The
Lane
The
Lane
A Young Woman’s Tale
in the Heart of Dublin
Maura Rooney Hitzenbühler
First published by GemmaMedia in 2011.
GemmaMedia
230 Commercial Street
Boston, MA 02109 USA
www.gemmamedia.com
© 2011 by Maura Rooney Hitzenbühler
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles of reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
15 14 13 12 11 1 2 3 4 5
978-1-934848-40-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hitzenbühler, Maura Rooney
The lane : a young woman’s tale in the heart of Dublin / Maura Rooney Hitzenbühler.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-934848-40-1
1. Unmarried mothers—Fiction. 2. Single parents—Fiction. 3. Young
women—Ireland—Fiction. 4. Dublin (Ireland)—Social
conditions—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.I89L36 2011
813′.6—dc22
2010049841
For
Maura Hitzenbühler Sargent
Maeve
Tara
William
and
Sean Patrick Hitzenbühler
CHAPTER 1
On a cool Friday in early spring, Kate, a tall and slender young woman carrying a suitcase stood at the entrance to the lane. The sign on a garden wall indicated “Redmond’s Cottages.” Francis had not mentioned that; he had merely called it The Lane. Perhaps, she thought, she had come to the wrong place. Finding no one to question, she walked slowly up the lane until she reached the water tap, the sole source of water for the people living in the lane.
As she turned left, the lane widened, and there before her were two rows of tiny cottages facing each other, separated by twenty feet of cobblestone courtyard, without steps or footpaths. In this deserted village within a village she stood where everything was clean, orderly, and without a soul present.
He does not seem like a man who would live in a place like this, she thought. He had said the fourth cottage on the right, she remembered as she walked past the neat, no-frills homesteads: no names, no door numbers, no bells. Nothing was displayed on these plain, brightly colored doors with the exception of brass keyholes and letterbox openings. As she reached the fourth cottage, she rapped on the tomato-red, painted door. He opened it, and as he stood there, she realized he would have to bend his head to enter or leave the cottage.
“You came!” he said in his usual soft voice.
“Did you think I wouldn’t? Would you rather I hadn’t?”
“No, no, not at all. Come in,” he said as though saying, “you’re here now, you might as well come in,” she thought, as she hesitated at the threshold.
“I’ll make us some tea.” As he put the kettle on, he turned around and saw her gaze span the contents of the cottage. Not much to offer a classy woman like her or any woman, he deemed, as he too looked at the room he had not until this moment given much thought.
“Here, sit down,” he urged, as he pulled out one of the three chairs at the small square table. There were no other chairs in the room save for the rocking chair by the fireplace. “The tea will be ready in a few minutes.” She closed the door behind her and sat. He sat down opposite her.
“It’s so quiet and peaceful here; it appears as though the cottages are unoccupied.”
“Far from unoccupied,” he told her. “There’s never been a cottage vacant in my lifetime. Over the years, many of the cottages have been handed down to family members. All the cottages have but two rooms, a bedroom and an all-purpose room. Older people, for the most part, live here, although there are just two rather large families now. It’s hard to imagine how they manage in two small rooms. It’s assumed, though nobody would be so indelicate as to ask, that the male members of these families sleep in the bedroom, and mother and daughter sleep in the all-purpose room.”
“Did you grow up here?”
“Yes, in this same cottage.”
“Without house numbers, how does the mailman know which house to drop off the mail?”
“He knows that the even numbers are to the right, odd numbers on the left. We’re the fourth house, so we’re number eight.”
This is a world unto itself. A world from another century, thought Kate.
He hesitated before speaking. “I brought in a pail of water. No indoor plumbing. You’ve passed the tap. There are six toilets and three shower stalls at the far end of the lane for all fourteen families.” Hearing the kettle boil, he got up and prepared the tea. As he did so, he added, with a wave of his hand, “The bedroom’s in there. There’s a small yard in back.” With his back towards her, he asked, “Did they verify it?”
“Verify it? Do you mean my pregnancy?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. Then noticing he still had his back towards her, answered, “Yes.”
“No doubt, then?” he asked turning towards her.
“None.”
“There should be some bread in the bread box behind you. Would you give a look?”
“Yes,” she answered as she opened the box and touched the half loaf of stale bread.
“Good. There’s a chunk of cheese on the sideboard with the butter, milk and sugar. You’ll find a knife in the drawer beneath it.”
Opening the drawer, she found an assortment of hardware: a pen knife, some nails, a spanner, a screwdriver, some razor blades, a few spoons, three forks with bent prongs, a large bread knife, three dinner knives, a bottle opener, and some unidentifiable objects.
“I’m not much at keeping things in order. My mother, Lord rest her soul, kept everything shipshape. Now with the parents gone, I tend to let things go. However, you can fix things whatever way you wish.”
As he poured the tea into two mugs, she brought the bread, knife, cheese, milk, sugar and spoons to the table. In cutting the bread she asked, “Do you have regrets?”
“Ah no, it just took me by surprise. Is the tea to your liking?”
She nodded, and pondered her predicament. Why did she let herself get into this kind of situation? She could not tell her mother of her pregnancy, she was sure of that, and not at all sure of what life would hold for her from here onwards.
The tears seemed determined to fall, and she was equally determined to prevent them from doing so.
Think of something else, she told herself as they sat in silence.
She ate some stale bread with some cheese because she hadn’t eaten all day and was hungry. She would go out tomorrow and buy some food. Would he offer her money to pay for it? Was there but one bed in the bedroom? Would they share the same bed? Her suitcase stood where she left it on coming into the cottage.
“Where can I hang my clothes?”
“There are hooks on the back of the door there and on the inside of the bedroom door.”
“No closet! Do you have any spare clothes hangers?”
“Just take my shirts off and put them all on one hanger, and you can use the others.”
He’s easy to get along with, she thought. Will that change in the months ahead when my womb expands? He’s a very gentle soul. The baby could do a lot worse than have a man such as Francis for a father. Breaking into her thoughts, she heard him speak.
“I’ll be going out in a few minutes. There’s a radio you might like to listen to, and I’ll bring the newspaper on my return.”
“Thank you.”
Now the tears cou
ld fall, and they did, and going to the suitcase, she fumbled for a hankie, her body heaving with sobs. Physically and emotionally exhausted, she sought a place to lie down. Opening the bedroom door, she saw a large poorly-made bed with a blanket thrown across crumpled sheets. Unwashed clothing lay piled up in a corner, most likely gathered up from around the floor in an effort to tidy up the room. She was about to lie down on the bed and then remembered he had not offered her the bedroom. She pulled a sweater from her suitcase and wrapping herself in it, sank down into the rocking chair and fell asleep.
Upon awakening, she could not immediately recollect where she was. As she scanned the darkened room, she remembered: Francis’ cottage! Looking at her watch, she realized it was half past five in the morning. Although it would pain her to do so, she knew she could sell the watch her beloved father had given her. It would have to be under dire circumstances, though. She lovingly touched the band of the watch.
Suddenly she heard a rustling noise. Mice! No, just Francis.
“You were asleep when I got in yesterday evening, so I moved softly not to waken you. Would you like some tea? It’s already made,” he said.
“Yes, I’ll get it.”
“You can sleep in the bed. I’ve straightened it out a bit. I should be at my uncle’s farm by six. I’ll be back before five this evening.”
“Thanks.” What does he expect? she wondered. I slept with him once before. I’m carrying this child, and I’m settling down in his house.
Rising from the rocking chair, she shivered, and passing in front of him, poured tea into a mug. She took the tea into the bedroom and closed the door behind her, and then wondered if she should have done that. She heard her mother’s often-repeated words ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.’ Discovering there was no lock on the door, her worry that it might appear that she was shutting him out was for naught.
Awakening later in the morning, alone and feeling sick, she felt she had to vomit. She hastened to the other room, and grabbing her raincoat from the hook on the door, opened the door and ran swiftly and barefooted up to the toilets, her coat flung around her shoulders and her hand across her mouth. Kneeling beside the toilet she vomited. Cold and exhausted, she sat on the concrete floor and leaned against the wooden partition until she was sure she was finished. She had been sitting there, growing more numb by the moment, when she felt drops of rain on her neck. Struggling to her feet, she reached up and pulled the chain. She walked back down the lane, past the cottage and washed her hands by the water tap. Then cupping her hands, she filled them with water and rinsed out the bad taste from her mouth. There was no need to hurry out of the rain, even if she had had the energy to do so, for she was soaked from her hair to her cold bare feet.
After she entered the cottage, she immediately put on a full kettle from the water that Francis had brought in before he left. As it warmed, she fetched some soap and a towel and placed a large hand-basin on the floor. Stripping, she stepped into the basin and carefully poured the warm water over her head, and it flowed downward into the basin as she washed. Then using more water, she rinsed off. She dried herself and dressed. With the remaining water she made tea and drank it, her hands around the hot cup and her feet securely tucked beneath her in the rocking chair. With a second cup of tea she ate the remaining crust of bread from yesterday without butter in order to appease her queasy stomach.
She was thankful that Francis had not witnessed this episode. She did not want to think of food, but she knew she needed to feed the baby growing within her. She must engage Francis in conversation so that each of then could know what to expect from the other. Would he bring up marriage? Did he plan to marry her? Did she want to marry him? She had connected with him to legitimize the baby. Yes, there were many things they needed to talk about, but the most immediate was the need for food. She could make dinner for them if she had some ingredients to do so. Her mother’s cook, the soul of patience, had taught her to cook.
‘Mother!’ she thought. Since her father’s death her mother had lived alone in her house with three large bedrooms, two permanently empty. She could have moved back home if her father were there to buffer her against her mother’s wrath. No matter how badly Francis might treat her, it would be like soft falling rain compared to what her mother would shower upon her if she were to return home pregnant or with a child and no husband. The scandal, as her mother would see it, would be too much to bear.
Brothers, Kieran and Rory, twelve and thirteen years older than Kate, their mother’s ‘fair haired’ boys, made her proud. One had followed in their father’s footsteps by becoming a dentist, while the other had become a college professor. Each had married. Kieran and his wife had given their mother two granddaughters, all in the proper order. Rory and Gwen were without children.
Yes, she had been a disappointment to her mother. Why compound that by adding more grief and shame to the family name by returning home? Be that as it may, she would now have to concentrate on how to get someone as nonverbal as Francis to talk.
She would not have access to the money her father had left her until she was twenty-five years old. Right now she was three months less than twenty-two and just out of nursing school. She was fortunate to get a position in the hospital right out of school. And yet, in the six months she had been working she had saved very little. There was the rent for the shared flat, transportation and food expenses, and the clothing sprees her friends and she had gone on together. What need would she have now of three-inch high heels, cashmere sweaters, and fancy dresses? What she regretted most was the money spent with her nursing friends at restaurants and pubs when off duty. It had been their first taste of freedom after strict boarding schools and then regimented nurses training. Now she was hiding out from her friends lest the news of her pregnancy travel to her home town and to her family.
She would, from necessity, need to be frugal. In a very short time, food cost could eat away her savings leaving her without money for a carriage or crib or other baby needs. As soon as her pregnancy showed, she knew she would be out of a job. The hospital’s strict rules had to be obeyed. No shortage of nurses in Ireland, and more than enough here to supply hospitals in England and elsewhere.
Kate was still curled up in the rocking chair when Francis entered. Looking at her watch she realized it was close to noon.
“I just work to eleven on Saturdays. Did I not mention that?” he responded to her surprised expression.
“I would have prepared dinner but there’s no food in the cottage,” she told him.
“Aw, yes. I eat at the farm. I told my aunt I wouldn’t be having the midday meal with them, as you were new to the place and I thought I’d come back and see if you needed anything. Would you like to go out and eat?”
“Yes, that would be nice.”
“Get your coat so, and we’ll be off.”
Oh, Lord, grant me patience, she thought. I’ve told him I would have made dinner if there were food in the house, and he offers this temporary solution. Keep trying.
“I’m afraid I’ve eaten the last of the bread from the breadbox,” she told him while putting on her coat.
“Not to worry, Kate, the shops are only about a mile away.”
How extraordinarily dense! she thinks. I can find shops. It is money I need! Don’t upset the apple cart. He has no obligation to me. If he hadn’t offered his cottage, even in the off-hand manner in which he did, I’d have nowhere to go but back home. His meals are taken care of by his aunt. I’m on my own. How long will it be before I show and am forced to resign? How long will my savings hold out? How much does a baby’s crib and a carriage cost? Kate pondered, and in finding no answers, put it all aside.
“Does your uncle need you at the farm on Sunday?”
“No.”
He goes to bed around nine o’clock and rises at five o’clock. That would eliminate an evening film, she reasoned.
“Perhaps we could go the cinema on Sunday afternoon?”
“Yes,�
� he answered, noticeably pleased at the suggestion. “Is there one particular film you’d like to see?”
“We could look in the paper when we get home to see what’s being shown.”
She had said ‘home’ without thinking. Had he noticed?
On Saturday they chose a film to see the following afternoon. Settling down for the evening, a peaceful contentment settled upon them as he shared his newspaper with her until the Irish News on RTÉ radio. Afterwards they listened to some Irish music programs, then the news on the BBC.
He made no demands on her, and he did not enter the bedroom when she was there. But this was Saturday night, it was almost eleven o’clock, and neither of them seemed to know what to do about the sleeping accommodations. At midnight when they were having difficulty fighting off sleep, she in the rocking chair and he on the hard, uncomfortable kitchen chair, she ventured to ask, if he wished to share the bed with her. It was, no doubt, on both of their minds, but Francis seemed stunned by the question.
“No, Kate, I wouldn’t want to do anything that might hurt the baby. You take the bed.”
This statement moved her, and there arose in her an urge to kiss him, but she refrained from doing so. She marveled at the fact that Francis, who worked with farm animals, could be so unfamiliar with a woman’s body.
“The baby is quite safe within me.”
“What if I were to roll over onto it during the night?”
“I’d automatically move away.”
He smiled at her confidence and his own insecurity on such matters.
“Well, you’re a nurse. You would know such things.”
“Good night,” she said as she walked into the bedroom. About a half hour later, he stood at the door.
“If you’re sure it will be all right, I’d like to get into bed.”
“I’m sure.”
What were Francis’s intentions? she wondered. He merely lay beside her in the darkened room. Would that continue? If more were to happen would she want it to? Even that she was unsure of. Yet, she liked knowing he was there beside her. Waking during the night, she felt the heat of his body next to hers, and moving closer to him, she fell back into sleep.
The Lane Page 1