“Good morning, Francis,” the young woman catching up with him cheerfully addressed him. “I was thinking since you’re a bachelor and away from home, and all that, why not join us for Christmas dinner? There’s just my mom, dad, my sister and myself. Mom’s a real good cook, and she said she’d love to have you join us.”
“Thank you, Hazel, for your kind invitation, but I’m not a bachelor. I have a wife and son living in Dublin, and I doubt very much if I’d be good company at this time of year.”
Hazel wasn’t sure if he actually had a wife, or if he used that as an excuse to turn down her invitation. If he had a wife, why wasn’t he returning to Ireland for Christmas? All the Irish go home for Christmas. She was disappointed by his refusal. She had been attracted to him since he arrived at the bookstore. That he ignored her, she attributed to his shyness. She felt a strong attachment to him and the possibility of him having a wife made her quite cross.
“How come all you people leave Ireland and then go around moaning about it? Why leave if you can’t be happy anywhere else?”
“A character flaw we all share,” he answered lightly and with a smile as he opened the door to the bookstore so she could walk in ahead of him.
“Mr. Egan, may I have a word?” the store manager, Mr. Briggs, beckoned to him as Francis took off his coat. Coming close to Francis, in a chummy fashion, he revealed his need. “Alas, nobody wants to work overtime during Christmas week. The young women dash out of here in the evenings to go Christmas shopping or to Christmas parties. Willis, of course, has to rush home to care for his ailing mother, so I do hope you’ll be available for overtime all next week, including all day Saturday which is when we do our biggest sales. You will, of course, get time and a half for Saturday.”
When Francis did not reply immediately, Mr. Briggs, added, “I could manage to get you double time for the full day the Saturday before Christmas. Now, Mr. Egan what do you say?”
“I accept, but I’ll also need double time for the extra hours on Friday evening.”
“Good, I knew I could count on you although you do drive a hard bargain.
You, no doubt, need the extra money to send back to the family in Ireland. Large family is it?”
“My aunt and uncle, my wife and son complete my family.”
“Oh! No parents?”
“No, both dead.”
Walking away from Mr. Briggs, Francis closed the conversation. Hanging up his mackintosh, he began working.
Walking home that evening, Francis’ thoughts weighed heavily on him. He was ashamed of having left Kate. He remembered her bouts of morning sickness. How pale and fragile she appeared, and how she smiled at him when he brought her a cup of tea and dry cream crackers to alleviate its effects. How could he have behaved in such a manner towards Kate? Would she forgive him for abandoning her while she was pregnant and in need of him? Would she happily receive him if he returned, or would she want nothing to do with him? The latter possibility made it difficult for him to return to the lane. Now he had a dream, a hope, whereas if he was to return and Kate rejected him, he would lose even that hope. For now, he would hold onto the dream.
How was she coping financially? He liked his job, but it did not compensate him sufficiently. In the New Year he would begin looking for a better paying position, preferably one that would offer overtime. He must earn more and save enough money to provide properly for Kate and the child before even thinking about returning to the lane, like Mr. O’Toole, of whom it was said, had made his fortunate before returning home. Francis’ hope was not that high. Just a decent amount of money to buy a nice home and to have a little money in the bank was what he aspired to. This became his focus, and it made his lonesomeness for the lane, the cottage, for Kate more bearable.
On New Year’s Eve, the women of the lane urged Kate, “Don’t go to bed until we wish you a Happy New Year on the stroke of midnight. Kate duly remained awake reading until moments before twelve as she waited for the clock to strike the midnight hour.
Into the darkened and still night, a peal of church bells rang out followed by the dull hollow sound of foghorns from the harbor. People from the lane came out of their homes. When Kate opened her door she was pulled along as they walked up and down the lane in a wobbly snake-like pattern wishing one and all a Happy New Year. Neighbors broke out in song. Kate was handed a glass of sherry but, in the darkness and general commotion, could not tell from whence it came.
It was a chilly night made warm by a friendly community and the sherry. With no lighting in the lane except the dim glow from candles in windows, it was difficult to recognize others except by voice. Looking upward Kate marveled at the deep marine blue sky and the billions of stars set like diamonds into its velvet expanse. She remembered how fascinated she was, as a child, by the wonder and beauty of the night sky when walking home from midnight mass with her parents. Suddenly she was brought back to the present by a voice close by.
“Let me pour you another drink,” the voice from the semi-darkness suggested. She could not at first recognize who the speaker was and then remembered she had heard the voiced before.
“No, thank you, Mr. O’Toole.”
“A bird never flew on one wing. Hold out your glass.” She obliged. He poured.
“Thank you, and a Happy New Year to you,” she said, before he had slipped away, becoming one of the silhouettes in the night.
Soon all the people were forming a loose circle. Some stood with their arms around their spouse, some held hands and others gently swayed to the sound of the song. A baritone voice began, and then all joined in singing “Auld Lang Syne.” All glasses were raised at the words, “we take a drink for kindness sake.”
“Happy New Year, and a long life filled with blessings,” were Peg and Lil’s wishes as they walked up to Kate when the singing was over.
“And to both of you and your families. Now tell me, how do I know to whom to return this glass?”
“Look underneath. What color do you see?”
“There’s a tiny piece of yellow, I believe, taped to the bottom,” Kate answered as she struggled to see in the dim light.
“Yellow belongs to Kathleen. I’m blue. Peg’s purple. Don’t worry, just take it home with you tonight and return it to its owner tomorrow.”
“Well, that solves that mystery. I spoke to Mr. O tonight who poured me a drink, but he was gone before I could thank him.”
“How many drinks did you have, Kate?”
“Two.” Just then Tara joined them.
“Kate here tells us she spoke to Old O tonight, and he poured her a drink!”
“I want whatever it is Kate’s drinking,” Tara laughed.
“You wouldn’t catch him out wishing anyone a Happy New Year,” Lil assured Kate. Kate knew it was Mr. O’Toole but decided not to the press the issue, believing O’Toole wanted it that way.
CHAPTER 6
Francis came across a position for a groom in the want ads, a position more suitable to his talents. After receiving directions to the farm in question, he set out for an interview.
He was pleasantly surprised by the beautiful layout of the farm. The owner and his wife, both excellent riders, needed a groom. The previous groom, who had been with them for a long time, had taken a bad fall from a horse. He could no longer exercise the horses or even brush them down. The farm owner invited Francis to ride with him. Francis enjoyed the ride immensely for he had not been on horseback since he had left his uncle’s farm. The owner, Mr. Roundtree, gave his horse full reign, and Francis followed suit as they galloped along at great speed. The freedom of the open space, the gallop, the wind on his face was exhilarating to Francis and brought back memories of riding his horse on the open strand in Dublin in the early hours of the morning when the world seemed fresh and new.
On returning to the stable, Mr. Roundtree studied Francis’ hands and smooth actions as he rubbed down the horses.
“What brought you to us?”
“I like worki
ng with horses.”
“So you’d want this job?”
“That would depend on the salary you are offering.”
Mr. Roundtree did not answer immediately but studied his well manicured nails as though the answer lay among his fingers.
“Where do you presently work?”
Francis mentioned the elite bookstore of his present employment.
“What did you do before coming to England?”
“I worked on my uncle’s farm.”
“You’re obviously a skilled rider and can handle horses well.”
“I began at age four.”
Mr. Roundtree gave Francis the figure he was willing to offer. Francis wanted the job but hesitated.
“You drive a hard bargain,” Mr. Roundtree said as he upped the salary.
“I believe I have a lot of experience with horses. Your horses would be in excellent hands if I accepted.”
Mr. Roundtree upped the salary a notch more, saying he realized Francis was equal to the job and this was the best he could offer.
“Do you have family living in England?”
“No, my wife and son are living in Dublin.”
“Does he ride?”
“Yes, as does his mother.”
Mr. Roundtree smiled.
“Well, if you are trying to save money, you might like the digs we have here. It’s not much, just a converted carriage house, one room, shower stall and bare minimum kitchen. I can let you have it rent free.”
No rent. It’s like getting an additional salary, Francis thought. He couldn’t have felt happier if he had won the Irish Sweepstakes. Francis accepted the job.
The Roundtrees, who traveled quite frequently, needed their horses and those of their two sons, who were away at university, and the extra guest horses exercised, fed and cared for. Francis had a boss he liked, a job that he would look forward to doing every day, and he’d be finally able to save and give his family what he so very much wanted them to have.
It’s so lonely in the lane without Francis, Kate lamented. With the holidays over and the cold of late January descending upon Dublin, people bundled up against the bone-chilling rain and did not tarry, but hurried on their way. Kate bought a sack of turf with the postal money order Francis sent, plus some staples: candles, flour, sugar, tea, potatoes, turnips, and carrots. The latter three she stored in the shed in the back yard. She set aside money for milk, cheese, eggs, and the like as needed. She also placed several shillings next to the gas meter.
She took sponge baths and bathed Eoin in front of the fire in the morning when she had a good blaze going. In late afternoon she refrained from replenishing the fire to save fuel, letting it turn to ash.
To keep Eoin’s head, the only part of him exposed, warm during the night she had knitted him a little nightcap. The iron was permanently left on the hearth to keep it hot, so before putting him to bed for the night, she would run the hot iron over his night clothing and the crib sheets to warm them.
Like her neighbors, during the cold of winter, Kate retired for the night at an early hour. Before doing so, she would also run the hot iron over the sheets on her bed, then wrap the hot iron in a flannel shirt and place it under the covers at the end of the bed to keep her feet warm. With a candle and a book, she read in the quiet of the cottage with no sound save for the boisterous wind whipping the cottage and the rain playing patty cake against the windowpanes.
The Brothers Karamazov brought her into the Russia of an earlier period and showed her the complexities of emotions, passion, murder, and the secret depths of man’s struggles within himself. While she enjoyed Dostoyevsky’s novel, alone with a baby in these harsh winter months, she decided she needed something cheerful, or a good mystery novel to distract her from her lack of companionship. With Francis she could have borne all in good spirits, but without him the lane had become a wretchedly lonely place.
Morning came looking like night. Darkness and rain covered all. She shivered as her feet touched the icy cold floor. She had left her robe and slippers in her shared apartment, because she could not fit them into her suitcase that day, almost a year ago, when she made her way up the lane. Wanting to go back to the still warm bed, she knew that she could not do so. During the night, she had been called on to check the Dunne boy who had a fever, a condition she was able to reduce before leaving at three o’clock in the morning. Kate knew she had to check in on him again. There was just enough tap water to make a cup or two of tea. Putting the tea kettle on the flame, she brewed some tea. She needed to dash out and get some water as soon as the rain eased a bit. In her loneliness she told herself that hell was not hot but rather damp, cold, dark, and dreary.
Dampness covered everything outdoors and indoors. Only a very limited amount of clothing could be washed because there was no way of drying clothes. The baby’s diapers, washed the previous day and still damp, were draped over the backs and seats of the kitchen chairs around the fireplace to dry, along with some of Kate’s undergarments. This was the fifth day of rain, not a soft misty rain, but downpour after downpour of heavy drenching rain. It was as though this little rain-drenched island might become one with the sea.
In the dark weariness of her soul, she thought of Francis and what they had had and what they had lost. Her dark mood grew more intense as she struggled to light the fire with damp matches. Why had he not come to the cottage to tell her he was going to England? Was it too much to ask that he say goodbye to her? These questions bore into the core of her being, and in doing so ignited her anger. It was cowardly of him not to have done so. What kind of love has no forgiveness? He did not mention returning at a later date or where he planned to travel to, nor if he considered their marriage over. A piece of newspaper succumbed to the match’s weak flame and ignited the remainder of the paper and kindling. A small victory achieved with greatly appreciated results.
A divorce could not be had in Ireland. A separation was the only relief for a marriage that did not hold. Would he see other women? Fall in love without being tricked into marriage? Begin a whole new life? It was downright shabby of him, more than shabby, it was damn cruel of him not to have enlightened her of his plans before leaving. As his lawfully married wife, he owed her that courtesy. Tears of frustration filled her eyes as she hastily dressed.
“Damn him, damn him to hell,” she muttered through clenched teeth. She threw the tea, which had grown cold out onto the stones in the back yard. Smile, she demanded. Pull yourself together. After inhaling and exhaling several deep breaths, she closed the back door and walked over and glanced at her son.
“It’s just you and me now, Eoin,” she whispered over the sleeping child. “I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. Sleep safely until then.” Opening the door, she walked up the lane to check on the Dunne boy’s health.
In March, Mr. O’Toole, who lived two cottages further up the lane from Kate, became quite sick. He refused to go to the hospital as recommended by his physician, declaring he wasn’t ready to die yet.
People of Mr. O’Toole’s generation believed that being taken to the hospital meant certain death. There was a great deal of truth to that since people resisted being seen by a doctor or entering a hospital until they were beyond medical intervention.
At the request of her neighbors, and though she felt there was little she could do for him except make him comfortable, Kate agreed to undertake his care. The women minded Eoin while Kate attended to Mr. O’Toole.
After several weeks of Kate’s attention, Mr. O’Toole recovered from pneumonia. She informed her patient she would return to her accustomed activities within a few days but would check in on him occasionally.
Kate entered his cottage the next morning to make his breakfast, check his vital signs, and empty his commode, whereupon Mr. O’Toole said he had something important to discuss with her.
“Pull up a chair next to the bed, Kate.” She did as requested and sat down.
“I have not been hasty in this decision I am about t
o convey to you.” After a few moments of coughing, he continued. “I have made my will and the bulk of the money will go to young Eoin. I tell you this in confidence.”
“Mr. O’Toole, I have attended to others who were injured or sick in the lane, all free of charge, and so, too, I do for you.”
“I appreciate your generosity and care, and I thank you. However, it is Francis I’m thinking of in coming to this decision. Francis is like a son to me. What I couldn’t do for Francis I can now do for his son. Don’t deny me that.”
I cannot deceive this old man. My child is not Francis’ son and is not entitled to any money this man might have.
“Your little lad is my namesake. Yes, child, I wasn’t baptized Old Man O’Toole or any variations of that. My given name is Eoin.”
“As is my father’s after whom I named my son.”
“I didn’t think you named him for me but what a grand coincidence it is.”
Eoin O’Toole closed his eyes savoring this happy occurrence.
Oh God, here I go again. Am I ever going to be able to leave the past behind? Sheila as a friend and confident; Mary and Ned, for their better understanding of why Francis left Dublin; and now for an old man, past being ready to die, I must again uncover my shame.
“Francis and I were married, but Eoin is not Francis’ child.” And so Kate one more time revealed her past indiscretions from conception onwards. As she spoke he made no comment, but patiently and quietly listened. When she had finished, a brief silence followed, broken by a deep belly laugh by the patient, which soon caused a fit of coughing, more laughter and coughing. Kate was mortified, believing him insensitive to her plight. As the coughing and laughter continued, she stood up and announced, “You’re a horrible old man. I told you the truth so as not to deceive you, and you laugh at my expense.”
The Lane Page 7
