‘I don’t believe in that visiting grave stuff,’ she’d told Aunt Grace. ‘You can remember people without seeing where they’re buried,’ which was a handy way of saying she had nothing to remember because her mother had died when she was so young. And it was easier not to remember, anyhow.
For all Ginger’s life, the Reilly family home had been a true country farmhouse, although nobody had farmed the land for a long time, but still a kitchen garden sat to the back of the house and, behind that, a large meadow around which, on summer days, the young Reillys used to gallop and play games. To the right of the house was a large barn converted into a work shed which had once housed just a kitchen-renovating business. Then, about fifteen years ago, Michael Reilly got his hands on a wonderful old table with incredible decorative legs.
Ginger could remember his absolute delight as she was wearily studying and he’d come in brandishing an exquisitely carved leg with delight.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I had this amazing idea, Ginger, darling! I could turn this into a wizard’s chair! Imagine these posts coming up the back with roundels on the top. I could carve a beautiful back around them and then the other posts could be the armrests and – don’t worry,’ he added, mistaking Ginger’s surprised expression for one of disbelief. ‘You know I’ll still be doing the kitchens.’ Putting in kitchens was his main job, the job that had kept them all going since Mum had died.
‘But this ...’ His face lit up as he looked at the old table leg.
‘Dad, whatever makes you happy,’ said Ginger.
And he was off to his workshop, singing, delighted.
Now he still did the odd kitchen, but his heart was in those special commissions where he made beautiful, one-off furniture, working away for hours in his big shed, music on in the background.
In the true style of the shoemaker, while Michael Reilly had been fixing everyone else’s kitchens and bedrooms, his own home had been left to itself in later years.
The house itself was a bit higgledy-piggledy but there was a lovely wooden porch her father had made. And in June, the climbing roses were clambering all over it with amazing old floribunda blooms clustering around it.
Seeing all the cars parked in front of the house as she drove up made Ginger realise that everyone else had arrived before her. Taking a deep breath, she used her key and went in. The scents of her childhood home assailed her. Beeswax polish because her father thought it was the best thing for wood; wet dog as the family’s old sheepdog, Ronni, could never resist a roll in the river every day; and just ...home. It was here that Ginger felt safest and most loved.
Yet she’d wanted to be a journalist, wanted to get out into the big world all those years ago because she had done so well at school and she’d wanted to write.
Moving into the city when she’d got her first job had made so much sense and she’d thought a whole new life awaited her, a life away from being the chubby girl in St Anne’s secondary school, always the third wheel in every party. And yet only some of that wondrous new life had happened. She had her beautiful little house, even though the mortgage was murderous, and she had her tiny little car, old banger that it was.
The job was going well and she was making more money because of the Girlfriend column. Professionally, everything was good. Personally, everything was dreadful.
She caught sight of herself in the hall mirror and knew she’d done a good job hiding the ravages of a face ruined from crying the night before. Her hair was washed, rippling like copper. She’d worn a coral top and a turquoise necklace that made her look bright and sparkly. Just because things had gone so hideously wrong yesterday, she was not going to ruin this party for the people who loved her.
In other words, she was going to fake it.
‘Hello everyone,’ she said, striding into the big open-plan kitchen sitting area to find her father and her sister-in-law Zoe busy in the kitchen and her brothers Mick and Declan standing up with a glass of beer each, shooting the breeze, while Margaret, her soon to be sister-in-law, sat on the couch and knitted.
Margaret looked like an advert for kitesurfing – tall, leggy, tanned – yet she was a mad crafter, always knitting, always had needles and a ball of wool attached.
‘Easier than meditation,’ she kept saying to Ginger, encouraging her to get into it.
‘It’s the birthday girl,’ said Dad, delightedly putting down his wooden spoon and racing over to grab his daughter and twirl her around. Mick joined in and then Ronni, clearly recently dried from the pungent wet dog scent of him, jumped up on his back paws and tried to help.
It was beautiful to be home, Ginger thought, and she almost let herself go, almost let the tears fall, because now that she was here and in the warmth and the comfort of their love she could tell them and ...
‘Did you have a great day yesterday?’ said her father, going back to the saucepan. ‘Sorry, I can’t let this burn. It’s a special sauce I’m making for your birthday. I know you love the old hollandaise and it’s a nightmare.’
This reality check made Ginger convinced she couldn’t tell them all about the day before and how betrayed she’d felt.
‘It was great,’ she lied, feigning happy exhaustion. ‘Just brilliant. I’m so tired though. We were all up late – it was a fabulous day.’
‘Do you have pictures?’ said Zoe eagerly, ‘I bet Liza looked amazing.’
‘Goodness, you know I didn’t really take that many pictures of the afters. I took a few early on, but not that many later,’ said Ginger, deadpan. ‘But you know, loads of other people will have and I’m sure they’ll be up on Facebook later. Yes, Liza was beautiful and, yes, her dress was fabulous.’
‘And yours?’ said Zoe anxiously, knowing how worried her sister-in-law had been about the whole bridesmaid as battleship in full Scarlett O’Hara dress.
‘Perfect. The colour was really nice after all,’ said Ginger.
Another lie. She would go to hell, or whatever sort of hell there was for people who lied through their teeth and were good at it. Although there had been many times when she’d been in this very house and she’d lied about things:yes, school was grand;yes, the disco was fun.
All those things that came back to not fitting in and feeling like the fat girl. Nothing changed, did it?
