Only with Blood

by Therese Down

  Caitlin’s sobs reduced in ferocity and her expression changed from one of intense hatred to horrified curiosity as she watched Jack stagger backwards in an effort to remain standing as the coughing fit possessed him. He reached behind him like a blind man for a chair he knew must be close but his hand flailed wildly and he could not find the chair. Turning, he fell against the table and bent over it, his knees buckling, all his weight on his arms, coughing and coughing. Caitlin took a few tentative steps towards him. She could form no words of comfort or concern, only watch him retch and cough and then, to her horror, an eruption of bright blood came from his mouth and spattered like paint across the table. Her hands flew to her mouth and her eyes widened above them as Flynn cried out in distress, a sound more like an animal’s than a man. And then he slumped slowly, falling backwards from the table onto the floor as his legs gave way.

  He lay quite still. Was he dead? Caitlin moved as if suddenly released from something and hunkered down at his head. His eyes were closed and there was a rivulet of blood running from the corner of his mouth to the floor. He was breathing but he was not conscious. She got up, ran to the sink, and seizing the scrubbing brush, re-crossed the kitchen to the table and began scrubbing at the blood. Then she raced back to the sink and ran the bloody suds under the tap, went back to the table, and continued scrubbing until there was no trace of blood left on the wood.

  Flynn stirred. He coughed briefly a few times, opened his eyes, and remained staring ahead for a moment as if trying to remember where he was. He moved as quickly as he could to right himself, pushing onto his hands and knees and then onto his feet. He was trembling violently. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket he wiped his mouth. Unable to look at her or respond to her terse enquiry as to whether he was all right, he crossed the kitchen as if he were drunk and made for the stairs. A minute or so later Caitlin heard a door slam shut and then all was silence. As the evening shadows found her then melded in darkness, Caitlin dropped the scrubbing brush and bent her head. Hot tears spilled in profusion down her face.

  An hour or so after that, Donal Kelly tied his donkey to a post and patted its rump as he walked away from the cart and towards the bar in Dunane’s main street. It had taken him two hours in the cold to get there from Golden. The bar was lit by battery and generator but the light flickered as much as the flames from the myriad kerosene lamps which supported it in case the generator broke down. Men nodded to him as he came in and he nodded back, pressing his lips together in a tight smile.

  “What will it be?” asked Jim Fogarty the landlord. Fogarty’s red, fleshy face was kindly and his small blue eyes twinkled at Donal from their beds of wrinkles.

  “A pint,” said Donal, smiling back. Then, as the barman levered the pump and filled his glass, he added, “There’s a good crowd in tonight.” Indeed, the little bar was occupied almost to capacity and there was an air of excitement, voices raised above the usual lugubrious timbres of tired men taking solace in alcohol and each other at the end of a hard day.

  “Aye,” said Jim, serving Donal his brimming pint of ale. “There was a wedding in the village today, so there was.” Donal’s heart lurched.

  “A wedding?”

  “Aye – the bride’s father is treating everyone to a pint.” Jim nodded to a ruddy-faced man with wild hair who, as if on cue, was the subject of a simultaneous toast. He raised his tankard in response and then bowed in mock gratitude.

  “What’s his name?” asked Donal distantly, never taking his eyes from the cheering men and the object of their attention.

  “That’s Mick Spillane,” said Jim, looking at the young man with curiosity. “Why? Do you know him?”

  Donal shook his head, not turning to meet the landlord’s eyes. He drank his pint quickly, avoiding conversation, then slipped out of the bar into the January evening. He could not understand why it was that his heart was quite so stricken and why it should be that life seemed to have shifted on its axis in a moment. The donkey was too tired to make the journey back to Golden straight away. Donal would give it a half-hour’s rest then walk and lead it back home. What the hell had he been thinking?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  On the Sunday morning after her wedding day, Caitlin woke to the crowing of a cockerel as usual, but there was something unusual about her physical orientation in the darkness as well as an absence of familiarity which gave her consciousness no context. She lay still for a few seconds, then her heart lurched as she made all the connections. She sat up, wide awake. The house was silent.

  Getting out of bed, she tiptoed to the window. There was still a sliver of moon in the sky. To her right was discernible the dark stretch of the barn, and straight ahead, a small tree whose black branches stretched westward as if it would escape the merciless battery of winds which made it stunted and forlorn in its fallow field. Caitlin drew her knitted bed-shawl close around her shoulders. What now? What now? The question repeated itself in her head and she was powerless to answer. It was as though everything important had been excised from her heart and brain and both stood idle and shocked. Her feet were very cold, and by the time she climbed back into the bed, the sheets had lost their warmth. It was too cold to snow, she imagined her mother saying. Tears welled unbidden at the thought of her mother and then there was almost intolerable grief as Caitlin contemplated anew this most bitter of betrayals – that of her mother, in the sacrificing of Caitlin’s life to this pointlessness.

  She stopped crying suddenly when the creak of bedsprings and then heavy tread on floorboards announced Flynn was up. She heard the steady metallic hiss as he urinated into a metal pot and closed her eyes in disgust. If he ever, ever came near her… In a few minutes, he was coughing and sighing his way past her door and then on to the stairs, descending to the kitchen. He didn’t hesitate in his morning routine, didn’t call to her. She lay still and listened to him fill then boil the kettle, saw bread, pour tea. In less than twenty minutes from the first sounds which had announced he was conscious, he had left the house and slammed the door. Caitlin lay on her back in the growing dawn light and wondered what she was supposed to do.

  Jack did not have to get out of bed at five o’clock on Sunday morning. He could have remained warm and resting for another two hours before getting up to fetch his cows for milking, but he had been awake most of the night. He was mortified with embarrassment following his worst ever coughing attack in front of Caitlin and he had spent most of the night in a swelter of self- recrimination. Why hadn’t he controlled himself? Falling down on the floor like that in front of her! He had so wanted to say something of comfort to her. It had upset him terribly to see her so forlorn and distressed, covered in grime and eyes swollen with crying. On more than one occasion, he had contemplated crossing the landing to her room, knocking gently, and whispering to her in the darkness that everything would be all right, she would see. But he could no more have done that than forgive himself for his clumsy, stupid neglect in not welcoming her properly to her new home. What the hell had he done? He thrust his arthritic hands into his pockets and walked faster up the road to his cows, lowering his mouth into the collar of his coat to avoid breathing in the freezing air which so hurt his lungs. Why, he enquired angrily of himself, had no one stopped him? It was possible he was mad when he bargained for the hand in marriage of Caitlin Spillane a few months ago, but if that were the case, why had no one stopped him? It had been all too easy to acquire her, to net her as though she were a young bird unused to flight. Now, what could he do to keep the bird from dying in its cage?

  As he pushed open the gate to the first field where his eight remaining cows were huddled together against the cold, he wondered how he had ever thought Caitlin Spillane might bear him a son. He knew he would never, ever be able to touch her. Once in the milking parlour, Jack cranked up the generator, coughing and wincing at the pain in his hands. Then he set about the awful, mechanical business of hand milking his cows to relieve the fullness of their udders, pouring away the warm m
ilk into runnels leading to a drain, watching it steam and glow dully in the widening morning light.

  He did not expect to find Caitlin up by the time he returned to his house and was as shy as a schoolboy to discover she was not only up but the range was roaring fiercely against the January cold and the lamps were all lit. There was fresh tea in the pot and slices of bread on the table. Caitlin was standing against the sink, hair pulled back severely from her pale face and her arms folded. She stared at him levelly, and when he looked towards her, as if she had been waiting for his return, she began to speak. Her voice was matter of fact but there was a tremor in it and she paused a couple of times to clear her throat.

  “I have been thinking,” she said. Jack’s eyebrows raised involuntarily and he stood, back to the range, held his arms slightly away from his body, and fanned his bent fingers as well as he could to warm his hands. He said nothing while she paused to gather her thoughts. “We have to work out what to do… now.” She could not mention marriage. “I know you have paid money for me.” She could not keep the bitterness from her tone and he reddened, lowered his head. He really couldn’t stand another round of recrimination. His heart beat thickly against his ribs and he tried to breathe deeply to calm it but the effort of inhaling enough air was so painful that he was distracted from her as she spoke again. “And I will clean your house and cook for you.” He raised his head and looked at her, trying to keep as neutral an expression as he could through the pain in his chest and his surprise. “But please…” She could not articulate her desire to remain separate from him physically. She was afraid of the words, the very allusion to any marital intimacy with him, and also, she feared physical punishment for her boldness. She had to control her revulsion and remain calm if this bargain were to appease him. “I can see you are ill,” she went on at last, “and I can get a doctor.” Jack frowned irritably. He moved away from the range and lowered his face in embarrassment. She continued quickly, “… or take care of you myself; I don’t mind milking cows or cleaning out the milking parlour, stuff like that – if I have to. And I can chop wood and do shopping, all the things I’m guessing you need a hand with…” Jack sat down at the table and looked at her, put his elbows on the table and rested his nose on his joined knuckles. Her arms folded tightly at her chest, Caitlin struggled for her words, crying as she spoke them. “But please… Mr Flynn…” The formality of the address struck him like a stone. “Please don’t… sleep with me!” She had said it. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed into them. Jack sighed, listened to the flames crackling their way through the wood, hissing through the turf in the range. The clock ticked loudly in the ensuing silence as if trying to make the point it was indifferent, hadn’t heard what had just been said. Suddenly, he stood up. The grate of wood on the stone floor caused Caitlin to look up sharply and the alarm on her face told of her fear that he would hit her.

  “Come with me,” he commanded, not un-gently. When she stared at him in wide-eyed terror he added, “Not for that!” He carried on to the stairs, climbed them. A few seconds later, Caitlin followed. “This room,” said Jack, as Caitlin gingerly stepped over the threshold of her bedroom, “is yours.” He pointed at the wooden shelves nailed to the wall opposite the window. “I put those shelves up a few days ago,” he added, “for books.”

  Caitlin looked at him, frowning in confusion. His eye fell on the second bag which Spillane had thrown onto the cart after the wedding the previous day. She had not touched it. He crossed to where it lay at the foot of the bed and pulled it towards him. Caitlin did not protest as he unzipped it and then marvelled at what he pulled from it. Textbooks and exercise books were dragged from the bag and spread from it in profusion on the bedroom floor. “I asked Spillane to put these in with your things,” said Jack, grunting with the effort of standing up straight again. “You can put them on the shelves.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, aren’t you always going on about studying?”

  “Well, yes,” spluttered Caitlin, “but I hardly thought I could do that… now!”

  “Why can’t you?” asked Flynn, blushing, yet becoming bolder at the dawning realization on Caitlin’s face. She stared at him. Was this some sort of cruel trick, some sort of counter bargain to the one she had just tried to make? He would let her study in return for… “You can still go to school, finish your exams, can’t you? What’s to stop you?” Caitlin still could not speak. “I can take you – in the cart – after milking. I can pick you up before milking in the evening. No need to walk. It’s two miles from here, the school.”

  “I don’t understand,” Caitlin managed at last. “Why would you do that?” Jack thought, but words deserted him. The idea had slowly evolved in his head as his illness grew worse and had crystallized when she had run away and Spillane had said how she yearned for university. He knew how hard a thing it was to give up studying. He shrugged, moved towards the door, and she stood aside to let him pass. When she re-joined him in the kitchen a few minutes later, Caitlin was emboldened to press home her earlier request.

  “What about… what I said earlier?” she asked quietly. Flynn stifled a few coughs. At last he answered her.

  “You can put that idea out of your head – for good.” The tears which sprang then to Caitlin’s eyes were of unbridled relief and gratitude.

  * * *

  Donal Kelly was unusually grumpy as he set about fetching his father’s cows on the day after Caitlin Spillane’s wedding. He told himself what happened in Dunane village and to people he did not know was none of his business. But the lovely young girl he had encountered, who was so desperate to escape the slavery her father intended for her, would not leave his thoughts. He was filled with a growing anger and something akin to grief that she had been so snared. God alone knew what state she was in that very morning, he thought, as he walked up the road to get his father’s cows.

  He called to the cows so gruffly that they did not respond at first, but took only a few hesitant steps towards him then stopped, flaring their nostrils and twitching their ears to discern the nature of the threat implicit in the man’s angry tone and demeanour. He opened the gate wide and stood back, whistling to them to come through. Eventually, they moved forward, eager to be relieved of the pressure in their udders.

  When Donal got back to the milking shed his father was waiting for him and had started up the generator so that the building was lit by growing bulb light.

  “I can handle this, Daddy, go on inside,” said Donal impatiently. He said the same thing most mornings out of concern for his father’s health, but this morning, his tone was terse and bordering on disrespectful.

  “Sure I can milk a cow, Donal – it’s one thing I can help with – don’t wish that away from me.” But Dan watched his son’s lowering face and sharp movements with some concern. “Is there something wrong?” Dan Kelly hooked the chains in place behind each cow on the left-hand side of the milking shed. When all four were confined, he waited for Donal to fetch the gleaming milking pails from hooks on the wall and pass one to him.

  “Nah, no,” replied Donal, picking up two milking stools, handing one to Dan. “Nothing’s wrong.” He crossed to the cows on the right of the shed and sat down beside one, pressed his head against her warm flank, and started milking. Dan shook his head then did likewise. There was much, he feared, which troubled his son and it disturbed him greatly that a large part of it was likely to stem from the fact that farming life was not what Donal Kelly had chosen.

  When the dairyman had been and gone, taking with him the two churns of fresh milk which the Kellys’ small herd yielded twice a day, Donal sat in the warm kitchen while Deirdre and Jacintha laughed and chatted as they prepared breakfast. Porridge with cream skimmed from their own milk and sprinkled sparely with sugar steamed on the table, and eggs were frying on the range, their spitting confined to the pan by an upturned plate. Fresh sliced bread and butter was laid out ready for the eggs, and mugs of steaming tea were duly served to th
e men as they sat down.

  “That’s grand, girls!” said Dan, beaming at his daughters.

  “You say that every day, Daddy,” said Deirdre, putting her arms around her father’s neck and kissing his head. He patted her arm and nodded.

  “Sure you’re grand every day.” Deirdre joined in on the last words and they laughed. Jacintha watched Donal, however. He seemed miles away and there was a preoccupied look on his face which the family had come to respect as meaning he was not to be teased or disturbed. All of them were grateful that he had given up so much to be at home.

  “Listen, Daddy,” announced Donal suddenly as he finished his breakfast and stood up. “I’m away out for a few hours.”

  “Will the pigs be all right, Donal?” was his father’s anxious response.

  “I’ll feed the pigs,” volunteered Deirdre straight away. “Sure there’s plenty of time before mass.” She smiled at Donal as he struggled into his coat and took his cap from a hook on the back of the kitchen door. He smiled back at her as he opened the door onto the grey day.

  Donal’s donkey cart arrived in Dunane in time for mass, as he knew it would. The little bell in the church belfry stopped chiming as if suddenly choked, and the altar boy whose turn it was to ring it raced for the stairs and the relative warmth of the sacristy. Many turned to look at the handsome young man who removed his cap from an unruly mop of brown curls and took a place in a pew at the back of the church. Father Kinnealy and the altar boy emerged from the sacristy in their vestments, and, fingers still half frozen, the altar boy preceded the priest to the altar, candle held in both hands. Donal Kelly tried to ignore the curious glances backwards as the women in particular attempted to work out who he was and what he might be doing at mass in Dunane. He wasn’t sure himself what he was doing. It had been years since he had willingly attended mass. He had had no choice when he was a Blackwell scholar and then a master living in the seminary, but as soon as he had taken up lodgings at O’Hallorahan’s, he had never set foot in a church.