by Esther Freud
Aoife
AOIFE DIDN’T KNOW HOW SHE CAME TO BE STANDING ON THE beach. Rain stung her face and the waves rolled in, high over the sand. She’d never seen the sea so wild, and she looked at her small car and wondered how it was she had driven here to Ardmore. Humphrey cowered at her side as she set off along the strand. The wind was fierce, the whole bay shook, and as she trudged, head down, clinging to the curve of the bay, she was grateful for the roar of the sea drowning out her thoughts. A wave crashed ahead of her and a salt spray stung her legs. The tide was never in so high, and she looked up at the sand and grasses of the dune and wondered if she might be forced to climb, dragging the great weight of the dog behind. Humphrey shivered. His ears were back, his fur was dark with wet. ‘Good boy,’ she told him, ‘who’s my good boy,’ and she kept walking.
There was a letter from Rosaleen when she left Ilford. I’m off to share with a couple of girls. I’ll let you know when I’m settled in Chelsea. But a year, more than a year, had passed and there’d been nothing. There had been a storm that day too, she was surprised the post had got to them at all; the water came in so hard the sea wall at Youghal collapsed from the very force of it, the concrete broken up and thrown into the park. Windows were taken out all along the front, nothing left of them but the frames, and a ketch in the harbour was smashed away to nothing. Aoife stopped and looked back the way she’d come. She couldn’t see the car. There was nothing but rain and wind, the waves crashing and beating, retreating just enough to leave a ragged path below the cliff. What is it I’m doing here? She shouted to Humphrey and ran. She could feel him at her back, lumbering, as the spray of the waves crashed against them, so that by the time she reached the path the pair of them were shaking.
She put Humphrey in the back and wrapped him in a rug. ‘The state of us.’ She held his loyal body in her arms as she rubbed him dry, but as she moved round to the driving seat the door wrenched away in the wind and would have thrown her over the front if she hadn’t clung to the handle. I still have two daughters. She gave herself a scolding. Good girls who’ve done nothing to deserve me, and a husband, God bless his soul, who’s worked every day of his life to keep us safe. She thought of them arriving home to find the kitchen empty, no smell but the old cold mess of meat she’d boiled that morning for the dog. Our Father, who art in heaven – she said it slowly, pondering each word as she’d only ever done during the worst days of the war. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those . . . For all she knew the girl was thriving, living the high life, too busy for her family. ‘Blooming.’ That’s what everyone had said the last time she was home.
Calmed, Aoife drove away from the sea, marvelling at the roads she’d no memory of taking, the slashing rain, the hedges rattled through with wind. It was dark by the time she crossed the Tinnabinna Bridge, the Blackwater vicious below, and with her lights sweeping the empty streets, she made for home.
Cashel was waiting when she stepped through the door. ‘Where have you been, woman?’ Humphrey, great soft lump that he was, stood with his flank between them.
‘I went for a drive, I was worrying about . . .’ Without having to say her name, Angela and Kitty hung their heads.
There was a silence then as Aoife took off her coat. ‘It’s desperate out there.’ She’d make light and, wet through as she was, she opened the larder and reached in for the spuds. ‘Come on, girls, let’s make a start on the tea, ‘and they sat at the table, peeling, while Cash leafed through Farmers Weekly and Humphrey rested himself against the stove.
Kate
I SEE MY MOTHER IN JOHN LEWIS. SHE IS WITH HER DAUGHTER, her real daughter, and they are choosing wool. I hover near and listen as they leaf through patterns. Such a pretty one, they sigh, would this be too difficult? They choose a cardigan, a soft cream patchwork in stocking stitch and purl. I follow them, assessing their dresses, their bags, the shape of their ankles, the curved lobes of their ears. I’m staring so hard I give myself away. My mother turns towards me, and that’s when I know. She isn’t mine. Of course she’s not. There’s nothing searching, nothing hurt, she’s as easeful as a pudding. I stumble to the far end of the department. What has she done with my actual mother? I choose an embroidery kit, a house with a red tile roof, the threads of wool included, and although I was buying it for Freya I start on the orange path on my way to work.
‘YOU ALL RIGHT?’ Beck has coffee waiting.
‘I am.’ I offer him a smile.
Donica is sitting in the foyer, bunched amongst the safety of her plastic bags.
‘Will you be joining the class today?’ She is sucking a blue drink through a straw. She’s shown an interest in art, that’s what they told me, at some point in the past, and I remember then what else they told me, and I gulp it down and ask what’s in the bags.
‘The right pen for the right job.’ She lifts a carrier and, releasing its knot, rustles through it until she finds a zip-locked case. Inside there is a biro. ‘Very organised,’ I say, and, encouraged, Donica draws out a flip-flop, secured with rings of multicoloured bands.
I make no comment. ‘You’re very welcome to come into the room.’
Donica looks fleetingly at the open door. She nods her head, and then, as if considering, she unwraps a layer of silver foil, and then another, and lifts out a bun. ‘I would,’ she says through a squelch of icing, ‘but I have commitments.’ And using the stick that supports her twisted leg, she sweeps the outlying bags in under her chair.
My group is preparing for an exhibition. ‘I don’t think I’ll be well enough.’ Jen lays her head on the table, and even though it won’t be for a month, she asks if she can go home. I say she can, of course, but first I ask if she could copy me some leaves? I hand her an illustrated sheet – grey poplar, hawthorn, plane – and sharpen her a pencil. I’m still waiting for permission to spray my tree on to the wall.
‘I can’t do this.’ Jen slumps, but once I turn away she makes a first quick sketch.
Alec and Marjorie have finished their Scots pines. I slide them into the exhibition folder, along with Naina’s leopard and a collection of flowers. Neil is outside smoking – he’s refused to deviate from his study of the female form – and Sam, missing for two weeks – pale, a little shadowy – is drawing an elk. I stand beside him and watch him work. ‘You all right, miss?’
I shake myself, and walk outside.
‘Nice day today.’ Neil blows a plume of smoke, and he asks if I believe in angels.
‘I don’t not believe in them.’
‘Who knew mine would be Miguel?’ Out of his pocket he lifts a slither of gold tin. ‘Go on, ask him what he’s called.’
I put the angel to my ear. Nothing. I move it to the other side. Maybe it reminds me of a conch shell in which my father once told me to listen for the sea, because the name that comes to me is Shellwyn.
Neil beams. ‘There you go! He’ll look after you.’ When I try and hand the angel back, he shakes his head. ‘He’s yours now, keep him safe. I’ve got a load of them.’ He taps his pocket.
At the end of the day Donica is still there. I have a meeting with the centre’s supervisor, and I can’t risk missing my allotted slot of time. ‘Next week?’ I call out to her as I hurry past the café. ‘Roberta,’ I mouth to Beck, and he makes a gratifyingly fearful face.
Roberta looks concerned as I outline my plan for the mural of the tree, present my invoices, explain how I intend to attach the panels to the wall. ‘I’m happy to waive my fee.’ She visibly relaxes. ‘But I do need money for materials.’
Resources are so low, Roberta tells me, it’s a miracle my job exists, and although she laughs, her words have their effect. Threatened, I regroup. I ask her to look over my reports. The progress made by Jen, the attendance rate of Neil. Marjorie and Alec, who have spent the afternoon making invitations to the show. Neither of us mention Donica, who has not stepped through the door.
‘I’ll let you know.’ She flips shut the folder.
Let me know no
w! I feel myself hectic. ‘Thank you,’ I say instead, but once I am outside I press my forehead against the cooling wall and breathe.
I CAN SEE FREYA, SKIPPING, through the glass of the front door. ‘Five, six, seven . . .’ Celine is counting in her precise accented English and I imagine her, a child at school, reciting the numbers with her class.
‘Mummy!’ Freya hears the rattle of the catch, and she drops her rope and hurtles towards me.
‘Wait.’ My arms are full, but she’s jumpy as a dog, and while I’m still untangling my bag she hoists herself on to my back. I carry her through to the kitchen, where Celine is winding up the rope. ‘How was everything?’ I ask, and she says that everything was good. They went to the playground, they paddled in the pool.
I ask her how it went on Tuesday. She was going for a drink with a man she’d met on a bus. ‘But how?’ I’d been intrigued. ‘How did that even happen?’ She’d looked at me, as if she didn’t understand. ‘Just starting to talk, you know. He was cute.’
Today Celine has the temerity to blush, and changing the subject she asks about my work.
‘What about my work?’ Freya has climbed on to my lap.
‘What is your work?’ I ask her.
She reaches across the table for a book, the pages stapled at the spine. She flips open the first one to reveal the paper densely filled with dots.
‘Is it rain?’
‘Rain?’ She looks disgusted. ‘It’s the A page, silly.’
I inspect it again. ‘Ants!’
There is nothing on any of the other pages. ‘What will you call it?’
She pauses to run through the alphabet; I can hear the song of it under her breath. ‘ “Ant Zoo”.’ And consumed by the genius of her idea, she makes a start on B.
Once I’ve paid Celine and tidied up the kitchen, I go upstairs to run Freya a bath. The closed door of our bedroom stops me in my tracks. Is Matt still sleeping? I clasp the handle and slowly turn. The room is dark, the curtains drawn. There is a hump in the near side of the bed. ‘Matt?’ I move towards him, but it isn’t Matt, only the toss and mound of the quilt, the upend of a pillow. I stand quite still. The air is stale. The room, despite the summer day, is cold.
‘Mum?’ Freya is calling, and closing the door behind me, I go into the bathroom and turn on the hot tap. I kneel and stare into the water, the gurgling wash of it, waterfalls and clifftop birds. Freya sidles in and lies against my back; I feel her small hands dip into each pocket. ‘What’s this?’ She has the angel, and she’s examining its flimsy frame.
‘If you put him to your ear—’ But Freya is dangling him over the water, and although I tell her to stop, she drops him in.
‘No!’ I fish for his tail, but the water is scalding. ‘Damn you.’
Tears slip from Freya’s eyes, but my anger is electric. ‘Why would you do that’ – I yank her arm – ‘when I told you . . . ?’ I catch myself and turn my voice around. ‘Shellwyn!’ I call in mock despair. ‘We’ll save you!’ But he is floating, buoyed up by a cloud of bubbles, in heaven where he belongs.
Aoife
WE THOUGHT SHE MIGHT COME HOME FOR ANGELA’S WEDDING. That was a day. Your speech, Cash – I could cry to think of it, even now. Blessed with such a daughter, never a moment’s worry. Dutiful. That was the word you used, and you were right. But there was a shadow in the room and we all felt it.
I don’t want to hear a word about her; you were stern as I pinned on your carnation. Don’t let her spoil things. Not today.
We held hands in the church. Our daughter married. Even if we had hoped she might have had a career, but married it was she wanted to be. Seventeen and, for all we’d done to educate the girls, already thinking about babies.
Mavis was there with her gang, and your mother – it was the last time she was strong enough to travel. Later, when I’d had a glass – even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t – I sat with her and I asked: Isabelle, tell me, have you seen her?
Have I seen who? She sat up very straight. She always was a beauty, and she made me say it. She made me say her name. Rosaleen, I whispered. I know you two were friends.
No. She shook her head. I’ve not seen her. Not that I remember. She put out a hand to comfort me, and that’s when I noticed. She’d lost her ring. What lovely hands you have. She did, for all that they were worn and spotted, much as mine are now, but not a ring on any of her fingers, for all that she’d been married twice.
She didn’t last long after that. I worried it was the crossing that weakened her, always rough, even in summer, but better that way, fast, and not to suffer. Oh, Cash. And then who should turn up for the funeral? A great lanky fellow with your mother’s face, saying he was after something to remember her by. How could you have failed to mention you had a brother? A watch, he wanted, that had belonged to his father, but by the look of him he would have taken anything – a comb, a handkerchief, a scrap of lace – which was a piece of luck, because he never did get what he came for. Wasn’t that so, Cash? And why was that? You’d tell me if you could, is that it? Or would you say, Enough now, woman? Or would you say nothing at all?
* * *
Aoife lay awake, her thoughts spiralling, her heart spongy with the image of her daughter, holding that tiny child in her arms. She was on the ward, a room of dazed and happy mothers, flowers, chocolates, so many visitors Cash had been forced to go searching for a chair. Grandparents. That’s what they were now. Nana and Pops. Aoife was assailed with the memory of her own first night as a mother. ‘If the sirens start,’ they’d told her, ‘pull the metal trolley over your head.’ She’d given birth in a makeshift ward formed from a lecture theatre, chalkboards and tables pushed to one side. A hospital in Liverpool had been hit the week before, and for safety her baby had been secreted away in the basement, as she’d waited for morning, longing for Cash, who was out fighting a fire, a leaflet urging evacuation already in his pocket.
When Aoife and Cash next visited, Angela was home. Declan had started back at work and his mother, the other nana – Nana Shaughnessy – had taken charge of the kitchen, bringing them cups of tea and white triangles of sandwich, the edges trimmed, a scattering of crisps, as if it was a hotel. ‘You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’ Aoife was embarrassed, but Fran Shaughnessy, already a nana five times over, told her it was no trouble at all.
‘Will you look at all these cards!’ Aoife examined each and every one. ‘Oh, well that’s nice now, isn’t it?’ Her voice sounded false even to her. ‘A card from the O’Malleys, and would you believe it, that was quick, here’s one from Mavis.’ There were cards with prams, with rattles, with bonnets. It’s a Girl. A spray of flowers. A stork delivering a bundle. She inspected one after another, pretending, even to herself, she wasn’t hoping to find a word from Rosaleen. ‘That’s lovely, isn’t it so, Uncle Joe and Auntie Bess, and was that Colette with the red hair from Loreto.’ She glanced at Angela. Was there a card that she was hiding? But her daughter had a milky opaque look, and Aoife bit her tongue. ‘Let me have a hold of the little dote.’ She consoled herself with a cuddle of the baby. Jacqueline, they’d named her. ‘Not for the president’s . . . not for that poor woman,’ Angela was quick to let them know. It was a name they liked.
Aoife took Jacqueline into the garden, a bare yard, still scarred with the tracks of diggers building the estate, families starting off together, a view out towards the convent at Blackrock. ‘Aren’t we the lucky ones?’ She looked into the baby’s sleeping face, and she stood with her under the pale sky and she counted the years, two, the months, ten, the days, thirteen, since that New Year when Rosaleen had waved from the ferry. Whatever can be keeping her away so long? A stab of pain streaked through her, and she’d pressed her face into Jacqueline’s warm towelling body and breathed in her powdery scent.
‘Cash?’ she whispered now, turning towards him, sliding an arm across his back. Cash grunted, and she heard in the grumble of his throat: What is it, woman?
Nothin
g, Aoife answered, silent, and she pressed herself closer and lay with open eyes, one of God’s poor creatures, repenting her sins.
Rosaleen
THE NEXT WEEK IT WAS THE WINDOWS THAT MUST BE CLEANED. They started to the right of the front door, smearing on the stinking purple liquid, rubbing at the glass with rags. They had stools to stand on, she and the two girls in her team – one of them not a girl at all but a primary schoolteacher from Tralee who’d taken the name Siobhan.
How do you come to be here? Rosaleen wondered, but she was saved from asking by Marie, young and so unwieldy she crossed herself each time she stepped on to the stool.
Siobhan looked anxious. There was to be no talking. No exchange of information while they were at the home. It would be best – the nuns were clear – if they kept the details of their lives to themselves. But there was no one in the hall, only Maisie, simple in the head, down on her knees at the foot of the stairs, scrubbing at the parquet with a brush. ‘I was seeing a widower,’ Siobhan whispered, ‘and I was sure it was only a matter of time before he asked me . . .’ A wash of colour streaked her face. ‘But when I told him what had happened – we’d been stepping out six months – he said if I was stupid enough to get caught at my old age, I’d better sort it out myself.’
‘The nasty piece of work,’ Marie exclaimed, and she launched into her own tale. How she’d been offered a lift home after a dance on the crossbar of a bike, and when they’d reached the house, the boy whose bike it was, he’d said she owed him: ‘“Sure, doesn’t everyone do it, for the crossbar?” And anyway, wouldn’t he be seeing me the following week?’ She paused then, as if in disbelief. ‘I hadn’t any idea it was that quick to get a baby!’