The Judge's Wife Read online

  When the attendants burst in, they grabbed Grace from behind, smartly navigating her out on to the corridor. She saw Aunt Violet feign weakness and an attendant ease her gently into a chair, calling for a glass of water.

  “You have done it now. No more visits for you,” a nurse hissed.

  Two male attendants dragged her away. She kicked, called them names, threw punches into the air, and they laughed, pulling her so hard her knees grazed along the floor. At a running pace, they swished her down two long corridors to a landing with a steel door. They did not say anything but pushed her roughly inside, quickly slamming the door shut. She heard them chat briefly before one of them pulled back a tiny hatch in the door. “Four walls and a floor. This place should help you cool off.”

  In the shaft of light from the hatch before it was slammed shut, she saw the room was bare. Sliding down the wall, she put her hands out to feel around her. The stone was rough, clammy-cold and damp. The floor lino was thin and she could feel a chill seeping up through her already. She must have got halfway around when the hatch was swiped back again. A shaft of glaring light banded across the room. Grace shrank back, afraid.

  “Not as feisty now, are we?” The woman outside scuffed her shoes against the door, making it shudder. “Cool your heels for a while.”

  Sliding down to the floor, Grace heard a woman call to another in the garden. “A pleasant day for this time of year, Geraldine.”

  *

  It was the evening when they took her from the room and walked her to the ward.

  Mandy, crocheting a doily, did not look up at first. Her fingers deftly threaded the hook, making the stitches. She waited several minutes before speaking.

  “Thought you had gone home. They put some things in your locker.”

  Grace pulled open the door of the steel locker. Her gloves, hat and scarf were in a small pile in the corner. “Who put these here?”

  “Matron.”

  Grace lifted the baby-blue hat and scarf, feeling the softness of the wool. “A present from Martin last Christmas.”

  Bertha, the woman newly admitted, smiled. “My husband brings me flowers every Friday evening.”

  “Can I have a go?” Mandy whirled the scarf over her shoulders and walked jauntily along the narrow corridor between the beds.

  “You can have it.”

  Mandy spun around like a model at the end of the catwalk, jutting out her hip. “Never. Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  As the others clustered around to admire and touch the scarf, their fingers lingering on its rich softness, Grace pushed her hands into the gloves. Feeling the soft cold of the hidden piece of marble, she sat and stared ahead, his voice running in her head, telling her his story. She did not hear the two attendants scattering the gaggle around Mandy. She didn’t see them look to each other and mutter that a few hours in isolation had knocked the spirit out of the judge’s wife. Neither did she hear the prediction she was going to be one of the quiet ones from now on.

  She only heard his soft, lilting voice tell the story.

  “This is my grandfather’s story, a man who also loved big.

  “He was assigned to Agra for four weeks. He had a habit of writing every day to my grandmother. One day, he sat and wrote his letter at the Taj Mahal. Workmen at the rest house were restoring the delicate paintwork on the ceiling and replacing little inserts of marble in motifs along the walls. The works foreman called out to my grandfather and asked what he was scribbling. A little taken aback, grandfather said he was writing only to his wife.

  “‘Is she kind, wise and beautiful?’

  “‘She is all those and more.’

  “‘Do you love her?’

  “‘Beyond imagining.’

  “‘You are a lucky man.’

  “The foreman reached into his pocket and took out a small piece of white marble. Perfectly cut, the translucent white marble glistened as he held it up to the sun.

  “‘Take it and give it to her, so that she may know the feel of the Taj Mahal,’ he said quietly, before moving away to climb the scaffolding. Grandfather followed and put his hand on the man’s shoulder, before he swung himself on to the bamboo rod bars.

  “‘Brother, this means a great deal to me.’

  “‘I know,’ he said climbing up the bamboo scaffolding like a monkey springing from branch to branch.”

  Grace knew the next bit off by heart.

  “I give you a small piece of this symbol of love, Grace Moran, to show you I love you beyond anything. My grandparents were only separated by death. My ambition for us is no less.”

  Mandy shook her shoulder.

  “You know they are all saying you are properly doolally now.” She pushed her face into the scarf. “It smells nice.”

  “Evening in Paris.”

  “I would take an evening in Knockavanagh, never mind Paris,” Mandy said, throwing the scarf over her shoulders in an extravagant fashion.

  Bertha, in a state of intense agitation, screamed, “My roses have been stolen.”

  “Now, now, you are imagining things. What would a man be doing buying flowers every Friday evening? Sure, there would be no money left for the groceries,” the attendant snapped, as she pushed her back into her chair.

  Bertha fell back to one side, mumbling into her chin.

  9

  Bangalore, India, March 1984

  Rhya was watching television, the sound blaring from the apartment, bouncing off the idle heat lurking outside. A squirrel scampered past, its tail high, before scuttling under the blooms of the jacaranda tree. Vikram, his morning’s work done, sat in the shady section of the marble balcony. He had promised Grace to show her the jacaranda in flower, but he never did keep his word.

  Anger rose up inside him that it could have been so different. The day they met, she had showered one hundred thousand blessings on him, though it did not always seem that way. When he told her that much later, she reached over, pinching him on the cheek, her laugh tinkling upwards to the cloudless sky.

  “I mean it: if a trumpet bloom falls on you, you are truly blessed. You will be favoured by fortune.”

  “Tall tales, Dr Fernandes, but so pleasing. I must see this jacaranda and claim my good fortune. I will gather up a bundle. It will take more than one flower to wipe out my sins.”

  “It will be my honour to show you the jacaranda.”

  Vikram sighed. The trumpet blooms, mauve to lilac, mocked him. She would never stand here, the jacaranda a backdrop to her simple beauty.

  The invitation to the Parnell Square party had been the start of it. He should have politely turned her down. Yet how could he? He was helpless against her requests.

  *

  He could not bow out: it was unthinkable to let her down. The battleaxe landlady begrudgingly let him have his weekly bath on a Friday rather than a Saturday. She made him feel like a beggar, eventually forcing out of him the reason he needed to wash. She said nothing at first, waiting until he was halfway up the stairs to spit out her opinion.

  “What they are doing inviting somebody like you is beyond me.”

  He continued his trudge to the third-floor bathroom he was told he could use.

  The landlady rocked back on her heels and shouted after him. “Let’s see if himself is happy with the situation.”

  He wore his finest silk kurta and waistcoat. The house at Parnell Square looked very grand: lights on in every room, the curtains drawn back, as if the occupants wanted the whole of Dublin to stop and stare. He was sure he heard the tinkle of her laugh punctuating the buzz of conversation growing around the house. A worry gripped him that she might not remember him, that she was trifling with him. He loitered at the front steps, thinking of passing the house by. Somebody opened the front door a gap and threw out a cigarette butt. It rolled at his feet as the door banged shut and the shrill banter deadened. He stubbed out the last spurt of fire from the cigarette with his leather shoe before quickly walking up the steps to the door
. He was sure of one thing: if he disappointed her, she would never forgive him for his cowardice. He pressed the bell quickly before he could doubt his decision. It was several minutes before the door was swung back.

  The housekeeper kept the door half open as she peered at him. “Yes?”

  “I am Dr Fernandes.”

  “So?”

  “Mrs Moran invited me.”

  She looked past him and her face opened in a wide smile. “Mr Justice Fitzpatrick and Mrs Fitzpatrick, do come in. I will tell the judge you have arrived.”

  They pushed past Vikram, the woman wearing a thick fur coat, the strength of her perfume making his nose twitch. The housekeeper made to close the door behind them, but he stepped closer so she could not avoid his gaze. She gave out a deep sigh and muttered, “Stay there, I will check.”

  The door banged shut. The house vibrated with talk and laughter as he looked over the smoky city and wondered if, after all, he should leave. The chill wind blowing in from the River Liffey made him shiver and he was already down three of the front steps when the front door pulled open again and the housekeeper motioned him to step into the hall.

  “Stay here, she will be down in a minute,” she said, going upstairs, casting glances back at him every few steps.

  Vikram moved from one foot to the other, anxiety coursing through him. Those passing through from the library to the upstairs drawing room pushed past him. He moved back into the shadows, out of the way.

  “Don’t hide, Dr Fernandes, you are my honoured guest.”

  She called out from the top of the stairs so that everybody turned around and looked at her. With a whip of her shoulders, Grace bunched up a handful of her dress in her hands and danced down the flight of stairs.

  He had never seen anything so beautiful: a silver-white butterfly fluttering about him. Her dress fanned about her in a concoction of delicate white ruffles.

  More than anything, he wanted to grab her hand and run out the door and down the street, where they could sit together and just be.

  Grace beckoned and Vikram walked towards her, following as she took the stairs slowly, stopping to exchange words with friends. At the top of the landing, she turned to Vikram. “You look very fine this evening, Dr Fernandes. You put all these other men to shame.”

  He coughed to hide his embarrassment, but she had already grabbed his hand and pulled him into the room, announcing at the top of her voice: “Dr Vikram Fernandes, Bangalore, India.”

  Those nearest the door stopped in mid conversation, stepping back to allow the guest more space. The women, noting the girlish excitement in Grace’s flushed-pink face, felt a spear of jealousy.

  Judge Martin Moran was deep in conversation with a constitutional lawyer when the room suddenly went quiet. He swung around to see his wife advance towards him, her arm linked with an Indian man’s.

  “Judge, please meet Dr Fernandes. I told you about him. He saved Aunt Violet’s life.”

  “Saved might be too strong a word, doctor, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. The credit for Mrs McNally’s recovery lies with Dr O’Connell. But your wife is most kind.”

  Vikram extended his hand. The judge gave it a limp shake.

  “You are welcome, Dr Fernandes. Help yourself to some food and drink.”

  They stood, an awkward silence between them until the judge, spotting somebody else, smiled, indicating he must circulate among his guests.

  Grace caught Vikram’s hand and led him to the far end of the room, where a long table pushed up against the back wall was laden down with silver platters of sandwiches, cake stands holding small bites of apple tart, sweet cake lined in a row and a wide tray holding small glass bowls of sherry trifle. In the centre, a silver candelabrum gave off the heat of twelve candles. At the far end Violet sat, her eyes watching him, her mouth set at a tight line of disapproval.

  “Never go for the sandwiches under the candles, unless you like a wax garnish,” Grace whispered in his ear. “We really put the Shelbourne to shame,” she giggled, as she piled up his plate high with ham-and-salad sandwiches and fruit cake. She motioned to Aunt Violet, who looked elegant in a deep-red silk dress, her hair swept up into a neat bun. Vikram bowed to the old lady, but she looked past him.

  “You know Dr Fernandes, Aunt Violet. He was kind enough to accept my invitation to the party.”

  Violet placed her sherry glass on the serving table. “Grace, I would like to speak to you in private, please.”

  “Maybe I should leave?”

  Violet stared at Vikram. “That would be a sensible course of action, Dr Fernandes.”

  Grace stood in front of Vikram. “Dr Fernandes is a good friend of mine and will be treated with courtesy in this house. The judge has already welcomed him.”

  Violet guffawed loudly, so that people around them stared at her. She lowered her voice appropriately. “Just because that husband of yours does not know what you’re at doesn’t mean I don’t. You have some cheek.”

  Vikram stepped in between the two women. “Thank you for the kind invitation, Mrs Moran. I must go.”

  He turned on his heel before Grace or Violet could say anything. Depositing his plate of food behind a large punch bowl, he slipped by revellers on the landing, going against the flow down the stairs. In the commotion, he found himself pushed into the library. Lined with books on all sides, there was a wide desk in front of the back window where sturdy brown files were stacked high. At the far end, the judge was deep in conversation with a tall man in a grey suit. Embarrassed, Vikram made to back out of the room as the judge swung around.

  “Dr Fernandes, you found my hiding place.”

  “I am very sorry, sir, I am afraid I lost my way.”

  “Not at all.”

  He bowed and made to leave as the man in the grey suit swept by him and up the stairs. Judge Moran called out to Vikram. “My wife seems rather taken by you. I hope you intend to respect her as a married woman.”

  Vikram spluttered in his surprise. “Of course, sir, Mrs Moran has been more than kind to me.” He backed away, making for the front door.

  He was already on the top step when Grace caught up with him. She looked distressed, her brow furrowed, a glint of tears in her eyes. She stepped out on the front steps with him and he was not sure what to say to her.

  “You should go back inside. You don’t want people to gossip.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “They will gossip anyway.”

  He made to leave and she called him back. “What do I call you? If we are to become friends, we have to move past the polite titles.”

  He grinned. “Vikram.”

  “Call me Grace.”

  He bowed. “Goodnight, Grace.”

  She giggled and blew him a kiss.

  *

  Grace skipped in front of him along the path, laughing. It was months on and they knew each other so well. It was a squally day and they were the only ones rash enough to be on Howth Head. Seagulls surfed the air, caterwauling as they were buffeted from side to side. He stopped to look at the ferry ploughing the Irish Sea and she came up behind him, leaning on his shoulder.

  “You are a silly dreamer,” she whispered in his ear. He turned around and kissed her. She pulled away, laughing, skipping ahead. He called to her to wait for him, but she did not hear, dancing up the hill, her skirt billowing around her, her laughter whipping up across the gorse bushes. When she turned around, she threw her arms wide and he raced to her.

  *

  “Vikram, what is wrong with you, man?”

  Rhya was clicking her fingers in front of his face, which annoyed him intensely. Four months ago, some character on television had done it and Rhya had adopted the practice as a suitable mode of communication. He regularly had to suffer this intrusion, though he voiced his disdain on many occasions. This time, he pretended not to notice and woke slowly from his reverie.

  “I was far away.”

  He felt the gentle touch of Grace’s
kiss now, her perfume enveloping him.

  Vikram closed his eyes to draw up this vision who so captivated him. It was this moment he conjured up most often, when she had stepped off the last step, the dress swishing into place around her, her smile wide, searching for him in the half dimness of the hallway.

  Had he ever seen her so beautiful?

  10

  Parnell Square, Dublin, March 1984

  Emma rushed along the east of the square. The bluster of cold spring air whipping up the tunnel of O’Connell Street pressed around the judge’s residence. A high red-brick Georgian building dulled by city fumes and dust, it had once been a fine residence with a bird’s-eye view across the city to the mountains beyond. Now it was a faded high house warding off the biting air streams channelled from the city centre down below. Wind squalls made the windows around the square rattle and those walking by shiver and button up their coats.

  The pavement was pocked with chewing gum, the stone steps filthy in the corners with faded, stained, water-blotted chocolate bar wrappers. A man in a business suit leaning on a railing took out a cigarette before letting the packet drop to the ground. Emma clicked her tongue in disapproval, but he did not notice, folding his newspaper neatly into his pocket before striding smartly away.

  Stepping quickly into the wide hall of No. 19, the door pressing heavy against her, the gloom of the day followed Emma in, turning the stacks of boxes into pillars of shade. She pulled open a large box full to the brim with clothes, tumbled in a hasty hiding-away. Clutching a bunch of light dresses to her, she ran up the stairs to the front bedroom.

  For as long as she could remember, the blue bedroom had been an empty, cold room. The big, heavy mahogany wardrobes were bare. The brass-framed bed’s base and mattress had long since been discarded and never replaced. Set in the space between the long windows was a dressing table, the drawers half open, the delicate blue on the walls and the gold silk of the curtains replicated in a deep frill covering its four legs.

  It had been her mother’s room. In the past, she avoided the room because it was chill and still. Running her hand along the top of the dressing table, the dust puffed up, making her cough. Accidentally whisking one of the dresses across the surface, she swiped off more loose dust. It clouded until it was grey and she had to push up the windows quickly to air out the room.