by Tara Heavey
Mrs Prendergast had got Aoife thinking about tradition. She remembered the corn dollies of her childhood and realized that she had no clue as to their significance. So she looked them up too. She learned that the practice of plaiting wheat stalks to create a straw figure came from the belief that the corn spirit lived in the wheat and, as it was harvested, fled to the wheat that remained. By making the dolly, people believed they were keeping the spirit alive for the following year and the new crop. The next spring, the dolly would be ploughed back into the earth.
Aoife had a word with Liam’s teacher, purchased several wheatsheaves at the local agricultural show and had the boys and girls of that year’s junior infants busily making a veritable army of corn dollies.
Another memory from the harvest festivals of her youth was the bread. From the Church of England primary school she had attended, she had a clear recollection of a large loaf of bread in the shape of a wheatsheaf. She consulted Mrs Prendergast.
‘Yes, that’s right. It’s to symbolize thanksgiving for the harvest. They usually surround the bread with lots of fruit and vegetables.’
‘Like a display. What a great idea. We could do that. Surround a loaf with produce from the garden. Let the people see what we’ve been doing. Do you think the Mothers’ Union would bake the loaf for us?’
‘Well, I could help you with it if you like.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I did it a few times when Lance was a child.’
‘That would be terrific. In fact…’
‘What is it now?’
Aoife’s mind was joyfully ticking overtime. She had a dim recollection of an essay one of her students had written. It concerned the Celtic celebration of the harvest, the feast of Lammas, or the celebration of bread, when all the women of a village would come together to prepare the bread, this being seen as a sacred ritual in itself.
‘We need lots of bread to serve with the soup. Why don’t we all get together for a great big baking session?’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘You, me, Emily, Emily’s mother, Kathy… Well, that’s it, really.’
Emily was coming up a few days early to help. She was bringing Rose and her mother with her. They were staying with Mrs Prendergast – her first house guests, Aoife reckoned, for a very long time.
‘So just women, then?’
‘I think so. That’d be more fun, wouldn’t it?’
‘You can use my kitchen if you like.’
‘Thank you!’
‘Or had you made that assumption already?’
‘Kind of.’
Mrs Prendergast tried to look grumpy and failed miserably. The matter was settled. Aoife began organizing the ingredients that very afternoon.
The news Aoife received the following day caused her to feel both happy and anxious: her mother was coming for the party. While she was looking forward to having her there, and happy that Liam would get to see his nana, she couldn’t help but worry. She supposed this had mostly to do with Seth. Her mother had known Michael and that seemed to matter. Furthermore, he had been her beloved son-in-law, the father of her grandchildren. Of course, she didn’t have to tell her about Seth. It wasn’t as if they were living together, and nobody else knew about it yet.
They had decided to keep it secret – mainly for Liam and Kathy’s sake in case it all went pear-shaped. So that was it. She wouldn’t tell her. Nothing to worry about.
The Autumn Party was the title decided upon, greeted with much whooping and jumping by the children. They put flyers all over the neighbourhood:
Come join us for our Autumn Party,
Music sweet and food so hearty,
Homemade soup and bread for all,
Come celebrate the harvest haul.
‘What music?’ said Emily. Aoife had just read the flyer down the phone to her.
‘Hold on. I haven’t read the rest of it. “Bring your musical instruments, dancing shoes, story-telling hats and hours of sunshine.” ’
‘Oh.’
‘Well. What do you think?’
‘Um. It’s very good. Only…’
‘What?’
‘Do you mean we’re just relying on people bringing their own instruments and making their own music?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Isn’t that a bit risky?’
‘How so?’
‘What if they don’t, and everyone’s standing around waiting to be entertained?’
‘It’ll be fine. They’ll make their own entertainment.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am.’
Then Aoife’s mother arrived. They went out to Howth, a mutual, almost unspoken decision – they’d both loved it in their separate childhoods. It was to be beside the sea as much as anything else, on the beautiful, golden, windswept autumn day, Liam running ahead in a state of high excitement. The seals were in the harbour – five of them, so close that you could hear them breathing, watch their nostrils opening and closing, see their sleek, glistening bellies as they rolled over and dived. A dog stood on the quayside, barking dementedly at them. Aoife bought a bag of fish scraps from the fishmonger across the way and Liam fed the seals, laughing joyously as they caught the fragments in their mouths.
They bought late-season ice creams – ninety-nines with red syrup – and devoured them on the way to the lighthouse, waves crashing against the walls and roaring in their ears. Then they doubled back on themselves and walked up the hill to Howth Head, keeping the sea on their left.
Aoife hadn’t been to Howth since she’d settled in Ireland permanently. It was on the other side of the city now, and she hadn’t wanted to come on her own. She noticed and her mother commented on how Liam’s legs wouldn’t have been sturdy enough to make this climb just a year before.
‘He looks good,’ she said. ‘You both do. My God, Aoife. I was so worried about you moving to Ireland. It seemed like such a rash decision to make at the time. But now I can see you were right to follow your instincts. The move has done you the world of good. Both of you. I haven’t seen you looking so happy since… well, since Michael.’
‘I still miss him.’
‘Of course you do. You always will. That’s normal.’
‘And I’ll never let Liam forget him.’
‘And neither should you. But that doesn’t mean you can’t move on. Both of you. The last thing Michael would want is for you to stay stuck in your grief for ever.’
That afternoon, Aoife took her mother to visit the garden. She was fishing around for her key in the bag when she saw that the gate was standing wide open. That was unusual. Unprecedented, even. She walked cautiously inside. At first it looked as if no one was about. Then Uri emerged from the foliage like a woodland creature. He grinned broadly at Aoife.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘It’s gone through.’
‘What has?’
‘The sale. You’re looking at the proud owner of…’ he swept his hand in an expansive gesture ‘… this.’
‘Oh, Uri.’ She kissed him on both cheeks. ‘That’s wonderful. Congratulations. Oh, where are my manners? This is my mother, Moya.’
Uri kissed Aoife’s mother firmly and enthusiastically. He looked as if he was in the mood for kissing everyone.
‘Does this mean you’re going to keep the gates open all the time?’
‘Yes. Every day from sunrise to sunset. From now on, it will be a true community garden.’
‘What does Mrs Prendergast make of all this?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t told her yet.’ He was too polite to point out that it was no longer any of Mrs Prendergast’s business.
Next to arrive were Emily, Rose, and Emily’s mother, Bridget. Rose was crawling now and pulling herself up on anything that was available to her, be it stable or otherwise. Mrs Prendergast, having forgotten what babies were like, had left her home exactly as it was, much to Emily’s fright. She spent the first half of her visit removing
breakables from all the lower surfaces.
She seemed every inch the proper mammy now. It was as if Rose had always been a part of her. In a way, she always had. Big pea, little pea. So alike.
Upon arrival, Emily released Rose into the hungry arms of Uri and Mrs Prendergast and went directly to inspect her sensory garden. Aoife found her on the swing seat, beneath the entangled stems of the jasmine and honeysuckle, both past their prime, but beautiful in their autumnal state. ‘Do you mind if I sit with you?’
‘Please do.’ Emily patted the seat beside her and smiled. She sighed as Aoife sat down. ‘It’s good to be back.’
‘Are you staying?’
‘Yes. Mum’ll be here for a week to settle us into our new flat. I have Rose enrolled into the crèche in college. Only two years left to go. Then I’ll hopefully be able to get a job and support her properly.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted.’
Emily laughed. ‘Hardly. My God, it’s hard work, all this baby stuff. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t want to put you off.’
‘I can see that now. But… she’s lovely, Aoife.’
‘She is.’
‘I can’t believe she’s mine. I’m so happy.’
‘Good! Good for you.’
‘Mum’s been brilliant.’
‘And your dad?’
‘Great.’ She laughed. ‘I can’t believe it, really, how well it’s turned out.’ A cloud passed over her face. ‘All I put myself through. And Rose. It was all for nothing.’ Her sigh seemed to come from a deep well inside her.
‘Come on, Emily. Enough of the maternal guilt. The important thing is how well it’s all worked out. Remember how terrified you were of your dad’s reaction?’
‘Yes. I guess Rose just won him over. You should see him with her when he thinks no one’s looking.’ She laughed. ‘I think he still feels he has to come across as stern and disapproving in case my little sisters think it’s okay to arrive home with their own bundles of joy.’
They swung together for a while, lost in the motion, Aoife entranced by the way the delicate tendrils of jasmine and honeysuckle twirled and wrapped themselves around each other.
‘How are things with you?’
‘Great.’
‘And Seth?’
‘He’s fine too.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Fair enough.’
46
‘I keep finding bowls of goo everywhere. Places you wouldn’t believe – the airing cupboard, for pity’s sake,’ Mrs Prendergast complained in a whisper. But Aoife knew from her expression that part of her was enjoying the unpredictability of sharing her house with other human beings. Not only did she have Lance at home for the first time in years, she also had Emily, her mother and baby Rose staying with her.
‘What do you mean “bowls of goo”?’
‘Some experiment to do with the breadmaking.’
‘Oh, I know what that is. She’s making sourdough bread. She’ll be trying to capture particles of yeast from the atmosphere.’
‘For goodness’ sake. Can she not buy it in packets in the supermarket like everyone else?’
Each woman had been assigned a different type of bread: Emily, the aforementioned sourdough, and her mother, Bridget, sodabread because she made it every morning of her life and was an acknowledged world expert. Aoife’s mother, Moya, was on poppy-seed detail. Aoife and Mrs Prendergast, as well as being in charge of the wheatsheaf loaf, were attempting a variety of flavoured breads such as sun-dried tomato, cheese and onion, and raisin. Kathy’s job was to squelch down the newly risen dough with the palms of her freshly washed hands. She was also the official licker of bowls and utensils. They felt that, between them, they had all bases covered. Aoife just hoped they weren’t being overly ambitious.
On the night before the party they gathered together. Five and a half women in Mrs Prendergast’s fabled kitchen. Seth called them ‘the coven’ and Aoife privately thought he had a point. There was something about a group of women together, a unique dynamic, fascinating to feel and watch. It was in the way they sat so comfortably, kicked off their shoes, threw their heads back and laughed with abandon. Aoife perceived that the women she had come to love most in all the world were in this group. The thought made her smile as she watched Mrs Prendergast boss everyone about. She hoped this wouldn’t cause a clash with Bridget, who was quite a domineering presence herself and used to being in charge of a kitchen. She seemed quite relaxed so far, though.
There were a few bottles of wine knocking around. Aoife wondered if she should suggest opening one. On the other hand, she didn’t want them all so pissed that they messed up the bread. She’d bide her time and choose the moment of inebriation carefully.
They all wore pinnies. Aoife’s was patterned with flowers and kittens. She felt as if she were in home-economics class, Mrs Prendergast the strict and bossy teacher.
‘Now, girls,’ she was saying, relishing her role as the one in charge, ‘it’s probably best if we keep to our own sections of kitchen at all times.’
They were designated a piece of counter each. Everybody had brought their own bowls and bits and pieces, which they laid out now. When this was done, Aoife announced: ‘Okay, ladies. Let the great bake-off commence.’ She saw Mrs Prendergast’s sour face and understood that the older woman had been planning on making such a declaration herself. Oh, well. Too late now.
So, off they went. Weighing, measuring, sifting, mixing, kneading, rolling, chattering. So much chattering that a passer-by might have been forgiven for mistaking the noise for that of a gaggle of excited schoolgirls released on a school trip.
There were quiet times too, every woman intent on her work. Aoife and Emily looked up during one such interlude at the same time. They smiled at each other, then went back to their dough. Aoife felt as if she was participating in some ancient ritual. There was something about making bread – the staff of life. Perhaps it was the knowledge that generations of her female ancestors before her had done the same. It was a soothing notion that filled her with a sense of contentment. Aoife hadn’t made bread in years, but she had helped her mother sometimes when she was a girl. She was amazed at how quickly it came back to her, as if the knowledge had been locked away inside her the whole time. A secret memory. Coded, in fact, in her very DNA.
They came to the point when most of them had to stop and wait for their bread to rise. Not Bridget’s sodabread, which was the first to enter the oven and fill the air with its delectable aroma. They cleared up as best they could, and then the clinking began – of chilled wine bottles and glasses. A party atmosphere invaded the kitchen. Mrs Prendergast produced a tray of nibbles she’d secretly prepared earlier. They descended on them greedily, in the manner of women who know that no men are present. No pretence of delicacy here. ‘I thought we might need these to stop us munching the bread,’ she said. ‘Looks like I was right.’
‘Well, smelling all that delicious bread baking is making me feel starving,’ said Moya. ‘Especially since I know I’m not allowed to eat any of it.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Emily. ‘I mean, we’re making so much bread that it’d probably be okay to nibble just a little bit.’
‘But if we start we might never stop,’ said Bridget.
‘Do you think we’ve made too much?’ Aoife was suddenly filled with fear. ‘What if nobody shows up?’
‘They will.’
‘But what if they don’t? What’ll we do with all the bread?’
‘We can bring it home and eat it ourselves.’
‘Or give it to the ducks.’
‘Don’t worry, Aoife. It’ll be fine.’
‘I wonder how the Mothers’ Union are getting on with the soup.’
Joyce, Pearl and some other members had volunteered to make the honey-roasted parsnip soup. Aoife had brought them around a massive crate of parsnips that afternoon.
�
�Oh, I’m sure they’re on their second gallon already,’ said Mrs Prendergast. ‘Honestly. That woman. You should have heard her yesterday. “All the honey is sourced locally.” I mean, what did she do? Take down the names and addresses of the bees?’
Aoife giggled as she imagined the scene and the ruthless efficiency that Joyce would apply to it. But she was grateful. Those women had come up trumps for her.
The atmosphere mellowed as the women sipped their wine. It was during this time that Lance came home and unwittingly walked into the kitchen. He blinked a couple of times, as if caught in headlights. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were all here.’ This was clear. He wouldn’t have come anywhere near them if he had known. The group of women knew their power to intimidate a lone male. They felt their strength in numbers. ‘Something smells good.’
‘Are you hungry, Lance? Shall I make you a sandwich?’
‘That’d be great.’
‘Go through to the sitting room. I’ll bring it in to you.’
He nodded his thanks and beat a hasty retreat.
‘Poor guy,’ said Emily.
‘How’s he getting on?’ Aoife asked Mrs Prendergast, when she came back.
‘Very well.’ She smiled a smile of genuine happiness. ‘Although he thinks he isn’t because that trollop of a girlfriend of his has broken up with him. Lost interest when she found out there was no more money in the pot. He’ll work out soon enough that he’s had a lucky escape. Which,’ she said, suddenly switching her focus on to Aoife, ‘means that he’s free, for anybody who might consider him.’
‘I – I –’ Aoife was mortified.
‘Oh, I forgot. You’re otherwise engaged with Seth.’ She smiled again, wickedly this time.
Aoife turned the colour of beetroot. Everybody laughed.
