Page 111 of The Missing Sister
We each took a large gulp that burnt my stomach a second later, but wasn’t unpleasant. After we both drained our glasses in silence, Ambrose placed his down on the round side table next to his chair. I was glad to see that his hand was steadier now.
‘I could use many quotes of renown to mark this moment, but I do not want to resort to either cliché or hyperbole,’ he said. ‘I will simply ask you where on earth you have been for the last thirty-seven years? And you, I’m sure’ – he put up a finger which I knew meant that he hadn’t finished – ‘will tell me that it’s a long story. They are the best, but perhaps you could be brief initially and, as they say these days, cut to the chase.’
‘I’ve been living in New Zealand,’ I said. ‘I married a man called Jock and we have two children. One called Jack, who is thirty-two, and the other named Mary-Kate, who is twenty two.’
‘And now to the most important question: have you been happy?’
‘When I left, I was desperately unhappy,’ I admitted, ‘but eventually, yes. When I met Jock, I realised I needed to forget about the past and live with what I had found. Once I had done that, I was able to enjoy and appreciate life again.’
Ambrose paused, resting his elbows on the arms of the leather chair, his fingers under his chin. ‘The next question is, whether you have the time and the wherewithal to tell me the minutiae of the intervening years. Or are you leaving again sometime soon?’
‘At this moment, I have nothing planned that will take me anywhere else. Ironically, for reasons I want to talk to you about, I embarked on a Grand Tour that was meant to take me months. So far, I have been to four countries in about a week. I had planned for Ireland to be my last stop.’
Ambrose smiled at this. ‘The schemes of mice and men, or should I add “and women”. What matters is that you are here now, and even if my eyesight is fading fast, you look no different. You are still the beautiful young woman I loved, and last saw in this very room when she was only twenty-two years old.’
‘Then your eyesightisfading, dearest Ambrose. I am nearly fifty-nine years of age now, and getting old.’
‘So, it is possible you can spare me some time over the next few hours – or days – to tell me why, in the first instance, you had to leave Ireland and cease all contact with me?’
‘I intend to, yes. But that... well, that really depends on your response when I tell you about my current problem. Which has a lot to do with why I left Ireland in the first place.’
‘Goodness! Are you in the midst of writing a Greek tragedy? Or are you describing the story of your life?’ Ambrose raised an expressive eyebrow.
‘Perhaps I am being overdramatic, but that’s the reason I’m sitting here with you now. You’re the only person left that I can truly ask for advice.’
‘What about your husband? Jock?’
‘My darling Jock died a few months ago. Which was when I decided to—’
‘Revisit your past?’
‘Yes.’
‘And are you feeling that your past has perhaps caught up with you?’ he asked, acutely perceptive as always.
‘I am, yes. Completely...’ I stood up. ‘Would you mind if I helped myself to another whiskey?’
‘Not at all, Mary. Pour me another drop too. I always think better when there’s a rationed percentage of alcohol inside me, but please never tell any of my other ex-students that,’ he said with a wink. ‘There’s also a tray of rather good sandwiches in the kitchen, which will soak it up. My daily, who does – or doesn’t, as the case may be – everything for me, made them just before she left.’
‘I’ll go and get them.’
I walked down the dim corridor to the kitchen, and saw that not a single cabinet had been changed since I was last here, although there was a new cooker and even a microwave placed in one corner. The plate of sandwiches was made with soda bread and covered in cling film.
‘Here we are,’ I said as I returned and placed the plate on the side table next to him.
‘Help yourself. One will be cheese and salad, the other ham and salad. It always is.’
‘They look delicious; certainly better than anything Mrs Cavanagh ever provided,’ I smiled, taking one.
‘Ah, Mrs Cavanagh,’ he sighed. ‘Well, I may have missed out on a large portion of your life, dear Mary, but equally, you have missed out on a rather large portion of mine. And talking of portions, let us eat and continue the conversation once we have done so.’
Another silence descended as we ate the sandwiches. Ambrose had always taught me it was rude to talk with one’s mouth full. And I had taught my own children the same.
‘So, apart from your eyes, are you keeping well?’ I asked when we had finished.
‘I think the words “apart from” are the common denominator for anyone of my age. Apart from the rheumatism, and the rather high cholesterol – which I hasten to add I’ve lived with since my fifties – I’m as fit as a flea.’
‘Do you get down to West Cork much these days?’
