Eleanor stopped to pet the small, sleek, tan-coloured dog with one black patch around his eye and another on the tip of his tail that was sniffing around the tea stand in the station. He was some kind of a mongrel terrier, and the poor fellow was half-starved, his ribs showing through his skin.
Impulsively, she approached the woman running the stall. ‘I’ll take a chicken sandwich please,’ she said.
The woman looked at her, her face a mask of disapproval. Eleanor didn’t care. She knew her appearance meant women didn’t trust her. All around the station, ladies wore cinch-waisted long skirts or dresses, high-necked blouses and elaborate hats. Even the poor women travelling third class followed the norm, albeit shabbier. But there was nothing normal about Eleanor Kind, never was and never would be.
She took the sandwich and paid the money over, trying not to smile at the woman’s face as she almost recoiled at the sight of Eleanor’s dirty fingernails. She unwrapped it and fed it to the dog, which wolfed it down in one huge bite.
‘Good lad, there you are…’ She saw the woman open her mouth to object to her food being fed to a dog, but one glance from Eleanor made her close it again.
Eleanor stood up, hitched her trousers up, tightened the bit of baling twine she’d used as a belt and threw her rucksack over her shoulder. The greatcoat had been her father’s, bought in a pawn shop in Dublin one fair day when the bitter wind blew off the Liffey as he sold his cattle. It had served him well all his life and now it was hers, the dun-coloured woollen coat that skimmed Eleanor’s ankles. It was a bit warm for it today, but wearing it was easier than carrying it.
A man was holding a sign with her name on it.
‘I’m Eleanor Kind,’ she said, thrusting her hand out for him to shake. He looked startled but took it.
She’d almost forgotten how her appearance unsettled people. The men she met at the fair and in the town of Ballinasloe were used to her now, and the women had learned to ignore her. Her straggly grey hair was unkempt and wild and hung to her shoulders. It had been longer but she’d taken a scissors to it herself before leaving. She didn’t own a brush, so the result was patchy, and she couldn’t be bothered tying it back demurely. The men’s shirts and pullovers she wore didn’t turn a hair in her own place, but down here, she had to admit she probably was a bit of an oddity. Not that she cared a jot; she didn’t. The weight of other people’s expectations wasn’t something she usually bore, at least until now.
Nothing about this plan sat well with her. Her brother had more or less strong-armed her, using a combination of guilt and fear, into agreeing to this hare-brained scheme, and she’d regretted it the moment she said yes. She’d just lost her nerve after the fall, just for a moment, and he pounced on that weakness.
She was perfectly happy at Elmwood on her own. Her younger brother, Edward, had been in San Francisco so long now he had lost the ability to imagine any life other than his shiny brash American one. She could hear the pity and despair in every letter, genuinely foundering to understand how someone would choose a small windy farm in County Sligo over the delights of California. But Edward didn’t get it; he never did. As the only boy, it was assumed he would inherit the land, but he’d never shown an iota of interest. Their father was disappointed, of course, but he knew things were in safe hands with Eleanor. She was eight years older than Edward, and from twelve or thirteen she was farming every day while Edward was mollycoddled in the kitchen by their mother. He got away as soon as he could. And she didn’t begrudge him – farming was never for him – but why could he not accept that they were different people wanting very different things from life? She knew he’d pled with her from a place of kindness; that’s what made resisting him for so long so difficult.
She was seventy-two years old. She knew that. He didn’t need to point it out in every single communication. Besides, she was as well able to manage as she was when she was forty and their parents were still living. Since they died, Father twenty years ago, Mother only five, Edward had been plaguing her to sell up the home place and move over to San Francisco. He thought his vivid descriptions of orange trees and eternal sunshine would lure her, but he was wrong.
What he described as a tumbledown farmhouse with delusions of grandeur and a hilly stony farm were her home. And she loved it. Not alone that, but it was home to her animals, and to her they were everything.
The hackney driver who introduced himself as Matt Quinn helped her up into the carriage and threw her bag in the back. As he pulled away, his carriage and horses struggling against the steepness of the hill, she thought about poor Bonnie, her border collie. She and Bonnie were best friends; it wasn’t too much of an exaggeration to say that. Most people didn’t understand how a dog could be a person’s best friend, but they didn’t know Bonnie. She was so intelligent, she could almost talk to you. Eleanor had cried salty tears into her fur when she left her with the Harringtons. They would be kind – she couldn’t have left her if she thought otherwise – but still it tore her heart out.
So many goodbyes. To Alf the carthorse, as old as the hills and not fit for much any more but strong and steadfast. She’d nuzzled into his neck, trying to preserve the sweet smell of him in her mind. Her goats, Billy and Milly, who were better than any guard dog. They’d run at any intruder and butt him so hard he’d be knocked into next week. Her hens, territorial and watchful, her one-eyed cat, Whiskey, her herd of milking cows, who each had her own friend and would not go into the milking parlour until she was with her companion. Edward didn’t understand anything about her life, how full it was, how busy, saying she was there all on her own, worrying about her. He couldn’t grasp that she wasn’t remotely alone. Her life was full of characters and friends – they just had four legs and not two.
She cursed for the fiftieth time that interfering old busybody Tom Sherrard. He had no right to stick his big beak into her business. She would have managed to get up eventually, but no. He had come by to collect her churns for the creamery and found her lying in the byre with a broken ankle. It was her own stupid fault, of course, climbing that rickety old ladder, but Sherrard had to go off and write to Edward, saying everyone was so worried about Miss Kind, fearful she’d do much worse damage next time, and she was all alone out at Elmwood. Edward believed him, of course, the stupid eejit, when Eleanor knew Tom Sherrard had been after her land for years. Men. They were such a trial. Thinking they knew best. So sure they had all the answers.
She’d never been tempted to marry. There were a few offers over the years, mostly fellas who had more interest in her land than her, but it didn’t matter; she was never tempted. She had no need of a man following her around, thinking he knew best. She’d avoided that all of her life only to fall at the last fence. How maddening that at this last phase of her happy single life, Tom Sherrard and her brother were conspiring against her. Sherrard couldn’t wait to get his hands on her long meadow. Owning it meant shortening his route driving his herd to and from the milking parlour every day, and any guff he gave Edward about being worried was a load of old nonsense. Only Edward was too dozy to see it. Anyway, it suited his argument.
Edward had mithered and begged; he’d even telegrammed the county hospital when she was laid up there, her leg in plaster – such unnecessary dramatics – begging her to come to America. She was his only family, he was worried, she was a danger to herself, what if she died…blah, blah, blah. She had no interest in America. She was sure Edward’s wife, Linda, was a nice person – she sent totally ridiculous gifts of silk scarves and perfume at Christmas – and their children looked very healthy and well cared for in the photograph they’d had taken, in a studio no less, but she was happy on her own. Could they not understand that? No, apparently, and in a moment of weakness a week after she escaped the hospital, when the pain in her ankle was ferocious and the cows were bellowing for want of milking, she’d written and agreed. She wished with all her heart she hadn’t, and she tried to back out but he was having none of it.
Their father had left the farm to both of them, with the knowledge that Edward would never come home and Eleanor would run it, and Edward went so far as to threaten to sell his half of it out from under her if she went back on her promise. He’d do it too. She knew he would. He’d bleat about it only because he cared, but she just wished he wouldn’t.
Once she agreed, he was relentless and the wheels began turning with indecent haste. A passage was booked and people were contacted to come and take the animals. Poor old Alf had no idea what was happening when Charlie O’Gorman came to take him away. He said he’d use him for stud, but Eleanor and Charlie both knew the truth – Alf had no more interest in romance than she did. He was bound for the knacker’s yard. Like she was. His was a glue factory, hers a garden with orange trees, but ultimately the same destination.
The cattle were sold at the fair, and she got a good price. She didn’t care how much the farmer who bought them sniggered when she said it was critical that the bovine friends remain together, pointing out to him who liked who and which of her girls, as she called them, bore a grudge against another. He did buck up when she told him of their yield, though. A happy cow gives more milk; there was no denying the truth of that. And her girls were fine milkers so long as they were happy.
The hens had originally been bought by the Widow Desmond, but she had a flock already and there was near carnage that first day, with Eleanor’s flock going on the full attack. Hens could be very jealous, so the widow had no choice but sell them on to the O’Connells, losing money on the deal. Katie Desmond tried to take it up with Eleanor one morning at the creamery gates, but the quirky Miss Kind was having none of it. Anyone who knew anything knew that hens were a law unto themselves, and no human person could be held accountable for their actions.
The goats she gave to young Joanie Mullen, who was good with animals and understood them like Eleanor could, and Whiskey naturally followed Billy and Milly, so at least Eleanor could be sure Joanie would care for them. But by far the hardest was Bonnie.
She’d had her since she was a pup, and they shared food, a bed, a life. Bonnie was such a faithful companion, an intelligent, compassionate soul, and Eleanor couldn’t bear to sell her, though she was excellent at rounding up sheep. Many of the local farmers would have been delighted to get her, but Eleanor couldn’t countenance the idea of her being worked to death, made to sleep in a cold barn, only fed meagre scraps. In the end she did the only thing she could do. She took her to Flick.
Felicity Harrington and Eleanor had been pals since childhood. Their lives had diverged when Flick was sent away to boarding school in Dublin; her mother had fierce notions of grandeur altogether. But their friendship survived. It survived Flick’s year at a finishing school in Switzerland, her high-society wedding to Hugh, an investment banker and a crashing bore, and it had even survived as Flick became the toast of the county, beautiful and poised.
They made the oddest pair, she knew, but Flick was the only person who’d never tried to change her. She knew Eleanor didn’t care for clothes or hairstyles, hats or finery. She knew her friend was different but didn’t care. All through their twenties and then their thirties, Flick was the only one who never asked her why she wasn’t married – she knew why. She never suggested she wear something else, or arrange her hair in a style rather than just letting it grow whatever way it liked. Flick liked Eleanor for who she was. And that was a rare thing in Eleanor’s life.
She’d sobbed like a baby on Flick’s front step at the prospect of leaving Bonnie, whose long pink tongue licked the tears from Eleanor’s face.
‘I’ll mind her, El. You know I will.’ Flick had bent down beside her and the dog, rubbing her back. ‘She’ll have a great life, I promise.’
Eleanor blinked back the tears, angrily wiping them on her sleeve. Luckily her fellow passengers in the carriage were gazing out on the town of Queenstown, the aquamarine sea, the white puffy clouds scudding across the sky, too busy thinking about their big adventure the next day, no doubt.
She would give anything just to get back on that train and go straight home, get her animals back, sleep in her own bed. But it was hopeless. She was alone. She had no husband, no children. Edward was all she had and maybe he was right. What would she do when she got even older, even less able? Edward had decided and she had no options. She had to go to America for the rest of her life.
Chapter 15
Rose was busy in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to the evening meal, as Harp sat beside the range lost in The Higher Education of Women by Emily Davies.
On a whim, Rose had decided to offer dinner as well as breakfast to the guests, and to their astonishment, every one of the guests wanted to eat at the Cliff House.
‘Will it be all right?’ Rose asked, suddenly nervous that the simple food wouldn’t be fancy enough.
Harp looked up and smiled at her. ‘It will be lovely, Mammy. Sure what more would you want after a long day travelling and facing into the voyage tomorrow than a lovely bowl of home-made soup and a slice of fresh-baked soda bread, followed by bacon and cabbage, floury spuds and a lovely apple tart for dessert? It’s a dinner fit for a king!’ Harp announced with a flourish.
Rose laughed at the expansiveness of the compliment.
Mr Quinn had delivered the guests up from the station, and shortly afterwards Mr O’Sullivan appeared at the garden gate. He was only in his early twenties, Harp thought, and there was something sad about him. He reminded her of Heathcliff, all dark and brooding and melancholy. He had that look that was distinctively Irish; scholars said it came from the Phoenicians, an ancient people who traded with the Irish around the eighth century BC. He had dark, almost-black hair, cut short and oiled back from his high forehead, pale skin and sapphire-blue eyes. He was an intelligent-looking man; she instinctively knew he was a deep thinker. His clothes were old but well cared for.
They’d shown the guests to their rooms and they were all happy with their lodgings, so that was the first hurdle. Two of the bedrooms faced the sea and the other two were unfortunately at the back of the house, the cliff behind them, but Harp and her mother had filled window boxes with tumbling trailing flowers and hoped the bright, clean bedlinen and the extra candle they provided would do enough to dispel the gloom. They had considered charging less for those rooms but decided against it. It would be first come, first served with the front bedrooms. If someone was being very obstinate about wanting a sea view, they could use the rooms on the third floor if needs be.
They had put the two women in the front rooms overlooking the water and the men in the back, figuring men cared less about views.
The young American man in the very fancy suit, travelling with the boy, came looking for hot water. He thought there would be a shower available, and Rose had to tell him that there was just a bath and it was in the shared bathroom at the end of the hall, but he seemed fine about it. He’d winked at Harp. The boy with him, who looked about her age, was dressed like a young gentleman, but he didn’t speak at all. He was Irish and about an inch shorter than her, and he seemed awestruck by everything. She was a little nervous speaking to them. She’d never met a real American before, and he seemed a very glamorous one. He even wore a gold ring on his finger.
The red-haired girl said she would not be dining that evening. As she was halfway up the stairs, Harp called, ‘The hotel on the main street does a nice meal if you’d rather eat out?’ Though in truth Harp had not the faintest idea what the hotel food was like, considering they could never afford to go there.
The large girl turned. ‘No…no thank you.’ Her eyes darted furtively this way and that. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Something about her made Harp more chatty than normal. Her mother was back in the kitchen and this girl looked like she needed something, though what Harp had no idea.
‘But sure, you’ll have to eat,’ Harp pointed out. ‘And believe me, eating a big breakfast ahead of a sea voyage isn’t the best idea, if you know what I mean. Best to
have a nice meal tonight and sleep soundly after it, and then a light breakfast. My mother is famous for her soup, and it’s bacon and cabbage tonight with floury potatoes and loads of butter. And the dessert is really nice. And it’s not too dear…’ Harp wondered if perhaps the price was what was stopping the girl. Molly looked like a person who enjoyed her food.
‘Oh no, it’s not that, I just…’ She seemed torn.
‘Well, it’s up to yourself, but I’ll have to let my mother know, so you can have a think and decide.’
‘Well, perhaps I should…’
‘Well, George Bernard Shaw said that “there is no love sincerer than the love of food”,’ Harp said.
The girl laughed and Harp realised she had a lovely smile that lit up her entire face. ‘All right, I’ll be down for dinner then. You’ve convinced me.’
‘Lovely. We serve at seven.’ Harp impressed herself with how professional she sounded.
Miss Kind was at the front of the house but she had yet to appear. Her bag was in the hallway but she was outside, sitting on a bench watching the birds preen themselves at the birdbath. Mr Devereaux and Harp had kept a diary of all the different varieties of birds that appeared at the old lichen-covered stone bath.
Harp walked outside to ask her if she would like to be shown to her room.
‘No thanks. I prefer to be outside. It’s nice that you get garden birds and seabirds here. You’re lucky,’ the woman said without catching Harp’s eye.
‘Yes,’ Harp agreed, ‘though sometimes it’s hard for the smaller birds to get the food. We have a lot of blue tits and robins in the garden as well as bullfinches and sandpipers, but they have to battle against razorbills and guillemots as well as the gulls, so it’s a struggle not for the faint-hearted.’
Last Port of Call: The Queenstown Series Page 16
