The Country Girls Trilogy and Epilogue: The Country Girls / Girl with Green Eyes / Girls in Their Married Bliss

by Edna O'Brien

  “Are we nearly there?” I asked.

  “Can’t be far off it,” he said, and he turned on a light at the dashboard and looked at the speedometer. “This bloody thing is broken,” he said, and tapped it, but it did not tell him anything.

  The road widened and there were cats’ eyes in the center and streetlights in the distance and the dark spire of a cathedral. We were almost there.

  “How is it ye asked me to do this drive; what’s wrong with the two hackney cars in the town?” he asked as we drove into the railway station.

  “It’s a secret,” I said as I got out and gave him a ten-shilling note and asked him not to tell.

  I was an hour too early for the train, so I sat in the Ladies’ Waiting Room eating damp chocolate from a machine, and every time a porter came by I pretended to be engrossed in a paper which I had found.

  About eleven o’clock the train arrived. I had come outside to stand on the platform, and I found an empty carriage quite easily. It was a fast train which stopped at only two stations along the way. Both times I hid in the lavatory in case the police should be searching for me. There was a printed sign over the flush button—PLEASE DO NOT FLUSH WHEN TRAIN IS STANDING. Someone had written below it, in indelible pencil—There it goes again, all down on the poor aul farmer.

  At Dublin I hid until the other passengers had gone. Then I got off the train, moved with my head down close to the wall, and went up to the last remaining taxi.

  I was at Joanna’s within ten minutes and found the house in total darkness. It was about three o’clock, and the baby from the house two doors away was crying for his night feed. Joanna had lids on the milk bottles as usual. Birds used to drink a little of the cream in the early morning, but Joanna soon stopped that.

  Our bedroom was in the front of the house, so I threw up wet clods of clay from the flower beds and then a few pebbles and cinders from the path. I whistled and called, but Baba did not waken. Finally I had to knock. Gustav came down in his overcoat, and I looked so frightened that he brought me in without a murmur. He put the electric fire on in the dining room and went off to make cocoa. The electric fire made crackling noises, as if it was about to explode, and my body was shaking all over.

  “You in trouble with Mr. Eugene?” Gustav said as he came in with the tray and found me crying.

  “Is he back?”

  “Oh yeh, yeh.” He nodded his head. “He here with Baba. They were dining out, I am told.” I could feel my stomach grow hollow with a new fear.

  “You go to bed, Gustav,” I said, and he went to bed and I dozed on the settee until the hands of the plate clock moved to seven. Then I went upstairs very quietly and wakened Baba.

  “Well, well!” she said, yawning. She sat up and buttoned the two top buttons of her sky-blue pajamas.

  “I’m back,” I said.

  “I can see you’re back.”

  “Tell me about Eugene.”

  “He’s thirty-five and he’s going bald.”

  “Did he ask about me?”

  “Yeh.”

  “And I suppose you told him lies. You didn’t even send me the money when I wrote to you from home, they kept me locked up, I ran away last night.”

  “I sent you two pounds,” she said. I might have known that Baba would send it, because she has a good heart.

  “What about Eugene, Baba, please tell me. Do you think I could go to him?”

  “You’re twenty-one—it’s legal for you to put your head in the gas oven even if it’s against the law,” she said, and she got up and gave me some more money and a travel bag to put my things in and some powder for my face. My face was gray and pulpy from worry and lack of sleep. She took her little gold watch from under the pillow and read the time.

  “You’ll want to hurry, your aul fella will be here with a pitchfork any minute.” And she hugged me before I left.

  “Good luck,” she said, “ ‘tis well for you.”

  Out in the street I cried with emotion because Baba had been so nice. I caught the first bus into Dublin. There were only half a dozen people on it and they looked gray and wretched like myself.

  From the General Post Office I sent two telegrams. One to Eugene, which said, ARRIVING MIDDAY BUS, and the other to my aunt, which said, GONE TO ENGLAND ALONE, DO NOT WORRY, FORGIVE ME. WRITING.

  I thought that would confuse them and leave me a few days to decide what I would do.

  When the nearest café opened at nine o’clock, I went and had coffee and toast. When you are frightened you are certain that everyone is an enemy. I suspected every face that morning as I drank coffee to fill in the time, and moved from one café to another to avoid being noticed.

  At five to eleven I boarded the bus at the quays. I had nothing to read so I looked out the window, and when it got fogged up I wiped it with my hand and stared at nothing in particular. I knew that I should rehearse what I would say to Eugene, but I could not even do that.

  It seemed a long drive, but it was in fact only about an hour. When we got there I let the others pile out first, because I was embarrassed about meeting him. I looked through the window, but his car was not there. Then I hurried out, thinking he had parked the car up the street. There was no sign of him anywhere.

  “What time does this bus go back to Dublin?” I inquired of the driver, who had climbed up on the roof to hand down parcels and bicycles.

  “Five o’clock,” he called down.

  Five hours to wait. I swallowed my pride and decided that I would go to Eugene anyhow. I knew that once he saw me he would not turn away.

  I set out to walk and had gone half a mile when I saw a black-coated tall figure coming toward me.

  It’s a priest, I thought, or a policeman, and I ran into a gateway and climbed over in order to hide behind the ditch. A stream of water ran down the mountain field and through a pipe in the ditch.

  I peeped out and saw the figure approach. It was Eugene. I climbed quickly over the rickety wooden gate and ran to him. He had his arms out to welcome me.

  “Hello, hello,” he said, and I fell into his arms and told him everything. I talked rapidly and mixed up the whole sequence of the story because I was so tired and frightened.

  “But this is monstrous!” he said, laughing. He thought I was exaggerating.

  “They’ll kill me,” I said.

  “Nonsense, it’s the twentieth century,” he said, and he took my traveling bag and we turned around to go to his house. The wind blew against our faces, and he told me that the motorcar had refused to start.

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” I said, and he linked me and patted my wrist, above my knitted glove.

  “You’ll be all right,” he said. “We don’t let them kill you.”

  I wondered if he would let me stay there with him; I wanted to stay, I never wanted to leave him again.

  When we came around the corner of the drive, my first thought was that his house looked so happy and peaceful. The whitewashed front sparkled in the winter sun and the downstairs windows were a pale gold.

  “You see,” he said, “the sun is shining, you’re alive, everything is going to be all right,” and we went inside.

  Anna did not bid me good morning; she just took a jar of honey off the kitchen table and went up the back stairs in a sulk.

  “My honey,” he said out loud so that she could hear it. We heard a door bang. He said that she was in a bad humor because Denis would not give her the money to send for a rubber corset through the post. Also, she didn’t like me, because I was not swanky and had no clothes to give away.

  “You sit down,” he said. “I’ll cook you a big breakfast.”

  He tied a towel around him and I kissed him—just a little kiss—and felt the comfort of being near him again, smelling his skin and kissing it. He fried rashers and eggs while I laid one end of the big kitchen table. He sat at the head and I sat to one side, facing the barred window and the black cherry tree.

  “They kept my letters, Baba
sent me money and they kept it,” I said.

  “Don’t talk about them while you’re eating or you’ll get an ulcer; just forget about everything,” he said, and he leaned over and stroked my forehead lightly.

  “Cheers,” he said, raising a cup of tea to his lips. It tasted of hair shampoo, so did mine. Anna had put shampoo in the cups, or cheap perfume. I thought it evil of her. We washed the cups and poured a second lot of tea.

  My stomach felt sick with worry, and I looked through the window all the time.

  “A Jehovah’s Witness was stabbed in twenty-nine places with a penknife in the village next to ours,” I said, and his whole face wrinkled with pain. I knew that I had said the wrong thing, as he was very fastidious.

  In a little while he said, “You look as if you’ve been through Purgatory.”

  I looked awful and my body felt cold and shivery. After breakfast I went upstairs to have a sleep.

  “Get into my bed, it’s warmer,” he said. And upstairs I just took off my dress and shoes and got into the tossed bed.

  From where I lay I could see the top of a pine tree, its branches stirring lightly, the vegetable garden wall with weeds growing on it, and more trees beyond that. I could not sleep.

  The door was opened softly and he peeped in to see if I was asleep.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Did you not go to sleep?”

  “I can’t. I’m frightened.”

  He came over and smoothed my hair back from my face, and then he stroked my hot forehead. It was very hot. He put a damp facecloth to it and said soothing things while the damp cloth covered my forehead and eyes. It was dark and damp for those minutes, and I liked the reassurance of his voice. But then he removed the cloth and dried my eyes.

  “Isn’t that better?” he said. I felt anxious again.

  “You can get into bed with me, if you like,” I said.

  “No, no.” He shook his head, gave me a dry kiss. “When we make love to one another, it will be because we want to.”

  “But I want to,” I said.

  “You do, but it’s for the wrong reason. You want to involve me, that’s all. You know that once I’ve made love to you, I shall feel responsible for you.” He looked into my eyes and I looked away guiltily. My eyes were hot and itchy.

  “Oh, don’t get cross,” I begged.

  “Nobody’s getting cross,” he said calmly. “But you must understand that relationships between people are not as crude or as simple as this. Sex is not some independent thing, it’s part of what people feel for each other, and I could no more make love to you in this nerve-racked state than I could chew my old socks …”

  I thought that he must be trying to get rid of me, so I said quickly, “Have I to go now?”

  “I’ve been thinking,” he began … “In fact, the wisest thing would be for you to go away.”

  “I have nowhere to go,” I said.

  “Now don’t get anxious, keep calm and listen to me, I’m not abandoning you to the wolves. I’ll give you the money to go to London for a week or two, and then when everyone has calmed down, you can come back again.”

  “I don’t want to leave you,” I said as I looked into his sallow face and his large dark eyes. He had a strong, hard body and I wanted him to shield me from them and from everything that I was afraid of.

  “Please,” I said.

  He tapped his forehead with his fist and said, “Oh, God,” and then he sighed for a minute, and I thought, His heart is softening and he’ll let me stay here.

  “Listen, listen,” he was saying, and I sat up thinking that it was a car which had driven up outside. But nothing came, and he went on: “If we both stay here they’ll come and perhaps force you away; if we both go to London they’ll probably have the police after us. The sensible thing is for you to go away. I’ll stay here and talk reasonably to your father if he should come, and then in a week or two I’ll come over to London and see you.”

  A cold sadness came over me. He was sending me away.

  “All right,” I said wearily, and I put out my hand for his and we sat there in silence.

  “Do you think they will come today?” he asked after a time.

  “No, not so soon. I sent them a telegram this morning to say I was going to England and that I’d write, so they’ll wait for a day or two.”

  “All right then, you can have a big rest today; and tomorrow I’ll bring you into Collinstown and we’ll put you on an airplane.”

  I had never been on an airplane and I worried about being strapped down. Baba said that they strapped you to a seat.

  “You’ll write to me?” I asked.

  “Every day. Big, long letters.” He took me in his arms and held me there for a long time while I cried and sobbed.

  “I bought you a little present when I was away,” he said then, and he ran downstairs to get it.

  It was a portable radio, and he showed me how to work the various knobs and find the different stations.

  “You can take it around with you anywhere.” He turned the knob on and we heard light music. He danced with the radio in his arms for a minute, and I wondered how he could be so cheerful.

  I got up and washed, and after lunch we went for a walk.

  “If anyone calls, don’t admit them,” he shouted up to Anna.

  “Are you expecting the bailiff?” she shouted down in a cheeky voice.

  He frowned—and said that she was getting out of hand.

  It was mild outside, the wind had died down, and it was spotting rain. Everything was very still and we could hear the men over in the forestry sawing trees. I took off my headscarf and let the rain fall on my greasy hair and on my warm face. Always with lack of sleep, my face and eyelids got warm and itchy. As we walked along he told me about a picture he had seen in London called Golden Marie. He told me the story of it and described the blond, sensual girl who played the part of Marie. I felt so dull and unattractive as he talked of her and moved his hands to outline the shape of her body.

  We went down the narrow path that led to the lake wood. A belt of pine trees ran down on one side, like an army of green soldiers following one upon another, and a loose stone wall skirted the other side of the track. Many of the stones had fallen down.

  “You’ll be able to see that picture, I’ll tell Ginger to take you,” he said as he stooped down to pick up three white stones. Ginger was a woman whom he intended to send a telegram to, asking her to meet me. She had red hair, he said, and that was why she was called Ginger. I wondered if she loved him; I couldn’t imagine any woman knowing him and not loving him.

  “Is she nice?” I asked.

  “She’s a nice girl,” he said casually. He was so casual about everything—the rain, the white stones, the pine trees swathed in a mountain mist—one thing seemed as important or as unimportant as another. I thought he was a little callous.

  “You’re not doleful, are you, sweetling?” he asked as he put his hand on my shoulder and told me not to brood. The rain lay on my coat in a pearl-like drizzle. The quietness of everything had an unnerving effect on me. It all looked unreal—the trees wrapped in a quiet, swirling mist so that the trunks seemed to be standing on air, and stretches of mist curtained off the lower parts of the fields.

  “I hate leaving you,” I said. We had come out at the edge of the wood near the lake, and loose wisps of floating mist moved in patches over the water.

  “It will only be for a couple of weeks,” he said cheerfully as we sat on the flat roof of the boathouse and looked across at the stony fields which ran down to the lake on the far side. The mist had not come down fully and some fields were quite clear.

  “You didn’t think it was as nice as this, did you?” he said, stretching his hands out to include the lake, the small sandy beach, the pebbles in the shallow water, and, across the way, a white, ivied house with a lightning rod on the chimney pot. He told me that the Miss Walkers lived there.

  “It’s lovely,” I said, not really
caring.

  “It’s nicer in the summer: I must teach you how to swim.”

  “The summer,” I said, as if we would never live to see it. Then I thought of other summers and of how he must have swum in the lake with Laura, and afterward lain on the tiny beach, which was partly shaded by a very wide chestnut tree. Always when I was with him I thought of Laura, just as I always thought of my mother when I was with Dada.

  “How long was Laura here altogether?” I asked.

  “I don’t remember rightly, she must have been here about a year.”

  “Could she swim?” Baba could swim and dive but I could do neither.

  “Yes, she could swim,” and though I expected him to say something else, he didn’t.

  It got dark early because of the rain, and the fields looked sad in the smudging light of evening. He helped me climb the hill by pushing me from behind, and he knew his way by tread and warned me of the various rabbit holes.

  “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” I asked as we climbed between the army of pine trees and the wall of loose stones.

  “I suppose so,” he said gently.

  I prayed that something would happen so that I could stay. Something did.

  13

  At teatime a wind began to rise, and rattled the shutters. Anna rushed out to bring in napkins which she had spread on one of the thorny bushes. A galvanized bucket rolled along the cobbled yard.

  I had felt afraid all day, knowing that they were bound to come—but if a mountain storm blew up, it might keep them away. By the morrow I’d be gone.

  After tea we sat in the study with a map of London spread on both our knees while he marked various streets and sights for me. I was to go early the next morning, and he had sent a telegram to Ginger, so that she could meet me.

  “We ought to lock the doors,” I said, unnerved by the rattling of shutters.

  “All right,” he said, “we’ll lock everything.” I carried the big flashlight around while he locked the potting-shed door, the back door, and another side door. The keys had rusted in their locks and he had to tap the bolts with a block of wood to loosen them. Anna and Denis had gone backstairs to their own apartments, and we could hear dance music from their radio.