by Maggie Hope
‘Mother, Father, my wife, Karen.’
She acknowledged the introduction with a nod of the head and a ‘How do you do?’ The priest and Mr Murphy glanced at her and away again, their reply inaudible. Mrs Murphy looked straight through her.
‘Take the children into the front room, Karen.’
Patrick saw her stricken face and attempted protest but he ignored it. She wanted to hear everything, felt her life depended on it. How could he dismiss her like this? Her face burned.
‘It’s all right now, don’t take on so.’
His tone was reassuring. ‘We can’t hear ourselves speak now, can we? Not with Jennie’s carrying on so.’ Comforted only a little, she held the crying Jennie against one hip and took hold of Brian’s hand. Silently she left the room. Jennie protested loudly and struggled to get down from her mother’s restricting arms, succeeding eventually as Karen closed the door of the front room after them.
She stared out of the window at the rolling moor, beautiful in the sunlight. The children stood solemnly beside her, Jennie quiet now as though sensing her deep foreboding and disturbed by it. They clung to her skirts with only an occasional sniff from Jennie. Those people in the kitchen were the children’s grandparents, she thought dully. She ought to be offering them hospitality, showing off the children to them. They should be proud of such fine, healthy bairns. But they had hardly glanced at Brian or Jennie, had ignored them. And the woman had looked at Karen as though she was the Whore of Babylon. She smarted under the implied insult, felt sullied and dirty.
Voices came from the kitchen. She could hear them but not what they were saying. Suddenly she could stand it no more. She wasn’t going to wait here like some servant waiting to be called into the presence of the mistress. She snatched up Jennie and turned to the front door.
‘Come on, Brian, we’ll go for a walk. Let’s go down to the ghyllie and see if we can find some wild flowers. We’ll pick a big bunch, shall we? Then we can put them in a vase on the table.’
Wrenching open the rarely used front door, she strode off down the garden path and out on to the lonnen which led to the fold in the fell which hid the little wooded ghyll and its sparkling burn. Brian’s face cleared as he trotted after her. A cool breeze had sprung up, buffeting them as they walked along and bringing roses to their cheeks, but as they came to the shelter of the little valley the sun was warm on their heads once again.
Spring flowers bloomed in profusion and the children soon recovered their spirits, laughing and playing among the bushes and bringing wild flowers to Karen to show what they had found. She exclaimed over celandines and wood violets, dandelions and daisies. But her mind was really far away and her actions mechanical. She sat down on an outcrop of limestone, watching them play, and her smile slipped a little.
‘Mam, who are those people, Mam?’
Brian was standing before her, anxiously twisting the flowers in his hands. He always sensed when she was unhappy and he felt his own little world threatened. She gazed at his small, solemn face and chided herself for letting her distress show. Forcing herself to smile, she hugged him to her. But what could she say? ‘It was your grandmother and grandfather?’ How could she tell the children that their grandparents didn’t want to know them, didn’t even acknowledge them?
‘People your daddy knows, that’s all. Nobody important.’
She heard the words as though they were said by someone else, not herself. ‘Nobody important,’ she repeated and knew it was true. They were not important to her, that couple, and neither was Sean, Patrick’s one-time friend, not unless they all changed their attitude. Only her little family was important and if outsiders, even grandparents, thought they could separate them, then they would find they had a fight on their hands.
All at once she stood up, a new look of determination on her face. Brushing down her skirts and pushing back escaped tendrils of hair into their restraining pin in a characteristic gesture, she scooped up Jennie once more.
‘Howay, pet, we’re going home now.’ She smiled at Brian’s upturned gaze. ‘Home to see Daddy and Nick. And you can feed the little pigs, Brian, would you like that?’ His face cleared and he broke into a trot to keep up with her purposeful stride.
‘Piggies,’ cried Jennie in delight. She had forgotten the piggies and now remembered them, rosy face alight. She clutched her bedraggled flowers to her.
‘Pretty, Mam?’ She looked doubtfully at the crumpled blooms.
‘Pretty flowers, yes. We’ll put them in a vase, pet,’ Karen agreed. ‘We’ll put them on the table when we have our tea, won’t that be nice?’ Jennie was satisfied and skipped along beside her mother.
As they walked into the garden Karen hesitated for a moment only. Should she slip in the front? No, she decided, she would walk round to the back of the house and confront them. This was her home and they were not going to make her feel an interloper in her own house, of that she was determined.
The unmistakable smell of burning bread was the first thing to greet her as she opened the scullery door. Good Lord, she had forgotten all about the bread! Housewifely instincts to the fore, she rushed through to the kitchen, hardly noticing the group at the table, but they looked up and their talk stilled as she entered. Dumping Jennie in Patrick’s lap, she rushed over to the oven and reached for a cloth from the rail.
‘Couldn’t you smell the bread burning?’ she said sharply to him, her tightly strung nerves making her vent her frustration. Then her headlong rush came to an abrupt halt. The bread had been taken out of the oven and ranged on the fender. The crusts were burnt, it was true, but most of the bread was salvageable. She stared at it intently, trying to collect herself before turning to face them, feeling rather foolish.
‘Daddy! Mammy says I can feed the piggies.’ Brian’s voice sounded excited and happy as he pulled at Patrick’s hand. Jennie was gurgling as she held out her flowers for his inspection. They sounded so normal that Karen found the courage to turn.
The older couple were staring at this picture of the young father with his children, their expressions mixed. Patrick himself was momentarily absorbed by them, love and pride shining from his eyes as he talked to them about the piglets. Karen’s heart lightened as though a great weight had been lifted from it. Surely he would never leave them? She dragged her gaze away and forced herself to look at his parents.
‘Won’t you stay and have some tea?’ she heard herself saying, though she could hardly believe her ears.
Patrick’s mother stared at her with no attempt to conceal her hostility.
‘I took out the bread,’ she said, and looked pointedly at the burnt crusts of the loaves on the fender. On top of everything else, Karen immediately felt like a careless housewife though she told herself she was being stupid. She looked at Patrick who seemed uncomfortable. He bent over Jennie to cover up his embarrassment. Sean glanced at the children and stood up, his face unsmiling.
‘We’d better be on our way, I think.’
Patrick looked at his father and mother, appealing for understanding. ‘Have some tea at least.’
The older man took a step towards his son and grandchildren but was brought up short by his wife’s unrelenting voice.
‘Michael.’
A stubborn look came into Mr Murphy’s eyes.
‘We will stay and have some tea,’ he said. ‘This is my son’s house and we will behave in it with decency.’ Surprisingly his wife didn’t argue and even the priests sat down again. Karen mashed the tea from the kettle singing on the hob and buttered scones from the morning’s baking. They sat silently as she poured out tea and handed round the plate of scones.
‘You talk funny, just like my daddy,’ said Brian. ‘Do you want to come and see our piglets?’ He was standing by his grandfather’s chair, looking up at him earnestly.
‘Brian –’ Karen began, but she was interrupted.
‘I would that,’ Mr Murphy said emphatically, ignoring his wife’s fierce frown. He drained his cup a
nd took Brian’s hand.
‘You’ll have to show me the way now.’
‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ shouted Jennie, and Mr Murphy held out a hand to her too and all three went out into the farmyard, watched by everyone else in the room. Then Mrs Murphy looked down at Patrick’s hands significantly.
‘Will you just look at your hands, Patrick,’ she said mournfully, causing Karen and the priests to look at them too. Patrick quickly put them down on his lap but not before Karen saw how work-stained and calloused they were, something she hadn’t really noticed for a long time. That, after all, was how men’s hands always got if they were farmers. Certainly they were not the well-cared for hands which she remembered from their first meeting. Even the long fingers were scarred and stained, with one or two of the nails broken down to the quick.
‘There’s nothing the matter with my hands, Mother,’ he said defensively.
‘They were so nice, it’s a terrible shame. Olive oil and sugar, that’s what you want on them,’ Mrs Murphy said. She was talking across Karen as though she wasn’t there.
Karen couldn’t help a small smile. Olive oil and sugar had been Gran’s favourite recipe for softening and cleaning her hands.
Now she realized, as she watched Patrick’s mother, that there were a lot of similarities between Gran and Mrs Murphy. They were the same type of woman, country bred and worn by a lifetime of work. Karen began to feel a little softer towards Mrs Murphy. After all she had had her dreams of Patrick as a priest shattered, it must have been an awful shock to her.
‘Have another scone, Mrs Murphy,’ she said, holding out the plate. Mrs Murphy ignored her.
‘It’s time we were going,’ she said to Patrick. ‘I can’t talk to you any longer, I’m so upset. Will you be calling your father?’
‘But he won’t be …’
‘I have to get back in any case,’ the older priest said quietly and his words were echoed by Sean.
‘Yes, of course, Father.’ Patrick looked at the priest in understanding. He had seemed uncomfortable for most of the visit, unlike Sean who had been as unbending as ever. But his colleague had said very little, and would obviously be glad to get away from this awkward situation. No doubt he thought he had done his duty in bringing the old couple up to see their errant son.
‘Will I see you again, Mother?’ asked Patrick as the party prepared to leave.
‘If it be the will of God,’ she answered. ‘We’re not getting any younger, and with James in London and you here we’ve only Daniel to comfort us in our old age.’
‘Brigid, come away now.’ Mr Murphy stepped forward and took her arm to lead her out of the door. Patrick followed them and kissed them both. His mother clung to him suddenly, all her fire gone now. She began to cry, tears running unchecked down her face.
‘Mother, Mother,’ said Patrick, his own voice breaking.
‘Come away now,’ Mr Murphy repeated, putting an arm around his wife’s shoulders and they went out to the trap.
Sean paused in the doorway before he followed them.
‘Goodbye, Patrick,’ he said, and somehow there was a finality in his tone.
Karen and Patrick stood shoulder to shoulder as the party climbed into the trap and Sean clucked the pony into motion. The leave-taking over, they went out of the gate and past the rowan tree which was showing signs of the bursting buds of spring blossom. Mr Murphy turned and waved. Patrick and Brian waved back. Then away went the trap down the lane and on to the road to Stanhope. They followed it with their eyes until it was out of sight and Karen looked up at Patrick anxiously. She had heard the emotion in his voice as he said his goodbyes to his mother and felt as though a lump of lead was in her own throat, but the expression on Patrick’s face was enigmatic.
Karen suddenly realized how stiffly tense she was as her neck began to ache unbearably. Forcing herself to relax she went into the house, not daring to look at Patrick in case she saw signs of regret on his face. He glanced quickly after her and went into the barn. For the next few hours he worked furiously at fetching manure for the vegetable garden and spreading it over the ground which was at last beginning to dry out after the long winter. He worked on and on at various tasks until well after dark, coming in late for supper, white-faced and exhausted. He looked around the kitchen.
‘Where are the children?’
‘I fed them early and put them to bed, they were both tired. And I thought we could talk.’
‘Oh.’
Patrick looked meaningfully at Nick who was sitting at the table, indicating this was no time for a private discussion. Indeed, Patrick’s face had a shuttered look which did not invite conversation anyway.
Nick offered a few comments on the work that was needed on the roof of the barn but soon went off to bed himself, feeling the strained atmosphere. He knew that the visitors had upset Karen and was troubled by it.
She sat quietly for a while, not knowing how to broach the subject of his parents’ visit, wanting to know what had been said while she was out, whether there had been an argument, whether Patrick had been swayed in his resolve by the appearance of his parents. But she couldn’t ask, she couldn’t. He ate his supper in silence, seemingly lost in his own thoughts and not aware of her anxiety.
‘Patrick.’
At last she gathered enough strength of mind to look him in the face and speak of it.
‘Leave it.’
‘I can’t leave it.’
Patrick looked up and saw the resolution on her face. She was not going to be put off, not until she knew where she stood. He pushed back his chair and brushed past her to the back door where he turned the key in the lock.
‘Patrick, I must know.’
‘Leave it, I said.’ His brow was thunderous but she could take little heed of the warning. As she opened her mouth in repeated protests he left the kitchen.
I’m off to bed,’ he called over his shoulder.
Karen was left with her unanswered questions still on her lips.
Mechanically she cleared the table and laid it for breakfast, taking the plates into the scullery and sluicing them in cold water from the bucket into the pig pail. She banked the fire and turned back the clippie mat. Then she sat down in the rocking chair and did her best to bring her emotions under control, willing her heart beat to slow down. At last she extinguished the lamp and took a candle to light her way upstairs.
Would she never be able to feel secure? she wondered. The day had begun so well, on a pinnacle of happiness, but it seemed that every time she was happy something came along to knock her down.
Next morning Patrick was withdrawn and quiet. Soon after breakfast he went into the yard and saddled Polly, riding out without saying where he was going and leaving the yard work to Nick and Karen. He had not asked for a packed meal so Karen assumed he would be back at mid-day. She was still too unsure of herself to ask his plans and watched him go in silence. He hadn’t even said goodbye, she thought miserably.
He couldn’t be going on the fell because he hadn’t taken Flossie so maybe he was going to Wolsingham. The place was beginning to assume frightening proportions to her. Wolsingham was where the Catholic Church was, the priests and the nuns …
Karen got through the day, going from one job to another. She fed the hens and collected the eggs. She helped Nick with the sheep and lambs in the home fold. She comforted Flossie, in despair at being left behind by Patrick. But her actions were mechanical, her mind on Patrick, waiting minute by minute for him to come home. Her agony of mind was a physical pain in the pit of her stomach.
The day was again fine and warm with signs of new life all around her, from the young green grass in the pasture to Jess’s wobbly filly, born a few days earlier. The fine weather meant the children could play outside while she worked, Brian watching his sister for her. They chattered quietly and Karen watched and listened absently. The time went slowly, unbearably so, yet the sick feeling in her stomach intensified when she realized it was already teati
me and there was no sign of Patrick.
Sensitive as usual to her mood, Nick watched her anxiously. His facial tic returned as an outward sign of his disturbance though he said nothing.
It was half-past six when the clip-clop of hooves was heard in the yard. Karen was bathing the children in the tin bath before the fire in the kitchen, for the evenings were still chilly. Her hands stayed as she caught the first faint sound of the horse coming through the gate and she gazed up at the doorway to the scullery though Patrick, if it were indeed him, couldn’t possibly get there yet.
A moment later he was there.
‘Supper won’t be long,’ she said to him. ‘I daresay you’re famished. It’s been a long day, especially if you didn’t have anything when you were out.’ She had decided she would not mention the visit again, not unless he brought it up first.
Patrick began taking off his outdoor things. ‘Yes, I am hungry,’ was all he said.
‘Sit down, Brian, wait until I’m ready for you,’ Karen admonished, and he sat back with a splash which wet the clippie mat.
‘Come on, son.’ Patrick came over to the fireside and took down the towel hanging on the rail. ‘I’ll dry you, eh?’ He lifted the boy out of the bath and methodically dried and dressed him in his nightshirt. Sitting in the chair opposite Karen, he caught her eye and they smiled in mutual understanding and support.
Together they fed the children and took them up to bed, settling them before coming down to their own supper of home-fed ham and pickles bottled by Karen the previous autumn. She mashed the tea and called in Nick for his supper as though it was just like any other evening in their busy lives. Nick ate heartily, his nervous twitch disappearing for the tension in the house was gone. As soon as he was finished he went back to the home pasture where he was keeping an eye on the lambing. Tactfully, he did not reappear until bedtime.
‘I’ll fix the roof of the barn tomorrow,’ Patrick said as he sat down in his chair before the fire.
‘Yes,’ Karen replied, and began to clear away the supper things. ‘It’s time it was done.’
