“What was she on about?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing really. Talking about Jasper, that’s all. She asked why I was so shy with guys. The cheek.”
“Well, why do you even bother to talk to her, then?” I said sharply. “It’s obvious she really despises you.”
There was a silence. Jeanette said softly: “I think she thinks we’re ...” She glanced at me tensely.
My heart leapt. “Yeah, I know,” I said, smiling.
She stared. “An eight letter word? Beginning with L?”
I nodded, smugly. Lesbians.
“What?” Jeanette asked. “Tell me.” She seemed alarmed.
“Lesbians,” I muttered.
“I meant lunatics, actually.”
Oh shit, I thought. “Really?” I said, trying to be calm. “Does she? Well, that’s OK!”
I would have laughed, except that Jeanette’s expression was so stony.
* * *
Uncle John wasn’t a surprise. When we came down to the kitchen he was sitting in an armchair with Jacky on his lap. Patsy was in a high chair, his bib on, spoon in hand. Patricia stood at the cooker. The kitchen smelt good.
“This is Cathy,” Patricia said, with a smile.
The bearded man in the armchair gave me a nod. He looked very like my father, something I wasn’t prepared for, but which didn’t exactly take me aback either. The only difference was that my father gave the impression of a simmering volcano. John looked tired, more middle-aged, more passive. Just happy to be sitting there holding his young son after the day’s labors. He was smoking a pipe.
“This is Jeanette,” I said, touching my friend lightly on the shoulder.
“Ah well. You look like good strong girls,” John said amiably.
“Not a bit like her mother, either,” Patricia noted, stirring something that smelled like stew.
“She favors her father,” John said. “I had the pleasure of meeting him a little while ago.”
At the funeral, I thought. Nobody mentions that.
“For the first time, wasn’t it?”
My question seemed to irritate John. His eyes flashed slightly. I tried to look innocent.
“Well!” said Patricia quickly. “Why don’t we all sit down?”
* * *
John wasn’t a talker. Patricia was. And although she was an open, honest person, and highly intelligent, I could tell there were things she did not know about her husband and his family. And that was probably fine with her. So she chattered away at the dinner table while John ate silently and heavily, and the boys prattled. The clock on the wall ticked. It was all very pleasant, but not what I was used to. I found it a bit of a strain. Jeanette was silent unless spoken to, a routine I feared she would fall into for the entire length of the stay.
Mostly I asked questions about the farm; how many acres of land were there, what type of crops John grew, how many animals he had. It turned out he wasn’t a dairy farmer. He sold hay to the other local farmers and had a fine annual crop of barley too. He kept some sheep. I got the impression that he was doing well, and was happy with his work.
“I thought everything was done by machine nowadays,” I said.
“It is, mostly,” Patricia told me. “But there are fields that are too small for that. We start on the big fields first; there’s always the risk of rain spoiling the hay. And we do the little fields like the orchard by hand. I pitch in myself.”
I nodded. I liked the thought of Patricia in jeans and a loose shirt working with us.
“You’ll have to remember to drink lots of water,” she cautioned. “No use getting dehydrated. And mind the sun. You’ll find yourself burned in a matter of hours.”
* * *
The next day we started. Patricia instructed us to get up at seven. The idea made both Jeanette and me groan, but we obeyed, secretly glad to be forced out of our usual sluggardly habits. We dressed in jeans and T-shirts. I ordered Jeanette to wear runners and she dragged out a pair of hiking boots that she said used to belong to her father. Against all my entreaties she insisted on wearing them. They made her move even more clumsily than usual, but looked quite handsome. She tied her hair back with a ribbon. I didn’t tell her this, but it was nice to see her without makeup again.
It was still cool when we got out to the field. We drove there on the back of John’s tractor, carrying packed lunches Patricia had made for us. The house was a small dot in the distance; the field was at an odd, sloping angle. We jumped down, took our pitchforks, and began raking in the hay. After giving us a few tips and watching us for a couple of minutes, John left.
We worked silently at first, then began to joke and chat. By lunchtime we had done half the field. Our arms were aching, our bodies caked with sweat. We gulped quantities of water. Jeanette said she had never worked so hard in her life. I said I hadn’t either. We were both red faced and panting. John drove off on his tractor, got off, stared at what we’d done and said, “Fine. Carry on.” He got back on his tractor and drove away.
Jeanette lay on the ground, refusing to move. I felt reluctant to start again myself. At some point I could feel myself falling asleep. I tried not to, but it was impossible. I covered my face with the paper bag that Patricia had put my lunch in. Then I slept.
We were woken an hour or two later by Patricia’s laughter. She stood in front of us, one child in her arms, the other by her side. I lay limply, too stiff to move, while Jeanette yawned and her eyes fluttered. “What a pair!” Patricia mocked, but she seemed eager to help us finish the field. I stumbled to my feet and pulled Jeanette up. We gave each other sleepy smiles. “Is your face burning? Mine is,” I said, to which she replied: “Yeah, mine is too. Oh well.” Patricia handed us some sunscreen, then strode off and began to work at great speed.
“Isn’t she brilliant?” I said, watching her. Jeanette nodded, and said, “She’s so decent.” There was nothing bad to say about Patricia. But she was married, she was an adult, and happy, and so inhabited a different world from us. A world where things worked for the best and where she fit in. Where only things that made sense happened.
“Sorry I was in such a shitty mood yesterday,” Jeanette said, as she smoothed sunscreen all over her face and neck.
I shrugged, pleased. “I thought you were depressed.”
She smiled. “Well, I feel better today. It wasn’t fair to take it out on you.”
“It made me wonder, that’s all.”
“Wonder what?”
“Oh, just whether you’d stopped liking me. That kind of thing.” I spoke flippantly.
She looked genuinely shocked. “Stopped liking you?’
“It happens, doesn’t it?”
“Well, not in this case. Jesus, no. Did you really think that?”
I nodded.
“Sorry.” She looked down. “You don’t know how glad I am to be here. To be away from Stannaway Avenue. There’s a lot of pressure on me all the time. You’re the only one who doesn’t put pressure on me.”
Her voice was low, and mine was too when I said after a moment’s exhilaration, “Well, if I ever start putting pressure on you, you must tell me. Sometimes I feel that I do, in a subtle way.”
We were both blushing, I’m sure, but our sunburns hid it. Jeanette looked up. I could tell she understood, but didn’t want to reply. Perhaps she didn’t want to show that she understood. So she said, casually, “Right.”
I put my hands in my pockets. I didn’t feel like moving. She held out the sunscreen. I slowly began daubing it on my arms. “I’m sure we’ll get through about twenty tubes of this before we’re through,” I remarked. It was something to say. I looked at Jeanette for a response and she said, abstractedly: “Your eyes are quite green ... I never noticed that before.”
“Oh, they’re hazel. Some days they’re brown, some days they’re green.” Her gaze flustered me.
She nodded, still staring. Slightly panicked, I said, “Should we get back to work?” Bending down, I picked up my pitch
fork.
Jeanette picked up hers too. “Let’s work beside each other,” she suggested. “It’s more fun.”
* * *
That night Uncle John made approving noises at the dinner table. Patricia had not mentioned our siesta, though perhaps she would later when they were alone.
But my feeling of triumph did not stem from the fact that I had worked well. My worries about Jeanette now seemed ridiculous, unworthy of me. I would never mistrust her again, I vowed. She liked me. A lot. Maybe as much as I liked her. That was the exciting thought.
By eight or nine every night we were asleep. We would always help Patricia with the washing up, then perhaps potter around outside for a bit. Jeanette might read a chapter of a Mills and Boon, and fall asleep reading it. I had brought a few books, but found that days would go by without the desire to touch them. We were both getting slimmer. There were muscles at the tops of our arms where before there’d only been hard flesh if we flexed. Jeanette finished the pack of cigarettes she’d brought with her, and because she had no opportunity to buy more, didn’t smoke. We had lots of energy during the day. At night we just collapsed.
At the bottom of my chest of drawers I’d found a Beatles album, A Hard Day’s Night. It looked like the original 1964 record. When I asked Patricia about it she said: “It must have been your mother’s. Or John’s, maybe. He did like the Beatles; he was quite sad when John Lennon was killed.”
There was a turntable in the sitting room that Patricia said we could bring upstairs. It was a record we played over and over again. I grew passionately fond of it, and would find myself, without even being aware of it, crooning the songs. One night as I undressed Jeanette said, “Cathy!”
“What?” I looked at her.
“You were singing.”
“Oh, was I? Which song?”
She gave me a strange, embarrassed look and didn’t answer. I shrugged, smiling, wanting to tease her, but without knowing what she was on about, it was hard. As we lay in the dark I mentally went over each song in my head. Finally I settled on the one I thought it must have been.
She gives me everything
And tenderly
The kiss my lover brings
She brings to me
And I love her
I smiled to myself. Jeanette would be too self-conscious to even sing that song. How absurd! Did she think it was directed at her? Obviously she did... Well, maybe it was, but I hadn’t even been aware of singing it.
I enjoyed shaking her up a little. Yes, perhaps it was pressure, but she was the one who interpreted it that way, I reasoned. She had a suspicious mind. Paranoid, really. Anyway, I wouldn’t go so far as to make complimentary remarks about her eyes. It was just a different approach.
* * *
So the weeks slipped by. The sun shone every day. One by one, the fields grew bare. Our last task would be to lift the hay bales into the tractor, so that they could be taken off to the barns for storage. That would take a day. Then it would all be over.
We’d have some time to ourselves then. But I liked the work. Jeanette said she did too. Patricia was most impressed with our attitude: she said she was amazed that we were doing this as volunteers.
“Don’t tell John I told you,” she cautioned, “but he’ll be giving you both a cheque at the end of all this. Just as a small thank-you.”
Our eyes brightened. Jeanette seemed particularly happy. She had given up her Saturday job at a local chemist’s to come here.
Patricia had made several comments about what good friends we were, always when Jeanette wasn’t in the room, which I found a little disconcerting. “Yes, we’re close,” I said once. Another time I said, “We make each other laugh. That’s very important. We never really get angry with each other.” “Do you have other friends too?” Patricia enquired. This was a little intrusive, I thought. “Oh ... yes, a few.”
“Good,” Patricia said, smiling. “It’s always nice to have a variety. It’s not wise to depend on one person for everything.”
“Well, most women depend on their husbands for everything,” I said sharply, then regretted it.
Patricia looked at me carefully, then said: “I don’t. It may look as if I only see John, but I have a network of friends in Kells, and a sister who I talk to every week. And my parents.”
“Great,” I said. My voice sounded ironic, needling. I did not want Patricia’s life. Not at all. I was very happy with what I had. I really was. How dare Patricia suggest that something was lacking?
“Do you have a boyfriend, Cathy?” Patricia asked. She was wiping the table. I got up.
“Oh, you can sit down. I’ll be finished in a minute.”
“No. I don’t.” I didn’t sit down.
“And Jeanette doesn’t either ...”
“No. Jeanette doesn’t either.”
“Really.” Patricia smiled at me. “I don’t mean to pry. I’m curious; I thought you might have. You’re both attractive young women.” She laughed, but I did not smile.
“I’ll see you later,” I said, and left the kitchen. As I climbed the stairs to the bedroom I felt curiously numb. I realized that Patricia had made me angry, and my own inability to express myself had been most frustrating of all. What could I have said? No, I don’t have a boyfriend. And I don’t want one. I’m happy with Jeanette. We’re not lovers, but I love her. And she loves me. And if that means I’m a lesbian, I don’t care. And if she wanted to sleep with me, I would definitely, definitely go for it. But it’s her decision. And I’m happy with whatever she decides.
It was impossible to be as straightforward with Patricia as she obviously wanted me to be. Would she be disgusted, I wondered, to hear that, or did she suspect already? I didn’t think that anyone looking at us would see signs of anything abnormal. Perhaps they would just see a mutual dependence. Maybe that was enough to bother Patricia, so independent and so strong herself. It didn’t bother me.
* * *
As we worked in the fields I sang “I should have known better” again and again. We were tanned now. The hairs on my arms were golden. My body felt loose and relaxed. For the first time I really enjoyed moving about, stretching my muscles and no longer feeling heavy in myself. My jeans were loose on me now; that made me happy too. My hair needed to be washed every night, and was thicker and fuller than usual. Smile lines were developing on the sides of my mouth. I had often noticed Jeanette’s, and felt proud.
And when I tell you that I love you
You’re going to say you love me too
And when I ask you to be mine
You’re going to say you love me too…
I sang. We worked together, alone in the field, day after day. Sometimes Patricia joined us. I didn’t sing then. Instead we all worked in silence. Or Jeanette and I talked softly as we worked side by side.
* * *
I phoned my mother to say we were having a good time. She sounded pleased. There was no news from home. I didn’t really expect any. Father Doherty was ill. Dad was “fine.” It was hot in Dublin too. Stevie was “well.”
“Patricia’s really nice!” I said enthusiastically.
“Yes, isn’t she?” My mother sounded distant.
“And we’re sleeping in your room. There was only one thing of yours I could find. A Beatles record.”
She laughed. “God, that. It must be scratched.”
“It is, but we don’t care.”
“Well, that’s nice. Give my love to John and ring me before you come back, will you?”
Dutiful as always, I told John that my mother sent her love. He smiled to himself, and said “Oh.” He seemed off in his own world, very much like her, actually. That was OK with me; I would have hated being under his constant scrutiny.
* * *
There was a celebratory mood in the house as we finished up the last few days of work. Uncle John had taken to tippling a little in the evenings; he would take a bottle out from under the sofa, pour some clear liquid into a table glass, and
sip it slowly. Patricia always tut-tutted when she saw him do this.
“It’s poteen, isn’t it?” Jeanette asked. John nodded, and said dreamily, “home-brewed.”
Patricia laughed sarcastically. “But you wouldn’t want to take more than a few teaspoons of that stuff. Don’t you go near it, girls.”
“Ah, Jaysus, they can have some.” This evening he was particularly mellow. The kitchen had been full of his hired help all afternoon, and he’d given them all little bottles of liquor along with their money.
He took two more glasses from the cabinet and sloshed a liberal amount into them. Patricia frowned, but said nothing. She went off to put the boys to bed. John smoked his pipe. Jeanette and I grinned at each other, clinked glasses. We tried not to giggle.
“It’ll burn,” Jeanette said. “I know that much.”
“I don’t. I’ve only had cider. This is rather different. A pint of this would kill you.”
“Oh well, down the hatch!”
We began gulping the stuff down, giggling as we did so. John watched us benignly. His eyes were glazed.
“You look tired, Uncle John,” I said, trying not to hiccup. A mood of mad hilarity was coming over me. I wished he’d go away so that we could be alone.
“I am, Cathy.” He stood up, stretched. “It gets harder every year. I’m glad you came though, I’m happy you did.”
He wandered off. Jeanette made a face. “Very touching.”
“Oh, he seems sincere. Just inarticulate. Like meself.”
“Oh, come on! You’re not!”
“Well, I’m not like you. Spinning stories ...”
“I’m glad you’re not,” Jeanette said. We drained our glasses. Then I noticed Patricia. She was standing at the sink, starting the washing-up, her mouth tight.
“Do you need help?” I asked, without much enthusiasm.
“No. Why don’t you go take a walk. It’ll cool you off.”
The Leaving Page 15
