Mary Foley, the girl from down the road who sometimes played with her and who sat three rows behind her at school, thought Rachel’s bedroom was the nicest bedroom she had ever been in and envied her hugely. Mary had to share a bedroom with two sisters and a baby brother. There wasn’t any room to play the great games that Rachel could play. It was a nice room, Rachel decided as she untied the straps of her shoes and took off her socks. As well as her quilt-covered bed, she had a small oak wardrobe and a dressing-table. It had three mirrors that you could move backwards and forwards and, although parts of it were chipped and stained, Rachel was able to view herself from any angle. Which was very satisfying when you were dressing up.
When she was sick enough for her father to think she could stay home from school, her mother would light a fire if it was winter. Rachel would watch the flames crackling and flickering, casting great dancing shadows on the walls, and feel very safe and sound. Patrick McKeown and his cronies couldn’t get at her in her little haven. She sometimes longed to develop some dreadful illness that would keep her bedridden until her schooldays were over. It was something she prayed to God for when things were very bad. So far, He had not obliged.
It was just as well she hadn’t any serious illness today though, she decided as she stuck her head out the window, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to go on the picnic. And anyway it wouldn’t be very nice to have to spend the summer holidays in bed. It was beautiful outside. The main street was bathed in sunlight. She could see a heat haze shimmering around the church spire at the end of the street. Flynn’s grocery shop, across the road, had a big canopy over the entrance to protect from the heat. Martin Ryan, the butcher, had one too, with a big red stripe that could be seen a mile away from the top of Barry’s Hill. Beside them was Morrissey’s newsagents and sweet shop, where Hilda, her classmate, was allowed to use the cash-register. In the summer, Mr Morrissey opened up the little lean-to beside the shop. In it he stocked souvenirs of every kind, for any tourists who might pass through the village. Leprechauns, mugs with shamrocks, tea towels with A Taste of Ireland written on them. There was all sorts there and it gave the village an air of excitement when the lean-to was opened.
‘The tourist season is on us again,’ people would say. Windows would be washed, doorknockers polished and Powells and O’Hanlons would put out their B&B signs. There was fierce rivalry between the Powells and the O’Hanlons for the tourists who came to the village in summer. Last summer Bridie Powell caught Cissie O’Hanlon actually poaching a tourist who was heading up Bridie’s drive. Cissie assured the elderly American that she ran a much better guest house at very reasonable rates and that Powell’s was just a dirty old kip of a place. Bridie had been incandescent with rage. She gave a shriek that would have woken the dead up in the cemetery, flung open her front door and launched herself on Cissie, much to the dismay of the poor tourist, who took to his heels and departed the village with remarkable speed, muttering something about it being safer to live in the wild west. The fisticuffs had been the talk of the village for months. Sergeant Roach had to separate the pair and threaten to arrest them. Solicitors’ letters had been exchanged and both women ended up in court and were bound over to keep the peace. It had been a delicious topic of gossip for the inhabitants of Rathbarry and great mileage had been got out of it for months after.
So far today, Rachel observed as she peered out of the window, there were no tourists in Morrissey’s lean-to, none heading for Bridie’s or Cissie’s. It was a quiet day in the village of Rathbarry. Only Ryan’s dog sprawled lazily outside the butchers, his nose twitching in annoyance as the flies buzzed around him. A delicious smell of apple crumble floated upwards. Rachel’s stomach rumbled with hunger. She skipped out of her bedroom into the bathroom across the landing. She filled the sink and washed her hands and face, wincing as the face-cloth touched her ear and neck where Patrick McKeown had flicked the marbles at her. She was blowing a big soap bubble when she heard her mother’s footsteps at the top of the stairs. Hastily Rachel let the water out of the sink. She’d better stop dawdling, her ma was always chiding her for daydreaming and dawdling.
‘Are you ready yet, Rachel?’ Theresa asked and then Rachel heard her give a little gasp. She turned around and saw that her mother had gone pale. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, child!’ she exclaimed. ‘Who did that to you?’
Chapter Three
Rachel felt the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘Who did what, Mammy?’ she asked lightly, but her heart was beginning to thump.
‘Look at you! Look at the bruises on your neck, look at the blood on your knickers.’ Her mother was down on her knees examining Rachel’s bottom. Rachel peered over her shoulder and with a sense of shock saw that there were two huge bloodstains on her knickers. It must have been where Patrick stabbed her with the compass. She was mad with herself. If she hadn’t dawdled her mother would never have seen her bruises. Her heart sank as Theresa, who was still kneeling, put her arms around her and stared into her eyes. ‘Tell me the truth now, Rachel. I want to know who did this to you, because I’m going to kill them.’ Her mother’s eyes were bright with anger in the whiteness of her pale face.
Rachel wanted so badly to burst out, ‘It was Patrick McKeown,’ but she knew if she did, and her mother told her father, Patrick McKeown would be in serious trouble and she would be dead. With her throat slit from ear to ear. ‘Mammy, it was no-one,’ she said hastily.
‘Rachel! I want to know what’s going on. Who did this to you?’ Theresa cuddled her close. ‘Come on, tell me now,’ she urged. Rachel’s lower lip wobbled.
‘Don’t tell Daddy, sure you won’t? Promise me you won’t tell Daddy.’ She sniffled.
‘I have to tell Daddy, love,’ Theresa declared.
‘Well then I’m not telling you.’ Rachel pulled away from her mother and started to cry.
‘Why can’t we tell Daddy?’
‘’Cos we can’t. Promise. Promise, Mammy. Please.’ Rachel was desperate.
‘All right, all right. Just tell me who did it.’ Theresa was frantic.
‘It was Patrick McKeown, and Mammy if he knows I told you he’s going to slit my throat an’ murder me.’ It all burst out of her. After three years of suppressing and hiding her fear and torment, the relief of telling made her cry even harder.
‘Stop crying, pet. Stop crying, no-one’s going to murder you and no-one is ever going to do this to you again.’ Her mother hugged her so tightly Rachel could hardly breathe, but she didn’t care. Having her mother hold her tightly made her feel safe and secure. Her mother was the best mother in the world.
‘Sure you won’t tell Daddy so Patrick won’t get into trouble ’cos then I’d be called a tattle-tale at school and everyone hates tattle-tales!’ Rachel begged. Now that her mother knew, Patrick McKeown didn’t seem such a terrifying personage.
‘Oh Rachel,’ her mother murmured, burying her face in her little girl’s curls. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell Daddy.’ I’ll handle it myself, she decided grimly. Rachel, unaware of her mother’s plans, suddenly felt quite light-hearted. She had no school for two whole months. With luck she wouldn’t see that horrible bully for the whole summer. They were going on a picnic. And there was apple crumble for dessert.
‘You’re very quiet in yourself, Theresa,’ William remarked as he stirred the Ovaltine into their mugs. Now that he was finally on his holidays he felt quite pleased with himself and was ready to chat to his wife. When he’d got home from school there was a note to tell him to heat his dinner in a saucepan because Theresa and the children had gone on a picnic. He’d felt quite miffed actually. They could at least have asked him if he wanted to go instead of just gadding off without him. True, he might not have gone. He had some paperwork to do. But it would have been nice to have been asked all the same. More to the point he might very well have refused Miss Rachel permission to go after her misbehaviour. If her mother knew about it she might not have taken their daughter on a picnic.
He hadn’t ha
d the chance to tell Theresa about Rachel’s misdemeanour because he’d had to go to a board of management meeting for the school at seven p.m. and they still weren’t home from their picnic then. By the time he’d got back at nine, Rachel and Ronan were in bed fast asleep and his wife wasn’t in a very chatty mood. Even now, when he told her that she was very quiet in herself, she just sat staring into the middle distance as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
‘Are you listening to me at all? I said you’re very quiet in yourself.’ William handed his wife her Ovaltine and sat down in the armchair opposite her. The sun had set and dusky shadows of umber and terracotta darkened the room. William stretched up his hand and switched on the lamp above his head, arching an enquiring eyebrow at his wife.
‘I’m just a bit tired, that’s all,’ Theresa murmured, sipping her hot drink.
‘Well what can you expect going all over the countryside on a picnic? You know you’re not supposed to exert yourself,’ he lectured self-righteously. ‘At least if you had waited until I came home I could have carried the picnic basket.’
‘I didn’t know what time you’d be home from school what with it being your last day and I wanted to give the children a bit of a treat to start off their holidays. They deserve it,’ his wife answered.
‘Indeed and Miss Rachel didn’t deserve it,’ William retorted. ‘I had to put her standing in the corner today for disobedience.’
‘You did what?’ Theresa looked horrified.
‘I had to put her standing in the corner for getting out of her seat when she and the rest of the class were expressly told not to,’ William said coldly, rather taken aback by his wife’s reaction.
‘Did you ask her why she was out of her seat?’ Theresa demanded, jumping to her feet. ‘She probably had a perfectly good explanation. How can you do that to your own daughter? You’re always picking on her. You bully her and you always have done.’ Two pink spots stained the pallor of Theresa’s face as she glowered at her husband.
William was shocked. What on earth was wrong with Theresa? This was most extraordinary behaviour. Usually she was extremely placid. He felt very hurt by her accusations. Didn’t she realize that he couldn’t possibly treat his daughter, or son for that matter, any differently from the other pupils. ‘That’s a most unfair accusation, Theresa. I don’t know why you’re making it,’ he said huffily. ‘You know I can’t give Rachel and Ronan special treatment at school just because I’m their father. I have to treat them like the other children.’
‘That’s just an excuse, William, you never miss an opportunity to put her down or correct her. And don’t think I don’t know why, because I do!’ Theresa was beside herself with anger.
‘What on earth are you talking about, woman? What’s got into you?’ William growled, totally mystified as to why his normally mild wife should have turned into this virago standing in front of him, with blazing eyes.
Theresa pointed an accusing finger. ‘I know you’ve always blamed Rachel because we can’t have marital relations. I know you feel it was her fault because of the hard time I had giving birth to her. You’ve never shown the poor little scrap any love or affection. Don’t think for one minute that you’ve fooled me because you haven’t. You hold her responsible because you’ve been deprived. Well I’ll tell you one thing, William Stapleton, you should be ashamed of yourself. You don’t deserve the children you’ve got and they deserve much more than what they get from you.’
The bitterness in his wife’s voice left him speechless. How could Theresa accuse him of blaming Rachel because he had to abstain from relations with his wife. It was ludicrous. He had never once made any demands or reproached Theresa because of her failure as a wife in that area of their marriage. It was a point of pride with him that he could control himself and act responsibly. How could she possibly say he held it against Rachel? It wasn’t true. Not in the slightest.
‘I think you’ve said enough,’ he said stiffly. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you. Perhaps you should go and see the doctor in the morning. I’m going to bed.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s got into me, William Stapleton. Our daughter came home from your school today covered in bruises. Bleeding from being stabbed with a compass. And what do I hear from you? That you put her standing in a corner because she was out of her chair. She was probably trying to get away from the little bastards who were bullying her. You didn’t bother to find out, did you? Oh no! You just did your big headmaster act. Some headmaster! When you can’t even see what’s going on under your own nose.’ Theresa’s voice shook with emotion.
William was flabbergasted. ‘Who . . . how . . . what . . .’ he stuttered, stunned at what he’d just heard. Rachel being bullied at school. Surely not! No-one would have the nerve to bully the headmaster’s daughter. ‘Are you sure of this?’ he demanded. ‘Why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Tell you,’ Theresa said scornfully. ‘You’d probably say she shouldn’t tell fibs or something. The child is afraid of her life of you.’
‘Theresa, I am not an ogre,’ he barked. ‘That’s patent rubbish. Now tell me who bullied Rachel so I can deal with it.’
‘Oh no, William!’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘Rachel nearly had hysterics when I said you should know. She made me promise not to tell you so the little brat won’t get into trouble and she’d be branded as a tattle-tale. And you know, maybe she’s right.’
‘Don’t be preposterous, Theresa,’ he interrupted his wife angrily, ‘I demand to know the name of this child who’s bullying Rachel. For all we know maybe he or she is bullying other children as well. It’s my duty as headmaster to know about things like that.’
‘Sod your duty as headmaster. What about your duty as a father?’ William’s eyes widened behind their spectacles at Theresa’s uncharacteristic language. ‘I promised Rachel that I wouldn’t tell and I’m not going to break that promise. I’ll deal with this myself whether you like it or not. And if that doesn’t suit, well you can go to hell. And from now on you take it easy with Rachel and Ronan. I’ve let you away with too much in the past. I won’t let them be bullied any more, William. Rachel is scared stiff of you. I want my children to grow up with a damn sight more self-confidence than I ever had. I want them to grow up happy and confident. Not two introverted little scholars, passing all sorts of exams and without a friend or a bit of joy in the world. And I’ll tell you one thing.’ She glared at him. ‘You can forget this nonsense about you giving them extra tuition for the holidays because that’s out. Those children are going to have a happy carefree summer for once in their lives and if you don’t like it you can lump it.’ Theresa marched out the door, giving it a hard slam for good measure.
Never in all the years of their marriage had Theresa spoken to him like that. With such disrespect. He couldn’t understand it. Naturally she was upset because Rachel had been bullied. Who wouldn’t be? He was upset himself and he was going to get to the bottom of it. But it was almost as if she blamed him for it. And she’d called him a bully. That was no way for a wife to behave. He felt extremely hurt. What was wrong with Theresa? He was a bloody good husband, better than a lot he knew. She never wanted for anything. There was always plenty of food. He didn’t skimp on coal. Whatever she needed she only had to ask. And whatever she said, he was a good responsible father who wanted the best for his children. There was nothing wrong with wanting them to do well at school. That was the only way to get on. It was all very well having carefree summers. Fun and games didn’t get you through exams and without exams they wouldn’t get proper jobs. It was a hard world out there. Theresa, cushioned by the comfortable sheltered life she led, didn’t realize that.
Whatever was wrong with her, he hoped it wouldn’t last for long. This kind of behaviour was most unsettling. Maybe she was starting the change or something. Women went a bit peculiar around that time of life, or so he heard. With a heavy heart, William switched off the lamp and went to his bed.
Theresa lay in bed, he
r heart racing. She couldn’t believe that she had stood up to William and let fly at him the way she had. But she had felt outraged and angry when he’d told her about putting Rachel in the corner at school. Again the images of the bruises and bloodstains on Rachel’s poor little body came to mind and tears sprang to her eyes. It was awful to think that you couldn’t protect your child from bullies like Patrick McKeown and from all the hurt and trauma that was out there in the world.
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