Across the River

by Alice Taylor

  ALICE

  TAYLOR

  Across the River

  To Mike

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  About the Author

  Also by Alice Taylor

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  MARTHA GAZED INTO the mirror and studied her face with dispassionate appraisal. It must be easier to grow old and lose your good looks if you had been plain all your life. You did not have that much to lose. She knew many plain women who had actually improved with age. They became serene and comfortable-looking, the last thing that she would ever want. She had always stood out in a crowd. Once she had overheard her sister-in-law Kate compare her to a black swan, and when you were used to being regarded as beautiful it was disquieting to observe the glow begin to diminish.

  She turned her head and raised her chin to study her side view. Her jawline was not as clean cut or as well defined as it had been. When she lowered her chin, it became more obvious. She angled her face to get a better side view. Her skin was losing its fine clear texture and she could see a few open pores with a slight rough, grainy effect. A short black hair sprouted from the edge of her jawline and she grasped a tweezers and whipped it out. When she stared directly at her face, the fine skin under her eyes was no longer soft and moist but beginning to wrinkle a little like fine tissue paper. She picked out a grey rib from her long black hair and saw a few extra ones since her last examination. She had considered colouring her hair, but on Sundays when she looked up the church and took note of dyed heads she changed her mind.

  Since Ned’s accident she had dressed in black, first in mourning but later because she knew that it suited her. As well, people dressed in black were unapproachable, and that suited her too. In life people tripped you up and it was a good idea to keep them at a distance.

  Kate had remarked that she never walked into a room but swept into it. Although probably meant as a criticism, she had taken it as a compliment. Kate had never liked her and she certainly had no time for Kate, who was a do-gooder with her nose stuck into everything, thinking that she could improve the world. She doubted that losing her looks bothered Kate, but then she did not have that much to lose.

  The mirror hung at eye level on the shutter of the kitchen window, and the full glare of the midday light left no room for illusion. Raising her head, she examined her neck. No cause for comfort there either. Maybe she should begin to take better care of herself. The prospect of growing into a wrinkled old hag or an overweight porker did not appeal to her, but the possibility of either ever happening was remote. Her fine bone structure would withstand well the progress of years, and weight had never posed a problem. There was good physical exercise around the farm and hard work had never bothered her. Life had been easy when Ned was alive; after the accident it had been tough, but she had had no choice but to keep going. Someone had to run Mossgrove. Then gradually she had realised that she enjoyed being in control and that the challenge stimulated her.

  Since Ned’s death eight years ago, there had been problems on the farm, but she had solved them and had enjoyed the sense of achievement. Many of the neighbours did not like her, but because she was Ned’s widow they were all helpful. All of them with the exception of the Conways, who hated her because she was a Phelan. Strange that she had never considered herself a Phelan. They were Ned’s family but never hers. Moving into their family home she had felt threatened by them, by the living ones but also by the ones who were gone. Even though they were dead, they seemed to haunt the place in the trees they had planted, their buildings and the things they had made. She glanced with disdain at the huge old dresser that stretched across the entire end wall of the kitchen. It had been made by Edward Phelan, Ned’s grandfather. Over the years she had wanted to throw it out, but everything that the dead Phelans had made was sanctified in the eyes of those who came after them.

  Part of that problem was Jack, who had worked Mossgrove with three generations of Phelans and was still here to work with Peter, who would be the fourth generation. Jack kept the dead Phelans alive by constantly talking about them as if they were part of present-day life. It annoyed her intensely, but there was no way that she could change Jack. He was as much part of Mossgrove as any Phelan, and sometimes she felt that he was more part of it than herself. They differed on occasions but over the years had developed a grudging respect for each other. Dislike of the Conways was a common bond between them.

  As yet she had not sorted out the problem that the Conways posed along the boundary down by the river, but one day it would come to a head and then she would make her move. There was no way that they were going to get the better of her. Ned had been too soft with them. The bitterness between the families went back to the time of old Edward Phelan, Ned’s grandfather, and it had festered ever since, but she was determined that in her time it would be sorted out once and for all. In the mean time there was the more immediate problem of Peter, who was now home full-time to work in Mossgrove. Peter! The only son, but they had never understood each other. All that rubbish about sons and mothers was not true in their case. Peter and herself had clashed ever since he had first voiced an opinion. If only he were more like Nora, but Peter had always been independent and strong-willed, though that had created no barrier between Ned and himself; love of Mossgrove had been their common bond.

  After Ned had died she had gone through a bad patch and had attempted to sell Mossgrove. Peter had never forgiven her for that. He had been twelve at the time, but the whole episode seemed to have been imprinted on his memory. Even though she had changed her mind, Peter was still resentful of what he saw as a betrayal of his father and Mossgrove.

  She hoped that he would never find out that her mind had been changed for her because there was a legal reason why Mossgrove could not be sold. She had sometimes wondered if Kate and Jack knew the real truth. If they did they kept their own counsel and never used it against her, but Peter would be different. He was direct and forceful and enjoyed opposing her.

  A sudden movement reflected in the mirror startled her. She whipped around to discover Peter leaning against the jamb of the back door, studying her with an amused look on his face. How long had he been there? He must have slipped in quietly while she had been absorbed in her facial appraisal. It irritated her to think that he had caught her at a disadvantage. Typical of him to stand there silently availing of the opportunity to belittle her!

  “Surveying the ruins?” he questioned mockingly.

  “How long have you been standing there spying on me?” she demanded, sitting on the edge of windowsill, folding her arms tightly and facing him.

  “Mother Martha …” he began, raising his hands in mock submission. Tall and athletic, when he bent forward in an ironic bow his blond hair fell across his forehead.

  “Don’t call me that,” she cut across him. “You know that it drives me mad, but of course that’s exactly why you do it, isn’t it?”

  “But it kinda suits you,” he taunted. “Did no one ever tell you,
Mother, that you had the makings of a great dictator. Run the show with no consultation with lesser mortals.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” she exclaimed in annoyance.

  Turning her back on him, she pulled the latch of the window and it slid down with a bang. “When someone knows what they’re doing, where is the point in running around discussing things with fools?”

  “It’s called democracy, Mother,” he told her evenly.

  “Well I call it a waste of time,” she declared, returning to the edge of the windowsill.

  “That’s my mother,” he said, still leaning against the jamb of the door and rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.

  “Stop acting the smart man now,” she snapped. “Just because you were the star turn on the school debating team does not necessarily mean that you have all the answers.”

  “Well, the way it is now, Mother,” he told her with determination, “I did not spend two years in agricultural college to come back here to run Mossgrove the way you have been doing it since Dad died.”

  “It’s as well run now as it ever was,” she insisted

  “Not saying that it isn’t,” he told her sharply, and she could hear the supressed irritation in his voice, “but if you intended to continue on as you were, where was the point in sending me to do this agricultural course after my Leaving Cert? I could have done something else if I knew that I was supposed to come back here to act as another Jack or Davy Shine, doing your say-so.”

  “Oh, so you’ve been discussing me with Jack and Davy Shine,” she accused him.

  “Did I say that?” he demanded.

  “There you go again,” she told him, “with your smart logic, behaving as if you were talking to a dimwit.”

  “I wonder where did I get that from?” he asked.

  “I never talk down to people,” she asserted with exasperation.

  “Maybe not,” he told her sharply, “but you treat them that way, which is far worse.”

  “Is this conversation about you, me or the farm?” she demanded.

  “About all three, I’d say,” he told her mildly, “because we’re a bit like the Blessed Trinity, aren’t we? Inseparable and hard to understand.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Peter, will you stop talking rubbish and go out and do something useful instead of driving me mad,” she fumed as she strode to the table and began to mix with vigour the cake that she had begun an hour previously.

  “That’s our mother all right,” he told no one in particular as he walked over to the window. “Won’t discuss anything, just bulldozes on with the belief that everything will flatten in front of her.”

  “What is it you want to discuss?” she demanded, resting her hands on the side of the dish.

  “Money,” he told her, still standing at the window with his back to her and looking down over the farm.

  “Oh, so that’s it,” she said.

  “How do you mean, that’s it?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Well, everything is about money, isn’t it?” she said.

  “In your world,” he agreed.

  “Here we go again.”

  “No, here we don’t go again,” He jerked around from the window with an obstinate look on his face. She knew that look since he was a child. “We need to invest in a new milking machine and a new tractor and to bring this place up to date,” he told her with determination.

  “Have you any idea what kind of money you’re talking about?” she demanded.

  “Down to the last penny,” he informed her decisively, returning to look out the window.

  “But more important,” she wanted to know, “where is this money going to come from?”

  “You have money stashed away somewhere,” he told her quietly, “because Dad had money in the bank when he died.”

  “How do you know that your father had money in the bank?” she demanded in surprise.

  “He told me,” he said.

  “At your age!” she protested. “You were only twelve.”

  “We talked about everything, and I never forgot one thing that Dad told me. That’s Mossgrove money you’ve got and it has to be reinvested back into Mossgrove.”

  “Well, I’ve heard it all now. Mossgrove money,” she breathed in anger. “Are you telling me that this valuable land is looking for its own back? You’re a bit young to be advising me what to do.”

  “Dad was only sixteen when his father died and he ran Mossgrove.”

  “There was no one else then,” she told him.

  “Oh, by God, there was,” he asserted. “Jack told me that he and Nana Nellie ran this place for years before that because Grandfather Billy had lost interest in it.”

  “And did Jack tell you why your grandfather could not run Mossgrove? Oh, no, of course not. Jack paints perfect pictures of the Phelans. Well, I’ll tell you: your grandfather, Billy Phelan, was a drunk and he nearly ran this place into the ground.”

  “But Nana Nellie kept it going with Jack,” he said with pride, “and when Dad was able, they encouraged him and he did a great job.”

  “But you’re not your father,” she declared, knowing that it would cut deep. To Peter his father had been perfect and his death had heightened that perfection. Peter stood motionless for a few seconds and when he swung around his face was taut with suppressed emotions.

  “No,” he said grimly, “and I’m not going to put up with all the shit that he put up with from you.”

  “You pup,” she said, raising her hand to strike him across the face, but he was too fast and caught her firmly by the wrist. He lowered her hand forcibly and pushed it down deep into the lump of dough.

  “And you know what a pup’s mother is,” he told her angrily, his eyes blazing down into hers. He released her hand as if she were distasteful and strode out the door, banging it so hard that the cups on the dresser rattled in their saucers.

  Martha paced the kitchen, bristling with rage. Every clash with Peter had this effect. He had the ability to get under her skin and was hell-bent on driving her mad. But it angered her as well that she allowed herself to be so upset by him. She continued to stride up and down the kitchen until eventually her pace slackened and gradually her temper eased. In future she would not allow him to goad her into this state.

  She returned to finishing off the cake. Baking, kneading the dough until it became soft and pliable, had a soothing effect on her. With each mould of the hand, her frustration seemed to be absorbed into its soft depths. Working with her hands had always given her satisfaction. Baking, knitting, sewing were all outlets for her creativity, but it was sewing that she enjoyed the most. Hours making curtains, until they were perfect down to the last detail, totally engrossed her.

  There had been no curtains on the kitchen windows of Mossgrove until she had come to live here. Now a strong green material framed the two windows, the one at the back looking out into the farmyard and the one at the front looking down over the farm. She had an inate sense of getting it right, and the colour brought the world outside into the kitchen. She had covered the old sofa under the back window beside the fire with the same material as the curtains. The sofa was soft and sagging but very comfortable and had been invaluable when the children were small. Fussy flowery colours did not appeal to her; she preferred the stark and dramatic, so she had painted the kitchen white to see if anything could brighten it up.

  Martha had given into the yowls of protest whenever she had threatened to throw out the enormous old dresser, but she had ignored all opposition a few years previously when she had got rid of the open fire and put in an Aga. She had hated the smoke and ashes of the open fire. Jack and the others had prophesied that they would be frozen, but of course with the kitchen warm early and late the opposite was the case. Sometimes people did not know what was good for them. The Aga had set her back a bit, but it had been worth every penny, and when they were doing the plumbing she had put in a bathroom, with a downstairs toilet off the scullery. It had all been money well spent.


  Shaking the flour on to the timber table, she flattened out the cake, rounding the edges with the palm of her hand. Opening the top oven of the Aga she eased the cake in and returned to the table where she rubbed her hands together to ease the clinging dough from between her fingers. Now she felt better; the inner turmoil had subsided. She wiped off the table and took the baking utensils out to the sink in the scullery and washed them. When she came back to the kitchen, she went to the parlour to open the window. As she crossed through the small porch, she opened the front door and sunlight poured in.

  The parlour was a large low-ceilinged room, and the mirror-backed sideboard against the back wall reflected the lace-curtained window on the wall opposite. The shelved overmantel above the black marble fireplace, to the right of the door, held a collection of family bric-a-brac, school photographs of Peter and Nora and little presents that they had brought home from school tours. On the wall opposite was a large painting of old Edward Phelan. She had never liked this room because the ghosts of former Phelans seemed particularly strong in here, more so since Kate had brought back that painting.

  Going over now she stood in front of the portrait and studied it. The original photograph must have been taken when he was well past his prime, but he was still a fine looking man. Kate’s conscience must have been bothering her about having taken the old photograph in the first place. Even though Martha might not have hung it up, it still annoyed her that Kate had taken it. Then Kate had got Mark to paint this portrait from it, and he had certainly done a great job, but then that should not have surprised her. Everyone was at great pains to impress her about her wonderful artist brother. She sometimes felt that Mark was more acceptable to the Phelans than she would ever be. Her mother thought that they should all encourage him, so as his sister she had little choice but to hang old Phelan in the parlour. She hoped that one day the twine keeping him up would break and he would crash to the floor in smithereens!

  Viewing the parlour as she had so many times in the past, she decided that it could not be made to look well with its low ceiling and the uneven walls. Old houses were impossible, all shadows and corners. She remembered, shortly after coming to live in Mossgrove, looking at this room and all the old Phelan photographs. They had eyed her from every wall, but she had soon relegated them to the cupboard on the upstairs landing.