as soon as we want so we don’t have to do much planning. The only thing is that St John’s doesn’t have a choir. I didn’t know that your dad was a churchgoer?’