*
I’m back at the house in less than an hour, which was impressive considering I had to drive like a snail on the icy January roads. I’m met at the front door by my mother, and she’s smiling brightly. I haven’t seen her smile like that in a long time. Not since Nana’s check-up for a nasty cough turned into a lung cancer diagnosis five months ago.
‘She’s awake,’ Mom says, taking the brown paper bag full of scones that dangles from my finger. ‘She’s having a good day today, Holly. She’s even sitting up in bed. And she’s asked for a cup of tea. Can you believe it?’
‘Tea?’ I echo, unable to think of anything else to say.
‘I know. I know,’ Mom says. ‘She’s always been a coffee kind of lady, but this is great. I can’t believe she’s turned a corner like this. It’s a miracle. A real miracle.’
I want to say something, but an oversized lump of concern is wedged in my throat and blocking all words. My mother is suddenly so full of hope. I think this is even worse than seeing her upset. Her denial is breaking my heart.
My mother opens the brown bag and looks inside. ‘Oh, these look delicious, Holly. Thank you.’ Her smile grows. ‘I’ll heat these up in the microwave. And I’ll make some tea, of course.’
My mother walks toward the kitchen looking taller than yesterday. As if the weight that usually drags her shoulders forward and down is missing.
She stops midway and turns her head to look at me. ‘Thank you, Holly. You’re a great kid.’
She jerks her head back again so quickly it looks like it hurt, and I don’t miss the tears welling in her eyes. And I realise I’m wrong. My mother isn’t in denial. It’s the exact opposite. She needs a distraction. Nana’s manuscript has become mine. If tea and scones work for my mother, I’ll go to the bakery every day for as long as necessary. I’ll go ten times a day if I have to.
My phone vibrates in my coat pocket, and I guess it’s the office or Nate, or Nate calling from the office. And I don’t want to speak to anyone right now. Especially not him. I slide my hand into my pocket and hit the reject button as I make my way upstairs.
The curtains are open in Nana’s bedroom. A fresh bouquet sits in the centre of the windowsill, and they catch my attention straight away because I can smell them from the doorway. They’re gorgeous. I assume my mother bought them as a pick-me-up for Nana, which was a wonderful idea because Nana loves flowers. I wonder where my mother bought them. If it’s local, I can pick more up tomorrow. Marcy throws her arms around me, startling me. I’d been distracted by the flowers and hadn’t seen her come towards me.
‘Oh, Holly, you found it. You found Annie’s sketchbook. Wonderful,’ Marcy says, letting me go.
‘Yeah. Ben and I found it in the attic last night,’ I say, reluctantly dragging my gaze away from the fresh flowers to find Marcy’s smile. ‘But it’s a book.’
Marcy eyes widen.
‘I mean it’s a book – book. Not a sketchbook,’ I explain. ‘It’s all words. Handwritten. A story. I can’t believe it’s been hiding up there all these years. I wanted to read some to Nana straight away, but she was already asleep.’
‘A writer,’ Marcy says as if everything suddenly makes sense to her. ‘Of course, she is.’ Marcy takes her coat from the back of the bedside chair and slides her arms into the sleeves.
She’s leaving. My apprehension must be written all over my face because Marcy offers me an explanation. ‘I’m heading home now,’ she says gently, ‘but I’ll be back this evening. I’m not due on until eight, but if your family wouldn’t mind, I’d like to come earlier. I’d love to hear some stories from this book of Annie’s. I bet it’s fascinating reading.’
I know Marcy is a night nurse, so I don’t know why I feel so shocked to discover she’s going home this morning. Marcy buttons up her coat, reaches for my hand, and gives it a gentle squeeze. ‘One of my colleagues from the day team will pop by this afternoon. Annie will be fine in the meantime, Holly. She’s very comfortable. I promise.’
I look at the bed for the first time since I walked into the room. I’m not being rude or purposely ignoring where my grandmother rests; it’s just it still shocks me every time I look. Like I’m seeing her weary and fragile for the first time, every time. But she looks different this morning. Her face is still pale and thin, and her skin clings to her bones like papier mâché on a balloon, but her cheeks have a warm glow that wasn’t there yesterday. Not quite rosy, just bright. Just happy. It’s because of the book, no doubt.
‘You could have started reading, Marcy,’ I say, finally. ‘I left it here for you to flip through. I thought it might cheer Nana up to hear some.’
‘No, Holly.’ Marcy shakes her head. ‘Much as I’d love to, it’s not my place. Annie wants to hear your voice. Not mine.’ Marcy’s gentle smile soothes my heavy heart.
I can’t take my eyes off Nana now. She’s actually sitting up, albeit with the aid of a small mountain of pillows behind her, but sitting is sitting and even though her eyes are closed, I know she’s awake. I can see the corners of her lips curled up to form a delicate smile. Maybe my mother is right. Maybe Nana really has turned a corner. Maybe all our prayers have been answered, and we really are getting a miracle.
‘Good morning, Nana,’ I say, edging a little closer to the bed. ‘Do you mind if I sit with you for a while?’
‘I think she’d like that very much.’ Marcy answers for her. ‘Try this spot.’ Marcy pats the edge of the bed with the palm of her hand. ‘It’s more comfortable than that old chair, and you can easily reach her hand. She’d like that.’
‘I’m glad you and Nana waited for me, Marcy,’ I say as I take my coat off and toss it into the chair. ‘Thank you.’
‘Well, I won’t lie,’ Marcy says. ‘I got itchy fingers a couple of times.’
I laugh awkwardly.
Marcy bends down and picks up the pile of paper from under the chair.
‘Here.’ Marcy passes the pile into my outstretched arms. ‘I know Annie can’t wait to start, but she’s been waiting for you.’
‘Maybe I should get my mother,’ I say, suddenly feeling nervous or worried. I’m not quite sure.
‘I think this story is for you, Holly.’ Marcy points at me.
I tap my chest with my fingertip, almost dropping the paper. ‘Me?’ I squeak.
Marcy nods.
‘It couldn’t be. This book was written in nineteen fifty-nine.’ I run my finger along the date scribbled almost illegibly under the title on the first page. ‘See?’
Marcy picks up her handbag off the floor at the end of the bed and pulls out a huge yellow and green scarf and wraps it around her neck. ‘Yes, this is an old book, Holly. Even older than you or your mother. But there is a message here for you; I know there is.’
I stare at Marcy. The scarf covers the lower half of her face, and only the bridge of her nose and eyes are visible. Her eyes are big and round and sparkle like Nana’s used to. There’s so much compassion in her dark blue irises. I want to believe her.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Maybe Nana and I should read by ourselves for a while.’
I can’t see Marcy’s mouth, but the lines around her eyes crease, and I know she’s smiling at me. ‘I think that would be perfect,’ she says. ‘See you tonight, my dear. Enjoy every word.’
‘I will …’ I cough and correct myself as I take my grandmother’s hand. ‘We will.’
Six
Autumn 1959
I rub my eyes and jolt upright in bed, almost banging my head on the bookshelf above me. I take a moment to catch my breath, thankful I didn’t hit the shelf and send my bulky hardbacks tumbling to the floor with a loud bang. Sudden noise like that would get me in a lot of trouble.
I scurry to the window and throw back the curtains. It’s bright, and the sun peeks out behind the thick October clouds. It must be well after nine in the morning. Why didn’t Ma wake me? She can’t be still in bed. She never sleeps in, especially not on a Saturday. The best of the ve
getables are gone from the market by ten, and she’d never dare bring home misshapen carrots. Pa wouldn’t tolerate it. I fetch yesterday’s clothes from the top drawer of my bedside locker and pull them on as fast as I can. Even if we leave now, we’ll still be too late to have our pick of the meat and vegetables my father likes. I yield briefly to a familiar sensation in my stomach. The pain that makes me want to throw up and run away all at the same time.
I open my bedroom door and take a single, giant footstep to cross the hall and press my ear against my mother’s door. I’m not sure what I hope to hear. The sound of her cleaning, perhaps. Maybe she’s already back from town. Maybe she just went without me today. I hope instead of falling behind on today’s chores, she’s actually getting a head start. But silence reigns in her room, and I know she’s not in there.
I slip off my shoes and creep along the old floorboards of the hall. I have a very precise path I need to follow. After years of practice, I know exactly where to stand and where not to. I know which floorboards will show me mercy and keep the secret of my presence and which boards will rat me out with their creaks and groans. If my guess is correct, my father will be passed out on the rug in the sitting room sleeping off last night’s whiskey. The stove will have burnt itself out during the night, and he’ll wake soon with the cold. But if I hurry, I’ll have just enough time to make it to the market and back before he rises.
It’s a tedious journey towards the front porch, and the concentration required not to make a sound gives me a headache. But a headache is far better than the alternative. I’ve paid the price for having one foot out of place and waking my father before. A black eye or a broken bone. A loud snort and a body tossing and turning behind me freezes me in my tracks, and I stand statue-like for a moment until I hear my father turn onto his back on the rug behind me and continue to snore. My head is telling me I can’t afford the time to detour by the kitchen, but my heart is warning me not to leave the house without checking on my mother.
I set my shoes down just inside the front door. The cold of the sitting room tiles nibbles my toes, but I’m so grateful for the icy solid surface. It doesn’t creak or groan under my weight the way the hall floor does, and it allows for me to hurry.
*
I put the page down with shaking fingers and look at my grandmother. Nana’s eyes are open now.
‘Nana,’ I say, struggling to catch my breath. ‘Is this … is this a true story? The girl I’m reading about it’s you, isn’t it?
‘It’s me, Holly.’ Nana’s voice cracks like a rusty nail being scraped along steel. ‘This is my story.’
‘The father in this story ... your father. You were afraid of him, weren’t you? He wasn’t a good man.’
Nana swallows.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t read anymore today,’ I say quickly, covering the words on the page with one hand as if I hide the ink, then maybe it didn’t happen. ‘I don’t want to upset you.’
‘Holly, sweetheart.’ Nana squeezes my hand as best she can. ‘Remembering won’t upset me. Forgetting would. Read on.’
I can’t hide my concern as I stroke my thumb across the back of her bony hand.
‘Holly, please.’ Nana’s voice is a dull whisper now. ‘Read more.’
‘Shh,’ I encourage gently, worried that just a few simple words is enough to leave her exhausted. ‘I’ll read more. I’ll read more.’
I skip to the next chapter and begin again …
*
The village is quieter than usual this morning. The town square is normally a hub of activity at this time on a Saturday morning. Everyone says we have the best farmers market in the county, and people come from most of the neighbouring towns to get their hands on the delicious fresh produce. But only a handful of people litter the square this morning, and most of the farmers are packing up empty boxes and getting ready to leave. My breath sticks in the back of my throat as if it’s laced with glue, and I panic that I’m too late to buy food for the week.
‘Miss Annie,’ a deep male voice calls out behind me.
I spin around to follow the sound.
‘Annie, love, it’s good to see you. I was beginning to worry you weren’t coming this morning.’
Mr Talbot, a well-liked local farmer, is standing behind me with his hands on his hips and a bright smile emphasising his weather-beaten jaw.
‘I’m late.’ I sigh.
‘Had a lie-in, did you?’ His smile grows wider.
I nod sheepishly and hope it’s enough to sidestep the question.
‘Is your mother with you?’ Mr Talbot asks, raising the peak of his cap as he looks around.
‘Not this morning.’
Mr Talbot’s lips curl downwards, and his eyes soften and narrow. ‘Is she poorly again?’
‘Yes,’ I lie, feeling heat creep across my nose and around my cheeks. ‘She’s having a lie-down. She’s not feeling herself at all this morning.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ the friendly farmer says, eying me knowingly. ‘She’s taken quite a few bad turns lately. It’s not good. I hope she’s been to see the doctor.’
‘It’s just a cold.’ I swallow, feeling awful for lying to such a kind and concerned man.
Mr Talbot’s nose crinkles across the bridge, and his eyes tell me he doesn’t believe a word coming out of my mouth. But he is a gentleman, and I sigh as I realise he won’t pry any further. He steps away from me and rummages around some empty boxes next to his feet.
‘Sales must have been good today.’ I exhale, sadly. ‘You’ve nothing left.’
‘People were out earlier than usual this morning,’ Mr Talbot explains. ‘Must be the weather. There’s a storm expected this afternoon. The day is angry. See?’ Mr Talbot points a finger at the sky. ‘Folks don’t want to walk home in torrential rain.’
I look up. I hadn’t noticed the thick grey clouds gathering overhead. The weather has taken a sudden, aggressive turn, and I dread the long walk home. If I return wet as well as empty-handed, my father will be twice as livid.
‘Here we go,’ Mr Talbot says, pulling a brown paper bag out from one of the bottom boxes. ‘I saved a few bits and pieces for my favourite costumer.’ He opens the top of the bag and stares inside. ‘I’ve packed carrots, turnips, eggs, and’—Mr Talbot tilts his head towards an older farmer I don’t recognise at the far side of the square—‘Martin Cosgrove has thrown in some of the best lamb cutlets in Ireland, just for you.’
My body is instantly lighter, and I must wear my relief on my face because Mr Talbot nods as if he understands.
I fish around in my skirt pocket for the coins I threw in haphazardly this morning. I’m shaking by the time I pull out a fistful. I open my hand and stare at the measly sum that my mother and I will need to make stretch the rest of the week.
‘How much do I owe you?’ I ask, knowing lamb cutlets are outside my budget.
There would always be one tasty chop in the bag for my father, but the rest of the meat should be cheap offcuts for my mother and me.
Mr Talbot places his huge hand around mine, and his rough, dry fingers spread like a sycamore leaf around my hand to close my fist around the coins again. ‘No charge today, Annie.’
‘But the lamb?’ I wobble. ‘It’s expensive.’
Mr Talbot shakes his head. ‘A get-well-soon gift for your mother. It’ll make a fine stew. She’ll need a good feeding if she’s under the weather.’
Tears torment the corners of my eyes, but I don’t dare blink and let them fall. ‘Thank you, Mr Talbot. I’ll be sure to tell my mother of your kindness.’
‘You do that, Annie. But maybe wait until your pa is out of earshot. I wouldn’t want to get you or your mother in any trouble now.’
I flinch but gather myself quickly, hoping Mr Talbot doesn’t notice. I guess his remark is a cryptic clue that he’s more astute than his thick accent and broad shoulders would lead anyone to believe.
I know the town talks. Athenry is a tight-knit community. Neighbo
urs are always happy to help other neighbours out in times of need. But the same neighbours are comfortable gossiping behind one another’s backs also. If you’re not gossiping, you’re being gossiped about. Hearsay and rumours are the fuel that keeps the engine of the community running. And my family gives the town plenty to discuss.
‘Thank you, Mr Talbot,’ I clamber, scooping the heavy carrier bag he passes me into the crook of my arm. ‘Thank you so much.’
The bag is unmercifully heavy, and I suspect the bottom will give way before I make it the seven miles home. I instinctively rest it on my hip. I’m hopeful for a substantial number of potatoes in the bag also. My mother will be delighted. A bruised hip when I reach home is a small price to pay.
‘I have plenty of room for a passenger, Annie,’ Mr Talbot says, pointing towards his horse and cart.
His horse is tied beside us, munching on some long grass growing up through the cracks in the concrete street. There are some warm, colourful blankets folded in the back of the cart, and they look wonderfully cosy. I strongly consider Mr Talbot’s offer as the carrier bag bites into the flesh just above the bony part of my hip. I could ask him to drop me at the top of my road, and I could walk the rest of the way; my father would never know.
‘If you can wait an hour or so while I finish tidying up, I’d be glad for the company,’ Mr Talbot finishes.
I groan inwardly. Unfortunately, I can’t wait around the square for that long. Someone might see me and unknowingly mention it to my father in passing. It wouldn’t be worth the punishment. I’ll walk.
‘Thank you, Mr Talbot, but I’d best get going. I’d like to get home to check on my mother as soon as I can.’ I smile, confident that I’m telling a half truth.
‘Okay, Annie. You take care of yourself. There’s enough good food in that bag for you too. Make sure you have something to eat now too, won’t you.’
My smile widens as I walk away. ‘Goodbye, Mr Talbot. See you next week.’
A vicious wind brushes past me and bites at my ankles. It’s definitely a couple of degrees cooler than when I set out this morning, and I know by the time I make it home, the cold will have made its way right through my blue cotton dress and into my bones. I should have brought a cardigan, but my mother and I only have one between us, and I draped it around her shoulders this morning before I left, hoping to warm the shock out of her.
When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss Page 4
