The Quiet Truth: a haunting domestic drama full of suspense Read online

  Now, I watch Faye carry her small patchwork blanket and recall the tattered one they covered my mother in. Whether she walked into the quarry’s lake, or jumped, fell or was pushed – they were never certain. Of course, I knew the truth.

  Cedric and I whispered while crouched under the stairs that maybe Father had held her too long under the water in the barrel out at the back. He didn’t usually do that to Mother, and he didn’t seem surprised when she was brought back to us all wet and covered up. We knew him very well for we’d spent ten years avoiding him. As twins we also knew each other best and although Cedric was always good, I was like his evil other half. I was often called that and it became almost natural to adopt that role. I protected Cedric and young Anna as best as I could from the fervent zeal of a man lost in his own versions of right and wrong.

  ‘When will we start?’ I ask Rhonda as she clears the dishes into the sink. ‘I suppose we start with my birth?’

  The other unimportant Sligo relations have left, shaking my hand without me really being at the other end of it. Faye is sleeping somewhere. I was told these things when I awoke from a short snooze. There’d been drool on my chin and I had heard it mentioned that I was going to be ‘a handful’.

  It’s time for me to be a gracious guest. Taking a deep breath I say, ‘You’re very good to take me in. We’re not tightly related. Your grandfather, Arnold, was a cousin to my father. That’s not exactly close, eh? And here you are giving me meals and a comfortable bed. I promise I won’t outstay my welcome. Visitors are like fish. They go off.’

  ‘The whole Quinn clan stretching from Tyrone and Sligo are glad that you’re back and we’re all curious about you too. So, I’ll like listening to that nice voice of yours and enjoy knowing more.’ That charm she works on others would have worked wonders on me years ago. I wish I still had my pecker. Being with Rhonda brings all that desperate-old-man-longing back.

  ‘Mother died in her apron,’ I say.

  The startled look in Rhonda’s eyes tells me she knows nothing about my Tyrone childhood. She seems only aware of the romantic nonsense the family grapevine has probably curled out of somewhere and trickled across counties and family trees.

  ‘Yes, my twin, Cedric, and I were about ten when my mother drowned… and she was still wearing her apron. For a particular woman this was not right. My mother would have taken it off to greet a house-caller and would have taken it off to go anywhere.’

  ‘Gosh.’ Rhonda sits on the sofa too. I never remember couches being this big in Ireland. She seems very far away and her perfume is nice. Her legs are a lovely kind of slender. ‘Mammy’s leg stuck out from under the blanket they covered her in.’

  ‘I’ll get my old tape recorder for this. Wait just a minute.’

  I lean my grey, balding head against the sofa and take off my spectacles. My mind throbbed with guilt then and now. Mother probably stood up for me, or spoke up on my behalf, and he hurt her. Cedric and I both thought that in the dark stuffiness near Father’s old boots under the stairs. We both said that it was no accident.

  ‘It’s in my blood, you see. The badness,’ I tell Rhonda when she returns. ‘They said Mother might have jumped into that quarry lake. That isn’t correct. She wouldn’t have worn her apron. He killed her and got away with it. I suppose from then I felt if my father could do that – then so could I. He cared so much about religion and right and wrong. He stopped our mother from breathing and nothing happened to him at all. If he could do that to a fine woman, then why couldn’t I do worse?’

  ‘Your mother, this is, and you think that your father got away with what, Charlie?’ I can tell Rhonda’s excited already. She’s lustful for what I might blurt out next. I suppose it is salacious. Northern Ireland seventy years ago was a boring enough place. It still can be a grey dismal hole where nothing really seems to happen. A young mother drowned in her apron. Nothing happened. I must have nodded at Rhonda’s question as she seems happy not to ask me anything else. She’s smiling, like little Faye might. They do resemble each other. I don’t look like anyone at all. I didn’t even resemble my twin brother.

  I can tell that Rhonda trusts me. Lord love her, because I don’t trust myself. Is it fair to burden her with this? It isn’t like the fiction she’s used to. It isn’t like she can unhear what is to come, and what will happen when she knows it all? What will become of those looks of interest, those sympathetic gestures, those caring touches on my arm and the cups of sweet tea?

  ‘How about you just talk? I won’t interrupt,’ she suggests after a while of silence. ‘Joe’s cutting the lawn before it rains. I know you want this to be between us for now. Faye will hopefully sleep for a while. You’ve tired her out. Where might you start?’

  ‘Have I not already started?’ I snap and immediately regret it.

  ‘Yes,’ she mutters. ‘You have indeed started, Charlie.’ She sips at the herbal tea she drinks. I’m grateful my sense of smell is not as it should be, for I know those tea-potions can reek to high heaven. ‘Tell me more, please. Maybe, more about what your father did.’

  ‘I don’t think I can go over all that again.’

  ‘Then tell me about Cedric and yourself. A twin brother must’ve been nice to have? I remember Cedric, he’s been dead a few years. Were you close as children?’

  Cedric never mentioned me at all then. I don’t need to ask her if he did or not. I know from listening since I came home that my name hasn’t been uttered in many years. The bad things have not circulated. I should be grateful for this blessing, but it stings that Cedric and Anna just left me out of their lives. It seems too, that Mother’s existence was wiped from the family consciousness as well. Whether she jumped, walked or was pushed into the water, she was stupid or weak and therefore is no longer spoken of.

  Father started that mantra from the day and hour she was placed into the ground. We were forbidden to cry or call out for her in our sleep. Elizabeth, or Beth Quinn was to be no more. When I left, it seems the same happened to Charlie Quinn.

  Both of us aren’t even memories.

  I must be talking as Rhonda is nodding sympathetically, urging me to keep going. I close my eyes and Cedric’s playful, chatty voice greets me in the darkness under the stairs. The scent of old boots, the feel of the straw-brush under my fingers, the singing of Anna somewhere else in the house as Father is at work.

  Still to this day, I’m not sure what Father did to earn his meagre wages. As a child he simply went out and did something. Even into adulthood it wasn’t discussed and I cared very little about what took him away for a few hours every day, bar a Sunday.

  I was glad of his absence. Cedric might’ve known what Father’s job was. Cedric was intuitive and cared about others. Anna and Cedric were quite similar. They toiled with the chores Father shared out. They did mine too so I would be saved a wigging or a trashing. I never liked writing or reading, although I found both easy. Counting money made me happy. Anna trailed after us on adventures. Cedric was kind and I threw stones to make her return home.

  Of course, there was a replacement mother in the years after the leg under the blanket was buried. This next poor woman was not the evil stepmother I hoped she’d be. The poor soul was quiet and docile and, of course, I was cruel when she tried to be good to us all.

  I don’t remember now exactly what I did to her. I know I refused to wash if she wanted me to and did nothing she suggested. Cedric thrived under her skirt tails, following the woman about. He did anything she needed. Father never talked over her and I wondered what she did to his spirit. He was a different man. It wasn’t until I fell in love myself that I understood what happened to him. Her name escapes me now. Nothing comes to mind about the poor woman. Not even a sense of what she looked like. Isn’t it awful that I don’t remember things? Perhaps I don’t want to as my own dear mother isn’t remembered?

  I’ve gone through life angry. It started from then. There’s always been a knot in my gut. I hold on to my protruding paunch which is mor
e from the cancer than good living, and think on the anger that swelled inside all of my life.

  There have only been a few times where I didn’t have a twist in my insides, and I’ve had only a few precious people take me out of that horrible feeling.

  I point to my heart and decide it is time to say it out loud.

  ‘I haven’t been close to many people in my life. It was Ella O’Brien who took me out of being churned up in here.’

  3

  Rhonda Irwin

  Faye likes Charlie Quinn. Joe finds him fascinating. My radar for bad men is not working as it should. I know it isn’t.

  Women sense things and, of course, we must pretend that we don’t. I’ve turned the volume on my intuition down. I need to get back to work; journalism, writing, making a pound – whatever you want to call it. And, I think that Charlie is my way to write again.

  ‘Stop panicking,’ Joe said before this Charlie Quinn arrived. ‘We aren’t starving. I’ll take care of us.’

  I wanted to believe my gorgeous Joe with his floppy brown hair, perfect face and slim arse. He’s a good ’un in all the ways that matter.

  ‘A great catch,’ the relations thought and then there’s the usual comment, ‘like undertakers, we’ll always need an accountant. He’ll marry you someday now that the baby is here.’

  The lack of commitment hurts and instead of saying that, I pretend being unwed suits my artistic temperament. Joe’s dreams have been the same as my own. He was to be a writer. A novelist if truth be told. He both encouraged and resented the bit of success I’ve had. Being published was everything to us both. And my debut was my first baby. There wasn’t much fuss and the money my novel brings in is paltry for the amount of tears I’ve shed. This drives the despair deeper.

  ‘You’ve achieved. Stop with the self-loathing,’ Joe says. And although he does introduce me as, ‘My nest egg in the making. We’re waiting on Hollywood to call for the film rights to Rhonda’s work,’ there is a tinge of sarcasm there too. I ignore it. Mostly, I let things slide. Good women do that.

  We live in rural Sligo and women are meant to be a certain way. ‘Smile, it might never happen,’ a man said to me in the local shop yesterday. I slapped on a smile and walked the two tiny aisles talking myself out of stabbing him between the eyes with the screwdriver that lay beside the air-fresheners and the bleach.

  ‘I’ll try to be happy,’ I said without a hint of bitterness. I’m getting good at hiding reality.

  ‘Your hair has always been thick,’ my mother says. ‘It’ll come back. This is all just the blues after a baby, Rhonda. The good Lord will see you through these sad times. He’ll forgive you for having a child out of wedlock. Pray.’

  Screaming into my mother’s face happened in my head but I nodded and murmured, ‘Yes.’

  I sin a lot – Joe and I shagged far too often before Faye came along. It was what we did best. We were at it like rabbits until I peed on a stick. Since Faye there hasn’t been much lovemaking.

  And praying about things – HA! That’s what got me into this mess.

  I watched Charlie slurp his breakfast cereal with Faye this morning and realised that I’d asked for this odd man too. ‘One more big story, God, please. One more interesting topic to get me back into print. Send me something good. I need to be writing and to be back in the saddle. I know I prayed for Faye and now she’s here I wouldn’t send her back no matter how hard it seems. I just need a bit more. It’s hard to explain. I want my old life back. I want to be Rhonda Irwin again. Please, send me an escape. A reason to succeed. I’ll not ask for anything again.’

  I lie to myself and to the big man in the sky. I always ask for more. There’s never a balance.

  ‘You’re the prettiest girl about here, big hair and round brown eyes. I’d kill for your figure. I was never that well-endowed. Joe never left you despite it all. Yes, it would be good to be married, but until then you’ll have to learn to be content,’ my mother sings at our family dinners. She makes it sound easy to do. Considering she’s never been happy, I doubt it is. Since Dad left she has found her equilibrium; golfing, cycling club and baking buns for the church’s bake sales. ‘You’ve a healthy baby, a good handsome man, a happy home – what is the matter with you? If you want to get married and stay that way – then smile and be nice once in a while.’

  I see Charlie watching Joe and I. He does it often. It’s unnerving. Of course, Joe thinks he’s just happy to be amongst his own people again. I see those old grey eyes brimming with something – is it gratitude? I’m not sure.

  ‘The poor divil is overwhelmed. Give him a break, Ronnie. He’s jet-lagged and sick. What on earth do you expect? Not everyone gushes with their innermost thoughts and feelings. Be patient for once in your life and let the old man be.’

  Even Joe was flummoxed by the display at the family dinner table. ‘Crying. Continuous sobbing. It should have broken us all into tears. I dunno, you’re right, there was something selfish about it. It made me uneasy.’

  Mum had been unchristian about it too. ‘There’s a time and a place for that kind of thing. I was cringing for him. And you’d made such an effort. And for once, Rhonda, you had cooked the meat to perfection and sure, it was all ruined. He’s going to be a handful. Get him talking and back on that plane as soon as possible.’

  ‘He took Faye,’ I said to Joe as we undressed for bed. ‘And suddenly all in a wave, I saw how much I loved her. You know? Like, how much she means to me. Like, if she wasn’t here anymore what would I do?’

  Joe opened and closed his mouth. I noticed that he was still handsome. That chest I love was bare and beautiful. I could tell that he thought I’d made an awful admission. Once it was out, I thought that too.

  ‘I know it shouldn’t take something scary for me to understand things. I know I’m a bad mother in your eyes and everyone else’s.’

  ‘Stop, Ronnie. This isn’t about you. Not everything is about you.’

  I went on folding my clothes. ‘I mean it brought some things home. You don’t think he’d harm her, do you?’

  Joe wrenched off his socks. ‘Having Charlie here was your idea,’ he said in that annoying tone he has. ‘He’s a great man, you said. Jesus, Ronnie, you change your mind like the frigging wind. What do you want now?’

  ‘My fault again,’ I reply.

  ‘If the cap fits!’

  ‘You said it would be good for me to have him here.’ I sound childish.

  ‘Did I? You said it would be good for you. I said nothing. As per usual, I went with what you said you wanted.’

  ‘Well, then. It’s not my fault. You should have spoken up and told me what you thought.’

  ‘And when might I have done that? You decided the minute you heard he was home that there was a story behind all of this. You were the one to grab it as some big exclusive nonsense. When was I supposed to have an opinion?’

  ‘You know I can smell out a story. I’m good at that – give me that much at least.’

  ‘You used to be good at a lot of things.’ His voice slows.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Not that long ago you were a good lay.’

  I stand there in my underwear and wonder do I even like Joe anymore.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mutters, not meaning the word.

  ‘You always throw sex at me in an argument. It takes two to bonk, you know. This isn’t all my problem.’ I fling my jeans into a ball. Fuck him!

  ‘Once you’ve written this story, or book or whatever you’re planning… can we go back to the way things were? Please?’ Joe throws his other smelly sock with emphasis onto the floor. ‘When Charlie is gone promise me that we will be like we were again, yes?’

  ‘I want that too.’ A part of me wants to ask Joe if he still loves me. If he ever loved me at all.

  We look at each other and he smiles first. ‘We’ll get through this,’ he says.

  ‘I…’

  When tossing and turning in bed, I hear a snore from the gue
st bedroom. If I can hear Charlie snore, can he hear us fighting? It’s doubtful.

  I should also turn the volume on my intuition back up, then I might know the truth about Joe and I. Best not to do anything right now. I’ll leave things be.

  4

  Charlie Quinn

  I’ve made the conversation to suit my audience. I can tell that Rhonda will like an old romantic tale. She’ll prefer the love story rather than the one I should be telling. She’s scribbling and nodding when I do chance a glance at her. The sound of a distant lawnmower cuts through the Sunday afternoon.

  Father wouldn’t let us do anything on a Sunday. Nothing at all. Us children would find our fun away from him and the mammy he’d brought home.

  We’d take off up the lanes and fields, find frogspawn in ponds or try to catch fish in the streams. For hours we travelled on foot and didn’t think about it. We weren’t told off or sent home. There was plenty of dirt and we didn’t notice being rained upon. Cedric was the one to announce, ‘Home soon.’ And we’d obey. Anna and I didn’t even think to ask how he knew the time.

  It was a Sunday that I first saw her. My Ella O’Brien. She was by the side of the road picking wild tulips and placing them into her wicker basket. She had a bicycle but she wasn’t riding it that day. She was all alone and we decided to spy on her.

  It was the early summer of 1926 and Cedric and I were fourteen. Sunday was our time away from the confines of life and we enjoyed the play-acting we got up to. I was to start my trade the following year and our childhood was slipping away. It was a day like today, mixed in weather, swinging from mizzling rain to glorious sunshine. She was in a flowery dress and it moved well on her slender body. I can still see it and feel the rise it gave me.