Her voice broke and distress settled on her features. ‘He’s virtually brought Ciaran up and… and now I think he’s gone, because never, ever, if that was not the God’s honest truth, would he leave it that long without even speaking to me. He knows how I’ll be feeling. ’Tis unbelievable, impossible to imagine, but I have to face the truth because it’s staring me right here in the face. He’s gone, Seamus. I wake up every morning and I expect to hear him coming through the door, but he doesn’t. It’s over. Instead of his wife’s death bringing us together, it has torn us apart. He’s gone, Seamus. His daughters have won. He cannot leave them and they won’t let him. ’Tis just me now. Angela has gone, Sarah’s gone and even Mary Kate has gone. And Ciaran is at sea for months yet. There is only me, Seamus. I have to face it: I am all alone in this world and I always will be.’
Her voice had become increasingly tearful. Removing a handkerchief from her apron pocket, she blew her nose as she turned her gaze out of the door Seamus had left open and across the beach to the bay. A pillar of morning sunlight fell into the cottage and the ocean was calm; the fishermen were long gone, their sails having disappeared around the headland in the direction of Blacksod Bay. She had sat in just the same spot and watched them cast off before she left for Mass.
Seamus spared Bee’s embarrassment by gazing into his tea. He didn’t speak as she began to cry, wanting to give her the privacy and time to compose herself. But now her tears were turning into soft sobs of anguish and they pulled at his heart, so he did what came naturally to him, what he had done with Nola every time one of their children had emigrated to America, when Michael had left for the war, when Sarah died. He recognised those sobs; they were rooted in fathomless grief.
He carried his stool to the opposite side of the table, placed it next to Bee and said, ‘Here, come on now, Bee. Here, here.’ He put his arms around her shoulders and she turned and buried her face in his chest, letting the coarse wool of his jacket absorb the pain of her loss. He stroked her hair, trying to ease her heartbreak.
He looked towards the door and out across to the ocean reflecting the azure blue of the summer sky. Life had moved on, despite the sadness and the tragedies. It had moved on, and so had Bee, to Liverpool, and now she was back again and facing her ghosts. Bridget was right, Bridget was always right. A shiver ran down his spine as he realised Bee had spent ten years in exile with Captain Bob. Had she cried? Had she mourned? Maybe these tears were long overdue. Maybe Captain Bob had some of his own tears to shed now that he was home in Ballycroy. Maybe his homecoming had been equally unnerving. Captain Bob, the genial man, the capable man, the solid man, who always came to the aid of others.
The air tightened as Seamus heard the faintest shuffling in the room behind his whispered words of comfort. An icy chill fell on the back of his hand as he stroked Bee’s hair and he knew it for what it was as tears of grateful acknowledgement filled his own eyes. It was Angela, and through him, she placed a warm hand on her sister’s back. He had felt and heard the ghosts slip from the shadows and join them and as Bee sobbed her tears of desperate anguish, he whispered to Angela, ‘Help her. Help her.’
18
‘Mam, can we take a boat out on the lake?’ Arthur was standing in front of Cat, his face, clean on arrival, now smeared with dirt, his nose running, his eyes as bright as his chatter was fast. His fingers grabbed her skirt as though it were a bell cord and tugged.
‘Arthur, your filthy hands – look at my skirt.’ Cat reached down and took his hand in hers as she cast her eyes towards the boating lake. The sun shimmered and the swans floated among the water lilies and rushes, and her heart lifted in a way it hadn’t since Ben had died. It was a rare good day. ‘How much is it, love?’ she asked, squatting down and ruffling his hair.
The children always ran to Cat when they wanted something that required spending money. She was perceived as soft compared to the other mothers. The boys had sent Arthur – she knew that, and she could see them watching hopefully.
‘Not now, Arthur,’ shouted Linda, who had heard the exchange from where she was sitting on one of the old tablecloths, unwrapping the parcels of greaseproof paper and laying out the sandwiches.
Disappointment washed over Arthur’s face as he looked up at Cat, mouthing the word ‘Please’.
‘Do something useful, Arthur. Go and tell the boys to stop playing football now, and tell the girls too. It’s time to eat these butties before they all curl up and the wasps get them, bleedin’ things.’ Linda flicked her hands across the sandwiches once more, waging a losing battle against the persistent wasps.
‘Go on, Arthur,’ said Cat. ‘Tell the boys I’ll see about the boats when everyone has eaten.’
Arthur broke into a smile. From his mam, everyone knew that was a yes. ‘Can I have a jam butty, Aunty Linda?’ he asked as he ran to the edge of the cloth. ‘I don’t like paste.’
‘You can, love, once you’ve got everyone else over here. I’ll keep one back for you.’
And with that, Arthur sprinted off across the grass towards the two rhododendron bushes being used as goals. Having now seen the picnic, his stomach rumbled and his mouth watered. On many days, lunch for the kids on Waterloo Street was a slice of bread dipped in dripping or sprinkled with sugar. Today, it was sandwiches and cakes.
‘I’ll fetch the girls, Arthur,’ shouted Cat as she looked towards the rose garden. Its small stone folly had been transformed by the girls into a palace and a palace garden in which resided a large number of princesses who all pushed prams and nursed real babies, with not a husband in sight. An elderly lady stooped and, lifting a rose, inhaled deeply. Cat hoped the girls weren’t spoiling her walk.
‘Thought you’d be wanting to go and fetch the lads,’ said Linda with a grin as she inclined her head towards the rhododendrons. Michael was standing in the middle of the pitch, instructing the boys, having taken the role of referee.
Cat grinned back. ‘He is lovely, isn’t he? I’ll have to try and find a way to keep him for a day or two at our house.’ She laughed, aware that she was half joking, half speaking her thoughts out loud.
It appeared that she was now laughing alone when Linda replied, ‘Aye, he is a fine-looking man. He was also once married to Bee’s niece and we both know that because Bee told us often enough that he is now married to a teacher called Rosie. We know all about Michael, don’t we, Cat. He’s a married man who’s had his share of tragedy and you can keep your bloody eyes off if you don’t want any trouble, because you and your kids have been through enough, and you manage just fine without any man.’ She flattened out a sheet of greaseproof paper as though she was trying to iron it onto the cloth with her hands and it crackled in response.
Cat’s heart sank and her smile faded. It was as though a cloud had passed over the park and blocked out the sun. ‘Thanks a lot, Lin. You really know how to spoil a day. Anyway, he hadn’t even crossed my mind. I’ve been too busy playing rounders.’
Linda glanced up at her from under her heavy lids and frowned. She opened the battered handbag she’d bought from a jumble sale, which was on the grass next to her, extracted a tin of tobacco and took out a roll-up she’d made earlier.
‘And what if I did like him – which I don’t, by the way. A girl can dream, can’t she?’ Cat squatted down. Arthur had trodden on the cloth and she pulled it out by the corners and smoothed it.
Linda was unequivocal in her response. ‘No, Cat, she cannot. Women like you and me are fools if we dream about anything other than washing nappies, feeding the kids, meeting the rent, paying the food – and the club, if there’s anything left over – and praying every flamin’ week that it doesn’t rain on washday. Because that, my girl, is our lot in life, and the only way you get through it is to know it and accept it. Dreaming is for fools. Dream and you become miserable and, like as not, land yourself in a whole load of trouble.’
Cat sprang to her feet and folded her arms. ‘Oh yeah, and I suppose you would know, wouldn’t you, Lind
a. Dreamt for a husband like your old man, did you? That useless waste of space. The answer to your dreams, was he? At least my Ben knew where he lived and didn’t give his address as the Anchor Pub when he was asked. Happy with your lot, are you? Really? Because given you spend most of your time in our house, it doesn’t seem that way to me.’ She glared at Linda, her jaw jutting upwards, her eyes blazing. She could tell within seconds that Linda wasn’t going to take her on.
It was as though Cat hadn’t spoken at all. Linda simply continued separating out the piles of sandwiches. ‘Betty Dunsthorne, she’s only gone and sent dripping butties. I told her, it’s a special day. Good job we’ve got plenty of jam and paste.’
To distract herself and to contain her disappointment and anger, Cat placed her hand over her eyes to shield the sun as she scanned the middle distance for the girls.
Linda was having none of it. She and Cat rarely argued and she would not take her on or allow the day to be ruined. She had fired her warning and there was nothing more she could do; the rest was up to Cat. ‘Pass me that packet of butties from the bottom of Susan’s pram there, would you. Let’s see if she even bothered to spread any marge on. As tight as a duck’s arse, that one.’ She made a fancy arrangement out of the stacks of sandwiches she’d unwrapped.
‘Jesus, you’re a barrel of flamin’ laughs today.’ Cat retrieved the sandwiches and dropped them on the cloth. Without another word, she turned on her heel and headed towards the princesses in the fairy castle over in the rose garden, with Linda’s words ringing in her ears.
Half an hour later, most of the food was gone.
‘That was the most delicious cake I have ever tasted,’ Michael lied as he downed the last mouthful.
The sandwiches and cake had been plentiful, and they had sung ‘Happy Birthday’ to the five birthday-girls and -boys. Michael had noted the poor quality of the food, suddenly realising that in Tarabeg they ate like kings. Why had he never noticed that? he wondered as he finished the last crumbs of the cake. On the day before he left Tarabeg, Nola had been complaining how sick she was of the fresh salmon he poached and that it was time to kill a pig. Did the children sitting on the cloth even know what salmon tasted like? He fancied that the white Liverpool marge cake needed a bit of Nola’s fresh thick yellow butter in it.
‘There’s some left if you want another slice,’ said Cat, lifting the plate and offering it to him.
The boys had wolfed down their food and were running back to the makeshift football pitch. Refuelling was the only acceptable reason for stopping play. Summer-long matches were usually played out in the streets and on the bombed-out wasteland. The luxury of green grass beneath their badly soled shoes was one they would enjoy until the parkie came to tell them he was about to lock the gates.
‘Are you coming, Michael?’ they yelled over their shoulders as they ran.
‘I will. I’m on me way after the tea,’ he shouted.
He and Cat had carried two trays from the wooden hut at the side of the lake and Michael had left a deposit for the china. It had been his suggestion – not something they normally treated themselves to on the birthday picnic. Cat was happy to hide the now cold bottles of tea under a sheet on the bottom of the pram, having been kept warm by the legs of the babies on the way to the park; they’d been made with sterilised milk so they didn’t curdle or turn. She’d enjoyed every minute of her conversation with Michael as they walked around the lake and back to camp, where they found Linda propped up against a tree stump, fast asleep.
Cat poured Michael another cup from the pot, without asking. Anything to keep him there a little longer.
‘You have great boys and they are the devils with the football,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘They talk about nothing else and they play it every day, all summer long. They start the match on the day school breaks up and it keeps going until September. The street with the highest number of goals wins and then we have a bit of a party in the winner’s street. It keeps them happy, I suppose. I think the goal score for our street is at sixty-four this summer – the highest ever, Arthur tells me. They all love the Liverpool manager, Bill Shankly.’ She heaped the sugar into his tea.
‘It must be hard for them,’ said Michael, pulling his gaze from the boys and turning to her, looking her straight in the eye, ‘having no da. And hard for you, being on your own. I lost my wife, my Sarah, too. I know how it feels.’
Cat didn’t reply but instead made a great fuss of tipping her spilt tea from the flower-patterned saucer back into her cup.
Michael’s face burnt at her sudden silence. Her downcast eyes told him all he needed to know: she still missed Ben and he had probably overstepped his place. He raised the cup to his lips and regretted his words. ‘Thank you for the tea,’ he said, desperate to bury the offending remarks.
‘But you married again – I remember Bee telling me. Rosie, was it? She’s the one who wrote the letters to Bee.’
Michael shuffled his legs into a more comfortable position. ‘Sure. Rosie, aye. I wasn’t trying to make out I was alone now, just that I know what it’s like, to lose someone, that’s all.’
Cat attempted a smile, but Michael noted that it didn’t reach her eyes. The only sound was the gentle snoring of Linda, still slumped against the tree, her chin on her chest.
Cat was sitting half on the cloth, half off, her legs tucked beneath her. Leaning to her side, she picked a blade of grass, slipped it between her lips and twirled it round. Michael was transfixed. He flushed again, his heartbeat speeded up and he swallowed his tea down almost in one gulp. This proud and hard-working woman, who didn’t have two halfpennies to rub together, was an enigma to him and quite unlike any woman he knew in Ireland.
She turned away to the lake and he had the advantage of her side profile. Her hair sat on her shoulders, her complexion was unlined, her nose slightly upturned, her red lips bringing a warm glow to her cheeks. She moved to a more comfortable position, her stockinged legs stretched out on the grass, the now discarded sandals lying under the tree next to Linda. Her hand moved down to her toes and began to massage them back into life; they were red from the ill-fitting sandals and from walking around the lake for the tea, and numb with pins and needles from being tucked beneath her for so long. He wanted to reach out, to move her hand away and slide his own hand along the American tan nylon, feeling the slip of it beneath his fingers, all the way up to the clasps of the suspender belt he could see protruding through the thin fabric of her skirt, and then beyond.
‘The boys want to go out on the lake in a boat.’ She turned back to him abruptly, and there was no mistaking that she knew. Her eyes had received the messages transmitted from his. She smiled and this time it was warm and beckoning.
‘Would you like me to go out on the lake with them? I have a boat meself at home.’ His voice was thick with lust; he floundered over his words and with a cough moved swiftly on. ‘Well, not a boat exactly – a curragh, for fishing the salmon on the river.’
The sound of a cheer filled the air. Stanley was leaping up and down and the other boys were patting his back. He’d obviously scored a goal. The thwack of leather on willow drifted over from a cricket match taking place on the opposite side of the park. The buzz of a bee on a nearby flower, in competition with the snores of Linda, drew Cat’s attention. ‘Arthur was keen for the lake earlier,’ she said. She didn’t want to add that she had checked out the prices while he was buying the tea. It was sixpence per boat and that was sixpence they didn’t have.
Michael jumped to his feet. ‘Tell you what I’m thinking – I’ll go and ask them who wants to go and it will be my treat. You have fed me and looked after me, and everyone else too, as well as my Mary Kate. ’Tis my turn to do a bit.’
The snoring stopped. Michael thought he heard a snort, but Linda didn’t appear to have woken up.
Cat jumped up too. ‘Well, if you don’t mind. I’m a bit nervous, like, because I don’t swim.’
Michael dusted his t
rousers down and avoided her gaze. He had a boat, right enough, but he could no more swim than Cat could. ‘They’ll be as right as rain with me. Sure, I fish on the river most days – I know how to handle water, I do.’
‘Oh, that’s such a relief.’ Cat smiled up at him. ‘They’ll love it.’
‘Come on then,’ he whispered, glancing at Linda and the sleeping babies, anxious not to wake them. ‘Let’s round them up.’
Only five of the boys went with Michael. The remainder were stuck between believing boating was for girls and a reluctance to stop playing football. The five boys ran down to the lake ahead of Cat and Michael and whooped for joy as they pointed excitedly to each other and at the island in the centre.
‘I bet we can’t reach that far,’ said one of the boys to Stanley.
‘I bet we can,’ shouted Stanley. ‘Can’t we, Michael?’
‘Oh aye, sure, and we can row all the way around it too.’
Cat laughed out loud. ‘They used to love it with Ciaran. He was the eldest boy in the street and Stanley wants to follow him to sea – if he doesn’t get taken on by Bill Shankly, that is.’
It was a scene of normal, uncomplicated happiness as Cat waved off Michael and the boys from the landing. ‘Remember you are in boat twenty-one,’ she shouted as Michael pulled away. ‘When your time is up, the man will shout you in through the loudhailer. Listen out, Arthur.’ She carried on waving as they rowed out into the middle of the lake, then made her way back to the camp under the trees to wake Linda.
It was the goal that did it – or rather the fact that Stanley saw the goal from the middle of the lake, forgot where he was, joined in the cheers and excitement, leapt to his feet, punched the air, and yelled, ‘Goal!’
Mary Kate Page 22
