The radio was playing in the background, and the one o’clock news came on. She picked at her nails, waiting for her coffee to arrive, her heart pounding already at the idea of what she was about to do. Should she do it? Was it the right thing to do, really?
She leaned back against the large glass windowpanes of the café and looked up at the board and the lunch menu, but she wasn’t hungry for food.
She had sat in this café so many times on her own, pretending to read the newspaper or a magazine on her way home from shopping, trying so desperately to be normal, like all the other mothers. She knew this place so well, yet it felt different today. It was hotter, the midsummer heat blasting in from outside. The French windows were open, and Kathleen, the owner, was busy bringing drinks outside. Christina tried not to catch her eye, the need to confide was so strong. There was a new picture on the wall, a bright and colourful landscape, with energetic slaps of yellow and green paint.
She could have done better than that, although she had long since stopped trying. That had always been her problem – she had been afraid. All she had ever wanted to do was paint, and she had been too much of a coward to even do that. She had never followed anything through.
Christina gripped the tall steaming glass of coffee tightly.
Now she was going to.
GRETA
I watched Tomás’s face as he ate. Oh, it was a picture! If you could actually measure contentment, then I would say that his was ten out of ten.
Angeline made us a stew, but one like no other I’ve ever eaten. She called it her winter stew for cold days. Very apt for today, because it’s been bitterly cold all week, with hard, icy rain, even hailstorms, and a nasty east wind whipping around the house. We lit the fire in the dining room after Mass, and then all we had to do was wait. My husband and I sat on either side of the fire, sipping sherry. He was reading the paper and I was dreaming. I could hear Christina in her room above, hopping up and down and chattering to her dolls. We were the picture of bliss.
I had tried to go into the kitchen to help, but Angeline had just shooed me away, joking about her secret recipes. What I smelled was making my mouth water and my stomach groan. All sensations of morning sickness are completely gone!
We started with paté. She said that she had made it yesterday at her parents’ house. I’ve never been a fan of anything too meaty, but this was delicious. The pork was blended to a soft texture and dotted with little peppercorns, herbs and garlic. She served it with a kind of French bread, which was flavoured with oil and herbs. I was studying Tomás’s face as he tried it. He seemed hesitant at first, but then, do you know what he said?
Greta, isn’t this just like some of the food we had in Paris?
Oh yes, I thought, this is where Angeline’s cooking takes me, back to the romance at the beginning of our marriage, all the way to our honeymoon. It’s doing it for him too, it’s reminding him.
Then came the stew. She carried in an ancient earthenware pot like a baby and carefully placed it on the sideboard.
I didn’t know we had that pot, I said.
Oh, it’s mine, said Angeline. It belonged to my grandmother. It’s all the way from France.
It’s beautiful.
It’s also crucial to the composition of the stew. Angeline took off the lid and a sweet aroma rose through the steam. There’s years and years of flavour soaked into this pot, she continued, the souls of a thousand different stews, rich gravies and sweet onions, ancient herbs.
Tomás raised his eyes to the ceiling and made me giggle. He thinks the way Angeline talks is very funny. He calls her a hippy.
I thought Angeline looked wonderful, though, ladling out that stew. She had tied her jet-black hair back with a purple ribbon and was wearing a long purple velvet dress, with long, long sleeves, which she skilfully managed not to dip into the stew. She had a pendant on – I’ve never seen anything like it. It was silver and shaped like a little bottle, with coloured beads hanging off it.
We had all dressed up for the occasion. I could hardly fit into my dress, but Christina looked sweet, of course. I put her in pink. It’s her favourite colour and I think it suits her complexion.
Back to the stew. I have to admit I was a little nervous when she told me what was in it – ham hocks, white beans and root vegetables – but it was just delicious. She had put all sorts of herbs in it to bring out the flavours of the meat, and the carrots and parsnips were soft and sweet. Christina ate all hers up and asked for more.
Make sure you leave room for pudding, Angeline warned.
Baked figs with orange and red wine.
I’ve never eaten figs, I said.
But that’s crazy, Angeline exclaimed, pushing a strand of black hair behind her ear. You’ve a fig tree by the back door.
We do?
She laughed, shaking her head. Although these are from home, dried from last year. I baked them slowly in the Aga until they plumped up into wine-loaded bundles.
Absolutely delicious, Angeline, Tomás said, spooning thick, frothy cream on top of them.
The cream is my father’s as well, Angeline said proudly.
Well, Tomás said, sitting back and stroking his chin, you’re a wonderful cook, Angeline. And then, leaning forward, he suddenly said, with absolutely no prompting whatsoever from me, We really would be delighted if you’d come and work for us.
And live with us, as our friend, I added.
She didn’t hesitate at all. I’d love that, she said, licking the fig syrup off her lips.
Oh, goody! cried Christina, clapping her hands.
CHRISTINA
The door of the café opened, letting in a gust of air and light. Angeline.
Christina dropped her head, but it was too late, she had seen her. She walked steadily towards her, a small red bag tucked underneath her arm, her shopping basket in the other hand. Her hair was still long and black, her skin smooth and glowing. She didn’t look a day over forty.
‘Christina, pet, let me join you.’
‘If you want.’
Kathleen came over and she ordered a pot of tea. ‘How are you?’ Angeline asked as she settled into her seat.
Christina drained her coffee. ‘Okay.’ She didn’t want to tell her anything. She no longer trusted her.
‘Good, good. Have you been keeping your appointments, darling?’ Angeline smiled at her and reached out her hand to touch her.
‘Yes,’ Christina lied. ‘I’m fine.’ Christina drew back and tucked her hands in her pockets.
‘You’re not drinking then?’
‘No. Not that it’s any of your business,’ Christina glared. Angeline looked shocked.
‘What do you mean? Of course it’s my business, I’m your mother.’
‘No, you’re not. At least, you don’t act like one.’
A cloud passed across Angeline’s face. She spoke so low Christina could hardly hear her. ‘How can you say that, Christina?’
‘Forget it.’ Christina shook her head. She didn’t want to argue with her, not here.
There were things she didn’t understand, like why her father had been so angry with her. She had gone back to The Mill first and asked if she could stay there, but he had refused her, said it was about time she stood on her own two feet. He was furious that day; she had never seen him like that.
‘Just look at yourself, Christina,’ he had raged. ‘You’re thirty-four years of age and look at yourself – the state you got yourself into, and no house, no money, no husband. You’re not fit to look after your own children, let alone think about getting a job. I’d think that you’d be hard pressed even to serve someone a drink.’
She had thought that Angeline would stand up for her, but she had said nothing.
‘It’s probably better if you don’t stay here,’ she had said later on when Christina was leaving. She had given her stepmother a searching look, but she let her hair fall across her face so that Christina couldn’t see her eyes. ‘You should have done what I
said, Christina,’ she sighed. ‘If only you had, things might be all right.’
‘But I couldn’t,’ Christina struggled. She wanted to tell Angeline everything, why it had happened, how she had felt, but her stepmother stopped her, putting out her hand as if to keep her back.
‘You should have thought of your children,’ she said.
Christina didn’t understand why she was so angry with Angeline now. Nothing had been her fault.
Angeline had always listened to her, and when she saw how unhappy Christina had become she had helped her, hadn’t she? And yet why did she feel so let down by her stepmother, more than her father, more than Declan?
They sat in silence. Angeline’s tea arrived. She poured it into her cup, blew over it and took a sip, all the time looking at her. Christina tried not to catch her eyes, but suddenly her stepmother leaned across the table and forced her to look at her.
‘I love you, Christina. You have always been my girl,’ she said gently.
‘I’m not your girl. I’m not your daughter,’ Christina said hotly. She felt herself blushing, the tears welling.
Angeline sighed, and her radiance dimmed. Suddenly she looked tired, almost her age. ‘I can only feel about you the way a mother feels about her child,’ she said sadly.
‘You have no idea what it feels like to be a real mother,’ Christina spat back. ‘Have you any idea what it’s like for me at the moment? To be without my children?’
‘It’s for the best, darling. Just for the time being.’
‘But for how much longer?’ Christina groaned, putting her head in her hands as she leaned over the table.
Angeline took Christina’s hands and brought them down, gripping them so tightly that her knuckles hurt. ‘Be strong,’ she hissed, ‘it will be all right.’
Christina pulled away. ‘How can you tell me that? You, of all people, because nothing in our family has ever been all right.’ She got up clumsily, knocking her glass over.
‘Christina—’ Angeline started to say, but Christina didn’t stay to listen.
After her mother had walked out, Christina had been afraid to leave Angeline’s side. She had been her shadow, like Mary’s little lamb. And Angeline had let her be so. She had nurtured Christina, and in turn Christina adored her, even when she was a teenager. She remembered the day Angeline and her father had finally got married. She had been so happy because then they had become a proper family. She asked Angeline how they could marry again, and she told her that Tomás’s marriage had been annulled, they had got special permission from Rome, and that she was now widowed. (Angeline never spoke about her first husband, but her father had told her he was a wicked man.) The whole community had accepted Angeline. Everyone thought she was a blessing for poor Tomás Comyn and his deserted child.
Things had changed a little when Christina got married.
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ Angeline had asked her.
‘Yes,’ Christina had replied petulantly, ‘I love him.’
‘But darling, he’s your first boyfriend. You’re so young.’
‘What else am I supposed to do?’
Angeline had licked her lips. ‘Your father doesn’t know about the pregnancy. It’s still early yet. I can help you, Christina. We can go over to England and—’
‘No!’ She had been terrified of the idea of an abortion. It was more frightening than the thought of having the baby, which was vague and distant and still unreal.
‘Darling, you have your whole life ahead of you. Please don’t throw it away.’
But, uncharacteristically, Christina had held her ground. Angeline had given up then, comforting her sobbing stepdaughter and promising that she would always be there for her.
And she had been at the beginning.
But as the years went by, she could see her stepmother becoming irritated by her whining about Declan, and Christina had had to listen to her say on a number of occasions that hadn’t she told her so? Hadn’t she known that Declan wasn’t the man for her? She told Christina to think of the children. And she had tried. But when her void became so large that she had to fill it with something else, she hid that from Angeline. She had been too ashamed.
The sun was blasting off the pavement, and the light blinded her momentarily. She caught a glimpse of Angeline inside Kraft Kaffee, paying Kathleen, and looked away. She tried not to think about her and her father. She concentrated on each step to her car, entering each moment clean and clear. She wasn’t going to bring any of that baggage with her.
THE IRONING PILE MONSTER
A noise wakes her. Christina’s room is completely dark. Angeline must have turned her night light out after she fell asleep. She whimpers, cries a little louder.
Mammy!
It slips out. But Mammy is gone. Mammy has been gone a long time now. She shakes her head with frustration, the tears falling harder, her fragile heart aching.
Angeline! she calls, holding her breath in the darkness, but there’s no quick step, no light turned on.
Angeline!
She sits up. Her bedroom door is ajar and she can see shadows in the corridor outside. She’s able to make out the outline of the large oak chest, and on top the pile of laundry to be ironed, which never appeared to shrink. She knows it’s just sheets and shirts and tea towels, but in the darkness she can see it moving, she’s sure of it. Maybe there’s someone or something underneath?
Angeline! she calls again, louder this time, but the words echo down the hall, making her feel more alone.
She shivers and climbs slowly out of bed. She has to get her daddy, because where is Angeline? Did the ironing pile monster get her?
The house creaks around her and she jumps nervously. The building feels alive, she can sense it heaving, breathing, changing shape. She runs down the corridor as fast as she can past the laundry pile, and now she’s out on the landing and the moon is shining through the windows. The curtains aren’t drawn and she can see the garden is silver. Everything, even the roof of the shed, is shiny and bright. The clock ticks behind her, but louder is the sound of the river, the water falling out of the mill, its rhythm making her feel sleepy, and all she wants to do is to get into bed with Daddy, be safe and warm.
She puts her hand on the door, pushes it open.
It’s only a second, but what she sees, that one tiny fragment, is permanently lodged in her mind.
There’s a gap in the curtains and the moon shines a light on the bed. Christina can see clearly. The sheets and blankets are up on her daddy’s back, and he’s a mountain. He’s making a strange noise, like one of the grunting pigs, and he’s going up and down, up and down. It looks funny, but when she sees Angeline underneath him, she’s frightened. Is he hurting her? Her eyes are shut tight and her mouth is wide open. She looks like she’s dying.
Daddy!
The light from the hall spills in behind her, and the two shocked adults sit up at once.
Get out of here this instant! her father bellows.
She hesitates, and looks over at Angeline. She doesn’t look happy at all, although she can see now that she isn’t hurt.
Christina, she says sharply, go back to your room, now!
Go on, get out! her father shouts again.
Christina turns on her heels, runs back down the corridor and falls onto her bed.
What did she do wrong? Why were they angry with her? What had happened to her daddy? And why did Angeline stay in there with him?
She hugs herself, crying silently in the dark. She looks out into the black landing and now she can see clearly that the ironing pile is only a stupid old heap of crumpled clothes.
There are other things to be more afraid of.
GRETA
Suddenly our long winter is over. We’re astounded – only yesterday icy sleet had battered the land. Now it’s warm and the fields are shouting for joy. We can see little primroses bursting out of the hedgerows, birds twittering on their barbs and baby lambs stumbling around in the fie
lds.
Angeline and I walked to the woods. Imagine the pale green colour of new leaves as they emerge from the ground, she said. Close your eyes and smell them, the aroma of spring after a long, damp winter.
I shut my eyes, inhaled deeply and immediately tumbled into a ditch, skidding on a cowpat. Yuck!
We laughed then till our bellies ached and we had to sit down.
We had only walked the length of two fields, but we no longer had a view of the house and the river. We were adrift in all this new, fresh greenness. I felt wonderful.
Ever since Angeline has come to live with us I haven’t been sick once. She makes me special little treats – for the baby, she says. She’s so attentive and kind and absolutely brilliant with Christina. My daughter adores her as much as I do, and I think Tomás likes her, for all her ‘hippy’ talk.
At first he was a little confused that Angeline didn’t go to Mass, but she told me that she doesn’t believe in God any more. Maybe if she’d stayed in Ireland she’d still believe in God. I think it’s because she was in London for a long time, and then what happened to her – her dreadful husband breaking their wedding vows, and then having to get a divorce.
She told me that she meditates. Once, at night, I heard a humming sound coming from her room. At first I thought it was the pipes until I realised it was actually her – it was so low, the hum, under the tail end of sound.
If you go into her room, it smells lovely and she burns these perfumed sticks called incense, which Tomás doesn’t like at all, but she’s such a good cook that he says nothing. I like the smell – I find it relaxing.
Angeline picked some leaves off a small tree and placed one on her tongue, then handed one to me.
Go on, she said, taking her leaf out. Put it on your tongue.
What if it’s poisonous?
Don’t be silly. It’s a bay leaf.
I placed the leaf on my tongue. What did it taste like? Bitter, but sweet, alive.
Angeline told me a story as we walked, and I picked little yellow buds from the gorse and sprinkled them on her hair so that they looked like bright stars on a dark night.
A Small Part of Me Page 6