‘Come on up,’ Leo shouted.
I climbed up the stepladder. Leo pulled me in. The attic was lit by a naked bulb. Leaning against one side of the roof were a series of vibrant nudes in differing shades of blue. In each picture the model was the same woman – gentle adolescent curves, soft auburn hair, and a blue silk scarf. Beatrice. I gasped. Leo put his arm around me.
‘Now these are worth something,’ said Mick.
Leo shot him a look.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
Behind one of the canvases, another showed. I could see a foot. Two. Four, in fact.
‘I did not know whether you should see this,’ said Leo.
He took out the picture. There was my sister, naked again. She was reclining, her head thrown back and her face was wearing an expression I did not recognize. But her legs were spread and there was a man between them. Although I could not see his face, he looked like the Artist by his build. He had the blue silk scarf tied around his waist, trailing onto the floor.
Mammy aged. Within a week her shoulders hunched, her mouth sank down and her eyes lost their shine. Her skin became very pale, almost transparent, and I imagined she was made of glass. If I came too close she just might shatter. In truth, I was a little afraid. Her grief was like a Siberian winter, and I didn’t want to go there. So I watched her, willing her to look at me. But she never turned. Like an old woman saying the rosary, she would sit on her chair by the back door, twisting Beatrice’s blue scarf around her wrists and her hands, on and on. She would mumble to herself, like a prayer, or a chant, but I could never make out what she was saying.
I remember every groove of that old chair, the worn seat with the ripped upholstery, and the soft smell of old pine. That smell would mingle with the crisp bite of winter mornings. I would find her always in her chair when I came down every morning. She must have gone up to bed at some stage, but she rose early, unable to sleep properly, and I always felt I left her where I found her. In the mornings, no matter how cold it might be, she would have the back door wide open. The fresh scent of the new day would waft into the kitchen; it’s a smell that always arrests me. At that time it reminded me of adventures Beatrice and I had when I was really little.
On September mornings, before we went to school, Beatrice used to pull me out of my bed and we’d skip out of the house and across the fields, returning an hour later, our lips stained with blackberries and our bellies aching from the juice, unable to eat one bit of Mammy’s porridge. She’d give out to us, but her eyes were shining, and really she was delighted by her daughters’ abandon. We had kinship then . . .
Sitting at the kitchen table, trying to eat some breakfast, waiting to go to school, in those early days after Beatrice was gone, I looked at my mother on her chair as if I was watching something on the television. And the shot just went on and on, like a tortuous scene from a foreign film, all still, apart from the shimmering blue scarf, sliding between her fingers, slipping around her arms, on and on, the pattern and rhythm as constant as knitting. I wondered that the material did not wear away.
SARAH
‘Why don’t you go home?’ Jonathan said as gently as he could. ‘It is at a time like this that a girl needs her mother.’
‘No,’ said Sarah flatly. She imagined the horror on her mother’s face, her father’s disappointment. She would rather die than go home.
‘You can’t tell my parents,’ Jonathan said, his voice rising. ‘Sarah, there is no future for us. We are from different worlds, it would never work.’
‘Please help me, Jon.’ Sarah started crying again. ‘I don’t know what to do. I’m scared.’
‘Jesus. What can I do! Go home! Why can’t you go back to Southampton?’
‘No. Never!’ she was almost screaming.
People started to look at them.
‘Okay. Calm down. Just let me think for a minute.’
They sat in silence. Jonathan lit a cigarette. Sarah sobbed quietly; tears dripped into her tea.
‘It is a shame you did not come to me sooner,’ he said, ‘we could have done something about it then.’ He looked down at her stomach. ‘It’s too late now.’
Sarah was puzzled. Then all of a sudden she realized what he meant, and her last precious piece of hope died. He had never loved her.
‘It’s okay,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll be all right.’
‘You won’t tell my parents, will you?’
‘No. I have a friend. I’ll stay with her,’ she lied.
‘I’ll get you some money,’ he said. ‘If you need anything, just let me know. You’re a good girl, Sarah – it’ll be okay.’ He thrust a one-pound note into her hand. ‘I have to go. Take care.’ He got up, ruffled her hair and fled.
Sarah sat in the corner of the cafe. She stared at the money in her hand. She was no better than a whore. How had she let this happen? Was she such a fool that she had really believed he would marry her one day? She had thought she was special but now she realized she was just another sad case. It started to rain outside. She shivered, and felt a sharp twinge in her womb. She should go to the doctor. She poured herself another cup of tea and stared out of the window. What on earth was she going to do?
As Sarah looked out, she saw a familiar figure walking briskly down the street, shoulders bent into the rain. Anthony. She looked away but it was too late, he had seen her. He stopped, a puzzled expression on his face and, smiling, came into the cafe.
‘Hello, Sarah,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
Sarah looked down at the chips and cracks in the formica table, the top spattered with drips of tea.
‘I had a day off, I’ve never been to Oxford. I thought . . .’
A lump rose in her throat. Anthony was looking at her critically. They had never really had a conversation before. Sarah started to get up.
‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘The train leaves soon.’
‘Were you meeting Jon?’ His dark eyes pierced her.
‘Not exactly,’ she said.
The need to confide in someone was so strong that she sat back down again.
‘You look very upset, Sarah,’ said Anthony. ‘I am sure my mother would be worried to see you like this. She is very fond of you, you know. Tell me, what is wrong?’
Why had she never noticed this dark-haired brother, always quiet and now so kind?
‘It is Jon, isn’t it? What has he done to you? I love my brother but I know that he can be an absolute scoundrel. Has he made advances towards you?’
‘No, it’s not him. It wasn’t him.’ Sarah began crying again. ‘I promised I wouldn’t tell.’
She shifted in her seat. Whichever way she moved it pulled her dress tight behind her. Anthony saw a small but pronounced bump.
‘Sarah,’ Anthony asked her gently, ‘are you pregnant?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
Anthony took a measured breath. ‘Is Jon the father?’
She shook her head but her hands went up to her face. She tried to push the tears away.
‘No – no – no . . .’ she stuttered.
BEATRICE
She slipped out of the house that night. Her head still hurt. She got on her bicycle and cycled down the hill to her friend’s house. He was the only one she could trust. There was a light on in his bedroom window.
‘Jakob,’ she called softly. ‘Jakob.’
A head appeared. A few minutes later the front door opened.
‘Beatrice,’ the Artist said in his gentle voice, ‘why are you crying?’
She walked into his front room and sat on the couch, took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. Jakob said nothing. He poured her some brandy and put the glass on the tiny table beside her. Beatrice sniffed; she took a sip.
‘Jakob, can I stay with you? Mammy and Eithne aren’t at home.’
‘Of course,’ he said gently. ‘You go up to my bedroom and I will sleep on the sofa.’
‘Jakob, will you sleep with me? I’m scared.’
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‘Well . . .’
‘Please, Jakob.’
‘Okay. Come on, it’s late. But just sleep. We sleep.’
They went up to his bedroom, and got into his large mahogany bed. He had pyjamas on, and she was still dressed. But each hour shed a layer as the warmth of them embraced.
By the early hours of the morning they were naked and Beatrice kissed Jakob. He put his arms around her and then healed the hurt the brute had made there. He took her heart outside the pain.
EITHNE
Print-making is dangerous. You use acid and ammonia, so you have to wear a mask and gloves, otherwise all the fumes and toxins could poison you.
What I love about etching is that it is a little like working in the dark, using your intuitive instincts rather than your visual sense, even though this is art and you are producing something for the eye. And then there is the slight loss of control – you are dependent upon the technical process and anything could happen. Your print has a life of its own: it could be full of depth and mystery, or it could be flat.
At the moment I am making an etching in which I incorporate the scarf like a wreath of smoke around the mountain which is visible from the top of our village. When I made this print, I imagined myself and Beatrice standing in this spot, on the corner of the village, opposite the pump. We used to stand there nearly every night, after we walked the dog. Beatrice would pick out the hill with the ‘nipple’, as she called it.
‘That’s Sliabh na Caillaigh, Witch’s Hill,’ she said. ‘There’s ancient burial mounds up there. When I get a car, I’ll take you. Jakob and I went to one called Carnbane East, the white cairn. It’s called that cos it would have been covered in quartz. Imagine the sight on a sunny day. It would have been like a beacon of blinding white light.’
She paused to light a cigarette. I stared at the distant hill, imagining it all white.
‘There were the most amazing carvings inside the mound. I thought they were flowers and centipedes but Jakob told me they were symbols of the sun.’
‘Can’t we walk there?’ I asked.
‘No, it’s too far,’ she said.
‘Maybe Daddy could take us.’
‘No. You don’t want to go with him. I want it to be just us and then we can dance on the mountain top and shout and scream.’
I looked sideways at her.
‘Are you mad?’
‘Absolutely. People are so inhibited round here; I get sick of it.’
‘Why is it called Witch’s Hill?’
‘Jakob told me that this old hag used to sit up there in her hag’s chair. You can still sit in it now. It’s a big stone seat. Anyway, the legend goes that if she was able to carry her apron full of stones and still jump over the three hills of Loughcrew she would rule over the whole of Ireland. So she started with Cairne Bawn, but when she jumped she dropped a handful of stones, which turned into hundreds of tons. She hopped to the next hill, Sliabh na Caillaigh, and dropped another handful of stones, and they turned into a huge cairn. She jumped to the third hill – I don’t know what that one’s called – and threw the rest of the stones there, and they turned into another great pile. She was jumping from the last hill to a hill at Patrickstown, but she fell and broke her neck.’
‘Charming!’ I said.
‘It’s a lucky place,’ she said. ‘If you sit in the hag’s chair and make a wish they say it will be granted.’
I shook my head. ‘It all sounds a bit weird to me.’
We went home and had tea and sandwiches before we went to bed.
Beatrice’s scarf was found on Witch’s Hill two days after she disappeared. It was inside the cairn, resting on a stone. A tourist found it and brought it back to the bed and breakfast in which they were staying. The owner immediately recognized the scarf, and rang the Gardaí. Beatrice was wearing it the day she left Dublin, people noticed her and her trailing silk scarf as she drifted around Busaras looking for her bus.
My mother has a blue scarf as well. She wears it in her hair when she paints now. This is when I like my mother: when she is quiet and meditative, painting in the garden on a summer’s evening and my father is away. My mother likes painting with watercolours. She loves the paper, thick and textured, and the power which the water has over colour and form. She has painted a thousand sunsets, each one different and poignant with lost promise.
The Wright Gallery is a converted warehouse on the south side of the quays. Although it is all white walls and high-tech, you get a feeling of vast emptiness, of history, when you walk in. I suppose that’s good for a gallery, there’s nothing in the architecture to obscure the art.
The space is bare apart from a black and white video, which is projected on the back wall. I linger here watching, waiting for the appointed time of the meeting. The film has no story, hardly any content, just a roundabout loop of mouths and noses. It makes me nervous. She is hardly going to be interested in my stuff . . . it’s too normal.
An assistant takes me up to Eliza Wright’s second-floor office. The girl is wearing the most awkward-looking black dress, made of what looks like distressed PVC, with a baggy cut and a messy hemline. Yet she looks incredibly cool, her self-assurance turning the disastrous dress into something funky.
Eliza Wright approaches. She is more conventionally dressed in a black trouser suit. She shakes my hand, holding my gaze with warm brown eyes, which are shielded by a tiny pair of round glasses. We go into her office; she bends over her desk flicking through a large diary, while I seat myself opposite, preparing to sell myself. My throat is so dry I wonder whether I’ll be able to speak at all.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ she says quickly.
‘Thank you, yes,’ I croak.
The assistant goes over to the corner of the room, and pours coffee from a steaming cafetière. Eliza Wright pulls open the top drawer of a large filing cabinet, and takes out a dark blue folder, which I recognize as my submission. I am embarrassed by the silence. Eliza Wright puts the folder down on her desk in front of her, opens it and flicks through.
‘ “Underearth”, “Underwater”,’ she murmurs. ‘Yes, I liked this – the personalization of landscape. Am I right?’ She looks up, peering at me over her glasses.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘These places – ’ I point at the slides I sent her – ‘they’re not real – they’re more like landscapes of the mind – emotional places . . .’
The assistant is sitting down next to me, nursing a large coffee, and nodding knowingly.
‘What do you think, Sasha?’ Eliza asks her.
‘I think they’re very haunting,’ she says. ‘I love the way you’ve pared your prints right down just to the essentials, and then just put in a tiny bit of detail.’
‘It’s very effective,’ says Eliza.
‘Thank you.’
‘But are these places really imaginary?’ Sasha asks me. ‘I mean what inspired you?’
‘Well, I grew up in County Meath, in the north of the county. There are lots of bogs there, so they inspired me. All the tones I use in the prints are there in the landscape – the areas of bogland, and the woods and lakes.’
‘Sounds beautiful,’ Eliza says. ‘I’ve never been that way.’
‘It can be bleak as well,’ I say.
‘I understand the “Underearth” part – looking at what might lie beneath the bog – am I right?’ Sasha says.
‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘But what about “Underwater”? she asks. ‘How does that connect to your other theme?’
I am beginning to wonder who is in charge, Sasha or Eliza.
‘Yes,’ Eliza joins in, ‘you say here that the “Underwater” section will be a series of etchings inspired by the mythology of Atlantis – the lost city. How does that fit in with your other prints?’
The two women stare at me. How can I explain?
‘The starting point of my project was looking at the question: where do all the missing people go?’ I begin.
‘What m
ade you think about that?’ prods Sasha.
‘Well, I have personal experience of it.’ I speak clearly, each word ringing out. ‘My sister went missing when I was thirteen, we think she was killed.’ I race on before they can say anything, ‘Maybe she’s buried out there somewhere in a bog, or in the woods – there are so many places she could be . . . but you see, when I dream about her, I dream about the sea – I don’t know why, maybe because she loved it so much – and she always used to talk about Atlantis, it fascinated her like it did my father.’
‘I’m so sorry, Eithne.’ Eliza looks grave.
‘You’re very brave to put that in your work.’ Then, turning to Eliza, Sasha says, ‘I think this is going to be an amazing show.’
‘I agree – I’m very excited about it,’ Eliza says. ‘We can offer you three weeks in October, how do you feel about that?’
I nearly spill my coffee.
‘That’s . . . wonderful . . .’ I manage to splutter.
‘Excellent.’ She smiles. ‘We’ll send you out a contract as soon as Sasha has it typed up. I’m very much looking forward to working with you.’
She stands up and takes my hand.
‘We need a few more artists like you,’ she says, ‘willing to bare a little more without being caught up in their own egos.’
Sasha is nodding again, a small cynical smile playing on her lips. I can’t work out whether she likes me or not.
‘Well done, Eithne,’ she says. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
My legs feel shaky as I walk back down the stairs. I am astounded that I told them so much.
As soon as I leave the gallery, I ring Leo on my mobile.
‘That’s fantastic,’ he says. ‘Didn’t I say that things were going to start happening for you if you just stuck at it?’
‘I’ve so much work to do,’ I say. ‘I need to go out west for a while just to look at the Atlantic Ocean. God! I need to start painting . . .’
Beatrice Page 4
