And that is where I leave off (mainly because that’s the place where my life seemed to end, anyway). I’m going to bind these pages together, and leave them here on my desk – so that anyone who wishes to read them, can. I’m not altogether certain that anyone will, but an old woman has to believe that at least one person will take an interest in her past, doesn’t she?
As I put an end to this account, I feel as though a great part of my spirit has been cast out through the tips of my fingers, and into my pen; so that the wounds of the years which stripped my heart, flow black and quick down onto these pages. Blood that was once bright red, runs black as the end of night, and fills my pen. It has burst forth in the form of these words, so close to my soul; and what once was hidden down in its depths, is set forward now for all to see.
It is one thing, however, to have such lofty thoughts of my own endeavour; and quite another, to expect anyone else to see it as I have done. More likely than not, Myrne will only come to rifle through my work, making a grand mess of things – just like he always seems to do.
Now it’s just he and I in this old house, walking from room to room like nostalgic ghosts; like the mysterious Ian Platt, whom I once befriended in my temporary home on Shealittle Road. We sit together most of the time, sometimes talking and sometimes not.
My grandson lives in London still, with his wife and two children. He comes twice a year (most years) to visit me, but Jeremiah has not come to call since 1973. He writes to his father, once a month – and managed, though I had not expected him to, to come for his mother’s funeral.
He lives somewhere in New England, I believe. Massachusetts, or perhaps Delaware – though I suppose it could be any one of those silly states.
We hear very little from any of the other children anymore. I have hardly any idea what is going on with a single one of them.
But I suppose that’s to be expected, when you get to the age I’ve gotten to.
Myrne himself reached the height of seven-and-eighty, just last month, but he still kicks like a wild horse – and pinches my arms every chance he gets. (At which, of course, I always turn and box him on the side of the head.)
Michael has promised to visit this Christmas. I do want to be able to see him once more, but day by day I feel the light slipping slowly from my eyes; I feel a distinct coldness seeping into my bones, making movement from one place to the next more difficult than it has ever been. I look at Myrne each evening, wondering if I will see him next morning. Each night I go into my room, and lie down on my bed (a pillow positioned where Thea used to lie). I close my eyes and feel that familiar cold, sinking down through my blankets to the body beneath.
When I dream, I see the faces of all the people who have gone before me. I see Thea, standing there next to Aunt Aggie; I see my mother, her arm round Joseph’s shoulders. They all look so happy – and so inviting. The age seems to have fallen away from them – and they have been left in the state that might best allow them to run free forever.
Thea stands just as beautiful as ever I did see her, long golden hair shining like a brand new coin. The wrinkles have faded away from her face, and she looks at me with all the brightness of youth, looking just as she did when we used to walk about in the sunshine – yellow light cascading down all over her head, glinting in her eyes just as if they were made of water. Those eyes are fixed on me now, making me feel once again that I am all they see.
Aunt Aggie looks as I arrived far too late in this world to see her. Her face is so very young; but I recognise her, same as anything. No one else could ever smile at me that way.
I see Joseph, tall and strong. He smirks at me, just as he used to do when he was a little boy. It is a look that only ever passed between the two of us, as if we were in on some great secret that no one else could possibly understand. He blows me many kisses, and mouths the words “I love you” as I watch his face; for even if he were to speak, I would not hear him.
Tyler is there next to him, looking from me to Joseph, and whispering back and forth. He and Joseph look so much alike (though perhaps it is more in their manner than their appearance), that they seem to have fallen together as brothers would have done.
Abbaline is standing arm-in-arm with Tyler, and smiles bashfully (just as she did on that night so long ago) when he leans over to kiss her cheek. I see that now, for the first time, that customary seriousness has left her face; and there is no longer an intimidating gleam in her eye. She is happy, and carefree as she could never be on earth. It is very nice, too, to see her there by Tyler’s side, where she had so little time to be in life.
Whether you believe me or not, I even see Dolly there, running to and fro and licking everyone’s hands. To me, that serves as a definitive answer to the age-old question of: Do animals have souls? Honestly, though, I had always suspected that Dolly had one anyway; for what else could have lain behind those expressive brown eyes, which looked up at me ever with such sympathy and understanding?
My mother, of course, looks just as she did in her photograph. Her face still makes me ache a little around the heart.
But every time I reach out to all of them, they simply shake their heads, telling me that it’s not yet time.
“When will it be time?” I ask.
“When it’s time,” they answer in unison.
Last night, though, they did not tell me to be still. I took a step towards them, and they held out their hands to me.
It was only my mother who came close to me, though.
“You know,” I found myself saying to her, “I’ve stared at your picture all these years, but I don’t even know your name.”
She smiled at me. “My name is Katharine.”
“All along we’ve had the same name!”
She nodded.
“I want to come with you,” I said.
“Be patient, my darling. It won’t be long now! He will be coming for you soon.”
She reached out and cupped my face in her hand, tears welling up in her bright green eyes.
“It’s been so long since I’ve talked to you,” she whispered.
“Could I talk, when I was two?”
She laughed. “You knew a few words – but that’s not what I meant. I saw you, years after that, when you were just a small girl. Playing with a little rabbit, you were.”
“How did you know that?”
“I was with you that day, down by the pond.”
“It was you?”
“It was.”
“But how?”
She missed not a beat. “I saw you often, when you were small. But that day at the pond – well, that day, you saw me. Though I wished that it could have, all that simply wouldn’t have done.” She paused. “So I never came back.”
“But I don’t understand –”
“Hush now,” she said. “No more questions just yet. We have eternity, you know.”
I stared long at her, wondering – until I woke up.
“I think I’m going to die tonight,” I told Myrne this morning.
“What?” he asked. (He’s a little hard of hearing these days.)
“I’m going to die tonight.”
“Oh,” he said, taking a bite of his marmalade toast. “Well, all right, then.”
“Do you think you’ll be all right without me?”
“I’m eighty-seven,” he said. “I shan’t be alone very long.”
So I nodded, buttering a piece of toast for myself. And then I asked Myrne if he might want to come with me, to look once more at the silver-tree. He grunted his assent, but would not come until he had finished off his coffee. He shuffled along behind me in his robe and slippers, out into the nippy air of autumn. I stood for quite some time before the tree, taking in the full beauty of its shining bark, and its golden leaves.
“It’s a nice enough tree,” said Myrne. “But I don’t see why you have to stare at it so often.”
“It’s very special to me,” I answered.
He only grunted again, and
turned to go back into the house. But I remained standing, there in the yard; and moved nearer to the tree so that I could touch its smooth, silver bark one last time. Being ninety years old, I could by no means sit down upon the earth beneath that mighty tree – but I looked up into its great mass of branches, and smiled as a breath of wind brought the leaves brushing against my face. I wondered, for a moment, if there would ever come anyone after, who would love it just as I had.
You may call it senility; you may call it insanity. But that tree is the mark of all those wonderful things of which my life came to consist; and a reminder that, even in the face of all the terrible moments, there were ones waiting always after, of a splendour even greater than the misery. I would do well to remember that, as I’m falling asleep tonight.
But now it’s almost time for bed, and I’m getting ready to turn out the light. It’s hard to stop writing – because I know, in my heart of hearts, that these are the last words I shall ever lay down on paper.
Though it’s strange to come to grips with that fact, I feel incredibly relieved. I remember kissing Thea’s cold lips, that morning I woke to find her gone; I remember holding Joseph’s bloodied head in my lap, that afternoon when I arrived too late to tell him that I loved him one last time.
I have three pictures sitting on the desk beside me: the first of my mother and father; the second of the large family I had over twenty years ago; and the third of just me and Thea, taken in one of those spaces of time along the way.
I’m going to set down my pen now, and tuck these pictures under my pillow. Already I’m wearing Thea’s cross round my neck; I have been wearing it all these long years. I shall lie down, and close my eyes – and wait to be whisked away to that place that the living can’t reach, no matter how long and hard they try.
Even I, standing on the cliff-face from which the wind of change will lift me away, can’t quite reach it.
At least not yet.
THE END.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
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Twitter handle: @cm_blackwood
An Irish Heart Page 51
