The Rosary Garden by Nicola White (good books to read for women txt) 📗

weight since the day before, a scrawny, strained look to her face and neck. She went to the scullery to take her jacket off, still in Ali’s line of sight.

‘Father Philbin and Kevin are coming here for a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Maybe some of the Guards too.’

She wiped down the table, brought out good cups. Ali watched her and thought of the terrifying aunt of her memory. Una was solemn and frail in the wake of this horror; hard to believe she ever spat curses or lifted a hand to anyone.

Father Philbin blessed the air as he entered the kitchen. Kevin Lawlor, the neighbour, was behind him, cap in hand, his expression caught between embarrassment and woe, but also, Ali could see, the edge of excitement too. He was the man of the hour, the one with the story to tell. He met their eyes boldly, even as he received commiserations from Una.

The tea cooled while Father Philbin led them in a series of prayers – an ‘Our Father’, the Confiteor and one she didn’t recognise that began: Out of the depths I cry to thee, O Lord … Out of the depths, where Joan had been.

The others blessed themselves as he finished, and Una passed round a plate of biscuits.

‘Take some sugar in your tea, Kevin,’ she said, ‘for the shock.’

It was all the cue he needed.

‘I don’t know how I’ll ever get over it, missus. The dog was whingeing to get out, and I couldn’t sleep for her noise. So I took her out the back of the house and felt a bit brighter myself for the morning air, so we went on along to the river. It was a beautiful morning.’

He shook his head, took a sup from his cup.

‘It was a rag of pink I thought I saw, just near the bank. But when I got up close I could see it was a woman in a pink blouse, lying stretched out by the side of the water. Her curls were blowing in the wind. The sun must’ve dried them.

‘When I was about ten yards away I recognised who it was and, God forgive me, my first thought was that it was typical mad behaviour to be sunbathing half in, half out of the water. At that hour. But she didn’t wake when I shouted at her, and when I got as close as we are now, there was no mistaking the life had gone from her. Her shoulders had caught on a branch under the surface. She didn’t look too bad, though. Not bloated or anything …’

‘Jesus …’ said Brendan.

‘You know, I don’t think the sight of it will ever leave me. The Gardaí said she was probably carried down the river from the town, or even as far up as Ennisbridge.’

Ali clamped her jaw against the confession that rose in her throat, that wanted to surge from her mouth, spilling her guilt across the cherries printed on the old oilcloth. Joan was her responsibility. She had signed the book at Damascus House for her. People would know that soon enough.

The back door slammed and Davy came in. His hair was tousled and the collar of his pyjamas stuck out of the neck of his jumper.

‘A Garda came to the bungalow and told me. Why didn’t you come and get me? It’s mad, isn’t it?’ And he gave a little high laugh. ‘Unreal, man.’

‘Say hello to Father Philbin, Davy,’ said Una.

‘Father. Kevin. Unreal, eh?’

‘’Twas me that found her,’ said Kevin. ‘She looked very peaceful – like your one – Ophelia.’ Kevin spread his hands wide on the table. Davy shook his head quickly, like he was trying to flick something out of his hair. Ali wondered if he was still drunk.

Father Philbin said he needed to go to Ennisbridge, to comfort Joan’s parents, and that Kevin should come with him. He turned in the doorway to give Brendan a hard look and said that perhaps the marquee dances had got out of hand. Brendan didn’t bother to answer.

‘Sit down and have some tea,’ Una said to Davy, but he ignored her and leaned against the sink, twisting a tea towel between his hands. Uncle Joe sighed loudly several times.

Ali thought of Ivor. He was looking for Joan when they parted. Maybe he had never found her. Not only had she made Joan angry, she had taken away the person who protected her.

Joe and Brendan started to swap theories. Joan had been drunk. Joan had been suicidal. Joan had been unlucky, tripped and fell.

‘Do you remember,’ Joe said to Una, ‘when those two boys from Galway drowned in Lough Dreena. Went for a midnight swim. Both of them drunk, as it turned out. Drink makes you think strange things of yourself, gives you the inclination for adventures, but takes away your judgement.’

‘Joan wouldn’t have gone for a swim,’ said Ali. ‘She didn’t know how.’

Everyone looked at her.

‘You barely know her,’ said Una.

‘I saw her at the dance. I don’t think she was drunk, either.’

‘Don’t say you met her at the dance,’ said Una, ‘or the police will want to talk to you. You’ve had enough of that, surely.’

‘Una,’ said Davy, flicking his towel in her direction, ‘don’t work yourself up. She was a depressive – cracked, you used to say. At least she won’t be bothering you any more, eh?’

‘Steady on,’ said Joe.

‘You should have more respect,’ said Una, her colour rising with her voice.

‘Should I?’

The look that passed between Davy and Una struck Ali as being very strange, part of some larger falling-out that she hadn’t noticed.

The doorbell trilled, breaking the tension. Joe went to answer it. Una got up to put the kettle on once more. It shook in her grip. They heard mumbled voices, and Joe returned.

‘There are a couple of Gardaí here.’

Una banged the kettle onto the range. ‘Show them down.’

‘They want to talk to Ali.’

It was going to come out now. How she had taken Joan out of the