For Michael and John
Paris
March 1975
Dearest Cathy,
Bonjour ma sœur chérie! How are you, baby sister? And how are Mam and Dad, and Gerry and Paddy? Even though I miss you all very much, Joe and I are having a fantastic time. How can I describe it here? Fun. Sophisticated. Deliciously foreign.
We are settling in well and making a new circle of friends. You should see the other embassy wives with their glitzy dresses and glittering jewels – they sparkle from a mile away and I feel like Cinderella by comparison! I’ve already told Joe that I need a bigger shopping allowance. You should visit us, Cathy, and help me upgrade my wardrobe – you have such a good eye for fashion. We have plenty of rooms in the house; so many, in fact, that the entire family could stay and we’d hardly notice! Did I mention that we have a maid? Anna is Polish, and has adequate English (when she chooses to speak!). She lives in – which seems to be de rigueur in Paris – and she is so quiet and mousey that I sometimes forget she’s in the house. Last week I was walking up the stairs when she appeared out of the shadows on the landing above me and I screamed, frightening the wits out of the both of us.
I have some news, Cathy, really good news, but you must promise to keep it to yourself for now. I’m pregnant! Isn’t that wonderful? Moving here was clearly the right thing to do. Both of us were so jaded from the disappointments and stress, a change was just what we needed. I’m quite certain that I’m having a little girl. So certain that I’ve already picked out a name, something Irish, of course, but I’m not going to tell you what it is, not until I’m cradling my baby in my arms and I can see her precious little face for myself and whisper her name to her. In a few weeks, I’ll announce the news to Mam and the boys and whoever cares to listen. By then the baby will be bigger and stronger, and I’ll want the world to know that she’s here to stay.
I’m writing this letter in one of the many local cafés. The smell of croissants and freshly brewed coffee makes me feel inordinately content and happy within myself. Dublin seems very far away, worlds apart from here, not just in miles but in every possible way. The food, the people, the frantically fast traffic on the street outside, the overall vibe and beat of the city – everything is so different. We both feel a strange sense of belonging in this city, as though this is where we are meant to be. Our pale skin and Dublin accents are irrelevant, because belonging is something you feel in your heart, and I’ve realised it has nothing to do with what you look like, or where you are born and raised. Don’t tell Mam and Dad that I can’t see us coming home. I know they’ll be devastated, but Joe and I have to do what’s right for us. There are any number of positions that Joe can apply for when his term at the embassy is over. He’s so happy here. We both are.
Do consider coming over, Cathy, and not just for a few days. The city is thriving, and there are so many jobs for typists you could have your pick. As I’ve said, you are more than welcome to stay with us. We’d be there for you if you needed us (including Anna – imagine, a maid at your beck and call!) but you could have your independence, too.
Write back soon and tell me all about the family, your work and, of course, the latest man on the scene. One of the few things I miss is being able to hear firsthand about my baby sister’s escapades!
Lots of love always,
Moira
Chapter 1
Dublin, February 2010
Erin gazed at the narrow, jagged lines streaked across the window panes. The rain had ice in it. All day it had been coming in short, bitter bursts, whipping sideways against the glass. It felt reassuring to be inside, and to imagine, rather than experience, how cold and sharp it would feel against her bare head. The room was artificially warm and bright, the oil heaters lending a slight stuffiness to the air, the electric lights overcompensating for the gloominess outside. It would be dark by the time she left school at four o’clock and, if the weather forecast was to be believed, it would be freezing by early evening.
‘Tristan Keary, stop that right now!’
‘Sorry, Miss.’
‘It’s Mademoiselle, not Miss.’
‘Sorry, Mademoiselle Donovan.’
‘Sorry? I thought we were in a French class here.’
Tristan looked blank, an expression he had practised and perfected since the day he’d started secondary school, in fact maybe since the moment he’d been born. Erin emitted a long-suffering, very teacher-like sigh.
‘Emily, please tell Tristan how to apologise en français.’
‘Pardonnez-moi.’
‘Merci, Emily. Tristan?’
‘Pardonnez-moi, Miss – I mean, Mademoiselle.’
‘Lucky for you, Tristan, that an apology somehow sounds far more genuine when it’s said in French! Now, everyone, continue with your work, please.’
Erin stared at her students until one by one they succumbed, heads swooping towards exercise books, pens twirling in thought, and silence – beautiful, rare silence – crept across the classroom and into the recesses of her head. Not pure silence, of course. Sighs, sniffs, shuffles and position-changing in chairs, rulers clattering against desks, the rain thrashing against the glass, thwarted in its attempts to get in, the sound of paper being torn – coming from Tristan’s direction? – all removed the possibility of complete quiet. Nevertheless, it was as close to silence as Erin would get in the remaining twenty minutes of this forty-minute class and it was to be enjoyed.
In these rare moments of quiet, she often paused to consider how fond she was of them, her students, and this class of third years in particular. Each of them, in their own unique way, had a special place in her heart: Emily, bright, earnest, a question always hovering on the tip of her tongue waiting to be asked – its answer, when provided, promptly analysed and catalogued for future use; Tom, awkward, selfconscious, far too serious; sweet little Aoife, always so eager to please; Darragh, accident-prone, writing clumsily with his left hand, his right in plaster after tripping over in the school yard last week, his second broken bone since Erin had known him; Aaron, looking achingly more adult than his classmates, downy hair on his upper lip, his long legs folded under the desk, towering over Erin and most of the other teachers in the school; Lisha, originally from Nigeria, who had arrived in Ireland and into this class two years ago but who remained on the outer and unsure of her place amongst these teenagers who were the same age as her but with so little else in common. Even Tristan, with all his bravado and clowning around, was special. Erin hadn’t told them yet that she was leaving, that this was her second-last week at St Patrick’s Community School. She would tell them next week. She smiled to herself as she imagined the outcry at her news.
‘But, Miss, I mean Mademoiselle, it’s the middle of the school year!’
‘And this is our Junior Cert year. The most important year of our lives!’
‘Why are you going? Is it something we did? Is it Tristan?’
‘Of
