by Iris Gower
Hari rose to her feet and Catherine knew that the interview was over. ‘I’ll send some work home for Doreen to do over the next week or two until she’s recovered.’ Hari opened the door and Catherine paused on the threshold.
‘I wish I could be more like you, Mrs Grenfell,’ she said earnestly.
Hari smiled and rested a hand on Catherine’s shoulder. ‘I think you are already, very much like me. Go on, now, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
The walk back into town was accomplished with comparative ease, it was mostly downhill with the sea spread as a backdrop to the untidy town. Houses, pale in the morning light, spread over the floor of the valley, rising to encroach on the hills above the town.
Catherine felt suddenly elated, warmed by Mrs Grenfell’s act of kindness and by her faith in Catherine’s ability to make good. She would rise above the setbacks, Catherine decided, she would fight to make herself independent, needing no-one but herself to survive. She lifted her head high as a shaft of weak sunlight gleamed brightly on the rain-soaked pavement. Everything was going to be all right.
Amongst the dark hills, in a dark house overshadowed by huge grey rocks, Bethan Hopkins was beginning to put her plans into action.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The land beneath his feet was hard and dead, with little sign of recovery, and Liam felt tears burn in his eyes. He had returned across the Irish Sea with a mingling of happiness and anger burning inside him: happiness that he had once more taken Catherine into his arms and made her his and bitterness at what Hopkins had done to him and to his lands.
He sank down on his haunches and dug his fingers deep into the hardness of the soil, scraping skin from bone in his pain and anger. He ought to thrash Hopkins to within an inch of his life. Some part of Liam’s mind accepted that he was jealous of Boyo Hopkins, the man was young, strong and rich; why did he have to inflict devastation on good arable land? In a way it made little sense. And yet who else could be responsible?
‘Sure, it does no good to cry over spilt milk, my boy.’ The voice behind him startled him out of his reverie, he rose and faced his grandmother.
‘What are you doing out here in the fields, Gran?’ He thrust his bleeding hand into his pockets but Maeve’s eagle eye missed nothing.
‘Same as you. I’m wondering if the soil will come good again.’ She dug at the ground with the heel of her shoe.
‘It’ll come, given a few years.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Maeve folded her arms across her high-necked bodice and stared out across the acres, her eyes shrewd.
‘By then we’ll be ruined.’ Liam’s voice was heavy.
‘I don’t think so.’ Maeve dipped into the pocket of her voluminous apron and took out a thick document. ‘This is for you, Liam.’
It was the last will and testament of Maeve Cullen and Liam, frowning, read through it quickly.
‘Gran, you are going to live for a long time yet.’
‘You bet I am!’ Maeve smiled. ‘Still, there’s nothing stopping me tearing that up and giving you what is yours a little before time, is there?’
‘But Gran, I never realized …’
‘Never realized I had other lands? A wise head keeps a still tongue, my boy. Anyway, those lands are for you.’
‘But what about Dad, and what about my sister? Sure she’ll go mad when she hears of this.’
‘I want the Cullen line to go on and it doesn’t look like your sister will ever get herself a man, let alone a child. In any case, any children she might have will not be Cullens. Patricia will be as mad as hell, as you say, but she’ll just have to put up with it.’ There was a gleam of laughter in her eyes.
‘As to your dad, he knows what I intend to do with my land and he approves.’
Liam smiled, it would be just the same if his father did not approve, Maeve was the sort of woman who had her own way. Unbidden came the thought that Catherine was cut from the same cloth as his grandmother.
‘Get yourself a good wife.’ Maeve might have been reading his thoughts. ‘Catherine O’Conner is a fine, spirited woman, be determined enough and you will win her.’
Liam smiled. ‘Are you a witch, Gran?’
She tapped her nose with her forefinger. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’
Maeve talked in clichés, it was a habit of hers but she was as sharp, quick-witted and more perceptive than most.
‘What are you waiting for? Go and claim your new farmlands, see for yourself what fine land I’ve given you. Oh, and Liam, put this place up for sale.’
‘But who would buy ruined land, Gran?’ Liam said in exasperation.
‘Men who want to build houses, churches, or factories, there are still some of those about the place. Advertise the land, use your brain box, boy.’
Liam leaned forward and kissed his grandmother, his lips brushing the lined face with fondness.
‘You know something, you are not so bad.’
‘Get away with you, Liam Cullen, if that’s your idea of a compliment then ’tis clear you haven’t kissed the Blarney Stone.’
They returned to the house together, Liam matching his steps to Maeve’s slower ones, her arm through his. They walked in silence but there was a bond between them that needed no words.
Patricia was standing in the kitchen, her bags packed on the floor beside her.
‘What’s going on here?’ Maeve spoke more out of curiosity than concern.
‘Well, since there’s nothing here for me I’ve decided to move in with Terrence Duffy.’ She lifted her chin, ‘Any objections?’
‘Rat leaving a sinking ship, sort of thing,’ Maeve said. ‘You are a fool, you know the man can’t put a ring on your finger, he’s already got a wife.’
‘I’m not stupid, I know that.’ Patricia put her hands on her hips and Liam noticed with a dart of surprise mat, though his sister was plain, she had a well-rounded figure.
‘So, you are going to become part of the human race after all,’ Maeve sank into her rocking chair; ‘going to give up your virginity at last.’
‘Gran, do you have to be so crude?’ Patricia’s colour rose alarmingly. ‘I haven’t said I’d go to his bed, only keep house for him while his wife is sick.’
‘Sick in the mind, pour soul,’ Maeve spoke contemplatively; ‘thin as a rake and long as a piece of streaky bacon. She’s been no wife at all to poor Terry these past years.’ Her glance ran over her granddaughter’s tightly buttoned bodice and neat skirt. ‘Take my word for it, Patricia, he’ll be wanting more than a housekeeper.’
Liam stepped forward. ‘Look, Pat, no need for this.’ He glanced towards Maeve. ‘Can I tell her, Gran?’ Maeve shrugged.
‘Gran has given me some land, I can begin again, we can make a go of it. Come with me, be my housekeeper if that’s the sort of job you’re after.’
‘I see, so once again the blue-eyed boy has fallen on his feet. Well, I don’t want to come with you and take the crumbs from your table and I don’t want to stay here with Dad and Gran either. If I’m to be a housekeeper, then I’ll earn my living honestly.’
Maeve concealed a smile. Patricia glared at her angrily. ‘Don’t you laugh at me, Gran. As I remember it was you who urged me to get out into the world and find myself a man.’
‘Well, I’m glad to see that my advice didn’t fall on deaf ears.’ Maeve closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, determined not to be drawn into any further discussion.
‘Right then, I’ll be going.’ Patricia picked up her bags and moved towards the door.
‘Hadn’t you better wait till Dad gets in?’ Liam asked her anxiously.
‘My father knows exactly what I intend to do, it was he who told me it was for the best.’ She glanced around the farmhouse. ‘The place is ruined, a wasteland, what good is it to anyone now?’
The rumble of wheels sounded on the gravel outside. Maeve opened her eyes and there was an impish gleam in their dark depths.
‘Looks like your kni
ght in shining armour has arrived.’
‘Oh very funny, Gran.’ Patricia paused for a moment, her shoulders sagging as she stared through the door at the portly man seated on the cart. He lifted his hat and his bald pate shone in the pale sunlight.
‘You can always change your mind,’ Liam said. Patricia smiled with rare humour.
‘Half a loaf is better than none.’ She glanced at her gran, Maeve’s smile was suddenly warm.
‘I think there’s a bit of me in you yet, Patricia. Treasure it, it’ll be the saving of you, believe me.’
Liam watched as Terrence Duffy helped Patricia into the cart, his weathered face was alight and Liam wondered if perhaps Patricia had not made such a bad bargain after all. When the cart had rolled out of sight, Liam turned from the window.
‘Want some supper, Gran?’ His voice fell into the silent room, Maeve was asleep.
‘I think I’m having the bastard’s baby.’ Doreen looked up at Catherine, her eyes shadowed and heavy. The bruises inflicted by her husband had long since faded from her face and body but as the weeks had passed, her dread had increased and now she was sure, sure that her husband’s last, brutal attack on her had filled her with his child.
Catherine pushed the kettle onto the flames and Doreen could see that she was searching for something to say.
‘I don’t want it,’ Doreen said harshly. ‘I never wanted anything of his.’
Catherine came and sat beside her. ‘Perhaps you’ll change your mind when it’s born.’
‘And how will I keep it?’ Doreen felt anger burn within her. ‘How can I earn my living and carry a baby at the same time? It just can’t be done.’
‘I’ll help,’ Catherine said, ‘and I’m sure Mrs Grenfell will let you work at home. When your time comes, I’ll support us until you are strong again.’
‘Love you, child, you can’t take on such a burden, don’t talk so soft.’ Doreen rose to her feet. ‘I’ve tried hot baths and gin, tried jumping off a chair, nothing will shift it.’
She could see that Catherine was shocked by the seemingly callous words.
‘Look Cath, I hate that man, I don’t want his seed growing inside me. What if I had a boy? Would he be a bully like Meadows?’
‘It might be a lovely little girl,’ Catherine said gently and Doreen shook her head.
‘I just don’t want it, can’t you understand that?’
‘Well, there’s not a lot you can do about it now, is there?’ Catherine said.
‘Oh, isn’t there. Well, just you wait and see, I won’t have Meadows’s child; I don’t want it and I won’t keep it.’
‘You can’t mean to go to old Ma Piper!’ Catherine’s tone was filled with horror. Mrs Piper lived in a run-down house in the poorest part of town, she was old and dirty but adept with a hot crochet hook. Most of the women who went to her for help survived with little harm done; the unlucky few did not.
Doreen knew all of that but she was prepared to face the dangers rather than carry her loathsome husband’s child.
‘Don’t look so worried, love, I know what I’m doing. Now, let’s drop the subject, tell me what’s been going on at the shop, is Mrs Grenfell making a profit do you think?’
Catherine shook her head. ‘I don’t know anything about that but she doesn’t seem so worried these days.’
‘Well, let’s hope she’s pulling herself out of the slump otherwise it’s down the privie for all of us.’
Catherine was still a little naïve, still a bit of a child in spite of her chequered love life. Doreen allowed herself a glimmer of humour, at least Catherine had not been fool enough to get herself married to the first man who bedded her.
It was early next morning when Doreen found herself seated in the front parlour of Mrs Piper’s house.
‘Well, Doreen Meadows, got yourself with child from a seed that’s not your husband’s, is it?’
Doreen smiled thinly. ‘It’s my husband that’s put me like this and I don’t want anything of his, ever.’
‘Can’t say I blame you, knocked you about a bit in his time, hasn’t he? But then, they’re all the same, give ’em plenty of beer and a willing woman and they’re happy.’
Doreen wished the old woman would stop blathering, her hands were sweating, her mouth was dry and suddenly she was afraid. ‘Meadows is not fussy about “willing”, so long as he has his way. Are you going to get on with the job, Mrs Piper, or not?’
‘Get in the kitchen, if you’re in such a hurry, and get your drawers off. Don’t worry, it’ll be over before you know it.’
It was cold in the kitchen, a thin strip of light pierced the gloom between the shabby curtains and the room smelt of stale food. Doreen swallowed hard.
‘Get up on the table then.’ Mrs Piper quickly spread newspaper over the grimy table top. ‘Don’t look so worried, I don’t lose my girls; well, not many of them.’
Doreen hesitated, she felt the urge to run, to get right away from the old woman.
‘Do you want this brat or not?’ The words fell into the silence and Doreen was galvanized into life. She clambered awkwardly onto the table and looked up at the cracked ceiling festooned with cobwebs.
‘Let me get at it then, girl. Come on, you’re no trembling virgin, let’s see what I’m about.’
Doreen closed her eyes, she was cold, she had never been so terrified in all her life, not even when Meadows had beaten her almost senseless. Violence of that kind, she knew; this ordeal before her was very different.
She felt Mrs Piper probe into the deep recesses of her being and reacted abruptly.
‘There, there, don’t clamp your knees together or I can’t do nothing to help. Be easy now, this won’t hurt, I promise you.’
Mrs Piper had, quite clearly, never undergone an operation of this kind, for the pain, when it came, was sharp, searing, threatening to tear Doreen in two.
‘That’s it.’ Mrs Piper sounded pleased with herself. ‘That’s shaken the little birdie off its perch. Want a cup of tea? Don’t charge for that.’
Doreen sat up shakily, reading the kindly phrased offer correctly. She dug in her pocket and brought out the purse of money, money that represented the month’s wages Hari Grenfell had advanced her.
‘Now, get off home with you, do a bit of housework, get the blood flowing, that’s what’s needed now to clear you out good an’ proper.’
Doreen found herself out in the cold air, she felt disorientated, her eyes did not appear to focus clearly on the roadway stretching out before her. It seemed a long way back to her house, though in reality it was a mere two streets away.
Indoors, she sank into a chair, her eyes closing. She smiled weakly remembering Mrs Piper’s exhortations to do a bit of housework and knew she had no strength to lift her arms, let alone wield a broom.
Perhaps she was going to die and perhaps it served her right. What she had done was a mortal sin, at least in the eyes of the Catholic Church to which Doreen had once belonged. But that was when life was clean and simple, that was before she had married Meadows.
The blood came suddenly. Doreen watched abstractedly as the stain spread across her skirt. The room was growing dim, perhaps she should light the lamp. It was too much trouble, the darkness was closing in and it was warm and welcoming.
Catherine walked briskly along the high street turning uphill towards Baptist Well. She was tired, it had been a long day at work but she knew Doreen would have a hot meal waiting and a good fire to welcome her home.
‘Catherine.’ The voice stopped her abruptly. She closed her eyes against the rush of anger, her hands clenching into fists before she composed herself and faced him.
‘What do you want now, Boyo?’ Her tone was as cold as the air around her. ‘Hasn’t it sunk in yet that I’ve got nothing to say to you?’
‘I have to talk to you.’ Boyo reached out towards her but she side-stepped his hand.
‘Go away.’ She pushed past him and stepped into the dim porch of Doreen’s hou
se. She moved along the passage towards the kitchen and, suddenly, the smell of blood, like old iron, was almost tangible. Through the gloom she saw the still figure of Doreen lying on the floor and she cried out in terror.
Footsteps pounded along the passageway behind her. ‘What is it?’ Boyo was beside her, gripping her arms. She shook her head, unable to speak and pointed to where Doreen was slumped against the cold flags.
‘Light the lamp,’ Boyo instructed and she obeyed him with fumbling fingers. ‘Bring it over here.’ Boyo was kneeling down beside the inert figure and as she approached, Catherine could see the dark stain that covered Doreen’s skirt from waist to hem.
‘Is she dead?’ Her voice sounded insubstantial, as though she was whispering in a high-ceilinged church. She held the lamp higher and in the flickering flame she saw that Doreen was waxen, unmoving.
‘Not far from it.’ Boyo rose to his feet. ‘Stay here, I’ll fetch a cab, we’ll take her to the hospital.’ He turned briefly, ‘Get something to wrap her in, she’s like ice, she’s lost a lot of blood.’
Catherine put the lamp carefully on the table and hurried upstairs. She took a thick woollen shawl from one of the beds and paused for a moment, trying to push away the knowledge of what her friend had done, what she must have faced alone. She forced herself to hurry as she retraced her steps back to the kitchen.
She entered the room at the same moment as Boyo did, he took the shawl from her and carefully wrapped it around Doreen before lifting her gently in his arms. The cab driver looked down at them doubtfully but at Boyo’s sharp command, he took up the reins and urged the horse forward.
The hospital corridors were quiet, the brown and green painted walls sombre in the dim lighting. Doreen was taken from Boyo’s arms and swept away behind closed doors.
Boyo took Catherine’s arm and led her to a bench near the entrance of the hospital. Outside, a pale moon glinted through the branches of the young trees planted near the gates.
‘How did this happen?’ Boyo said, leaning towards Catherine.
Catherine shook her head. ‘Doreen was having a child.’ Her voice was strained. ‘Her husband raped her and she didn’t want it. She must have gone to old Ma Piper. Poor Doreen, will she be all right?’