by Esther Freud
It was raining, a fine, light September rain, and Angela and Rosaleen had walked on to the beach. The tide was out, and there was a stretch of treacly sand. They reached the edge of it and looked back across the road and up at the school.
‘Sure.’ Rosaleen felt a stab of irritation. Nothing was ever too bad for her sister, not even St Joseph’s, about which she’d set off such a storm, begging her parents to take her away, refusing to return when they let her home for Christmas. ‘I won’t go back,’ she’d tried, ‘unless you make Angela go too.’ She’d known they never would – wasn’t it Angela that they’d kept close, no scratchy knitted pullovers sent up to Yorkshire to remind her who they were – but when January came, and the date of the new term, there was her sister, four years old, her stub nose and halo of dark curls, ready with her case.
‘Better now?’ Her mother’s voice was ice, and Rosaleen had hung her head because she’d always known that having Angela with her wouldn’t help. She’d be put in with the babies, at least until she was five, and the babies lived in their own separate house with their own babies’ nuns.
‘The food is nice,’ Angela said now, ‘and Sister Antony, you’ll see, she’s about a hundred, but she’s—’
Rosaleen walked away, the footprints of her treasured boots evaporating in the sand. ‘They’re all bitches,’ she threw over her shoulder. Flushing, Angela crossed herself before hurrying to catch her up.
Their parents were waiting in the back bar of the Moby Dick. ‘So, you’ve found someone to take over that pub of yours then, Mr Kelly?’ The landlord nodded to Daddy as he drained his glass.
‘Aye, that I have.’ He rested his eyes on Rosaleen as if it was her and her alone who had forced him to take the lower offer.
‘Mrs Kelly here’s been doing a fine job with the farm, or so I hear.’ The barman winked. Was this somehow improper? Rosaleen looked at her mother, her hair newly set, a tiny fleck of lipstick smudged against a tooth. ‘A capable one you’ve got there.’
‘Well, stands to reason – the woman was raised on a farm. Up at Kilcrea.’
‘The Herlihy place?’
‘The same.’
The barman leant across and called to her that only last week he was out at Kilcrea, collecting a kitten for his youngest girl.
Aoife smiled coolly. ‘That’ll be my brother Jim’s place so.’ She tilted her chin and gave her new smart hair a little shake, as if to say, I’ve had a life over in England and I might be back, but I’m not the local girl I was.
‘Aoife Herlihy!’ An older man glanced up from his Guinness. He peered at her, and his worn face brightened. ‘I remember you, walking into that shebeen down by the docks. No women allowed, but Aoife Herlihy, back from London, the clothes on her, there wasn’t a man, let me tell you . . .’
A rage of love and fury swelled Rosaleen’s throat. Why couldn’t she see that woman: back from London! But before another word was spoken, Daddy placed himself between her and the bar. ‘Have you met my wife Eva Kelly? I’m not sure that you have?’
‘Is that right?’ The man folded himself back over his pint, and the talk turned to farming, the weather, and the mart.
‘What shebeen was that then?’ Rosaleen asked as they drove home.
‘Don’t be getting any ideas, young lady.’ Daddy scraped the gears.
‘It was my brother’s bar, in Cork, that’s all it was.’ Her mother gave her that, but as she had so many brothers it was of little help.
‘I’m feeling sick.’ It was Kitty, who’d been in the car all this while, gobbling down lemonade.
‘We’ll not be long.’ Their mother stretched a hand to her youngest girl, and Angela, who hated anyone to vomit, wound down her window and stuck her own head out.
Daddy made a piffling sound as if they were all too much of an irritation, and they stayed like that, in silence, till they drove in through the gates of Barraghmore and parked in front of their new home.
Lord save me! Rosaleen said to herself as she stamped up to her bedroom, and she counted the months from September round to June, when she’d be finished with school forever, when her parents would have no hold on her, and she’d be free.
* * *
Rosaleen had the room above the kitchen, in the old part of the house. It was low-ceilinged and looked out over the farmyard, with its own crooked staircase that led up from the back hall. Her sisters had the smart rooms at the front, on either side of the landing, but what did Rosaleen expect when she’d stayed behind in London?
‘Come on down.’ Kitty was banging on the door. ‘Mummy says to come now, the dinner’s on the table.’ Rosaleen didn’t answer. She was reading her letter, and she was not to be disturbed. She’d read it before, that morning when she’d snatched it from the mat, and then again as soon as she’d come in, but now she wanted the words – the jumping, wildly pleasing shapes of them – needed to breathe them in like air. ‘Are you even in there?’ Her sister’s voice had trickled to a whine. Defeated, she slipped the letter into its envelope, taking a quick moment to admire it – Rosaleen Kelly, Barraghmore – and sighed her way downstairs.
Everyone was seated when she came in. ‘And what time do you call this, young lady?’ Daddy, as so often, was spoiling for a fight. Rosaleen ignored him. She pulled out a chair on the far side of the table, and bent over her soup. It was oxtail and the nubby knots of . . . was it really tail? caught unpleasantly in the broth, but she knew better than to leave it. If there was one thing that her father could not abide, and there were many, it was his daughters toying with their food. Spoon after spoon was swallowed as she thought of her small, determined self – I only like white meals – not knowing it was a sin, and from nowhere her elbow – also a sin – was smacked away from under her. You’ll eat what’s in front of you. But she couldn’t eat it, and so she’d sat all afternoon at the table until Margaret had tiptoed in and secreted the greying meat and the green mound of cabbage into the pocket of her skirt.
‘How was your mathematics test?’ It was her mother, her arched eyebrows hopeful.
‘Fine.’ Rosaleen was nearly through the soup, could see the glassy bottom of the bowl.
‘Is that it?’ Her father was leaning in towards her. ‘Is that all we’re going to get?’
‘What do you want?’ She couldn’t help herself, she was a mirror of his snarl. ‘Take the square root of eighty-one, divide it by seventeen . . . It was boring. It’s done.’
Kitty, her littlest sister, giggled, but Angela, who loved Rosaleen with a fear, choked on her spoon. Daddy leant across and thumped her on the back, so hard the piece of oxtail that had been troubling her flew out across the table. ‘Praise the Lord.’ Mummy dropped her napkin over it, and Rosaleen, seeing her chance to avoid the last greasy mouthful, cleared the bowls. The next course was already served: one chop, a mound of mashed potato, a spoonful of carrots, arranged in the warming oven of the Aga. Mummy, with her heatproof hands, lifted out each plate, and Rosaleen set them down.
Through the rest of the meal her father talked about the farm. One of the men might have to be let go. He, himself, never would have hired him, could spot a slacker at a glance, but he’d come with the land, so what was to be done? He’d need another hand with milking. The Charolais were giving a good yield. Cream two inches thick. ‘Eva, for God’s sake, woman, are you listening?’
Mummy jumped. ‘Of course I’m listening, what else would I be doing?’ She nodded after that with every word and made encouraging clucks, while the three girls sawed at their meat and stabbed at the soft flesh of their carrots.
‘Kitty?’ Her mother deemed it safe to rise. ‘There’s a pet, help me with the sweet.’ And because it was Friday, with the worst of the week over, she brought out a jelly from the pantry: lime, with a tin of nectarines set into it. Kitty, who, to be fair, was only nine, made a great show of bringing the dessert bowls to the table, and her mother served, and Angela handed them round.
Rosaleen could hardly face another thing, but s
he knew better than to say so. Slowly she sucked at the cool, fluorescent jelly, thinking of when she might be dismissed, when the washing-up was done, the table wiped, the floor swept, the mush of the dogs’ dinner – Humphrey the house dog, the others must live in the yard – put on the slow plate to cook. Only then could she retreat to her room and, with the door safely locked, draw out her letter, sniff it, smooth it, maybe even lick it, so that Felix’s words – What news of the great escape? – could thrill her back to life.
Kate
SPRING 1991
I’M ON THE BUS WHEN IT HAPPENS, THE KNOT, BOUND TIGHT, unravelling. I catch at my breath, surprised to find I’m standing. How does anybody stand? My skull is open, the air gone from my lungs. I clutch at a pole. Would it help if I lay down? I get off, step out into the traffic and, finding no relief, I climb back on. The bus jolts forward. We’re crawling along Gower Street, past the Slade, where in another life I was moulding figures from the debris of my clothes. My stomach hollows. I need to cross the road, find my way home, but Matt will be waiting outside the cinema and I can’t leave him there, wondering, worrying I’ve died.
A woman glances at me, sideways, and I do my best to smile. We cross the lights and pick up speed. I can do this, I tell myself.
‘HEY!’ MATT IS CHEERFUL. He kisses me, and flicks the tickets in my face.
I swallow. ‘I’m feeling a bit . . .’
‘What?’
I look round for an escape. ‘I won’t be long.’
Oh God, I’m on the toilet, my head dropped between my legs. There’s a queue outside. I can hear shuffling and then a child asks, can they get popcorn to eat on the way home? ‘Salt,’ her mother tells her, and I hear the grumble through the door.
The water runs cold as I splash my face. The child waits beside the basins. She wears a hairband with mouse ears, the insides of which are pink.
‘I like your ears,’ I say.
She rewards me with a gappy smile. ‘It’s my birthday.’ I tell her it’s my birthday too, and for a moment I’m inside myself again. Hope flares.
‘What did you get?’ She fingers the pink felt.
‘A knife,’ and before I can explain that it’s a special kind of knife, for stencilling, her mother has sailed from her cubicle and is bundling her away.
I stare into the mirror. Pale skin, dark hair still curling – outwardly I haven’t changed – although my pupils are so huge the black has almost blotted out the blue.
I feel my way along the carpeted corridor, back into the lit-up foyer. ‘Bloody hell.’ Matt ushers me towards Screen 2. ‘What kept you?’
People stand as we squeeze through to our seats. I’ve wanted to see this film. It was my idea, but even as the titles roll, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave. The music helps. It’s melancholy and hopeful, but the dark-haired woman has a look about her of my mother, my real mother, the one who gave me up. I scrabble for my coat.
Matt takes my arm and holds me down. ‘For God’s sake, wait . . .’
I can’t wait. If I wait I’ll scream. I push along the row. Matt follows, I can feel him at my back.
Grim, unspeaking, we stand out on the street, and when a cab steams by I flag it down.
‘I was on the bus . . . ,’ I start, but I daren’t name it, the terror of dissolving. I lean forward and stare out at the night.
‘Kate,’ Matt tries. ‘Let’s stop somewhere. Have a drink. It’s your birthday, for Christ’s sake.’
If I could cry, it might convince him, but I’m holding on so tight there’s nothing left for tears.
CELINE IS AT THE KITCHEN TABLE. I can see her through the glass of the front door. ‘Sorry.’ My voice comes as if from a great distance, and with no further explanation I pay her for three hours.
The bath is as hot as I can bear it. From downstairs there is the drift of the TV. Gunshots. Shouting. I close my eyes and lie still as the water cools. I have three books borrowed from the library. No, I had to explain, for me, not for the child, and I’ve been keeping myself up late, extracting tips on how to sleep. A river. That is what I need to summon, but it seems I’m choosy about rivers. Mine must be turquoise, slicked with silver, its current flowing not towards me but away. I’m still searching when Matt creaks open the door. I swallow as he climbs into bed, the mint cutting through the waft of beer, and I think how I could reach out, stretch an arm across his chest, feel the warm cotton of his T-shirt, have him clasp my hand with his own. Instead I press hard into the pillow. Stay calm: I force my mind through fields, ploughed furrows, marshes, scree. I’m searching, swooping, low-flying as a plane, and then with a shiver of relief I find one – a translucent streak of water, two swans, their curved necks reflected in its depth. The swans drift, and I drift with them, through bulrushes and sedge. I’d continue drifting if the next instruction didn’t require me to find a tree. Flowering, leafless, spindly, giant – I accept whatever tree arrives. Tonight it is a yew. An ancient dark-green yew of mythical proportions, its branches hanging down to create a cave. I creep inside and press my face against the trunk, spread my arms, my fingers, breathe in the lichen and the peeling bark – Kate was here, scratched with a penknife that might have been my own. I’m safe. And I lie myself down in the cradle of the roots and let them wrap themselves around me.
Aoife
SUMMER 1960
AOIFE PRIDED HERSELF ON THE QUALITY OF HER BREAKFASTS. The glass orange plates, brought over from London, the crisp rashers of bacon, the frill of the eggs. There were mushrooms softened with salt butter, and toast in a rack, with marmalade and jam. ‘You spoil us.’ Eamon slapped his big washed hands together, and Patsy, who’d taken a shine to her, blushed.
Cashel was glum. The rain was fierce that summer and the stream on the border of their land had burst its banks. Aoife stood by the range and thought how it might have been her father talking. Foot rot, silage, milk yields, clay, and she was seventeen again, packing the few things she had into a case. She was leaning against the rails of the ferry, the belt of her coat tightened, her bag stowed in the cabin, and below her on the quay her three closest brothers waving to her, shouting they’d be following her to London soon.
‘Will you not check the toast, woman?’ Cashel’s voice knocked the daydream out of her. She lifted the round dome of the Aga to release the blackened bread and, mortified, tossed the useless things into the slop.
Once the men were gone, the washing-up done, every last dish put away, she sat down on the low chair and went through the post. Her heart jolted to find a letter from Rosaleen, and then, in amongst a fold of bills and pamphlets, another letter, also from Rosaleen, this one addressed to Angela. The waste! Why couldn’t she have slipped the page in with her own, and she tutted to herself as she eased open the thick cream paper of the envelope. Dear Mummy and Daddy. How smart that looked. She thought of her own mam, never the leisure to answer the letters she herself had written home. Dear Mam and Da, she’d told them about her life in London, the Christmas window display at Pontings, the fine dress she’d slipped over the body of a manikin, the same dress, in red, she was saving up to buy herself. It was the winter she’d become engaged to Clifford Bray. She’d not mentioned that when she wrote home, and she imagined the two of them, married, still living with Cliff’s mother, their children, boys for sure, engaged as clerks in a law firm in the City.
Dear Mummy and Daddy
Work at the Express is going well. It’s exciting to be at the centre of everything, knowing the news as soon as it comes in. There are a lot of interesting people here, and I’m making important contacts which will no doubt come in useful in my future career. I hope you’re both well. I’ll write again soon.
Love from Rosaleen
Angela’s letter felt thicker. She could hardly have said less. Aoife pressed it between her fingers, examined the seam of glue, and, sighing in loud exasperation – what could be so private? – she propped it on the dresser where Angela would see it as soon as she came in.
It ra
ined all morning and into the afternoon, but all the same Aoife pulled on her mac, covered her hair with a scarf, and with a hood of plastic purchased the week before in Youghal, she walked Humphrey up the lane. The whole world was a haze of grey and green. Fat drops sloshed down from branches, and the sky was close. Humphrey plodded beside her, head down, tail down, nose occasionally twitching. She’d got him as a pup and brought him across when they moved, his lion head resting in her lap, his great fur body pale, if such a thing could be. Where are you taking me? his soft eyes seemed to ask as the boat lurched, and she’d stroked his ears and whispered that never again would he stay locked in a back room, allowed out only after closing, where he’d sniff the scratchings and loll up the spills of beer. Cashel would have nothing to do with him. What’s the point of it, great useless thing? Now there were two trained collies living in an outhouse, Moss and Mo, quick and slippery as ferrets, expecting nothing, needing nothing but to be told what to do.
Aoife passed the Kerry place. A white, wrought-iron gate. A Protestant couple living in that big house. No children. Or maybe they were gone. In the cottage further on were the O’Malleys, a nice woman, the son was a good boy, and the husband, Patrick it was, a foreman over at the cotton factory in Youghal. He had a twinkle in his eye; Aoife smiled and shook her head at the memory of their first Christmas back, how they’d been standing chatting after Mass when he’d looked at the two of them, she and Rosaleen. ‘So I see your sister’s come to stay?’
There was a gust of wind and the leaves above her rustled. Aoife tilted her face into the rain, catching a warm drop on her tongue. Humphrey looked up at her. No, she told him, we’ll go on until the turn, and she fixed her eyes on the fields beyond and kept up her pace.
* * *
Do you remember the day she turned up out of nowhere? I was wiping down the bar – dead on my feet, I was, with Kitty not more than a few months old – when there was a tapping on the glass. I might not have noticed, but whoever it was, they kept on until I slid the bolt. Who is it? I know you never liked me to open during closing, and there she was, in her school uniform, bedraggled from the rain.
