‘And she wasn’t a girl. She was a grown woman. Still, it was a different time. We were all a bunch of innocents.’
‘I suppose.’ Elizabeth turned to step back out into the street but then, remembering, added, ‘Oh, and thanks for the tea.’
Rosemary just raised an eyebrow and shut the door.
The blue skies were gone and pencil-grey clouds now lurked overhead with the promise of rain. With nothing else to do Elizabeth headed back towards Convent Hill. She was nearly at number sixty-two when her cousin Paul emerged from the house and greeted her.
‘Perfect timing!’
‘Is it? What can I do for you?’
‘I’m glad I caught you in time.’ Paul sucked his teeth and pushed his hair back from his eyes. ‘There’s no way you can stay in there. The place is coming down with rats.’
‘Oh, Christ.’ She shuddered.
‘Did you not see the droppings? They are all over the carpets, shelves, everywhere. I got young Dermot to take your bags down to the flat. Mam and Dad are only delighted to give you a bed for a few nights.’
The person who didn’t share their delight was Elizabeth. What fresh circle of hell was this? She had hoped to slip quietly in and out of town and now she was going to be sharing a bathroom with Uncle Jerry. It was too much. She struggled to think of some excuse to avoid the unthinkable.
‘That is so, so kind of them but I …’ Elizabeth twisted her head left and right searching for inspiration. Nothing. ‘The thing is I’m actually …’ And then suddenly it came to her. The letter in her back pocket. ‘Kilkenny!’ she cried as if it was Gaelic for eureka. ‘I have to head into Kilkenny to see the solicitor and I’ll stay there tonight.’ She was almost panting with relief.
‘But sure, just come back tonight. There is no need to be spending money on hotels,’ Paul argued, knowing that he was sure to get the blame if his cousin slipped through the family net.
‘I’d be afraid to drive back tonight. You know, jet lag. I don’t want to fall asleep at the wheel.’ She was on a roll now and Paul’s face seem to accept defeat.
Half an hour later, having retrieved her overnight bag from the flat above the shop – ‘Why Patricia had to use a solicitor over in Kilkenny I’ll never know.’ ‘Never wanted anyone to know her business, your mother.’ – Elizabeth was parked in a lay-by just outside Buncarragh on her phone. Having called Ernest O’Sullivan to explain that she happened to be in Kilkenny, an appointment had been made for later that afternoon. Then she left a message on her son Zach’s phone and was now leaving one on Elliot’s unanswered phone. ‘Just wanted to check in. Zach let me know that he made it there safely. Hope you two are having fun. Talk later. Bye.’ Hanging up, she immediately regretted her message. She always hated it on the rare occasions when Elliot actually took up his role as parent. Much as she complained, in truth, she had found that the last eight years as a single parent had suited her better than the endless discussions, bickering and uneasy compromises that had made up the bulk of Zach’s childhood. What sort of mobile to hang over the cot. When he should get his first pair of jeans. Some things were not meant to be decided by committee. She was her mother’s daughter, she supposed.
O’Sullivan and Company, solicitors, were easy to find. Housed in a tall stone-fronted building that must have been a former home to some fat cat, it was located on the Parade just opposite the walls of the castle. Arriving early, Elizabeth sat in the Design Centre up the street and had a coffee and a small slice of a tray bake that tasted even healthier than it looked. She left most of it. Elizabeth felt nervous, she didn’t know why. Her mother was not the sort of person to leave loose ends or ambiguity. The house was hers and hers alone. She really hoped that Jerry and Gillian or even Paul and Noelle had not tried to meddle in her affairs.
Ernest O’Sullivan’s offices were slightly less impressive once you entered the building. They occupied only the second floor; what must have been a beautiful room had been sub-divided by cheap partitions and the ornate cornices visible in the hallway were covered by a low ceiling of tiles interspersed with strange metallic grids protecting those below from the neon strip lighting. A bored young girl who looked as if she could be heading straight to a nightclub after work showed Elizabeth into the cubicle that housed Mr O’Sullivan himself. She had resolved to refuse any tea or coffee but then realised that she hadn’t actually been offered any.
‘Hello, Miss Keane, very nice to meet you.’ A soft manicured hand was offered but Ernest O’Sullivan didn’t stand. Elizabeth was slightly taken aback by his rudeness but when she leaned in to shake his hand she noticed a black plastic handle at his back. He was in a wheelchair. Ernest was asking her about her journey and telling her what a pleasure her mother had always been to do business with but all Elizabeth could think about was how this man had got behind his desk. There didn’t seem to be room to navigate a wheelchair around it and besides, they were on the second floor. Was there a lift? She doubted it. Could it be he was just using a wheelchair to sit in? This was neither the office nor solicitor she had been expecting.
‘So, I wrote to you because, and I must really apologise, we found a codicil to your mother’s will. It should have been discovered along with everything else but it had slipped out of the file. I hope you understand. These things happen with old papers.’ His eyes blinked behind his thick glasses. The neon light made shiny tracks across his gleaming bald head.
‘Of course. Is it something I should be concerned about? Is there any dispute?’
‘Oh, no. On the contrary, you have had some added good fortune. You’ve been left another house.’
‘Another house?’ Elizabeth repeated, not understanding how this was possible.
‘Yes. It’s all very straightforward. Your mother held it in trust for you but now it is all yours to do with as you wish.’
‘A house? But where is it?’
‘Mmmm, let me just check.’ He riffled through a thick pile of papers on his desk and retrieved a large Manila envelope. ‘Here it is. Muirinish, in West Cork. Castle House, Muirinish, County Cork. I have no idea about the state of the place but congratulations. It must be worth something!’
The Foley farm! Why had her mother said nothing? She knew this day was going to come and what if Elizabeth hadn’t found the letters?
‘Does it come with much land?’
‘No. Looking at this, the title deed is fairly new.’ He studied the papers again. ‘Yes. Just six years ago, so my guess is the house was split from a farm and somebody else got the land. The map here just shows a house, with a farmyard to the rear and a strip of garden at the front.’ Ernest seemed delighted for her. He held out his smooth pink hand again and Elizabeth shook it. She was dumbfounded. Her father, who had never existed, never been spoken of, was in death suddenly very present in her life. She had read his heartfelt thoughts and now she owned his house. She felt like she might cry, so quickly made good her escape with the envelope in her hand.
On the street, she hesitated. What should she do? Where should she go? She stepped beneath a tree to avoid a large group of Japanese tourists following their guide back towards the bus from whence they had come, like spawning salmon dressed in Burberry raincoats. Elizabeth reached for her phone. She had to share this news with someone. Zach? Yes, she would call Zach, but when she opened her phone she saw that she had received a text message. It was from Elliot.
Hi, Liz. Did you mean to call me? Zach isn’t here. No plans to see him this holiday.
Her knees buckled and she steadied herself against the rough grey bark of the tree. A father found, and a son lost.
THEN
Castle House,
Muirinish,
West Cork
11 Feb 1974
Dear Patricia,
I just wanted to say thank you so much for coming down to visit us in Castle House. I hope you got home all right and the journey wasn’t too boring. I know I get very quiet in the car. Sorry. I think it is half my nerves, and half ma
king sure I don’t have a crash with such precious cargo!
It was a real pleasure showing you around the farm and seeing everything through your eyes. Sometimes I forget how lovely it is here with the sea on our doorstep. Mam wanted me to tell you how much she enjoyed meeting you as well. She has talked of little else since your visit. Were your ears burning?
I’ve been thinking about you so much since you left. It sounds silly I know, but I miss you. That time we spent together sheltering in the old ruins keeps turning around in my mind. The memory of you in my arms and your softness under my hand won’t leave me. I know I’m probably not the man of anybody’s dreams but I can tell you for sure, that you are the woman of mine.
When do you think you might visit again? The thought of seeing you is all that is getting me through these dark cold mornings. Let’s plan another trip as soon as possible. I want to touch you and put my lips on yours so badly it hurts.
I have never felt like this before. Please write back soon.
Warmest regards,
Edward
*
Patricia didn’t know what to think when she finished the letter. The things he talked about had happened but it was just that he had experienced them in such a different way from her. For every flash of connection between them, a shy glance or a hand touched accidentally, there had been hours when Edward seemed completely oblivious to her existence. Her memory of the weekend was spending most of her time with Edward’s mother or hiding in her room. She knew she hadn’t much experience of men, but surely they weren’t all as confusing as this one. Then she wondered if she was being unfair or if her expectations were too high. She had read horrific stories about men and at least Edward was sweet and hadn’t tried to stick his fingers in her knickers the way she heard fellas did the second you let them kiss you. Patricia folded the letter and put it in the small pile with the others. She would write back but she wouldn’t encourage him. Edward Foley, she decided, was not the man for her.
The next day, a Thursday, Patricia was taking advantage of the dry weather by hanging a few things out on the washing line that sagged between the walls of the small yard at the back of the house. Her efforts were interrupted by the doorbell. She hurried through, still with a couple of clothes pegs in her mouth. Patricia opened the door to find a slim, oily-haired man almost obscured by the largest bunch of flowers she had ever seen outside of a funeral procession.
‘Patricia Keane?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, the pegs falling to the floor. She found herself backing away from the large collection of red and white blooms.
‘These are for you,’ the man said, thrusting the bouquet into her arms.
She tried to protest. ‘But who are they from?’
‘There’s a card.’ The man was already heading back towards his van emblazoned with an enormous Interflora logo.
Patricia’s hands were trembling with excitement as she ripped the card from its doll’s-house envelope.
‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Lonely Leinster Lady, from your Munster admirer!’
It was Valentine’s Day! Patricia had completely forgotten. In her life she had received two Valentine cards, both of which had come from her uncle after her father had died. When her mother discovered who had been sending them she asked him to stop and he did. Now she was holding a huge bunch of flowers from a real man who had actual feelings for her. The scent of them filled the hall and their sweet fresh fragrance banished all her negative feelings. She wasn’t a spinster. She was a woman who was desired by a man. He wasn’t perfect, well, he was so very far from perfect, but he was kind and worked hard and he had sent her flowers!
Patricia knew she was being silly but over the next couple of days the fantasy of her wonderful boyfriend took shape. Old Mrs Curtain had seen the Interflora van and asked about her secret admirer. Rosemary had shrieked like a bird in the zoo when she saw the arrangement displayed reverentially on the unused dining-room table. Even her sister-in-law Gillian had heard about the delivery and asked about her ‘love life’. After all the years of watching the other girls walking with their boyfriends, showing off engagement rings, pushing prams, Patricia felt as if she had finally joined some sort of exclusive club. She had a man! Despite repeatedly trying to remind herself of who that man was and all his failings, she found she was developing feelings, if not for him, then for the notion of being somebody’s girlfriend.
When she wrote to thank him for the flowers, she found she didn’t attempt to draw a line under their courtship. She told him how much she had enjoyed their weekend. The pen also seemed to form the words that told him she would in fact like to come and visit him again. As she licked the envelope she wondered if it would be different this time.
Certainly in his next few letters Edward seemed to have found a new frankness. He spoke directly about how much he yearned for her physically and Patricia found that as she read his words she shared his desires. He promised to be more talkative and told her he was planning a couple of short day trips so that they could spend some time alone together.
This time on the train Patricia refused to listen to her doubts. Edward would be different and suddenly things would be easy between them. She unwrapped the tinfoil around her cheese and ham sandwich and ate with gusto. She felt like a woman who had cracked the code.
Early signs were hard to read because he had brought his mother with him to the station.
‘Our neighbour Mrs Maloney has been up in the Mercy Hospital for weeks. Tests and more tests. They still don’t know what is wrong with the poor creature. The family have found it very hard to get up to see her so when Teddy was driving up I thought I’d take advantage of the lift. I think she was delighted to see someone from home. Just to get all the news …’
Mrs Foley’s advancing army of talk laid waste any possibility of a conversation with Edward, so Patricia sat patiently with her cream case in the back seat.
‘Do you mind? I hope you don’t mind. I get fierce car sick in the back. I’m all right in the front, amn’t I, Teddy?’
The wind welcomed them back to Muirinish. Like a washing line of coats and scarves the trio made their way from the car to the back door. Patricia was impressed by the way Edward’s mother strode through the storm, unmoved by its force. Once inside Edward disappeared almost at once. ‘The milking, I better …’ He looked at Patricia and she felt he wanted to say more, but before she could speak he was gone.
‘Now I suppose you’d like to go and settle yourself. I put you in the same small front room again. Do you want a hand with your case? Sure, it’s light. You’ll be grand. Up you go.’ Edward’s mother ushered Patricia from the room and she walked up the creaking stairs. The house seemed darker than before and now that she was alone the noise of the storm outside was louder than she recalled. On the landing, through the gloom, she looked around. Five doors. One was the bathroom, even colder and damper than her own at Convent Hill. The central door in front of her led to her small room with its single bed and tall narrow window that looked out to sea. She wondered what was behind the other three. She wasn’t even sure which room belonged to Edward or where his mother slept. From the outside the house seemed much larger than this. Did one of the doors lead to a corridor of further rooms? Pushing open her door she turned on the light, the fringed shade casting a shadow all around the room. The curtains hadn’t been drawn and the glossy golden material shifted slightly as the window rattled against the elements. From outside came the complaining cries of seagulls being buffeted high above the house. She sat on the bed, still wearing her coat. A sinking feeling had replaced all her optimism of earlier in the day. This was just going to be another weekend of awkward silences. She sighed and lifted her case onto the bed.
Opening it, she reached for her toilet bag. Like so much else in her life now, it had been her mother’s. She remembered the day it was purchased. The two of them had been in Deasy’s Chemists looking in the section to the right of the door that she normally only visited at Chr
istmas searching for fancy soaps or bath salts. Her mother had picked the bag out because of the butterfly resting on the cornflower that adorned it. ‘Won’t that cheer me up when I’m in hospital?’ It was an uncharacteristically positive remark for her mother to make which was probably why Patricia always recalled it. She reached for her toothpaste and toothbrush so that she could freshen up before heading downstairs, but the small bag slipped from the bed onto the floor. Patricia bent down to retrieve it and when she did, she noticed something else under the bed. What was it? The object was just beyond her grasp and she had to lie flat on her stomach to reach it. As she re-emerged from under the bed she looked down at her hand and stared for a moment. Something so familiar and yet it had been so many years since she had seen one, never mind held one in her hand. A baby’s dummy. A soother. Pink plastic, the rubber of the teat not yet perished. It couldn’t have lain there for forty years. She would ask Edward about it. At least it would be something to talk about.
Back downstairs a random selection of pots sat on the Aga, steam billowing up to the ceiling, but there was no sign of Edward or Mrs Foley. Patricia wasn’t sure what to do. She hated the awkwardness of being a guest. Through the window she saw a light spilling from the door of one of the outhouses and a shadow moving. Perhaps she could help with something rather than just sitting around waiting to be fed. She didn’t want her hostess to get the impression that she was lazy.
Outside the wind was so strong it made her laugh. Somewhere in the distance a door or a shutter had come loose and was banging in protest. Patricia weaved her way across the yard, one hand trying to control her hair, the other preventing her skirt from billowing skywards. She could see Mrs Foley’s back, a few chickens pecking at the dirt floor around her. Suddenly, wings spread wide and Patricia realised that the old woman was holding one of the birds by its feet. Almost before she could understand what was happening Mrs Foley grabbed hold of the chicken’s head and twisted sharply. The squawking ceased and the neck hung limp but the wings took longer to understand that all hope of flight was lost. The other chickens went about their business, seemingly unaware that one of their number had met its grisly end. Patricia was standing just outside the door now and was wondering how she should alert Mrs Foley to her presence, when the old lady slapped the dead bird on the rough bench in front of her and with one swipe took its head off with a large knife. The violence of it made Patricia gasp.
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