by Tara Heavey
‘Poor Mrs Prendergast,’ Aoife mused.
‘I know.’
They watched the children for a while. Then Seth said: ‘I like your dress.’
‘Thanks.’
‘The colour suits you.’
‘Thank you.’ Aoife felt pleased and embarrassed at the same time.
‘I was beginning to think you didn’t have legs.’
She smiled. ‘They’ve been there the whole time.’
‘So I see. They’re quite long, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, they go all the way to the ground. Here we are.’
They stopped outside her front door.
‘How are you getting home?’
‘I have the jeep. It’s parked opposite Mrs P’s.’
‘Are you okay to drive?’
‘I only had one glass.’
Aoife nodded. She’d been so busy knocking it back that she hadn’t noticed what anyone else was doing. ‘Good night, then. Thanks for walking us home.’
‘But, Mummy, I want to show Kathy my new excavator.’
‘You can show her the next time.’
‘But I said I’d show her now. Please, Mummy.’
‘Please, Aoife.’
‘Okay. Hurry up, though. You both need to get to bed.’
Aoife opened the door and the children ran inside, talking and laughing. She felt awkward now. ‘Do you want to come inside and wait?’
‘No, it’s all right. It’s nice out here.’
It was a lovely night but Aoife didn’t like the way Seth was looking at her. It was making her feel flustered. He took a few steps forward and she fixed her eyes hard on the pavement. What happened next was what she wanted but at the same time didn’t want. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. He stroked her lower back with the tips of his fingers. ‘Aoife. Look at me.’
With huge difficulty, she met his eyes. They seemed to go on for ever. Oh, God, one more second and he’d kiss her. She broke away and stepped inside her front door. ‘Kathy! Liam! Come on now.’
Sounding like a buffalo stampede rather than two small children, Kathy and Liam ran back into the hall.
‘Ready, Kathy?’
‘Yes.’ She went outside and joined her father.
Aoife started to close the door. ‘Thanks again for walking us home.’ She didn’t look at him.
‘Aoife.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t punish yourself for ever, you know.’
‘Good night, Seth.’ She shut the door.
‘Mummy, what’s punish?’
‘It’s what’ll happen to you if you don’t get into bed now. Come on. Up the stairs.’
The man didn’t know what he was talking about.
29
The sunlight poured in through the gap in the curtains, bathing Emily’s eyelids. This was her favourite way to wake up – from one dreamlike state to another. She lay there for some time, semi-conscious, believing herself back in her bedsit. And then she heard the tiniest whimper. Her eyes flew open. She sat up in the bed she’d slept in since she was a girl, in the room that had sheltered her childhood dreams: ponies and gymkhanas, her teenage fantasies of Westlife and Gary O’Connor. All of that gave way now to adult reality. (She must get rid of that ridiculous poster.)
Rose had settled herself back to sleep, although her restlessness indicated imminent wakefulness. Emily knew it would be wise to go downstairs and prepare a bottle, but she couldn’t drag herself away. Her reality now was so unreal. So magical.
‘Wow,’ she said to her sleeping daughter.
‘Wow,’ she said to herself, countless times a day. Because she loved it all. Every second of it. Even when Rose bawled her head off. Even when she did it in the middle of the night. That gave Emily the excuse to take her into her bed and hold her close, breathe her in.
Now Rose slumbered in the cot her mother had slept in, as had all the other Harte babies. There was a baby-shaped indentation in the mattress, and Rose fitted snugly into it. There was a gentle rap on the bedroom door. ‘Come in.’
The door opened to reveal her father. He was dressed in his outdoor clothes and had the air of someone who’d been up for hours. He’d probably sorted the cows already. ‘Is Madam awake?’ he said.
‘Not yet. But she will be soon.’
‘Will I bring you up a bottle?’
‘That’d be great, Dad.’
He nodded and disappeared. She listened to his footfall descending the stairs and marvelled anew at this miraculous turn of events.
The day she’d brought Rose home had been a seminal day in the Harte household. Her mother had been wonderful – coddling her, forgiving her instantly. If anything, she blamed herself for not being there for her daughter, although what she thought she could have done when she hadn’t known a thing about it…
One by one the Hartes had come home. Reactions varied from shock to joy to indifference. Until the only one left was Emily’s father, Thomas. Home from the fields. Innocent of all that had occurred in his absence.
The house fell silent as the back door opened. They were gathered in the kitchen, all of the Hartes, including the newest arrival. They listened collectively as he took off his boots and removed his jacket, whistling tunelessly as was his habit. He entered the kitchen and drew back in surprise. His entire family was looking at him so strangely. Then he saw Emily and his face opened up in delight. ‘Well, hello, stranger. What are you doing here?’
Emily gave her father a nervous half-smile.
He noticed Rose for the first time, currently nestling in his wife’s arms. ‘Where did the baby come from? Don’t tell me someone else has roped you into babysitting. You’re too much of a soft touch, woman. Would you ever tell them you’ve enough of your own to be getting on with? What’s for tea? I’m starved.’
He looked at his wife expectantly, wondering why she wasn’t responding to his words. Then his eyes swept over his family. He hadn’t been imagining it. Something was definitely up. ‘What is it?’
A couple of the younger siblings looked at Emily. The others looked at the ground. His eldest daughter cleared her throat but still her voice came out as a squeak. ‘She’s mine.’
What did she mean ‘She’s mine’? That she was minding her for someone else? But a part of his brain, the part that was reluctantly clicking into gear, knew that this wasn’t true. The strange atmosphere in his kitchen told him so, if nothing else.
‘What do you mean, girl?’
Emily swallowed visibly. ‘She’s my baby, Dad. I had her last September.’
Each second was a year. Many members of the family wished they weren’t there. That wish was soon granted.
‘Kids. Leave the room now, please.’
There was a scramble for the door. Emily longed to join in, but guessed she was no longer classified as one of the ‘kids’.
Emily, her mother and father remained. And Rose, who was oblivious to all the fuss she was causing. Emily braced herself. Her father spoke. ‘How could you, of all the girls in the world, be so bloody stupid?’
‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’ She felt her eyes fill with tears. This was it. The moment she’d been dreading ever since she’d peed on that plastic stick. Her father’s rejection. The casting out from the warmth of the family fold.
Thomas advanced slowly and stopped in front of Bridget and Rose. He peered down at them for what seemed like an age. Then he scooped up the baby, with the practised ease of a father of six. He held her up in the air and appeared to examine her. Rose’s limbs flailed, reminding Emily of an insect stuck on its back.
‘Begod, she’s a Harte through and through. Would you look at the cut of her?’ He laughed out loud. ‘Bridget, have you seen the nose?’
Emily almost swooned with relief. She closed her eyes and allowed herself a small smile, which her father caught. ‘And don’t think for one second, Miss, that this means you’ve got away with it.’
‘No, Daddy.’ Her voice was small, humble.
She knew she’d got away with it. As did all the younger Hartes, who were listening on the far side of the kitchen door.
‘And when any of your brothers and sisters ask, I gave you the bollocking of a lifetime. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Daddy.’
He laughed again and cradled baby Rose in the top right-hand corner of his chest. Rose rested her head in the crook of his neck. Then she vomited delicately down her grandfather’s shoulder.
The next day was Sunday. Emily spent most of the morning in her room, feeding, dressing and luxuriating in Rose as the rest of the family got ready for mass in their noisy, haphazard, familiar way. Emily was confident she’d be excused from this Sunday-morning ritual. There was a knock on her door. ‘Come in.’
Her father entered. ‘Are you not even dressed yet?’
‘I’ve been minding Rose. I thought –’
‘It’s nearly time for mass. Here. Hand me the baby while you get yourself ready.’
‘But I thought –’
‘This family always goes to mass together. Now, get a move on, girl.’
She should have known better. There was no point in putting up an argument as he was gone already. God. The thought of facing the neighbours. The people she’d grown up with. She pulled on the least crumpled clothes she could find. Pride, rather than vanity, dragged a comb across her head.
‘Emily!’
They were all waiting for her in the kitchen. Then off they went to the church, two cars needed to transport the entire clan.
She felt her father sensing her misgivings at the entrance to the church. He bent low and whispered in her ear, ‘Best to get it over with.’
They sat in their usual pew, a short distance from the top on the left. Emily saw all the familiar faces. Felt all the eyes on her and Rose. Knew she’d be the hot topic of gossip in the parish for the week. That little upstart got her comeuppance. Thought she was better than us. Look at her now.
Then the mass was over. Emily kept her head down, as they filed out. She was flanked by family on every side. But then something happened. Something wholly unexpected.
‘Ah, would you look at her? Isn’t she a dote? Is she yours, Emily?’
‘She is. Yes.’
It was Mrs Brennan, whom Emily had known most of her life. Her daughter had been in the same class at school.
‘How old?’
‘Almost nine months.’
‘Nine months. What a gorgeous age. Annie, come and have a look at this little one.’
Annie Dowling, a woman of similar vintage, came and stood with them. ‘Ah, look. She’s a stunner, all right. What’s her name?’
‘Rose.’
‘Rose. Oh, it suits her. Can I have a little hold?’
‘Of course.’
As Emily handed over her child, the heart that had been hammering in her chest slowed to a dull thud. Before long, she and Rose were encircled by the women of the parish, cooing, petting, loving.
Emily smiled a watery smile. It was their turn to shake hands with the priest, a gentle man she’d known since childhood. Her anxiety returned.
Her father went ahead of her. ‘Father, how are you this fine morning?’
‘Keeping well, Tommy. And yourself?’
‘Father, I’d like to introduce you to my granddaughter, Rose.’
He nodded at Emily to come forward. Emily did so, holding up Rose for inspection.
‘Well, would you look at her? Isn’t she a beauty? The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. She’s the picture of her mother.’
Emily smiled in acknowledgement and relief.
‘We’ll be off now, Father. Enjoy the sunshine.’
‘I will surely, Tommy.’
‘Father Curran, can I ask you something?’
All eyes were on Emily – that she would voluntarily prolong this encounter.
‘Rose hasn’t been baptized yet. I wonder if you’d be kind enough to do the honours.’
‘I’d be delighted, Emily. Give me a ring in the morning and we’ll work out a suitable date.’
Emily looked at her parents. They were smiling at each other. She thought her mother might cry. In this, at least, she could do the right thing by them.
And that had been three months ago. And not one of the Hartes could imagine their family without Rose. Emily could take no credit for it. It was all down to Rose and the spell she’d woven around them. And to her parents, whose love for her had overridden every principle they’d ever held. What a stupid girl she’d been, doubting them as she had. When she thought now of that first day in mass and the guts it must have taken, pillars of the church, both of them, proudly displaying, for their fellow pillars of the church to see, their fallen woman of a daughter, their illegitimate granddaughter. They must have been up half the night before, agonizing over it.
Rose was fully awake now, giving out to her mother for allowing her to go hungry for all of two seconds. Emily picked her up and held her close, relishing the way she snuggled into her, those sweet little snuffling noises. There was a knock on the door, closely followed by her father bearing a bottle. ‘Here’s Grandad,’ said Emily, turning Rose around so she could see him.
‘There’s a phonecall for you. That girl Aoife. Will I feed Rose while you take it?’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
Emily went down to the hall and picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’
She listened while Aoife talked non-stop for two minutes flat, barely pausing for breath. At last it was her turn to speak. ‘I think it’s a great idea. But surely we can come up with a better name than the autumn party.’
30
She thought she was alone in the garden. It was early morning and it had been raining but it had stopped now and all the colours were magnified. Everything felt like a new beginning. Just Aoife and the birds. Liam was on a sleepover. She had come here to think. And where would be the perfect place to do that? The bower beneath the yellow trumpets of honeysuckle and the white stars of jasmine. She made her way there now, all green and leafy, dapple and shade. Blessed coolness. Balm on her soul. Peace of mind at long last.
But she wasn’t alone. Someone else swung gently on the swing seat, wrapped in a plaid blanket, eyes closed. At first she was dismayed. To sit there had felt like her only hope. Then she felt glad for the other woman. She probably needed it more than Aoife did. Feeling her intrusion, she turned silently to go.
‘Aoife.’
She had been spotted.
‘Mrs Prendergast. I was just leaving.’
‘Why not stay?’
How could she turn down this surprising invitation?
Mrs Prendergast moved along in the seat, making room for Aoife, who felt she had no choice but to sit down, although the intimacy of the situation made her somewhat fearful. There truly was nowhere to hide in a place like this. The only saving grace was that they didn’t have to look at one another. Sitting side by side felt easier than face to face. Less confrontational. They swung gently together, backwards and forwards, lulling each other. Aoife began to relax. Just two women sitting in a garden together. For the first time she didn’t feel the age difference between them. Together, they could still be alone with their own thoughts. Aoife was amazed at how easy and companionable the silence was. It was like a spell that spoken words would break. But, after a while, words became inevitable. Necessary.
‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ Mrs Prendergast said.
‘Don’t be. It was marvellous. The food was superb.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Aoife paused, trying to find the right words. ‘That was hardly your fault. If anybody should apologize, it’s me. I was so rude to you. I’m sorry.’
‘You were just sticking up for your garden.’
They swung for a minute, not saying anything.
‘He has gambling debts, you know.’
‘You mean…?’
‘Lance.’
‘I see.’
‘My brother tol
d me. I rang him up the next day because I was still quite… upset. Lance had approached him for a loan and he’d got the truth out of him.’
‘That would explain why he was so angry.’
‘Yes. But it’s no excuse for the way he spoke to me. To Uri.’ She sniffed.
‘I suppose not.’
Aoife stole a glance at Mrs Prendergast’s profile. She wasn’t crying but she wasn’t far off it.
She sighed. ‘I hope your son never speaks to you like that.’
Aoife agreed fervently. But she couldn’t think of a way to say it that didn’t sound rude or hurtful so she said nothing. Neither did Mrs Prendergast, but Aoife could feel the pain radiating from her. She wanted so much to convey her sympathy to her but she wasn’t sure how. Had it been a woman of her own age or younger, she would have given her a hug. But Mrs Prendergast wasn’t the hugging type. At least, Aoife felt it would be inappropriate. Instead, still staring straight ahead, she felt for her hand and gave it a squeeze, then released it. There was no visible response, but she sensed Mrs Prendergast relaxing beside her. So much so, apparently, that the older woman said: ‘What happened to your husband?’
‘He was killed in a car accident.’
‘Ah. I’m sorry. When did he die?’
‘Two years, three and a half months ago.’
A pause.
‘Do you think you’ll ever marry again?’
‘Good God, I have no idea. It’s too early to say.’
‘You think almost two and a half years is too early?’
‘It is for me.’
‘I hope you don’t always feel that way.’
‘Why?’ Aoife was beginning to feel slightly irritated.
‘Well, for your own sake, but mainly because of Liam. It’s better for a boy to grow up with a father. I sometimes think that if I’d married again, well, things may have worked out differently.’
Aoife resented the implication that she and her indomitable love were not enough for her son. At the same time, she felt a gnawing fear when she thought of his future.
‘You know,’ said Mrs Prendergast, her tone altered, ‘there was a time when I hoped you and Lance… but I don’t suppose you’d have any interest now. He hasn’t exactly showed you his best side. He can be lovely. Really he can.’