by Tara Heavey
‘Sit yourself down, my dear. You’re very welcome.’
Myrtle was offered the one and only armchair in the room.
‘Let me take your coat.’
She would have loved to keep it on but, ever polite, she slipped it off and handed it to Martin’s mother.
‘You must be parched.’
‘ I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m sure you’d like a cup of tea after your journey.’
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
Myrtle watched in fascination as Mrs Prendergast removed a teapot from a hook above the open fire and poured tea into a cup.
‘Bread?’
‘Please.’
She cut a thick, rough slice of sodabread and buttered it thickly, then handed it to Myrtle.
‘Thank you. Did you make this yourself?’
The other woman gave her a strange look. ‘I did, of course.’
Myrtle sipped the stewed tea, absorbing everything, while Martin and his mother conversed. The room was a fair size, with a high arched wooden ceiling. The furniture was sparse – a dresser with crockery, a rough kitchen table with chairs, the armchair she sat in and the rocking-chair in which Mrs Prendergast rocked, a black and white cat purring companionably on her lap. That was it. The floor was linoleum and the open fire appeared to be the only source of heating and cooking. Behind the rocking-chair there was an intriguing curtained alcove, which Myrtle later discovered was where Martin’s mother slept.
Photographs were handed around. A head-and-shoulders shot of a man in a police uniform – Martin’s brother Joe in Boston. Various American grandchildren – the offspring of Vincent and Kevin in New York. A picture taken last summer on the occasion of Martin’s sister marrying the solicitor from Castlebar.
‘Oh, wait till I show you.’ Martin’s mother got up from her seat in an excited manner, tipping the indignant cat on to the lino. Myrtle looked at Martin, who nodded, and she followed them out to the side of the house where a small, rough extension had been added. Martin’s mother opened the door and stood aside. ‘Look,’ she said, her eyes shining.
Martin stuck his head in first. ‘That’s great, Mam.’
It was Myrtle’s turn. She felt Mrs Prendergast’s expectant eyes on her as she peered inside. What to say? ‘It’s lovely.’
The correct response apparently, as Mrs Prendergast beamed before closing the door reverently and walking ahead of them back into the house.
Myrtle looked up at Martin. ‘It’s a lavatory,’ she whispered, baffled.
‘Think yourself lucky. Six months ago you’d have had to go in a hole in the ground.’
They were only back in the house a few minutes when the front door opened again. In walked a man in his thirties, wellingtons, donkey jacket, Aran jumper, cloth cap. A couple of hens ran in with him and he whooshed them out with his feet.
‘Martin!’ he said, taking off his cap and flinging it on to the table.
Martin got up and the two men shook hands warmly.
‘Good to see you. How are you keeping?’
‘I’m well. And you?’
‘Mighty. Just sold a heifer down at the fair.’
‘Did you get a good price for her?’ said Mrs Prendergast.
‘Begod, I did.’
The man looked over Martin’s shoulder at Myrtle. Martin followed his gaze. ‘Séan, this is my wife, Marnie. Marnie, this is my brother, Séan.’
He nodded at her. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
So, this was the elder brother Séan. The one who’d got the farm. He was similar to Martin but a shadow of him, his looks not as striking, the jawline a little less defined, the eyes a little less blue. He was shorter than his younger brother too. Less powerful-looking. But he had the same outdoor, craggy look. Myrtle wondered how he’d got home from the fair and realized he must have walked all the way. At first she expected him to be intimidated by her, imagining she must seem quite the sophisticate. But Séan possessed a quiet confidence, and a certainty about who he was that made her feel gauche. He was a man completely comfortable in his own skin, a claim she had never been able to make about herself.
The two men went out to admire the car while Mrs Prendergast made preparations for dinner, Myrtle helping when she was let. She was allowed to dig up the carrots, onions and potatoes from the plot at the back of the house. It reminded her of the Victory Garden her mother had kept during the war. She brought back the vegetables and Martin’s mother chopped them for the stew.
The day passed pleasantly and uneventfully. Myrtle was amazed at how relaxed she felt, staring into the flames of the peat fire as the short day darkened and closed in around them. She gazed at her husband, who sat at the opposite side of the fire, staring into his own private flames. She felt such an overwhelming surge of love for him that she thought her heart would burst. That night in bed, the bed that as a child he’d shared with his brother Joe, Martin reached for her, but only for reassurance: his mother was on the other side of the wall.
‘You don’t think any less of me, do you, Marnie?’
It was safer saying this into the pitch darkness.
‘Why would I think less of you?’
‘Now that you’ve seen where I come from.’
‘If anything, I think more of you. I can see how far you’ve come.’
He pulled her closer to him and she knew she’d said the right thing.
They left early the next morning, after a hearty breakfast of sodabread and eggs. Martin’s mother waved until they were out of sight.
‘How long since your father died?’
‘Six years.’
‘What was he like?’ The silent spectre of the man had hung over their entire visit.
‘Let’s just say he was handy with his fists.’ Martin’s face had closed, signifying that the subject was over.
After visiting Martin’s sister in Castlebar, they spent a couple of days in Westport, then headed down to Killala Bay. It was a wild day. The waves hurled themselves at the rocks and the wind whipped up mini-sandstorms. Martin stared out to sea, his mood reflective, as it had been since the start of their honeymoon.
Together they explored the desolate beauty of Connemara, illuminated by the sun at rare intervals. The sight of two children with a donkey and a cart of peat almost made up for Myrtle’s disappointment at the lack of a thatched roof on Martin’s mother’s cottage. Then it was on to Galway City, Yeats country in Sligo, and home to Dublin to start their new life together.
34
It was shocking, really, how alone she felt. The acuteness of her loneliness bit into her soul, removing massive chunks of the Myrtle she used to be – the Marnie she used to be… whoever it was she used to be. It left her uncertain of herself in an uncertain world where everything seemed a pale imitation of her life in London. She had Martin, of course. But Martin was never at home. And she had no need of a job, not now that she was a wife, comfortably looked after by her able husband. She was expected to be content with furnishing her new home on the outskirts of the pathetic little town that laughingly called itself a city. She threw herself into the task, bringing her considerable good taste to bear on what she had to admit was a most handsome Victorian red-brick house. Martin was delighted with the result and bought her a new-fangled Hotpoint washing-machine as a reward. She would have enjoyed it more if she’d had someone to show it to.
She had her prize, though: her man. Then why did she feel so hollow? She tried so hard to do everything that was expected of her. She checked her hair and makeup to ensure she looked perfect for Martin when he came home. She cooked his favourite meals, timing them with precision. The trouble was, she never knew when to expect him. He became impossible to predict. And all too often his meals would slowly congeal in the lower half of the oven. She tried not to be annoyed. She knew how hard he worked and she didn’t want to waste what little time she had with him arguing, especially since he was often the only person she’d spoken to all day. But in spite of this, or perhaps because of
it, she began to fray at the edges. It didn’t help that he came in most nights reeking of whiskey. They couldn’t all be business meetings.
The first time she confronted him she stood, pinny on, hands on hips, feeling like a fishwife out of a film. ‘What time do you call this?’
He didn’t answer, instead choosing to walk past her into the sitting room. A decanter of whiskey sat on a silver tray on a side table, flanked by two upside-down cut-glass tumblers. They hadn’t been a wedding present. Almost everything in the house was hand-picked by Myrtle and paid for by Martin. There’d been a dearth of presents on her side. On his, anything decent could scarcely be stretched to.
Martin turned one of the glasses the right way up and sloshed a generous quantity into it. He downed it in one go. Was it normal for a man to drink so much? Myrtle had no idea. Her own father had been teetotal and she had no one else to compare him to. Martin had drunk a lot during their courtship, but she hadn’t paid it much heed since they were out socializing all the time. Alcohol had been intrinsic to their lifestyle. And she’d always known that he loved going out. It was just that it had never occurred to her that, once they were married, he’d be going out without her. The party was over. Or, rather, she was no longer invited.
‘Well?’ She stood behind him now, hands still planted on hips, furious at being ignored.
‘What’s for dinner?’ he said, still with his back to her.
‘You mean what was for dinner. It was lamb chops but they’ve burned to a crisp so now there’s nothing.’
He turned to her, having refilled his glass. He took a sip, appraising her thoughtfully. ‘Well, you’d better make me something else, then.’
He walked away from her, leaving her stranded on the rug in the sitting room. Once she’d got over her initial shock, she was in hot pursuit. ‘How dare you walk away from me? I will not make you another dinner –’
The words were gasped out of her because he turned suddenly and grabbed her roughly by the chin. He brought his face down close to hers and hissed into it, ‘No wife of mine speaks to me like that. Now get me some food.’ His features were contorted. He released her chin, pushing her back as he did so. Myrtle was trembling with outrage and fear. How dare he? Never in all her born days… She’d never seen her father treat her mother like that – he’d never laid a hand on her. She had always dismissed her parents’ marriage as passionless. Now… She touched the tender skin on her chin, then covered her mouth with her hand as she started to cry. Silent, free-flowing, gut-wrenching tears. Her first instinct was to run and tell someone – preferably her mother. But the only person she had to tell was waiting to be fed. So she went into the kitchen and started cooking.
In time, Myrtle began to meet a few women of her own age, mostly at her own dinner parties. Martin would announce that he had invited a few ‘associates’ over. If she was lucky, she’d get twenty-four hours’ notice. More often than not, she’d have just a few hours to prepare.
The first time it happened, she rushed out to Eason’s and bought Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management and Fanny Cradock’s latest. She spent the afternoon cooking up a storm. She thought it had gone well. Everyone had been in raptures over her sherry trifle. Still, you never knew with the Irish – they did tend to exaggerate. With an almost physical stab of longing, she wished she was back among her own people. Still, the women had been kind to her. At one stage, while the men were talking shop, one of them had whispered to her: ‘Your husband is so handsome.’
She had felt herself expanding with pride. Yes, Martin was handsome. And he was hers. She was proud, too, of the way he held court over the dinner table, entertaining everyone with his highly embellished stories, taking care of every awkward pause and empty glass. And he must have been pleased with her because he winked at her when no one was looking. It was a good night, which continued in the bedroom later.
She didn’t know what to make of it. Her new life. Her new role. Her new husband. It was all so hard to get her head around. What was normal, what was not. What was acceptable, what was not. If only she had a sounding board. Something or someone to judge it all against. But there was no one. This isolation was disconcerting. She’d always known who she was – it had never occurred to her to question it. But now, uprooted, she had to rediscover herself all over again. She wasn’t sure she liked what she was finding, reflected as she was in the eyes of just one other. She was uncertain now. Of herself. Of him. Unease seeped into her soul. Had her father been right? The thought was summarily banished – because it wasn’t fit to be admitted.
She saw that her husband had two sides: Public Martin and Private Martin. Public Martin was loud and gregarious – the craic all the way up to ninety. Private Martin was saturnine and introspective. He sat in a chair in the dark with a five o’clock shadow. The only thing the two men had in common was that they were both drink-fuelled. It frightened her, the prospect of living in a strange land with a total stranger. She tiptoed around this dark side, not wanting to get on the wrong side. This was what she had chosen. Her bed to lie in. Her man to understand. She tried.
Myrtle was lying in bed one morning, listening to Martin getting ready. She lay on her right side, facing away from him. Her stillness, the absence of rhythmic breathing, betrayed her wakefulness. He came around to her side and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down thoughtfully at her listless form as he buttoned the cuffs of the blue shirt that she and her iron knew intimately. She turned on to her back and looked up at him.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
Don’t you know?
‘Nothing’s wrong.’
Not when he looked at her like that, there wasn’t. The gentle, tender Martin.
‘You know what you need?’ he said, his eyes warm.
‘What?’
‘A baby.’
‘A baby!’ Her voice was incredulous, although she didn’t know why. Isn’t that what married couples did? Breed?
‘Yes, a baby. You know. Tiny little creatures. Squawk a lot.’
‘I know what a baby is.’
‘Think about it.’ He bent down and kissed the tip of her nose.
She lay there for a long time after he’d gone. A baby. It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about it. Part of her longed to have Martin’s children. But the other part… She felt so empty. Of course, she wouldn’t feel empty if she had a baby growing inside her. She rubbed her taut belly and tried to imagine. Maybe Martin would be home more often if they had a family. That thought sealed it. Her dream of what their life together would be had slipped away from her of late. But now it drew back into sharp focus. She with her swollen belly, wearing a charming maternity smock that she’d made herself, Martin’s hand on the demure rise of the material. A laughing Martin bouncing a laughing baby boy on his lap. Because, for some reason, her fantasy conjured a boy, dark and dimpled and handsome like his father. She didn’t know why this should be so because in her heart she’d always wanted a girl. Something about having no sisters and a distant relationship with her mother. She could give birth to her own sister. Or create the mother-daughter relationship that she’d always yearned for. But a boy was what she saw. Either sex would change them from a struggling couple into a family. Complete. And there might be other babies – lots of them. As the glee took hold of her, she stretched her body to the maximum, fingertips grazing the headboard, toes flexed. Then she curled up abruptly into the foetal position, hugging herself and rocking gently. Maybe if they had a baby Martin wouldn’t drink so much.
The trouble with family planning is that it’s not an exact science. This can work either way. In Myrtle’s case, what happened was nothing. A whole lot of trying and a whole lot of nothing. And the more nothing happened, the more anxious she became. It wasn’t something she discussed with anyone, least of all Martin. He just went about his business as usual and, for all she knew, had forgotten their conversation. She couldn’t. It began to consume her, tensing her shoulders and creasing her brow. She’d b
e sitting there and, before she knew it, a thumbnail would be bitten to the quick. She also developed the habit of chewing her lower lip. Barely four months had passed. No time at all in the great scheme of things.
One night Martin came home extra late and extra drunk. She’d learned to read the signs at a glance. She placed the remains of his partially charred dinner before him. He chewed it slowly. His well-well-well-done steak. ‘What’s this crap?’
‘I can make you an omelette if you like.’
‘I don’t want an omelette. I want a steak. A decent fucking steak.’
He stood abruptly, pushing back his chair with his calf muscles, causing it to screech against the kitchen floor. Myrtle winced. ‘Stupid bloody woman. Can’t do anything right. Can’t cook. Can’t even bloody well get pregnant.’
He pushed past her, out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. She knew better than to follow him. But she could see him as clearly as if she had, sloshing the whiskey into the tumbler and knocking it back. She felt her cheeks burn with shame. He was right. She was useless. She’d never thought it before but she thought it now. Who was she to contradict what was ultimately the truth? She was a failure as a wife – she felt it in every nerve and sinew. To her shame, he felt it too.
It took another two years. Two long years. In the words of Martin: ‘You could have given birth twice by now.’ But she was pregnant. That was the thing. The triumph. And no one was going to take it away from her, least of all Martin who, she could tell, was pleased.
She longed to tell her own parents. When the three-month danger period had elapsed, she wrote them a carefully crafted letter, informing them as to her condition and asking after their health. It contained no hint of recrimination. Neither did it contain an apology. She received no reply. And during the silent months that followed, something inside Myrtle withered and died.
But a new excitement coloured her days. A life that had been dull and empty was now vibrant and full of possibilities. She had a nursery to decorate, clothes to make for herself and the baby, blankets to crochet. It was down to her, just as she had always known it would be. She didn’t mind. It was the way she preferred it, really. Myrtle had always been solitary in her pleasures. And, of course, now she was never alone. She took to talking to the embryo, the foetus, the baby.