Edward froze and stared at his mother, who at first didn’t seem to have noticed her mistake, but then a ripple of horror crossed her face.
‘Patricia! Patricia! My mind is away!’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Patricia wasn’t sure what had just happened but she knew it hadn’t offended her. Edward had his back to her and his mother.
‘Where did you put Patricia’s coat?’ Mrs Foley was back in full flow. The two young people were herded into the hall and towards the back of the house. Patricia’s coat was retrieved from a heaving row of pegs and Edward slipped on a pair of waiting wellington boots. He opened the back door and the rush of wind came as a welcome relief from the incessant chatter of the last few minutes.
Head bowed, Edward looked sideways at Patricia.
‘She likes to talk.’
‘She does.’
They exchanged a look and again she felt that they were somehow on the same side.
Edward pointed back towards where the car was parked. ‘That’s the orchard.’ Patricia looked at the couple of dozen stunted trees permanently cowering at right angles against the tireless wind. She followed him as he walked towards the ruins of the castle. Mounting what she assumed had been the steps to the main entrance, she took his arm for balance. Under the rough material of his jacket, he felt solid, manly.
Once inside, the rough stone walls provided some protection from the storm.
‘Is it always this windy here?’
‘Not all the time, but there’s nearly always a bit of a breeze off the sea.’
Through what might have once been a window or a door Patricia could see the waves crashing against the bottom of the cliff. Edward leaned close, closer than was necessary. He smelled of soap, not the sweet perfume of Camay or Imperial Leather, but the fresh tang of that hard butter-yellow block her mother had used for hand-washing her smalls. She liked it. ‘That’s the beach down there but if you follow it around behind this, it turns into the start of the marsh.’ Patricia craned her neck to see where he was pointing. ‘We drove across it,’ he added by way of explanation. ‘They say the Foleys built the castle because they were protected by the marsh behind them and any boats coming from the sea would be frightened of running aground.’ She nodded to show she understood. His voice soothed her. Not as deep as his monosyllabic grunts had led her to believe, the lazy lilt of his West Cork accent made her feel oddly calm. Their eyes met and neither of them looked away. She could feel the heat of his body in the cold damp cave of the ruined walls. She wondered if he might try to kiss her again, but then without warning he simply reached out his right hand and gently squeezed her breast. It was so unexpected, she didn’t flinch. Her eyes looked down at the mottled pink of his hand and then back up to his expressionless face. He removed his hand and said, ‘I’d better get on with the milking.’ Edward turned and walked away leaving Patricia to ponder if it had been her modest bosom that had prompted him to seek out the heaving udders in the milking parlour.
NOW
The sun changed everything. The bare branches of the horse chestnut trees looked jubilant against the blue sky, and the shimmering water of the weir took on an air of celebration. Elizabeth found she was swinging her arms as she walked down Connolly’s Quay. It had always been one of her favourite streets in the town. The long row of trees and the strip of grass separating the road from the steep drop down to the river. The houses were much as she remembered them and Busteed’s lounge bar still had its hanging baskets bursting with brightness even in January. Wedged between the former bike shop and a large grey house that used to be the home of Dr Wilson was, just as described by her uncle, a small ivy-clad cottage.
Standing in front of the door with its frosted glass panels, Elizabeth hesitated. Why was she here? What good would answers do her now, especially when she didn’t really know what the questions were? Before she could ring the bell, an aggressive burst of yapping broke out behind the door. She could just make out the blurred silhouettes of two small dogs jumping and clawing at the glass. Before she could decide to change her mind about this visit, a much larger form loomed towards the panels and the door was pulled ajar.
A ruddy-faced woman stuck her head out, younger-looking than Elizabeth had been expecting, but with a strong ridge of grey roots topping the rest of her hair that had been dyed a glossy aubergine colour.
‘Maxi! Dick! Shut up!’ The woman kicked at the small dogs trying to make good their noisy escape from behind the door.
‘Hello. Are you Rosemary O’Shea?’
‘I am. Will you stop it?’ she said, still addressing her pets.
‘Sorry to bother you. I’m Elizabeth, Patricia Keane’s daughter.’
Rosemary’s face changed. She looked her visitor up and down, as if searching for some hint of her old friend. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.’ Both women paused for a moment before Rosemary continued, ‘Will you come in? Then these pests might calm down.’
A plain hall with bare pine floorboards led back towards a bright cluttered kitchen. The dogs, now revealed to be black and tan Yorkshire Terriers, ran rings around their ankles, quickly deciding that they were delighted that the woman they had been zealously keeping out had been invited in.
‘Maxi, Dick, go to your bed.’ Rosemary pointed at a pile of old towels and chewed-up dolls below the large window that looked out onto a small courtyard garden.
‘Wasn’t there a group, Maxi, Dick and Twink?’
‘I did have three but Twink got hit by a car.’
Elizabeth looked confused. ‘I hadn’t heard.’
‘Twink the dog. Actual Twink is still with us as far as I know. Tea?’ She brandished a kettle.
‘Yes please. That would be nice.’
‘Sit down there.’ Elizabeth assumed she was referring to the one kitchen chair that wasn’t piled high with newspapers and magazines. ‘I have herbal if you’d prefer.’
‘No. No thanks, regular is fine.’
‘Builder’s it is!’ she said, turning to the sink and stove.
From behind, Elizabeth was able to get a better look at her. The hunch of her shoulders was the only thing that betrayed her true age. Her thick wool cardigan was long and appeared to be weighed down by the over-stuffed pockets. Underneath it she wore a strange shapeless green and yellow shift that came almost to her ankles and on her feet she had a pair of burgundy velvet slippers, the rubber heels worn away like ancient steps.
Rosemary O’Shea had never been a woman with a plan. As a young girl she had preferred to wait and see what came along. Now that she was in her mid-seventies she wondered if that had been a mistake. Financially things had turned out all right. The sale of a site carved from the family farm as part of her inheritance had been enough to start up her little barber shop. Over the years, it hadn’t always been easy, but she had managed to keep going. Fashions changed but she had always stuck to what she called ‘a boy’s cut’. They either liked it or lumped it. That’s why she had got out of ladies’ hairdressing with the fanciful pictures ripped from magazines and the tears and tantrums when a mirror revealed that they would never look like one of Charlie’s Angels. Men weren’t like that and the odd few she had encountered that wanted some trendy style or look never came back. She could operate on autopilot, which suited her, and there was enough chat from the men or mothers bringing in their kids to make the days pass in a pleasant blur. Oddly it was age that had forced her to confront the future. Painful varicose veins and knees that were aching by lunchtime made her realise that she couldn’t work forever. The problem she had was that she couldn’t see how she would ever be able to afford to retire, but then along came the offer from the coffee company and now she was sitting prettier than she ever had.
Committees and night classes in painting up at the Tech kept her busy enough. Her nephews and nieces still brought their children in to her to have their hair cut. Most of the time she felt content. Things have a way of working out for the best, she often reminded herself.
>
The question that bothered her, or if not exactly that, then at least pecked away softly at the back of her brain, was about being alone. Had she really not wanted to meet anyone? She remembered laughing at the girls who spent every waking moment trying to catch a man. The very idea of falling in love had seemed so stupid to her, but now she worried that perhaps she had been too clever for her own good. She had to admit there were some nights when she wished her bed wasn’t quite so wide and cold. The dogs were good company, but lately she wanted to slap the girls from school, now stooped and grey, who presumed to tell her that the dogs must be like her children. There had been a few boyfriends, well, men who called, over the years but none had seemed worth changing her life for. She had attempted to shut down that side of things. Of course, she still had physical urges now and then but when she closed her eyes late at night she never saw her gentlemen visitors from the past, or handsome detectives from the TV. No matter how hard she tried to banish it, the face that loomed into the heated haze of her imagination belonged to her eldest brother’s first girlfriend. Her name had been Anne, Anne Lyons. One night before Rosemary had moved out of the home place, they had shared her bedroom. Anne was a few years older and had a small case full of make-up and creams. Rosemary had just said how nice the body lotion smelled. That was all. She hadn’t said anything else. Then Anne offered her some and before Rosemary had a chance to reply, Anne had started rubbing it into Rosemary’s arms, then her shoulders and then without any hesitation, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she slid her hands down under her nightie and began to caress her breasts. Rosemary’s whole body had quivered from that touch. Warm lips on her neck and then she turned and their mouths met. Sometimes, as a grown woman, when she pleasured herself, she found that tears were rolling down her cheeks. These episodes left her feeling confused and anxious. Her desires frightened her and besides, what was the point of them? Anne had broken up with her brother soon after their night together and was last heard of living in Galway with a marine biologist.
Now Rosemary read articles and interviews or saw characters on television shows and wondered if that might have been her life. She thought not. She hoped not. That wasn’t a choice she could have ever made, was it? She knew people talked about her and called her strange or eccentric and she had to admit she enjoyed the attention. She had a certain notoriety in the town that gave her pride, but that was very different from having a label. She didn’t want strangers to think they knew her, to assume things about her. No. Her life had happened and it was the one she had lived. No regrets.
‘I was sorry not to be able to get to your mother’s funeral, but my brother’s was the same day over in Durrow.’
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Ah, he was old. We’re all old. It’ll be me soon.’
‘I’d say you have a fair few years left in you yet.’
‘The funny thing is, that is how I feel, and yet I know it’s not true. My time can’t be far off. Still, no one but Maxi and Dick to give a flying fuck.’
This was a friend of her mother’s? Elizabeth couldn’t imagine the Patricia Keane she knew being close to this vibrant, seemingly fearless creature.
‘Have you no family yourself?’
‘No. That never happened for me. Not that I minded. I like an easy life. My little shop filled my days. A barber shop. I gave up on women’s hair years ago. Men are much simpler. Ten minutes, you’re done. No complaints. No fuss. The rest was friends, books and red wine!’
The two women laughed. ‘Sounds all right to me.’
‘What about yourself? Any family?’
‘A son, nearly all grown up. I was married but that finished a few years ago.’
‘Oh yes! I remember hearing about that. That must have been a bit of a shock?’
Elizabeth hated to think of the people of Buncarragh gossiping about her but at least she didn’t feel like Rosemary was judging her or, even worse, implying it was somehow her fault.
‘It wasn’t the best.’
Sensing her guest’s discomfort, Rosemary broke the silence by placing two steaming mugs on the table. Elizabeth didn’t want to be a germ-phobic American, but her mug was filthy.
‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to summon up some enthusiasm.
The old lady moved some papers to an already large pile and sat down. Without any sign of self-consciousness, she dipped her hand into her bra and began to rearrange her still impressive breasts. Elizabeth studied a dream catcher in the window that thus far had ensnared only cobwebs and a few dead flies.
‘I was very fond of your mother but we weren’t close. Well, not for many years.’
‘It was my uncle who told me you were friends. I’m afraid I don’t remember you from growing up.’
‘You wouldn’t. We were friends before you came along.’
Elizabeth picked up the mug but glancing at it again thought better of the idea and replaced it on the table.
‘That’s sort of what I want to talk to you about.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The old lady leaned in.
‘I’m here to clear out the house and I found some letters.’
‘Letters?’
‘Yes. They are from an Edward Foley. I think he was my father.’
Rosemary let out a short sharp yelp, which made Maxi and Dick come running to see if their mistress required some assistance.
‘Edward Foley! I haven’t thought about him in years. And you found the letters? That’s gas.’
‘So, you remember him?’
‘Well, not really. I mean, I never met him, but I knew all about the letters.’
‘So, you weren’t at the wedding?’
‘No. Sure, no one was. It was all very odd. She had gone to stay with Edward and the mother and then she just didn’t come back. Not a word. Nothing. Your mother had given me the number for down there but I had no joy. I wanted to call the guards but I remember old Mrs Beamish, she ran the salon I worked in at the time, she told me I’d get in trouble for wasting their time. So, and I don’t know what possessed me, I got in my car – a little Fiat it was – and drove all the way down to Cork and out past Timoleague. It took a bit of asking but eventually I found the Foley farm.’ Elizabeth imagined a much younger version of this woman wedged behind the wheel, setting out to rescue her friend. It pleased her to think someone had ever cared about her mother that much.
‘And?’
Rosemary paused and took a sip of tea.
‘Nothing. I never saw her, or him for that matter. The old mother came out to me and told me that Patricia was too ill to receive visitors. She was nice enough, apologised for my wasted journey, but at the same time I knew there was no way I was getting into that house. There was a steeliness to her.’
‘So, what did you do?’
‘I sat back into the car and came back to Buncarragh. The next thing I hear, about a week or two later, they were married. I can’t remember who told me. There was an announcement in the paper. Of course, it was only later that it all made sense.’
‘What did?’
‘Well, when she appeared with you in her arms. You were hardly a newborn. Anyone could have seen that.’ The old woman paused and examined Elizabeth’s face, trying to gauge how much of the story she already knew or had guessed. Rosemary took a breath and continued. ‘She was obviously pregnant when she left Buncarragh. That’s why I couldn’t see her. That’s why no one was at the wedding.’
‘Really? Are you certain?’ Elizabeth found it hard to imagine that her mother had ever been a sexual being, and certainly not someone who couldn’t control her desires.
‘Put it this way, when is your birthday?’
‘The twenty-first of March,’ Elizabeth replied automatically.
‘When you were a baby, there were no birthdays. It was only when you went to school, I saw balloons tied to your railings. That date was plucked from the air, I’d say.’
Elizabeth remembered all the fuss about her birt
h certificate when she had been applying for her passport. Her mother claiming to have lost it and getting it re-issued. At the time she had thought it had been delay tactics by her mother because she didn’t want her to travel abroad, but maybe this woman’s theory was correct.
‘She never told me any of this, mind, but it is the only thing that makes sense. It was all very …’ She searched for the right word. ‘Well, sad, I suppose. Your mother was never the same when she came back. We used to share a joke, talk about everything, but the woman who returned to Buncarragh, well, I never saw her laughing. Her whole life was raising you and looking after that house. I suppose that gave her a certain kind of joy. Maybe it was just me that never grew up. You never really know what is going on in someone else’s head, do you?’
‘No. You don’t.’ Elizabeth wondered what gave this dishevelled old woman in front of her joy. What was in her badly dyed head?
‘And Edward? What happened to him?’
‘I managed to get out of her that he was dead but that was all, and she made it very clear that she didn’t want to talk about him. She didn’t want to talk about any of it.’
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and tried to absorb what Rosemary was telling her. The woman she was describing was a stranger.
‘Sorry not to have been of more help.’ Rosemary drained her mug and got up to bring it to the sink. Elizabeth’s tea sat untouched. ‘If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.’ The interview, such as it had been, was over. Elizabeth got up and allowed herself to be ushered back to the front door.
‘Thank you. So strange to think that my mother could ever have done anything so scandalous!’
A Keeper Page 6