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Although I’ve been travelling for more than three hours, I’m still almost five miles from my destination when the bus drops me at the edge of town. It takes me back to my boarding school days, when Dad would meet me at the crossroads to drive me home for the holidays. Isolation is one aspect of rural living which I haven’t missed. Even the village shop was almost two miles from home – as were the primary school and church. We are three in family: I’m the youngest, with my sisters three and five years older. The girls had later attended the convent secondary school in town – where the bus has stopped – but Mam decided that my academic prospects needed the benefit of boarding school, away from the distractions of football, fishing, and my friends from The Plots – a little cluster of council cottages about a mile outside the village. Built in the forties on a patch of the former landlord’s demesne, four of the six cottages were initially occupied by siblings – two brothers and two sisters, along with their spouses and offspring – while the tenants of the remaining two houses were unrelated. In time, the house numbers swelled to more than a dozen, the occupants of which were all related to one or other of the original residents, thus creating a virtual ghetto which was frowned upon by both natives and blow-ins alike. Of course, he’ll go to boarding school, was Mam’s stock reply to all who sought confirmation of the spreading rumour. You won’t see him wandering the roads like a Plotter.

Time not being of the essence, I’m actually looking forward to walking the most familiar of those roads: from town to my parents’ house. It is shortly after midday on an idyllic April day: warm spring sunshine; full-blooded birdsong; and hedgerows, fields and margins resurgent with spring growth. It’s the kind of day when Mam would wash woollen jumpers and blankets; the heavy winter stuff that would need an entire rain-free day to dry. It’s a day for gardening, for mowing lawns and trimming edges, a day to turn soil and add new colour to reawakening flower beds; a day to paint doors and window frames. The mowing, trimming and painting had been my department, all infinitely preferable to spending my Easter holidays in the bog with Dad. I wouldn’t have thought so back then, but there have been many Easters since when I would have gladly joined Dad in the bog, or in any of the other tasks that had devoured every moment not spent managing the town’s creamery co-op.  

I’m enjoying the walk. Traffic is light and mostly oncoming. Almost before I know it, I’ve covered the first mile and I’m on the straight, downhill stretch before the bridge. This is where I realise just how narrow the road is: it stretches before me, a tapering grey ribbon, bordered by verdant new grass, embellished with striking splashes of yellow celandine, the pale lavender of cuckoo flower, and silver orbs of dandelion down, poised like fragile pearls, to catch the first breath of a dispersing breeze. The spaces between passing vehicles are a riot of exuberant birdsong, subtly complimented by the droning and buzzing of a myriad of insects that flit between fragrant huddles of bluebell and primrose, and fluffy clouds of hedgerow blackthorn.

I’m not aware of the red Jaguar until its driver calls from his lowered window.

“Sit in, Donie; I’ll drop you to the house.” He seems strangely familiar and the thought of tramping another three miles is suddenly quite unappealing.

“Thanks,” I manage, crossing the road and opening his passenger door.

“My condolences,” he says, proffering his hand; “she was some woman, God rest her.”

“Thanks; she was that,” I reply, shaking his hand, still totally at a loss as to his identity.

“Did you have a breakdown?” he asks, easing back onto the road.

“Stolen,” I lie, unwilling to bare the truth to my benefactor. “I stopped for a coffee, and twenty minutes later…” I gesture helplessly. “Luckily I had the rucksack with me,” I hastily add.

“You did report it?”

“Yes, I gave all the details to the Garda in Roscrea, but…I wouldn’t mind, but my suit; shirts; shoes; everything was in the car; the whole lot gone; as if things weren’t bad enough.”

“Look, I’ve a couple of suits in the back. We’re roughly the same build; here,” he hands me a business card, “just give me a bell if you need anything. There was a time when your mam virtually clothed our whole family. We were terrified of her, mind you, but she had a big heart.” I nod silently; perhaps he had known her better than I had.

The penny drops. It’s Jimmy Horan – from The Plots – a primary school classmate who had followed his brothers to England in his early teens. Jimmy had been smaller than me, and in the days before school uniforms, much of Jimmy’s clothing had seemed bizarrely familiar.

“Thanks, but Noreen has organised funeral suits – for Mam’s brothers as well as me. This is a great car,” I add, hoping to change the focus of the exchange.

“She’s the I-Pace; a bit fancy, but fully tax deductible.” He winks conspiratorially. “You accountants will know all about that; eh? Seriously, give me a buzz next week, or whenever you have a chance; I might have something of interest to you – no office required, nor certificates or diplomas; all you’d need is an email address and good broadband – I’d supply the iPhone and laptop. By the way, I’ll be heading back tomorrow evening…if…. Anyway, I hope it goes okay,” he says, stopping by the gate to my parents’ bungalow.

Somebody has trimmed the griselinia hedge and mown the lawn, but the gate, the front door, and window frames are in need of attention. Andy – her youngest brother – responds to my knock. His grip is firm; his words ring sincere. I’ve always got along with Andy. He was our postman, and would bring me on his rounds in his orange van during school holidays. Draping an arm around my shoulders, he outlines the funeral arrangements as he steers me towards the sitting room and Mam’s coffin.

“You’re not to as much as look at a drop of drink…or…or…anything,” is how Joan, our eldest, greets me. The only surprise is that she’s not yet attired in funereal black. Joan has always prided herself in being dressed for the occasion, and chief mourner is potentially an even greater role than her tour de force as chief bridesmaid on our sister’s wedding day.

“Don’t worry,” I say, surprised at the resolve in my voice. I take a step towards the coffin. “It’s been over six years since…”

“Hah, it’s not as if you’d had much choice for the first couple of them. Anyway, I’m telling you now that if…”

“Donie? Oh, Donie, thank God; I knew you’d come.” Noreen – my second sister – enters the room and instantly enfolds me in a fierce embrace. Her shudders reverberate through me as her tears trickle down inside the collar of my polo shirt. Swallowing hard against the dryness in my throat, I wish I could share her grief, her sense of loss…feel something – anything – but my crying for my mother was done many years ago: when I was twelve; when she sentenced my childhood to life in boarding school.

“Where are you staying?” For once, I’m almost relieved to hear Joan’s voice.

“He’ll stay here, of course; won’t you?” Noreen splutters between sobs.

“No!” Joan retorts. “Absolutely not; that’s not on!”

“Look, it doesn’t matter to me,” I lie, “but one of us should do the all-night vigil, and you’re both in need of serious bed rest.”  I hear myself say.

“He’s right, Joan…Joan?” Noreen eyes our sister expectantly.

“Oh, I suppose – but on a chair, and only for tonight, and absolutely no…”

“That’s all I…” I begin, hoping my relief doesn’t show.

“Fine, that’s settled. Go clean yourself up!” She turns towards the door. “Noreen, I need you in the kitchen.” Before releasing her hold, Noreen whispers in my ear that dinner will be served in about thirty minutes, and that I can then change into the suit, shirt and tie that are hanging behind the door of my old bedroom.   

Fed, shaved, showered and suited, I take over from Andy at the front door. It is still more than an hour to the official wake time, and I soon find myself counting the cars that bypass the gate: three blue – two white – seven silver – four red – oh, one yellow…. After a few covert glances, I light a badly needed cigarette and try to keep it concealed beneath my palm, as in my boarding school days.

“Here, give me that.” A black-clad figure materialises beside me. I almost gag, but then release a smoky sigh when Noreen reaches for my cigarette. Bemused, I watch as she takes a deep drag and inhales with obvious relish.

“You don’t…” I begin.

“Shush, you’re not the only one with secrets,” she exhales noisily before taking an even deeper drag.  “Thanks,” she returns my cigarette. “Just try to stay out of her way for the next hour, she’ll be all sweetness and light once her audience arrives. Good luck!” She gives my arm a little squeeze before disappearing back indoors.

So it’s not just me, I tell myself, as a forgotten confidence reawakens within. Maybe it hasn’t all been my fault. All through childhood, Joan had been an able lieutenant whenever Mam wasn’t on hand to personally enforce her rule of law. Has she already donned the mantle of Mam’s representative on earth? On Mam’s retirement, nobody had been in the least surprised when Joan had returned from Dublin to succeed her as principal of the village school. Corporal punishment may be an alien concept to today’s pupils – and most of their parents – but I don’t envy any pupil, parent or teacher who has to contend with Joan’s regime on an ongoing basis. The only upside is that Joan doesn’t have a husband and children to torture in her leisure time. While I had not initially left home by choice, my decision – five years later – not to return, had been an easy one. Dad hadn’t been so lucky: his sentence had been life without parole; ended by a massive coronary just three weeks into his retirement. Will Mam’s funeral be as big as Dad’s? I’ve never doubted Noreen’s estimate of forty-four minutes of handshakes and hugs in the church following his funeral mass. Tomorrow will be the ultimate test: how will Mam’s power fare against Dad’s popularity?

The muffled staccato of closing car doors filters through the hedge. I take a final pull of my cigarette and then grind it out underfoot. Her only sister approaches; the resemblance so striking that I shiver as her arms brush my shoulders in a silent, fleeting embrace. Her husband is next – a firm handshake – followed by two of her brothers, one of their wives, some adult offspring, and a straggle of grandchildren whose names I daren’t hazard to guess. Their progress through the doorway is faltering, in direct proportion to the rise and fall of voices from within. At the tail of the queue, a gangly youth hovers for a few moments before doubling back to me.

“You’re him; aren’t you?” It’s almost an accusation. He seems tense, as though poised for fight or flight. After a wary glance over his shoulder, he lights a cigarette.      

“I suppose I am,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.

“I’m supposed to be like you,” he puffs on his cigarette. “How are we related?”

“That depends on who you are,”

“I’m Shay: Sonny’s grandson.”      

“Hello, Shay, I’m Donie,” his grip is stronger than before. “Sonny is my uncle,” I begin, “that makes us first-and-second cousins or, if you prefer, first cousins once removed.”

“Whah?” Shay’s reaction suggests a need for further enlightenment, but the expression on the middle-aged, female face that appears in the doorway brings an abrupt end to our interaction. As individual voices melt into a monotonous drone inside the house, my ears retune to the aural backdrop of a rural spring evening. What is it with birds, anyway; how is each individual’s song so distinct whatever the level of competition, while human voices, like instruments in an orchestra, become absorbed within the overall synthesis?    

A car stops directly in front of the gateway. I’m about to ask the driver to move when I recognise him as Dad’s brother, he is accompanied by a younger woman who is a stranger to me. He introduces his daughter, sympathises, and apologies in advance for being unable to attend tomorrow’s funeral mass. Ushering them inside, I thank them for coming and assure them that I understand. I also understand what he doesn’t say, and that these are the only members of Dad’s family who will attend any part of Mam’s funeral. I wonder if it’s something her other in-laws will live to regret; my aunts, my cousins – however much removed – perhaps they’ll send wreaths, or cards, or simply phone? Who would they call; Joan, Noreen? I doubt if they’d want to speak to any of Mam’s siblings, and they certainly wouldn’t want to talk to me. Dad’s brother is saying something to me now, from a distance. Having escaped through the scullery door, he is hurrying back to his car. ‘Thanks for coming,’ I repeat. He waves, she waves, I wave; and we all know it’s our last wave. The gateway is clear again.

From across the road, a hi-vis jacket catches my eye, followed by another: Joan’s traffic stewards, I presume. A car door slams and seems to reverberate along the roadside. People are approaching from all directions and funnelling towards us, lots of people.

“This is it; brace yourself.” Andy’s words are barely audible as he positions himself by the opposite door jamb. Andy’s standing is immediately obvious; if this was a game of rugby or American football, he would definitely be first receiver. He is their go-to man, the one they all know; his is the first hand they all want to shake. Many of them eye me uncertainly as they queue for Andy, but he spares their blushes, and mine, with the words: sure, don’t you know Donie? I simply continue to nod, resisting the urge to add: by reputation. On and on they come, relentlessly. At first they are just a blur, but I’m increasingly surprised at how many of the older ones I recognise. The formula is simple: I study them as they interact with Andy; I add a few pounds here, a few wrinkles there, while making allowances for the greying and thinning of hair. At first glance, it seems that some haven’t changed in the slightest, but then I recognise an aged contemporary and remember that I’ve missed an entire generation. My radar continues to improve; I find myself increasingly greeting people by name, my efforts seem to meet with general approval, particularly from Jimmy Horan and his fellow Plotters. The flow becomes a trickle as the pitter-pattering of late-comers increasingly resembles the sprinting of tailed-off no-hopers over the final few strides of a foot race. Recalling Mam’s intolerance of unpunctuality, I suppress a smile.

“That’s it.” Andy says, closing the gate behind his brothers after the final dawdlers have departed. “Come on, we’ll see if there’s any tea left in the pot.”                

Joan stays to mutter some final prayers while Noreen and her daughters finish tidying up.

“She’s all yours now,” Joan snaps from the doorway. “I’ll be back before nine to get things ready for the removal. One more thing: I don’t expect to find you anywhere near this house ever again once Mam has been buried.”       

Once back in my travelling clothes, I mentally thank Andy for mentioning the vigil almost as soon as I’d arrived; I’d assumed that Mam would be taken to the church after the wake, rather than on the morning of the funeral mass. Surprised to find the spirits’ cabinet unlocked, I’m momentarily tempted to remove a bottle of something and hide it someplace else – just to see Joan’s reaction in the morning. Instead, I make a pot of tea, claim the two surviving slices of apple tart, select Dubliners from Mam’s bookshelf, and then settle into her recliner chair.

I awake from almost nine hours of deep sleep to the most rambunctious of dawn choruses. After a breakfast of left-over cocktail sausages, I grab a quick shower, brush the funeral suit, don my travelling clothes and resume my reading of Dubliners. Shortly after eight o’clock, the doorbell sounds. Wondering why Joan should have to use the bell, I open the door to find an old school friend whom I’d met at the wake only hours before. Once I’ve assured him that I’m alone, he sidesteps into the hall and gets straight to the point.

“Jimmy Horan phoned last night to run something by me, and your name came up. As your mam’s solicitor, I thought I should give you the heads-up regarding her will before you disappear again.” He goes on to say that Joan and I will each inherit ten thousand euro, while the residue of Mam’s estate, including the house, will go to Noreen. There is, however, a proviso: I will have full access to the house for life. Twice tapping his right nostril with an index finger, he reminds me to keep his confidence, saying that he’ll be reading the will to my sisters at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Recalling Joan’s comments after the wake, I push the hall door shut and then flop back against it. Fishing out Jimmy Horan’s business card, I concede that Mam might have known me better than I’d thought.