by J. M. Hewitt
“I’m down here,” she calls.
She shouldn’t draw attention to herself, not with the new ‘supergrass’ tag. Connor’s presence in her own home could tip those who disagree with her actions over the edge, but he is here now, picking his way towards her.
He remains standing when he reaches her, looking around, over to the bridge and then the field beyond.
“What are you doing here?” He asks, finally, squinting down at her.
Surely I should be asking that, she thinks to herself. She looks down at the mound of stones she has made from those she collected earlier in the forest.
“It’s Emma,” she says, as she picks up two large stones. They are almost onyx black, shiny and with silver grey stripes encircling the width of them. They are her favourite in her collection, these ones. She glances up at him. “Emma’s the baby I lost.” She says by way of explanation.
“I’m sorry,” he says and to her surprise he goes down into an awkward crouch next to her. “Was this recent?”
She nods. So recent, so raw, and yet it seems like Emma has always been known to her. She looks away from him, the sympathy in his eyes isn’t what she wants so she changes the subject.
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Looking for Rose,” he replies. “Have you seen her?”
Bronwyn shakes her head. “Not lately.”
“Shit,” he swears, softly.
All isn’t right in the world of the happy couple, she thinks. She lets out an involuntary shudder and it dawns on her they are sitting on the damp grass and the day is losing the light.
“Do you want a drink?” she asks.
“Yeah. That would be good.”
He pushes at the ground, trying to straighten his bad leg and she grips his upper arm, hauls him upright.
“It’s not easy, is it?” she comments, looking at his injury.
“No,” he replies as they walk slowly back towards the house. “It’s not easy at all.”
But as she holds the door open for him, she gets the impression he is not talking about his gunshot wound.
“How are things at home?” she asks.
“Not good, really,” he starts and then clams up. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have come here. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
“Do you know what? I’ve really not. I’ve got nothing going on at all, I’ve no husband, no baby. No friends since word spread of me grassing on Danny. I could actually do with hearing about someone else’s problems.” She laughs as she says the words, but as soon as they are out of her mouth she reflects on how shallow they sound.
His smile tells her he didn’t take offence, and he points at the jar of coffee she gets off the shelf. “Got anything stronger than that?”
She remembers the Liebfraumilch and retrieves it from the back of the cupboard. It’s very tempting to join him in finishing off the bottle, but she’s had a good day and she doesn’t want it to finish badly. Besides, she’s chilled to the bone from spending almost all day outside, and a coffee will help warm her.
“Where is she, then?”
Connor shrugs. “I don’t know, she took off earlier today and we’ve not seen her since. Listen, do you know anything about her father?”
Bronwyn shifts, uncomfortable about discussing her friend’s private business. Her thoughts of earlier come back to her, and she pinches her lips together. It’s partially Rose’s fault that Bronwyn is now alone, and more than a bit her fault that this man in front of her is limping along with a bullet wound.
“What do you know?” she asks, cautiously. As much as her feelings about Rose are leaving a bitter taste at the moment, she still doesn’t want to throw her under the bus.
“That her mother was raped and gave birth to Rose.”
Bronwyn passes him a glass and the bottle of wine, “sounds about right.”
“But Rose never knew? How did you know, if she didn’t know?”
“I think my mother found out, I heard her discussing it once with one of the women who had heard the rumour.” She scoops some coffee granules into her mug and then pauses, spoon suspended. “Wait, has Rose found out?”
Connor grimaces. “It seems that way. It looks to me like it was common knowledge to everyone except the person who it actually involved.”
Oh God, he sounds judgemental now and she swings around to face him, suddenly furious. “I never told anyone because it was none of my business!”
He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I didn’t mean it that way, of course it wasn’t down to you to tell her.”
Her anger dissipates and as the kettle boils she fills the mug to the brim and brings it over to the table where she sits down heavily.
“No good would ever come of her knowing the truth about her parents. Rose shouldn’t have ever found out, she’s too fragile for something like that.”
“Not like you.”
She tilts her head as she regards him, wondering whether it is a joke or a compliment.
“Rose and I grew up differently. I always looked out for her.”
He pushes the wine away, barely touched, and stands up. “I need to keep looking for her.”
She walks to the door, holds it open for him.
“Will you come along tomorrow and see her, I think she could do with a friend?” he asks as he balances on the step and positions his crutches.
“Yeah, maybe,” she remembers the soldiers chanting at her earlier and can’t see herself wanting to leave the house much at all in the future.
She has almost pushed the door closed when she catches his voice, thrown back over his shoulder as he shuffles down to the gate. “I’m sorry about Emma, Bronwyn,” he calls.
Even though he has his back to her she shuts the door quickly, not wanting him to see the sudden tears in her eyes. She hurries back to the kitchen and sits down in the seat that he vacated. Her baby’s name, her own name, on his lips.
Without thinking she picks up the wine that he left and gulps it down until the glass is empty.
*
Rose spends the rest of the day in the park. She can’t recall walking there, she can’t even remember getting up off her knees in her mother’s garden. She looks behind her at Gallows Hill and the fact she is on the former hanging site barely registers. Usually she avoids walking here, let alone sitting all day.
The light has faded now, but she literally has nowhere else to be. Bronwyn might be home by now, but she doesn’t think her legs will carry her over to Kidds Road. Her energy has gone. Everything inside her seems to have gone.
She looks across towards Church Street. In the gloom she can just about make out the spire of Saint Patrick’s and the outline of the surrounding stone walls. It’s an Anglican place of worship, and she wonders if Mary has ever gone there to seek solace. As she thinks of Mary she ponders about what prompted her to question Rose’s parentage. And who had told her? Going purely on Kathleen’s own reaction it was certainly the truth, but who else knew? And how did Mary find out? She can’t have friends from Rose’s side of the tracks, that’s for sure.
As she sits in the half light and thinks about it, she notices a figure walking up the hill towards her. Rose stiffens as the person seems to be heading directly for her. She lets out her breath, sees it in a fog in front of her, and she realises it is Mary, but she’s not sure if she is fearful or relieved. She waits until Mary reaches her and looks down upon her.
“You’ll catch your death out here,” Mary comments, quietly. “Shall we get you home?”
Her words are kind, unexpected, and the mention of the word ‘home’ cracks Rose open all over again. She can hardly feel the tears on her frozen face, but she knows that she is crying by the sobs that catch in her throat. She pushes herself upright and stands still, waiting for her body to catch up with her head. Mary has turned and is headed back the way she came. Rose forces her feet to follow her.
Once they are back at Mary’s house, Rose stands in the doorway of the kitc
hen. She feels useless, cold, and her body is shaking, tremors that once again she can’t control. The oven is on and she looks towards it, wonders if it would be dreadfully impolite to go and sit next to it for a bit, just while she thaws out a little.
“I’ve got some stew saved, if you’re hungry?” Mary says as she unwinds her scarf from around her neck and loops it over the back door handle.
She can’t imagine that she’ll ever eat anything again, but as Mary pulls on her oven gloves and takes the casserole dish out the aroma lingers in the air. The stale smell of Rose’s old house that had assaulted her nostrils all day is buried momentarily under the lamb and rosemary fragrance.
“Oh, yes, please.” Rose’s voice is hoarse and scratchy, still clogged with tears, but all of a sudden she finds that her feet will move and she sits down in the chair nearest the oven as Mary ladles the dinner out onto a pre-warmed plate.
As she sits at the table she follows Mary around the kitchen with her eyes. The older woman is humming a tune which sounds like The Tide is High, by Blondie. It’s strange to hear something happy and light hearted coming out of the stern Mary’s mouth, but it is nice. Suddenly this kitchen is like Bronwyn’s home used to be, back when they were children, with Alia turning up the radio and bopping around the room to The Supremes or The Rolling Stones as she made them hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows.
Rose relaxes and picks up her fork, suddenly ravenous.
*
Mary busies herself in the kitchen, but all the time she watches Rose as she at first picks at the lamb stew, and then crams it down her throat. She doesn’t even cut up the meat, which Mary cooked in large chunks to maintain the flavour and juices. She’s eating like a pig, but Mary forces herself not to comment and instead runs a glass under the tap and passes the water to Rose.
She wonders when the girl will think to ask about Connor’s absence, and then as though she had sent a subliminal message, Rose looks up.
“Where is Connor?”
Mary hesitates, sweeping some errant crumbs from the table into her hand and brushing them into the bin. She glances at the clock.
“Probably he’s gone for a drink with some of the men from work,” she says, and notes Rose’s crestfallen expression with satisfaction.
“Does he know, about what you told me earlier?”
“Your father, you mean?” Mary hides a smile as Rose winces noticeably. “I’m not sure, to be honest I presumed everyone knew.”
The girl’s face turns deathly pale at this and she puts her fork gently on the side of her plate. At the same time, Mary’s keen ears hear the tell-tale click of Connor’s crutches outside the front door. Mary moves quickly into the hallway, pulling the kitchen door closed behind her, and she’s waiting as Connor unlocks the front door and hobbles in.
“The girl is here,” she says to him in a low voice. “She feels very bad about everything, best not to mention that you’ve been out looking for her.”
Connor looks tired, she notes, and a flame of anger flares up in her chest. He can barely walk, he shouldn’t have been traipsing all over Newry looking for the selfish girl.
“All right,” he says, and lowers himself onto the bottom stair to prise his boots off. “If you think it’s best.”
“I do, I’ve been chatting to her, she’s eating dinner right now. Just tell her you let your workmates take you out for a beer, or something.”
With the instructions that will cover her issued, she pats him on the shoulder and retreats back into the kitchen.
Rose is standing at the sink, rinsing the plate that contained the stew which she must have scraped into the bin. As Mary comes back in the room she turns, sees Connor in the hall, and she wipes her hands on the towel and pushes past Mary to go and greet him.
Mary moves over to the sink, looks at the plate which still has traces of gravy on it. Sighing, she turns on the hot tap and gets the washing up liquid out from underneath the sink.
*
She can still taste the Liebfraumilch in her mouth when she wakes up the morning after Connor’s visit. She turns over and faces the wall, remembering now not only finishing Connor’s glass, but the whole bottle. There is no more alcohol left in the house now, so today could be the start of a new beginning. She thinks of the half-hearted plans and ideas she has thought up over the last few days; the painting of the kitchen and taking a sledge hammer to the concrete outside. Thought processes that when put into action will make her start to live again, to do something for her own happiness and contentment. Something that will take Emma’s place.
Emma.
Bronwyn sighs and flips onto her back. As soon as the shops open she’ll go down, pick up some supplies with her sewing money. Maybe a nice piece of meat from the butcher, and some fresh vegetables. She needs to start eating better. She needs to build up her strength.
She makes a mental shopping list, adding treats that she wouldn’t usually splash out on. She won’t get wine.
She promises herself, she won’t buy any wine.
*
They had a special on Guinness, down at Murphy’s on Monaghan Street. When she had seen it in the window, the fluorescent stickers showing the sale price, she had remembered she had promised Connor she would go and see Rose later, and she reasoned that she could take a few tins with her. Who knows, it might even loosen Mary up a little.
She takes the food out of the carrier bags and inspects her wares as she puts them away. Most of this will be thrown away; it’s hard to buy groceries for one. She had conceded and bought a whole chicken. She intends to cook it one night when Alia is visiting and then she can have it cold the day after. She wonders what night her mother would like to come to dinner and worries that she won’t be able to stand it. The pretence, on Bronwyn’s part, that everything is fine and the worry that will be evident on her mother’s face, even as she tries not to say the wrong thing.
It’s too much to think about, her head is full and she slams her hand down on the counter. When did everything become so difficult? When did even just thinking and planning become too much, too hard?
She abandons the shopping and reaches for a can of beer.
*
She’s drunk as she takes a slow walk to Connor’s house. She’s aware of that, and she takes deep breaths of the cold air and tests herself by walking in a straight line. The cans of Guinness clink against each other in her bag and she puts her hand in her jeans pocket, rubbing her fingers over one of the onyx-like stones she slipped in there after she’d been sitting with Emma earlier in the day.
It’s a good hour walk, and she could have taken the bus, but her body feels sluggish and she wants to wake it up. She remembers how in her younger days she ran this route. She was a good runner. Her school put her in for all of the county competitions, cross country, track, even hurdles at one time. There was a memorable run back in 1969, the year before she had married Danny. They had moved into the Kidds Road house and she was still training every day. There was rioting that had begun in Derry and protests had started up all over Northern Ireland. Danny had not been home for two days, he never told her but she imagined she knew where he was, in Belfast or Crossmaglen, right in the thick of it. Alia begged her to stay inside, but Bronwyn refused to be told what to do in her own town. She had left the house early, starting with a gentle jog across the fields. It was hot already, it was going to be another scorcher, and after five miles she decided to turn around and head back.
She was running through Hill Street, noticing how eerily deserted the usually busy road was. Up ahead she could see an armoured vehicle and she slowed, knowing there would be soldiers with it. And with the soldiers came the people who fought them, those like Danny. There were no side roads to divert her route, so she made the decision to keep going. Keeping close to the brick walls of the shop fronts she put her head down and broke into a sprint. They came flooding out of the warehouse gates as she passed; balaclava wearing, gun toting fighters. They shoved her out
of the way and she raised her arms to protect her head. One of them seemed to reach out for her and she elbowed him as she passed. From the other side the soldiers appeared, rushing the fighters. Water cannons started from somewhere in the street, aiming in her direction. Something whizzed past her face and exploded over the road, causing thick smoke and hot flames, and rubber bullets thudded into brickwork. The gunfire started and she ran on, low to the ground, seeing the end of the group of I.R.A men. As she passed the end she heard the thump of a bullet as it connected with skin. Something wet hit her face but she ignored it and sprinted on.
Two miles later she thundered through her front gate and collapsed on the porch step. It wasn’t unusual for her to shake after a hard run, but this was something more. Her hands wouldn’t work, stuck in claw-like positions, tense and stiff. With great difficulty she had taken the key from under the gnome that stood on the step and after several attempts at reaching up and inserting it into the lock she had given up, dropped the key, and lay in a foetal position at her front door.
She had lain there for hours, blood-stained and dehydrated. She didn’t remember finally getting into the house or taking a bath, though she knows she must have done on her own eventually. Alia didn’t call round and Danny stayed away another three days.
She never told Dan about that day nor anyone else. But it was the last day she had ever gone running.
*
Now, on that same route, she thinks about running again. It has been twelve years, her body, though still slim, is soft and squashy. She remembers how it used to feel, the running, and how her hair and skin used to glow with health and vitality.
As she considers it there’s a part of her telling her that yet again she’s making another plan, a half-hearted one, which is all good in theory but why doesn’t she just do it instead of always contemplating?
Maybe I will, she thinks, determined as she picks up her pace and carries on towards Connor’s house.
