I told her I was going to the post office later, and that I’d mail it for her.
But I’d no intention of doing that. Angela Reading would never see it. Therefore she’d never reply to it. I was gonna do that. And I was gonna do it in such a way that when Gemma read it, she’d feel her mother had rejected her all over again. If Gemma had given any indication that Lucille had gone to Clonkeelin, what happened next wouldn’t have happened. There’d have been no need for it.
LUCILLE
Doctor Nolan looked to be in his early thirties, too young to have been my mother’s doctor when I was born, and had been practising in Clonkeelin for just under three years. When I showed him my birth certificate and explained why I had come he agreed to tell me what he could.
‘What are her circumstances? Is she married for instance?’
‘No.’
‘Divorced?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Does she have any children?’
‘No.’
‘Does she work in the village?’
‘She runs an equestrian business. The Donavan Riding Stables.’
‘Does she live alone?’
‘No, with her father. His two sisters still live in the old family cottage; it’s at the entrance to the farm.’
‘How do you think my return might affect her?’
‘In a situation like this, if the person involved is elderly or of a nervous disposition, I would suggest that I mediate. I would write her a letter and inform you of her response. Anne is neither of those. Have you considered writing to her?’
I had. But sending a letter’s a bit like sending a résumé: it doesn’t always lead to an interview.
My friend Gemma was facing the same situation. Only she had written her mother a letter. She’d been talking about it then had it posted before telling me, which meant I couldn’t tell her about seeing Doctor Nolan. It only would have upset her to think she hadn’t thought to give her mother the same consideration. Besides, it probably wasn’t important. After all, I’d imagined Anne Donavan married with kids and possibly not in the best of health and Doctor Nolan had just told me otherwise.
The equestrian business made it possible to approach her on that level. So I bought jodhpurs, boots, waxed jacket, gloves and hat, new seat covers for my Fiesta and gave it a good polish. Then I fixed my hair in plaits and drove in past the cottage where my two great-aunts lived and up the long rambling drive to the main house. It couldn’t be seen from the road. It lay in a glade, about half a mile in. A big dormer bungalow with an entrance porch and a conservatory on the end facing the paddocks.
I parked in the stable yard and walked across to an outdoor arena where a man was jumping a horse. He nodded as he rode past. He bore no resemblance to me; resemblance was what I was looking out for. I put him in his late fifties, dark hair as short as eyelashes and stocky.
Then I heard a voice say ‘Can I help you?’ and I turned around and saw a woman in her late thirties walking towards me.
‘Yes, I’ve a … come for riding lessons.’
‘Now?’
‘Only if it’s convenient.’
‘Of course.’
‘Lucille Kells.’
‘Nice to meet you, Lucille. Anne Donavan.’
It was her.
Though again I saw no resemblance. She was pretty but did not look at all like me. Perhaps I favoured my father. Her hair was long, like mine, and she wore it in a middle parting, the way I often do, but she was much fairer.
I’d known girls over the years who’d been afraid to meet their mothers. They’d traced them, gone up to them in the street as strangers and asked for directions, just to see if they would detect anything of themselves in them – a set of the jaw, a glint in the eyes – only to be told which way to go. This was very much the same. Still, it was strange standing there with her not knowing who I was.
‘Have you ever ridden before, Lucille?’
‘No.’
‘Come on then, we’ll get you going.’
‘Are you going to teach me?’
‘Of course. If that’s all right?’
‘Yes. Perfect.’
I hadn’t thought of her teaching me personally. I thought she’d have staff. I was delighted though – it would give me a chance to get to know her quicker.
We went over to the stables, where she saddled two horses.
‘Now just put your foot in the stirrup and up you go.’
And up I went. Then she showed me how to hold the reins. ‘Between your second and third fingers. That’s it. Grand.’ Big smile. ‘And do your jacket up, Lucille, there’s a twist in the air.’
She was very friendly and informal. I liked her.
She got up on her horse. Marty she called it. He was much bigger than mine, which was white and called Flo.
‘We use Flo for all our beginners. She’ll just follow me. I stop, she stops. She likes stopping.’
‘OK.’
We went along a trekking lane and across fields to a river.
‘Today’s just to help you find your seat. Once you get the feel of the saddle, I’ll try you out in the lunging arena, lunge you in a circle, going from trot to canter.’
‘Have you always lived here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is this what you do every day?’
‘No. Most of our business comes from tourists. They start off from here with a saddlebag, trek across country to a guest house, stop over then do the same the following day. The routes are all worked out for them on a map. We breed as well, though that’s more of a hobby. That was my mare in the first stable. She’s a prizewinner. She’s due in a few months. To Palermo. The stallion my father was jumping.’
That’s how I found out he was my grandfather.
I met him when we got back. The phone in the house was ringing, and while Anne went to
