‘I do.’ Eva tensed. Her calves were tired with walking but she could not force this, could not push on to what she wanted, no matter how hard the road to arrive here. She had to reveal herself and what she wanted slowly over the grain of time. The fact struck: Delia could lay her out firm as any boxer might. Eva had let years fall and gather dust.
‘You would, of course. The creature. It was good for the scrap from the factories nearby and it had three toilets and basins even in those days. I long for when we were on the road. Now it’s only me and my old leg and this crutch. I see no one since I came into this house. Even the girl is little company.’
‘You took her on after my mother passed. You were a great woman. Few’d do the same.’
‘Your mother would’ve for me, if I was in need of help.’
‘And how are you keeping?’
‘Not so bad or so good. The truth is, since I came to this place, I was barely out of it for the pains in my old leg. I wasn’t at Mass once.’
‘Were you not?’
‘I do say my prayers between these four walls.’
‘So you like it here?’
‘It’s good enough for the while. I was glad for the house when I was put in it and I’ve come to be used to it. I’ve put myself out of the way of things amidst strangers, but I don’t mind.’
Hot and sweaty, Eva fidgeted on the plastic chair, straining to make herself comfortable and not knock against the old boots lined up by the wall. She had expected meeting would not be easy, but not like this; a beguiling friendliness, the tangle of facts leading her on a strange path. She was dizzy with answering. Answering and questioning. And the remembering, like a spring bursting through stones. She sat with the question she longed to ask, huge as a boulder.
‘But I’m not complainin’. I’ve a roof over my head after the years of travelling and I have the few comforts I want. I’m past noticing any staring eyes on me, the times I’m out, the way we’d look at a gombeen long ago. The way these people’d think we’re exotic birds landed out of another continent. When I arrived with my bags and clobber, they strained out the windows to look. But ever since, nothing. They’re all too pleased with themselves with new carpets and cars in the driveways. So they don’t bother me. Put on the kettle and we’ll have a cup of tea.’ A crumpled black kettle sat near the cooker. Eva rested it on top of the gas. A battered saucepan with blackened sides gurgled on another ring. ‘The years have done little to you, not like myself. I have the look of wars about me.’
‘You have not, Delia.’
‘A woman’s years is written on her face but we’re only down this road the once. In the good light I see y’are the spit of your mother but there’s the trawl of the years on you. And no doubt you’re wondering what way the girl is?’
Eva’s throat was dry and tight. The words she wanted to say would not slip out easily but she had to know what there was to know.
‘How is she, Caitlin?’
‘The wee one’s no longer wee but she’s grand. With great energy, though with every year passing she puts ten more on me.’
‘She’s not been any trouble?’ Eva feared the worst, but would have to put up with whatever way things had turned out.
‘Oftentimes she has the better of me. I’ve tried to do what I can, though she cannot see it and we do be arguin’, but isn’t it the way with youngsters?’ Delia shuffled in her skirt pocket, producing a small tin and filled her pipe. ‘The truth is, I’ve not had it smooth with her and she can be a worry to me. I do wonder what’s in her, for she’s taken off from me twice, going off with men.’
‘She’s brazen, is she?’
‘There’s a bit of that way with her. She went off for weeks when she was no more than fifteen. I’m worried no father of any young fella’ll come for a match, and I haven’t the legs to chase and bring her back.’
Had Caitlin turned into one she would not recognise? The early years of her own mother’s care gone in a wisp, far as the mountains. Eva wanted to cry for the child she had lost. Wanted to grasp her, hold her shoulders and look into her eyes.
‘I done the best I could, no more than your own mother. Caitlin is often out. I’ve no heed of her but she’s with every glincin around.’ Delia held the pipe with yellowed fingers and sucked. She had always smoked along with other women on the road.
‘I’d love to see her.’
‘You would, of course. She’ll be along in a while, though I wonder would you know her, for she’s the height of a cane for stalking beans, towering over me.’ Delia put down the pipe and slurped her tea. Her knobbled hands wrapped around a mug decorated with a swirl of flowers.
‘Did she ever ask after me?’
‘She did not. After your mother died and she came to me, she missed her of course and I’d the devil of a job to ease her, but she settled and there was never a peep out of her. She was happy enough, a mild creature, but deep. I’d never the measure of her, for she walked around with her own thoughts.’
‘Like my mother?’
‘Your mother was awful lively and good natured. Isn’t it how she got hold of your father? Quiet and shy, till she caught him by the sleeve and pulled him off to dance. But herself is musical the same way, with a beautiful voice for singing.’
‘If I could even hear her...’
Dragging herself up and rearranging her skirt, Delia shuffled towards the window.
‘Come over and take a look. She’s on her way,’ Delia whispered sharply.
Eva stood at the window. A girl of about eighteen walked across a line of houses. A wrench of confusion rose in Eva. Her eyes were playing tricks. The dark flurry of hair and the face. This could not be Caitlin. Grown into a person. A person away from her. To be so near. At once a mother and a stranger. ‘She’s lovely.’ Eva held the sill to steady herself.
‘And why not? Her father must have been as good-looking as Omar Sharif. But what does it matter, for aren’t we all descended from the same two in the Garden of Eden?’
‘I’ll go out.’
‘You’ve no need, for wouldn’t it be a fuss? Wait till she comes in, as she surely will soon.’
‘No. I must. I’ve got to see her.’ She ran out of the kitchen, sweeping past the chairs and table, setting a stool to wobble, hurrying down the hall and up the path, heaving in gulps of breath.
Caitlin had gone. A stitch rose in Eva’s side. She rubbed but the pain persisted. Flooded with not knowing where she was, she stopped. There was no one to see. No person. Only the rows of houses. A bike flung down in a garden. Bins. A cat slunk by. She was lost. A wave of the past blew through her. Was it a vision? Had she walked into some dream of Delia’s? Eva drowned in looking and looking for a version of herself. And him. For might not Caitlin have the same walk as her father Kaybe, his self-assured casual walk? She wore his skin, carried his eyes and face, but Eva did not know the inside of her. She did not know how she liked her food. Was it fish or meat she was fond of? If meat, was it the juicy tender flesh of the lamb like herself, or beef? Did she sleep well and what made her laugh? She returned to Delia. The mistake of her youth hit, the way she was struck with a stone. But there was no bandage.
‘You’re pale with running. You’re not used to it.’ Delia rested her hand on Eva’s arm as she fell to a seat. ‘There’s no hurry. Come back some other day earlier and I’ll have her here for you surely.’
‘I will. I’ll be back soon.’
‘You’ve time enough. Are you all right?’
‘I do find a sickness comes on the odd time.’ Eva shifted in the chair, to avoid the blast of heat from the electric heater.
‘What way’s the sickness?’
‘Awful pains in the stomach. I’ve had them a while but the doctors can do little.’ Eva rubbed the soft mound.
‘Ah, doctors. You don’t want to be holding with only them. Let me look around. I
could make you a drink.’
‘I don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble. Why wouldn’t I help, the way your own mother helped me, and myself and Tomeen not able to bear a child.’
Delia pushed herself out of her chair, gripping the sides, and stumbled to a cupboard. She searched through tins and jars, raising each to her ear and rattling it. She took out leaves from one and from another a scatter of dead spiders and flies, placing them in a bowl. She carried them to the sink near the back door. Water ran, slopping and falling.
Returning, holding a jug and a spray of grass, she stood at the dresser and mixed the liquid in a small bowl. She poured it into a china cup with delicate pink flowers on the side.
‘It’ll ease you.’ Delia offered the cup. A puddle of dark liquid caught the light. Eva drank; an acrid, bitter taste. There might be nettles in it, for her mother had boiled them for sickness. ‘We’ll say a prayer to settle it.’ Delia foraged in her pocket and produced a rosary. She spread it on her knees. The beads trickled in her hands. ‘Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost,’ she said in a low voice. Unheard for years, the words fell into Eva until Delia drew to a pause. ‘I’ll put the rest of it in a little bottle for you. But be sure to keep on with the drink for the next seven days, and whatever ails will pass.’ The craggy caves of eyes were heavy lidded and screed with lines. ‘Is there any more I can do?’ she asked.
‘I’d like things to be straight,’ Eva said. She wanted to put her arms around Caitlin, to see the shape of her eyes, their deep brown, her mouth and nose.
‘You do of course, but don’t annoy yourself with old stuff. Give yourself a chance. Leave time do its job and come up on the girl slowly. In your own time, lest it not be a shock.’
Delia was right. She must bide her time, come in close, the way her father would handle a horse: a light touch with the rope, a tug gentle as a breeze, and before he knew it the creature was reined in, able for riding.
‘If she’s too much, I’ll take her. She can come with me.’
‘She has a home here and no cause to be going any other place further than this door.’ Delia’s voice broke in, strained and harsh, in a manner Eva had never heard. She was stung. She twisted her hands like a cloth, wished she could see the rest of the house where her child lived, where she slept. ‘We don’t want to be making rough roads for ourselves.’ Delia shifted her chair and talked about the price of meat, the noise, and her neighbours who left the house every morning at six, before ever she was out of bed. Taut with reproof, Eva sat back. It was difficult to breathe, the heat of the kitchen smothering. She was lost to all but the call of Caitlin.
Eva had clutched her shoulders on leaving the child. Her hands pale as sand, raised to be carried, her eyes following as Eva went out the door. The metal slamming closed was a knife in her back. The way her father slipped his blade along a line of metal to make a handle for a bucket. She had gone out down the steps and not turned back but kept walking, past vans and bicycles, washing lines and chairs left out from an evening’s talking.
‘I’ll say goodbye.’ Eva set down the cup on the table. She clutched the bottle with the liquid.
‘Come another day and I’ll make sure herself is here.’ Delia stood at the door while Eva walked out. Trees in the distance were women frenzied, their arms straining heavenwards, but the gulp of cold night air and its very darkness revived her.
She would take Caitlin shopping and buy her chains, earrings, beads. Combs and clips for her hair. They would go into shops and she would buy her anything she wanted: a blouse, a nice skirt or trousers. In new clothes, Caitlin would turn around in front of a mirror and know her. They would be together and Caitlin would understand all which had been held in, hoarded, like a bundle of clothes in the back of a press for years, in a long narrow street, in a room in a far city.
Eva’s eyes sparkled as she walked back, her pace slower with the pull of remembering and want. The muscles in her legs were riven with aches. She rubbed her thighs. She had done too much, walking all the miles out of town and beyond when she should have caught a bus the whole way. She crossed fields and came out on the lane leading to the small road and onto the road for the site.
She rounded the bend, walking between trailers and vans for their own. Torin was inside checking the fridge.
‘Hello, love,’ she said. ‘You haven’t been around for a while. You’re still down at the old house?’
He nodded.
‘It’s only fit for cats and dogs and sheep. You want to look out for yourself with all them droppings. It wouldn’t be good to be bringing them along with you.’
‘I haven’t seen any sheep.’
‘You wouldn’t know one end from the other, if you did,’ she said. ‘Stay. You’ll enjoy yourself. There’ll be a good crowd later.’
‘I can’t.’ He pushed into his sports bag tins of peas, mushrooms and soup, a pair of trousers and two tee-shirts.
‘Why not?’ She wiped her cheek quickly with her cuff.
‘Is there any milk left?’ He bent to the little fridge to check. ‘You all right, mum?’ He stood, sweeping hair from out of his eyes.
‘I am, of course.’ She wished she could blow her nose.
‘You’ve been crying?’
A plastic bag hung from his hand full of the bits of shopping: tins of beans; biscuits with the jam. Bread. She had no strength to scold him. ‘Let the lad alone,’ her father would say when she told off Torin for the food disappearing, ‘He’s growing.’ He was indeed. Growing away from her. Away from what he knew. What she knew. And all she did not, but which she wanted to and would reveal to him soon. Soon. In the breath of time. She was weak with regret.
‘I have not. A bit of grit in my eye, only. Are you coming in? I’ll put on a good piece of a chicken and you can have it fried.’ She twitched her cuff for a tissue.
‘Can’t. I’ve got to go’
‘When will I see you?’ She stretched an arm towards him.
‘I don’t know. Soon. Later.’
She stood at the door as he sauntered along the muddy path between broken skate boards and water butts, under the branches of trees by the field. A slide of contentment rode within. She would see him. Make things good. Introduce him to Caitlin. The three of them would go on together, easy as a path through fields, stretching through the years. The time would come like the breath of summer rising.
2
Caitlin said the community centre was the only place where local bands played decent music.
‘Decent if you define it as live and loud. Or there’s a Sunday night DJ and band at the Paradiso Hotel. Old boys in from the farms who can barely hold a guitar,’ she laughed.
‘No, it’s fine. Whatever they are.’ He gritted his teeth.
At the entrance, she pointed out the carved lettering, ‘Ceol na mara.’
‘What’s it mean?’ he asked.
‘Ceol is music. So it’s music of the sea. Music is the best of it. Usually they have evening classes, or information sessions for farmers,’ she laughed. ‘You sure you want to see this band?’ She broke into a bar of chocolate. ‘They might be rubbish and you’ll think we’ve nothing around here.’
‘I’m happy to. A couple of hours out of my life’s all right.’ He put his arm around her shoulder and bent as she fed him pieces of fruit-and-nut chocolate.
Drips smeared her fingers. She licked them then gave her fingers to him to suck. Even though he had not taken anything, he was high and buzzy. He could climb a ceiling. Touch the stars. He was with her. Anything was possible. The evening opened in front of them. All he wanted. More than he had expected.
His phone shivered. Marcus.
‘Sorry.’ He pulled the phone from his pocket.
‘How’re things?’ Marcus slurred. He must have been drinking. He had the freedom to roam in and
out of pubs, probably had a bit of money.
‘I’m all right.’ Torin backed from Caitlin.
‘Least you don’t feel as bad as me.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Game at the weekend. Didn’t you see it? QPR slaughtered. Bloody Spurs.’
He had not seen a match all the way through for weeks. If he was there, he’d be going if he got the cash together or be able to see at in the pub at the corner. His life was slipping away.
‘What was the score?’
‘Three bloody two, to them. They’ll go down the table… Ricardo was useless. The new manager has no idea what to do with him.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Harjit’s still in hospital. Critical Care.’
‘What’s that mean? Bad news?’
‘Must do. We ain’t heard any more. But I’ve gotta go. Someone’s ringing on my other phone. See you.’
Marcus had probably run down the street, past cars and flats, houses and offices, crowding out where they lived, free to go where he liked.
Torin saw the knife on the pavement. The blade in a flicker of light and the girl in the sequinned top saying to ring for an ambulance, but as its siren ripped through the night air he was running. He tore down the alley stinking of piss and fags and drink, onto the High Road. He had slowed, so as not to draw attention. Walked as if he had no cares in the world while neon tore in the night in the video shop, ‘Two for one offer. Last fortnight.’ All he had known was that the night was over before it had begun, and he and his mates and some others were standing around useless as kids in a playground while Harjit lay until they scattered.
Caravan of the Lost and Left Behind Page 12