He liked it when I lifted him up in my arms (not such an easy thing to do, nowadays) and held his face next to mine in the mirror.
“I look like you, don’t I, Ma?”
“You do, baby. You surely do.”
He would kiss my cheek, then, with lips that were always sticky from one thing or another.
“I’m glad I look like you, Ma. You’re the prettiest lady I ever seen.”
“Ever saw.”
“You’re the prettiest lady I ever saw.”
“That’s better.”
“I’m going somewhere with Uncle Myrne,” I told him now. “But I’ll be back in a while. You stay here and play with Mary-Anne.”
He made a face. “She doesn’t like to play good stuff, Ma. She just sits there all bored.”
“Well, then, maybe you should ask her what she wants to play.”
“She says she’s too old to play.”
“Nobody’s too old to play, honey. Just go on, now.”
“Ah, Ma! You just don’t understand.”
I looked at my five-year-old son, wondering what he could possibly be more aware of than his thirty-year-old mother. But he only shook his head from side to side, with a sombre expression upon his face; and quite succeeded in appearing as though, in this matter at least, he was far more knowledgeable than I.
“I love you, Ma,” he said, rushing the few feet that separated us to give me one of his trademark hugs (the consistency being that they always seemed to hurt). “I’ll miss you till you get back.”
“Well,” I said, leaning down to kiss his dirty little face, “I’ll miss you more.”
“Really?”
“Always.”
He grinned widely, and then turned and ran away, at the incredible speed which only a small boy can manage.
“Be good,” I called after him, putting up a foot to mount Charlie. The horse was getting on in years; but stood strong and proud, quite as always. The horse which stood beside him was something of a recent acquisition, having been brought to Lennox Lane only the year before, when Zebulon died. This was a point of misery for Thea, for many months afterwards.
I might also note here, that Dolly had passed away only recently – much to the children’s grief, I think, but much, much more to my own. Only to think, that that same dog, shunned and ignored in the days of the Blue Buckle Inn, had become a creature so very near and dear to my heart!
We had not replaced Dolly; but this substitute horse was called Moonlight, a name which Mary-Anne had chosen. He was quite as perfectly white as Zebulon had been; but this is certainly not to say, that one would have proved able to mistake the one horse for the other. Dear Zebulon had possessed a highly intelligent manner of the eyes (no doubt, a characteristic which he had acquired from his master). Poor Moonlight, on the other hand, was rather a stupid beast; strong and beautiful, quite surely, but undeniably slow in the suits of both obedience and comprehension.
I shook my head, to dispel these thoughts of dead animals; and patted Moonlight, perhaps a little sympathetically.
“Come on, Myrne!” I shouted.
Kerry struggled up from her chair, to give Myrne a kiss. He smiled, and put a hand to her wide belly.
The baby was due any day now.
“I’m coming,” he said, jogging over to meet me.
“By all means, don’t rush on my account.”
“I never do.”
At the end of 1918, Mr Crane had helped Myrne to build another bedroom on the end of the house. There was quite a fuss for quite a while, what with the knocking down of the parlour wall, and the wood and dust particles which always seemed to find their way into everyone’s oatmeal. But it had turned out nicely enough, and Myrne ended up with a bit more knowledge of carpentry than he’d had to begin with. (He was nearly even useful around the house. I say nearly, because every time he fixed something, he ended up breaking something else in the process.)
He eventually found a place in a printing press, where his skill and experience was already existent. What with all that was going on in the world (and all of the literature that seemed to flow forth as a result), his post was not long in the finding – though he earned, in those lingering days of war, rather a pittance in wages.
“May I ask why we’re making this trip?” he asked me.
“There’s something of mine,” I repeated, “that I want back.”
“What could you want now, that you didn’t want eight years ago?”
“It’s not that I didn’t want it. I only didn’t want to return.”
“Wasn’t your father already gone, though?”
“Yes.”
I had never told Myrne exactly how my father died. I had only ever shared that delicate piece of information with one person – and that was the way I intended to leave it.
When we pulled the horses up to a new tying-post, in front of the last house on Wimple Street, my first glance went towards Mr Grady’s house – for though I knew that old Ellie the cow could not still be alive, I could not help but think of her.
I needn’t have looked; for all the windows of that tiny house were boarded up, and there was not a sign in sight of human habitation. The plots of soil where Mr Grady’s gardens used to thrive, were all grown over with weeds, and appeared as only the graveyards of the splendours which had once called them home.
Somewhat saddened by this sight, I returned my gaze to what had been my own dwelling. I looked all round the front yard, surprised at how well-kept it was. Even the house was much nicer-looking; and I could tell that it had undergone many repairs. My father, you know, had never been much for that sort of thing.
“It’s a very pretty house,” said Myrne.
“It wasn’t always,” I replied, jumping down from Charlie’s saddle. “But I wonder who’s living here?”
“Why don’t you go and find out?”
I laughed nervously. “You know, I never really thought that there would be people here. I suppose I thought that I would just walk in; and that everything would be the same as it was.”
“How very different could it be?”
Forfeiting my response, I began to walk away from Charlie, and made my way slowly across the neat lawn.
I hesitated before knocking upon the door, but quickly summoned up the nerve. I stood anxiously at the top of the stoop, wondering if anyone was home; and feeling, quite strangely, like a child awaiting a punishment. It seemed that I had only postponed it, in having run for so long – and now it was imminent, to be faced and not escaped.
My heart leapt, as the door swung slowly inward. A woman was revealed; perhaps a little older than myself, with a kind face, and a red kerchief upon her head.
She looked at me, and then at Myrne. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I used to live here,” said I, almost breathlessly. It took a moment or two to find a voice strong enough, to repeat the words which had flitted first through my mind.
“Do you think – I mean to say, would it be possible for me, and for my friend, to come in for a moment or two?”
She smiled sweetly. “Of course,” she said. “You picked the perfect time. No one home but me.”
I meant to say “thank you,” but could not manage it; and so only stepped over the threshold, with a twisted countenance (meant to be a smile, and quite as close as I could come to one).
But it was like stepping into a storm. As I went through the doorway, I felt almost a physical force, trying to push me back.
It was probably just my own common sense. I took a moment to ensure that there was nothing even faintly resembling a ghost in the kitchen – and only then could I relax.
I looked around, feeling as though I had entered a house which I had never seen before. The walls had been repainted, and the table was new. There were colourful pictures spread all over it.
The woman saw me looking at them. “The little ones were drawing, before they went out to play.”
I nodded stiffly.
�
��Are you all right, dear?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “Just fine.”
“Seeing, you know, as we’re barging into your house,” said Myrne, offering courtesy while I was somewhat incapable, “we should probably introduce ourselves. My name is Myrne, and this is –”
“Kate O’Brien,” I said, holding out my hand. “Thank you again for letting us in.”
“You’re quite welcome,” she said, taking my hand. “And, if you want to know the names of the people living in your old house, mine is Patricia Williams. My husband’s name is Robert; my girls are Angela and Olivia.”
“I’m sure you have a very nice family,” I said. “I really have only one question, though – and then I’ll be out of your way.”
“Ask whatever you like. Although – my husband and I have only been living here for about two years. Others were here before us.”
I felt a sharp pang of disappointment.
“But I still may prove to be of some help,” said Patricia Williams.
“I’m looking for something,” I said. “Just one thing. It’s a rocking chair, made of mahogany wood, with roses carved all over.”
She smiled. “I expect you’ll be pleased to know – the family who lived here before, left every bit of the furniture.”
“It’s all still here?”
“Well, we got rid of a few armchairs, a few things that were getting worn. But that rocker is still in the parlour, good as new. None of us ever sit in it.”
Perhaps a little rudely, I turned away from her, and hurried into the parlour. I looked all about, almost hesitantly.
It was quite as much of a shock as the kitchen had been. Everything looked so warm and cosy – I couldn’t help but remember how cold the room had felt, when it was mine.
Yet my rocker was there, and it looked the same as ever. My heart buoyed up in my chest, rising above the untamed waters which had begun to roll, when Charlie’s hooves found the earth of Wimple Street – for the first time in eight years.
“This is all you wanted?” Myrne asked.
“This is it.”
“Couldn’t you have just bought yourself another one, and saved us the trouble?”
“No,” I said, casting him a backward glance. “My mother left me this, you see.”
He scratched his head, quite as he always did, when he was made uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be sorry. Just help me get it out to the wagon.” I looked back at Patricia. “You don’t mind, I expect?”
“Of course not. It’s yours, after all.”
After Myrne and I had lifted the chair out the front door, I glanced once more to Patricia Williams – and all around the house – one last time.
“Thank you,” I said, “so very much.”
“You really needn’t thank me,” she said. “I’m only glad for you, to finally have it back.”
I could only repeat my thanks.
“Did you move very far away?” she asked.
“Not very, not really.” I looked into the yard, filled with grass and sunshine. “It seems all the closer, on a day like today.”
She looked at Myrne. “Is this your husband?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m her brother.”
She nodded seriously. “I can see the resemblance.”
After she had closed the door, and we were hefting the chair down to the wagon, Myrne said, “I do not look like you.”
“I don’t care what you think. Joseph, for one, is proud to look like me.”
“Joe’s only five. He hasn’t had time enough yet to despise his own looks.”
I waited, quite patiently, till we had set the chair safely down – and then I punched Myrne in the chest. “Don’t make fun of my boy,” I said. “He’s beautiful.”
“I wasn’t,” Myrne gasped, clearly having had the wind knocked out of him.
I loaded the chair into the wagon myself, leaving Myrne to lean against the tying-post, rubbing his chest.
“Why did you have to hit me so hard?”
“Wait here,” I said, ignoring him. “I want to go and see to something.”
“Trust me, I won’t be following you.” He coughed. “You’re insane.”
“Thank you,” I said, walking past him. I looked back, for a bit, at the house; and could not believe that, after so much time, I had simply walked in – and walked back out, in the space of perhaps ten minutes. Was I not obliged to offer it, at least a small amount more of my presence? Everywhere I looked – everything I saw – was so very different! Perhaps, then, I owed it nothing at all. The allegiance of my childhood lay with a place altogether different from this one, which stood before me in the very same place, but touched my heart with not a single remembrance!
I was heading for the stream. I knew not why I would want to go there (you would think, after all, that I would have gone much out of my way to avoid it), but I found that I was drawn towards it. I passed the barn, and remembered the fate of poor Benny the chicken; I went through the wide fields, where Ellie used to graze for hours at a time. I stopped at the place in the stream, where I used to wash mine and my father’s clothes; and stood still for a moment, beleaguered by memories so very real, that I had no choice but to watch them go by, one by one.
I could have stood there for hours, till the sun had quite fallen away – had I allowed myself. But eventually I shook my head, several times and very quickly, in an effort to rid myself of the things which had come to cling to my brain.
I walked slowly along the path beside the stream, remembering how many times I had traversed it – and, quite especially, the very last time. My heart began to beat in anticipation, as I walked farther, and farther; and though only I, of all the people of the world, knew exactly where his body lay, approaching it was something of a fearful task. It was as though my very presence there was some sort of admission of guilt; for, of any single thing that I might have done behind that house, my own acknowledgment of that terrible place was quite the only thing which could connect me to it.
When I reached the spot where I had buried him (I remembered it precisely; I would never forget it), I found that there were absolutely no visible signs, that the space of dirt which I stood beside was, in fact, a grave. That was only natural, of course. But I could not help but think, that perhaps it was all only a terrible dream; and that my crime had never been committed.
I looked to the stream, still running gently through the veil of trees on either side. Somewhere in that water lay a rock, a rock that must have by now been washed clean of any and all traces of blood.
But the rock was still there.
And the bones still lay beneath the dirt.
I had a sudden, wild urge to begin clawing at the earth with my hands, until I reached the place where Timothy O’Brien’s remains would be found. I felt that I must prove to myself, that his death was quite true; and that he had not simply disappeared from my sight, all those years ago. It was the story I had told, to so many people! Perhaps, after all, it was true. Perhaps all this horror was only a false memory; perhaps he was still alive, somewhere out in those vast spaces of the world, where even I could not see him! Oh, perhaps!
But surely not. I recollected everything quite clearly; and I knew, quite for certain, that it was true as anything.
I’m not sure how long I stood on that path, beside what was left of my father – but it was more than a moment, and less than the price of my debt.
“I don’t know why I came,” I said – presumably to that vanished man, who may or may not have borne witness to my words. “I thought that I had forgotten you. But then, why would I have come here – to this place where I saw you last? I didn’t have to. I could have just left! I could leave now, if I wanted to! But I stand here still. With you.”
I took a deep breath, my chest heaving slightly. “I still hate what I did,” I told him. “I don’t know if you can hear me – but I’m sorry. You never loved me, and I do
n’t think that I loved you. I mean to say, I don’t think; but . . .”
A crow called loudly, to another high above me. The other answered shrilly.
I wondered if they were talking about me.
“I don’t think that I meant to kill you,” I said. “I just wanted to hurt you. You hurt me, you know, so many times. Do you remember that? Every day, a new bruise! It was something like a hobby, counting them in the mirror at night.”
The crows had fallen silent.
“I think – oh, I do think – that I wanted to do the same to you. I wanted you to hurt, just as I hurt. I wanted you to hurt, and to remember that I had done it, and to fear me for the rest of your life – just as I feared you. I tried not to let you see how scared I was – but I was, Da. I was.”
I wanted to ask him if he regretted it. I wanted to ask whether he would, if he could, do it differently. But he could not answer – and even if he could, I doubted that he would give the answers I wanted.
So I left him to his hidden grave, and departed from Wimple Street for the very last time.
Chapter 49
“What took you so long?” Kerry asked, hobbling to the door from her chair, with quite as much effort as I remembered having had to put forth at that particular time in my life. “You missed dinner.”
“Ask this one,” said Myrne, pointing to me. “After we got the chair, she went off behind the house for over an hour. I would have gone to get her – but she wasn’t feeling particularly complacent.”
“What chair?”
“The one outside.”
“Why is it still outside?”
“She says she doesn’t know where she wants to put it.”
I cleared my throat. “I do know how to speak for myself, you know.”
While the other two continued to talk, I glanced over at Thea, who I was not surprised to find already watching me. She was, of course, the only one who knew what particular thing existed to hold my attention, behind the last house on Wimple Street.
An Irish Heart Page 48