On the landing she hesitated. Where should she sleep: her childhood bedroom or her mother’s room? The thought of sleeping in her small single bed didn’t appeal and somehow she felt it would make her mother’s room seem even emptier. Back in New York she had felt guilty for not missing her mother more, but in this house she felt her absence like a physical ache. She opened the door to her mother’s room. The overhead light was far too bright so she quickly switched on one of the bedside lamps instead. Apart from the abandoned walking frame and the ugly utilitarian commode that her mother had needed before she died, the room was as she remembered. She sat on the shiny dark green comforter that covered the bed. The springs creaked beneath her weight and suddenly she was a little girl alone in her room hearing that sound, knowing that her mother was in bed and all was safe. She would never have that feeling again. Unexpectedly she found that she was crying. She braced her hands on her knees and with her head bowed, let the tears fall. Her mother was gone and she could never come home again. Some of her tears were for her own child. She hoped she made Zach feel as safe and loved as she had been but she doubted it. The world was terrifying and nobody could be stupid enough to think that a lecturer in Romantic poetry living in a tiny rented apartment could ever protect a sensitive, easily distracted young man from all its dangers. She lay down and fell into the emotional void that the time difference, jet lag and the welcome escape of sleep provided.
2
The warm light of the lamp was still glowing through the peach silk shade when she woke. Glancing over at the window she could see no hint of daylight. She looked at her watch. Six, but what six? Had she changed her watch? She couldn’t remember. Shoving her hand into her jeans pocket she retrieved her phone. Six in the morning. Knowing that she probably wouldn’t fall back to sleep she padded across the landing to brush her teeth and go to the toilet. Everywhere she looked there were ‘things’. Pointless stuff lined every surface. Turning her head as she scrubbed at her teeth she could see bottles of No More Tears shampoo and Matey the Sailor bubble bath that must have been there since she was a girl. She opened the mirrored door of the cabinet above the sink. Packed. Every prescription from the last forty years appeared to be crammed onto its shelves.
Back in the bedroom there was less obvious clutter, but Elizabeth knew what lurked inside the large rosewood wardrobe and the matching chest of drawers. Why had she decided to do this herself? Was there a single thing in this house she actually wanted or had missed in the last twenty years? She should have just let a house clearance company loose on the place or allowed Noelle and Aunt Gillian free rein to scavenge whatever they wanted.
Tentatively, she opened the door of the wardrobe. The first thing that confronted her was a full-length reflection of herself. God, she looked awful. She examined her face, which certain girlfriends said gave her boyish good looks. Odd that those women were usually button-nosed, plump-lipped beauties. She wondered how they would have coped with her square jaw and long straightish nose? Even in this light her normally ruddy complexion looked pale and drawn. Her bright hazel eyes peered at her from puffy eyelids and heavy bags. Oh God – had that stain been on her top the whole journey or was it just the soup from last night? Her hair had a strange ridge across the left side of her head. She smoothed it down but to no effect. Turning her attention to the inside of the wardrobe, she managed a small grin. Yes, it was stuffed to bursting, but running her hand along the rail of coats and dresses was like visiting a museum of her memories. The blue tweed of that coat her mother had worn standing stiffly at the school gates, the slim fitting dresses bought for a lifetime of christenings and weddings, including the knitted navy blue two-piece that she had worn when Elizabeth had married Elliot in Ann Arbor. Her poor mother. The warmest March anyone could remember Michigan having. The red sweaty face peered out from every wedding photograph. Elliot’s mother standing beside her looking like she’d been carved from marble. Elizabeth shuddered at the memory of the day. The way both mothers had come up to her with an expression of concern and suspicion. ‘No champagne for you?’
She glanced up at the shelf above the hanging rail. One side was full of folded jumpers and cardigans. The other half seemed to contain nothing but a rolled-up yellowing duvet. Elizabeth thought it might be useful if the heating didn’t come on, so she pulled it forward. It spilled out into a large soft pile at her feet. With the duvet gone she could see a dark wooden box shoved right to the back of the wardrobe. She couldn’t remember ever having seen it before and reached in to retrieve it. Disappointingly, it didn’t feel very heavy. She placed the box on the floor and knelt in front of it. Wiping the dust from the lid, the dark sheen of the wood was revealed. Walnut? The corners were protected by small inlays of brass. She hoped it wasn’t locked. No, the lid lifted easily. Peering in, the contents were a bit of an anti-climax: a tiny yellow knitted baby booty and beneath that a thin pile of letters held together by an ancient cream ribbon. Elizabeth slipped the first letter from the pile and began to read.
*
Castle House,
Muirinish,
West Cork
30 November 1973
Dear Lonely Leinster Lady,
I’m not really sure how to begin. I have never replied to one of these ads before. I suppose I should just tell you a bit about myself and you can see if you like the sound of me!
I’m forty-one, so well below your cut-off age of fifty! I’m six feet tall and I still have most of my hair. I enclose a photograph so you can decide if I am decent-looking or not! I’m a farmer, which you specified you were looking for. The farm is near Muirinish in West Cork. It is one hundred and twenty acres but if I’m being honest only eighty are any good, the rest being a sea marsh. It’s a dairy farm, which I enjoy even though it’s a bit of a tie.
So why is this great catch on the shelf? Well, things haven’t been easy at home. My brother was running the farm after my father died but then when I was seventeen he was killed in an accident so I had to take it over and help my mother as much as I could. It meant I have found it very hard to get out to meet anyone and to be honest it has also made me a bit shy. Time has a way of slipping by and I felt I had to do something about finding a wife before it was too late.
Because of milking it would be difficult for me to get up to see you but I would be happy to meet you in Cork city for lunch or even a cup of tea. If you wanted me to send you the train fare I’m sure that could be arranged. I don’t want to sound rude but it would be good if you could also send me a photograph so I can see if you are as lovely as you sound!
I hope to get a letter back but if I don’t then I wish you happiness in your life.
With every good wish,
Edward Foley
*
Castle House,
Muirinish,
West Cork
15 December 1973
Dear Patricia,
Thank you very much for your letter. I was very happy when I got it. Thank you also for your photograph. You are as lovely as I had imagined. Well guessed about my photo – yes, it was taken at a steam rally in Upton!
My sympathies for the loss of your mother. It must be very hard for you especially with Christmas coming. It is a shame your brother has not been more help to you. I didn’t mention in my last letter but I live with my mother. Don’t worry! If I find a wife we have planning permission for a bungalow so you would be the lady of the house! Not that I’m counting my chickens of course!
I am very happy that you want to meet up in the new year. My mother says the Metropole Hotel do a nice carvery and it is almost beside the station. Does that sound suitable? To tell you the truth I am very nervous about it and I hope I’m not too quiet for you.
I hope you have a good Christmas and you aren’t too sad.
With every good wish,
Edward
Castle House,
Muirinish,
West Cork
3 January 1974
Dear Patricia,
&
nbsp; Thank you for your card. Was the town on the front Buncarragh? My mother says thank you as well.
I am very excited about next week. I’ll meet you off the train. Hopefully we will recognise each other from our photographs but just in case I’ll be standing by the Cork Examiner kiosk just by the entrance. I’ll be wearing a tweed jacket, because to be honest I only have the one decent jacket!
It’ll be a bit early for the lunch but maybe if the weather isn’t too brutal we could go for a walk along the river first. If I am a bit quiet please don’t think it is because I don’t like you. I’m just not sure how I will be with the nerves.
See you on the 10th – oh and if your train is delayed don’t worry, I will wait.
With every good wish,
Edward
PS If you change your mind please let me know.
Castle House,
Muirinish,
West Cork
11 January 1974
Dear Patricia,
Words can’t describe how wonderful it was to meet you yesterday. You are even lovelier in person and funny and kind.
Afterwards, on the drive home, I thought of all the things I wanted to ask you and what I wanted to say. Next time! I hope you want there to be a next time.
Sorry about your arrival. I was just so overcome by nerves. I wasn’t going to let you walk past without saying hello – just tongue-tied! I enjoyed it all – even the windy walk! I thought the lunch was good, though your chicken did look a bit dry, even if you said it wasn’t. You are too nice.
I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward if I say that my favourite part of the day was the goodbye kiss. I loved the feel of your lips. I wish I had held you for longer. I have been thinking about it ever since. When will I get to give you a hello kiss? I hope it is soon.
My mother says you are very welcome to come and visit us at Castle House. She will be there to supervise so there will be no chance of any scandal! She wonders would you like her to write to your brother to put his mind at rest?
I cannot lie. I haven’t felt this happy for a very long time.
Hoping to see you again soon,
Edward
*
Elizabeth put the pile of letters on the floor and leaned against the wall. Her father! Edward Foley. That name had been all she had ever known about her father. She picked the pages up again and her hand was trembling. The man her mother had never let her know had touched these bits of paper. She knew it was ridiculous but seeing the neat handwriting, the black ink soaked into the blue Basildon Bond, she felt connected to him. Had her mother put them here knowing that she would find them? Were they her gift to her from beyond the grave?
Elizabeth read on. Another visit to Cork. A weekend spent at Castle House. They became full-blown love letters. There was more kissing and even a blush-inducing reference to feeling her mother’s breasts. Maybe she hadn’t been meant to find them. Then at the bottom of the pile there was a page of the same fine writing paper but this one was marked with blue biro. Just five large letters spread across the sheet. They were scrawled in a thin spidery hand but Elizabeth was certain that the word they spelled out was SORRY.
THEN
1
The extra bowl mocked her. The neon strip of the kitchen light was reflected as a shiny toothless smile in the bottom of the dish and Patricia Keane resolved to leave her single life behind.
It had been almost five months since her elderly mother had died and still she found herself routinely setting the table for two or putting a pair of cups beside the kettle. Her mother had been ill for so long, barely there really, and yet her death had seemed so sudden when it finally came. The rasping breath of the old woman had become like the ticking of a clock or the rustle of leaves outside the window. You didn’t notice it till it stopped, and then the silence was as vast as it was shocking. Of course, the void had been quickly filled with the sound of people calling by with plates of sandwiches and strange women she hardly knew indulging in competitive cleaning in her kitchen. It was only after the funeral that the silence returned. But it was more than that. The rooms weren’t empty, they were filled with the absence of someone. The dead don’t vanish, they leave a negative of themselves stamped on the world. Patricia had read an article in the Reader’s Digest about how people who had an amputation still felt an itch in the severed limb. She imagined it must feel the same as when she shouted, ‘Tea, Mam?’ up the stairs, before remembering.
The idea of a Lonely Hearts advertisement hadn’t been hers. That brainwave belonged to her friend Rosemary O’Shea, the only other girl from her class in the convent to still be single. At the age of thirty-two Patricia and Rosemary were most definitely on the shelf. Everyone seemed to have found a man. Even greasy Annie and the unfortunate-looking Niamh Rourke, otherwise known as Beaky, had managed to march down the aisle. Rosemary was different. She seemed perfectly happy in her own company. She worked as a hairdresser in Buncarragh Beauty, though not even the kindest would have described her as the greatest ambassador for the salon. She had left her parents and four brothers out on the family farm and rented a small flat above Deasy’s the chemists. Last year she had even bought herself her very own second-hand Fiat. What use did she have for a man? Patricia didn’t really know why, but she trusted Rosemary’s judgement. She hadn’t seen that much more of the world but her certainty about things was infectious. It was Rosemary who had convinced her to cut her hair. The straight brown locks that she had worn at shoulder length for as long as she could remember had been turned into a short bob, with a side parting replacing her fringe. ‘You aren’t in the convent any more, you need hair for life,’ Rosemary had argued and somehow Patricia had known what her friend had meant. It was also Rosemary who had talked her out of shapeless pinafores. ‘You’re so lucky – you have a waist,’ she had said, indicating her own fuller figure. ‘Show it off!’ A pile of Simplicity patterns had been borrowed and Patricia had dusted off her mother’s sewing machine to make herself a few skirts that she had to admit did suit her. Rosemary made her feel as if life was possible, that you didn’t have to simply accept your fate. It was a lesson that Patricia badly needed.
At eighteen her life had been completely rewritten. After a car crash that killed her father and left her mother unable to manage by herself, she had found that instead of going to university or having a nice steady job in the bank, she was a full-time carer. As the unwed daughter, there was never any question that it would be otherwise, so she had turned her back on the idea of having a life of her own and wrapped herself in an apron. The last fourteen years had been spent waiting for her mother to get better or die. Now she had nothing. Well, that wasn’t technically true. She had inherited the large family home in the town and until they could find a way to wriggle out of it, a small allowance from the family business run by her older brother Jerry and his wife Gillian. She was already under pressure to sell up or do the decent thing and give the house to her brother and his young family. ‘What do you need with all those rooms?’ But she was holding firm. ‘That house is your reward,’ Rosemary reminded her.
They were sitting in the Coffee Pot, which was the nearest thing to urban sophistication that Buncarragh had to offer. It was owned and run by Eileen Moore, who was married to Cathal the printer. After a much-heralded trip to Paris, Eileen had decided to open her very own café. A vast gleaming coffee machine had been imported from Italy along with a huge marble bar top. Sadly, the counter had been broken in two in transit but Eileen put her sausage roll display case over the join and now you’d only notice the repair job if you were looking for it. There were even tables and chairs placed out in the street. Patricia’s mother had never approved. She couldn’t understand why anyone would want the world and his wife driving by looking at what you were eating. She would have felt like a cow in a field.
Rosemary carefully divided their chocolate éclair in two. ‘Well, there are no fellas around here. None you’d want, anyway. Anyone decent is gone.’
>
‘Cormac Phelan was about the only one I sort of fancied and slutty Carol got him.’
‘She’s a fierce whore,’ Rosemary observed while licking some cream from the side of her mouth.
‘Fierce,’ agreed Patricia and the two of them sat silent in mutual contemplation. How could a man be found?
‘Kilkenny!’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘You could. I could drive us in one Sunday. There are those big dances at the Mayfair. That’s where all my brothers went to shift girls.’
‘Rosemary, look at me. I’m thirty-two. They’ll think I’m a mother come to collect my kids. I could no more go to a dance …’
‘You could. You look great.’ But her reply lacked conviction.
‘I just want a nice farmer. He doesn’t need to be too young. I don’t even care if he doesn’t live around here. A farmer’s wife. Doesn’t that sound lovely?’
‘Yes.’ Rosemary sounded unconvinced.
‘I just think you’d feel useful. You’d be a team.’
A Keeper Page 2
