“Happy birthday!” Mrs. P faltered as she took in the robe. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realise you’d be—”
“Not a bother.”
“I brought you a few bits.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
They retreated to the kitchen where Mrs. P set down her load—a giant cake with an icing quiff, a silver envelope sealed with a tongue of spit, and a copy of today’s Anglo-Celt.
Just as the older woman had predicted, the BSE had started to make all of the daily headlines. It seemed it really was true—the English cows were going mad again. But this time there was something more to it, because apparently there was a chance now the English people could catch it too. Mad human disease. Grá shuddered as she filled the kettle and picked out the mugs with the fewest chips.
“The scientists are still trying to prove the link.” Mrs. P gestured towards the front page as she creaked down into her seat. “But if it’s true, the rest of Europe might ban British beef altogether. It’s a bit terrifying when you think about it, but I suppose it could be good news for the farmers over here. Picking up all the slack, you know?”
Grá spooned the leaves into the pot. Her head was still light from the heat of the bath, or maybe it was because she wasn’t sure when she had last eaten. She wished, just for today, they could talk about anything other than men and cows.
“And did you hear about Fair City?” Mrs. P must have read her mind. “Apparently in Monday’s episode two fellas are going to kiss! I know it’s technically not illegal any more, but the complaints have been pouring in.”
Grá opened the fridge and let the cool of it pour out.
Once the leaves had been dregged twice over, Mrs. P set off and Grá was alone again. They hadn’t even touched the cake—it seemed far too pretty, somehow, to spoil. Grá noticed she had forgotten the card as well, so now she picked it up. Happy Birthday Grá, it read. I will always cherish our strange sisterhood.
Grá tried to steady her hand. She knew Mrs. P meant nothing but kindness by the words; knew she hadn’t a clue of the nerve they would touch or the woman who had already been lurking on Grá’s mind today. Eventually she made for the drawer to cut herself a slice of cake, but for some reason she couldn’t see the knife she needed. It wasn’t the first time recently she had found things out of place.
“Where are the candles?”
When Úna returned from school, Grá was still leafing her way through the Anglo-Celt. Most of the articles were about the peace talks in the North; about the six “Mitchell principles” for negotiating they had managed to agree upon. But the article she was reading now was about something different—Eoin Goldsmith or “The Bull” as he had come to be known. The photo was of him from Sunday’s St Patrick’s Day parade, a clump of shamrock adorning his lapel. Apparently Goldsmith basically ran the Irish meat industry—a small-town boy turned millionaire beef baron. Apparently he also had a mansion with a heated swimming pool. Grá imagined his beloved cows joining him for a splash.
“Mam?”
She looked up to find her daughter.
“The birthday candles. Where are they?”
It took a moment, then she remembered all over again.
Forty-one years old today.
She forced a smile. “There would be far too many of them to fit on one cake.” She put down the paper. “Now tell me, love, how was school?”
“Well, we had History,” Úna started, easily distracted. “We finally got our projects on St. Brigid back. Only, Car McGrath did his wrong, so instead of the patron saint he did some weird pagan woman who was also called Brigid and who supposedly lived around here too.”
This time, Grá’s smile came a bit more easily. She suspected they were probably the very same woman. She knew the way traditions and myths all evolved into one.
“And I made you this in Art.” Her daughter produced a tattered card from her bag with three faces drawn across the front.
Grá saw that the greenest pencil had been used for her eyes. The shading was surprisingly good. “It’s beautiful.” She placed it on the table next to Mrs. P’s. Side by side, the pair looked a little pitiful. She thought how you could tell a lot from birthday cards; could know how many or few people made up a single life.
When they first moved into the house, the local women had all popped by to pay her a visit, some even bearing homemade cakes of their own.
“I’ve heard about your kind, all right.”
“I had a cousin who used to believe.”
“And tell me, is it true one of you gave birth to a creature that was part child, part cow?”
Grá had laughed at that—the way myths of myths evolve as well.
But after a while, the women’s visits had dried up—she was almost a disappointment once they realised her normality—far too strange to be welcome, far too dull to be news. Either way, she was to be left well alone.
Grá swallowed and reconsidered the phrase. Un-well alone.
“I’ve got homework.” As ever, though, it was Úna who managed to bring her back from the edge. “And, Mam, can you age a steak for forty-one years? Or would it end up getting all wrinkly like you?”
“Go away out of that!” Grá laughed as her daughter scampered up the stairs.
In the fresh fall of silence, Grá felt a wave of gratitude towards her child. They were a perfect team—the two of them against the rest of the world. She knew the years of home schooling had been for both their benefits, really—it had given some purpose to Grá’s days, just as it had given Úna a chance to grow into herself a bit before she was exposed to the other kids’ inevitable cruelty. Of course, Grá knew it would have been best of all if they could have given Úna a sibling—a proper teammate of a similar age. Though Úna always insisted she preferred it this way.
Mam, I’m an only child just like you!
Surely that makes me more special?
Grá stood up now and glanced at the clock as if she would find the answers there. She reminded herself to check on the T-bones that were defrosting in the utility-room sink for tonight’s birthday treat. And she reminded herself, of course, that having a sibling didn’t guarantee anything.
I will always cherish our strange sisterhood.
Grá was only sixteen when her sister Lena had run away to marry a non-believer; sixteen years and a single happy day. So they had shared one last birthday cake between them, then by morning Lena had vanished, nothing but an envelope with Grá’s name on the front underlined. Of course, she had told Grá about the handsome man from Ulster who was down visiting his uncle’s farm; had even invited Grá to leave with them too, saying things about their parents being “stifling” and “stuck in the past.” But the shock was still total as Grá stared at the unopened letter while her mam and dad called the police, alleging discrimination when no assistance seemed to arrive.
That night, Grá set the letter alight with a match and regretted it just too late. Her sister had never sent another word.
From then on, Lena’s name was not to be spoken in the house, which meant most of the past was out of bounds too—a jagged borderline drawn between “before” and “after.” Lena’s bedroom was cleared, her twenty-one years as a family member erased in a single night—her Hollywood film collection binned, her wardrobe and its moths all emptied out. Grá begged her parents to let her keep the clothes—it was such a waste—she would grow into them eventually. But there was some part of her parents that seemed to believe that would mean her growing into the same kind of woman. The black sacks were hauled to the dump where the crows could peck out the buttons as if they were eyes.
Within three years, their mother passed away. Their father blamed a betrayed and broken heart. He had grown frail himself, though he still managed to chastise Grá almost daily for not finding a boyfriend of her own—one daughter a deserter and the other left up on the shelf? It was hard to tell which was the bigger disgrace. But it wasn’t like Grá could just go along to the local
hop and hope the lad who asked her to dance was also a believer; could just take her chances while she hovered around the dented cups of lemonade. Plus, ever since Lena’s departure, some of the other locals who still welcomed the Butchers had turned their back on them too—as if a fresh curse had been placed on the family name. That summer, her dad set her up with a lad who helped out with the mucking, Donal Heffernan, whose mother’s people used to believe. They were on a walk to the village fair when he took her behind McGinley’s fields and tried to shove his hand down her knickers.
“Don’t be such a prude,” he had snarled and tried again. “It’s not like you’re a fucking Catholic.”
Grá had pushed him away and run, thinking of all the different names we give to each other and to ourselves:
Catholic.
Protestant.
Believer.
Prude.
When she made it home she announced she would definitely not be seeing Donal Heffernan again and her father punched the wall. The fist didn’t seem frail in the slightest.
But that night, Grá had thought of Lena—probably off in some big city; probably watching some Hollywood flick with her Ulster man—and she didn’t feel angry or ashamed any more. Instead, she lay awake until dawn feeling nothing but envy and admiration for the freedom her sister had managed to find.
It was another six months before the Butchers came to pay their annual visit. Usually they killed half a dozen beasts, then popped inside for a pot of tea. This time, while her father fawned over the men as if they were gods themselves, the youngest of the Butchers—only recently joined, apparently—caught her eye and gave her a smile. And Grá didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before—the way that she could make everything right—so that afternoon she made a choice and gave the new Butcher a smile back.
They wrote to one another for a whole year, her replies sent to the post office of whatever village was next on their route. She learned the words and jokes Cúch liked the best. She sometimes liked his jokes too. She made sure never to mention her older sister or the humiliation she had brought on the family. She tried not to think of the letter she had burned all those years ago.
For some reason when the Butchers returned for their next visit, Cúch seemed nervous to ask her father for her hand. But as soon as he did, the old man fell hushed like he had just received the ultimate benediction. He didn’t say anything, but the tears softening the crust in his eyes were enough.
The day they married really was the best of her life, because finally she had done it—had paid for her sister’s escape—the only person she had ever truly loved. As she walked down the aisle, the flowers in her hair stained the tips of her ears yellow with pollen. She had laughed when Cúch had licked his finger and rubbed it away.
But soon that laughter had disappeared. Cúch had inherited a house in the deserted borderlands of County Cavan. An Cabhán. In Irish it meant, roughly, “the hollow.” He returned to the road and Grá stared out at the hollowness with nothing to do except think of her beloved Lena and wonder what would have happened if she had let Donal Heffernan shove everything inside her that sunny afternoon.
•
“Just a small slice, please?”
The following morning it wasn’t her birthday any more and somehow that made things easier again. She had forgotten to put the cake in the fridge so the icing had turned cracked and hard overnight.
“Come on—I always have sandwiches. I’m desperate for a change.”
Grá looked at her daughter, laying on the theatricals in her brand-new uniform. “Go on then, just a small one.” She opened the drawer. The knife was right where it always was.
Once Úna had departed, Grá switched on the radio to a channel where the voices weren’t theatrical but sombre and low. They were discussing the latest developments to do with the BSE that was spreading all over England. One expert said if the human link was confirmed it could be a total disaster. Tens of thousands of deaths—a full-blown national plague.
Grá’s stomach gave a growl, but she had got better recently at ignoring it. Next the expert moved on to all the precautionary measures Ireland was taking to keep the disease at bay. It was important to do things independently; to set themselves apart from England’s mess. Grá listened until the report was finished, fetched her jumper and gloves, then slipped out into the chill air of the garden.
There had been rain overnight, but for now the sky was taking a few moments to catch its breath. The grass was a perfect slice of neatness, especially compared to the wildness that spooled away beyond the fence. But this cut of earth was Grá’s and Grá’s alone, so she kept it pristine, manicured, an entire lifetime of loyalty and care and boredom.
The snowdrops were still in bloom, their heads dripping white from thin and delicate necks. The bluebells were holding out a little longer. She checked the beds for daisies or dandelions. She tipped some nuts into the feeder, which was meant for the thrushes, not the fox, though Grá had more than a soft spot for them both. Next she was down on her hands and knees with a trowel, working the darker, denser earth. She had planted the vegetables in meticulous rows; had fertilised and turned the land around. It was pride as much as practicality—Cúch worked hard to provide their special Sunday meals, but every other day of the week, the dinner was down to her.
She had sown beans and courgettes; parsnips and potatoes. For a change she had decided to try the sweeter variety. From what her fingertips could make out, the roots had taken well enough.
Years ago, she had responded to a notice in the greengrocer’s window looking for a couple of hours’ help a week. When she went in to enquire about the role, the woman hissed at her that it had already been filled. Another time, Grá had put a sign on a lamppost advertising gardening skills at a competitive rate. The phone had sat silent for weeks until a newcomer to the village, Mrs. Casey, called. Grá had done a couple of shifts, mostly pruning back the roses planted by the previous owner, when Mrs. Casey came home one afternoon with her shopping and said in a low, cold voice: You never told me you were married to a Butcher. Grá had left in such a rush she had forgotten to take her clippers. She had never had the heart to go asking for them back.
When she was finished she stood up, straining backwards to ease the ache at the base of her spine. She wondered if she had turned into an old woman yesterday after all. She pulled off her gloves and boots, went inside and up to the bathroom where she stared down at the empty tub, but for whatever reason the prospect of it didn’t hold the usual appeal. She rolled her eyes. She didn’t know what was wrong with her at the moment. What if she just never had the heart again? But then she thought of Úna’s dramatics this morning and she managed a smile.
I’m desperate for a change.
She grabbed a towel from the rail and took the stairs two at a time.
The land was a windsweep of grey and brown and for a second Grá was tempted to turn back. What the hell was she thinking? There could be no comfort here. But when she looked a little closer, she saw cowslip and cinquefoil; sheep’s sorrel and even early dog violet, the petals a paler purple than the later, sweeter kind. Of course, they were technically weeds—in her own garden she would have ripped them merciless from the roots—but out here there was a different set of rules. Something about their colour, their wildness, resonated with her, even if she was aware her spontaneous outing was as much to do with being pushed as being pulled.
Eventually she found her way to the Mass path, the ancient rut barely visible through the grass, but it was the quickest route she knew to the nearest lake. They said there were 365 bodies of water all across the county—one for every damp day of the year. The number felt far too convenient to be the truth. She knew there was Lough Sheelin, or “the Lake of the Fairy Pool,” down by the Westmeath border; there was Lough Gowna or “the Calf Lake,” which was somewhere over Longford way. Local folklore said it had been named after the legend of a supernatural cow. Grá scoffed at the thought—bloody cattle
everywhere she turned. And yet, these days you heard less and less about those ancient superstitions, all the old tales cast aside for future progress.
Modern Ireland.
That was the only narrative the locals were interested in now.
Who needs Cúchulann when you’ve got the Bull, hey?
Grá felt her stomach nagging again. The gorse in the next field smelled oddly sweet, like coconut. She sucked in the air. Maybe she should have had a bit of breakfast after all.
And maybe she should have known better, but she assumed that yesterday’s rumination about her sister would have passed by this morning—the annual remembrance over and done with for another year. Whereas even out here in the open where the wind slapped her face and streaks of muck flicked up her calves, she could feel her sister’s presence with her still.
Grá always assumed Lena had escaped to one of the big cities like Cork or even Dublin, where she lived in some modern apartment with concrete views and an endless stream of flashing lights. Grá had read about the bridge over the River Liffey where the government had just built the Millennium Clock, the digits projected on to the water, counting down to the twenty-first century. Oh, Modern Ireland was coming, all right, and it was going to be on time.
When Grá arrived at the clearing beside the lake, she stopped short at the view. Even her stomach went quiet. The water stretched out flat and still and vast—the opposite bank was a thin green line that seemed very far away. The only things projected on to the surface were the slant shapes of the clouds. Everything in between was space for her to breathe.
She might have expected a fisherman or a fellow stroller, but the place was truly deserted. Even the tourists didn’t bother with places like this—they only wanted Ireland’s lush and picture-perfect greens. In its own way, the emptiness made her feel a bit exposed. She thought of “Camera Mountain” on the Armagh border—the hill with all the watchtowers during the peak of the Troubles. She wondered if the privacy of the bathroom wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
The Butchers' Blessing Page 3
