Always You (26 page)

Aunt Vi’s sobs slowly ebbed. Dad removed his arm from her shoulders. ‘It wasn’t you she was threatening. It was him.’ He gave Cahal a grim, resigned sort of look. ‘And she has every right to hate him.’

Cahal said, ‘Right, I’ve had enough of this. You either tell me what the hell this is about, or I’m going to the police.’

‘I don’t think you want to do that, son.’ Dad pulled out a chair and Aunt Vi sank gently into it. She put her elbows on the table and her face in her hands.

Dad said, addressing Cahal, ‘You’ve probably gathered by now that this is to do with your father.’

Sarah took Cahal’s hand and squeezed, a horrible sense of foreboding taking hold.

‘You’d better sit down. Both of you.’

Cahal gave Sarah a questioning look and in response she shook her head, utterly baffled. They sat at the kitchen table, a pile of unopened mail and letters from school piled up on one end, place settings for two between Sarah and Aunt Vi. Dad sat down beside his sister, placed his hands on the table and stared at them. Everyone waited and eventually he said to Sarah, ‘Well, I suppose you were bound to find out one way or another. I’m surprised you never told her, Cahal.’ He glared at him. ‘You’ve some nerve coming near my family.’

Cahal shook his head in bewilderment and said grimly, the tea towel still pressed to his head, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

Dad said, ‘Maybe we should have told you, Sarah.’

Sarah hid her shaking hands under the table and leaned forward. ‘Told me what?’

Another silence. Dad took a deep breath. His eyes were heavy and sad and his breathing was slightly laboured as if this was all suddenly too much for him. ‘What happened to your aunt,’ he said flatly.

‘No, David,’ said Aunt Vi and everyone looked at her. Her face was white and composed, all trace of rage gone. ‘I don’t want to be here when you tell them.’ Without looking at anyone, she got up out of the chair slowly as if every bone in her body ached. She touched Dad on the shoulder. ‘I’ll wait in the lounge.’

When she was gone, Sarah stared at her father, her eyes wide with fear, her left leg twitching uncontrollably. Beside her, Cahal was still as a rock, his hands clenched into fists on his lap.

‘It all started when Vi met Malachy Mulvenna at a dance in Ballymena in May 1957.’

Sarah let out a little gasp of surprise and Cahal sat up straighter in his chair, his jaw clenched tightly shut. Aunt Vi
knew
Cahal’s father?

Dad stared at the back of his hands and spoke as if reading out the lines and furrows on his skin. ‘She was a nurse, just newly qualified, working at the Cottage Hospital and he’d come over from Ballyfergus on some labouring job. I don’t know why she agreed to meet him again after that dance.’ He shook his head. ‘But she did. She was on her own, a naïve and vulnerable young woman.’ He sighed so sadly and deeply, a sound so full of regret, it pulled Sarah’s heartstrings taut. ‘Anyway, after the first date she found out that he was married and she told him she didn’t want to see him again. And then she met this lovely lad, Robert Sinclair – a merchant navy man, and four months later they were engaged. And I wish to God that had been the end of it.’ He paused, looked up at the ceiling and blinked, his eyes filled with tears.

Sarah, trembling with fear, put a hand to her mouth and waited.

Dad brought his gaze to bear on Sarah. ‘They were going to get married in October the following year and Vi decided to continue working till then. The Cottage Hospital in Ballymena was built on the edge of the millpond in the People’s Park. They’ve got CCTV and security gates and lighting now but back then, they’d none of that.’ He paused and shifted his cold gaze to Cahal. ‘On her way home from a late shift that autumn, a man accosted her in the grounds of the hospital and attacked her.’

Cahal made a horrible gurgling sound in the back of his throat. Sarah cried out, ‘No.’ She did not need to hear the rest, she knew what was coming, but Dad pressed on, in a horribly disconnected, monotone voice. ‘A porter putting out bins heard her screams. He was too late for Vi – she was raped and badly beaten – but he caught the man. He was tried and convicted. He served –’

‘Five years,’ said Cahal, and a deathly silence filled the room.

Dad nodded slowly, his penetrating gaze never leaving Cahal’s face for a second. ‘You know who that man was, don’t you, son?’ he said quietly.

Cahal hung his head.

Sarah closed her eyes and silent tears ran down her cheeks. Inside her head flashes of memory – words and faces, whispered secrets, fear. Slowly, piece by piece, everything made perfect sense. It explained why her aunt had been so protective of her and Becky growing up, why she worried when they were out with friends and went frantic if they were as much as five minutes late. And most importantly of all it explained why Aunt Vi and Dad hated Cahal. Why they could never countenance him joining the family. Why they never would.

The legs of Cahal’s chair scraped the floor. Sarah opened her eyes and he stood up. His face was pure white, his expression one of horrified shock. Oh God, how must he feel knowing that his father was a rapist, knowing that he was the reason they had been apart all these years and not her family. For Sarah, in all honesty, could not blame Aunt Vi or Dad for what they’d done.

‘Cahal,’ she said and touched his arm, her heart aching for him.

He turned his head slowly towards her, his face so miserable it broke her heart. He looked from Sarah to her father and back again.

‘I have to … I have to think,’ he said and, ducking his head, he hurried towards the back door.

Sarah jumped up. ‘Please, Cahal. Wait. Please don’t go.’

He paused with the door wide open, his foot on the threshold. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I need to be alone.’

Sarah sat across from her father at the kitchen table and for a long time neither of them spoke. Only the soft whirr of the fan oven and the distant sound of a lawnmower broke the silence.

Dad spoke first. ‘I’ve nothing against Cahal personally.’

Sarah nodded and finally managed to speak, her throat so tight it came out a whisper. ‘I know that, Dad. I see that now.’

‘I couldn’t care less if he’s a Catholic or a Jew or a Muslim, working class or royalty but this …’ His voice tailed away and he bent his head so that she could clearly see the bald patch on the top of his head. ‘This, I cannot bear. Malachy Mulvenna ruined your aunt’s life, Sarah.’ He paused for a moment to compose himself, then lifted his head. ‘Very few women went through with rape cases in the fifties, Sarah. You have to understand how very brave she was. Rape victims didn’t have anonymity in those days but she was determined to have justice. She had to stand up in court and describe every little detail of what happened. She’d fought, you know, until every one of her nails was broken and she was covered in bruises. He knocked out one of her teeth. You should’ve seen her face.’

Sarah let out a little sob and a wave of compassion made her regret every horrible thing she’d ever said to her aunt.

‘The court case was terrible,’ Dad went on, ‘I don’t know how she did it, standing up there, day after day, while that lawyer tried to make her out to be a liar and a slut. It didn’t work. Mulvenna was found guilty and he got five years because of the level of violence. But in his summing up the judge said it would’ve been more but for the fact that Vi had willingly dated Mulvenna. He made it sound as though she’d led Mulvenna on.’ He ground his teeth together.

‘Oh, Dad, that’s awful.’

‘Well, the sentence broke her. She changed after that. She was never the same girl again.’

‘What happened to Robert Sinclair?’

Dad’s eyebrows went up and the corners of his mouth went down. ‘He said he didn’t care about the rape, but she couldn’t handle it. She broke off the engagement and she never looked at another man again. She moved to Coleraine shortly afterwards. She couldn’t bear that people knew. I wish now that I had dissuaded her from going to court. But I’d not long joined the force. I didn’t know how these things worked … I didn’t know how she would be treated. And she was adamant that he shouldn’t get away with it.’

‘I’m so sorry, Dad.’ Poor Aunt Vi. Malachy Mulvenna hadn’t just raped her. He’d taken away her prospects of marriage and children. She’d devoted herself to her career, to helping people, and later, she’d devoted herself to her brother and his broken family.

He looked at her sternly. ‘Your aunt made a very great sacrifice in coming back to Ballyfergus to care for you and Becky after your mother died. She not only gave up her career, but she came back to Ballyfergus even though Malachy Mulvenna still lived here. I told her she didn’t have to, I didn’t expect her to. But she could see I wasn’t coping.’

Vivid memories sprang to mind. Sarah remembered the weeks after her mother’s death: baked beans on burnt toast, night after night; un-ironed laundry piled up in great heaps around the house. Sarah had tried to fill her mother’s shoes, but she was slow – and she had school and homework, and Becky to soothe to sleep every night in the double bed they shared. Dad went to work as usual but at home he was bewildered and utterly incapable of addressing the growing crisis.

And then Aunt Vi came and, though Sarah had resented her, she was relieved too. Soon the house was shipshape and routine reigned once more; clean, folded clothes appeared on the end of her bed, meals appeared regularly and they never ran out of milk or bread or breakfast cereal. ‘I resented her coming. I was horrible and difficult.’

‘You’d just lost your Mum, Sarah. You were only a child. And you didn’t understand. How could you?’

Sarah bowed her head in shame, her father’s words doing little to assuage her guilt. ‘I understand now why she stole the letters Cahal wrote me from Australia. She was only trying to protect herself – and me.’ She could not blame her aunt and the unfairness of it all – what had happened to Vi, what had happened to her and Cahal because of it – made her eyes prick with tears.

Dad’s face clouded. ‘Yes, she told me about that. She was very upset that you’d accused her of theft. She didn’t take any letters, you know.’

The blood drained from Sarah’s face. ‘You took them!’

He smiled sceptically and said calmly, ‘I never took any letters, Sarah.’ He paused and his blue eyes narrowed. ‘I think you place too much faith in Cahal Mulvenna. How come you believe him over us?’

‘I … don’t. I do believe him. But I believe you too.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I know that doesn’t make any sense.’

There was a pause and Sarah said, ‘What about the phone call?’

‘I took the call.’

‘But you said –’

‘I know what I said. But it was me.’

Sarah froze, stunned by the news and utterly dismayed both by the fact that Dad had failed to relay the message and had lied about it. She tried to take in this new reality but her head hurt and her brain would not function. ‘I need a drink of water.’ She got a glass and filled it and stood at the sink to drink. Her father came and stood beside her.

She shook her head, looking out onto the garden. The late evening sun cast long shadows across the grass. That summer so long ago was a hazy memory. She closed her eyes and drank half the glass of water wishing it would wash her clean. He cleared his throat. ‘Granny was getting double glazing put in that summer. She came and stayed with us for four days.’

Sarah looked at him. ‘What’s this got to do with Granny?’

‘I told her about the call,’ went on Dad. ‘She made me promise not to tell you and the next day she reported nuisance phone calls to BT and had the number changed. Mulvenna had destroyed her daughter’s life. She hated him as much as I do.’

Sarah chest rose and fell rapidly, like a small animal breathing. If only she’d known about the call, it would’ve been enough. She slammed the glass down on the counter and water sloshed over the edge and onto the floor. Angry at everyone and everything and God Himself, she blurted out, ‘You ruined my life. All of you!’

Dad gave her a hard stare. ‘We did what we thought was right. I acted as I did to protect Vi. And to protect you from getting involved with that dreadful family. If you’re looking for someone to blame, then blame Mulvenna.’

Sarah let out a sob and put her hand to her mouth. Dad touched her arm but she brushed him away.

‘I’m sorry that you’ve been hurt by this, Sarah. But can’t you see that I had no choice? I could not allow Cahal to break up our family.’

‘You could have told me.’ And then what would she have done?

Dad shook his head. ‘Vi never wanted you girls to know. She didn’t want you to be afraid, the way she’d become.’ He smiled. ‘She’s always been so proud of you two.’ He paused. ‘But I don’t make any apologies for what I did in breaking you and Cahal Mulvenna up, Sarah. But if I had my time again, I’d do things differently.

‘I wish I’d persuaded Vi to keep her mouth shut and not go to court. I should’ve have waited for Malachy Mulvenna one night on his way home from the pub and put a bullet through his head.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ gasped Sarah.

‘Yes I do. Don’t you see how it would have solved more than one problem, Sarah? This Cahal of yours, for one, would never have been born.’

Cahal found his father in Ballyfergus Social Club. A band strummed out desultory hits from the sixties but the dance floor was only half full, for the big attraction of this club was not the dancing, but the discounted drink.

Malachy slumped on a barstool, a pint of dark brown bitter on the bar in front of him. His walking stick rested against his right leg. Ignoring the chatter and interaction between the men around him, he lifted the glass to his lips and took a long sup of beer. His hand shook as he set the glass on the bar. He looked old and harmless.

But he had not been harmless as a young man. He had been a brute and a bully as a father and, looking back, Cahal believed him perfectly capable of worse. A hard, cold lump formed in Cahal’s stomach. He did not doubt David Walker’s story. He could check the facts himself, but he had no need to. The truth in David Walker’s eyes, and the old, tired anger in his voice, was confirmation enough for Cahal.

His own flesh and blood had raped a young woman. It was the most heinous of crimes. A crime committed by weirdos and woman haters, not your own father. But Malachy was both these things. He had no true friends, and he treated his wife worse than a doormat.

Cahal fought against the nausea in his stomach and anger replaced it. Anger for the suffering of Vi Walker at the hands of this brute – and for his own and that of his siblings. Malachy had smashed Vi’s life into smithereens and, in doing so, he’d shattered Cahal’s chances of happiness with Sarah. She would not want him now.

All these years he’d nursed hatred in his heart for David and Vi Walker but they could not be held responsible for their actions. He understood now why they had gone to such lengths to keep him and Sarah apart. And all along, the architect of his heartbreak had been his own flesh and blood.

His mother, sitting with a group of old women nearby, a tumbler of amber liquid in front of her on the table, caught sight of him. She smiled hesitantly, rose uncertainly out of the chair and fired a nervous glance in Malachy’s direction. She wore the same clothes she wore indoors – polyester trousers and a woolly cardigan. He’d always assumed she was unhappy with her life, but now he wondered if it suited her well enough. She was as fond of a drink as her husband.

Cahal flashed her a warning glance and the smile faded from her lips. She sat down abruptly and Cahal crossed the room on shaking legs towards his father. His face burned and sweat beaded his brow. People looked and whispered – strangers were uncommon here, prodigal sons even more so – but he paid them no heed.

Pushing his way through the crowd, someone tugged on his sleeve. He looked round and found Grainne standing there with an empty glass in her hand. She was drunk – or worse. Her eyes were half-closed and bleary and she swayed in time to the music.

‘Fanks for sorting out Beaky for me, Cahal. You’re a good brother, so you are.’ She raised a yellow index finger, dirt under her nail. ‘And I swear to you, I won’t touch that stuff again. Fries your brain it does.’

‘Not now, Grainne.’

He turned to go but she grabbed his arm and dug her nails in. ‘Lend us a tenner, will ye?’

She looked so pathetic he was filled with compassion and repulsion in equal measure. His hand moved towards his back pocket where he kept his wallet. But the money would only go on more drink or drugs. ‘No.’

She pulled at his arm. ‘Ach, come on, Cahal. You’ve loads of dosh. You won’t miss one wee tenner.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Buy your big sis a drink, then? For old times’ sake?’

He stared at her and something inside him snapped. He shook off her grip roughly. ‘Is that all I am to you, Grainne? A cash machine?’

Her eyebrows came together in confusion and she swore. ‘You’re a mean bastard, Cahal.’

‘Yeah, right,’ he said and pushed on into the crowd, her curses ringing in his ears. He reached his father and, leaning close to his balding head, he said, ‘I want to talk to you.’

His father jumped, startled from his reverie. ‘Huh! What are you doing here?’

Cahal met his father’s bleary gaze with a cold, hard stare. He leaned even closer until he could smell his hair cream and cigarette smoke, and whispered in his ear. ‘I know what you did to Vi Walker.’

Malachy grabbed the handle of his walking stick and thumped the floor. ‘Who have you been talking to? You don’t know anything. Whatever you heard is lies. I’m innocent.’

Cahal, who had expected no less of him, let out a cold, false laugh. ‘So the police and the jury and the judge were all wrong, were they?’

Malachy, his face red with fury, hauled himself off the barstool, gave Cahal a shove and pushed through the crowd. Cahal caught up with him on the edge of the dance floor, a few feet short of the crush at the bar. He grabbed Malachy’s arm and raised his voice. ‘Answer me. Were they wrong?’

Malachy shook off Cahal’s grip with surprising strength. ‘I don’t have to listen to this, especially not from a jumped-up snob like you. You weren’t there. You don’t know anything about it.’

‘Cahal,’ said Bridget appearing by his side. She touched Cahal’s arm. ‘People are looking.’

‘I don’t care who looks or who hears,’ he said, raising his voice and Malachy headed for the exit while Bridget held on to Cahal’s arm, dragging him back. ‘Leave it, Cahal. Just let him go.’

‘No.’ He prised his mother’s hands off his arm and pursued Malachy towards the foyer, Bridget following right behind him.

Outside in the foyer, the door closed on the noise of the band and the three of them were alone. Malachy turned to face him, leaning unsteadily on the end of the stick with both hands. Bridget stood between husband and son, nervously scratching at her neck. ‘What are you two arguing about now? Can’t you just get on?’ Her breath smelt of malt whiskey.

‘You stay out of this,’ said Malachy without taking his gaze off Cahal.

‘Da was just about to explain to me how an innocent man gets convicted of rape.’

His mother let out a soft cry and something about that quiet, knowing sound cut him to the core. She
knew
.

Malachy licked his lips. ‘I’ll tell you how. That bitch stood up in court and told a whole pack of lies about me. And who do you think they were going to believe – me or the sister of David Walker?’

‘I’ll take the word of Vi Walker before yours any day.’

Malachy’s head quivered. ‘That’s always been your problem. You’ve never had any loyalty to your family. You couldn’t get away fast enough, could you? And now you’re Mr Big Shot.’ He paused to look Cahal up and down in disgust. ‘You think you can come back here, looking down on the rest of us like we’re shit on the sole of your shoe.’