A Letter From America

by Geraldine O'Neill

  She found she could not concentrate on serving them, and keep track of the conversations at the same time. A few times someone had spoken to her and she found herself staring at them blankly, not sure what they had said or what item they had asked for.

  Time was just dragging by when she wanted it to disappear so she could be on her own with Michael again. Somehow, she muddled her way through, and managed to keep herself satisfied by going into the bar every now and again to catch a glimpse of him. He had found a quiet spot there where he was reading a book and slowly drinking a pint of Guinness when it was busy, and chatting to Patrick when it was quiet.

  Patrick, she thought, surely must have guessed there was something between them when he came upon them in the kitchen earlier on. Guests never came into the kitchen, and certainly didn’t stand there drinking cups of coffee. She knew men were slower to catch on to things like that, but she reckoned that if Maggie and Anne had noticed it last night – before anything had actually happened between them – then Patrick must surely have guessed this morning.

  As she had cooked the breakfast for the three of them, she had veered between elation at the memory of being in Michael’s arms and him kissing her – to total depression when she thought of him going away.

  Then, after breakfast – when Patrick left them alone in the snug – Michael had reached across the table and taken her hands in his. “If it’s okay with you,” he said, “I thought I might stay around Tullamore over the weekend. If the rooms here are all taken, then I’m sure I can find somewhere in town.”

  Fiona looked at him, feeling weak with relief. “That’s great,” she said, “and there’s no problem about the room. We’re usually quieter at the weekends as the commercial travellers go home.” Then, she stopped. “But what about Clifden? What about your plans to look at the cottage?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not on any schedule. I haven’t booked my return flight home or finalised anything yet. I have until next week to decide when I go back. I’ll phone the auctioneer this afternoon and tell him I’ll be down Monday.”

  “That’s great if you can change your plans...”

  He leant towards her and touched her lips gently with his. “I want to spend all the time I have with you. Whatever time you have spare.” He moved his hands over her hair. “I know you have a lot of responsibilities with running the shop all on your own, and working in the bar at night – but when do you get time off?”

  “It’s different every week,” she told him. “It all depends on what is happening.” All sorts of problems ran through her mind. Tonight was quiet in the bar, but tomorrow night, Saturday, there was a big card game on, and she would be needed. “I’ll sort something out.”

  “I don’t want to put pressure on you – I do understand about your mom being ill and everything – but I’d love to see some of the local places you mentioned like the old castle, and I wondered if there was any chance you could take a day off so we could go to somewhere like Dublin or Galway together?”

  Her brain started to tick over, to work out how she could spend as much time as she could with him. “I have a half-day Wednesday and a Sunday off as the shop is closed,” she said. “But there isn’t much open on a Sunday anywhere. Most of the shops would be closed.”

  “Who needs shops?” he laughed. “I’m just interested in seeing places and spending time with you. Sunday is good for me, if that’s the best day for you.”

  “I’m off some evenings,” she said. “I’m actually off tonight. I’ll check with Patrick about tomorrow night, but I doubt if he could manage on his own when they have the card game.”

  “You don’t have any other staff you can call in for emergencies?” His voice had a note of surprise.

  Fiona bit her lip. “Not really...occasionally we’ve had Patrick’s brother working in the bar, and his sister-in-law helping out in the shop. But there’s only been me in the shop since my mother has been ill and I wasn’t going anywhere further afield, as I couldn’t really be too far away from her. I’m okay for the odd half an hour or so if I’ve something to do at the house, as Patrick can mind both the bar and the shop.” She shook her head. “It’s all changed since Daddy died. Before there was my mother, my father and me, and Patrick. Daddy did both the shop and the bar. They were planning on getting someone else in when I went to New York, but they hadn’t sorted it when Daddy died.” Her face tightened. “And then of course Mam took sick and I’ve just plodded along with things in the shop on my own.” Listening to herself she knew it sounded a sorry tale.

  “You’ve had a tough time,” he said quietly, “no doubt about it.”

  His concern brought a lump to her throat. “It’ll work out eventually,” she said, but her voice was unconvincing even to her own ears.

  “Okay,” he said. “I want to get a few things, so I’ll take a drive out in the afternoon to one of the nearby towns. Patrick said Athlone is interesting, and it isn’t too far, so I might head out there.”

  She wanted to say ‘Don’t go, don’t leave me’ – but she knew she couldn’t ask him to sit about in the bar hour after hour waiting for her to steal a few minutes in between customers. He had even come into the shop when it was quiet to lean on the counter to chat to her, but it was not relaxed as they were both conscious that a customer or Patrick might walk in at any minute. And Fiona knew that it would already be talked about that there was a Yank up in Tracey’s bar, sitting in the corner with a book of all things. She had told him that, and he had laughed incredulously.

  “And I was sitting there quietly, thinking I was almost invisible, and people were watching me all the time. But I can’t be the only stranger around – you must get other tourists in the town, right?”

  “Yes,” she said, “and very few go unnoticed.” She shrugged and smiled. “It’s a small place and everyone knows each other. It’s just the way it is.”

  “I was in a small village in Scotland a few years ago, on a tour of the Highlands with my mother – and it was the same thing – if we went off the main tourist places, people were curious about who we were and what we were doing there.” He grinned. “I don’t know why I’m so surprised, because it’s the same in some of the small places in the States. I remember when I was a student and doing a project on bridges, my friend and I drove down to Iowa. They have some really amazing covered bridges that date back to the late 1800’s.” He shrugged. “Which as you probably know, is really old for the United States. We don’t have old castles and monasteries dating back to the seventh century or anything like you have here in Ireland.”

  Fiona had listened to him with rapt attention, loving his voice, his accent and the way he described places. Hearing him talk made her think back to the places she had seen on the postcards Elizabeth had sent to her. The streets and shops described in the airmail letters she had spent hours reading over and over again, until she almost imagined she had been to those places herself.

  And when she had to leave him again, to go back to serve newspapers and tobacco, packets of biscuits and tins of scouring powder, she carried the images he described in her mind. Every time she thought of them – whatever mundane task she was doing – she found herself smiling.

  She went back to the house at one o’clock to check on the fires, and to heat up the stew and potatoes Mrs Mooney had left for her mother. She went straight upstairs to her mother’s room.

  “Are you awake, Mam?” she said quietly, and when her mother moved to sit up, she then asked the same question she asked every time she went into the bedroom. “How are you feeling?”

  Nance leaned her head back against the mahogany headboard. “I thought I was brighter earlier on, but then I felt a bit dizzy when I went to the bathroom. So I came back to bed then and slept for another while.” She ran a hand over her lank hair. “Is Mary Ellen back from the hospital yet? Has she been in?”

  “No – do you not remember us saying she wouldn’t be back until later?”

  Nance’s frown deepened. �
�Surely they can’t keep her that long? She’s been gone all morning and it’s only a ten-minute walk from her house up to the hospital.”

  “Mam,” Fiona said, a note of exasperation in her voice, “it’s not Tullamore hospital she’s gone to. Do you not remember us talking about it last night? She was getting the early train up to Dublin and by the time she’s seen and gets the train back down it will be late. She might not even feel like coming up to the house after all the travelling and everything.”

  “Oh, yes,” Nance said, nodding her head. “I remember now, that she said it was Dublin...”

  Fiona looked at her, and thought she had that same vacant look about her again that she had last night. And there was something else odd too. She was almost out of the door to go back downstairs when it dawned on her. She looked back to her mother’s bedside cabinet.

  “Mam,” she said, her voice rising, “have you been smoking up here?”

  “I wasn’t up to going downstairs.”

  “But you shouldn’t be smoking when you’re in bed,” Fiona said. “You would never have allowed that when Daddy was alive. I can’t believe it – I remember you going mad when Uncle Dermot was over from England and smoked in one of the spare bedrooms. You made Daddy go and tell him that it wasn’t allowed.”

  “Oh, Fiona, for God’s sake stop going on at me,” her mother snapped. “I have enough to put up with without you starting on at me. I only had the one cigarette – that’s all.”

  “But that’s all it takes, Mam – one spark on the bedclothes and we could have a disaster.” She looked at her mother’s glazed eyes. “If you fell asleep while you were smoking...”

  “I won’t,” Nance said. “I’m not that stupid.”

  “Well, if you’re determined to keep smoking,” Fiona said, “you’ll have to come downstairs or do without. It’s not as if you’re dependent on them, because you’ve only been back smoking a few days.”

  “True,” her mother said, looking towards the widow.

  “I’ll bring your lunch up now, and you might feel better when you’ve eaten again.”

  Her mother turned back towards her now that the subject had been changed. “Are you busy down at the shop?”

  “Busy enough,” Fiona said. “I’ll bring your stew up in five minutes and then I’ll head back to it.”

  “You’re surely in a hurry – are you not having lunch yourself?”

  “No, I had a big breakfast this morning after I served the guests.”

  “Did you have guests?”

  “The commercial travellers and the American chap. Remember, Mam? We were talking about it last night.”

  Nance nodded. “Yes, of course...”

  Fiona came back downstairs, wondering what to make of her mother. At times she seemed on a different planet. Whilst she was worried about her, there was a part of her felt almost angry with her for giving in so easily. Maybe if she just shook herself up a bit – pushed a little beyond what she felt like doing, it might gradually get her back into a normal way of living again.

  In the meantime, Fiona decided she was not going to waste this time she had with Michael O’Sullivan worrying about her mother. She did what she had to do in the house and took lunch up to her mother.

  She was just about to leave the house when the phone rang. As she went quickly along the hallway, she called up to her mother, “If it’s for you, are you well enough to take the call?”

  “No – not today!” her mother called back.

  Fiona answered the phone and it was her Aunt Catherine.

  “Oh, Fiona,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind me ringing.”

  “Not at all,” Fiona said. “It’s lovely to hear from you.”

  “I’m just checking how your mother is. I’ve rung a few times but she’s not been up to talking. I asked Mrs Mooney to see if I could come down and visit her, but when she asked your mother she said she doesn’t want any visitors yet. I must say I’m worried about her, Fiona. You must think I’m terrible that I’ve not seen her for months, but Angela has told me the same, that she just hasn’t the energy for visitors. I don’t know what to do...”

  “Hang on...I won’t be a second...” Fiona went over to close the sitting-room door. It was unlikely that her mother could hear her, but she didn’t want to take a chance. “Sorry,” she said, when she came back, “I just had to check something.” She paused. “Mam’s still not great, Auntie Catherine. And it’s not just you – she doesn’t want to see anyone and most of the time she’s in bed and not up to answering the phone.”

  “Well, will you say I rang again and...” Her voice trailed off. “I’d love to come down and see her, Fiona, but I’m worried it would only make her feel under pressure. I’ve written to her and sent her a Get Well card, as you probably know, but she hasn’t replied.”

  “She’s not written any letters since – since Daddy died. I just don’t know what to say. That shingles thing has really knocked her for six. I’ve never seen her like this before.”

  “I’ve heard it’s a terrible thing – that it can go on for a long time.”

  “Well, the rash and the terrible pain and everything has gone all right, but it’s the tiredness and the awful flat way it’s left her. She has no energy or interest in doing anything. It’s like she’s left with some kind of depression.”

  “I can imagine exactly what she must be like,” Catherine said in a strained tone, “I can remember her being like that before...”

  The revelation took Fiona by surprise. “When? I don’t remember hearing anything about that.”

  “It was a long time ago,” her aunt said, “but she was very bad then and was in her bed for a good while.”

  “Did Daddy know?”

  “Oh, it was long before she was married. Before she met your father. It was when I was first married and living in England. She came to stay with us for a while and then after she went back home to Ireland she was sick for months, and couldn’t get out of bed.” Her tone suddenly changed. Fiona thought it sounded almost urgent or panicky. “Don’t mention to your mother that I told you that, Fiona – please! I shouldn’t have said anything about it. If you reminded her about that time, it might make her worse.”

  “I won’t say a word,” Fiona reassured her. “But can I just ask you – what brought it on before? Especially if she was only young.”

  “Oh, God, Fiona – I can’t remember,” Aunt Catherine said, sounding vague. “It was years and years ago...”

  “Was it after she had been ill? The way she is now after the shingles?”

  “I don’t know...We were living in Manchester so I didn’t see much of her. Joseph was only young and people didn’t travel as much.” She halted. “But I think she might have had something like glandular fever around that time. I’m not at all sure but, as I say, it wouldn’t help to remind her of that now. And your mother wouldn’t like to think we were talking about her. She wouldn’t like it one little bit. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

  Fiona was surprised at the intensity of her aunt’s tone. “Of course I won’t say anything.”

  “My phone number is in the book, isn’t it?” Catherine checked. “If you ever feel she’s up to seeing me, phone me straight away, won’t you?”

  “Yes, I will. And thanks for ringing again.”

  When she put the receiver back in its cradle, Fiona stood for a few minutes, just having realised something. Aunt Catherine was terrified of offending their mother. How her aunt even bothered with her sister after the funeral, when she was so awful to her and Joseph, she didn’t know.

  And then it struck her – everyone was terrified of offending her.

  Something clicked within her and, instead of heading out the front door and straight to the shop, she found herself going back upstairs. She tapped lightly on her mother’s bedroom door and went in.

  Her mother was sitting up in bed, her head leaning against the pillows and with the tray still on her lap. The spoon was lying on the be
dspread as though it had fallen out of her hand, the bowl of stew only half-eaten.

  Fiona went over and lifted the tray. “Mam!” she said in a loud hiss.

  Nance’s eyes fluttered open. “What...what’s wrong?”

  “You’re asleep with the tray on the bed.”

  She looked at her daughter with glazed eyes. “I didn’t realise – I’m just so tired.”

  Usually when she saw her mother like this, Fiona felt pity for her, but this afternoon she felt frustrated and fed up. How much longer could this go on?

  “That was Aunt Catherine on the phone.” She watched her mother’s face darken at the mention of her name. “As soon as you’re up to it, you need to phone her. The poor woman has phoned several times a week since you’ve been sick, and not once have you phoned her back. She’s written to you as well, and sent a nice Get Well card you didn’t even bother to open.”

  “I know all that,” Nance said. “You don’t need to talk to me as though I’m a child.”

  “But she’s your sister and you act like she’s a stranger you can’t stand. I don’t know what you have against her, but it’s...” she sighed in frustration, “well, it’s just not normal. You’re leaving me and Mrs Mooney to take the phone calls and make excuses. Whatever you think she’s done, she must think it’s finished, or she wouldn’t keep phoning and wasting her time. You need to sort it out with her, Mam. It’s not going to kill you making a phone call to her, surely?”

  Tears came into her mother’s eyes. “I don’t know what’s got into you today, Fiona. You wouldn’t have spoken to me like this when your father was alive – the other two girls would never speak to me like that.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Fiona said, “but they’re not here all the time.”

  “Do you think I like being this way?” her mother asked in a choked voice. “How do you think it feels to be like an invalid in bed, day after day? To be like an old woman? Do you not think I’d like to be up and about as I used to be? I’m tired, Fiona, in a way you don’t understand. I’m tired deep down inside to my very bones. There are days I feel so tired, I wish that God would just let me go to sleep and never wake up again.” She reached over to the bedside cabinet to lift her embroidered hanky and then bring it up to her eyes.