The lace makers held their breath as Kate opened a seam in Bernie’s garments, where the first insert would go, the stitches pulling away, taking everything apart, before putting it back together again.
Chapter 12
Father Byrne on Patrol
Every evening the women worked, long into the night. The priest caught wind of their meetings, having overheard the local gossip. He walked the fields, binoculars in hand, in the guise of a naturalist, determined to discover the truth with his own eyes, watching them come and go from Bernie’s cottage, straining to see what they carried, what they intended, with little success.
Priests had walked the roads for years, keeping watch over their flocks. Father Byrne remembered when he was a young man on first assignment, accompanying Father Keene as he patrolled the lanes, flushing lovers from bushes, beating the boys with a stout stick till the blood ran, taking the girls aside, slapping them across the face, hard, as they clutched their clothes to their breasts, the priest’s eyes darting down before he hit harder, thrashing the sin from them, from himself. Young people weren’t meant to consort, to touch, not even to hold hands. No one spoke of sex. The point was procreation, in the marital bed. No pleasure taken, only Christian duty fulfilled. Nothing was innocent in the eyes of the Church, not a glance, not a smile. Sin was everywhere, in the mating of the beasts in the stockyards, the cats yowling on the heath, the birds at their nests. Humans must overcome their animal nature, be pure in flesh and soul. Father Keene gave Father Byrne a stick too, told him to go after the boy fleeing through the hedgerows, strike him down, strike a blow for God. Father Byrne hit a tree instead, told the boy to scream for effect. He’d been too young then, too soft. He’d learned, learned that there were people who must be stopped.
People like Kate Robinson. Who hadn’t left as expected, who’d stayed to assist the women with the lace. What help did they need? They knew the traditional patterns already. What could she possibly have to show them? It couldn’t be good. He’d been complacent, he saw that now, assumed his congregants were safe in their little hamlet of Glenmara—that those with the wrong sort of ideas kept to the cities where they belonged. The flowering of Ireland, the Dublin papers called it, immigrants flooding into the country, the young Irish too, filling the suburbs, bolstering the GNP. Not there. Not in Glenmara. Glenmara was too remote, too lacking in opportunity. An embodiment of the pure soul of Ireland. Or so he thought.
“Out for a stroll, Father?” Oona’s father, Denny, asked on his evening constitutional. He paused to catch his breath, winced at the ache in his knees, but it was clear he was most interested in discovering what the priest was up to.
“Bird-watching.”
Denny nodded. “Any luck?”
“Luck?”
“With the birds? Mating, aren’t they, at this time of year?”
“Yes.” The priest grimaced.
“Happy hunting, then.” Denny limped away, whistling to himself, intending to warn Oona. But she’d already gone by the time he got home, and the news would have to wait.
Yes, each night the women worked, their husbands supportive of the venture, except Moira’s. Cillian called every few minutes some evenings, eventually demanding she come home. “He just wants to see how I’m doing,” she said, making excuses for him. “It’s because he cares.”
“All he cares about is being the biggest control freak in western Ireland,” Aileen declared, setting off yet another round of sniping between the sisters. She and Moira wouldn’t let it devolve into a full row—they saved those for when they were alone, outside their houses, after a family gathering, the tensions having built all afternoon, or perhaps longer, days, weeks, years, depending upon the subject and mood. They hoarded the hurts and transgressions, let them spill out after everyone was gone and it was just the two of them.
Not now, in Bernie’s kitchen. This was only a warm-up act, during which they would peck at each other, peck and peck and peck.
“Well, he’s my control freak.” Moira jabbed at the cutwork with a needle, the knuckles of her left hand whitening as she clutched the lace pillow.
“Congratulations. They should give you a prize,” Aileen replied, teeth clenched around a pin. “You know, it’s curious how you’ll stand up to me, but you won’t to him. I mean, you’ve clearly got the ability to argue—”
“You have no idea how I handle things,” Moira retorted. “You aren’t there, are you? Inside my home at night with my family.”
“Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”
“You want me to strangle you with that bra?”
Kate and the others looked from one sister to the other as if watching a tennis match before Colleen stepped in: “Ladies.”
They paused for a moment, giving Oona an opportunity to change the course of the conversation. “The men wonder what we’re up to, don’t they?” she said. “They’re not used to having us out so many nights. It’s usually them, off to the pubs, isn’t it, leaving us home alone. Padraig asked if I’m having an affair. Said he was joking, but he half meant it. ‘At my age? And in my condition?’ I asked.”
“They can’t believe there’s anything we might need to do that doesn’t involve a man,” Colleen said.
“Mine just falls asleep on the couch, snoring. You can hear him all the way out to the gate. I have a hard enough time sleeping without that racket,” Aileen said. “The Change is driving me mad. It’s robbing me of my hair and sleep.”
“It will pass. You’ll see,” Colleen said.
“Not soon enough,” Aileen replied. “I’ve tried everything: soy, fish oil. I thought they were supposed to help.”
“Depends on how low your estrogen levels are,” Moira said.
“Thanks for the advice, Fertile-Myrtle.”
“I read it in a magazine.”
“The Economist, no doubt.”
“Don’t get highbrow on me. You’re no better than the rest of us. I’ve seen you scanning the headlines of the tabloids and the women’s magazines in the shops when you think no one is looking.”
“There’s nothing else to read when the lines are long.”
“As if they ever get long around here.”
“There’s word of a golf resort going in on the coast,” Oona said.
“Where would they put the ninth hole? In the sea?”
“I don’t know. It’s just what I heard.”
“There’s always the rumors, aren’t there? The things that might save us—or drive us to an earlier grave.”
“I wouldn’t mind. Might make for more jobs. Maybe my son would move back here then.”
“Have so many moved away?” Kate asked.
“Yes, but people have lived in Glenmara since the beginning of time—remember the arrowheads my da found on one of his walks?” Oona said. “Prehistoric, they were. Our ancestors made it through the Famine, the Rebellions, and God knows what else. We must have inherited at least some of their strength. We’ll be fine. I have to believe we’ll be fine.”
“At least we’ll have the prettiest knickers in the county,” Bernie said. “That ought to count for something.”
Just past 7:00 p.m., there was a knock at the door. “Do you think it’s Mrs. Flynn?” Oona asked. “I told her to stop by.”
“The poor woman works too hard, what with housekeeping for Father Byrne and taking care of her mother,” Aileen said.
“And a new grandbaby too,” Bernie added. “Have you seen the pictures? What a darling she is. Mallory, they named her.”
“I’ll let her in.” Colleen rose from her chair and disappeared into the front hall.
“Oh,” they heard her exclaim seconds later, in a voice louder than she usually used. “What a surprise to see you, Father Byrne. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“Just making the rounds, Mrs. McGreevy. Is everyone here then?”
The women exchanged glances of alarm. Bernie pulled out a straw picnic basket, into which they tossed the bras a
nd panties on which they’d been working, then shoved it under the table at her feet. They set to work on the old trims.
“Yes,” Colleen said. “It’s our usual lace society meeting.” Since he didn’t move from the stoop, she felt compelled to admit him. “Would you like to come in and say hello?”
“Certainly. I like to keep up on the doings of my congregation. Perhaps you could make a new communion cloth? Mrs. Flynn wasn’t able to get the red wine stain out. I’m afraid the altar boy spilled a drop or two. Accidents happen, but we can’t have soiled linens at God’s table, can we?”
“I daresay not.”
A few steps, and he was in the room, his eyes taking in every detail. “Hard at work, I see.”
“Indeed, Father, indeed,” Bernie replied.
“And what are you making this evening?” His eyes met Kate’s.
She looked down, intent on her sample. She didn’t want to do anything to attract his attention, but felt his scrutiny just the same.
“The usual trims for towels and hankies, Father,” Bernie said.
He peered over Aileen’s shoulder. “This is a new design, isn’t it? I haven’t seen one like it before.”
Aileen didn’t meet the others’ eyes. They were sure she’d give them away. “It’s spring, Father. Flowers are a spring design,” was all she said.
“Would you like a cup of tea, Father?” Bernie asked, trying to divert him—and perhaps hoping he’d decline.
“No, thank you.” He took a final turn around the table. “Just stopping in for a moment to wish you a good evening. God’s grace be with you.” He bowed his head, hands clasped before him.
“God’s grace,” they murmured as he left the room.
They didn’t breathe easily until they heard the crunch of his footsteps growing faint on the gravel path, and it was only then they crossed themselves in relief.
“What was that about?” Kate asked.
“A surprise visit from our local theological authority,” Oona said, adding, “That was a close one, wasn’t it?”
“I’ll have to say ten Hail Marys for lying,” Aileen said.
“Don’t you dare make a confession to Father Byrne. Keep it between yourself and God,” Colleen said. “Besides, you didn’t lie. You just didn’t tell him everything. There’s no harm in that.”
“Isn’t there? If he knew what we’re doing, he’d think we were going to hell in a handbasket,” Aileen said.
“Or a G-string,” Kate said, making the others giggle. “Does his opinion matter so much?”
“Of course it does. We take our religion seriously here,” Aileen said with a superior look.
“Some of us too seriously,” Oona said.
Aileen glared at her.
“So you think he suspects?” Bernie asked.
“I don’t know,” Colleen said. “But it’s not as if we’re committing a sin. All we’re doing is making lace.”
“Are we?” Oona wondered.
The lace was different. They weren’t just telling themselves that, were they, so filled with hope? They ran their fingers over the threads, which shone as if enchanted. They weren’t imagining it. No, something special was happening in Bernie’s kitchen, something special indeed.
Chapter 13
Imaginary Breasts
By that Friday, it was Oona’s turn. She didn’t seem enthused about going next.
“Did you bring the bra?” Colleen asked her. “You said you would.”
“Yes, thanks to your incessant nagging, I did, not that there’s any point,” Oona replied. She’d been subdued all night. She’d been lively when the spotlight was on the others, but withdrew as it moved toward her. “My chest isn’t worth notice anyway.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aileen said. “Of course it is.”
“Ah, yes, my imaginary breasts,” Oona said. “Padraig won’t even touch me, you know.”
“Are you sure?” Bernie asked.
“What do you mean, am I sure? I live with the man, don’t I? Have done for nearly forty years.”
“What she means is: is it because you won’t let him?” Colleen asked.
“I feel like I’m being interrogated. Can’t you see this is an exercise in futility? That I don’t want to talk about it right now?”
“Then when are you going to talk about it?” Colleen persisted. “Don’t you think it’s time?”
“You don’t know anything about it. None of you do.” Oona shrank back in her chair like a cornered animal.
“Our sister had it, you know,” Aileen said. “I keep wondering if the sea being poisoned by that oil spill years ago had something to do with it.”
“Who knows?” Colleen said. “There are no definite answers. One moment you’re fine. The next you’re not.”
“But it’s gone now, isn’t it?” Moira asked.
“So it seems,” Oona said. “Along with some other crucial things.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Kate asked.
Oona didn’t reply.
Kate didn’t press, sensing the delicacy of the matter.
“Aren’t you going to tell her?” Colleen touched Oona’s arm.
“So I have to come out and say it, do I? Make everything crystal clear? A public service announcement about my illness? Sometimes I swear I could slap you, Colleen McGreevy.”
“That’s what friends are for, dear.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to seem—I’ve always been positive, kept my problems to myself. That’s how I am. How I get along.” She turned to Kate. “But now they want me to tell you, and since I’ve been called out like this, I guess I have to.”
“I’d like to help you, if I can. It’s your turn, that’s all. You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to,” Kate said.
“But I do, I do. It’s just that I’m afraid.” Oona fell silent.
The women wondered if they’d done the right thing, pushing her that way.
“No, it’s all right. It really is,” Oona continued. “You can probably guess already. We talk too much about some things, not enough about others. That’s the way with women, isn’t it? Me more than any of us….” She paused. “I had cancer. I lost my breasts. That’s why there’s no point in making me anything but knickers. There’s nothing to hold up anymore. I’m flat as the Australian Outback.”
Colleen squeezed her hand.
“Let me see the lingerie,” Kate said gently, thinking of her mother, how thin her body had become, like a child’s, the contours and curves wasted away. There hadn’t been anything Kate could do for her in the end other than hold her hand—but she could help Oona in this one small way. “I’m sure that there’s something we can do to make you feel beautiful again,” she told her.
Oona didn’t reply. She pulled the bra from her bag, balled it up in her hands, and quickly passed it to Kate.
“No wonder you don’t want to wear this.” Kate held it up. “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Terrible, isn’t it?” Oona sighed with a sad smile. “A right old booby prize.”
They laughed, perhaps a bit harder than necessary.
“The saleswoman could have done better than this—she should have,” Kate said with a shake of her head.
“Maybe she would have if I’d stayed longer, but I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could,” Oona said. “I thought nothing would be worse than going to the wig shop. I was wrong. At least the wig was temporary. My hair grew back. But I can’t grow new breasts. Not real ones, anyway.”
“Padraig loves you. Anyone can see that,” Bernie said.
“I’m afraid I’ll scare him.” Oona stood in front of the mirror, traced the lines on her chest, no more mounds of flesh, no nipples. Padraig had loved her breasts. The Alps, he called them, for their size and majesty, even after the children and the nursing and the passage of time made them droop. She hadn’t realized she was grieving for her breasts—the denial, the anger, the sadness. She hadn’t reached the poin
t of acceptance. She didn’t know when she would. There were worse things, of course. So many worse things. And yet—
She’d gone to Dublin for the procedure. Her son knew a doctor in there, David Corcoran, the best in his field. But the scars remained. Some days, Oona thought they were the great rivers of the world. The Yangtze, the Danube, the Nile. Others, the wise visages of elderly women, with wrinkled eyes and mouths. The woman she was becoming with each passing day. She didn’t tell anyone, fearing they’d send her in for a psych consult, though, truth be told, there were days when she thought she’d lost her mind too. “Padraig wants to help,” she said. “I don’t know what to tell him. I just want things to be as they were before.”
“You’re more than your breasts,” Colleen said.
“In my head, I know that,” Oona replied. “But it’s so strange and ugly. There’s no getting around that. It takes getting used to. Even for me. But there are some good things: I’ve always wanted curly hair, and look at it now. After the chemo, it grew back in ringlets. I can squeeze through smaller spaces, wear the clothes they make for those stick-thin models, though I’m too old for the styles now.” She had a slender figure, it was true.
“You’ve always had grand legs,” Bernie said.
“So I think, in time, everything will be okay,” Oona said. “I have to get accustomed to it, is all. We both have to get accustomed to it. At first, it was as if when the doctor took my breasts away, he took something else as well. Suddenly, there was the possibility that things would change between Padraig and me, that that loss would reveal what had slipped away from us over the years. How far we’d drifted from each other. I don’t know what he’s thinking now. He’s such a quiet man.” Tears came to her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m crying about this. I thought I was done with the crying. Isn’t it funny, how undergarments call things up in you?”
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