‘I suppose.’
‘How do I find a farmer?’
This conundrum rendered them silent once more but then Rosemary sat up straight and fanned both of her hands in front of her. She had the answer!
‘The Journal!’
‘What?’
‘The Farmers’ Journal! They have ads in there. I read it in the salon.’
‘You get the Farmers’ Journal in the salon?’
‘People leave it behind. The point is they have ads in there, the “Getting in Touch” section. It’s farmers and women who want to meet a farmer.’
Patricia’s face indicated she still didn’t fully understand.
‘Looking for love, like. Lonely Hearts. That is your best bet, I’m telling you.’
‘Oh God, Rosemary. I’m not sure.’
‘Well, it’s worth a try anyway,’ Rosemary said and crammed the last of the éclair into her mouth.
Two weeks later an over-excited Rosemary was doing her best to run up Convent Hill, her purple coat flapping behind her, a newspaper gripped in one hand while the other tried to control her black patent shoulder bag. She looked like a bishop fleeing the scene of some nocturnal indiscretion. Outside number sixty-two she rang the bell and leaned panting against the pillar of the porch. When Patricia opened the door, she was confronted by the face of her friend, even redder than normal and framed by her coarse dark curls glistening with sweat. Rosemary didn’t speak – she simply thrust the rolled-up newspaper into Patricia’s hand. They both looked at the paper and then simultaneously began to shriek. It had arrived!
At the kitchen table they smoothed out the paper and then Rosemary quickly flicked to the section at the back. Her chewed nail ran down the various ads, Bantry Bachelor … Fermanagh Medium Sized Farmer … Romantic T/T … here it was … Lonely Leinster Lady! The wording had been Rosemary’s handiwork. Patricia had favoured something a little more discreet but she was told in no uncertain terms that discretion was not going to help find her a husband. Rosemary had also advised lowering her age or not mentioning it at all but Patricia had insisted, arguing that she didn’t want any potential relationship to start with a lie. Early thirties had been settled upon though if Rosemary had been totally honest she thought that made her friend sound forty if she was a day.
After the initial excitement of actually seeing the ad in print and reassuring each other about how well it looked and the quality of it compared to the other advertisements, the women felt oddly deflated. There was now nothing to do but wait.
Days, then a week, then a fortnight and still no response. Every morning Patricia found herself waiting for the postman. Some days nothing, on other days the familiar clank of the letter box as an envelope hit the mat with the most gentle of thuds, but every day disappointment. She cursed herself for ever listening to Rosemary. This was worse than before. At least in the pre-advertisement age of her life she had just been lonely, but now she was rejected as well. She had taken to walking the long way round just to avoid Buncarragh Beauty and Rosemary’s face peering expectantly at her through the window. She imagined people smirking at the sight of her because they had worked out that she was the lonely Leinster lady. She berated herself for daring to think that she might have had a chance at a second beginning. Why hadn’t she simply accepted what everyone else knew – she was a spinster. She tried the word out as she combed her hair in the mirror. ‘Spinster.’ Her skin was still free of wrinkles and yet, as she repeated the word to her unsmiling face, she imagined her hair starting to take on a greyish hue.
It was the day before the three-week anniversary of sending away her ad and postal order when the thud on the mat sounded just a little more substantial. Patricia stood frozen in the kitchen. She wanted to run and check, but hated herself for being so easy to humiliate. Forcing herself to take another sip of her tea, she put the mug down on the table and walked at a steady pace to the door. She leaned against the frame and slowly craned her neck around the corner into the hall. A large brown envelope. Too big for a bill. Could it … She inched forward and bent to turn it over. A gasp. There, clear as day, in the top left-hand corner was the legend ‘The Irish Farmers’ Journal’. She picked it up and scampered back into the kitchen.
Inside there were four further envelopes. Inside the first was a postcard depicting the ruins of Ennis Friary beneath a chemical blue sky. An odd choice, Patricia thought. She turned it over and read, ‘You sound like a ride.’ She dropped the card on the table with a start. Why on earth would anyone write that? Why would the Journal send it on to her? Pushing the postcard to one side she cautiously opened the next envelope. This at least was a letter. It was written on lined paper in what appeared to be a very unsteady hand. With difficulty Patricia deciphered that this was from a man who lived in Tullamore. Not too far away, she thought. He had been married twice before. She didn’t like the sound of that. As if reading her thoughts, he continued by reassuring her that his past relationships ensured he knew what he was doing. Patricia doubted this was the man for her. He had been a farmer but was now living in a care home. Oh, for God’s sake. Did she have her own house? She crumpled the thin paper into a ball. The third envelope contained a card with a drawing of a blue tit perched on a branch on the front. It was from a man in Carlow who thought it perfectly acceptable to ask her for a photograph of herself in her bra and panties. She was torn between being furious with Rosemary and impatient to share these shocking replies with her just to hear her friend’s big throaty laugh. What a waste of time and money!
The fourth letter looked different. It was written in black ink on the same Basildon Bond blue notepaper her mother had favoured. The handwriting was neat and, more importantly, didn’t look insane. A small black and white photograph fell on the table. A middle-aged man, forty? was standing beside an old-fashioned steam engine. His hand rested on the large metal rim of the wheel by the driver’s seat. He was staring straight into the camera and oddly wasn’t smiling, but nor did he look too serious or sad. Patricia decided that ‘benign’ was how she would describe him. His dark hair receded on either side of his forehead leaving a widow’s peak and his large dark eyes seemed kind. She peered closer. Yes, definitely kind. He was dressed simply in a white shirt open at the collar, with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the belt of his dark trousers showed off his slim waist. He didn’t set Patricia’s heart racing but she wasn’t repulsed either and at this point that seemed like winning. She started to read his letter.
2
Could people tell?
Patricia scanned the other passengers in the train carriage. A bald, rubber-faced businessman engrossed in his newspaper, a young woman playing I spy with her two bored children, an older lady absent-mindedly sucking her teeth as she knitted something small and pink. Not one of them seemed aware of her existence. They appeared to be oblivious to the fact that at the age of thirty-two, she was embarking on the most exciting and scandalous, yes, that was the very word, scandalous adventure of her whole life.
Rosemary had given her a lift to the train station in Kilkenny. They had hugged each other on the platform and then as the train pulled in she had tied a bright red and yellow scarf around Patricia’s neck.
‘To brighten you up a bit.’
Patricia looked crestfallen and cast a glance down at her navy coat and black shoes. ‘Do I not look all right?’ she asked with an edge of panic creeping into her voice.
‘No, no! You look beautiful.’ Rosemary held her arms and looked into her friend’s eyes. ‘You really do.’
The train had come to a standstill. Whistles were being blown. Doors slammed.
‘Good luck! I can’t wait to hear all about it. I’ll be waiting for you here tonight.’
‘Thanks so much, Rosemary. You’re great.’
Patricia stepped onto the train and looked back. ‘Bye!’ Then she let out a loud nervous laugh that was almost a cry for help.
‘You’ll be grand!’
Whatever confidence she might have had slowly evap
orated during the long journey, which involved having to change trains twice. By the time they went through a series of long tunnels approaching Cork station Patricia felt very unsure indeed. One of the children had begun to cry because they didn’t want to put their red wool hat on and the businessman was heaving himself into his overcoat. The end of the line.
Patricia stood on the platform for a moment to get her bearings. The large sign showing the way out was down the platform to her right. She retied the belt on her coat and twisted Rosemary’s scarf so that the knot was to one side in what she hoped was a jaunty fashion. She put one foot in front of the other and gripped her handbag tightly in an effort to stop her hands from shaking. Her heart felt as if it was vibrating, it was beating so quickly. In her mind, she repeated her mantra, ‘You’ll be grand. You’ll be grand.’
Outside seemed very bright and loud. Cars were streaming along the road beyond the car park in front of the station. Looking around she quickly saw the kiosk with the large ‘Cork Examiner’ sign above it and there … just behind it, she recognised Edward waiting for her. In truth, the way he had positioned himself it seemed closer to hiding than waiting. She wondered if he had seen her. He was staring studiously in the opposite direction. God, this had all been an awful mistake. She wanted to walk straight back into the station and get on the next train home, the next one anywhere. No. She had come all this way and his letters had been lovely. Edward Foley was going to meet her whether he wanted to or not.
‘Edward?’
No response. The man’s head remained facing the other way. Could she see him quivering?
‘Edward?’ she repeated a little louder. This time the old man selling papers tapped him on the shoulder and he was forced to turn around. The dark eyes that had seemed so kind in the photograph were wide with fear. His mouth hung open. Patricia wasn’t sure what to do next. She offered her hand and said, ‘Hello. I’m Patricia.’
Edward looked at her hand as if he had never seen one before and certainly didn’t know what to do with it. Patricia felt the hot flush of embarrassment. The old paper seller was smirking as he observed their slow, stiff puppet show. She worried that she might cry but then as if someone had flicked a switch, Edward took her hand and shook it. His skin was warm and rough. The simple handshake seemed strangely intimate. Their eyes met for a moment before he quickly turned his gaze to the ground. ‘Hello.’ His voice was deep and hoarse. Even from one word she could hear his thick Cork accent. As if worn out from his efforts to be social Edward let his arm fall to his side and uttered no more. Patricia sighed deeply. This was going to be a very long day.
‘Will we take a walk?’ she suggested. He risked a quick peek at her face and then began to walk away. Patricia took this as a sign of agreement, so she followed him. They walked in silence till they reached a set of traffic lights. Edward indicated to the left and informed Patricia, ‘The river is down there.’
‘The banks of the Lee,’ Patricia said, referring to the old song.
Edward stared at her as if she had just made a statement in ancient Hebrew. ‘Yes. Just down here.’ He began to walk again. Patricia wondered what he would do if she didn’t follow him, but she did.
They walked down to a metal bridge. On the other bank of the river buses were shuddering their way in and out of the station. The people on the pavement brushed past them, all seeming in a great hurry. Lives being lived all around her while she was lumbered with this strange man who didn’t seem to have the slightest interest in her.
Halfway across the bridge Edward stopped and looked over the balustrade down into the murky water. Patricia did the same. There was a strong wind off the river and her hair blew around her face. She knew she must look a right state but she didn’t care. She heard something and looking at Edward realised he was speaking quietly. She leaned in to hear him.
‘I loved her dearly both true and sincerely. There is no one in this wide world I loved so much as she.’
What in God’s name was he talking about?
‘Every bush, every bower, every wild Irish flower, it reminds me of my Mary on the banks of the Lee.’
Of course. Now she understood. Her head bowed, she began to speak and their two voices found each other on the wind.
So I will pluck my love some roses, some wild Irish roses
I will pluck my love some roses, the fairest that ever grew
And I will place them on the mound of my own darling true love
In that cold and silent valley where she lies beneath the dew.
The lyric ended, their voices silent, he turned to look at her and smiled. His face was kind. Patricia smiled back. She tried to think of something to say, a way to keep the momentum going, but she couldn’t. When he turned and began to walk again, she followed.
The lunch was torture. He slurped down his vegetable soup without comment while she sipped at her small glass of grapefruit juice. When the young waitress was clearing their starters away she gave Patricia a small smile of encouragement and sympathy. A series of questions about his journey, the farm, his mother, all failed to ignite anything that resembled conversation. The solitary question he asked her during the whole day was when he enquired if her chicken was dry.
‘No. No, it’s fine, thanks.’
‘Looks dry,’ he commented as he sawed a thick slice of lamb.
Somehow the fact that he was right, and her meal had the texture of chalkboard, only made things worse. It was as if it was his fault.
Finally, they were back at the station, half an hour too early for her train but Patricia really didn’t care. She just wanted the day to end. They stood facing each other at the entrance and she was just about to shake his hand and thank him for the lunch when he thrust his head forward like a cuckoo exiting a clock to announce the hour. Before she knew what was happening he had pecked at her lips. She let out an involuntary yelp of surprise.
‘Oh sorry, I …’ He searched for one of his few words.
‘No. It’s …’ Patricia too was struggling.
‘Well.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll leave you, so.’
‘Right. Thanks for the lunch.’
Now he was staring at her, his shoulders hunched, his hands knotting and twisting his fingers. Patricia longed for him to go but still he stood there. ‘Go!’ she silently screamed at him in her head. Surely he wasn’t enjoying this either? His face looked as if he was thinking about something else, remembering a great sadness. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered and turned quickly to walk away.
Patricia suddenly wanted to call after him, to somehow reassure him, make him feel better about how the day had gone. She thought about the man who knew all the words of ‘The Banks of the Lee’. Why hadn’t she been able to spend the afternoon with that man? How had the man who had written her such sweet letters been turned to stone in her presence?
Patricia walked beneath the large station clock, confident there wouldn’t be a next time.
NOW
Carefully, as if her mother might discover she had read them, Elizabeth folded the letters and returned them to the dusty oblivion of the box. Who had her mother been back then? She couldn’t imagine the strict, dispassionate woman who had raised her replying to these sweet, coy notes. The mother she had known had almost sneered at any hint of romance. A little knot of sadness and regret tugged at her heart. She would never know the young woman who had hoped for a different life. She thought of the old photographs downstairs that she had pored over as a child. Uncle Jerry in short trousers holding her mother’s hand before she went off for her first communion. Two teenage girls standing outside the front door of Convent Hill, their arms Irish-dancing stiff by their sides while a summer breeze whisked their hair around their laughing faces. A smooth, unblemished forehead framed by a pale blue satin hairband that matched her bridesmaid’s dress as she stood beside Aunt Gillian on her big day. The smile on her face, her eyes that glinted with a mixture of hope and excitement. Not a hint of concern or
care. Elizabeth had never known that woman.
She thought back to how she had felt when she first met Elliot in New York all those years ago when she was studying for her doctorate. He wasn’t her first boyfriend but what she had felt for him was nothing compared to the callow boys at UCD. Elliot was dangerous. He both thrilled and frightened her. That tanned skin and the tiny ridged ladder of bone that climbed up his chest from his open-necked shirts. The confident way he touched her body, his hands mysteriously finding themselves in just the right place. Rushing essays, skipping shifts at the coffee shop, all because she had to be with him. She hadn’t felt as if she had a choice. She had been hooked. High on love. Surely her mother had never felt like that? But then again, if she hadn’t, then she had also managed to avoid the excruciating ten-year comedown that Elizabeth had endured. The years of suspicion, never knowing what was wrong but always aware that things weren’t right. Then, seven, almost eight, years ago, leaving the college after lectures, noticing the dark-haired young man in his oversized coat staring at her. She had thought he was a student.
‘Elizabeth?’
He was standing in front of her. She noticed the little rim of dirt around his nose ring. ‘You don’t know me but …’ and soon she knew everything and could never unknow it. The physical revulsion she had felt thinking about the things that Elliot had been doing at the same time as sharing her bed, kissing their child – it was still all too easy to recall. She hated how the revelations had made her feel, the way Elliot twisted her reactions to accuse her of being homophobic. The frustration and fury could still make her vibrate when she thought of him standing at the foot of their bed full of smug outrage, as if somehow her disgust made him the injured party in this mess of his making. So many of her friends had tried telling her that this was better. It would have been worse if he’d left her for a woman. Stony-faced she had listened but inside she was screaming. There was no better! From now on there would only be layers of worse. Her marriage was over, washed away by a tidal wave of lies. Now Zach was the only worthwhile souvenir from her journey into the deepest, darkest depths of romance. His good-natured way of approaching the world seemed so remarkably unmarred by his parents’ failings. He was her defence that it had all been worth it.
A Keeper Page 3