The Legacy of Lucy Harte: A poignant, life-affirming novel that will make you laugh and cry. Emma Heatherington
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on his forehead. It’s not sweat because he didn’t have it before he left. He must have splashed his face with cold water in the bathroom.
‘Is this too much?’ I ask him.
‘No, please, no,’ he says with such sincerity. ‘It is why I am here. I have wanted to know this for so long. Tell me about your brother. Tell me the rest.’
‘I feel so guilty, Simon. I feel so bad that I am here talking to you and Lucy isn’t. You must resent me so much.’
‘Maggie, Maggie, Maggie,’ he says, sounding just like he did when he first came into the bar to meet me a few hours ago. ‘Lucy died and that was nothing to do with you. You have given me hope. To find you is like finding a missing jigsaw puzzle piece that I lost all those years ago. She lives on in you and to see you in real life is something I have always dreamed of! Please tell me the rest of your story and then I will tell you mine and I hope that, in some way, all of this can help both of us. Please, go on.’
And so I continue…
‘It took a long, long time to get the full story of what happened that day and then more time to forgive my brother,’ I tell Simon. ‘Years, really. Mum always idolised John Joe and she forgave him slowly once I had the operation and the transplant was a success. For my dad, it took a lot longer, but they managed to work together in some sort of civilised manner and then John Joe moved to America and has been womanising … I mean, working there ever since.’
Simon looks puzzled.
‘That was my idea of a joke,’ I say with a shrug. ‘He seems to go through a lot of woman. Anyhow, I’ve stayed out of his way and he’s stayed out of mine. With that unspoken arrangement in place, we all get along fine. At least we had a happy ending, thanks to your family and the brave decision your parents made.’
We sit in silence again for a few moments, both taking in the incident that I have just relived – something that I have avoided talking about for years and yet which kept me awake at night after night.
‘I’d love to give you a hug,’ says Simon.
‘I’d love you to as well,’ I say. I need a hug really badly.
I lean into him and he holds me and I close my eyes, my chest moving up and down as I focus on breathing in and out, in and out.
‘I can feel your heart beat,’ he whispers and I close my eyes and breathe.
Then I excuse myself and it is my turn to go to the bathroom. I need to compose myself before I hear Simon’s side of the story. Apart from my grievance with my brother, at least my story has a happy ending.
His doesn’t.
‘My sister Lucy was wise way beyond her years,’ Simon tells me later and I lean on my hands, my eyes dancing in reflection of his happy memories. ‘She was so clever, so tuned in and she looked after me and our younger brother, Henry, like we were precious jewels. She really was a special kid. I know I’m biased, but she was.’
He gulps and his mood drops a little.
‘Her death, it happened at such a weird time for us,’ he explains. ‘My sister, our brother, Henry, and I were close, so close and we’d had such a brilliant few days as a family, which unfortunately was pretty rare for us. Mum and Dad were in top gear, you know, really flying after a few tortuous years when they had depended on others to come and pick up the pieces, but at that time… at that time, we were good, you know?’
He rubs his eyes. He is tired and it is getting late and we are both getting a bit tipsy by this stage. I contemplate stopping him, asking him to pause and tell me this when we hadn’t consumed alcohol because, to be honest, I am afraid that when I wake up the next morning I will forget what he had said thanks to the amount of gin and the level of emotions that are swilling around in my head.
‘My mum was an alcoholic,’ he tells me.
Oh God. Ouch.
‘… and for most of our childhood it was misery, but on that day, everything seemed, ironically, perfect, like she had finally put us before the bottle. But she hadn’t.’
Jesus. I don’t know what to say. This is not what I was expecting from this strong, beautiful man who has contacted me out of the blue. I think of my own drinking and the selfish way I have brought misery and worry onto others. I push away my glass. Then I reach for it again and feel the familiar glow the alcohol brings – like an old friend who is really your worst enemy.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to leave this until tomorrow?’ I ask him. ‘You look tired. You don’t have to tell me this at all if you don’t want to.’
‘I want to,’ he says.
Simon’s childhood sounds so painful and worlds away from the idyllic upbringing I had on the farm with my older parents, despite my clashes with my big brother. My life sounded perfect compared to what Simon, Lucy and wee Henry had gone through and I feel like such a spoilt brat for complaining about John Joe.
He pauses for a second.
‘I think I need to get this out of my system. It helps talking about it. Do you mind?’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ I reply. ‘Tell me anything you want to.’
He smiles. I am so touched by his honesty, about his pain, about the heartache he has lived through and I totally respect that he has been to hell and back and has taken the time to find me and tell me Lucy’s story.
‘So Mum was insisting that Lucy had a haircut that day, which in any other family would be no big deal, right?’
‘Of course,’ I say, remembering in a flashback the time my own mother made me have my hair cut in a ‘page-boy’ style, which was all the rage. I looked like a cross between Lady Diana’s bridal party and a cocker spaniel. I want to tell him that, to try and make him laugh, but now is not the time.
‘Lucy had refused for so, so long. She didn’t want to have her hair cut but that day she finally gave in. So Mum, Lucy and Henry set off and the mood was good. She seemed happy but we had no idea that she had been sipping away at her vodka all that morning,’ he goes on, with deep sorrow in his voice and his eyes drop. ‘I have gone over and over that morning since then, analysing her every move. Wondering what would have triggered it. A row with Dad? Or another crazy notion that his eyes were roaming towards any random woman that came his way? But there was nothing. Even Dad said there was nothing. He had gone to his conference that morning in high spirits, confident that when he came home, it would be as it had been for the last few days … I had sneaked my girlfriend around and was too worried about how she might feel if I kissed her for the first time. Just a normal, pretty nice day, but of course it didn’t end that way at all.’
The barman signals to us that last orders are being taken and the piano man is packing up his song sheets. The room goes quiet as punters filter out and welcoming low-key house music fills the stillness in the air.
‘Would you like another drink?’ he asks and I shake my head.
‘I think I have had enough.’ His mother was an alcoholic. I can’t go a day without a drink lately. Like John Joe said, I need to get a grip.
‘Two whiskies, then,’ he tells the barman.
‘Whiskies?’ Ah, Jesus.
‘I think we might be glad of them. What is it you say in Ireland? One for the road?’
I can’t really argue with that, can I?
‘Okay, then,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s have one for the road.’
I dread to think how bad his story will end, but no matter how much I anticipate, the real story is a whole lot worse.