The tea poured, the three of them sat and talked of the mundane. How retirement was going, what a great job Paul and Noelle were doing with the shop, the grandchildren growing so fast and there were even a few questions about Elizabeth’s life in New York and how her son – ‘Zach,’ she reminded them – was doing. Any mention of her marriage or Elliot was delicately avoided.
When the small talk had talked itself out, Elizabeth put down her cup and cleared her throat.
‘I wondered what either of you could tell me about Edward Foley?’
Gillian pursed her lips in thought and Jerry simply stared at his wife and rubbed his slick head of thinning hair because this was the sort of question that was more suited to her.
‘Foley? I don’t think I know a single Foley. Jerry?’ Her husband shrugged his shoulders and gave her a look that suggested she might as well have asked him to perform open heart surgery.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘My father? Edward Foley,’ Elizabeth prompted.
Cups were put down. ‘Oh, that Edward Foley,’ said Gillian slowly and deliberately. She threw a glance at her husband.
‘Your father,’ Jerry repeated unhelpfully.
‘What, well, I’m not sure, what sort of thing, what did you want to know?’ Her aunt seemed uncharacteristically flustered.
‘Well, it’s just that up in Convent Hill last night I found some letters, quite a few letters, from Edward Foley.’
‘Letters?’
‘Yes, from when they were courting. It’s just that I know so very little. Mammy never spoke about him.’
‘I don’t know if we should …’ Jerry began and turned to his wife for assistance.
‘Sure, Jerry, Patricia is gone, God rest her, what harm is there in talking about it now?’
‘Well, we know so little.’
‘What?’ Elizabeth just wanted answers.
‘Tell her, Jerry.’ Her aunt had granted permission.
‘Well, to be honest I don’t know a lot. Your mother was doing a line with this farmer down in Cork somewhere, we didn’t even know his name at the time, did we?’
‘No clue,’ his wife confirmed.
‘Anyway, she visited him down there a couple of times and then out of the blue, no word of warning, the next thing we hear she’s married. That’s right, isn’t it?’ He turned to his superior for confirmation.
‘Just a notice in the paper, wasn’t it, Jerry? No letter, nothing, not a note, not a phone call. It was all very peculiar.’ Gillian had taken over the story and her husband sat back, relieved of his duties.
‘We wrote to her of course, but nothing. Eventually, we did get a letter, didn’t we, Jerry? From the mother-in-law explaining that your mother wasn’t well but she would be sure to write when she felt better. I probably have it somewhere.’ She looked around as if she might notice it framed on the wall. ‘Anyway, about a year later, not even that—’
‘A few months,’ Jerry chimed in.
‘Well, again no warning, no phone call, your mother was back here and she had you wrapped in a shawl. We never asked any questions and you know your mother, she never apologised or explained. We were never any the wiser. Isn’t that right, Jerry?’ Vigorous nodding. Gillian picked up her cup to indicate the story was over.
‘You never asked her anything?’ Elizabeth was incredulous.
‘Well, you asked her if she was back for good, didn’t you, Jerry? Would she be staying? She said she would. And that was that. Now a few other people did ask her about the husband and apparently, he had died. I assume he must have left her some money though, because she never worked.’
‘I always thought she had got money from the shop.’
‘No, no,’ Gillian said, sounding slightly sheepish. ‘That stopped after your granny died.’
Jerry coughed and without looking at Elizabeth or his wife said quietly, ‘To be honest we had a bit of a falling out around that time. It was little wonder she didn’t confide in us.’
‘She just swanned off and left that house sitting there.’
‘It was her house.’
Gillian ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. This was clearly a conversation that had been repeated many times. Elizabeth wondered if the parts of this story that were clearly missing involved her mother at all. Perhaps they were just part of an ongoing battle between her aunt and uncle.
‘There is a woman who might know more than us,’ Jerry volunteered. Gillian gave him a quizzical look.
‘Your mother was great pals with a Rosemary O’Shea.’
‘Rosemary O’Shea?’ Aunt Gillian raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Sure that one is half-cracked.’
‘Is she still in Buncarragh?’ Elizabeth asked, attempting to keep her uncle on track.
‘Oh, she is. You’d know her house. The small ivy-covered one on Connolly’s Quay. It’s just beside what used to be the bike shop. It’s the St Vincent’s charity shop now.’
‘Do you think I could just call in to her?’
‘I don’t see why not. She’s retired. Used to have that little barber shop where the new coffee place is.’
‘I was in it only this morning,’ she said, seemingly delighted at the coincidence.
‘Half-cracked,’ repeated Aunt Gillian, crossing her arms. Elizabeth had been warned.
THEN
This time he was on the platform. When he saw her, a smile flashed across his face and he half-raised his arm, less of a wave, more like flagging down a bus, but still, Patricia saw it as progress.
She really didn’t know how or why she was back at Kent station in Cork. She wanted to blame it on the enthusiasm of Rosemary, but she knew it was more than that. In the few weeks since their first date she had begun to grow fond of him. The man who could barely look her in the eye in person, on paper became sincere, direct and self-deprecating. She looked forward to his letters during the dark days that offered little else. Somehow, she found herself remembering her visit to Cork the way he did. Viewed through his eyes it seemed sweeter than stiff, romantic rather than awkward. She felt she needed to give him a second chance and the sight of his broad grin, however brief, gave her confidence that she had made the right choice.
When she reached him at the end of the platform by the exit, Edward stretched out his hand to her. A gentleman, she thought and offered him the small cream suitcase she had retrieved from under her mother’s deathbed. The bag smacked into Edward’s unsuspecting palm and she realised that he had been going to shake her hand, not carry her case.
‘Sorry.’ She pulled the suitcase back.
‘Sorry. No, let me.’ He fumbled for the handle.
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘No. No, I should,’ and he managed to squeeze his hand under the handle with hers. The touch of his flesh against hers made her immediately release her grip.
‘Thank you.’
He led them wordlessly out to the car park, the noise of the city amplifying their silence. She wondered what sort of car he would drive.
Leading her to a dark green estate car, some sort of Ford perhaps, that didn’t look too ancient, she was pleasantly surprised. As she slipped into the passenger seat however her first impressions were overwhelmed by the smell of the interior. A combination of stale milk and what her father used to call ‘A grand country smell’ – in other words, shit – hung thick around her. Her hand fumbled to roll down the window as soon as Edward had shut her door. She tried not breathing through her nose but she could still taste the stench. She prayed she wouldn’t be sick. Her hands tightened their hold on the leather handle of her handbag. Time was not going to fly.
Edward drove hunched over the wheel, emitting grunts and sighs as he made his way through the city traffic, peering over the dashboard to see if he was in the right lane. Patricia felt it was unwise, unsafe even, to distract him with any of her prepared small talk. Once past Bishopstown, however, as the houses gave way to fields he seemed to relax and sat back in his seat. Patricia tried out s
ome of her questions.
‘Are you busy on the farm at the moment?’
‘So-so.’
‘Are you near a village?’
‘Not really. Muirinish, but there’s nothing there.’
Patricia closed her eyes and breathed as deeply as she dared. She ran through the rest of her questions in her head and accepted that every answer would be a variation on ‘no’.
‘Are you not cold?’
Edward had spoken. The shock of it meant that she hadn’t actually heard what he had said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your window. Are you not a bit cold?’
‘Oh. Well, I might close it a little. I like the fresh air.’ She wound the window up two thirds, almost excited that he had actually engaged in some sort of conversation. ‘Are you cold?’ she asked.
‘No.’
They drove on with nothing but the steady growl of the engine filling the emptiness.
The jolt of a pothole woke her. How long had she been asleep? The bright winter light of earlier had gone and now the hedges blurring past were being swallowed by a grey gloom. She sat up and discovered a long string of saliva connecting her mouth to a dark stain on the front of her coat. She quickly wiped it away. Edward glanced at her and smiled. It was nothing, but to the starving, crumbs can feel like a feast. Patricia smiled back. ‘Sorry. I had an early start. Was I asleep for long?’
‘A while all right. You missed Bandon and Timoleague. It’s not far now.’
‘Oh, right.’ Patricia wondered how she could surreptitiously reapply her lipstick before she met his mother.
‘That was my primary school there.’ He indicated a slate-roofed box with long windows. Patricia peered out as if her guide had announced the Arc de Triomphe or the Spanish Steps. She struggled to come up with an appropriate response, even a ‘nice’ seemed disingenuous, so instead asked where he had gone to secondary school.
‘Clonteer, but I only did a few years before my brother James died and I went onto the farm full time.’
Death. How had her small talk taken her to death so fast?
‘Oh. That’s a shame.’ It was unclear even to herself if she meant the untimely passing of his brother or his truncated education.
‘Ah, it was all right. I wasn’t much of a one for school.’
The car came down a hill through some trees and then rounded a corner onto a narrow causeway. On either side of the road misshapen mounds of grass and reeds sat like giant mushrooms in a network of muddy channels.
‘It’s low tide,’ Edward observed.
Having got used to the smell inside the car, Patricia was now accosted by a salty sulphuric fog from outside.
‘You might want to close your window,’ he said as she quickly rolled it all the way up. ‘It’s not always this bad,’ he added apologetically.
The road rose up slightly over a small bridge where the channel through the marsh was wider.
‘This is where old Pat Whelan went in. Drunk as a lord, riding his bike back from the pub.’ Edward gave a low chuckle and Patricia was very happy to join in.
‘Was he all right?’
‘No. Never found. They did find the bike at low tide but no sign of Pat. The mud just swallows things up. We’ve lost a couple of cows over the years.’
‘I see.’ Patricia wasn’t sure how to respond so just stared out the window at the wide flatness of the marsh, imagining the horrors that lay beneath the smooth dark sheen of the mud.
Ahead of them was the reassuring solidity of hedges and trees. As they reached them Edward spoke again.
‘This is where the good land starts. That’s all grazing in there.’ He pointed to his right and Patricia’s eyes followed dutifully though in fact she had no idea what she was looking at. The car slowed down.
‘Here we are.’
They went through a pair of unpainted stone pillars and up a lane with a long thick Mohawk of green down the centre. At the top of the hill, Patricia gasped. It was the sea! Just a field away was a long sandy beach. At either end the land reared up into tall dark cliffs. Backing onto the rocks furthest away from them was a large white and blue farmhouse and behind that the jagged silhouette of a ruined castle.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said and she meant it. The whole landscape that stretched before her looked like something she might have seen in a gallery in Dublin on a school trip.
‘It’s home,’ Edward replied matter-of-factly.
As the lane came down to the shore and towards the house Patricia could hear the waves and the rushing of the wind. She felt strangely invigorated, as if maybe she had made the right decision. The whole trip wasn’t the worst idea she had ever had.
Edward brought the car to a stop just before the house. Patricia could see that the lane continued on to a farmyard where a line of outbuildings joined up with the old castle and the back of the house to form a U shape. A sheepdog roused himself by the door to one of the outbuildings. His tail wagged but he didn’t approach them. When Patricia tried to open her door, it was yanked from her hand by the wind. Edward hurried around the car to help her out.
‘Are you OK?’ His voice was raised against the gritty din of the surf and storm.
‘Yes,’ she called back and stood up, the wind catching her hair and coat, tossing them without mercy. Edward was holding her case. ‘Let’s get you in.’ He led her through a small gate painted the same shade of Virgin Mary blue as the windows of the house. A narrow gravel path led them up the side and around to the front, where a neat grey-haired woman was waiting at the door for them. Her dark eyes quickly surveyed the new arrival and for a moment Patricia felt like a rabbit that had just been spotted by a fox. Her hostess bared her teeth into a smile and then waved Edward forward with one bony hand while the other held her lemon cardigan closed against the weather.
The door shut behind them, and it was as if heavy machinery had stopped. The silence was abrupt. Patricia tried to smooth down her hair and readjust her coat simultaneously.
‘You are very, very welcome. You must be Patricia. I’m Edward’s mother. Please call me Catherine.’
Patricia noticed a look flicker across Edward’s face. She guessed that not many people got to call Mrs Foley by her Christian name. The women shook hands and the lady of the house led them down the dark hall and to the left into a living room that seemed too small for the house.
‘I’ve just lit the fire. I wasn’t expecting you for a while. You made great time.’
Edward stood in the doorway holding the case and still wearing his coat. He looked as much of a visitor as Patricia did.
‘There was very little on the road.’
‘You weren’t speeding, I hope. Was he speeding?’
Patricia opened her mouth to reassure her that he hadn’t but it turned out the question was rhetorical. ‘Sit down there,’ Mrs Foley continued, patting the back of the small over-stuffed sofa. ‘Will you take the poor girl’s coat, Teddy? I have the kettle on.’ The last few words were called over her shoulder as she left the room.
Edward and Patricia stood and looked at each other. He reached out his hand and Patricia unbuttoned her coat and gave it to him.
‘Teddy?’
‘My mother calls me that.’ He paused and something unsaid passed between them. The sense that they were on one team and Mrs Foley was on another. ‘You can call me Teddy if you want,’ he offered.
‘I think I prefer Edward.’
He held up her coat and case to indicate he was going to deal with them. ‘Sit, so.’
‘Thanks.’
Alone, she looked around the small room. Everything seemed to be shades of brown and orange. The wallpaper was a dense mesh of autumn leaves and the fire burned in a small beige-tiled fireplace that looked much newer than the house. A rug in swirls of gold and hazel covered most of the floor, with a border of wood-effect lino covering the gap between it and the wall. Patricia was struck by how unlived-in the room seemed. Apart from an underwhelming oval mirror on
the chimney breast, the walls were bare. Small wooden tables were pushed against the walls but there were no ornaments, books or magazines. The only light came from the shadeless single bulb hanging from the ceiling. It looked like the people who lived here had moved out.
The door burst open and Mrs Foley appeared with a tray of cups and saucers and a fat brown teapot. She hesitated, unsure of where to place it, and then opted for the low table to the right of the fireplace.
‘Where’s Teddy? Is he hanging your coat? You must be parched after that drive. I’m boiling a ham for the dinner. I hope that will do you. It’s Teddy’s favourite. Do you take sugar?’ A pause for breath. Patricia shook her head and took the cup of milky tea that she was being offered.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, not wanting to interrupt Mrs Foley’s flow.
‘Aren’t you a great girl to make that journey all by yourself? Outside Kilkenny you’re from, is it? Teddy told me. I’ve never been there myself. The ICA did a trip there once to see the castle and they had a tour of the brewery but sure, why would I want to see that, so I didn’t go. The girls loved it though. Said it was a very nice city. Narrow streets. Sure, I suppose you go there rarely enough yourself. You were looking after your mother, weren’t you? Teddy mentioned it. Very sorry for your loss. It must be hard for you being all alone. You have a brother, I think Teddy said. Are you two close?’
The room suddenly fell silent and Patricia realised that she was being asked to speak. It was becoming clear to her why Edward was a man of so few words.
‘Not especially, no.’
Edward stepped sheepishly back into the room and was handed a cup of tea and encouraged by a cushion-patting hand to sit next to Patricia on the sofa. All of this occurred while his mother continued her monologue.
‘Of course boys and girls are very different. I would have loved a little girl but it wasn’t to be. I just have Teddy now, and it’s a long time since anyone called him a boy. He works hard, don’t you, Teddy? Dairy isn’t an easy life but it’s the life we know and we get by, don’t we, Teddy?’ Edward didn’t even look up. He evidently understood that the tsunami of chat would just wash over him and it did. Patricia sipped her tea and occasionally nodded or smiled when she felt it was appropriate. Somehow, like a ventriloquist drinking a glass of water, Mrs Foley had managed to consume her tea without pausing for breath. Putting her cup back on the tray she concluded. ‘Look at the time. You should be getting on with the milking. I have the dinner on. Would Mary like to go with you?’
A Keeper Page 5
