This Is Not a Novel by Jennifer Johnston

Author:Jennifer Johnston
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781497646421
Publisher: Open Road Media

In my father’s diary for 1970 I read the following:

A cold and unfriendly February day. We drove to Newtownmountkennedy through sheeting rain to bring Imogen to the nursing-home. I believe we have made the right decision.

Yes, I do. Yes.

The child has become completely withdrawn from us and from a normal way of living. I have had to rely on Sylvia’s wisdom in this matter. I am merely a knitter together of broken bones and know little or nothing of broken minds. The shrinkman, chosen by Sylvia, seems to think that a complete separation from her home and the therapy of total calmness and a few well-chosen drugs will have her right as rain in a short while. I do hope he is correct. His reputation as someone who can deal with the growing problems of the young is high.

An early-Victorian house surrounded by a most charming and kempt garden. We were greeted with warmth and cups of tea, greatly appreciated after our drive. Imogen’s room is pleasant and comfortable, the staff smile and smile and the matron is … well, what can I say? A matron. Imogen seemed unconcerned about whether we stayed or left or indeed when we might see her again: her eyes just gazed through us as if we didn’t exist. I suppose I would have liked her to shed a tear as we left. When we arrived home I shut myself in my room and listened to the Missa Santa Cecelia of Scarlatti. This was a prayer for my daughter. I hope it will be recognized as such.

I made a note to go to Tower Records in Wicklow Street and buy myself Scarlatti’s Mass. I haven’t got round to it yet, but I will. I would like to know what sort of a prayer my father offered up on my behalf. Maybe a spot of Billie Holiday would have been more appropriate.

‘Oooh, what a little moonlight can do.

Wait a while till a little moonbeam comes peeping through.’

Sometimes I used to cycle into town after school and have tea with Johnny in his rooms in college. None of them ever called the place Trinity or even TCD. It was always ‘college’ they said when they spoke about the place. I was glad to discover little things like that.

He shared three rooms and a scummy kitchen with a man from Athlone called Martin something-or-other. They weren’t friends, just passing acquaintances, polite in the scummy kitchen and each keeping an eye out for a better option. I was sitting at the table in Johnny’s room one day doing my homework when he put his head round the door. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Johnno around?’

‘He’ll be back soon. He has a three o’clock lecture.’

And you are?’

‘Sister.’

‘Do you have a name?’

‘Imogen.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Would you give the lad a message? I’m Martin. Just in case he’s wondering, I’m away off home for the weekend. It’s my sister’s birthday. Can’t miss that, don’t you know? He probably won’t notice I’m not here, but if he does, that’s where I am.

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