Left Unsaid Read online

  The climb to the top of the hill felt like a trek in lead boots. At the top I turned a complete circle, then stopped, facing our farmhouse below. Set back a bit from the road, it seemed part of the earth; the yellow wash on the walls gave it a spring-like air even in the grey winter light. A couple of hens scrabbled in the yard. I was born and grew up in that house. Daniel’s offer turned over in my mind. I was well respected and liked as a private care nurse so no one would think it odd I went to work for him. Agency work was always available but offered nothing like the money Daniel Wolfe did. It would gall me to have anything to do with him, but double my usual rates for three or four months would let us keep Maggie in the home for another six or nine months at least. What would happen when that job was gone? We were in dire need of something more than a good wage for a few months. If Daniel Wolfe wanted me to look after him, my price was his help to secure a reasonable mortgage on the farm, no matter what the banks told us. He was a very rich man and well connected. And he owed me something more, more than I’m sorry, whether he recognized that or not. Much as it rankled to ask him for anything, I would do it. For Maggie’s sake. For the sake of the farm, too, but mostly for Maggie.

  Next day at precisely half past two I was on Daniel’s doorstep. It was called the Big House in the village for a reason. It was huge, compared with village abodes, and stood on acres of land. The house had been in the FitzGibbons family for generations and came to Daniel only after his wife, Ellen, died. Between what he inherited from her and the sale of his books, he was a very rich man. The entire cost of our farm would hardly make a dent in his interest earnings, I reckoned. I’d never been inside his house, and never wanted to be. When I was a child, the Wolfes had thrown a summer party for the village children each year, but it was strictly an outdoor affair held on the grounds. It had been madly exciting. There were magicians and a merry-go-round. There were all kinds of treats and sweet sugary drinks, lemonade and orange, the kinds of things that we had at home only on Christmas or birthdays. Each child was sent home with a two-layer-deep box of rich chocolates. Standing on the doorstep, I felt like a child again before the heavy wooden door painted an ugly brown. I felt small. I’m not a beggar, I reminded myself. Even then, I could have changed my mind and left, and I almost did. My sense of responsibility for Maggie took over, so I took a deep breath and pressed the bell. From where I stood I caught the faint echo of a Westminster chime from somewhere inside.

  Daniel himself opened the door. He was all smiles.

  “Come in, come in.”

  He moved me down the hallway and into the parlour. Though earlier I’d been curious about his house, I was too nervous to take in the room, except to notice the warmth from the fire lit in the grate. He gestured me toward one of the enormous soft armchairs next to the hearth.

  “Warm yourself, it’s a wickedly cold day. I’ll make some tea.”

  “No, thank you. Wait. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  No use beating about the bush. Besides, if he said no, I didn’t want to be sitting with a cup of tea in my hand. I put it to him straight. If he wanted to “make things up” to me and have me look after him until the end, he had to help us get a reasonable mortgage on the farm.

  “It’s Maggie’s care,” I told him. “She’s settled in St. Mary’s. She’s used to it. The only other options are one of those small private understaffed places in the middle of nowhere or a locked ward in some hospital. Every penny we have between us goes to the home. The farm belongs mostly to the bank these days. They won’t remortgage.”

  “Your father still works the place?”

  “A few cows and chickens left, that’s all. He’s in his seventies, too old to run the full farm now. We let out a couple of fields to Sam Ryan for grazing. It helps keep things afloat for now.”

  “And with a reasonable mortgage? You could manage the fees then?”

  “With what I earn we’d be fine for a good while. It’s the mortgage is killing us.”

  Silence settled between us. Sunlight shafted into the room and the dust motes floated lazily down the beam.

  “I’ll do as you ask, Delia. I’ll take the mortgage on the farm myself. We’ll settle on small enough payment. Even when I’m gone I’ll see you right, make sure you can always afford it.”

  The tension I’d been holding almost released into tears, but I managed to appear calm. I’d at least expected him to think about, maybe even haggle, if not outright refuse.

  “Why do you want me to take care of you?” I was genuinely curious.

  “I know you. Well, knew you. Delia, I don’t imagine your entire character has changed. Let’s say I trust you. Besides, I’ve checked, and by all accounts you’re the best nurse for the job in the whole place. I don’t want a total stranger here day in and day out. Please?”

  To tell the truth it would have given me great satisfaction to say no, to deny him something he wanted, but I reminded myself it was for Maggie. There was justice in his paying to support her. My silence provoked him to plead, which gave me some mean satisfaction.

  “Can’t we put the past behind us in this, Delia? It was all so very long ago. I was out of my mind after Ellen died. Then Fran went missing. I didn’t behave well, I know that. I was a louse.”

  I nearly turned and left right then. What did he know of my life? We hadn’t kept in touch at all, and I didn’t flatter myself that he kept up with what was going on for me. Even if he did, he’d not know everything.

  “Is that it, because you were a louse?”

  “I know I treated you shabbily. It’s been on my mind. A lot of things have been on my mind these last few weeks since I got my death sentence. A long time has passed, I know, but I do want to make some kind of amends and die in peace. And I do trust you to take care of me well. Your reputation stands high in these parts. Very high.”

  “A lot you care about my reputation.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth I was sorry. Clearly, if I worked for him I’d have to keep control of my tongue.

  “Look, Delia, I’ll meet your terms. And pay you what I offered at first too, if you’ll come up every day for a while, at least until Jude comes. If she does. I’ll draw everything up properly with my solicitor about the farm.”

  I wasn’t expecting this. Being his housekeeper wasn’t what all my training had been for. Besides, I’d no great skill at it. I told him so.

  “Of course not,” he said. “Mrs. Conway comes in a couple of days a week and takes care of the house. I know you have great nursing skills, but I’m all alone here and find my own company, well, not the best at the moment. Will you do it for me? Please?”

  “Where’s your daughter now?”

  “She’s away in Canada. Vancouver. Married a fellow out there. I’ll have to tell her what’s going on with me sooner or later. I hope she’ll come. We haven’t seen eye to eye these past years. She needs to come back and learn how to manage the estate. It’ll be all hers after I’m gone. Jude is the only family left. It was her sister who had the interest in it, but…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. His older daughter, Fran, disappeared not long after his wife died. A horn blast from a ship leaving the harbour cut the silence between us and a yearning to be anywhere else on earth yawned inside me. I wanted to have nothing more to do with this family. Nothing. But there was never any real chance I’d say no. I knew that from the moment he agreed to my terms. There was too much on the line for me, but I wasn’t about to let him know that. All the same I felt angry and trapped. I’d be months tied to this man. Maybe even a year, but that was unlikely. He’d told me his test results before we’d left the café.

  I nodded my agreement.

  “Let’s have a drink then, to seal the deal.”

  While Daniel was rummaging in the drinks cabinet, I took a look around. The room wasn’t what I’d expected, not in any way modern. It was, i
n fact, stuck somewhere in the late sixties or early seventies. A beige shag carpet covered the floor, faded except for where the edges met the walls. The settee and chairs were a velour-type fabric in dark brown, the seat too deep to be comfortable without several cushions behind your back. Flocked wallpaper in orange, yellow and beige tweed-type pattern covered the walls, except for the chimneybreast, which wore a gold leaf pattern. It was probably the thing in its day, but that day was long gone. A line of photos stood to attention on the mantelpiece. One of Jude at her wedding, with her husband, a tall, weedy fellow with a too-thin face and black eyebrows that arched over brown eyes like he was amazed to find himself there. The couple was flanked by a man and a woman, his mother and father most likely, on one side, and Daniel on the other. There was no corresponding female to represent Jude’s mother. Everyone in the photo looked stiff and edgy, except Jude, who seemed perfectly relaxed and happy. There were photos of Daniel, his two daughters Fran and Jude, and his wife Ellen from when the children were younger, about ten and twelve. There was only one photo of Fran as a young woman, her red hair caught by the sun as she stood under a tree. Daniel handed me a glass with an inch of whiskey at the bottom.

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” I said.

  “Just to seal the deal.”

  Before Daniel could clink my glass with his I raised mine in a salute then took a sip. The liquid lit up my mouth and burned down into my chest.

  It took me more than a week to bring the matter up with Da and Mam. It was a Sunday afternoon and we were settled into the front room. The papers were ready, Daniel had seen to that, but if my father didn’t agree, I was sunk. I told them they had a big decision to make and we should talk. The two of them exchanged glances. Da took his glasses off, folded up the newspaper and put it on the floor next to his feet.

  “Well, what is it?” Mam fidgeted her dress down over her knees.

  “I’ve solved the problem of money.”

  They both straightened themselves on the couch, spines not touching the backrest.

  “How so?”

  “Daniel Wolfe has agreed to assume the mortgage for the farm. He’ll charge no interest, and intends to set a very reasonable monthly amount.”

  The two of them looked at each other, then back at me as if I’d grown two heads.

  “Why would he do that?” my father asked. “What interest does he have in the farm? Hasn’t he land enough up there?”

  “He wants me to look after him. We were talking about an arrangement and I told him about the farm being in hock and Maggie needing the stability of where she is. He offered.”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie.

  “But why? I know you’re a skilled nurse, girl, but that’s one big payment. It doesn’t make sense.”

  It didn’t, that was the trouble. My father was no fool, and he couldn’t see someone like Daniel Wolfe giving his money away. Mam cut in before I could answer.

  “Because she’s young enough to earn it out. What’ll happen to us?”

  “Oh, Mam, everything will stay the same. The deed will still be in your names. It’s just that the mortgage will be held by Daniel Wolfe instead of the bank. I’ve got papers for you to look at. You’re guaranteed a place here until the end of your days. Nothing will change except we won’t need to worry about Maggie’s care. We can stop worrying about it all.”

  “And what happens when he goes? Will his heirs want the money back? Or want to get their hands on the farm?” my father asked.

  “It will stay with us. Look, you can look over the papers. Take them in to a solicitor in Limerick before you sign them. Even when he dies he’s set it up so no increase can happen and the mortgage can’t be foreclosed.”

  I still didn’t trust that man at all, but I had given the agreement a good read myself. It certainly looked watertight. I would be relieved when the solicitor looked it over.

  “Have a look anyway, Joe. It’ll be great not to have to worry about Maggie and the farm, won’t it?” My mother held out her hand for the papers. Da stepped forward and took them from me.

  “I’ll have a look. Your mother and I will talk on it tonight.”

  The papers trembled in his hand as he turned and left the room.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Mam said.

  “Sure, there’s no downside to it. Except that I’ll be working for Mr. Wolfe for the next while.”

  “I’m no fool, Delia. I know something is going on. Just watch yourself. The likes of the Wolfes make sure their own nest is feathered every time. I just hope you haven’t sold your very soul to them.”

  In the end, of course, they agreed. Within a week the papers were approved by their solicitor and signed by the two of them. Knowing we could live our whole lives on the farm without worry put a real lightness in my step that even Mam’s tight-lipped disapproval couldn’t squash. What choice did any of us have in the long run? It was up to me then to fulfill the bargain and look after Daniel Wolfe.

  3

  On February 1, St. Bridget’s Day, dressed in my most formal outfit and well wrapped up against the raw day, I walked in through the village to take up my new post. Mam thought I should drive so I didn’t show up “looking like a pauper,” but it wasn’t much farther than the village and, as always, I preferred to walk. Days were lengthening and the land was visibly waking despite the lingering cold. It was a blustery morning, the daffodils that had bloomed under the trees tossed on the wind and the bare branches rattled overhead like old bones. It was early still, so the village was quiet, not many people about apart from the small crowd waiting for the bus to take them to work in the city. I fingered Daniel’s key in my pocket and my mind took up an old rhyme from childhood, “Ring-a-ring of Roses.”

  As I went through the gate to the estate my scarf, undone by the wind, blew up over my face and I gave an involuntary yelp of fright as I swiped it away. It caught on the rough iron of the gate and yanked me to a stop, I loosened it and waited for my fright to settle, trying to persuade myself it was not a bad omen, and continued up the long driveway to the house.

  The land being a bit higher here than the farm, the gardens were still in late winter mode, just a few snowdrops and crocus scattered at the edge of the path. The heavens opened as I reached the door, so I wasted no time having second thoughts on the step. The key turned easily in the lock.

  It was gloomy inside, the curtains still drawn against the night. I went first to the parlour, the only room I knew. I opened the curtains and paused to admire the oak and poplar trees that sheltered the lawn the rain was attempting to turn into a pool. I listened to the house, the strike of rain on the window, the small creaks as the wind whipped around it. It had a stale, musky smell, and a neglected kind of quietness that felt heavy, even sad. A house like this needed some light and love. It was made for family, but as far as I knew it had been mostly empty for the past twenty years or so, except whenever Daniel was at home, which wasn’t often or for long. No wonder he didn’t want to be here alone. A renewal of the downpour sent me away from the window to find the kitchen.

  It was a large room with a beautiful oak table and chairs taking up the area near the window. An electric kettle sat next to the stove. I filled it and plugged it in before I took my coat off. I had no idea what Daniel Wolfe liked for breakfast these days. I remembered days of hotel hot breakfasts eaten well into the afternoon, and wondered if he rose late or early. An examination of the fridge revealed nothing much inside: a few eggs, a carton of milk, a bottle of gin lying on its side, and a tomato that should have been thrown out about two days before. The bread bin had a heel of bread that might be all right toasted. In the absence of knowing what to do next, I made myself a cup of tea, sniffed the milk and, deciding it was all right, poured a dollop into my tea. I sat at the table and listened to the wind batter the house looking for purchase and waited for Daniel Wolfe to put in an appearance.
r />   4

  For the next month, except for Sundays, I spent from noon to around eight o’clock at the Big House sheltered behind the yew hedge at the eastern end of the village. In the mornings Daniel worked alone in his study. Complications set in right away. Idleness, I found, didn’t suit me. Those first mornings at home I haunted Mam as she went about collecting eggs from the hens, feeding them, and making sure they had water, cleaning out their boxes and checking the run was secure against foxes.

  “Why don’t you do something nice for yourself?” she asked more than once, tired of me traipsing around after her. “Or take up knitting, or something.” It wasn’t much different with Da. He was happy enough to have me around, but was content to tend the garden and milk the cows by himself. It did cross my mind to find some morning hours, maybe in the hospital in Limerick.

  “Ah, take a bit of a rest,” Mam said when I mentioned it to her. “You haven’t really had much time off these last years.”

  It was true. I’d worked every hour possible to pay for Maggie’s care and to keep Mam, Da and myself afloat. Sure, we earned some money from the meadows Da let out, and they had a small government pension, but it wasn’t nearly enough to cover our expenses.

  At a loss, I took to walking out in the morning, sometimes across the fields near the farm, sometimes into the village. Once I wandered up the hill on the road to Killdeara. It was where Maggie and I used to lie on our backs and watch the clouds drift above us on summer afternoons when were growing up. It was where she told me she had decided to become a nun, and asked me if I thought it was the right thing for her. I didn’t, mostly because I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to be shut away in a convent and governed by the rules of a Reverend Mother. Maggie laughed when I told her that. “It’s not for everyone,” she said. Mam and Da would be ecstatic. There was nothing quite like having a son a priest or a daughter a nun to cheer up Irish parents, but the idea of not having Maggie around saddened me. She was older than me by a good few years, but we were fast friends as well as sisters. I idolized her. It was on this hill too that we talked when she left the convent. The rigours had proven too much for her. “A nervous disposition, not suitable,” the Reverend Mother said. She was packed home after three years, thin and pale, with nothing but the clothes she stood up in.