“Of course she did. She and most of the Ludlow Ladies’ Society are good eggs, not that I could ever open up about Barry.”
“A pity.”
“I am well rid of him anyway. Did Eve tell you?”
“An accident five years ago, she said.”
“If you want to call it that.”
“What do you mean?”
Hetty checked around her, as if she was afraid somebody might be listening.
“Did Eve tell you what sort of accident?”
“Only that you found him beside the bench on the front lawn the next morning.”
“I did. I called the Gardaí and the doctor. He had a gash on his head. They think he fell on the way back from the pub, keeled over in his own front garden.”
“I am sorry.”
“Don’t be, Connie. The bastard was finally dead. I thought I was free of him. There was quite a spectacle of grief at his funeral, women openly crying, but his widow unable to shed a tear. Everybody put it down to shock.” Hetty’s voice was shaking. “I thought I was well rid of him. I never thought his hold on me would reach beyond the grave. I could not let go of him, I was still too afraid of him, or maybe that somebody would find out what really happened that early morning, when he died.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am not afraid any more. It is a funny thing to say, but slicing up the bastard’s clothes, especially his shirts, cleared the fear which was festering in my heart.”
Connie listened without saying a word.
“He beat me black and blue before he went out to the pub, something about his shoes not polished the night before, forcing him to buff them up with a rag that morning. He said it made him late all day.” Hetty looked at Connie. “It never had to make sense to get Barry angry.”
She leaned closer to Connie.
“He went off to the pub, I crawled upstairs to the spare room and lay on the bed. He was gone about three hours or more. The front gate clicked in the late night as he opened it. I could hear him muttering under his breath. There was a fierce ground frost that night. He was swaggering across the lawn; I could just make him out in the beam of the outside light. I don’t know why, but he diverted to the garden seat. Suddenly, his legs were gone from under him; he slipped, hitting his head on the bench.
“I was frozen to the spot, waiting for him to get up, but there was no movement. I opened the window, quietly listening. God forgive me, I heard him moaning. I heard him call out. His voice was low and weak.”
Hetty pulled in a deep breath of air, her chest heaving bigger.
“I stood in darkness at that window. I was shaking all over, no part of me could move, even if I wanted. All I knew was: if he survived this, he would kill me. Does it make any sense?”
Hetty did not wait for an answer.
“I waited a long time, I don’t remember much of it. I know the moaning continued and I closed the window, sitting in the dark. At six I went downstairs, that was the usual time for the light to go on in the kitchen. I began to get his breakfast ready. I am not sure I ever thought it through. I was in a state of shock, I can’t say more than that.
“The strange thing was that I called him for his breakfast as normal. It was only when he did not arrive that I checked outside and found him. I ran to the neighbours and they dialled 999.”
Hetty got up from the table and went to the sink, where she fiddled with a tea cloth.
“My distress was real. I was not sure what had happened the night before. All I knew was that he was dead. It appeared to be a dreadful accident.
“It was months before I acknowledged I had a part to play in his death.”
She swung around to Connie.
“I never regretted it. However, I will never forget the feeling of that night. It has haunted me. I have paid the price all these years, unable to move on with my life.”
Connie went to Hetty, catching her up in a tight embrace.
“I understand, Hetty. I understand.”
Hetty burrowed into her shoulder, tears raging through her, the relief of finally telling flowing through her.
After a few minutes, she pulled away. Beckoning Connie to follow, she made for the drawing room, where she laid out her quilt on the floor.
“Do you see that deep-pink square? That was the shirt he was wearing that night. He looked a right peacock in it.” She began to blubber again. “I can’t bear to show this at the town festival, but Eve will never understand. It is beautiful, but for me it is the past that needs to be banished, not celebrated.”
“What do you want to do with it?” Connie asked gently.
“Take it out to the field and watch it burn.”
Connie picked up one side of the quilt.
“Let’s do it.”
“Eve will be so cross.”
“I don’t think she will.”
Hetty did not need persuading. Grabbing a box of firelighters and matches from the bucket beside the fireplace, Connie let Hetty carry the quilt.
They walked together down the stone steps at the front, climbed over the fence and marched out to the middle of the paddock.
“What will we do if anybody comes along?”
“You can blame the crazy American,” Connie said, making them both giggle.
Connie got out the firelighters and matches, and Hetty cupped her hands around the firelighter bundle, to shield it from the breeze as Connie struck a match. The firelighters took hold and they placed a corner of the quilt on the flame, but it barely scorched the fabric and quilt backing.
“I think we need to build a good fire first. I will get some sticks,” Connie said, and she ran back to the barn, where she knew there was a stack.
Carrying an armful of sticks and peat logs, she made her way back to the front paddock.
“If we light all that, the house might be in danger,” Hetty laughed. She held up the quilt to shield the small fire Connie had built. The lower twigs began to crackle, the peat logs taking hold until there was a good, strong fire.
“If anybody asks, we will say we are having a barbecue,” Connie said, making Hetty throw her eyes to the sky.
After twenty minutes, they managed to throw the patchwork quilt on the fire. It smoked hard, making them cough as it burned, some of the fabric melting faster than others.
“This memory quilt has set me free,” Hetty said quietly.
When they were sure the quilt had burned away black, Connie and Hetty walked back to the house, hand in hand.
23
Connie could not sleep, so she went down to the drawing room, where the patches that were once Molly’s clothes were stacked high. Neatly cut into squares of the same size, there were six piles, each one representing a year.
She sat and looked at them. Had it come to this? All the parts that made up Molly, summed up in a few stacks of fabric. A part of her wanted to kick the hills of fabric, yell that life was unfair.
“Here I am. Just love me, Mommy.”
The words calmed her down, so she got on her knees, filtering through the patches. Some would have to be lined; others were already ready for placing. She picked up the plain blue patch, a tiny pocket, the shape of a red heart sewed into it in a zigzag stitch. Hetty had a good eye, to pick this little pocket from the overalls Molly wore when she was painting. All the times she had traced that heart, taking off her overalls so she could properly see it.
Behind one of the piles, a T-shirt was neatly folded. Connie picked it up. “Mommy’s Little Girl”. She knew Hetty had left it there, unsure whether to include it. Connie held the T-shirt close to her face. It was cold from being on the drawing room floor, but she hardly noticed.
They were in the mall one day when Connie saw the T-shirt. Molly pranced about, asking what it said. Connie closed her eyes, feeling the carefree sense of that day, as they wandered hand in hand, making slow progress, but so happy together, Molly sometimes catching on to her leg. Her heart lifted, but as quickly as the memory embraced her, it was gone.
> Shivering, she picked up the Disney top. They had such a lovely time. Molly was three years of age and it was their first family holiday, a perfect week. Molly insisted on wearing her Minnie Mouse T-shirt every day. When they got back, there was an offer on the Manhattan apartment Ed had been left by his mother. It would fund the family home she craved for Molly. Ed had promised this time he would ringfence funds for a fine home. Life was good.
Diverting herself away from the next year, when Ed became moody, angry and secretive, she decided to lay out the quilt on the floor, starting with the blue pyjama-top patch at the centre.
Eve had suggested lots of little squares around, radiating out to the first four years, the last year as long strips around the outside. She tried to do this now, putting a variety of colours and tops together from each year. She did not even notice when Eve came in, she was concentrating so hard.
“I would not worry so much on the coordination. The best thing about a memory quilt is the jumble of special moments.”
“Hetty colour coordinated her quilt.”
“I think Hetty replicated her husband’s life: small, petty, perfectly captured in the little squares. Not that anyone will see it now.”
“Hetty told you what we did?”
“Do you really think Hetty could keep that to herself? When we came back from Belfast, she was in the door after us, saying she had to talk to me in private.”
“Are you upset?”
“I am down a quilt for the festival, but Hetty is happy. What I feel does not come into it. Have you given Bill his answer yet?”
“I told him next weekend is good for a visit.”
“That is something. I am glad.”
“I wish I was, Eve.”
“You both will find a way.”
Connie stood up, surveying the quilt. “I just wish things were different.”
Eve stood by Connie. “It is going to be a beautiful quilt, Connie. Will you exhibit at the festival?”
“I don’t want everybody asking about it, sympathising with me. I don’t want that, not again.”
“Molly had a full life in her five years. I can see it in the colours and the variety of the fabric. A little girl who was much loved.”
Connie sank into the wingback chair. Her stomach felt sick, her mouth dry.
“I failed her, Eve. I failed her.”
Eve turned sharply around. “You did not. You are not responsible for the actions of her father. He failed her, not you.”
“You don’t know all of it, Eve. He knew I was planning to leave, and he knew I could never leave without her. A week earlier I’d told him I needed a break, but he begged me to stay. He knew I was almost afraid to leave. Molly paid the price for my indecision.”
“Going back over it will never give a satisfactory answer, only raise ghosts who bring no comfort.”
“I was so caught up in myself, I missed the signs. He ploughed all our money into Ludlow Hall without my knowing anything. He knew if I left him and asked for a divorce I would want half our assets. He must have realised if I walked out on him he would be exposed as a conman who had cleaned out our savings.”
“Is that why he did this?”
“Who knows how his mind was working?”
“I don’t understand these men at all. Why he could not . . .” Eve wavered, suddenly realising what she had to say might ignite too much pain.
Connie sighed. “Why he could not have done it to himself and left Molly? I will never know, Eve.” She picked up a few squares of fabric. “Maybe he knew that leaving me like this, without Molly, would be far more painful than taking me out too.” Connie gulped back the tears, pressing around her eyes to stem the flow. “Will I get a start on the tacking?”
Eve took the hint. “I will get the steam iron and sewing machine set up.”
Eve clattered around getting herself organised, while Connie concentrated on her sewing, the patches in her hand from year four, when Molly began to pick her own clothes and opt for trousers more than dresses.
“Life was so simple back then, or maybe that is just the way it looks from this perspective.” Suddenly she put down her sewing. “I never asked you about Belfast.”
Eve, a smile across her face, held out her hand to show off a solitaire diamond ring.
“Fantastic, are you engaged?”
“We are, but we are not making it public until Michael has told his family.”
“I am so happy for you, Eve, for you both, I really am.”
When the van from the town florist pulled up on the front driveway, both women were surprised; neither had seen or heard it on the avenue.
Eve stood up. “I will go if you like.”
Connie nodded, smiling her appreciation as Eve went to the front door. When she came back, she was carrying a huge bunch of red roses.
“My guess is that these are from that nice young man of yours,” she said, presenting the bouquet to Connie, who burst into tears.
“Take them out of my sight, Eve, please.”
“What? Why? What is wrong this time? Not again, Connie.”
Connie, clenching her fists, walked across the room.
“All right, I will take them out to the yard,” Eve said, scurrying off to leave the flowers in the empty water trough outside the barn.
When she came back in, Connie was pacing between the windows in the drawing room.
“I am sorry, Eve, you must think me crazy, but since Molly died, and the funeral, I can’t bear cut flowers.”
“I brought the card for you to read.”
She handed a small red envelope to Connie, who took out the card, reading it aloud.
“Dearest Connie, looking forward to seeing you on Friday. All my love, Bill.”
“Just lovely, red roses, the most expensive,” Eve said.
“Please, Eve, take them with you.”
“That is very kind of you, I am sure, but they are for you. If Bill has any sense, he will say I am more trouble than I am worth.”
“I very much doubt that. And what am I going to say to Michael Conway when he comes to the house and sees a beautiful bouquet on the kitchen table?”
“Don’t tell him anything. Keep him on his toes.”
They both laughed, fiddling with the patchwork.
After a while, Eve raised her head.
“That young man of yours is keen. I don’t know him, but I think you should grab the little bit of happiness that is being offered to you.”
“Bill is lovely. He deserves a lot better than Connie O’Baggage.”
“We all have baggage, whether we know it or not. Look at what Michael Conway took on.”
“Yours is such a lovely love story.”
Eve blushed pink, making Connie giggle.
“Less of the talk now. There is a fine group of ladies due here any minute.”
She had only said it when they saw Kathryn Rodgers leading a convoy of cars up the avenue. Connie made her excuses and disappeared upstairs as Eve opened the front door.
“I have an army with me today, Eve,” Kathryn said, directing the women into the drawing room. They set to work straight away, as if they had been briefed on what to do.
Bernie Martin pulled out a plaid skirt.
“It is my old school uniform. Do you think we need to put a square in the Rosdaniel quilt?”
“We can do whatever we like. Were the nuns nice to you?” Dana asked.
Bernie shook her head. “Nice was not part of their language.”
“What does the skirt say to you then?” said Dana.
Bernie looked agitated. “That the principal, Sister Margaret, could stop me at any time and run her hands up and down my thighs and legs.”
Those who were sewing put down their work and looked at Bernie.
“Are you telling me the head nun went around feeling up everybody?” Dana said.
“It was all pretty stupid. The nuns in the secondary school decided we had to wear white bobby socks, but were afraid because
bare skin was visible above the knee, so they decided we had to wear tan tights as well.”
“Dreadfully uncomfortable,” Marcella interjected.
“A few of us got a bottle of fake tan and lathered it on our legs from the knees up. Sister Margaret was fooled for a few days, but I suppose we gave the game away by suddenly appearing too compliant. Next, she starts doing spot checks, getting down on her knees and feeling around our knees and up under our skirts.”
Eithne Hall chuckled. “Remember the day Daisy O’Brien let off a big stinking fart just as Sister was kneeling in front of her?”
“And she got double detention for not wearing her tan tights and fuming up the corridor.”
Eve looked from one woman to another. “You are having us on.”
“We are not. It only stopped when the bank manager complained his daughter had been indecently assaulted and he threatened to call the Gardaí.”
Kathryn took the skirt.
“Jesus Christ, throw the bloody thing out. I am sick and tired of the religious, they only ever had time for those with money and influence.” Tossing back her brown hair, she continued. “I know it might appear difficult to understand when you see me now, but when I was growing up we had absolutely nothing. I fought for everything I have achieved.”
“So you keep reminding us,” Eithne remarked, and everybody busied themselves with their work while Bernie threw the plaid school skirt on the pile for the dump.
Date: May 2, 2013
Subject: THE LUDLOW LADIES’ SOCIETY
Ludlow ladies,
Now is the time to work even harder. We are nearly there. It is all go getting the patchwork quilts ready. Eve Brannigan and Hetty Gorman are leading the way when it comes to devoting time and energy to the project. Can we please ask you ladies to continue to attend the weekly meetings of the Ludlow Ladies’ Society at Ludlow Hall. Everybody’s contribution is vital at this stage to get the project over the line.
The Ludlow Ladies’ Society has always prided itself on its exceptional teamwork. Some on the Rosdaniel quilt dropped out once they stitched their patches, but that is hardly fair. We need all hands to the pumps for this last push to get everything finished.
On a different note entirely, I have heard from impeccable sources that Jack Davoren has seen the contents of our emails and is quite exercised by the references to him. This is for you, Jack!
The Ludlow Ladies Society Page 20