He looks across at her and wants to laugh. She is staring at him with desperate eyes. Having seen the child’s body, he can understand why. It is ridiculous that she should be pregnant.
‘How can you be sure she is . . . with child?’
‘She hasn’t been bleeding.’
Behind the woman, his wife appears, her face soft. He wonders fleetingly about the timing, the parade, the moment of Easter rebirth.
‘Ellen,’ he says gently. ‘Like I said in the church, she must have . . .’
The woman looks up at him. ‘Father, she wouldn’t!’
‘Yes,’ he says, carefully. ‘Shouldn’t you take her to . . . Shouldn’t you call a doctor? Just to be safe?’
‘I trained as a midwife, Father. I can look after her.’
Her voice is wavering again, and he can see the pride this is costing her, the fragility of her hold on the world. He remembers again the feeling of pity, care. It rises up like something wholesome. He looks past her to his wife, soft and concerned.
‘Come downstairs,’ she murmurs. ‘I’ll give you lunch.’
He stops in the church again on his way home. He wonders about the child, wonders if he should pray. It seems a long time since he has. He kneels, and his wife appears in her normal seat, just as she did during the service. It is Mary, he thinks again. When he focuses on Mary, his wife comes. He bows his head and says the words, but the whole time he is really feeling for his wife’s presence there. It still counts, he thinks. There is a sensation of the divine. It is worship. He stands and dusts the knees of his trousers, helps himself to a mouthful of the communion wine, locks the door behind him.
At home, the afternoon stretches slowly on into dusk. He sits in the kitchen and does nothing but watch the light change. His wife is not there. Fatigue weighs on him, the parade, the Easter services. Easter Monday was always their day of rest. He regresses, feels his body and his mind draw to a stop. Twice he opens his mouth to speak to his wife, forgetting. It is the aftermath, he thinks to himself. The natural balance to all that he has been feeling; a consequence to this newfound energy. He thinks of the woman, of Ellen, the soft sensation of her caring for him, feeding him, providing for him. Serving him. She was quiet while he ate, for once. The meal opened up a space for him to relax, and now, here at home, the result . . . He feels certain, he realises, for the first time in a long time, of the fact that he is needed. He sits and absorbs the idea. The light slowly fades.
In the night, Father John dreams: light-filtered and easy. It is of a piece with his afternoon, nothing strange or surreal, but suffused with a benign slowness. There is the idea of music. He is conscious, but unsure whether he has created this dream himself, or if it has created him. He has a vague suspicion that this dream has been coming to him for days, weeks even. As he realises this, as he reaches this point, everything changes. The girl is there, dressed as she was in the parade, and lifted above the crowd. They will cherish her, he knows. They must. She is pregnant. And it is not from a boyfriend, or a man, or from him – it is not in any way a human event. She is pregnant by God. She is made sublime, haloed and pure. She is radiant, and they will adore her.
When he wakes, he cannot remember what he has been dreaming, but for the sense of music, and a beautiful notion of security. He sleeps again, dreamless and easy.
*
Mrs Keillor sits with a cup of tea in her hands. Across the table, Val’s mouth is slack, Mrs Keillor can see the silver fillings in her molars. They have come to see the grapes.
‘It’s real,’ Ellen says again. ‘I told you. Just those three rows, no others.’
‘But really, Ellen,’ Mrs Keillor mumbles, ‘don’t be silly.’
‘Why not?’ There is a hint of aggression to it, cut by her excitement.
Mrs Keillor looks down at her hands, out the window, avoids the question. Outside, the sun shines on the flapping roof of the dilapidated shed.
‘Is she home, your girl?’ Val asks, to change the subject. ‘Are they on holidays?’
‘She’s asleep,’ Ellen says. Her voice has a strange inflection. ‘She’s . . . She won’t be back at school for a while. Do you want to see the fruit?’
They stand, all three of them, and Mrs Keillor places her teacup back in its saucer. There is a new cloth on the table, starched white. She can feel the effort the mother has gone to. Pride, she wonders. What a strange thing!
The smell of the river blows up from the village towards them as they walk out into the vines. She went to look, the morning of the parade. The algae had congealed red-brown on the surface, dead fish floating within. She wrinkles her nose, and wonders if Harry would dig it out. Ellen is in front, leading them across the yard and towards the vines, Val behind her, twisting to look back up at the bedroom windows upstairs.
‘Come on,’ Ellen calls. ‘Over here!’ She is pointing. From the vines, tiny bunches of green fruit hang soft within the leaf. Mrs Keillor steps back, surprised. It is one thing to have heard of it, another entirely to see it. Down the row, they are visible here and there. Small birds dart in and out among the leaves, picking at them. What was strange as a story seems wondrous there in the vines. The breeze stirs again, and with it comes the smell of the river, a dank undertone to the green of the leaves.
‘But how?’ Val asks, her mouth open again.
Further across the hill, other vines have already begun to change colour, their leaves starting to droop.
‘See! It’s a miracle,’ Ellen crows. She has one hand to the cross hanging from her neck and glances back towards the house. ‘I told you!’
At home, Mrs Keillor makes herself a cup of tea and lets herself simply think. No one else has reported the fruiting. Others are talking already about pruning. The turning is early in places; the leaves should last longer. So it’s not unnatural that the Burnetts’ vines are still green . . . But fruit! Fruit shouldn’t be. She shakes her head and puts her cup down on the table untouched. She picks up her car keys and leaves the kitchen.
Down at the store, there is a small knot of women at the counter, Val and two others. She can sense the intensity of their conversation even from the doorway. She is reminded of the church and Easter Sunday, the weight of the girl at the altar. This will fascinate them, she realises. She remembers the whole village there, watching.
Betty Smith turns to her. ‘Have you heard Ellen Burnett’s story?’
‘We’ve seen the grapes,’ she replies.
‘It’s real,’ Val says. ‘She showed us. She thinks it’s a miracle.’
‘Come now. It was beautiful,’ Mrs Keillor chides. ‘Strange, but very lovely to see.’
The women murmur, look at each other.
‘You haven’t heard the rumour, though?’ Betty chimes in.
‘Mary,’ Sarah breaks in from behind the counter. ‘They’re saying she’s pregnant.’
‘Like the parade!’
‘What do you mean, like the parade?’ Mrs Keillor asks.
‘Maybe she’s pregnant from God,’ Sarah says, laughing. For the second time in her day, Mrs Keillor feels herself recoil with surprise.
Val dissolves into giggles. ‘Surely not . . .’
‘Well,’ Mrs Keillor says, ‘either way, I don’t think it is a subject for gossip. Shame!’
The ladies all tut-tut and fall silent. Betty Smith sucks her cheeks in, and Mrs Keillor waits for the challenge. From the back room, the phone rings, and Sarah turns away to answer it. They all watch and wait.
‘The baby’s coming,’ she squeals as she returns. There is a moment’s puzzlement.
‘What, Mary’s?’ Val asks stupidly.
‘No, no, Lizzie’s!’ Sarah says. ‘Betty, it’s your husband. She’s in labour. You’re going to be a grandmother! They want you there.’
The ladies all yelp and laugh; there is a push for cars.
‘Call Ellen,’ Mrs Keillor shouts over her shoulder as she leaves. ‘If someone hasn’t already.’
Sarah nods and waves.<
br />
The house is dark, curtains drawn, and heavy with body heat and anticipation. The women linger in the living room, Val pouring tea and fussing over Betty’s son, who jumps every time his wife screams from the bedroom.
‘Betty is with her,’ she says as Mrs Keillor walks in. ‘It isn’t going so well. Ellen’s in there already.’
‘Right,’ Mrs Keillor says. One hand flutters to her neck, her mouth. ‘She was breech, wasn’t she?’
‘Should we be here? Perhaps we should go,’ Val says.
‘They might need us,’ Mrs Keillor says. ‘If . . .’ She finds herself unable to finish the sentence, and Val pats her hand.
‘Yes, dear,’ Val says softly. ‘We’ll stay.’
Betty’s husband appears behind her, his son in tow.
‘Going out,’ he says, brusque. ‘Taking him with me. You women have this covered.’
‘Right,’ Mrs Keillor says again. ‘We’ll let you know.’
‘At the pub,’ he says.
The front door closes behind the men. The woman in the bedroom lets out another scream, and there is a shout.
‘Again,’ Ellen sings. Her voice is euphoric through the wall. ‘Good now! It’s coming, we’re there!’
Again there is the scream, and again a shout, and this time crying as well.
‘Good Lord,’ Mrs Keillor murmurs. ‘Thank God.’
‘George,’ Val says. She runs from the kitchen and out the front door, shouting, ‘George!’
Ellen appears in the hallway, her daughter a wraith behind her. The girl has blood all down her front. Mrs Keillor feels her eyes bulge.
‘She’s fine, the baby is fine,’ Ellen cries. She is in tears.
Staring, Mrs Keillor realises it isn’t just the girl’s dress. Mary has blood over her hands, up to her elbows. She is looking into the middle distance, expressionless in shock.
‘We had to turn her,’ Ellen continues ecstatically. ‘Mary helped. She just touched her and the baby moved easy as anything.’
Mrs Keillor watches her, lips pursed. Ellen is beside herself, dancing between them and her daughter, stroking her arm, touching her hair. Mrs Keillor wonders what she was thinking, bringing her. The girl looks otherworldly, beautiful, even covered in blood, but completely exhausted. From the bedroom, they can hear Betty cooing and the baby crying again.
‘Look out,’ Val says. ‘She’s going to faint.’
Ellen turns and the girl falls softly into her mother’s arms.
‘Help me,’ Ellen says. ‘I’ll get her home.’
‘My car,’ Mrs Keillor says, and she slips her hand under the girl’s armpit. ‘I’ll take you.’ The girl is light, delicate. Mrs Keillor looks down at her, still wondering. Val reaches forward to touch her shoulder.
‘Goodness,’ she whispers. ‘Mary.’
Back in the Burnetts’ kitchen, Mrs Keillor has to steady herself against the kitchen bench. Behind her the room shifts, turns gently on an axis she doesn’t want to face. She feels herself carried with its strange rotation, her day circling around the girl. She wants to clear from her mind the image of the girl in the corridor, blood on her hands, her arms, across her front. Marked. But she can’t. It swims back up unbidden, inexorable. Poor child. Mrs Keillor has to push back against the desire to reach out and hold her.
Mary sits across from her, still covered in blood, a cup of sweet tea before her.
‘How are you feeling?’ Ellen asks, sitting at the table. ‘Mary, shall we get you cleaned up?’ The girl is almost insensible, she doesn’t reply. ‘It’s almost like a parable, isn’t it,’ Ellen murmurs, sotto voce.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Keillor replies. ‘Sorry, what?’ She feels incoherent, as though she has been left behind. She looks at Ellen, and fights the urge to ask whether or not the girl is pregnant. ‘What did you say?’
*
Father John walks through the village slowly, almost reluctantly. His wife is not with him. The breeze from the river comes up rank around him. There is a paper notice nailed to the sign at the path towards the children’s beach: RIVER MOUTH CLOSED, NO SWIMMING. Like plague, he thinks.
Out of morbid curiosity, he turns down the path that leads to the river. The smell rises, almost overwhelming. The puddle of water is festering, the algae thick and red, sluggish like blood. In the heat, the water is almost steaming, coagulating against the lip of white sand that stands between the river and the open sea. The image seems to hold the island as a whole. The pool is filled with the bloated bodies of dead fish.
‘Plague and decay,’ he murmurs. A lack of oxygen. Damnation welling as salt water from the earth. ‘I release thee,’ he adds, addressing the fish. The smell burns. Tears start to well in his eyes. But this is being pagan, melodramatic. He imagines a figure, a druid or prehistoric man, standing on the lip of sand, looking down as he is, contemplating the scene. They’d think it unnatural. Maybe it is unnatural. He turns and walks back up towards the village, the smell thick in his wake.
It is Mrs Keillor who meets him at the door when he rings the bell. The mother is waiting for him in the kitchen, in a flap.
‘It’s Mary, Father,’ the woman says. Her demeanour has somehow shifted from the last time he saw her. ‘The birth. She was there for it all.’
The mother gestures, and he realises that the girl is there with them, in the kitchen, sitting at the table. There is dried blood on her arms; at first he mistakes it for algae. She is looking down, unmoving. He has the feeling she has been left like this for his benefit.
Father John shakes his head, as if to clear it.
‘Lizzie Smith has had her baby,’ Mrs Keillor supplies. ‘Mary helped.’
‘She just touched her,’ the mother says. Her voice is high-pitched, almost hoarse, but strong. The kitchen is crowded with him there, and this is what catches him. The way he, Mrs Keillor, Ellen are all turned towards the girl, the power she has over them. He wonders how long the women have been sitting there, waiting for him. ‘We thought it was going to be a difficult birth. It was breech. I thought it was going to be terrible. And she just touched her, and it came quicker than any, and so easy.’
He looks at the girl, her hands, her clothes. So much blood. As though she has dipped her hands in the river. And yet sitting there, unresisting, yielding entirely to their conversation.
‘Go wash, Mary, dear,’ her mother says. ‘Go wash yourself.’
For a second, Father John wants to stop her. He is strangely drawn to touch the girl’s arm. But the girl stands, obedient, and leaves the room. Her mother turns to him, satisfied, replete. She seems to be waiting for him to say something. These people, he thinks, and their endless need. But she is excited, this time, happy. Mrs Keillor offers him a cup of tea and a slice of cake. His wife appears behind her.
‘Is she talking?’ he asks.
‘No, she’s still not talking. But I don’t think it’s a bad silence. She has been much more herself. She is up on her feet, now. She does what I say. She’s been coming out with me, helping. I thought it would be good to get her out of the house.’
He flounders. Out to a birthing, he thinks. He doesn’t know what to say. His wife’s face behind them is incredulous.
‘Is she . . .’ Mrs Keillor starts, hesitant. ‘Is it true that she’s pregnant?’
Father John winces and looks away, but the mother nods, chin thrust forward.
‘It’s not what you’d think,’ she says, her voice flat. ‘She’s a good girl. She doesn’t have a boyfriend, I’m sure of it.’
Mrs Keillor looks sceptical. ‘At her age. To even imagine she could be . . . She is so young.’
‘Yes,’ he says, and he thinks of how still she was, her hands, her arms.
Ellen nods. ‘But she’s changed,’ she says again. ‘She’s not like she used to be.’
‘Maybe,’ he says. She is right that the girl has changed. He can see it, too. He looks to Mrs Keillor. She is pensive, leaning against the kitchen bench with one hand, as though overwhelmed. It is
not the reaction he expected.
‘To think,’ Mrs Keillor says. ‘And her in the parade like that. Poor girl. How ironic.’
Father John walks home slowly, processing the scene he has left. The two women, his wife, the close warmth of the kitchen. The sense of them all there together . . . There are people out in the main street, gathered out the front of the store. A woman is laughing – Val Matthews.
She notices him and steps sideways to include him in the circle. The whole group turns to face him.
‘Did you hear, Father?’ she asks.
‘The Smiths’ baby? Yes,’ he says. ‘I heard.’
‘Not just that – the river, too!’ The woman from behind the counter is leaning against the doorframe. Her face is open and hopeful. He tries desperately to remember her name. ‘The river’s going out! It’s clearing!’
‘What?’ he says. ‘No, it can’t be. I was just down there.’
‘It is,’ says a man, grinning. ‘It’ll sort itself out now. No more bloody stench!’ They laugh again, and for a heartbeat he thinks the woman is going to hug him, as though it is he who has done this, achieved it. Such a small thing to be happy about! This is how they come together, he realises. The smallest joys and victories: a birth, a river. He remembers his prehistoric man at the river mouth, imagines all that blood draining out into the ocean, washing away. He thinks of the girl and her bloody arms, as if she had dipped them in the water . . . Was there anyone down there? He tries to remember, imagines the outline of a shovel silhouetted against the sand. He blinks. He is certain. There was no one but him.
His wife appears at his arm, one hand under his elbow.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Wonderful.’ He lets her tug him away, and together they continue on home.
*
Mary lies in the bath. The water is stained brown with the blood, translucent like the tannin of the river. She shivers, and it ripples around her. The world smells of salt and rust. She stands, and it runs from her skin. She reaches down and pulls the plug. The water drains and carries its colour away. She watches it disappear.
The Salt Madonna Page 14