Lisa Ballantyne - Guilty One

He would have liked to refuse Cunningham, to be on his way, but all he wanted to do was lie down, and so he agreed.

In the café, Daniel hung his head and put a hand across his face. Cunningham had ordered a pot of tea for them both and a bowl of soup for himself. Daniel was not eating.

‘It must be hard for you,’ said Cunningham, folding his arms.

Daniel cleared his throat and looked away, embarrassed by his own confused feelings for Minnie and chastened by Harriet’s harsh words. He was not sure why he felt so emotional. He had said goodbye to Minnie long ago.

‘She was a gem. A pure gem. She touched so many people.’

‘She was a tough old boot,’ said Daniel. ‘I think she made as many enemies as she did friends … ’

‘We’d’ve had it at the chapel, but she specifically requested a non-religious committal and a cremation. A cremation, would you ever believe it?’

‘She gave up on God,’ said Daniel.

‘I know she didn’t practise for many years. I don’t have the time myself, if truth be told, but I always thought that her faith was still important to her.’

‘She told me once that the rituals and the charms were the hardest to let go of – she didn’t hold store in them, but she couldn’t stop. She told me once that Christianity was just another of her bad habits. If you knew her, she said a rosary when she was drunk. Bad habits go together … Your speech was good. It was right. She was a rebel.’

‘I think she should have gone back to Cork after Norman died. Her sister said as much, did you speak to her? She was the one at the end of the row.’

‘I know her sister. She used to visit us. I said a few words.’ Again Daniel looked away, but Cunningham did not notice and continued talking.

‘She was a woman before her time, she was, Minnie. She needed to be in a city, somewhere cosmopolitan … ’

‘Nah, she loved the country. That’s what she lived for.’

‘But her ideas were all city ideas, she’d’ve been better off.’

‘Maybe. It was her choice. Like you said, she loved her animals.’

Cunningham’s soup came and there were a few moments when he busied himself with napkin and buttered roll. Daniel sipped his tea and watched, still unsure what Cunningham needed to talk about so urgently. He was content to be quiet.

‘It’ll be some time before the estate is settled. I need to get a firm to clear the house and then put it on the market. In its condition, I’m not expecting a quick sale, but you never know. I just want you to be prepared for it being a few months before we can settle up, as it were.’

‘Like I said on the phone, I don’t want anything.’

Cunningham took a wary mouthful of soup. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and then said, ‘I thought you might have changed your mind, coming to the funeral and all.’

‘I don’t know why I came. I suppose I had to … ’ Daniel rubbed his hands over his face. ‘… see for myself she was really dead. We’ve not been in touch for a while.’

‘She told me … There’s no rush about the estate. Like I said, it’ll be months before it’s finalised. I’ll contact you nearer the time and you can see how you feel then.’

‘Fine, but I can tell you now I won’t change my mind. You can give it to the dogs’ home. Sure that’d please her.’

‘Well, we can sort that out in due course.’

Silence stretched out before them, like a dog asking to be petted.

Cunningham looked out of the window. ‘Minnie was a gem, eh? Good laugh, she was. Great sense of humour, eh?’

‘I don’t remember.’

The man frowned at Daniel then turned his attention to his soup.

‘So, was it cancer then?’ said Daniel, taking a deep breath.

Cunningham swallowed, nodding. ‘But she didn’t fight it, you know. She could have had chemotherapy; there were surgery options but she refused them all.’

‘Of course – she would have.’

‘She told me that she’d been unhappy. I know you had a falling-out a few years ago.’

‘She was unhappy long before that,’ said Daniel.

Cunningham’s spoon sounded against the bowl, as he scraped it clean. ‘You were one of her foster kids originally, weren’t you?’

Daniel nodded once. His shoulders and upper arms were suddenly tight and he shifted to release the tension.

‘You were special to her. She told me that. You were like her own,’ said Cunningham.

Daniel looked at him. He had a spot of soup on his moustache and his eyes were open and searching. Daniel felt a surprising anger towards the man. The café was suddenly too warm.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Cunningham, motioning for the bill, as if realising that he had crossed a line. ‘She gave me a box of things for you. They are trinkets and photographs mostly – nothing of any great value – but she wanted you to have them. Best you take them now. They’re in the car.’

Cunningham drained his cup. ‘I know this must be hard on you. I know you had your differences, but still … ’

Daniel shook his head, unsure what to say. The pain had returned to his throat again. He felt as he had in the crematorium, fighting back tears and angry with himself because of that.

‘Did you want to deal with the house yourself? As family, you’re entitled … ’

‘No, just get a firm in, there’s nothing … I really don’t have time for it.’ It felt better saying that. The words were like fresh air. He felt squared by them, braced.

‘Feel free to go and take any personal items from the property while you’re up, but like I said there are a few things she set aside.’

They stood up to leave; Cunningham paid the bill. Before he opened the door, Daniel asked, ‘She didn’t suffer, did she?’

They stepped out into the early autumn sun. The sharp clarity of it caused Daniel to squint.

‘She did suffer, but she knew that was unavoidable. I think she’d had enough really and she just wanted everything to end.’

They shook hands. Daniel felt Cunningham’s short, hard grip as conflicted, communicating the unsaid. It reminded him of handshakes he had given to clients after the judge had sent them down. Kindness delivered with quick violence.

Daniel was about to turn from him, excused, expelled, but then Cunningham threw up his hands.

‘Your box! Your box is in my car. One minute.’

Daniel waited while Cunningham retrieved the cardboard box from the boot. The smell of the fields and the farms did not calm him.

‘There you go,’ said Cunningham. ‘Not worth a lot, but she wanted you to have it.’

To avoid a second handshake, Cunningham saluted Daniel in the crematorium car park. Daniel was confused by the gesture, but nodded goodbye.

The box was light. He placed it in the boot of his car, without looking inside.

8

He slipped his feet into the too-big wellington boots. Through his socks they felt cold, like jelly gone hard. He scattered kitchen scraps for the chickens as she had asked. He tried not to touch the cold vegetables with his fingers but some corn got stuck on his nails. He flicked it off like snot. Minnie had told him she thought his nose was broken. He found it hard to breathe as he fed the chickens. He didn’t mind so much as he hated the ming of them: ammonia and rotting vegetable and damp feather.

It was Saturday and she was making bacon and eggs for him. He could see her at the kitchen window. She was always quiet in the mornings. He knew it was the other side of the gin. He was eleven years old and knew about hangovers of the drug and drink kind, although he had never had one. He had been drunk, though. He had taken two tins of lager to bed with him one night and drunk them watching Dallas on the portable black and white in his mother’s room. He had been sick all down his pyjamas.