I feel responsible for you being such a loner and this house doesn’t help. It has already begun to deteriorate here and there, like me. And it is too isolated, like you.
The car isn’t going to last forever and, while you could easily get another car, I think your mother was right all those years ago when she said we should find a way to socialize you. I know you hated living in Roscommon town but you need to be around more people. Would you consider moving into Carricksheedy village? Also, you don’t need a three-bedroom house. It was selfish of me to allow you to spend your time alone in this house with only me for company.
We have let the back field grow wild and unkempt. Do you remember when your mother maintained it as a wildflower meadow? It hummed with bees and butterflies in the summertime. It is one of my many regrets that we did not keep that up. You made up a song about it. Please keep up that singing and playing the piano for the rest of your life, it brings you peace and no doubt could bring joy to others.
I think Ger McCarthy has had his eye on the land for a while. He asked me about it a few years back but I was afraid to make changes that might upset you. I treated you like a child. I’m sorry, my love. He’d probably renovate the house and farm the land that adjoins his own. He’s already leasing the second back field, as you know. I’d advise you to sell to him, but be guided by the estate agent. This house is a good-sized bungalow with big rooms, although neglected. But the acres surrounding it are fertile and ideal for cattle grazing. As secluded as we are, the village is spreading outwards. There are apartments on the main street now. Who would have thought it? Maybe you should see if there is one for sale?
Would you consider getting a job? I can’t think of anything that would suit you but I think getting away from home on a regular basis would be good for you.
By the way, you don’t have to worry about the bills, they all are on a direct debit and Geoff Barrington will see to it that they continue to be paid while probate is processed.
In the beginning I thought it was funny that you pretended to be deaf. But now, I think it was unwise. You should talk to people. Ask them about themselves. A simple ‘How are you?’ is enough to start a conversation. Try to look them in the face. Even if you don’t want to know the answer, you will eventually develop friendships. The only opportunity you had to do that was in school and, despite your unhappy experience there, there were some nice girls who tried to help you. Remember them? In the outside world, you will find more people who are kind than people who are not. Seek them out.
Janet Roche runs a painting class and it would be a nice way to get to know people. Ian and Sandra in the library in Roscommon run all kinds of groups and I know they run a class to teach people how to use computers. It doesn’t cost anything. I’d start with that if I were you.
That is all for now, my love. Have a good week. Before you open the last letter next week, I want you to have a good meal and a small whiskey. There is a lot of information to take in and I don’t want to bombard you with everything all at once.
Your loving Dad
Why would I move house? I liked living here. I didn’t want to be in the village, and I certainly didn’t want to socialize. I could be a childminder perhaps. To Abebi and Maduka. Martha and Udo might let me look after them sometimes. They wouldn’t have to pay me.
Another curious thing. Dad had said PTSD in his letter. I knew that meant Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. What trauma was he talking about?
13
The next day, I went to the post office. There was a long queue of people chattering as I opened the door but, as they turned and saw me, a hush descended. The woman in front of me had been at the funeral. ‘We never knew you could talk,’ she said.
‘How are you?’ I asked, as Dad had suggested, but instead of answering, she said, ‘I’m Caroline from the Texaco, I dropped a casserole to your door a few days ago. It must be hard to prepare meals or to think straight when you’re grieving.’
‘It was delicious,’ I said. ‘May I have the recipe?’
I looked her in the face. Her lipstick was red and her eyes were blue, and I think she might have been a bit younger than me, but I am not good at guessing ages.
‘Sure, will I email it to you?’
‘I don’t use a computer, but I’m going to take some classes after Christmas in the library. They are free.’ I had ascertained this by phoning the library that morning and the conversation was easy and the man, Ian, was nice.
‘Do you have a mobile? I could text it to you?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll write it out, then, and you come see me in the Texaco and I’ll give it to you.’
‘Thank you. I think straight, by the way, but I am emotionally disconnected so I don’t process grief in the normal way. How are you?’ I thought I’d try again.
‘Busy,’ she said and held out a sheaf of envelopes. ‘Trying to get Christmas cards into the post before it’s too late.’
The postman had delivered cards to the house over previous weeks. Some were addressed to Dad and some were addressed to me. I thought I should probably open them.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say to Caroline.
The queue had moved slowly, many customers pushing unwieldy parcels through Mrs Sullivan’s open window at the counter.
‘So, where will you be spending Christmas?’ Caroline asked.
‘Angela and Nadine have sort of invited me, but I’m not sure if I’ll go. I might stay at home.’
‘The lesbians?’ she said.
