by Brothers
‘My father, Liam, the man of the house.’ The words tasted like lemon on Tim’s lips.
‘But sure, what was there to forgive?’ Robert said.
‘For not being the man he wanted me to be. For letting everything…’ Tim paused.’ For everything that happened.’
Chapter 3
Monday Afternoon – March 1970
I’ve grown to hate coming home from school; I’d prefer to stay in the convent with that bitch of a nun, Sister Alphonsus. I still have welts on my left hand where she walloped me with the cane for writing with it. She says that only the devil’s children use their left hand and that good catholic girls should write with their right hand, like Jesus intended them to. She says it’s the only way that I’ll learn my lesson, that and by tying it tightly behind my back so I can’t use it. I hate the month of March most of all, mostly because it’s lambing season. The season when Tim is ordered out of school by father, even though it’s his exam year, and plonked slap, bang, right into the middle of the lambing field until all the lambs are born. He’s even made to sleep in the caravan up there, which leaves just me and my mother back here, at the house.
My mother enjoys March most, when my father is either out in the fields or down in the town, drinking. It allows her to pretend we don’t exist. Like she’s some pitiful widow living alone in the oversized farmhouse.
‘Is that you, Rose?’ My mother, indolent and dramatic, is only short of fanning herself with feathers and uttering ‘woe is me’ at the end of every sentence, and it really grates on my nerves. Her voice spills from the mahogany panelled room, scraping the black and white tiles of the hall as it travels towards me and staggers into the kitchen carrying the scent of musty perfumed talc, cigarette smoke and regrets. She would have watched me from her bed as I climbed the drive and rounded the house to enter through the heavy back door. I’m furious that she has asked, there is no one else it could have been. I’m furious that I have to answer her.
‘Yes.’ The scorn on my face is much braver than the politeness of my voice. It is just as well she cowers behind her door, fearful to be seen, not that she would have seen my face even if she had been standing in front of me. Unlike my father, who says that if I so much as look at him in that tone of voice, he’ll teach me how to be pleasant, with his belt, again. I always try my best not to answer him and for the most part it works. My father’s belt is like the convent’s Mother Superior. When you see her coming, you bow your head and shut your mouth and hope that she doesn’t notice you.
‘Bring Patrick’s dinner below.’ Mother’s voice wafts from inside her room and I don’t bother to answer her. Every word that I have to say to her hurts. She pauses, no doubt to swig the drain that was left in her glass. ‘And come straight back.’ She warns. I’m not sure what my mother ever did in the house, but whatever it was, she has given up doing it. Which leaves all the, so-called, women’s work to me. It’s been that way for two years now, since I turned twelve. She has taken the front drawing room as her own, telling my father that her legs can’t manage the stairs. It just so happens that the room she has moved into is closer to the drinks cabinet and further from my father’s bed but that doesn’t seem to matter to him. It’s hard to listen to her, not because she slurs and then overcompensates with a pretentious telephone voice, but because, no matter what she does, she just angers me.
I wrap a plate with cold ham, lettuce, tomato and yesterday’s bread. I open the back door again and cut across the yard with the tinfoiled plate. The path that joins our house to Patrick’s cottage snakes between the sheds and the end of our overgrown herb garden. Tim was ordered to plant hedge clippings along the route last week but they haven’t grown yet.
‘Is that you?’ my uncle says without turning from the sink. He’s stood slushing water underneath his armpits with a dirty brown dishcloth, dirty cups and bowls on the sideboard.
‘It’s me,’ I say quickly, embarrassed to see him without his shirt.
‘Good girl, what did your mother cook tonight?’ He knows well that my mother hasn’t cooked in years. I pull back the tinfoil and place his plate on his table. It’s easier to show him than to use my words.
‘Grand, now like a good girl will you make the tea to go with it, while I get out of these clothes.’ He starts to unbuckle his belt in the kitchen and I cringe. It only takes his long legs, three strides to reach his bedroom door. I lift the heavy kettle that has begun to whistle and pour the water into the teapot on the stove. The tea leaves swirl like a kaleidoscope and I have to force myself to close the lid.
‘Tea’s stewing,’ I call in to him as loudly as I can manage, which isn’t loud at all. My face is definitely louder than my words.
‘Wait a minute.’ The jumper he was pulling over his head muffles the sound as he talks to me from his bedroom next door.
‘Mother says I’ve to come straight back or my dinner will get cold.’ The hairs on my arm stand taller as though they feel a chill. The chill hasn’t reached the rest of me yet. I try to cover them but the sleeves on my school blouse are an inch too short.
‘It’s already cold,’ he says. ‘Salad.’ He smirks as he waves towards the plate as if he has figured out a maths problem that no one else could. I steal a look at him from under my fringe. ‘Anyway, you may wait for the plate.’ He settles at the table and so does the smell. I think of a smart remark, just like I did when Sister Alphonsus caned me, but I don’t say it. Sometimes it’s just not worth it.
‘Sit down.’ He points to the bench beside him. I do as I am told. My nostrils flare as the smell of him seeps inside of me, engulfing me in the rancid odour of the farm. ‘The salad is lovely, tell your mother.’ He slurps as he speaks, and spits of saliva land on the table in front of him. I’m not sure whether he is being sarcastic or not, but I am sure that the salad is not lovely. Discreetly, I cover my nose and my mouth and concentrate on the smell of the carbolic soap from my hands instead.
He pauses slurping and peers at me from the side. ‘You’re growing to be a lovely girl just like your mother.’ He picks up the chunk of ham in his filthy hands and tears a massive bite with his yellowed, unruly teeth, caveman-like. I wish he would use his fork. I take deep breaths, my stomach is about to chuck out the paltry soup I had at lunchtime in school. I hate having to wait for the plate. ‘She doesn’t come and see me anymore,’ he sneers. ‘Your mother,’ he clarifies, and even though it’s not a question, I know by the squinting of his eyes and the derision in his statement that he is waiting for a reply.
‘She’s not able,’ I say. My voice is weak, something I despise my mother for.
‘So I hear.’ Patrick takes a crust of bread and wipes his plate clean. He folds the slice in four and places all of it in his mouth at once and I feel sorry for the bread. ‘Sure, you’re the woman of the house now.’ He hands me the empty plate, presumably to wash it. I slide from the bench as quietly as I can, as though by being quiet he might not notice me. He follows me to the sink and stretches over me with his mug. The smell of him does nothing to ease the nausea I’m feeling and my stomach turns over almost three times. His arm brushes across my chest and I freeze.
‘What are these?’ He turns me slightly with his large filthy hand on my shoulder and he flicks at the front of my blouse as though there is a stubborn insect resting on my front. I notice the black lines of dirt framing his fingernails as he points to my chest. My blouse is tight now around my chest and for the first time this year I regret not asking for a new one. I can’t breathe. My face must have told him so because my words couldn’t.
‘Ah don’t be shy, Rose. Come over here and sit beside me.’ He speaks every word slowly as though he is speaking to Mr Patel in the corner shop in town. I hear the floor groan as he retreats back across the tired floorboards. It doesn’t sound half as loud as the silent groan echoing inside of me. Instinctively, I shuffle my legs so I can turn the rest of the way. I don’t like the idea of him being behind me. My wellies squeal like captured piglet
s as they rub against each other and I keep my hand on the sink for balance. It’s time to leave, I decide and I manage to take the plate without looking him in the eye and stoically make for the back kitchen door. There is no way I am going to sit beside him like he wants me to.
‘Rose.’
I freeze with one foot on the threshold as he calls my name. I draw a breath deeply into my lungs and glare at him, ready to run.
‘I don’t think your father would like to know that his little girl, Rosie, is growing up, do you?’ He says. ‘He’ll take the belt to you.’
I watch him from behind my fringe and can see his beady eyes narrow menacingly. I can hear my heart beating inside my head. My lungs feel as though Sister Alphonsus has made us do twenty jumping jacks so that she doesn’t have to put the heating on. I am drenched in worry as a swell of panic washes over me. I don’t know which to dread more: my father’s belt or my uncle’s hands. I decide to take my chances with the belt and push my voice out in front of me.
‘He’ll take the belt to you more like.’ It turns out my voice is as brave as my face after all. I stand, poised to leave and hold the wet plate to my bosom as my shield. He remains at the table and suddenly the silence of the room is filled, decibel by climbing decibel, as his whimpering snigger transforms into a thundering laugh.
‘Well then, our meek and mild virgin, Rosie’s, got her brother’s balls.’ Patrick stands and the old oak table screeches as it scrapes across the sticky timber floor.
I edge closer to the door and have decided that I will throw the plate, if I have to.
His sinister grin stretches from one side of his face to the other and the malice inside of him drops like grains of gravel in the quarry. ‘Feisty,’ he says as he bites the side of his bottom lip and puts his hands in his trouser pockets.
‘What’s it to you?’ My voice cracks a little but my face doesn’t; it means business, even if I am terrified.
‘We’ll see how long you can be brave for, Rosie.’ I hate it when he calls me that. Tim is the only one allowed to call me Rosie. He pauses a moment and then retakes his seat but keeps his hands in his pockets. His feet stretch under the table and out the other side. I notice the kettle simmering on the stove and consider pouring it over him but I don’t. For some reason, I say in my head that a watched kettle never boils. ‘Your mother never fought back,’ he spits. His words drip with arrogance and gratification. I suspect his ego couldn’t help but tell me.
The handful of courage I had moments ago escapes through my small pale fingers and I clinch the damp plate closer to my body. It’s a minute before I realise the indentation it makes on my chest. My uncle is a long man with long lean muscles that stretch from his thick country neck to his bulky calves. The vessels in his neck pulsate like worms crawling underneath his skin. The shaking in my knees has migrated to my hands and my voice follows suit. My mind hurries to my departure and I’m afraid to use any more words.
‘That shut you up, you little prick-tease.’
I can feel him staring at me but don’t come out from behind my fringe. I steal a look in his direction when I know he has blinked. Beads of sweat leak from his hairline across his forehead and bring with it the day’s muck from his face in grey streaks. I wish he would take his hands from his pockets and wipe it away, but his eyes close momentarily and languish there before they flicker. Then his breathing quickens and deepens. I can see more beads of sweat escape from his upper lip and he lets out a quiet groan, slow and low like a bull. I run.
The plate is still wet and I rub it on my chest as I hurry across the mucky yard and up the path to the house. We have loads of these plates, big and small, cups, saucers, teapots and bowls; all neatly stacked in the dining room dresser. There was a girl from the village who used to do the housework for my mother, but even she doesn’t come here anymore. The plate looks fancy with rust-coloured swags and gold trimming along the edges. Fine cracks spread at funny angles from the centre. ‘Wait for the plate,’ I repeat in a deep mimicky voice. I want to march back to my uncle and throw the plate at him. Or better still, smash it over his head. I wish I had done it. I wish I was braver.
The March sky looks electrically orange and leaves just enough light for me to make out a shadow across the field. I concentrate hard to see if it’s the cattle, my father or Tim. My boots are heavy with wet sticky mud lodged in the grooves of the soles, refusing to scrape away. I hesitate on the spot as the shadow moves closer. It might be Tim but it might be my father, so I make for the house as quickly as the heavy boots allow.
The yard is abandoned and the farmhouse looks dark. No doubt my mother is still in her bed. I push the heavy back door and place the plate on the table. I wished I had smashed it, into shards and smithereens. I shake my boots loose and pick my way in my stocking feet past the dresser and out into the hall in the darkness. I stall outside her door and listen. She has disappeared into a cloud of gin mist and I expect we won’t hear from her till tomorrow. ‘Thank God,’ I whisper and I climb the old staircase to my room.
Nothing is the same when Tim is lambing, the farmhouse is even emptier, if that’s possible. The darkness is greyer and despite the spring warmth, the bitter chill becomes a blizzard. Night-time creeps sluggishly through the shutters and tomorrow feels as though it will never come. I turn the heater on and sit huddling my legs on the carpet in front of it. The isolated burn on my face does nothing to spread the warmth to my body, so I shift to my side as though grilling a piece of toast, one side at a time.
I hear footsteps on the stairs and quickly turn off the gas and jump under my covers, even though I’m still dressed. I close my eyes tightly and open my ears. I listen for the creak of the second last step. Tim knows to skip it.
‘Rosie.’ I hear my name outside the door and I lift my head half an inch from my pillow to listen. Pillows are noisiest in the silence and the sound of cotton shifting underneath my ear drowns out the sound of the voice. I’m not sure who it is. I remain stuck in this position. My back is to the door when a sliver of light shoots along the carpet and snipes lengthways on the wallpaper. I hear the squash of the carpet pile underneath a boot, and then another and then another. A dark elongated shadow sweeps across my bed and spans itself diagonally across the curtains. I can tell from the shadow that I’m about to feel a hand on my back.
‘Rosie, you awake,’ Tim says softly.
I begin to breathe. The barrel of my body underneath the covers shrinks as the air leaves my lungs, relieved.
‘Tim, I wasn’t sure if it was you or not, I was pretending to be asleep.’ I flick the blankets down and sit beside him on the edge of the bed.
‘You okay?’ Tim says and I nod yes.
‘I didn’t think you’d be able to get back tonight.’
‘Father has gone down to the pub, says he’ll be back in an hour.’ We both smirk, knowing full well that the whiskey will tell him to do otherwise. ‘Patrick, I’d say will go too, I don’t see any lights below in the cottage,’ Tim says. ‘Mind you, that fecker is so mean he is probably sitting in darkness.’
‘Good,’ I say.
‘Where’s she?’ Tim asks, nodding out to the landing and down the stairs.
‘I haven’t seen her. She called out of the room when I came home earlier, but there’s no sound now.’
‘Good,’ Tim says.
‘Tim,’ I think about telling him about Patrick but hesitate. I don’t want to waste any time. If the past few weeks are anything to go by, Tim’s time is so precious. ‘Em, what about the lambs?’ I manage instead.
‘They’ll be grand. Nature can sort itself out.’ He walks to the heater and realises it’s not turned on. ‘Let’s go back down to the stove, I’m starving and freezing.’
We abandon the room and quietly creep back downstairs so as not to wake my mother. The last thing either of us wants is to have to listen to her.
It’s unusual to see Tim looking so untidy and unclean. He is normally so well put together. His clothes sm
ell and are covered in an array of coloured stains. He catches my nose wrinkling in disgust.
‘Sheep’s blood,’ he teases, knowing that my constitution is far weaker than his.
‘Is it nearly over?’ I ask hopefully.
‘It is, Rosie; why else did the auld fella think it was okay to leave. He wouldn’t have risked losing any money on the last few lambs or, God forbid, one of the ewes,’ Tim says and ruffles my hair. He stops short of telling me that they will let the ram back in soon. I lean away from him and smile; it was so good to have my big brother back. ‘Have you eaten?’ Tim says while he tries to dislodge an acre’s worth of soil from underneath his fingernails.
‘No.’
‘Rosie. You have to look after yourself, I told you that. No one else will around here.’
Our tones are hushed.
‘I know, I just wanted to go to bed, that’s all. It’s lonely here without you.’
‘Has, she, eaten anything?’ He nods toward the front of the house where my mother is.
‘Not that I know of, she shouted out to me to bring Patrick’s dinner below,’ I say, unable to look him in the eye.
‘I told you before, not to go near that old bastard, Rosie, he’s not a good man.’ Tim turns so quickly from the tap that dollops of water splash across the floor. ‘Seriously, Rosie, don’t go near him.’
‘I have to bring his dinner down; otherwise you know there’ll be trouble,’ I answer.
‘The bollox can starve, Rosie. Don’t. Go. Near. Him.’ His lips are closed and angry. ‘If you have to go down there again, come and find me first. It doesn’t matter where I am.’ He held my chin up in his hands. ‘I fucking mean it. Do you hear me?’ I nod yes and playfully punch his arm away. ‘That’s my girl.’ He keeps looking at me as though he can make me hear it louder if he stares. He returns to the sink and I pour us some tea. ‘The sooner the better I get these exams over with and we can get the hell out of here for Dublin.’ He has said this before and I know he has a plan, I just don’t fully understand how it is going to work because I have two more years left. If I leave school, I’m afraid that Sister Alphonsus will come looking for me. But I suppose I don’t need to understand if Tim does.
