Total Abstraction

I got very little sleep that night. I tossed and turned, felt too hot and kicked off the covers, then felt too cold and covered up again, one leg out, one arm out, nothing was comfortable. I could find no happy medium. I daringly went downstairs to the kitchen to phone Weseley about the diary entry. I didn’t use the stairs, instead I did my gymnastics teacher proud by climbing over the banister and landing gently on the stone floor. Anyway, I did pretty well not to make a sound going down the stairs and yet still, just as I reached for the phone in the kitchen, Rosaleen appeared at the door in a nightdress from the 1800s, which went to the floor and hid her feet making her appear as though she was floating like a ghost.

‘Rosaleen!’ I jumped.

‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.

‘I’m getting a glass of water. I’m thirsty.’

‘Let me get that for you.’

‘No,’ I snapped. ‘I can do it. Thank you. You go back to bed.’

‘I’ll sit with you while you‑’

‘No, Rosaleen,’ I raised my voice. ‘You need to give me space, please. I just want a glass of water, then I’m going back to bed.’

‘Okay, okay.’ She raised her hands in surrender. ‘Good night.’

I waited to hear the creaks on the steps. Then I heard her bedroom door close, her feet moving across her bedroom and then the springs in her bed. I rushed to the phone and dialled Weseley’s number. He picked up after half a ring.

‘Hi, Nancy Drew.’

‘Hi,’ I whispered, then froze, suddenly so uncertain about what I was doing.

‘So, did you read the diary?’

I searched for any sign that I shouldn’t tell him. I listened out for tones‑was he jesting me? Was he setting me up? Was I on speaker phone in a room full of his hillbilly friends‑you know, the kind of thing I would have done if some dork that had moved to my area gatecrashed my party and started spurting crap about a prophesying diary.

‘Tamara?’ he asked, and I could hear no tone, nothing to make me change my mind.

‘Yes, I’m here,’ I whispered.

‘Did you read the diary?’

‘Yes.’ I thought hard. I could tell him I was joking, that it had been a hilarious joke, just like the one about my dad dying. Oh, how we’d laugh.

‘And? Come on, you’ve made me wait until eleven o’clock,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve been trying to guess all kinds of things. Will there be any earthquakes? Any lotto numbers? Anything we can make money out of?’

‘No,’ I smiled, ‘just boring old thoughts and emotions.’

‘Ah,’ he said, but I could hear his smile. ‘Right then, out with it. The prophecy please…’

That night, I woke up every half hour, the outcome of the day to come keeping me on edge. At three‑thirty a.m. I couldn’t take it any longer and I reached for the diary to see how the day had been affected and what the events of tomorrow would hold.

I reached for the torch beside the bed and with a pounding heart opened the pages. I had to rub my eyes to make sure what I was seeing was correct. Words were appearing, then disappearing, sentences half‑formed, which didn’t make sense, would appear then vanish again as quickly as they’d arrived. The letters seemed to jump off the page as everything was jumbled, without order. It was as though the diary was as confused as my mind, unable to formulate thoughts. I closed the book and counted to ten, and full of hope, I opened it again. The words continued to jump around the page, finding no meaning or sense.

Whatever plans I had put in place with Weseley, tomorrow had certainly been affected. However, exactly in what way was still unclear, as it obviously depended on how I lived the day when I awoke. The future hadn’t been written yet. It was still in my hands.

In the moments that I did manage to sleep, I dreamed of glass shattering, of me running through the field of glass but it was a windy day and the pieces were blowing, scraping my face, my arms and my body, piercing my skin. But I couldn’t get to the end of the garden, I kept getting lost among the rows and a figure stood at the window watching me, with hair in front of her face, and every time the lightning flashed I could see her face, and she looked like Rosaleen. I woke up in a sweat each time, my heart thudding in my chest, afraid to open my eyes. Then I’d eventually go back to sleep only to walk myself straight back into the same dream. At six‑fifteen I couldn’t force myself back to sleep again, and I was up. And though my entire plan was to help Mum get back to being herself again, I checked on her with the faintest hope that she still wasn’t okay. I don’t know why‑of course I wanted her to get better with all of my heart‑but there’s always the part of you, the part that hides in the shadows protecting the self‑destruct button, that doesn’t ever want to leave the dark behind.

I was the first person downstairs at six forty‑five for the first time since I’d moved here. I sat in the living room with a cup of tea and tried to force myself to concentrate on the book about the invisible girl that Fiona had given me. I was averaging about a paragraph a day but I must have got lost in the story without noticing because I didn’t see or hear the postman approach the house, but I heard the envelopes land on the mat in the front hall. Always happy to do something different in the house where everything went like clockwork, I went to the hall to retrieve them. They were literally just beyond my grasp when a hand came in and stole them away from me, like a vulture had flown down and scooped up its prey.

‘No need for you to do that, Tamara,’ Rosaleen said brightly, shoving the envelopes into the front pocket of her apron.

‘I don’t mind. I was only picking them up, Rosaleen. I wasn’t going to read them.’

‘Of course you weren’t,’ she said as though the thought had never crossed her mind. ‘You just relax and enjoy yourself,’ she smiled, and rubbed my shoulder.

‘Thanks,’ I smiled. ‘You know, you should let somebody do something for you for once.’ I followed her to the kitchen.

‘I like doing it,’ she said, getting to work on the breakfast. ‘Besides, Arthur is good at a lot of things but he’d be boiling an egg till September if you let him at it,’ she chuckled.

‘Speaking of September, what’s going to happen?’ I asked finally. ‘The plan was for us to stay for the summer. It’s July now, and well, nobody’s talked about September.’

‘Yes, and it’s almost your birthday.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘And we need to talk about what you’d like to do for that. Have a party? Go to stay with some friends in Dublin?’

‘Actually, I might like a few friends to come stay with me here,’ I said. ‘I’d like them to see where I live now, see what I do everyday.’

Rosaleen looked a little shell‑shocked by that. ‘Here? Oh…’

‘It was only a thought,’ I back‑tracked quickly. ‘It’s so far for Laura and Zoey to come, and it would probably be too much hassle for you…’

I waited for her to jump in and reassure me, but she didn’t.

‘Anyway, I’d rather talk about my future than about my birthday.’ I changed the subject. ‘If we’re still here in September, which is looking like what’s going to happen, how am I going to get to St Mary’s from here? There aren’t any buses, or at least none that pass by here. I doubt Arthur would want to drive me to and from school every day…’ I waited for her to tell me that’s exactly what was going to happen. But again, she didn’t. She started getting breakfast ready, taking out the pots and pans that usually served as my wake‑up call.

‘Well, that’s something you’ll have to discuss with your mother, I suppose. I can’t tell you the answers.’

‘But, Rosaleen, how am I supposed to discuss anything with Mum?’

‘What do you mean?’ Clatter, clatter, bang, crash. All systems go in the kitchen.

‘You know what I mean.’ I jumped up and stood beside her, but she still wouldn’t look at me. ‘She doesn’t talk. She’s completely catatonic. I don’t get why you refuse to admit this.’

‘She’s not catatonic, Tamara.’ She finally stopped and looked at me. ‘She’s just…sad. We need to give her space and time and let her figure it all out herself. Now, will you be a good girl and fetch me the eggs from the fridge and I’ll show you how to do a nice big omelette this morning,’ she smiled. ‘How about I put a few peppers in it for you?’

‘Peppers,’ I said perkily and her face lit up. ‘Lovely juicy problem‑solving peppers,’ I said happily, then dragged my feet to the fridge to fetch them, as her face fell. I took out a green and a red one. ‘Oh, look, hello, Mr Green Pepper. How’s about you solve the problem for me? Where am I going to go to school in September?’ I held it to my ear and listened. ‘Oh, no, it mustn’t be working.’ I shook it. ‘Maybe I’ll try the red one. Hello, Mr Red Pepper. Rosaleen seems to think you can solve the problem about my life. What do you think is going to happen? Shall we send Mum to a madhouse or should we leave her upstairs for ever?’ I listened again. ‘No. Nothing.’ I tossed the peppers down on the counter. ‘Looks like the peppers can’t help us out today. Maybe we should try some onions,’ I said, faking excitement. ‘Or grated cheese!’

‘Tamara,’ I heard Arthur say, warning in his tone, and I stopped. I trudged out and sulked in the living room. Even though we’re not allowed to eat in the living room, Rosaleen brought the omelette in to me. A decent kind person would have apologised, instead, I asked for salt.

At ten o’clock I watched Rosaleen scurry out of the house with the tray loaded with enough food to feed an entire family, and among all of my worries about the day, one of them was that her mother would reveal my visit to her. Just because I hadn’t written about it, it didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. At ten fifteen, Dr Gedad’s car pulled up outside the house. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

‘You must be Tamara,’ he beamed, while walking up the path. He immediately made me smile. He was tall, slender, fit‑looking. His hair was greying and was tight on his head. He had high cheekbones and soft eyes, which gave him a slightly feminine look, but yet he was masculine and handsome. I welcomed him in and shook his hand.

‘Well good morning to you. Isn’t it a great summer we’re having.’ He spoke from the back of his throat, as though he’d a piece of bread stuck there, slightly muffled, but in a lovely singsong way. His Madagascan accent was mixed with some words that were spoken with a pure Irish blÁs . It was a lovely, peculiar sound. I liked that I felt somebody from outside of here was going to freshen things up, shake things up, fix them.

‘Can I take your briefcase?’ I was nervous, jittery, unsure what to do. I looked anxiously at the door.

‘No, thank you, Tamara. I’ll need this with me,’ he smiled.

‘Oh yes. Of course.’

‘I believe I’m here to see your mother?’

‘Yes, she’s upstairs. I’ll show you the way.’

‘Thank you. Tamara. I’m very sorry to hear about your father. Weseley shared the sad news with me. It must be a very difficult time for you both.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I smiled, and tried to swallow that lump that always arrived whenever anybody mentioned Dad.

I made to lead Dr Gedad upstairs and I was almost beginning to believe that I was going to get away with it, was hopeful about getting Mum back, but was devastated about losing Weseley, when the front door opened. Rosaleen stepped into the hall with a tin‑foil‑covered plate in her hands. She looked at Dr Gedad as though he was the grim reaper. Her face went white.

‘Good morning,’ Dr Gedad said pleasantly.

‘Who…?’ She looked from the strange man in her hall to me, then back to the man again. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re the new doctor.’

‘I am indeed,’ he said cheerfully, going back down the stairs.

No! I shouted at him in my head.

‘It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs‑’

‘Rosaleen,’ she said quickly, glancing at me then back to him. ‘Rosaleen will do fine. Well, welcome to the town.’

They shook hands.

‘Thank you very much. And I must thank you and your husband for giving young Weseley a job here.’

Rosaleen glanced at me, the discomfort all over face. ‘Well, yes, he’s a great help,’ she brushed him off. ‘Doctor,’ she said looking confused, ‘what’s…why…Tamara, are you sick?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you, Rosaleen. If you’ll just follow me, Dr Gedad,’ I said quickly, going upstairs.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To my mum’s room,’ I said as politely as possible.

‘Oh, you won’t want to disturb her, Tamara,’ she said with a smile to me and a little frown to Dr Gedad, hinting to him as though I was some kind of weirdo. ‘You know how important her sleep is to her.’ She looked at the doctor. ‘She hasn’t been sleeping much, which is understandable, of course, under the circumstances.’

‘Of course,’ he nodded gravely. He looked at me then. ‘Well, perhaps I should let her have her rest. I can come back another time.’

‘No!’ I interjected. ‘Rosaleen she’s been sleeping non‑stop most days for the past week.’ I couldn’t control my voice, shrieking like a squeaky violin.

‘Because of her restless nights, of course,’ Rosaleen said firmly. ‘Won’t you have a cup of tea, Doctor? You wouldn’t believe it but it seems I used salt in the baking rather than sugar. My mother almost fell over,’ she laughed. ‘Though she shouldn’t have been having pie for breakfast, I know that,’ she said apologetically.

‘How is your mother?’ he asked. ‘I hear that she’s unwell.’

‘I’ll tell you over a cup of tea,’ she said chirpily, and he laughed and made his way back down the stairs again. ‘You’re a difficult woman to say no to Rosaleen.’

I stood on the stairs, my mouth agape at what was occurring. I had read it but didn’t believe that the doctor would so easily obey her when an apparently sick patient was upstairs.

‘I’ll just give your mother a little more rest, Tamara,’ Dr Gedad said, ‘and then I’ll see to her.’

‘Okay,’ I whispered, trying to hold back my tears, because I knew that whatever Rosaleen was going to say to Dr Gedad, he wouldn’t make it up those stairs. Despite knowing the outcome, I tried to join them in the kitchen but Rosaleen stopped me at the door.

‘If you don’t mind, Tamara, I’m going to have a few private words with the doctor about my mother. Just to make sure everything’s okay. She’s been slightly off for the last few days.’

I gulped, initially guilty that my visit to her had made her worse but as soon as the guilt arrived, it disappeared and the anger returned. I really didn’t care about her mother, I was so angry about her taking the doctor from Mum.

‘Yes, of course I understand, Rosaleen. I was just trying to do exactly the same thing for my own mother,’ I replied bitchily. I turned my back on her before she had a chance to respond and I stormed upstairs. I heard the door close and I went into Mum’s room. She was still asleep, curled in a ball as though still in the womb.

‘Mum,’ I whispered gently, falling to my knees and pushing back her hair.

She groaned.

‘Mum, wake up.’

Her eyes fluttered open.

‘Mum, I need you to get up. I called a doctor for you. He’s downstairs but I need you to go down to him, or else call him. Please, do that for me?’

She groaned and closed her eyes again.

‘Mum, listen, this is important. He’ll help you get better.’

She opened her eyes again. ‘No,’ she croaked.

‘I know, Mum, I know you miss Dad more than anything else in the world. I know you loved him so much, and you probably think that nothing in the whole world can ever make you feel better, but it can get better and it will get better.’

She closed her eyes again.

‘Mum, please,’ I whispered, tears welling. ‘I need you to do this for me.’

Mum’s breathing was slow and deep again as she fell back asleep. I kneeled beside her, crying.

Below the bedroom, I heard Dr Gedad and Rosaleen’s muffled conversation. Then the kitchen door opened and I wiped my tears away and shook Mum again to wake her.

‘Okay Mum, he’s coming. All you have to do is go as far as your door. That’s all, no further.’

She looked alarmed, seeing as I’d just woken her.

‘Please, Mum.’

She seemed confused. I swore and left her side to run downstairs just as Rosaleen was opening the front door.

‘Ah, Tamara, I had a few words with Rosaleen and I think it’s best that I leave your mum for the time being and return again if she needs me. If you feel any need to call, here’s my card.’

‘But I called so you’d see her today.’

‘I know, but after speaking with Rosaleen I realise that it is not necessary. There’s really nothing to worry about. Your mother is indeed going through a difficult time but there is little cause for you to worry so much for her health. I’m sure she’d just want you to relax and have a clear mind,’ he said in a fatherly tone.

‘But you haven’t even seen her,’ I said, angrily.

‘Tamara…’ Rosaleen had a warning in her voice.

Dr Gedad looked uncomfortable, then uncertain about his decision. What reason had he not to trust Rosaleen, I could see him asking himself. Rosaleen could too, and she moved quickly.

‘Thank you so much for calling around, Doctor,’ she said gently. ‘Please pass on my regards to Maureen and your boy…’

‘Weseley,’ he said. ‘Thank you. And thank you for the tea and buns. I did not taste a bit of salt in it.’

‘Oh, no, that was in the apple tart.’ She laughed like a child.

And he was gone. She closed the door and turned to face me but I marched past her to the front door, opened it and slammed it loudly behind me. I charged up the road. Outside the air was warm and smelled sweet with cut grass and cow manure. I could hear Arthur’s lawnmower in the distance, the noise of the engine blocking the reality for Arthur as he concentrated on remedial tasks. I spotted Sister Ignatius to my left in the far distance on the other side of the grounds; a navy and white thing in the middle of green. I ran to her, the anger rushing through my blood like a Soda‑Stream. She had set up an easel and stool in the middle of the grasslands in front of the castle, which was a quarter of a mile away, and she stood directly in front of one of the swan lakes, in the shade of a giant oak tree. The morning was already hot, the sky perfectly indigo without a cloud visible. She must have been concentrating intently, her head close to the page, her tongue moving around her lips as she moved the brush around.

‘I hate her,’ I shouted, breaking the silence and sending a flock of birds up from a nearby tree into the sky where they tried to regroup and relocate. I stomped across the scorched grass in my flip‑flops.

Sister Ignatius didn’t look up as I neared. ‘Good morning, Tamara,’ she said brightly. ‘Another lovely morning.’

‘I hate her,’ I said louder, coming close, my voice still raised.

She looked at me then, eyes wide in panic. She shook her head quickly, and waved her arms about as if she was in the middle of a railway track trying to stop an oncoming train.

‘Yes, that’s right, hate her,’ I kept shouting.

She put her finger in front of her lip, jiggling around like she needed to go to the toilet.

‘She is Satan’s spawn,’ I spat.

‘Oh Tamara!’ she finally exploded, and threw her hands up in the air, looking distraught.

‘What? I don’t care what he thinks. I want him to strike me down. Get me out of here, God, I’m fed up and I want to go home,’ I whinged in frustration, then fell back onto the grass. I lay on my back and looked up at the sky. ‘That cloud looks like a penis.’

‘Oh, Tamara, would you stop it,’ she snapped.

‘Why, do I offend you?’ I asked sarcastically, just wanting to hurt absolutely everybody I came into contact with, no matter how good and gentle they were.

‘No! You chased off the squirrel,’ she said, the most frustrated I’d ever seen her. I sat up, shocked, and listened to her long vehement speech. ‘I’ve been trying to get him all week. I laid out some treats on a plate and finally got him‑he didn’t want nuts so all those stories about a squirrel and its nuts need to be changed. He wouldn’t touch the cheese, but he loves the Toffee Pops, would you believe. But now look, he’s gone and he’ll never come back and Sister Conceptua will eat me alive for taking her Toffee Pops. I think you and your dramatics gave him a heart attack,’ she sighed, calmed, then turned to me. ‘You hate who? Rosaleen, I suppose.’

I looked at her painting. ‘That’s supposed to be a squirrel? It looks like an elephant with a bushy tail.’

Sister Ignatius looked angry first. Then, as she examined it further, she began to laugh. ‘Oh, Tamara, you really are the perfect dose, you know that.’

‘No,’ I huffed, getting to my feet. ‘Apparently I’m not. Otherwise I wouldn’t have to call a doctor for Mum. I could just fix her all by myself.’ I paced up and down before her.

She turned serious then. ‘You called Dr Gedad?’

‘Yes, and he came this morning. I planned it for when Rosaleen was over at her mum’s stuffing her with food‑and by the way, I’ve seen her mum and there’s no way in the world she’s putting away all that food everyday unless she’s got worms. But Rosaleen came home early before Dr Gedad even got up the stairs because‑stop the press‑she put salt in her apple tart instead of sugar and yes, you’re right to look at me like that because I did it and I don’t care and I’d do it again tomorrow and I’ll know soon enough whether I do or not actually.’ I took a breath. ‘Anyway, she came back to get the apple pie that was supposed to be for me and Arthur, not that I care because all her food makes me fart fifty times a day, and she managed to talk the doctor out of seeing Mum. So he’s gone now and Mum is still in the bedroom, probably drooling right now and drawing on the walls.’

‘How did she send him away?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what she said to him. He just said that right now Mum just needed to rest and if I needed him again for an emergency or whatever, I should call.’

‘Well the doctor would know,’ she said uncertainly.

‘Sister, he didn’t even see her. He just listened to whatever Rosaleen said.’

‘So why shouldn’t he trust Rosaleen?’ she asked.

‘Well, why should he? I’m the one that called him, not her. What if I’d seen her try to kill herself and I never told Rosaleen?’

‘Did she try?’

‘No! But that’s not the point.’

‘Hmm.’ Sister Ignatius went silent as she dabbed her brush in a mucky brown colour and applied it to the paper.

‘Now it looks like an inbred animal who’s just eaten a bad nut,’ I said.

She snorted and laughed again.

‘Do you ever, like, pray? All I see you do is make honey, or garden or paint.’

‘I enjoy creating new things, Tamara. I’ve always believed the creative process is a spiritual experience where I cocreate with the Divine Creative Spirit.’

I looked around, wide‑eyed. ‘And is the divine creative spirit on his lunch break?’

Sister Ignatius was lost in thought. ‘I could go see her, if you like?’ she asked quietly.

‘Thank you, but she needs more than just a nun. No offence.’

‘Tamara, do you know what it is that I actually do?’

‘Uh, you pray.’

‘Yes, I pray. But I don’t only pray. I have taken vows of poverty, chastity and obedience like all Catholic sisters, but on top of that, I vow to help service the poor, sick and uneducated. I can talk to your mother, Tamara. I can help.’

‘Oh. Well I suppose she’s two out of the three.’

‘And besides I’m not “just a nun”, as you say. I’m also trained in midwifery,’ she said, dabbing at the paper again.

‘But that’s ridiculous, she’s not pregnant.’ Then I registered what she’d said. ‘Hold on, you’re a what? Since when?’

‘Oh, I’m not just a pretty face,’ she chuckled. ‘That was my first job. But I always felt that God was calling me to a life of spirituality and service and so I joined the sisters, and with them I travelled the world with the great gift of being able to be both nun and midwife. I spent most of my thirties in Africa. All around. Saw some harsh things but also wonderful things. I met the most special and extraordinary people.’ She smiled at the memory.

‘Did you meet somebody there who gave you that?’ I smiled and nodded at her gold ring with the tiny green emerald. ‘So much for your vow of poverty. If you sold that you could build a well somewhere in Africa. I’ve seen it on the ads.’

‘Tamara,’ she said, shocked. ‘I was given that almost thirty years ago for twenty‑five years as a nun.’

‘But it looks like you’re married‑why would they give you that?’

‘I am married to God,’ she smiled.

I screwed up my face in disgust. ‘Gross. Well, if you’d married a real man that exists, I mean one that you could actually see and who doesn’t put his socks in the wash basket, then you’d have got a diamond for twenty‑five years’ service.’

‘I’m perfectly happy with what I have, thank you very much,’ she smiled. ‘Did your parents never bring you to mass?’

I shook my head and imitated my father. ‘“There’s no money in religion.” Even though Dad’s totally wrong. We were in Rome and saw the Vatican. Those guys are loaded.’

‘That sounds like him all right,’ she chuckled.

‘You met my dad?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘When? Where?’

‘When he was here.’

‘But I don’t remember him ever being here.’

‘Well, he was. So there you go, Miss Know‑It‑All.’

I smiled. ‘Did you hate him?’

Sister Ignatius shook her head.

‘Go on, you’re allowed to say that you hate him. Most people did. I did too sometimes. We used to row a lot. I was nothing like him and I think he hated me for that.’

‘Tamara.’ She took my hands in hers and I was mildly embarrassed. She was so sweet and so soft, it was like a bit of reality would blow her over, but with all her travels and her daily work, she’d probably seen more of it than I. ‘Your father loved you very much, with all of his heart. He was good to you, blessed you with a wonderful life, was always there for you. You were an extraordinarily lucky girl. Don’t speak of him like that. He was a great man.’

I immediately felt guilty, and with old habits dying hard, I did what I always did. ‘You should have married him then,’ I snapped. ‘You’d have had a gold ring on every finger.’

After a long silence in which I was supposed to apologise, but didn’t, Sister Ignatius went back to her crap painting. She dabbed her brush in the green paint and flattened the bristles on the paper where she embarked on a journey of unusual jerking motions with her wrist, like a music conductor with a paint brush, to make the green blob look like leaves, or something.

‘There’s no tree in front of you.’

‘There’s no squirrel either. I’m using my imagination. Anyway, it’s not a tree, it’s the ambience my poor little squirrel inhabits that I’m trying to depict. Think of it as abstract art; a departure from reality in depiction of imagery,’ she taught. ‘Well, it’s partially abstract, as artwork that takes liberties, for instance altering colour and form in ways that are conspicuous is considered so.’

‘Like your brown elephant having a huge tail instead of a trunk.’

She ignored me. ‘Total abstraction, on the other hand,’ she continued, ‘bears no trace of any reference to anything recognisable.’

I studied her work a little more closely. ‘Yeah, I’d say yours is a little more like total abstraction. Like my life.’

She chuckled. ‘Oh, the drama of being seventeen.’

‘Sixteen,’ I corrected her. ‘Hey, I went over to Rosaleen’s mum yesterday.’

‘You did? And how is she?’

‘Well, she gave me this.’ I took the glass tear drop out of my pocket and moved it around in my hand. It was cold and smooth, calming. ‘She has loads of them over there. It’s so weird. In her back garden there’s a shed, that’s like her factory, and behind the shed there’s an entire field of these glass things. Some are totally freaky and pointy but most of them are beautiful. They’re hanging from clothes lines, about ten of them, all tied on with wiry cords, and they catch the light. I think she makes them. She certainly doesn’t grow them. But it’s like a glass farm,’ I laughed.

Sister Ignatius stopped painting and I dropped the tear drop into her hand. ‘She gave this to you?’

‘No, well, she didn’t exactly hand it to me. I saw her in the shed. She was working on something, all bent over, wearing goggles, doing something with glass, and I think I gave her a fright. So I left the tray down in the garden for her. I’d made her some food.’

‘That was nice of you.’

‘Not really. You should have seen the state of it. And Rosaleen didn’t know I was there so I had to go back to collect the tray, which I was totally expecting to be full. But it was on the wall outside of the house, and all the dishes were clean and all the food was eaten and everything. And this was sitting on the plate.’ I took it back from her and examined it again. ‘Sweet of her, wasn’t it?’

‘Tamara…’ Sister Ignatius reached her arm out and held on to the easel, which was so light it offered her no support.

‘Are you okay? You look a little…’ I didn’t get to finish as Sister Ignatius looked so weak, I immediately wrapped my arms around her and remembered that despite her youthful aura and her childish giggles, she was in her seventies.

‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she said, attempting to laugh. ‘Stop fussing. Tamara, I need you to slow down when you speak, and go back over what you said. You found that on the tray when you went to collect it?’

‘Yes, on the front garden wall,’ I said slowly.

‘But that’s impossible. Did you see her put it there?’

‘No, I just saw the tray from my bedroom window. She must have done it when I was elsewhere in the house. Why are you asking so many questions? Are you mad at me for going over? I know I probably shouldn’t have, but Rosaleen was being so secretive.’

‘Tamara,’ Sister Ignatius closed her eyes and she looked more tired when she opened them, ‘Rosaleen’s mother, Helen, has multiple sclerosis, which has unfortunately been getting worse with the years. She’s wheelchair‑bound, which is why Rosaleen has become her full‑time carer. So you see, she couldn’t have wheeled herself out to the front garden with this tray.’ She shook her head. ‘Impossible.’

‘She could have,’ I replied. ‘If she just put the tray on her lap, then she’d have her hands free to wheel herself‑’

‘No, Tamara, there are steps in the front garden.’

I looked in the direction of the bungalow and even though I couldn’t see it from where we were, I visualised the steps. ‘Oh, yeah. That’s odd. So who else lives in the bungalow?’ I asked.

Sister Ignatius was quiet, her eyes moving around as she thought hard. ‘No one, Tamara,’ she whispered. ‘No one.’

‘But I saw someone. Think, Sister,’ I barked, panicking. ‘Who did I see in the workshed? A woman all hunched over with goggles, work goggles, and long hair. There were these glass things all over the place. Who could she be?’

Sister Ignatius shook her head over and over.

‘Rosaleen has a sister‑she told me about her. She lives in Cork. She’s a teacher. Maybe she came to visit. What do you think?’

Sister Ignatius continued to shake her head. ‘No. No. It couldn’t be.’

Shivers ran down my spine and my body was covered in goose bumps. The look on Sister Ignatius’ usually calm face didn’t do much to calm me either. She looked as though she’d seen a ghost.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 535