The Sunday before they were married they went for a walk together after the meal.
‘I’ll take you to the bog,’ said Joe. ‘It’s my favourite place.’
They walked across the field at the back of the house, climbed a fence and joined a lane, ‘Bog Lane’, he called it. They passed by a tightly knit wood behind which was an expanse of marshy land.
‘Here we are,’ he announced.
Sarah looked around her. It wasn’t exactly what she would have described as stunning, but there was something about the sheer desolation of the bog which wrung her heart.
‘Are you happy?’ asked Joe. He looked at her with such earnestness. She turned away.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘You don’t sound very happy, Sarah. What is it?’
‘I just . . .’
‘Give us time, Sarah. After we’re married properly in the church, I’ll work really hard. I’ve already seen the perfect site for our little house. We’ll have more children, we’ll be a family. You’ve fitted in so well – already Mammy likes you. And I can tell you she’s a hard woman to please.’
‘She’s very kind, it’s just . . .’
‘I love you, Sarah.’
Joe came towards her and held her in his arms. Sarah did not pull back. She was so lonely that she needed his warmth, his love. He kissed her.
‘Come on,’ he said.
He took her hand and led her to a quiet copse of aspen trees to the left of the bog. He sat on the ground and pulled her down next to him. He unbuttoned her blouse, unhooked the heavy maternity bra and stroked her breasts. A little milk trickled from a nipple, he licked it.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked. ‘Can we do it yet?’
‘Yes,’ she said. She needed him.
This was Joe’s first time. She did not know much herself. They were clumsy. It only lasted a minute. Afterwards they lay side by side looking at the sky. Joe felt complete; Sarah felt even more alone than before.
EITHNE
I have started to work with shades of blue. Blue is a colour which immediately registers a mood. For me it conjures up solitude and a dreamy, floating feeling.
In ‘Atlantis’ I want the viewer to drift. Hopefully, the gradations of blue create a sense of depth. Using a technique called carborundum, I etch a seascape, very finely and with little detail. There is a breeze under the ocean and the seaweed is swaying. Tones of green and blue converge to create a pure Mediterranean blue at the heart of the print.
The girls had booked the holiday at the last minute. It had been Beatrice’s idea to go to Majorca, the others had planned to go down to Tramore for the week, but Beatrice managed to find a cheap deal and persuaded the other three girls that they’d spend as much staying in Ireland. None of them had been abroad before. They were going the second week after the exams finished.
The week before they left the girls went on a big shopping trip to Dublin, they came back with summer dresses, hats, sunglasses, suntan lotion and bikinis. Beatrice modelled her stuff for me, her bikini was in a leopard-skin print and very skimpy.
‘Jaysus!’ I gawped.
‘You should see Deirdre’s – she’s practically wearing nothing,’ said Beatrice.
‘Don’t let Mammy see it,’ I said, ‘she’ll never let you take it.’
The girls were booked into the Pillari Playa apartments on the Palma de Majorca. It was the cheapest place to stay on the whole island.
‘I hope the apartment is all right.’ Mammy was worried.
‘It’ll be grand,’ said Beatrice. ‘Sure we’ll only be sleeping there. That is, if we get any sleep!’
Mammy gave her a chilly look.
‘Stop, Mam! I’m a big girl now.’
‘Just be careful. Those Spanish men are . . . different from the Irish.’
‘I should hope so. I need a bit of fun, this place is so dead.’
I’ll admit it, I was sick with jealousy. The furthest I had ever been was Galway. I had never even been to England, let alone the Continent.
‘Don’t look so glum,’ said Beatrice. ‘When you’re older we’ll go away together.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise. We’ll go somewhere really exotic like Tahiti or Jamaica. We’ll work on the banana boats to pay our way.’
‘Will you stop filling her head with such nonsense?’ said Mammy, but she was laughing. Even Daddy smiled as he sat by the fire reading the local paper. It was before the summer turned bad, before Phil came. In fact, the holiday to Majorca had been a present from Daddy. Beatrice had studied hard for the Leaving Certificate.
The girls headed off on the Saturday afternoon. Immediately the house fell dead and silent. I trailed around the fields with the dog at my heels – there was nothing to look forward to, not until Beatrice came back next Saturday.
On the Wednesday, Daddy came home in high spirits.
‘I’ve just been down with Jack,’ he said. ‘His son, Philip, is coming over for the summer. It’ll be great to have the help, so.’
Mammy looked up from the table, she was painting a single red rose.
‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased for Jack.’
‘You’ll be meeting your cousin,’ Daddy said to me. He looked around then. ‘Is there no tea ready?’
Mammy glanced up.
‘Oh, is that the time?’ she said casually. ‘Eithne, would you run to the shop and get some bacon and eggs. My purse is there on the dresser.’
‘A fry!’ Daddy exclaimed. ‘But that’s breakfast!’
‘Well, cook your own if you don’t want it.’
‘For Christ’s sake, haven’t you better things to do than paint that dead flower? Jesus!’
He stomped off into the sitting room and turned on the telly.
The phone rang. No one answered it, so eventually I picked it up.
‘Eithne, it’s Deirdre Maloney here. Can you put your mam on?’ she said.
‘Mam, it’s Deirdre, ringing from Majorca!’
Mammy ran to the phone.
‘Deidre, hello, yes, what’s wrong?’
‘Mrs Kelly, I’m sorry, I don’t want to worry you, but Beatrice was out last night and she hasn’t come back to the apartment. We don’t know what to do.’
‘Oh my God. Well . . . have you been to the police?’
‘The tour operator said we had to wait twenty-four hours. I’m sorry, Mrs Kelly, it’s just we thought we should ring you. She was only popping down to the hotel bar to watch the dancing, but she never came back.’
‘Listen,’ Mammy said. ‘Give me your number. I’ll ring you back in a while, I’ll ask her dad what we should do.’
She put down the phone.
‘Joe!’ she called.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said.
‘Beatrice has gone missing in Majorca. Joe!’
Daddy came into the room.
‘What is it?’
‘That was Deirdre, she was ringing from Majorca. Beatrice went out last night and she hasn’t come back. What should we do? Do you think we should call the embassy?’
Daddy held her shoulders.
‘Calm down . . . come on now, I’m sure there’s an explanation. Beatrice will be fine. You know what she can be like. Have they contacted the local police?’
‘They have to wait until tomorrow before they can report her missing. Oh Jesus, anything could happen to her!’
‘Well, let’s just wait a couple of hours and ring again. I’m sure she’s fine. Come on, sit down and have a brandy.’
Daddy reached for the decanter.
‘I’ll go and get the food,’ I said and slipped out the door.
I walked around the village three times, my heart pounding. Beatrice was so much a part of me. There were just the two of us. We were comrades. I felt that if something had happened to her I should know about it, intuitively. I searched my mind, it was blank.
When I got back Mammy and Daddy were in the sitting room.
‘There
you are,’ said Mammy. ‘I thought we had another missing daughter on our hands. Everything’s all right. Deirdre phoned just after you left. Beatrice turned up practically as soon as she had finished talking to us.’
‘She couldn’t find the hotel,’ said Daddy. He was on the stout already.
‘She went to a party last night, stayed over, and then spent the whole of the next day walking up and down the beach looking for her apartment,’ said Mammy.
‘That’s the last time we let her go off on her own like that,’ said Daddy. ‘She can’t be trusted.’
‘She’ll have something to answer for,’ said Mammy. ‘Not only for going off to a strange party but without the other girls.’
‘You’d never do something like that, would you, Eithne?’ asked Daddy, half jokingly.
‘I’d never get the chance,’ I muttered and went upstairs to stare at the ceiling and measure my boredom.
BEATRICE
She wondered if this was the right hotel. She had already been waiting an hour with no sign of her father. Of course, she wasn’t quite sure what he looked like, but he would be looking for her as well. They’d know each other.
She played with her drink. It was already her second sangria. She knew she should go, the girls would be getting worried. Just a little longer. Surely he would come?
It had not been hard for Beatrice to find out that Jonathan spent the month of June in Majorca. Ever since she had found out that Joe was not her real father, she had made Sarah tell her everything including where the Voyles lived. Just before her Leaving Certificate she went up to Dublin for the day on the pretext of buying some study texts. But she also went into the central library and looked up Voyle in a London telephone book. There it was – the address in Hampstead and the telephone number.
Then it had just been a matter of phoning and pretending to be a relative of an old friend. She discovered that Jonathan had left for Spain that morning but his housekeeper had given her his number in Majorca. It was then Beatrice decided that she would go and see him, and nothing was going to stand in her way.
The day after the girls had arrived in Majorca, Beatrice had sneaked off to a phone booth and dialled Jonathan’s number; a woman answered in Spanish.
‘Hello, can I speak to Jonathan Voyle, please?’
‘Who is it?’ the Spanish lady said in heavily accented English.
‘Tell him it’s his daughter.’
She heard the woman calling him, ‘Jonathan, it’s your daughter.’
‘Hello, Vicky darling.’ He had a smooth voice, like cream.
‘This is Beatrice,’ she said.
‘And who pray is Beatrice? I know no one by that name.’
He was about to put the phone down.
‘Remember Sarah?’ she said quickly. ‘Sarah Quigley. She used to work for your family in Hampstead.’
‘Yes, I remember Sarah,’ he said cautiously.
‘I’m her daughter.’ Beatrice breathed deeply. ‘Your daughter.’
There was silence, then he said, ‘I thought she got married, and went to live in Ireland.’
‘She did.’
‘Well, what are you doing here? Is Sarah with you?’
‘No. I’m on my own. I wanted to meet you.’
‘I don’t think so – I mean – why?’
‘You’re my father. I just want to see you.’
‘I really don’t think there would be much point. Sorry . . . what’s your name again?’
‘Beatrice.’
‘Yes. Beatrice. I have nothing whatsoever to do with your life.’
‘Don’t you want to meet me?’
In the background she could hear the woman calling him.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I have to go.’
‘Please, you owe it to me,’ she pleaded. ‘I just want to meet you once.’
There was a pause.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Pillari Playa.’
‘I’ll meet you in the Europa Hotel bar. Tuesday. 10 p.m.’
It was nearly midnight now and still no sign of him. Beatrice was rooted to her seat. A waiter came up to her.
‘Sangria, por favore,’ she said.
She wanted to drink herself into the ground. She was furious. How dare he stand her up? A gang of English lads came into the bar.
‘Mind if we join you?’ one of them said.
‘Go ahead,’ she replied, not caring.
They started drinking huge jugs of sangria. She joined in and got drunker and drunker. She had completely forgotten the girls would be getting worried. She didn’t care at all. In fact, she couldn’t give a damn.
The gang at her table grew and grew. Some girls from Germany joined them and they decided to go to another bar. Beatrice went with them. She started to drink vodka and Coke. There was a disco in the second bar and Beatrice began gyrating around the dance floor. All self-respect gone, she let anyone dance with her, and anyone shift her.
Later they all went back to the German girls’ apartment and things began to get more out of control. One of the girls was extremely drunk; she took off her bra and let two of the lads fondle her breasts. The apartment was extremely crowded and Beatrice started to feel dizzy and hot. She stumbled into the bathroom. Another of the girls was on her back in the bath with one of the guys on top of her; they were in the middle of drunken sex. Horrified, Beatrice mumbled, ‘Sorry,’ and ran back out. She heard the girl laughing loudly behind her.
She stood swaying in the doorway of one of the bedrooms. Where the hell was she? She had to get back to her hotel. One of the lads approached her. He was completely drunk.
‘Do you want to fuck?’ he yelled at her, above the pounding music.
‘No thanks,’ she said.
‘What?’ he said, grabbing her as if he hadn’t heard.
‘No thanks,’ she said, pulling away. Before he had a chance to say another thing, she fled.
Outside, in the dark, standing by the sea, her head began to clear. She cried. The tears tasted bitter on her lips. Why had Jonathan not come? Exhausted, she dropped where she stood and lay down on the sand. The sound of the sea was like a lullaby, it soothed her and made her want to be at home with her mammy.
When she woke the next morning her mouth was full of sand. She coughed and spat and sat up. It was early and luckily there was no one about. She hugged her knees and stared out at the sea.
What had happened? It hurt her head to try to remember.
It was already blazingly hot. She had no idea where she was. She went to a local shop and bought a bottle of water, then walked back to the beach, sat down and drank. She wasn’t going to give up. It must have been the wrong hotel. He must have meant for them to meet somewhere else.
She had this dream about Jonathan and she still clung to it. He was so different from Joe: cultured, intellectual, someone you could be proud of. Maybe she would be invited to England. She could make friends with Vicky – her half-sister. She had a whole other family out there, all she had to do was find them.
It was very hot by now. Beatrice lay on the sand and closed her eyes. A wave swept over her. She was soaked, but cool.
She’d leave it for now and ring him another time, maybe one day she’d even go to London.
SARAH
Sarah was very alone at first in Glenamona. But then the magic of the place began to seduce her and her apathy lifted. It was certainly very different from what she had been used to. Sarah was an only child and, although her parents were far from well off, she had always had plenty of space – her own bedroom, and her own clothes and things. In London, when she worked for the Voyles, she had also had her own room and since all of her meals had been provided she had been free to do what she wanted with her wages. And then, of course, she had been spoilt by her time in Clapham.
In Glenamona, Sarah had no space and no money. Nothing belonged to her; everything was shared. At first she didn’t like this; in particular the way in which Joe
’s sisters rifled through her stuff and felt they could wear her clothes without asking, dip their fingers into her precious face cream and dress her baby up in whatever they wanted her to wear. Sarah, Beatrice, Aoife, Mary and Bríd all had to cram into one tiny bedroom. To Sarah this seemed absolutely ridiculous. There was Joe with a room all to himself, while they were stuffed on top of each other. But Margaret was adamant – Sarah and Joe had to be ‘properly’ married in a Catholic church before she’d allow them to share a bed. It was crazy, but nobody challenged her authority.
There were just four rooms in the house, all of them tiny. Two bedrooms upstairs – one for the boys, and one for the girls – and another bedroom downstairs which was Margaret’s, and then the kitchen where everything else happened. There was no bathroom, and the family took it in turns to have baths in an old tin tub in front of the fire, with water which had been heated in big pots on the range. In the summer, if it was warm enough, they’d go down to the stream and bathe. The toilet was outside in a shed, it never occurred to the Kellys that it might be easier to move it inside.
As for domestic appliances – well, there were none. Sarah’s mother had been a victim of post-war consumerism and had badgered her husband into spending most of his hard-earned cash on new and exciting appliances – an electric vacuum cleaner, electric cooker, electric kettle and, best of all, a twin tub. None of these things had been heard of in Glenamona, and everything was done the hard way. Sarah never forgot the hard labour involved in washing Beatrice’s nappies: boiling pot after pot of water; scrubbing until her knuckles went red; then hanging them over the range to steam dry.
The only concession to the twentieth century in Glenamona was electricity; there wasn’t even any running water in the house. The family used to get their water from the well by the brook at the edge of the yard. No one seemed to mind the chore, even in bad weather, because the water was beautiful. Sarah had never tasted water which was so sweet and so pure before. It was certainly worth the effort.
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