Río steeled herself, then bent down to pick up the valise. She recognised it as having belonged to her grandmother. It was one of those silly little cases lined with frilly-edged elasticated silk that had once contained manicure kit and hairbrushes and lotions and potions for personal grooming while travelling. But its function as a vanity case had become redundant once their grandmother had died, for Río and Dervla’s mother, Rosaleen, had never had an opportunity to travel anywhere.
Río carried the case over to the bockety sofa and sat down beside W.B. Dervla brushed dust off the armrest before perching herself at an angle that would allow her to look at the letters over her sister’s shoulder.
The first letter Río drew out of the case was in an unfamiliar hand. Because there was no envelope, it was not possible to tell who had been the recipient. ‘“Darling one,”’ Río read out loud. ‘“It’s only Tuesday, and already I miss you unspeakably”’
‘Who could “darling one” be?’ asked Dervla. ‘Our father?’
‘No,’ said Río, scanning the page. ‘This was written to Mama. Listen.
I know what hell you are going through with Frank, my lovely, loveliest Rosaleen, and I wish I could help in some way. You tell me my letters help ease the pain of your joyless marriage, but any words I write seem woefully inadequate. I want to speak to you, so that I can feast my eyes on your beautiful face while I tell you over and over again how wildly, how besottedly I am in love with you…’
Río raised her eyes from the page, and regarded Dervla. ‘Mama must have had a lover,’ she said.
‘A lover? Mama?’ Incredulity was scrawled all over Dervla’s face. ‘No!’
‘What else could this mean?’
‘But…Mama?. Mama was a kind of saint–she was such a good person! She was so wise and gentle, and she put up with Dad for all those years…Oh God. Maybe that’s why?’
Río nodded. ‘Maybe putting up with Dad was just too much.’
‘But who might–the lover have been?’
Río looked down at the bunch of letters. ‘Looks like we’re going to find out.’
‘Is there a signature?’
‘Not on this one. It’s just signed “P”.’
‘A date?’ said Dervla, leaning over and taking a second letter from the valise.
‘No.’
‘There is on this one.’ Dervla unfolded a sheet of pale blue vellum. ‘October, 1970.’
‘What does it say?’
‘My love. I’m writing this letter on the beach, where I came to leave it in our secret place, and I saw you just now with Frank and baby Dervla. I didn’t dare approach because there were too many people talking to you. Presumably they’re all curious to know when the new baby will arrive. You looked blooming. Beautiful. I felt so jealous to know that everybody will imagine Frank to be the father—’
Dervla stopped short, and bit her lip. Río heard herself saying, in a peculiarly calm voice: ‘Give me that letter.’
‘I…I’m not sure that we should—’
‘Give it to me.’
Wordlessly, Dervla handed it over.
“‘I felt so jealous’”, murmured Río, “‘to know that everybody will imagine Frank to be the father of our baby. If it’s a girl, my lovely Rosaleen, I should hope that you might call her Ríonach…’”
Río let the letter fall onto her lap.
There was a pause, then Dervla rose to her feet. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that we should finish reading these letters over a bottle of wine. Come on.’
‘I don’t think I can stand up.’
‘Come on, Río–we’ve got to get out of here. This attic is starting to do my head in. It’s like the set of a scary movie.’
Dervla made a move to help Río up from the sagging sofa, and as she did so, Río noticed that she had a manila envelope in her hand. ‘What’s that?’ she asked numbly.
‘It’s our father’s will,’ replied Dervla.
‘You mean, it’s your father’s will,’ said Río. ‘I’ve clearly yet to find out who my father is.’
In the kitchen, Dervla handed Río her cuddly toy elephant. ‘Here’s something for comfort,’ she said, ‘until the anaesthetising effect of the alcohol kicks in.’ She refilled their glasses and set them on the table, where Río had upended the vanity case. Letters littered the pockmarked tabletop. There were about thirty of them. ‘We should maybe try to sort them into chronological order,’ Dervla added, really just for something to say to fill the dreadful silence that had reigned in the house since Río had made the discovery that Frank was not her natural father.
Río shrugged, then selected a letter at random. ‘Let’s get our priorities right,’ she said, unfolding the pages and turning to the last one. ‘We should first try to find out who wrote them.’
Another silence fell. Then: ‘Well?’ said Dervla.
‘Patrick. His name is Patrick.’ Río leaned back in her chair. ‘Wow. That’s helpful. My father happens to have one of the commonest names in all of Ireland.’ Picking up her wineglass, she drained it in one sustained gulp. ‘Yeuch,’ she said, and belched.
‘We don’t know he’s your father,’ Dervla pointed out, without much conviction.
‘Dervla–think about it. This Patrick geezer clearly swept Mama off her feet. It’s like we said earlier: maybe putting up with Dad was just too much for her. If you were married to a man like him, could you have kept faithful?’ Río picked up another letter. ‘Look, here’s a love poem.
‘Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred, Then another thousand, then a second hundred, Then yet another thousand more, then another hundred.
‘Sheesh. I wonder, did he write that?’
‘It’s Catullus,’ said Dervla.
‘What?’
‘Catullus. He was one of the greatest Roman love poets.’
‘You’re kidding! Finn could write better poetry than that.’ Río looked glumly at her empty glass. ‘Dervla. Could you be a sweetheart and nip out to the shop for another bottle? I feel like getting very, very drunk.’
‘Who could blame you?’ Dervla reached for her bag. ‘I’ll be back in five.’
As she made for the front door, WB. stuck his furry face out between the top banisters, looking like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland. Curiouser and curiouser, thought Dervla, shutting the door behind her.
Could it be true? she wondered, as she made her way along the main street of the village, which was still decked out in festive Christmas lights. Could it really be true that she and Río were half-sisters? She’d always been aware that they were quite different types–not just temperamentally, but physically too. Río had an unruly mass of red-gold hair, while Dervla wore hers in a sleek dark bob. Río had an unashamedly voluptuous figure, while Dervla’s was lean and androgynous. Río’s eyes were green, Dervla’s conker brown. Río took after their mother, while Dervla favoured their father. Her father…
Who would know? Who in the village might possibly