The Liar’s Daughter. Claire Allan
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skirts, the big hair, the coloured tights and bright make-up. Instead, a woman with the same salt-and-pepper hair as my father sits in sensible black trousers, a pale pink jumper over a crisp white blouse and black shoes, which owe more to comfort than style, on her feet. The only jewellery she wears is a pair of pearl stud earrings and her plain gold wedding band. She wears no make-up and I can’t help but notice that her eyebrows could use a good reshaping.
She’s smaller, too, than I remember. A remnant of the person she was, or am I just remembering it all wrong? Sometimes I don’t know what I remember any more.
She looked lost when she arrived at the airport. I’d gone to pick her up and had been waiting for her at arrivals, when I saw this rather wretched-looking creature walk through the security doors blinking as she glanced around. She looked pale, tired and old, and she’d promptly burst into tears when she saw me.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she’d said over and over, to the point where I wanted to scream at her to stop talking.
She was quieter in the car, lost in her thoughts for a while. Then she asked about me. About Mum. About Heidi. How she was coping.
‘She is okay, isn’t she?’ Kathleen asked. ‘You know, stable?’
‘She seems to be,’ I said, which was the truth. I don’t think I was ignoring any warning signs just because it suited me to have Heidi doing the lion’s share of looking after Joe.
‘Because we have to be careful,’ Kathleen said. ‘You know she’s fragile.’
Yes, I knew Heidi was fragile. Everyone kept reminding me, not that I needed telling. For a year or so when she was a teenager our entire existence had revolved around ‘poor Heidi’ and her fragility.
‘She’s a different person now,’ I said, as if I knew her well enough to comment authoritatively on her mental wellbeing. ‘Her husband seems to be lovely and she’s focusing on her baby.’
Kathleen made a noise that was at best non-committal. ‘I don’t know,’ she’d said. ‘I wouldn’t want to push her too far.’
I’d tried to draw her further on what she meant, but she clammed up. Refused to say any more. Frustrated, I’d switched on an audiobook through the car’s Bluetooth system and tried my best to lose myself in it as we drove the rest of the way home.
Of course, when Kathleen had finally seen my father, she’d collapsed into a paroxysm of grief. ‘My poor big brother,’ she’d wailed, pulling him into a hug and then apologising as he’d winced from the pain. I’d winced, too. The show of emotion ringing hollow in my ears.
But she’s calmer now as she stands in front of the fireplace, orating on palliative care and family responsibility.
‘Perhaps we could put our heads together and think of things that might encourage him out of that bed and back into the world for another bit. Maybe we could get him to make a bucket list. You know, things he’d really like to do while he can. We could try to make them happen.’
She seems so determined she can make a difference. That taking him on some poorly thought-out adventure might save him that I almost feel sorry for her.
She’s also assuming the rest of us have the same desire to have him around for as long as possible as she does.
‘Do you have any ideas?’ she asks to the silent room.
I see Heidi bow her head like the shy girl in class desperately hoping the teacher will have forgotten she exists and skim past her. I feel a sense of dread build as her gaze falls on me.
‘Ciara?’
‘Dad and I aren’t very close,’ I tell her, which of course is a gross understatement. ‘I’ve no idea what he might want to do.’
To my annoyance, I feel the warm glow of shame rise in my cheeks.
‘He’s still your dad. You must have some ideas.’
I know when I was little he liked books and gardening. He liked being the centre of attention. He liked people thinking he had brains to burn. Country walks. Talking about himself. Wildlife documentaries. Hurting people. Manipulating their feelings. Leaving.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Maybe a drive to the beach. A visit to the museum,’ I say with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
‘We could try to get him down to the library, to see his old friends,’ Stella suggests and I could kiss her for trying.
‘I was going to take him out for a pint, if he was well enough,’ Alex offers.
Heidi stays silent.
It’s all pretty mundane as far as a bucket list goes, but at least it feels doable, and without too much effort or time spent with him.
‘Those are all great ideas,’ Kathleen says, nodding a little too enthusiastically given the dull nature of our suggestions. ‘I think it’s worth really focusing on the fact that the thing he needs most of all right now is all of us pulling together to support him. I know you girls are young and have enough going on in your lives, but in the great grand scheme of things it really doesn’t amount to an awful lot of time. Then he’ll be gone and you’ll never have to think of him again.’ Her voice cracks as she looks at us all.
Auntie Kathleen induces guilt well, raised as she was in the thrall of Irish Catholicism. But for the same reasons she will be crippled by her own guilt, too. She hasn’t been a frequent visitor over the years, leaving for England some sixteen or seventeen years ago and rarely making the journey back, even when a flight could be bought for less than a bus fare.
‘We should probably help him get his affairs in order,’ a quiet voice from the other side of the room speaks up. ‘I’m sure there are lots of things he needs to tie up. Financial matters. His belongings. If he has a will …’
I stiffen, looking at Heidi, who stares right back at me.
‘I don’t know if we have to worry about that just yet,’ I say, even though a part of me is impressed that little mouse Heidi can squeak, after all.
‘Well, I think we do. We can dance around it all we want,’ Heidi says, ‘but we know there will be upset when he’s gone. I’d rather we’re all prepared for it. I’ll be hoping to get this house on the market as soon as possible.’
I hear Kathleen gasp. Even Alex can’t hide his shock at the manner in which his wife has spoken. I’m shocked myself. Simpering Heidi who has been at his beck and call all these years. It strikes me for a second that this is actually how she has been since I first visited. Restrained. Cold. No hint of personal grief.
‘I don’t think that this is the time or the place for this discussion, sweetheart,’ Alex says, looking at her, a confused expression on his face.
‘This is exactly the time and place for it,’ she says, her voice growing in confidence. ‘I want everyone to be very clear about what will happen after. This is my house, as outlined in my mother’s will, and when Joe is dead, I will be selling it. As soon as possible. I’ll do my bit by him while he is alive, but that’s it.’
I feel Stella reach out and take my hand, but my fist is clenched tight.
‘I’m sorry if anyone finds that upsetting, but that is the way of it. And it’s better to be honest and prepared than to deal with more upset after his death. The lines are very clearly drawn.’
‘Heidi.’ Alex puts his hand on her knee as if to quiet her.
She pushes it away.
‘No, Alex, I’m not being insensitive. I’m being honest. Someone has to be honest about this all. We’re all dancing around, afraid to say what needs to be said. Joe is not a nice man. He’s not a good man. He has been a cuckoo in this nest for too long.’
Kathleen looks as if she has been slapped squarely around the face. I watch as she stands up and walks out of the room. I