Big English Girl

by Paula Clamp

  "Right, five cards down." Paddy dealt out the cards.

  Soupy looked far more relaxed than when Ellie had first met him at the Airbnb, or at the fundraising meeting. Without the shadow of his wife, he looked far younger and had a slightly mischievous glint in his eye. Ellie guessed there was nearly a twenty-year age gap between Paddy and the older Soupy, but both could have been around Lusty in the nineties. She was desperate to ask about her mother, but Ellie was going to have to be ‘careful’, just as that annoying brute, Conor Sullivan, had advised.

  Soupy won the first card game and buoyed with his victory, he offered to buy a round. He left Paddy and Ellie seated at the table and helped himself to the drinks. As he reached over the bar, Ellie could just about see a Daffy Duck motif embroidered on his socks; firm proof that when Ena wasn't around, he was a 'I'm mad I am', kind of a guy.

  Whilst they waited for Soupy to return, Paddy slurped the dregs of his pint and then turned to Ellie in a whisper, "How did you get on up at the old tree?"

  "Oh, it's just so beautiful."

  "You're right there. I had my first kiss up on the second big branch. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I was a gross ignoramus, which, Ellie, is one-hundred and forty-four times worse than an ordinary ignoramus."

  Ellie laughed, "Sure, everyone’s a bit awkward the first time they kiss." She didn’t really know and that was why Conor’s teasing hurt her even more than it should. The only kisses Ellie ever had were from her parents when she was younger, and once from a ferocious game of kiss-chase when she was in primary five.

  "Aye, Ellie, but I was thirty-two."

  Ellie laughed again. Paddy seemed to know instinctively how to cheer her up.

  “Look, Ellie, I’ve been thinking about what you told me earlier – about your Ma.” Paddy shuffled the cards and fanned them out, but Ellie could see from his troubled expression that thinking was something he didn’t do that often. "There's a whole heap of local parish records stored in the parochial house," Paddy made sure he was still out of Soupy's earshot, "I've seen them when I've been doing odd jobs in there…Pick a card. I don't think Father Daly would let just anyone have access to them - there's sensitive stuff that may upset some of the parishioners."

  Ellie couldn't help but feel disappointed.

  "The Father is away getting stuff for the bazaar…" Paddy smirked, "And because he asked me earlier to take a look at his plumbing...Ace of Hearts," Paddy turned over Ellie's card and added with a wink, "I have a key."

  Chapter 14

  The parochial house was a small, two up, two down cottage, situated around the back of the chapel. The pebbledash was crumbling, but the mustard-yellow paintwork looked pristine and new.

  "My handiwork that." Paddy knocked his fist against the painted wooden door and then inserted his key into the lock.

  "Look, Paddy, you obviously are very close to the priest and you help each other out..." Ellie was a few steps behind him, looking nervously over each shoulder, "…So maybe, we shouldn't do this." The guilt about what they were about to do was like a rock in her pocket.

  "Do what? I'm going in to tinker away with the blocked sink and you're just doing a bit of family research. The Father said there might be stuff sensitive to the parishioners - and you're not a parishioner. What the Father doesn't know won't harm him." Paddy opened the door.

  Inside was very dark, with narrow windows, and slithers of light filtered through lace curtains. Shiny mahogany furniture filled the living room, which led to a small kitchen. The stale smell of incense lingered in the air. Father Daly clearly kept his house in order; everywhere was spotlessly clean. Heaped on tables around the room were tidy piles of old newspapers.

  "Rosie comes in a few days a week and helps keep it like this. The bookcase over there, by the window, has most of the stuff." Paddy pointed, casually, as his attention now transferred to pipes and drains.

  To Ellie's surprise, the top two rows of the bookcase revealed a lot about the old priest's eclectic interests; there was a vast selection of religious reading matter and the Quran was perched between The Complete Book of Zen and A Guide to Aboriginal Spirituality. The next few rows down contained documents that Ellie herself was much more interested in; parish registers dating from the eighteenth century to the present day. They were all neatly folded and stored chronologically.

  Ellie found a yellowed, dusty, tattered 1970 ledger, the year her mother was born. On the front cover, were deep scores, where it looked to have been leant on when the priest was writing out birth, marriage and death certificates. When Ellie opened the ledger, dust danced in the shafts of light that had managed to permeate the lace curtains.

  She scanned the register feverishly for any reference to the name Byrne, but the more Ellie looked, the harder it was to find anything. With the anxiety and tension of what she was doing, Ellie could literally feel the perspiration begin to pour out of her.

  "Look what I found!"

  Paddy was now at her shoulder, with a modern map of Lusty and the surrounding area in his hand. He was pointing to a small woodland sign which read ‘Liberty Tree’. The huge, majestic specimen that had made such an impression on Ellie was reduced to the size of a pinpoint.

  "That line there denotes the Sullivan estate," Paddy traced his dirty nail along a thin black line that spread around an area about a tenth of the massive page, "And that's the Sullivan Lake."

  "Wow, Paddy that's some land the Sullivan's have. But I have a map even older than the one you have and it mentions nothing of the Sullivan estate.”

  "Show me."

  Ellie pulled out the map from her backpack. The date, 1930, was hand-written in the corner.

  "I can't see it marked anywhere, Paddy."

  "There it is."

  "Where?"

  "In front of you. All the land you can see on the map belonged to the Sullivan's then - every mountain, lake, hill, river and every tree."

  "I don't get it – so, in just over a century, the estate went from this," Ellie waved her right hand over thousands of acres, "To this," Her other hand was able to cover the entire parameter of what now belonged to Conor and his family.

  Three generations of Sullivans had somehow managed to diminish their land by huge proportions.

  "And there's your tree." With his finger, Paddy traced a tiny impression of an oak tree on the old map, surrounded by an outline of a huge stately home and at least twenty small cottages.

  Suddenly, the sound of car wheels on gravel, followed quickly by Father Daly's cheery, 'Thanks for the lift' cut through the silence. Ellie panicked as she quickly struggled to fold the maps and return the register.

  Paddy steadied her shaking hands, "Leave them to me, Ellie. You head out of the back door and I'll sort everything out here."

  The crunching sound of the priest's shoes was getting louder. Ellie’s heart was racing. What was she getting herself into? She was hardly built for subterfuge and was never going to be an inconspicuous presence. What would her father think of her actions?

  As quietly as she could, Ellie left the parochial house and crept around the opposite side of the chapel and out through the graveyard. Crows had perched themselves on the head stones, with a sardonic glint in their eye, as if to say, 'We’re scary-looking, get over it'. The evening sun glistened off their backs. Ellie stopped to catch her breath and checked her watch. It was only just after seven-thirty and she now had intruding to add to her accomplishments since she'd arrived in Lusty.

  What else was Ellie going to add before her time there was over?

  Her hair had fallen loose in her escape and Ellie searched for the pin to tie it back. Unfortunately, it had been lost. Her t-shirt was grubby and her jeans now had dust marks to add to everything else. When one of the departing crows then dropped a small deposit on her left shoulder, Ellie felt anything but lucky. She searched in her backpack for something to wipe it away, but she had nothing. A bunch of Dock leaves from besides one of the gravestones would have to do. El
lie went to pull a few out, but as she reached down, she accidentally brushed her knuckle against the weather-beaten stone of the grave. The skin was taken off completely and a bloody droplet balanced precariously on the wound, threatening to pour. Just as Ellie was about to think that her day couldn’t get any worse, she noticed the inscription on the headstone. The font was plain and clear:

  'Marianne-Mae - born 9 April 1994 - died 13 April 1994.

  Dearly loved daughter of Roisin and Ciaran Campbell.'

  Horrified, Ellie fell to her knees. A fresh bunch of wild flowers, displayed in a stone vase at the foot of the gravestone, filled her now struggling lungs with its heady lavender scent.

  Chapter 15

  Having discovered the gravestone and the lavender, Ellie urgently wanted, or rather was compelled, to read the next of the secret letters.

  New Year's Day 1994

  Dear Liberty Tree

  The Past

  Absolutely nothing went to plan last year. I clearly told Ciaran exactly what to wish for in his letter last year, and none of it happened. I'm pregnant you see - 5 months. Of course, Ciaran was delighted at the thought of being a Da, which really irritated me even more. Luckily, Old Man Sullivan had him doing extra work over on the estate, so I didn't have to suffer his gloating face too much. God forgive me, but all I could think about was that I'd be stuck in this place for ever. Not only are we still here, but we're multiplying.

  You should see the shape of me. Susan O'Neill's Ma knows all about babies and she told me I had to remember that I was eating for two - two elephants I reckon. Ciaran doesn't make things any easier with the delicious midnight snacks he keeps cooking for me - how selfish is that?

  So, I ended last year feeling disappointed, fat, and with just one wish; that this baby that is inside me - was out.

  Ellie’s interest in the letters had begun as mild curiosity, but she was now involved in a way that she didn’t understand. Marianne-Mae was quite an unusual name – so why did her mother change hers to it? Did she have a connection to the baby? And where were Roisin and Ciaran now? The fresh flowers suggested that, even after all these years, the poor baby had not been forgotten. Ellie didn't want to continue reading, but knew she had to.

  The Present

  That was then, but I began this new year very differently. Ciaran arrived home from Doherty's at about three this morning. He'd had to carry that waster Bernard Sullivan home after he'd got himself into a stupor pining after some girl who’s just moved into the village. I was raging at Ciaran for putting his loyalty for the Old Man above his wife and unborn child. We got into a right slanging match - well, I did the slanging and Ciaran did the 'I'm sorry' bit. I don't know what it is exactly, but he just seems to irritate me these days.

  Well, this particular quarrel started as all picture and no sound, but then turned nasty when I blamed him for getting me pregnant and ruining my life. I regretted it as soon as the words had left my mouth. He stormed across the room, until he was merely inches away and for a moment I thought he was going to thump me. He stared into my face and I remember exactly, word for word, what he said,

  "You are my life - this baby is my life. God has decided that we should be blessed, so feel bloody-well blessed!"

  It wasn't the most poetic speech ever. He even spat a little halfway through, but I didn't care. He couldn't have said anything anymore perfect. You see, deep down, I really do want this baby, more than anything in the entire world. And I’m so sorry if I ever sounded ungrateful. You see, Old Tree, I can do ‘sorrys’ too.

  The Future

  At this point, I usually go into a big long rant about our plans and ambitions for the year ahead, but this time I can't, even if I try. All I want from this year is my baby - our baby – to be safe and healthy. If it’s a boy, Ciaran gets to name him after his brother, but if it’s a girl, then I get to choose. My little girl will be called Marianne-Mae.

  Yours bloomingly

  Roisin

  Ellie stared down at the gravestone of Roisin and Ciaran’s poor, five-day-old baby. The dates all matched-up. In that fleeing moment, fiction had dissolved into fact and the tragedy of their lives was heart-breaking. No matter what the connection was with her mother, Ellie felt a deep sadness for the letter-writers’ loss. Why did death always have to be so intrinsically woven into the fabric of life?

  She thought of the tiny coffin and could feel tears prick her eyes. Ellie couldn’t help but also think of her own, recent loss. When her mother died, Ellie wasn't seen as the type of girl who needed a big hug; she was considered to be stoic and self-contained. This was clearly what her father also thought, as he slowly melted under his own grief. Ellie felt so guilty for prying into Roisin and Ciaran’s lives. If she had been invited, then, maybe, she would have felt differently. Ellie, however, was rarely invited into anyone else’s world.

  Still holding Roisin’s floral-scented letter, yet again Ellie was drawn to memories of her own mother. This time, she remembered when her first tooth fell out at primary school. Her mother arrived to collect her at home-time and was given the small, pearl tooth wrapped in a tissue that too had a floral aroma. Her mother was having a rare good day and had run around the playground, showing all the other parents, as if it was a real jewel. Later, having tea, Ellie had questioned why her mother had done that.

  "I wanted everyone to see how proud of you I am." Her mother had kissed Ellie’s cheek, leaving behind a trace of Moroccan Poppy.

  "But I don't like people looking at me." Six-year-old Ellie had tearfully responded.

  Ellie’s mother had hugged her tighter than she’d ever been hugged before, as if Marianne-Mae Edwards understood exactly. Ellie’s father, oblivious to anything other than what he’d just had for his tea, just threw Ellie a rugby ball and told her to go outside and play with the other boys.

  Ellie traced her finger over Roisin's signature. Embroiled in her search to understand her mother’s past, in the hope of understanding her final actions, Ellie now found herself immersed in the lives of the letter writers.

  What was happening to her?

  Why were the letters triggering so many memories of Ellie’s parents; of how they used to be before death had claimed so much?

  Chapter 16

  Folding the fifth letter, carefully, Ellie slipped it back into her bag, treating it with the tenderness its contents deserved.

  "That's good luck you know," A sing-song voice filled the eerie silence, "When a bird drops one on you." Conor pointed to Ellie’s shoulder, "Unless, you’re going out together - ba-bum."

  Ellie felt low and vulnerable, "Sorry, Conor, but I'm really not very good company at the moment." She stood up and walked away from the grave, and down towards the lane where it forked towards Doherty's. Conor followed her.

  As she reached the lane, on a small grassy patch of delicate salmon-pink Sorrell, lay a picnic blanket. In the centre of which was a plastic bag covered in thickly sliced bread and roughly cut chunks of tomato. Besides which, were two Mickey Mouse eggcups, with hard-boiled eggs in them. A bottle of coke was cooling in a battered-looking ice-bucket, along with two plastic cups.

  Ellie's heart exploded. She searched behind her as Conor stumbled to catch up, "I…I…." her words refused to form.

  "Who said it's for you." He laughed, “Didn’t know what a TarteTatin was so I brought a packet of custard creams instead.”

  As Ellie’s huge eyes absorbed the wonder of this amazing act of kindness, Conor explained how he had gone to Rosie for advice and come away with a handful of tomatoes and the plastic cups. He reckoned half-an-hour exposure to the evening sun, and a swarm of flies, would do the job of turning the tomatoes from fresh to sundried.

  No one had ever gone to this much effort for Ellie before. She desperately longed to be wrapped up tightly in Conor's arms. How amazing would it be, if this particular Irish boy, happened to think she wasn’t too big for a hug?

  "How are the eggs?" Conor sat down on the far side of the blanket, c
rossed his long legs and began tucking into the picnic.

  There was no hug.

  But of course the meal was simply an offer of friendship and Ellie felt foolish for thinking otherwise, “Rock hard." She smiled.

  "Oh." He looked disappointed.

  "Just the way I like them. This is so kind - thank you.”

  Ellie’s head was reeling with all that she had learnt that afternoon, but this random act of kindness had completely blown her away.

  “I know you don’t work in an abattoir by the way.” Ellie added in an attempt to sound light and carefree.

  Conor lifted a chunk of bread and used it to mop up the juice from the quickly softening tomatoes, “Sorry about that. Actually, I’m studying for my Leaving Cert in Dublin. That’s where I live most of the year. To go to my school you have to be the ‘The Cream of Ireland’ - rich and thick. My da went to it and his da before him. The three of us make up the holy trinity. It's a family thing - my inheritance."

  Ellie thought of the comprehensive she had to go back to after the summer to finish her A Levels and how poor and stupid everyone felt in it.

  “So where are your parents now?” Ellie asked, trying to fill in all the pieces.

  “My Da’s dead, but my Ma lives in Dublin. She can’t stand the old house, so this year I thought I’d spend the summer in it on my own. Tart it up a bit. Show her I can look after myself.”

  “And can you?”

  “Not really – it’s a scary big thing. That’s why I find any excuse to get out of it.”

  Ellie, suddenly, realised that she hadn't read anything about the Sullivan women. Who did the rogue, Bernard Sullivan, eventually marry? Was there any way to discuss the Sullivan family without giving her discovery of the letters away?