‘That she is.’ Mrs Maguire touched one of the perfect little hands that curled over the edge of the blanket. ‘Have ye thought of a name for her?’
‘Oriel,’ came the proud announcement.
‘Oriel?’ The grandmother looked weary at this new outrage. ‘What in Heaven’s name possessed ye to name her after a window?’
Bright frowned. ‘It’s not a window.’
Her mother turned shirty. ‘Tis a window, I tell ye! Sure, didn’t I clean enough of them when I was a girl in service at Mrs Harper’s. What sort of a heathen name is that for a good Catholic babe? The priest’ll drop her in the font when he hears that.’
Fear shadowed Bright’s face. ‘I won’t be having her baptized – and you’re not to tell the priest she’s been born.’
‘But—’
‘No, Mam! They’ll try and take her away. They will, and I won’t let them.’
Mrs Maguire’s brow creased in sympathy. ‘They won’t, love. I’ll explain to them that ye want to keep her.’
‘No!’
One thing after another conspired to rob Mrs Maguire of her serenity. ‘Bright, tis unheard of not to have a child baptized!’
‘They won’t have her!’ Bright hoisted herself on arms that trembled like jelly, wincing in pain, and enveloped her newborn into a protective cuddle.
Mrs Maguire did not press the subject, resolving to persuade her daughter later. ‘All right, all right, but where did ye get that dreadful name?’
‘It’s not dreadful.’ Bright kissed the baby’s head. ‘When I was little, I once saw a picture in a book of this bird with lovely colours—’
‘But she’s no colour at all!’ Mrs Maguire laughed softly and touched the infant’s bald head. The translucent skin was marbled with blue veins.
‘I know.’ Bright laughed too. ‘I just liked the sound of the word. Oriel.’
‘Well, I still say tis a window!’ But Mrs Maguire smiled now. ‘Come to think of it, though, she is like a wee bird. One o’ those little baldy creatures that sometimes fall out o’ the guttering.’
‘Have ye heard what your granny is saying about ye?’ Bright spoke to the child, who had woken and now gazed at her with dark blue eyes, scrunched up like a defensive hedgehog, a look of worry on her face, as if she was afraid of the world.
‘Granny!’ A scandalized Mrs Maguire covered her mouth.
Bright took one eye from the baby to venture, ‘Are ye going to tell…’
‘I am not! Don’t you ever say or think it, Bright,’ warned her mother. ‘He won’t ever want to see her. You’ll only be hurting yourself and that wee thing.’
‘Nobody can hurt me now.’ Bright cuddled the newborn up to her freckled face. ‘Now I’ve got her.’
Mrs Maguire sighed. ‘I wonder if her eyes will turn brown later.’
‘Could they do that?’ This seemed to concern the young mother. She loved having Nat’s blue eyes stare back at her.
‘You surely don’t want to keep having a reminder of himself?’
Bright did not answer, just feasted her eyes on the child. Mrs Maguire clicked her tongue. ‘Will ye look at the state o’ your hair! Here, let’s see if we can find a brush to run through it.’ On a chest of drawers lay a brush and hand mirror. Mrs Maguire offered them in exchange for the babe. Her daughter held the mirror to her face and gave an exclamation as a stranger looked back at her.
‘And well ye might gasp,’ observed Mrs Maguire. ‘I doubt ye’ll get a brush through that bird’s nest.’
Her arm quivering and weak, Bright tried to bring her hair under control, still marvelling at the change in her visage. ‘That’ll have to do. I feel so weedy!’ She put down the brush and mirror and studied her hands. ‘These aren’t mine. I think someone crept in during the night and swapped them for another pair.’
Her mother harumphed. ‘Ye’ll have to find a better excuse to explain this to everyone.’ She handed Oriel back and paused for a while before announcing, ‘I’ll have to go now.’
Bright tore her eyes from her child. ‘Will ye come again?’
‘If I can get away.’ Mrs Maguire kissed her daughter, then hurried home.
* * *
The woman had very generously given Bright a month in which to recover from the birth and find somewhere permanent to live. Then she must go. Bright had been here for two weeks. Tomorrow she must set about finding work. God knew this was the furthest thing from her mind. She felt so drained of energy – Oriel was the most demanding baby. At two weeks old she had such strength of character that Bright was forced to give in to her every whim. Hence she was totally exhausted. Yet happiness at having a daughter overcame all. When bathing her she would stare at the tiny body in wonderment. How could this have been inside her? She would sniff the child all over like an animal, push her nose into all the creases of that tiny body, growing drunk on the scent. And she would talk to her, tell her everything about how she had come to be born. Prior to the birth the thing Bright had feared most was the loneliness of being cast out from her family, but now with Oriel she would never feel lonely. The baby seemed to hang on her every word – indeed she almost appeared to be trying to reply with all the expressions she pulled.
There were, however, moments when Bright wondered what sort of world she had brought the child into, when she would cry and rage over all the cruelty and violence in the streets around her. And there were times when she would burst into tears over nothing. Sometimes she wished that there was an adult with whom to share her fears, but the woman whose house this was did not have time to sit and talk and her own mother had only managed to call in once since Oriel’s birth.
Therefore it was a pleasure to see her this morning. Bright jabbered away, consulting her mother over her future. It was a happy half hour they spent together, but when Mrs Maguire got up to go there appeared to be something left unsaid, judging by her hesitancy. Bright asked what it was.
‘I know you’re going to be mad at me, but I couldn’t sit and do nothing, so I’ve told Father Cavanagh. He’s promised to come visit ye tonight and baptize herself here.’
Bright was horrified. ‘He can’t!’
‘Now don’t start worrying,’ soothed her mother. ‘I’ll be coming with him. There’ll be no trying to persuade ye to give her up.’
Bright moaned. ‘Do the Sisters know I’m here?’
‘Not unless the Father’s told them. Stop worrying. Nobody wants to take her, they just want to do what’s best. I’ll have to go. I’ll see ye tonight. I’ll tell your father I’m going to church – well, it won’t be a lie. Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.’
Bright sat there after her mother had gone, paralysed with fear. The nuns would come and whatever her mother said, they’d try to take Oriel away. You mustn’t let them. Be strong. How can I fight them? I’m too tired. Oriel was sleeping peacefully. You mustn’t let them take her, said a voice. She’d be better off dead, and you’re better dead without her. Go down to the kitchen, take a knife and cut her throat. The voice was so real. She felt a prickling sensation all over her body. She could not breathe properly. No, I don’t want to! Do it, said the voice, instilling its force into her, propelling her towards that knife drawer.
She ran, stumbling, and shut herself in a clothes cupboard. The panic took complete hold then, grasping her by the throat. She started to gasp. Go get the knife. No! It felt as though boiling water filled her ears and eye sockets. She took great gulps of fusty air, trying to squeeze herself into a corner of the cupboard, hiding behind the hanging coats. But the voice found her. The knife. The knife.
She burst from the cupboard and saw her beautiful baby sleeping. Get the knife and throw it away so you won’t do it. No! I can’t touch it! I don’t dare! Sheer blind panic filled her body. She ran out of the house, not knowing where. Ran to escape the voice.
Exhaustion forced her to stop. She could feel little globs of puerperal blood seeping out onto the rag between her legs. Blood, blood, blood. The voice had f
ollowed her. She stood heaving by the roadside. The sun was shining. I’ll have to die; if I go back I’ll kill her, the thing in my head will make me kill her. Help me, Jesus, I’m going mad!
The river beckoned. Led by terror Bright went towards it, stood on the bank and looked down. She teetered for an age – then tipped her body in.
A man had been watching her from the bridge. Even before she had jumped he was pelting down the steps. When her body splashed into the river he was tearing off his jacket and boots, preparing to dive in.
She had swallowed much water and was already unconscious when he dragged her to the bank. Other people had witnessed the scene and helped him get her onto dry land, where he applied a clumsy life-saving technique.
She came round to find a panting man straddled across her retching body. ‘Don’t worry, someone’s gone for an ambulance!’
Bright closed her eyes. She did not want an ambulance. She wanted to die. Make me die, she prayed, I can’t stand it, please, please let me go. She felt the warm sun on her eyelids, smelled the newly mown grass, the earthy scent of the river, heard the chirrup of sparrows, the concerned murmur of onlookers… then her mind drifted off, to a place faraway.
* * *
Nat had lived amongst these lush foothills of the Rocky Mountains for almost three months now; he had watched the green grassy plains burgeon with a harmony of flowers, had been on a cattle drive, learned how to handle steers and how to cope with the everyday running of a ranch. The work was hard and his inner thighs had almost bled after his first full day in the saddle, but there was much to compensate; Nat had never eaten so much wholesome food in all his born days. Of the aspects he could have chosen that were better compared to his old life this was the one that sprang to mind above everything else. The wonderful scenery, the warm ranch-house, the affectionate guardians; each was a bonus, but to a youth who had always been hungry a full belly outshone all of them in terms of importance.
The initial qualm of being the outsider was beginning to fade. Everyone here seemed friendly and ready to help their neighbour. Nat supposed that it was a product of being so isolated; people couldn’t fall out if they hardly saw each other. Yet it was no small triumph that adoptive Canadians from all over the globe – Germans, Ukrainians, Hungarians, English – could intermingle so amicably. Friendly, yes, but modest, no. From Mrs Anderson’s description of their ranch prior to his arrival he might have assumed that they had hundreds of head of cattle, but in fact it was quite a small spread in relation to Carrington’s, which he had visited. However, he would not change places with the boy whom Carrington had taken in, for that man had sons of his own and, unlike the Andersons, regarded the lad as nothing more than a hired hand.
Of the two Andersons he preferred the man. It was not that he disliked her, just that… well, one would have thought it impossible to feel suffocated out here in this land of eternal horizons, but Aunt Lucy could manage it with her swamping affection. She meant well, Nat knew it, and he tried to be grateful, but sometimes he grew angry with her for showering him with love, love that he could not return. He recognized that one day the title Aunt Lucy would not be enough and she would want him to call her Mother, and he just couldn’t.
It had not taken long to discover that Anderson, or rather Uncle John, contrary to his gruff manner was an extremely sentimental man who almost shed a tear when any cattle had to go to market. Nat had used this to his advantage, coaxing Anderson into providing him with a horse, a dog and other more material benefits. Despite this mercenary streak Nat genuinely liked both the Andersons. He liked them enormously, but did not love them, could never feel for them the way he felt for Bright. Sometimes he felt guilty for not thinking about her as much as he should, but then he was so tired when he went to bed that he fell asleep the moment he closed his eyes.
Bright’s absence was the one thing that detracted from his total contentment. He wondered if she had had the baby yet. Oh, she would certainly love it here! He could not wait to see her face as she underwent all the discoveries that he himself had made. There was just one drawback. How could he save for her fare when Anderson did not pay him for his work? It was not that the man was stingy, just that he regarded Nat as his son, which was obviously meant to be reward enough in itself. The only sign of hard cash was the few cents he gave Nat to spend on candy when they visited town, but these occasions were so rare that even if he saved the money up for five years it would not help to fetch Bright here. He had contemplated asking the Andersons for help, but feared that the news of an illegitimate child would soil his reputation in their eyes. He wondered briefly over the child’s sex. No, he’d better not mention it to his foster parents until he had been here a little longer. The relationship was just too new. He could not let anything spoil it. Besides, it would be better to wait until the child was a little older and more able to travel before exposing it to such a gruelling journey.
He never once contemplated that such a life of isolation might be anathema to a gregarious person such as Bright. The nearest town was three hours away. True, there was a village within ten miles of here, where the Andersons went to church on a Sunday, but it was the tiniest settlement and nothing of import went on there. However, as one who did not need the company of many people this was of no concern to Nat, for there was no such thing as boredom here on the farm. Starting in the early hours whilst Aunt Lucy collected the eggs he would take the kitchen waste to the pigs, milk the few dairy cows, then take the milk to cool in the root cellar under the house – all before breakfast. Then there was the garden which had to be kept free of weeds, its potato hills to keep in shape and vegetables to attend to: pumpkins, cabbage, carrots, beans and onions. This Nat regarded as of lesser importance than the more masculine tasks of rounding up cattle, branding, and butchering pigs. He much preferred to be out in the saddle with Uncle John than in the vicinity of Aunt Lucy’s cloying maternity, though neither of his foster parents was privy to his opinions.
Out of the blue, after Nat had gone to bed one summer’s evening and the Irish maid was down in the root cellar collecting potatoes, Mrs Anderson laid her sewing on her lap and asked her husband, ‘John, d’you think he likes us?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Anderson was perusing his Eaton’s mail order catalogue and did not look up, his eyes totally hidden beneath a bushy brow. ‘He sure doesn’t give anything away, does he?’
‘No. He seems happy enough, though.’
Anderson nodded and flicked over to the next page. ‘Are you happy with him, Lucy?’
‘Oh, yes! He’s a lovely boy and no trouble. He’s just so…’ She could not think of the word and, hoisting her plump bosom, inserted her needle once more into the linen.
Her husband agreed, and raised thoughtful eyes from the catalogue, laying it on his knee. ‘I guess life in that institution made him wary o’ folks. He doesn’t trust anyone, even folk who are trying to do right by him. He wonders why they’re doing nice things for him, thinks there must be something in it for them. I’d like to convince him different, get close to him, but I’m not sure how. Each time I ask something he reckons is too personal he makes some excuse about having work to do.’ He stretched and crossed his booted ankles. When the catalogue slithered onto the wooden floor he let it lie.
‘I’ve done no better myself,’ confessed Lucy, ‘and if I as much as mention the word mother, why, he turns into a different person, gets this cold look in his eyes…’ Her needle lay inactive again as her eyes penetrated deep into her husband’s face. ‘That boy’s been badly treated, John. It’ll take a long time before he ever allows us to get close to him.’ She toyed with an idea. ‘Why don’t you take him up into the mountains for a few days? Just the two of you. I can’t imagine a better place for you to get to know each other, and there’d be nowhere he could escape to.’
John Anderson thought this a sound prescription, and the next day he discussed it with Nat. Hitherto, the mountains had provided only an awesome and alluring
backdrop to everyday events. Nat was eager to grab the bait and asked, ‘When can we go?’
‘Well, all we have to do is load up a good supply o’ food. We can go in the morning.’
‘Can I take Roy?’ The subject was a long-haired, cross-breed dog, large but docile. Nat fondled its ears, the only ears that had heard all his secrets. Roy was confessor and friend and scapegoat. Yet with all this, Nat was unable to think upon the animal as his own. There was always the fear that Uncle John could take him away.
Anderson twiddled his moustache, knowing that if he allowed Roy to come the boy would rely on the animal for diversion should any intimate query not be to his liking. He must have Nat’s full attention if this trip were to succeed. ‘Better not, there’re grizzlies up there.’
Nat’s dark hair had fallen over one eye. Gone was the institutional crop and the pallor. His face was tanned and healthy. ‘He could look after us.’
‘Not against no grizzly he wouldn’t. Leave him here to look after Aunt Lucy. I’ve got my rifle to protect us.’
The following hot summer’s day, with command of the ranch delegated to Anderson’s top hand, he and Nat set off on horseback into the wild Rockies.
Even now there were new and glorious discoveries to be made about this land. Up, up they climbed, into lush mountain meadows, past teeming waterfalls, shadowy chasms, through fragrant forests and on and on towards mountains that were always one step beyond. Nat had always been aware of his own expendability, but now the sheer vastness of the wilderness reduced him to a grain of dust. In his youthful imagination those colossal summits had been mauled by some giant, their jagged faces raked and scarred by its enormous fingernails, then in some afterthought of mercy their wounds dressed in what from down here appeared to be moss but were in fact huge girdles of pine. Though fearful of the exacting climb, his imagination reeled upon those heights, how marvellous to look down upon the world… but alas, however high their horses climbed the mountain tops remained forever out of reach.
Shoddy Prince Page 32