Eventually they decided to bank the fire downstairs, and Michael lay down on top of the bedcovers, fully dressed, his cap in one hand, Sarah’s hand in the other. Together they listened to their son’s contented breathing, to the river outside and to the gentle crackling of the fire that filled the bedroom with a warm orange glow.
‘I wish this night could last for ever,’ Sarah whispered before sleep claimed her.
‘Sure, it will in our hearts. Don’t be worrying, we won’t be forgetting tonight in a hurry.’ Michael squeezed her hand.
‘We are lucky, Michael. Look at us. They were all wrong, they were. We are lucky.’
His fingers wound through hers as the exhaustion of her efforts carried her to sleep.
Now, in the wee small hours, his anxious fear and racing heart finally settled, Michael lay propped up on one elbow, wondering should he stay or go down to the kitchen bed for fear of disturbing mother and baby. Sarah opened her eyes and smiled up at him.
‘I only woke to take a look at you both,’ he lied, as Sarah gazed down at her son, who was rousing himself, his rosebud lips puckering and twitching ready for a feed. Michael’s nightmares had always been his own and he had wanted to never worry Sarah and tell her about them. But every time he woke, he knew he had failed to do whatever it was Grandma Annie was urging him, seemingly ever more desperate for him to understand.
Their son calmed at Sarah’s touch, and for what must have been the hundredth time, she feasted her eyes on him and then ran her finger along his cheek before she flopped back, exhausted. She was grateful for Nola and her last act of the night, which had been to ease beneath her head the new, plump, feather pillows and to put her into a clean nightshirt. She smiled up at Michael as he lay on top of the bed, his cap still in his hand, staring at the love of his life and his baby son. ‘Would you look at you,’ she said. ‘You can’t take the smile off your face.’ And then she winced with pain. ‘Michael, would you fetch me some tea?’
He sprang to his feet. ‘I will. Right away. Don’t be moving now.’
‘And I need the pot on the chair so that I can go before the tea, I think.’
‘Right, I have it. Here, let me help you.’
Five minutes later he left the room with the pot in his hand to empty downstairs. Nola had seen to all of Sarah’s needs until now, and she would usher Michael out of the bedroom once morning came, but there was no shame or secrets between him and his wife. ‘Should there be this much blood in it?’ he asked, alarmed, as he looked at the pot and helped her back into bed. He saw her flinch. ‘Is everything all right?’
She flopped onto the pillow and, as if objecting, their son let out an almighty wail. Sarah laughed. ‘He’s wanting feeding now. Everything is fine, Michael. I’ve just given birth to your son and he’s the size of the marrow you put in for the show. Bridget said he was sucking so strong, I would have a pit of pain in the womb and some bleeding too. ’Tis all fine. Would you just be getting me the tea?’
Reassured, Michael left the room. He’d barely put his foot in the corridor before he turned and came straight back in through the door. Sarah was stroking the soft, dark hair on the baby’s head as he lay in her arms, already firmly attached to her breast. She looked up in surprise.
‘Sarah…’ Michael had his cap in one hand – the bedroom was the only room in the house in which he never wore it – and the pot in the other.
‘What, Michael?’ she said, concerned at the look on his face, which was one she wasn’t used to. She knew her husband better than he knew himself and he was as close to tears as he had been on the night Mary Kate was born.
‘I want to be thanking ye,’ he said as he looked down at the floor, embarrassed.
Sarah didn’t speak; the moment was too precious. She was enveloped by the warm smell of new life. Her room was full of things heralding the new arrival, not least the crib and the linen crib sheets Michael had brought back from Galway. She had boldly embroidered them with a row of blue teddy bears across the top, just like ones she’d seen in a magazine sent from New York by Seamus and Nola’s daughter-in-law. She’d even embroidered her own crisp Irish linen pillows with patterns of lady’s-tresses. Looking at them made her heart glow. They didn’t live in a sod house like so many they knew. They weren’t dependent on the weather and a good crop. They had more than a little, just enough, and what they did have gave them security. Her life was so full of happiness. She felt comforted by the thought that her mother-in-law, whom she loved as much as she would any sister, was with Mary Kate, sleeping with her and looking after her as if she was her own daughter. She loved this family, the Malones. She never knew a father could be like Michael, not after the beatings she’d taken from her own father. Daily, she gave thanks on her knees at the altar of the holy sacrament in the village church for the love of family she had been taught through Michael and her own aunt Bee. Daily, she thought that she must be the most blessed woman in the world, despite the awful past. It was all well and truly behind her now.
‘Ye don’t have to be thanking me,’ she said. ‘’Tis your work too. Is something wrong, Michael?’
As he raised his head, she saw his troubled thoughts racing through his mind. For the briefest moment, she felt a cold breeze cross her hot cheeks and her heart beat a little faster. The window was open, the stars twinkling outside in the deep navy of the pre-dawn sky. It had been left open on Bridget’s instructions, to keep her cool.
‘No, not now,’ he said. ‘Not with this little fella safely here and you asking me for the tea, just like you always do. What could be better, eh? Nothing more normal than you chasing me for the tea.’ A grin crossed his face. ‘Shall I poke up the fire and make ye a bit of toast?’
‘Oh, I’d love that, would ye manage with the tea and all?’
‘Jesus, woman, I can manage a bit of tea and toast. Is there anything else I can be doing, anything at all?’
Sarah looked longingly towards the window. ‘Could you turn the bed back around now? I want to face the window. I don’t like the room like this, I like the fire to be on the side.’
‘Aye – your side!’ Michael placed the pot on the floor, still concerned at the amount of blood in it, regardless of what Sarah had said, and stepped towards the bed. ‘Bridget knows what she’s doing though. I wasn’t going to argue with her. No man with an ounce of sense argues with Bridget.’
‘That says much for Porick, who never stops. I definitely need the fire on my side to keep the baby warm now, so stop your complaining, Michael Malone,’ she protested. It was a standing joke between them that Sarah had the bed so close to the fire on her side that Michael was scared the mattress would go up in flames.
‘Do you still feel hot yourself?’ he asked her, his voice loaded with concern.
‘Aye, I do. But Nola said that’s nothing to worry about. I remember it from Mary Kate. ’Tis normal.’
Michael nodded. ‘Bridget told me that might happen when I saw her to the door. She said we should see in the morning how you were. And Mammy told me she remembered how that felt. Happened after every one of us lot, she said.’ He’d been relieved to hear it. The nearest doctor was in Castlebar, which was why everyone used Bridget as a midwife. There was no obligation to pay Bridget, but the doctor charged a handsome sum and spent most of his weekends residing in the tennis club in Galway and no one was convinced he was of any use in the labour room.
Michael stood at the iron bedstead and in two swift moves almost spun the foot of the bed round to face the window.
‘That’s better,’ Sarah said. ‘I can feel the breeze now and the babby has the heat.’ She pulled the bedcover up and almost covered Finnbar as he lay across her lap, feeding.
Michael picked up half a dozen blocks of peat and threw them on the fire. As the loose dust hit the flames, it glimmered around Sarah like a cloud of bright glow-worms. The room took on a marmalade hue, illuminating his wife, reflecting from her long golden-red hair splayed out against the white embroidered lined p
illow case and his longed-for, prayed-for son. He felt as though his own heart was on fire. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes, with tea and toast.’ He bent and kissed Sarah on the cheek and then their son on the top of his head.
Sarah laid her free hand on top of his. ‘When you’ve milked in the morning, be away straight to Mass and give thanks,’ she said with an urgency in her voice.
He knew exactly what she meant and had no need to question her. He bounced down the corridor, almost forgetting that in the other room Nola and Mary Kate were sleeping.
Nola knew her daughter-in-law so well, she could anticipate her every need. Sarah’s tea drinking was legendary, so Nola had left the tray ready on the kitchen table for the morning. As Michael leant against the press while he waited for the water on the fire to boil and the griddle to heat for the toast, he thought about what he would have to pray for when he got to Mass. The curse of Shona had bothered him throughout the pregnancy, but there had been no need to worry. He knew in his heart that Sarah had worried about it too, ever since she found out she was pregnant. But here she was, safely delivered of their baby son. All he had to do when he got to Mass was thank the holy Lord for bringing them through a time that was treacherous for so many women.
‘Oh, holy Jesus, MY SON!’ he shouted into the cap that was still clenched in his hand. ‘Fecking hell, I HAVE A SON!’ Tears ran down his cheeks and he felt as though his heart would burst through his chest wall, it raced so fast. He dashed the cap at his face to wipe the tears away, afraid that Nola would come into the kitchen and find him.
He had been scared for years that there would be no child after Mary Kate. More than anything, he wanted someone to be there for her, a brother to look after her, should she ever have the need of him. He’d been afraid that the curse had been that Sarah would be barren, and she had been. ‘Seven years,’ he whispered. That was what he had wanted to say to his wife as he’d turned back into the room, but the sight of her with his son in her arms had taken the thought right out of his head. But that must have been it. The curse Nola had insisted was there and was never off her knees praying against, it must have been for seven years. But now it was over. Done. And Sarah had borne him a beautiful son.
They had never spoken of it together. Never said out loud what others in the village had talked about. Afraid that if they voiced its name, it would manifest itself, bringing something damaging and unwanted. Sarah had never blamed him for riling Jay Maughan. She hadn’t needed to ask him to go to Mass at all. He would be there.
*
At the sound of the church clock striking the hour and as the kettle boiled in the Malone kitchen, Father Jerry left the presbytery and cut across the shadowy graveyard to the church. He let himself in through the always open door and, seeing the candle lit in the Malones’ kitchen, blessed himself. Mrs Doyle had told Teresa that it had been a safe delivery, and for that, given that Bridget McAndrew had been in attendance, he would give thanks.
*
The water boiled and Michael poured it into the teapot. Carrying the milk jug, he ran into the dairy and filled it from the pail. The cow spoke to him with the gentlest of snorts. She had been in since he’d miked her last night to the muted sound of Sarah’s cries. He put his hand over the wall that separated them. ‘’Tis a boy,’ he whispered. The cow snorted back and, grinning, Michael said, ‘I’ll be back when the sun is up, as it surely will be soon – there’s not a cloud in the sky. And I’ll tell ye all about it. I might even bring him in so ye can take a look yerself.’
Back in the kitchen, he sniffed the milk, poured it into the teapot with the tea, heaped in some sugar and gave everything a stir. He flicked the hot toasted bread off the griddle and covered it in butter, then carried the tray, more quietly this time, up to Sarah.
Halfway down the corridor, he heard the first cries of his son. It was a sound he had never heard before and for the briefest moment he stopped and listened as the child tested the capacity of his lungs. The tears sprang to Michael’s eyes as he thought how much Finnbar sounded like Mary Kate had when she was a newborn. She too had arrived all-knowing and noisy, appraising her surroundings first before she fully opened her lungs, after which she barely stopped.
The cries from Finnbar made Michael hasten his steps. ‘Her milk won’t be in for days,’ Bridget had told him, ‘and he’s a big fella. He’ll be giving out for the lack of a good feed before the morning is out. The harder he tries, the quicker the milk will come in. A pound of rashers won’t satisfy this fella for a while to come.’
‘Jesus, have we days of listening to this?’ he said out loud now, half smiling. As he entered the bedroom, he felt slightly disorientated. He’d almost forgotten he’d turned the bed back round to face the window. But it wasn’t that – something was different, not quite right. Sarah hadn’t answered him back.
‘Jesus, Holy Mary!’ he said as he banged the teapot and cup and saucer on the night stand and ran round to Sarah’s side of the bed. He could not see his child, he could only hear him, coming from where Sarah lay.
As he staggered past the fire to her side of the bed, there was no mistaking what his eyes refused to let him see. Tears welled up and began running down his face. His son was screaming now, almost buried under the covers. He had fallen from Sarah’s breast and was lying across the top of her thighs in a puddle of blood. Sarah’s arm had flopped down by her side, her palms facing upwards. Her face was white and tinged with grey, and beads of perspiration stood proud on her face as she struggled to open her eyes.
Michael fell to his knees at the side of her bed and roared with such pain that he woke both Nola and Mary Kate. The two of them jerked upright in bed, and in that instant Mary Kate understood what it was that Bridget had meant. A sound resembling that of an animal in agony, the outpouring of her father’s pain, marked the moment her life would never be the same again.
*
Across the road, Paddy and Josie had also been asleep. ‘Paddy, did ye hear that?’ said Josie as she dug her elbow into her husband’s back.
‘What the feck…?’ mumbled Paddy, who was in the middle of a dream, buying the biggest bullock any man had ever seen at the Mayo county show, confident he had more than enough money in his pocket to do so.
‘There it is again!’ Josie sat up in her bed, shivering, chilled to her bones by the anguish carried on the air. She crossed herself. ‘Jesus, Paddy, as God is my witness, this will be the worst day. There’s something wrong over at the Malones’.’
*
Father Jerry had smoothed the linen cloth on the altar and lain down on the floor in supplication to the cross. He had much to pray against in this wild and rural corner of the west of Ireland. The winds of change had blown through their village, carrying evil with them. He was one man and he had been told in the night, at the height of his pain and penitence, that he had a battle to fight. He had begged God to forgive him his sin of complacency, for not having seen or recognised the evil that walked in their midst. The Holy Ghost had told him they were under attack and that he would need the villagers to work with him. He must commence an all-day and -night prayer vigil, as much progress had been made, under his very nose.
His first job today, once Mass was over, would be to eject Mr O’Dowd from the school. He would walk over after Mass, challenge him with what Theady O’Donnell had said, and ask him to deny it was true. If he did deny it, Rosie had given him other names to use in his mission to expel him from the village as effectively as St Patrick had the snakes from Ireland.
Rosie would run both classrooms. ‘We will ask some of the parents to help,’ she’d said as she, Father Jerry and Theady had discussed the awful facts. ‘Your mother will be happy to assist, Theady, I’m sure.’ She had been resolute and then distraught, blaming herself for not having heeded the words of others.
‘Let us pray together,’ Father Jerry had said before the three parted. They had knelt and prayed for strength and courage and mostly for forgiveness.
Now, Fat
her Jerry’s arms were stretched out by his side, his robes splayed, his nose pressed against the wooden floor as he chanted his prayers of offering to the Son of God. The waning moon threw the last of its beams through the stained-glass window above as suddenly the church doors flew open with supreme force against the plaster walls. There was no wind; the night had brought a mild breeze at best. His chanting came to a halt, and the candles flickered and went out in the sudden chill that blew through the church. His head shot up and his mouth opened as if to shout. He knew what was happening and he was frozen to the spot.
An evil spirit was in God’s house and had run across his back. It was exuberant and victorious. He scrambled to his knees and lunged for the cross from the altar to ward it off, but he knew already that he was too late.
Chapter 23
Josie had rolled Paddy out of bed and sent him across the road in his nightshirt to find out what was happening. By the time he’d returned, she was dressed in her mourning weeds and ready to do the work she already knew she would have to. Her heart felt so heavy, she could barely move. ‘Oh God, Paddy,’ she cried as he came in through the back door, white-faced and shaking his head.
‘You’d better go over,’ he said. ‘They need you. It’s Sarah. She had the babby and ’tis desperate, so it is.’ Paddy blessed himself as he spoke.
At the Malones’ she hurried around the house, carrying out the first important rituals. Bridget McAndrew brought life into the village; as the butcher’s wife, Josie saw it back out again. ‘Open the windows, quickly,’ she said, ‘and get the curtains closed.’
The lemon and pink curtains were fastened together, not a glimmer of daylight allowed into the room. A black cloth was draped over the pole as it was deemed by Nola that the pattern of the fabric was too frivolous for a room in which a woman lay waiting for the cool peaceful darkness of the grave. Candles were lit at the foot and head of the bed to ward off bad spirits, should they try and get near. The kitchen table had been cleared, ready for the coffin that was already being made.
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