I rubbed at the back of my sore head, and said, “I only wanted, you see, to get home before my father. But he must have slept at the pub; for if he was here, he would have come already for his breakfast. And don’t you know? I might have stayed with Aggie anyway!”
“I am assuming,” said the young woman, “that the man who came tramping through the door, round about an hour ago – was your father?”
I looked at her in surprise.
“A fine mess he was, if you don’t mind my saying so. A sloppy stupor he was in, when he spoke to me.”
“What did he say?”
“He seemed to think that I was you. He told me to scramble him four eggs – then stumbled across the kitchen, and down the hall. Before he slammed his door, he shouted ‘Five instead!’ and then I fell to a fit of amusement.”
“You’d not be amused,” I said, quite as lightly as I could, “if you were me.”
Something indecipherable flickered in her eyes; but she only flashed me another of her warm, contagious smiles.
We sat together for at least another half an hour, talking of this and that. There was something about her that made me feel inexplicably at ease (it reminded me a little of the way I felt, when I was with Aunt Aggie) – and I wished for a moment (just for a moment) that she would not leave. But I cleared the thought away, with a customary shake of the head.
“Why were you in the forest last night?” I asked, introducing for my own benefit a change of subject.
She had been travelling back from the office of Mr Hinkley (who was the only attorney for miles about). She said not why, and I did not ask.
“I was so tired,” she said, “I decided to take the track. But I must say –” (and here she looked as though she were about to laugh at me again) “– that I’ve never attempted it without some sort of weapon on my person.”
I only scowled.
“Ah, don’t frown so!” she exclaimed. “Here, let’s talk of something else.”
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“Some hours of a ride away,” she said. “Lord knows I wouldn’t have troubled to come all this way at all, if I hadn’t had to –”
And here she paused, looking down for just a moment to smooth the wrinkles from her dress. There was something so mechanical, and so evasive, in this, that I nearly inquired her business with Mr Hinkley. Yet I refrained.
I began to tear up a little chunk of bread that was left on my plate, into tiny little pieces, and waited a good long moment before asking, “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you live by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t get lonely, then?”
“Well, I suppose anyone would. But it’s really not all that bad. It’s – well, it’s peaceful, at least.”
I nodded, and said, “I don’t think I’d mind a little bit of peace. Around here, it’s hard to keep your business your own. I can’t think of anyone round about that’s a stranger to me.”
She smiled, and said (in a way which seemed to demonstrate that I should have known as much), “Of course not. If you aren’t aware that someone exists, then you can’t think of them as anything.”
I felt my face flush. “Oh, well – of course you’re right about that.”
“I haven’t been alone for very long,” she said, ignoring my bright cheeks. “I’m still getting used to the idea. I’ll admit that, sometimes, I wish for someone at least to talk to.”
“Well, if you’re truly desperate,” said I, “then you can have the fellow who keeps bothering me. I certainly don’t want him.”
“And why is that?”
I sighed. “What is it with everyone? They think that, just because someone wants to marry you, you should jump head over feet into who-knows-what for absolutely no reason whatever. Maybe I don’t want to be married. Or maybe I just don’t like the man! Did anyone ever consider that? Well, I don’t like him. I don’t like him one bit – him or his stupid wood!”
She did not respond, but lifted her eyes and caught my own, holding them for a brief moment. And then she smiled again.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Oh, I know. I’m sorry I sniped at you.”
“No matter.”
I glanced at the clock. Already past noon! My father must have been quite unconscious, to have kept away for so long. I was glad of it; for it meant that he had caught no scrap of my conversation with Theodora Alaster.
He knew not a thing about Jeffrey Donovan, and I intended to keep it that way.
I shook my head to clear my blurry vision. I returned my hand to the back of my head; and then brought it down to visit the aching spot on my back, where I had struck what I thought now to have been a sharp rock. Things directly in front of my eyes kept sliding in and out of focus – including Theodora Alaster’s face. I squinted to see more clearly, but that only made me dizzy again. I leant back in my chair, so as not to fall out of it.
“Oh my,” said Theodora Alaster, pushing back her chair. “I’m afraid I forgot all about the reason why I’m here.” She came to help me to my feet. “Here, let’s get you back to bed.”
“No,” I said, trying to wave her away. “I have things to do. Lots of things to do.”
“Surely you don’t,” she said, in a tone of finality. She continued to lead me out of the kitchen.
Once I was in bed, I let my head fall straight back against the pillow. I closed my eyes, for the room was spinning more quickly than it had done when I woke; and this time the spinning was accompanied by a feeling of queasiness unlike any I had ever known before.
I believe I was just beginning to nod off, when I felt something cold on my face. My eyes snapped open – but, naturally, it was only Theodora Alaster. She was holding a damp cloth, and pressing it gently to my right cheek, where that deep claw-mark lay.
“You don’t have to do that,” I mumbled, pushing against her hand.
She only pressed mine in return, and smiled kindly. Again, I felt the cool sweep of the cloth.
And then I fell fast asleep.
***
The next time I came to consciousness, the stimulus which roused me was one far less pleasant than the smell of scrambling eggs. I was stiff on my back, in the same position in which I had fallen asleep. I swivelled my neck from side to side, trying to work out the crick that had formed at the top of my spine; and not quite understanding exactly why I had emerged from my deep, wonderful sleep.
I heard shuffling footsteps to my left. I looked over in that direction – expecting to see Theodora Alaster – but it was not her. It was the only other person, you see, who would be standing there in my bedroom; his head cocked to one side, his mouth hanging slightly open, the odour of stale alcohol permeating the air all around him.
“What do you want?” I asked. I rolled away from him, and shut my eyes.
He kicked the side of the bed. “What do you mean by talking to me that way? You’ll do well to show a little respect to your father.”
I answered him nothing.
“Get up,” he said, kicking the bed again.
I grumbled beneath my breath, not overly zealous to stand up on my own two feet, and trust that the room would remain still.
I felt his hand on my shoulder. It tugged at the sleeve of my pajamas, practically pulling me out of bed. I assisted a bit, if only for the saving of my sleeve.
“Why won’t you ever listen to me?” he demanded. “I ask you to get up; you ignore me. I suppose I have to do everything all on my own, do I?”
He slapped my face. I staggered a bit, but quickly righted myself, loath to show any weakness at his hand.
He began to retreat from the room. “If those chores of yours aren’t done by the time I get home this evening – so help me God, there’s going to be trouble.”
It took me another quarter of an hour to get completely out of bed; for when my father left the room, I flopped back down again.
I gazed for a little out the window, taking in the sun-filled morning, what so much resembled that of the day before. It was a beautiful day – but there was an odd feeling of heaviness in my chest, the cause of which I could not rightly judge. Was it an accompaniment of my physical pain, which was at the moment admittedly considerable? Was it an effect of my cuts and bruises – or merely a re-visitation of that terrible loneliness that welled up, strangely enough, every time I found that I was no longer alone; but was in the company of my father?
That thought led me to wonder where Theodora Alaster had gone. I supposed, of course, that she had returned to her own home. What reason had she to stay? Her good deed was done; and there was no string which attached her anymore to me. I was completely certain of this; for if I had thought to do so, I surely would have attempted (with every bit of subtlety I possessed) to tie one off before she left, so that she might
remain something more than invisible to me.
Silly, sleeping thoughts! We have plenty of these, just after we wake.
I turned away from the window, and dressed slowly, looking about half-heartedly for the clothes I had worn yesterday. I found them in a small pile at the foot of my bed, muddied, bloodied and ripped beyond repair.
I searched until I came up with an old blue dress, which had become a bit short in the ankles. Besides that, I had only one other suit of clothes (what I called my “good clothes” – though by anyone else’s standards, probably they were only tattered at best), along with a fancy-looking black dress that had once been my mother’s. My father had once tried to burn it, but I rescued it from the flames just in the nick of time. He didn’t know that it was currently hidden in my bottom drawer, under some old newspapers.
I left the room without tidying my bed. In the kitchen, I found that all of the breakfast dishes had been cleaned, and replaced into their respective cupboards. There was a very light scent, almost like flowers, hovering in the air. Since my father only ever smelled of beer and shoe-leather, it was not hard to guess who had left it there.
What must I do today? I wondered. Well – I must scrub the floors, and dust the shelves. I must milk the cow and feed the scrawny chickens. I must not touch the horse, however much I may wish to. Charlie was my father’s, and my father’s alone – his means of transportation, and the very closest thing to a friend that I think he ever had.
So I pulled on my boots, and went out the back of the house, into our small patch of land. I walked to the tiny barn, tugged the door open, and entered into mild sunlight that poured in through small squares cut out of the walls. The cow looked at me with reproachful eyes; and I felt the mild irritation that she was attempting to convey.
“I know, Ellie,” I said, reaching up to pet her head. “I’m sorry about last night. But come along, and we’ll get you fed.”
At my words, she began to walk slowly forward, towards the door of the barn. I spread a bit of feed on the floor for the hens. I paused to inspect their nests of hay; but found only six eggs in the whole place. It was not much of a surprise. When one was struck by the inclination to gaze upon the thin, pitiful little creatures, one was made almost heartbroken by their skinny, molting bodies. So I scooped up the eggs without scolding their producers, and slipped them into my pocket.
Ellie was waiting for me by her water trough. I lifted it to empty out the collection of dirty water, and pumped it full of a fresh puddle. She drank gratefully, and then bent down to graze. I stood with her for a few minutes, watching her eat, and listening to the hens squawking weakly in the barn. Several times, Ellie looked up at me – and I swear that I saw a kind of love in her eyes, that I simply could not comprehend. When I reached out to touch her, she lifted her head to nuzzle it against my hand, almost as a dog would.
Sometimes I would talk to her, divulging each of my many thoughts as we stood out in the field. She would study me in a seemingly thoughtful way, and then return to her grazing; and I could never decide whether she had really been listening, or rather had not understood a single word I’d said.
***
“What good are you, anyway?”
I looked up at my father.
“What’s the point of you, can you tell me? I work all day long, and I come home to a lousy supper. What in the world else have you got to do, other than make me something decent to eat?”
I did not bother to point out the fact, that he had only been in town for about three hours that day.
“What did you want?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, shoving his plate away. Food went scattering all over the table. “Something other than this.”
“I’ll make you something else, if you like.”
“Oh, forget it.” He stood up. “I’ll only go to the shop tomorrow, weak as a dog, because my daughter doesn’t care whether I live or die.”
He marched off to his bedroom, and slammed the door behind him. A headache was inspired instantly within my temples.
I was quiet while he slept. But when I went into my bedroom, later in the day, I was full surprised to see him kneeling on the floor.
“What are you doing, Da?”
“I’m fixing your bed – if it’s any of your business.”
“Isn’t it, though, since it’s my bed?”
He glared at me. “Why do have to talk to me like that? No respect, I tell you. None at all.”
“I didn’t mean anything –”
“Just shut up, will you?”
I was about to leave the room, when I realised that I had failed to ask the most
obvious question.
“Why are you fixing my bed?”
“Because it squeaks something awful, all night long. I’m there across the hall, trying to sleep, and all I can hear is that squeaking! I mean to say, do you even sleep at night? Or do you just roll about until the sun comes up?”
I chose not to answer either of those questions. Instead I said, “Please don’t break my bed, Da.”
“What? I’m fixing it.”
“It’s only that sometimes, when you try to fix things, you –”
“What do you mean, try? I’d like to see you keep this house up.”
I sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I left him to his mumbling and grumbling, and went to the kitchen to fix supper.
***
When I lay down to sleep that night, I was dismayed to find that my bed frame was squeaking and squealing worse than ever.
Oh, why had he had to touch it?
I tried to lay still, so as not to make too much noise. But, as I fell into the space halfway between wakefulness and sleep, I rolled over unthinkingly; and I heard one of the loudest noises that I believe I’d ever heard.
It was almost like a gunshot.
My father barged right in – slammed the door back against the wall, and put yet another hole into the wood.
“Jesus Christ!” he shouted.
Somewhat against my own will, I leant over the side of the bed, and looked down. Half of the frame had collapsed into the floor.
I thought I’d felt a bit crooked.
“I just fixed that!” my father shrieked, pointing madly.
“You did not. You made it worse – and that’s why it’s broken now, when it wasn’t this morning.”
“Always blaming me, you are. You break a good bed, wake me up in the middle of the night –”
“I’ve had this bed since I was four, and it wasn’t even right then.”
“Come here, you.”
I looked at him warily.
“I said, come here.”
“I’m not a little girl anymore,” I said, feigning toughness – but feeling my knees begin to shake under the blanket.
“You’re big, then, are you? Big enough to go out there and live all by yourself? How about I kick you out of here, and we can see how well you fare?”
“Stop it,” I said. “I’m sorry. I can fix it tomorrow.”
“I don’t care what you can f
ix,” he said, coming to yank me clean off the mattress. “It won’t get you far where you’re going.”
“Da, don’t –”
“Hush up. I don’t want to hear you anymore.”
He dragged me by the collar to the front door. “Go on, now,” he said.
“Not tonight, Da, please?”
He had done this same thing, you see, many times before. He would throw me out into the yard, lock the door behind him, and then go back to bed. (When he went to work in the morning, though, he always forgot to lock the door again.)
“What do you mean, ‘not tonight’? You think you’re coming back? You’re sadly, sadly mistaken, girl. Out you go – and don’t come crawling back.”
“We both know that you can’t get on without me.”
“I suppose we’ll see,” he said. He opened the door, and tried to push me out.
“Stop it, Da,” I said, pushing him back. “I’m not sleeping outside.”
“You’ll do what you’re told.”
I shoved his arm away, hollering at him. “Would you stop it?”
“Get out!” he yelled back, ramming me against the wall.
It hurt so badly, I slid right down to the floor. It felt, for a moment, like my back was broken (but I knew that it wasn’t, because I had been shoved into the same wall more times than I could remember – and I always got back up again).
And yet, familiar as the feeling was, still it brought hot tears welling up in my eyes. I sat there on the floor, holding the small of my back, wincing and blinking the water from my line of sight.
“Stop that crying,” my father said, kicking at my foot. “Get up and act your age.”
“I’m not crying,” I said. “And I don’t have to be five years old to tell you that that hurt.”
“If you don’t like it, you can just leave.”
“I have a choice now?”
He shook his head, having confused himself. (It happened more often that he would have liked to admit.)
He stomped out of the kitchen, and I was left on the floor, leaning back against the wall.
I reached over to slam the door shut.
Chapter 3
An Irish Heart Page 3