Big English Girl

by Paula Clamp

  "You've packed quite a lot into your short time with us in Lusty."

  Ellie thought back to her earlier decision to leave Lusty as soon as Bap was found. Was she being hasty? Her blanket accidentally fell open, revealing her goose-pimpled neck and chest.

  "Ellie?" Conor closed it for her.

  "Yeah?" Ellie was still buzzing with adrenalin.

  "Nothing." He stared into his now empty, mammoth-size bowl that Rosie had given him, “I’ll walk you back to the Airbnb.” Conor then playfully shoved Ellie's arm, "You never know who you might meet this time of night."

  Conor and Ellie's bodies both squelched as they walked along a much clearer and well-worn route than the one Ellie had followed with the other women. Conor’s shoulders were still tightly wrapped in the old grey blanket, with damp rings where is lank hair was drip-drying. His long arms hung by his side, like an Irish dancer, only his feet shuffled rather than leapt. Ellie could hear the crush of bracken and fern under their feet, releasing a sweet, earthy scent into the early hours of the morning air.

  Ellie decided not to retrieve her sandals and clothes from the bank of the lake; this way she would be guaranteed at least something of her would remain after she left.

  Chapter 36

  When Ellie and Conor eventually arrived back, the door to the Airbnb was ajar. Inside they could hear the telling and the retelling of the night's events, with Ena centre stage, in the role of mother of the hero. The smell of hot whiskey wafted out to the front door.

  "Do you fancy coming in for a coffee?" Ellie had always wanted an opportunity to say that.

  Conor peered through the door at the throng within, "I don't think I'm up to any more excitement today."

  "If it’s peace and quiet you’re after, we can always hide out up in my room."

  "In your room?" Conor took a step backwards. The soft curves of his full-mouth pulled tight and straight.

  "Yeah, in my room." Ellie repeated slowly, almost spelling out the letters.

  Her head was buzzing with the excitement of the night, so much so that the thought of sleep right now was far from Ellie’s thoughts. She felt intoxicated and careless; spending time with a new friend was just what she needed. As Ellie bounced up onto the step, her eyes wide with emotion, Conor retreated to the pavement and in sharp contrast stood motionless and controlled.

  "Ellie, are you playing games with me?"

  "What?" Ellie stopped in her tracks.

  "Are you playing games with me?"

  "No."

  Conor stared assiduously at her, "So, why are you inviting me up to your room?"

  "You don't understand..."

  "What would Ronan make of me being up in your room?" Conor grimaced as he said his adversary's name.

  "I thought Ronan's opinion would be the last thing you were concerned about."

  "Please, Ellie, just answer me."

  Things were starting to sour, "What would Ronan make of you being in my room - having a coffee?" Ellie sulkily pulled the blanket tightly around herself. The adrenaline quickly channelled itself away from euphoria towards indignation and anger, "Uh, I dunno, let me think - nothing." Ellie's fuse was starting to ignite and she surprised herself by not trying to stop it.

  "Can you truly, in your heart…" Conor remained steadfast. "…Say that is all that it would be - a coffee?"

  "What else?" Ellie snapped back, her neck, usually dappled with an embarrassment-inflicted hue, was now crimson with rage.

  Conor closed his eyes for a moment, but then recomposed, he opened them again, "Kissing two boys in the space of a few hours," The usual cheerful creases at the sides of his eyes had gone, "Are you trying to break a record or something?"

  Ellie was aghast, "How dare you, Conor Sullivan?" Abruptly, she leapt into the hall and began to slam the door in Conor's face, but his huge shoe blocked the way.

  "These are our lives, Ellie." He refused to move his foot, a physical reflection of his mental obstinacy, "You can't just dip in for a few hours, poke around and then hop out again. You may not think that there is very much to this tiny parochial village of ours, but to some of us - it's all we have." His voiced trembled, "And I'm not just talking about me here."

  Yet again, Ellie was stuck for a quick response. How could Conor talk to her like that? How could he think so little of her? Even though her mouth was now clenched tight and her lip wobbled, Ellie refused to let herself cry again.

  She had to come back at him somehow, "Get lost!"

  "Get lost?" Conor half-smiled. Unintentionally, Ellie had diffused his anger somehow. He relaxed.

  Ellie looked down from the step at the face of this intriguing, funny, but stubborn boy and wanted to hold him in her arms. One half of her ached to hold him there and never let him go. The other half, however, that was still full of rage, kicked his foot out of the way with her own and rammed the door into his face, locking the deadlock as she did. She could just about make out the sharp contours of his face through the dimpled glass and the swathes of damp, rich hair and the delicate curve of his lips as he mouthed ‘Get lost?’ for the second time.

  Chapter 37

  Back in her room, Ellie threw herself onto her bed. There was a dull babble of voices filtering upstairs from below; splattered with the occasional whoop and a giggle.

  Every limb and muscle ached for sleep, but Ellie's mind raced at full pelt. What had she done to provoke Conor that way? She pushed the old blanket that had been wrapped around her onto the floor, took off her still damp underwear, dressed into her pyjamas and squirmed under the duvet on the bed; its warmth engulfed her. The lake water, slowly drying on her hair, left behind an outdoorsy smell. Ellie closed her eyes, willing for sleep to take her and the day away.

  And what a day it had been. So many unanswered questions. That her mother and Bernard Sullivan, Conor’s father, had been involved somehow was clear, but in what way? Her mother had clearly made an impact when she was in Lusty, and the evidence suggested that the impact wasn’t necessarily a positive one.

  The nervous, insecure teenager who had stepped off the bus that morning seemed a lifetime away and her replacement seemed far more angry and confused. But Ellie now hoped that sleep would be her saviour and make it all right; sleep would make everything much clearer.

  Ellie did feel a second or two slip by, where she slowly succumbed to the rest that her body ached for. She desperately tried to grab these seconds and turn them into minutes, but the harder she tried, the more she felt that sleep was eluding her. Physically and mentally exhausted, Ellie lay half-awake, imagining the entire village of Lusty surrounding a cauldron, in which she was being boiled. The occasional eye of newt and wing of bat was being thrown into the mix, to the sound of a deep chant and when Ellie searched to find who was casting the spell, she only saw Conor Sullivan.

  How dare Conor talk to her like that?

  Angered and now completely awake, Ellie saw the rucksack where she’d hidden the battered tin box, just before she commenced buttering sandwiches. She remembered that the letters that she had stuffed in there were now completely out of sequence. When she had first discovered the letters when climbing the Liberty Tree, Ellie had devoured them like a nail-biting novel, but in the past few hours, they had taken a back seat to her own life. Had Ellie now become the lead character in her own larger than life story?

  Ellie opened the tin and flicked through the top right-hand corner of each letter, looking for the next one. Eventually, Ellie found Ciaran’s letter; the last one in the tin.

  New Year’s Day 2003

  Dear Liberty Tree

  Our Past

  My wife's having another baby and the baby's not mine.

  I knew she was pregnant, even before she did and when she started being sick in the mornings I knew it for sure. At the time I didn't know why she would want to keep it from me. (What an eejit I was). After the loss of our daughter and the years that have passed since then, I thought she wanted to protect me until she was sure that this ne
w life was safe. Can you believe it? I thought she was trying to protect me!

  I went along with the charade until the autumn, but by then the bump was just too obvious. Her mood had also changed. For a while I thought we were pulling the pieces back together, she was happy again, but then almost overnight she started blaming me for everything. I in turn blamed her condition, but felt a responsibility to show her how much I cared. I can't believe it myself as I write this.

  So…I made up some excuse about having to do some business for the Old Man in Magherafelt and set off with every spare bit of money I could scrape together. It was nearly dark when I returned and she had fallen asleep on the rug in front of the fire, with a full mug of cold tea and a few slices of uneaten toast beside her. She was in such a deep sleep that she didn't hear me assemble the cot I had just bought. We still had our Marianne-Mae's cot up in the attic, but that belonged to the past and to our wee angel.

  I was screwing in the last stubborn screw when I heard crying behind me. My wife was sat upright with her arms wrapped tight around her stomach staring at me, with tears pouring. I thought that there was something wrong with the baby. I tried to put my arms around her, but she wouldn't let me, ranting on that she didn't deserve me. I laughed, she cried some more and then…I appear to have blanked out everything that happened next.

  Now and again I get flashes of her face and her mouth saying, 'the baby's not yours' and 'the real father doesn’t want it either'. And then all I see are shards of lime-green pine as I grabbed an axe and hacked away at the cot, throwing pieces into the fire. Sparks shot from the hearth, burning deep holes into the rug. The fire was still burning well into the wee hours of the morning.

  Our Present

  I dunno where my wife spent New Year's.

  I spent the morning down on the river. There's not much biting this time of year and it was bitterly cold, but it was better than the alternative.

  She called round last night, our thirteenth wedding anniversary and stood in the pouring rain at the door, begging me to forgive her. For a moment I looked down into her wide open face and thought back to the time when nothing mattered, but the two of us and Marianne-Mae…but then I looked down at her extended, bloated stomach and thought only of the father, who's name she still wouldn’t tell me. I slammed the door in her face. God forgive me. I'm ashamed that I did it - to the woman I love - to an innocent child - to my whole life. But I couldn't help myself.

  Our Future

  I'm sorry, but this will be my last ever 'Dear Liberty Tree'. I don't know what the future holds. The only thing that is certain is that I won't rest until I find out who has done this to my life.

  As I re-read what I’ve just written, I realise what a long way I have come since I first started to write to you. At first, I couldn't string two sentences together and now - well, it's hard to shut me up. But I will be silenced now. I'm sorry things didn't work out as planned - I'm sorry about a lot of things.

  Yours sincerely

  Ciaran Campbell

  P.S. The Old Man came around this afternoon, stripped to the waist, with a ham shoved under his arm. He really is on his last legs. We had a couple of slices and then he said to me, 'None of us are perfect, Soupy, some of us less so than others'. It was hard for me to work out if this was one of his rare moments of sanity, or just his usual, drunken rambling. But when he was leaving and I suggested he take the rest of the ham with him, he said, 'Keep it, poachers make lean pickings this time of year'. So, can you believe it, he knew I'd been poaching his stock all these years and he'd never let on.

  The Old Man had called Ciaran ‘Soupy’? Why would he do that? With these thoughts racing, eventually, exhaustion overcame Ellie and she achieved the sleep she so desired. She woke up intermittingly, first to the sound of banging at the front door and a cheer from below and then to high-pitched squeals and the sound of Ronan and Soupy’s voices, having returned from the hospital. Ellie drifted back into sleep, but again was disturbed by the sound of the front door, as people began to make their way home. The night was only just turning into morning when Ellie woke again, feeling very hot. All was as it was before she fell asleep; with Ciaran Campbell’s letter still in her hand.

  Carefully, she returned the final letter back with the others, but in her sleepiness, Ellie accidentally dropped the tin. As it came crashing to the floor, the base cracked open and to Ellie’s total surprise, one more letter fell out. Had Roisin written one final letter and if so, why did she keep this one separate from all the others?

  Drenched in perspiration from the heat of the night, Ellie returned all the letters to the slightly battered tin, placed them carefully on her bed and quietly descended the stairs in search of a cold glass of water. Amidst the blackness, a spatter of light escaped from under the kitchen door, which Ellie hadn’t been expecting this early in the morning. She was about to turn around and head back up to her room, when the door suddenly opened.

  "What were you doing splashing around in the lake anyway?" Ronan's silhouette was set against the harsh white light. His words were warm, but his tone icy cold.

  "How are you? How's Bap?"

  "He's grand. They're keeping him in for a couple of nights for observations." Ronan's rich, monotone voice hung in the air.

  "I am so sorry that I involved him in my research.” There was an awkward moment of neither sound nor movement and Ellie, apprehensively, added, "Well done again for saving his life, Ronan, see you in the morning."

  Ellie went to leave, but when she heard Ronan’s footsteps, she turned back around to see he was only a few paces behind her. The absolute exhaustion poured out of his cobalt eyes.

  "This is morning,” He half-smiled.

  “Only just.”

  “Don't you want to involve me in your research, Ellie?"

  She was completely stunned by his question, "No, why should I?"

  "Are there no questions I could answer?" Ronan persistence startled her.

  "No."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm not spying on people."

  "Go on - one small question." Ronan didn't look like he was about to back down.

  "Okay, okay. Let me think…I don't know…have you ever heard of the Campbell’s?" Ellie asked, not really expecting much of an answer.

  Ronan stepped back slightly, "Why do you ask?"

  Ronan was now staring up past Ellie, towards the alabaster ceiling-rose at the top of the stairs. His imaginary focal point appeared to be beyond the ceiling, out through the roof and up into the stars.

  "Because you told me to ask you something, Ronan. Do the Campbells live around here?" Ellie was getting tired of her questions always being answered back with another one.

  "Yeah, they do - I'm Ronan Campbell."

  But this didn’t make sense, "So…who is Ciaran Campbell?"

  "Soupy is an old nickname for anyone called Campbell – you know, after Campbell Soup. My Da gets it now and when he goes, I’ll probably get tortured with it." Ronan's mood had lifted slightly. He looked relieved, "Why, Ellie? Don't tell me, the old eejit has something to do with the Liberty Tree?"

  Chapter 38

  Fours later, at seven o'clock in the morning, Ellie crawled out of bed. The length of the mattress was slightly too short and all night she had to form a swastika shape with her body to find any kind of comfort. For some unknown reason to Ellie, for the first time in a long time, as she slept, she hadn't had to endure the nightmare of her birth in her dreams, or even the christening of the missile.

  Quickly, Ellie slipped into a clean pair of jeans and a pale-blue cardigan over a darker-blue vest-top. She then tiptoed down the stairs, carrying under her arms the assorted books on loan from Father Daly. The reason she had had woken up early, was entirely due to the discovery that Ronan’s father, Soupy, was also the Ciaran in her letters. Now downstairs again, after all the noise of the night before, the old Airbnb itself appeared to be suffering from a giant hangover. Opening the curtains in the living room only mad
e the house blink and groan in protest.

  Ellie managed to get herself comfortable on the sofa, propped up with stacked cushions and she laid the books out in front of her. She tried to focus herself. Racing through her mind were the tangled and blurred facts that Soupy and Ciaran Campbell were one and the same. Soupy, the golfer and hen-pecked husband; he had been the one to write so emotionally to his dead daughter. Soupy was also the one who had so tenderly assembled a baby's cot and then had it and his life destroyed only moments later. Having been so intimate with his past, Ellie found the leap to his present too huge to make coherently. Who could blame Ciaran ‘Soupy’ Campbell for deciding to remarry and start a family with Ena, after discovering Roisin was pregnant with a child that just had to be Bernard Sullivan’s. In her heart, Ellie had already suspected that Rosie and Roisin could be one and the same person. Was this correct? If so, then how did this equate to Soupy’s first and second wives now being the best of friends, who lived only two doors away from each other?

  This was a new day and Ellie was going to give herself completely over to uncovering something tangible. Were there further clues in the history of the Liberty Tree and did they relate in any way to the past of Soupy, Ena, Rosie, Bernard and her mother?

  Ellie opened the first page of the local history book that Father Daly had given her and stared down at the words until they became a tangled, blurred mess of letters. Even though her head hurt, she had to focus...but this was proving difficult. Isolating the tree felt futile since it seemed to connect so many lives in Lusty. The root system felt like it was clawing into Ellie's life too, both past and present. Her thoughts were inevitably drawn back to baby Marianne-Mae and then to the illegitimate child of Roisin and Bernard Sullivan. Ellie found a blank sheet of paper in her notebook and began to draw out a family tree. There were lines everywhere, mostly dotted over with huge question marks. Very few were solid and resolved.