‘Yes, it’s true,’ said Henry swiftly. ‘A former tenant. Isn’t it surprising how life can turn?’
Henry watched a colour rise high in Molly’s cheeks.
‘Mr Brabazon, you always had a taste for the unusual,’ said the blond woman, laughing loudly.
‘I believe she could turn a profit to anything she turns her hand to,’ he answered. ‘She is indeed most unusual.’
‘Perhaps that’s why Mr Brabazon has his eye on you,’ said the woman with the flashing eyes. ‘He’s hoping you’ll turn the estate’s fortunes around too.’
They all tinkled laughter again.
‘I have the utmost faith in her,’ said Henry.
He turned to Molly and looked at her.
‘Are you happy to leave for Brabazon soon?’
‘Yes,’ she said, raising her emptied glass and looking him square in the eye. ‘But I think I may need another one of these first.’
* * *
She seemed a bit reticent about coming inside. She stood for a moment on the steps looking up at the giant doorway, studying the lintel.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, stepping back to her.
Other guests were arriving, queuing behind her, waiting to go in.
‘Yes,’ she said, before moving forward into the hall and looking up at the ceiling. The roof was painted bright red with white, ornate plasterwork criss-crossed in woven detail. It rose into a dome, sending white light cascading through the hall. Henry was used to people drawing their eyes up as soon as they stepped inside Brabazon’s doors.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes. I never noticed it before.’
It dawned on him that this was the first time she’d been in the house since the night she’d been evicted from her own home, all those Christmases ago.
‘It must be stirring up some painful memories,’ he said, gently.
‘I just can’t believe I’m here now, as a guest,’ she said.
He led her into the great room and got her a drink, introducing her to some huddled guests. They eyed her with suspicion at first, but as she listened to their conversations and joined in here and there, they soon accepted her, and as the drink flowed, her nerves disappeared and she began to enjoy herself.
A small group of musicians were set up in the corner and started up some dancing music.
Henry took Molly by the hand and asked if he could have his first dance with her.
‘I’m not used to such formal dancing,’ she said as she walked to the space in the middle of the room, where the couches had been pushed back to reveal a polished dancing space.
He pulled her close as they turned, helping to lead her in the steps, complimenting her when she got the moves right and laughing when she trod on his toes.
‘You’re a natural,’ he said.
‘You’re a liar, Mr Brabazon!’
When the music ended, he was sorry to have to let go of her, to lead her back to the group and take his turns with the other ladies present.
On a break from the music, he asked her to come outside with him and he held her by the arm and led her down the front steps, past the gathered carriages and out on to the lawn.
The evening sun had just set and tiny midges buzzed around the lanterns. The rain had lifted and the air smelled full of greenery, of cut grass and, wet soil.
They walked slowly towards the fountain, drawn by the trickle of water and the glow of the floating candles.
‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I must admit, it’s not the scene I’m used to, but I’m enjoying it. They’re accepting of me.’
‘And why would they not be accepting of you?’ he asked.
‘Henry,’ she said and looked at him, solemnly.
‘It means nothing,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you how bored I usually am in this company. How these gatherings pain me so.’
He stepped forward and placed his arms around her, his palms settling flat on her back.
She looked up at him and moved forward too, their lips meeting in a kiss.
She immediately pulled back, recoiling, putting her arms up to protect herself.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, startled at her reaction.
‘Nothing,’ she said and she looked at him, into his eyes, her mouth moving as if she wanted to say something.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said again, before apologising and turning and breaking into a run past the fountain to the house.
He stayed at the fountain, before walking slowly back into the house, scanning the room for her.
Perhaps she felt no lust for him at all, had no feelings towards him, like he had her. Perhaps he was being too forward, too quick, and he needed to give her a bit of space, to get to know him, to form feelings for him. Or perhaps she felt awkward, holding him responsible for what happened to her family, for the interference that had cost her so much …
He spotted her, standing at the back of the room, clutching a glass of white wine. She looked shaken, as though his kiss had shocked her, awoken something terrible inside her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, gently touching her on the arm. ‘That was too forward of me, not very gentlemanly.’
She was quiet for a moment, before she whispered, ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mr Brabazon. It was too gentlemanly. Too gentlemanly for me. It’s not something I’m used to at all.’
He scratched his head, trying to work out what she meant, and watched while her mouth broke into the slightest of smiles.
There were so many layers to this woman, so much depth and things to know.
‘Am I forgiven?’ he asked.
‘Am I?’ she said.
They both laughed.
‘I doubt you have many sins,’ he said, looking warmly at her.
She looked down at her wine, peering at it for a moment, the smile leaving her lips.
‘That’s where you’re wrong again, Mr Brabazon,’ she said looking back at him with a sigh.
Chapter Thirty
GLADYS
Sometimes, when they travelled into the city on the bus, strangers would tell her he looked like her. She would smile and nod her head and say, ‘Do you think so?’ The boy would look up at her, his slightly hooded eyes hidden behind wisps of fair hair. She had started lightening her own hair with ammonia and alum, in an attempt to look more like him. The mixture burned her scalp, but she enjoyed the stranger’s comments, so she kept bleaching it, month in, month out.
It was another of the changes the child brought. She’d tried to keep to most of her ways, but it was difficult with him being so messy and playful and disturbing with the wilful way he had. He’d learned a bit now, but still she had to go hard on him, to show him how to be a good boy.
Before he came to them, Gladys didn’t have much company. Now that he was growing up there were a few neighbours who were friendlier to her, who stopped her at the doorstep to ask after him.
A child was a great conversation starter. People would smile and engage her, or stop to chat and ask how she was getting on. She was getting on wonderful, she’d say. He would look up at her, pale faced and dark rings under his eyes and she’d smile. She didn’t tell them about the hard days. About when she had to hold him down and put his dinner in his mouth because he wouldn’t finish it and eat it all up, and grow to be strong boy.
About how she had to make him kneel in ashes at the back door to teach him to wipe his boots before he came in.
About how some days, when he was very naughty, she had to lock him in the cupboard and put the chair up against it and leave him there till he stopped crying, which could sometimes take hours and then he might soil himself and have to go back in again.
The truth was motherhood was so very different to how she imagined it. Some days she wondered if it had all been worth it after all.
On occasion she thought about his real mother. She thought about how she would have felt when she came back
to find the pram, empty. But when she read about her in the paper that she was only a young girl, her heart had hardened and she didn’t let herself feel pity for her. That girl would go on to have more babies. Gladys never would.
She knew the boy loved Albert more than he loved her. She wondered if knowing that sometimes led to her being extra hard on him. That she had done so much, gone through all that time before they got him home, with the pretence and the pressure and the planning she’d had to do. Why did he run to his father then and wrap his arms about him and smile so much around him and not around her?
She would be glad when he went to school. Then she would have her mornings back to herself. Then she could make her luncheon and eat it in peace, no little fingers spilling crumbs and wiping butter on the table. She could walk and count the trees and the cracks in the stonework and not have to keep her eyes ahead, watching him. September couldn’t come quick enough. When she would finally get a bit of the old Gladys Eccles back. Yes, she looked forward to that.
Chapter Thirty-One
MOLLY
The telegram had arrived five days after I had posted my letter home. The boy rapped on the window, startling me over my cup of weak tea. I was just about to go and get my coat, to walk to the shop and wait and then to start up near the park where I think I’d missed a street.
I took the telegram and my hands shook as I opened it. I thought it was about baby Oliver.
Mr McKenna passed. Mam is very ill. Please come home.
I sat at the table, the shock working itself through my body and into my head. Mr McKenna was gone. My mother was ill. What kind of illness could it be? I had never known her to be sick her whole life. She was a strong woman, the kind who, even when she had a cold, could suppress it and get on with her work.
I thought of them at home in the grey house, Patrick and Michael, still so young and afraid. I put my head in my hands. I could leave and go home for a visit and come back and continue the search. But how could I leave my brothers, who would be orphans if something happened to Mam? It had never crossed my mind that anything could happen to them at home while I was away. I only thought of myself and what was happening to me.
My thoughts crashed inside my head, smacking off each other, causing an ache in my skull. If I left here, I was leaving behind my baby. I was saying goodbye to the hope I held that I would find him. Walking away from London was like walking away from Oliver himself, who I knew would be toddling and learning to speak, right about now.
I rubbed at my face, mashing my cheeks and my lips in my hand, scratching my scalp, yanking my hair at the roots. I wanted to scream, to cry, to shout out loud in this kitchen that had not had Oliver’s laugh in it, for longer now than I had held him myself.
‘I just want him back,’ I said and I rocked a bit, back and forth, something I’d fallen into the habit of.
But there was nothing, no answer, no sign or noise or anything to indicate that anyone was listening.
Slowly I pulled back the chair. I got up and looked around this kitchen that was too big for just one man and one woman. I pictured Tubular’s face when he came home, as he went through the house, calling me, looking for me.
But I would be gone. I’d have taken my small bag, I’d have walked to the station and I’d have changed at Euston to take a train to Liverpool. I would stay in a small guest house that night, one with damp sheets that smelled of smoke and sailors and brought me right back to my days in Madame Camille’s kip-house. And as I boarded the steamer at Liverpool for Drogheda, taking me home, back to my family, back to my land, I would be crying hot, wet tears for the baby, my son, I was leaving behind.
I felt as though I would never see him again.
* * *
It took some time for Mam to pass. She had an illness that the doctor couldn’t diagnose. He thought it might be a lung disease, because of the incessant coughing and the blood that she drew up. She had shrivelled in just a few weeks, my brothers said. It started with a cold that she couldn’t shift, and eventually, she had taken to the bed.
I walked into the grey house, not knowing how they would take my arrival back home, what reception I could expect.
It was Michael who saw me first and he rose slowly from the table where he was seated, came forward and gave me a silent hug. We stood there, just holding each other, not saying anything. I told him I was sorry that I hadn’t been here and I hoped he’d forgive me.
Mam’s face beamed when she saw me. Her skin had a yellow tinge, even the whites of her eyes stained, the same colour when you pour iodine out and wipe it away.
‘Molly,’ she said and she lifted her head off the pillow. ‘You came back.’
‘Yes, Mam,’ I said and I sat on the bed. I couldn’t remember the last time I had hugged my mother.
She came forward and I knew she wanted to be held so I put my arms around her and I leaned against her. I could feel the poke of her spine and the flat hard shape of her shoulder blades.
‘You’re married now,’ she said.
So, they had read her my letter.
‘Yes,’ I said. Could I tell her I wasn’t going to go back? Would she understand?
‘Is he a good man?’ she asked.
I looked up at her and an image of Oliver flashed in front of me.
‘Oh, Mam,’ I said.
I had cried in London, big sobs, helping me to get some of the pain and push it out into the air. But they were nothing like the tears and heaves that came pouring out of me there on my mother’s sick bed, her arm across my back, as I lay on top of her and cried.
Mam rubbed and soothed and said, ‘There, there,’ over and over.
It was all I’d wanted to hear these past few months. My mother’s voice. Her sympathy. Mam knew what it was like to be a mother, to imagine having one of us taken from her.
But I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t tell her that about the baby, that it was McKenna’s, I couldn’t tell her what had really happened.
When the boys came in, Patrick and Michael together, they thought it was for Mam that I was crying. They went away and came back again when I had gotten it all out of me and had withdrawn to a hard-backed chair pulled close to Mam’s bed.
I was there sometime before I remembered to ask, about McKenna, about how he died.
‘A disease of the liver,’ said Michael.
‘He had a shockin’ time,’ said Patrick and he withered under the look Michael gave him for speaking about such things in front of Mam.
I was glad to hear it. But I had come to know, from my work in London, that disease of the liver could mean many things. Especially for men like McKenna. I hoped he hadn’t given anything to my mother. Or to me.
* * *
Mam stopped breathing on a cold July day. It was as though the heat and the sun had gone away for that day. I was upset laying Mam in the ground, watching her leave us for good like that. Losing Daddy was bad. But now we had no parents at all.
The one thing I had been able to do for Mam was to have her buried beside Daddy. She had told me she’d wanted that before she died, but I would have done my best to have made it happen, even if she had not said so anyway. The thought of her lying there, beside McKenna, his bristly moustache poking out among his rotting bones, would have been too much to bear. The priest had made a song and dance about it, but he stopped his hand-wringing when I pulled out the envelope, thick with notes.
I saw Nora at the funeral. She had two babies now. She embraced me and said her kind words and then she and he husband were on their way out of the graveyard and back to their farmer’s cottage.
It was the first time I’d been out at Dowth since I’d come back home. It was lush and green and filled with all the summer sounds so familiar to my ears. I felt I could breathe there.
I wondered if I should look to move back, to buy a horse and trap and rent a cottage of my own. But when we decided to keep on the shop and the grey house, I pushed my cottage dream to the back of my mind.
; I could see the shop needed work as soon as I stepped back into it. Mam and Michael had done their best with it after McKenna died, but they had lost customers and it was easy to see why. I didn’t know much about men’s tailoring, so I poached a tailor from Tully’s, a skilled, chatty man, named Boyce. He was full up on ambition and I told him he would have control over the orders and the displays and a good pay rise.
All those walks with Daddy in the fields, all the chattering about orders and stock and sales had rubbed off on me. Business picked up. Boyce brought his own customers with him. We were profitable again.
I told everyone that Tubular was a soldier. That he had been called overseas. That was why he couldn’t make the journey home to meet Mam before she passed. That was why he couldn’t make the funeral. That was why my family would never meet him.
When the time was right I would organise to have word sent that he had passed. Missing in action and presumed dead. I had said he was fighting near Africa. It would take time for word to get back. Then that would be dealt with and I could continue with my life.
No one questioned me being back in Ireland, without my husband.
I never expected to see Tubular again.
So, it was a very big shock when I did.
* * *
I hadn’t given up my search for Oliver. I dreamed of finding him and bringing him back to Ireland, free from McKenna, free from Tubular. I could raise him with Michael, teach him everything I knew, bring him up with an Irish accent and our ways, pretend he was the son of a friend, an orphan. I would make up any story to get hold of him and rear him here, with me.
I scoured the local London papers weekly, which I had on special order for delivery to the shop. If anyone asked I told them it was to keep up with the latest business news in Britain’s capital. But really, it was to see if there was ever a story: ‘Boy Found’ or ‘Young Child Abandoned - Search for Mother’.
I had gotten the names of all the orphanages and care homes I could find and had written letters. I wrote that I was searching for a baby who may have been mistakenly placed in their care. I described Oliver, how I thought he might look like now, I gave my address and told them I’d moved from the address they had on file, where Tubular lived. Sometimes I got a letter to say a child had been found that matched Oliver’s description. But when I wrote back to say that I would arrange to come over, to see if it was him, a reply would be sent back. The child’s mother had been found. There had been a mix up. It wasn’t him.
December Girl Page 21
