There’s an old woman, though, with plans and plots of long gestation; and there’s the sea, which will have her due, come hell or high water; and there are secrets and lies which never stay buried forever.
2
‘He was a terrible husband, you know, Miren,’ my grandmother says with a sigh.
We’re watching the coffin (a death-bed made at great expense to ensure he stays beneath, golden locks and hinges, padded silk interior stuffed with lavender which calms the dead, the joins sealed with eldritch adhesive over which spells have been sung) be carried down, down, a’down into the crypt beneath the chapel floor. The pallbearers have paced across the painted labyrinth of a pilgrim’s path that decorates the aisle, and now they’re at the great dark void in front of the altar. The flagstones have been pulled up so my grandfather Óisín can be laid to whatever might count as rest for him. Some of the mosaic tiles – merrows and ships and things with wings that might resemble angels in poor light – have been chipped. Someone (Malachi) was careless. I hope Grandmother doesn’t notice, but chance would be a fine thing. Someone (Malachi) will hear about it, either today or tomorrow; later, if she’s decided to hold fire and use the sin at a time when more of an impact can be made, more of a fuss.
No one bothered to light the candles on the wooden chandelier above our heads – an oversight – but the daylight throws beams of colour through the arched stained-glass windows. Still, it takes a while for the eye to adjust in the gloom, and I keep waiting for someone to trip over something, anything, their own feet most likely. It’s cold but then it always is here, surrounded by rough-hewn stone. I can smell the sea air and mildew beneath the wafts of burning incense. I put an arm around my grandmother’s shoulders because she’s shivering, but that might just be advanced years – mind you, I can feel the muscles beneath her gown, built by years of daily swimming in the sea. She never misses a morning, swam the day my grandfather died and swam today, the day we’re putting him in the ground. She gives me glance, does Aoife O’Malley, barely tolerating the gesture – we’re of a height and age hasn’t stooped her at all – but I keep the arm there as much to annoy her as to give myself some skerrick of warmth. Besides, I feel the eyes of all the relatives on us and, as prickly as Aoife might be, I do want to protect her from those who think her weakened by the years, easy prey.
The priest come, all unwilling, to send the old man off keeps intoning his prayers but they sound like maundering to me. Once, we’d have warranted a bishop from Breakwater, at the very least – he’d have been no less unwilling, I grant you, but we were worth more at one point, and they’d not have dared to deny us. But now... a low-level god-hound with black half-moons under his nails, smelling of alcohol and earth, a fine fall of dandruff on his shoulders like winter’s come early. Mumbling his prayers as if afraid his chosen god might strike him down for attending here, for laying Óisín O’Malley into the dirt, like it’s a seal of approval. Mind you, there’s not much choice of clergymen left in Breakwater anymore, no matter what your standing.
‘He was a terrible husband, you know,’ repeats Aoife as if wittering, but I know enough to do nothing but nod. She’s putting up a front, is my grandmother: harmless old lady, recently bereaved. Bereaved of a terrible husband certainly, but leaving no doubt for those in earshot that she’ll still miss him terribly, because she was a good wife in spite of him. In the face of marital adversity, she, Aoife O’Malley, did her very best to be a tender, loving, considerate, respectful spouse.
Which is precisely what she was not. But, as I say, I’m not fool enough to contradict her in front of others. Though we might bicker when it’s just us, I’m loyal in public, no matter what. All these relatives from various family offshoots are here only to see what they might get out of the old man’s death. And they’re not proper O’Malleys, not true ones, pedigree all mixed and mingled – like myself – the products of marriages made with men and women not of our line. Honestly, though, such breeding had to be done for all my grandmother laments it. How many times can a line fold back on itself without bringing forth a monster? Gods know, we’ve had our share, and Malachi’s whispered to me that there are strangely made coffins down there in the earthy deep, hiding the secrets no one else would keep.
But Aoife’s an O’Malley twice over: born one and then married to one. She’s proper, double-blooded, the omega. The rest of us are lesser, children with ichor so thin it barely matters. But I was raised in this house, I’m Aoife’s granddaughter; I’m one step above the others.
Yet she is the last here of purest lineage.
The cleric’s mutterings bounce back up while the strongest of the cousins follow him, carrying Óisín’s mahogany coffin (extra long to accommodate his height, adding to the cost) into the depths. I can see Aidan Fitzpatrick’s strong back, shoulders broad beneath his coat, hair so blond and bright even in the darkness as they descend. Finn O’Hara’s beside him, and the height disparity makes the going awkward. I think of Óisín tilting inside the box, pressing up against the padded lining, though he’ll know nothing of it. Behind them are the Monaghan twins, Daragh and Thomas, then bringing up the rear two cousins so distant that I can’t even recall their names. At least they look like O’Malleys. The others are blond or ginger, skins freckled or sallow, marking them out. Or once it would have: now those who actually look like proper O’Malleys are in the minority.
Aoife and I are the only ones in the front pew, even though there’s naught but standing room at the back of the small chapel. No one dared to sit beside us, or even across the way. I’m unsure if it’s that proximity to Aoife is a situation to be avoided, or no one wanted to get too close to Óisín’s coffin just in case he popped up again, shouting at them all to go home; possibly some alchemical combination of the two.
Me? I’m nothing to avoid, there’s nothing frightening about me.
Mostly, I suspect the crowd has come to make sure Óisín is truly gone, and that can be done from a comfortable distance. I know his faults all too well, but I’ll miss my grandfather sorely. He taught me everything I know about the sea and its moods, about ships, about business, and all the superstitions that sailors are heir to. I suffer no illusions: if I’d had brothers, if my mother’d had brothers, there’d have been little chance of my getting the education I did. The days of the O’Malley women’s power being unquestioned are long gone, and more’s the pity. Aoife’s a rare creature, a force of nature, elemental, my grandmother, utterly uninterested in others telling her what to do, but even she’s had to bow her head and give in now and then.
I think, some days, that Óisín was lonely and he liked my company, in his study here and on the trips into Breakwater, inspecting the vessels and cargo. He liked taking me for lunch in his favourite club, quizzing me about tides and knots and trade routes. Mind you, if I got anything wrong I never heard the end of it, and was left in no doubt as to what a disappointment I was. But I made a point of not getting things wrong, not after the first few times. In my pocket I can feel the weight of the small knife that was his, its handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl, given to me before he took to his bed for the last time.
‘A terrible husband,’ sighs Aoife yet again, louder for those in the back, just in case anyone missed it. Third time’s a charm: she’s making it a fact to be carried forward and forth by all those whose ears it touches. Aoife O’Malley’s always believed that the truth is what she says it is.
This time I reply, ‘Yes, Grandmother,’ though I feel a little disloyal, but Aoife’s the one I’ve got to live with now. No buffer any longer, even if that buffer was nothing more than Óisín’s desire to gainsay his wife.
The pallbearers seem to being taking an awfully long time down there, and there’s no longer even the rhythmic whine of the god-hound’s chant. I strain my ears, listening for the sound of boots on steps, or wood on stone as they shift the coffin into one of the niches, perhaps a cough or two in the stale air of a tomb that’s not been opened in fifteen years, not sinc
e my mother died of fever, following my father by a mere week.
I listen harder still, hear twice as much nothing. I know better, yet the absence makes my heart beat faster. I imagine everyone can hear it, but Aoife doesn’t look at me, registers no sign. What’s happening down there? Did they go too far? Did the stairs change? Grow in number, descend further? Are my cousins even now being welcomed somewhere unaccountably warm? From habit I touch the spot just beneath the dip in my throat, feel the thick black fabric of my high-necked dress and the warm lump of metal under it: a silver necklace with the ship’s bell pendant engraved with what might be scalloping or fish scales. Aoife also wears one; she says my mother did as well. As all the firstborns did.
Listen, listen, listen...
Aoife’s delicate head turns and she stares at me through the thick lace veil. I realise I’ve been squeezing her shoulders. I loosen my grip and press out a smile from behind my own veil, not as thick as hers, but then I’ve less to hide.
Footsteps at last! As if all they’ve been waiting for was the release of my tension. The cousins emerge, two by two: do they look paler than when they went in? Daragh, a little faint? Has Thomas finally let his breath go, gasping as if he’d held it in the whole time he was below? Only Aidan appears indifferent: a duty has been done and he’s been seen to do it. Nothing more.
He’s got the family height, but that’s all. Thinning blond hair, blue eyes, and beneath his costly well-tailored frockcoat (only the truest of O’Malleys have been afflicted with this grinding embarrassment of poverty), he’s fighting fat. In his thirties, he’ll keep it away only as long as he maintains daily physical activity: the riding, the boxing, the tramping across the hills, bestriding the decks of the ships he owns. He looks at Aoife, but not at me; then again, he seldom bothers to address me beyond ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’, as if I’m still a child, the little cousin, safely almost-invisible. I’m used to that, and comfortable with it. They exchange a nod, then he returns to the second-row pew where his sister Brigid – once my friend – with her pale eyes, soft curls and weak chin waits. I imagine I feel the heat of her glare on the nape of my neck, but that could be sheer fancy. The others disperse to the back of the chapel.
The priest intones a final blessing and bids us go in peace. Aoife wastes no time; we progress down the aisle at a sprightly pace she might want to reconsider in her guise as a fragile grieving widow. I squeeze her arm, and she gets the message after a moment. Her speed falls away a little, steps become smaller and slower, no longer those earth-eating strides to put men half her age to shame.
Behind us come the relatives and remnants. I glance over my shoulder and watch them through the black froth of lace as they pour along in our wake like well-trained waves, as if afraid we might escape if not quickly pursued.
‘Just this last trial to get through,’ murmurs Aoife.
‘Yes, Grandmother,’ I say, but I’m thinking What then? How do we go on? How do we return to embroidery and reading, managing those three tenant families and Maura and Malachi, tending the herb garden and testing their properties, riding those ancient horses, walking the sea brim, making do from one day to the next? How?
And there is, I must admit, the thought singing at the back of my mind that there is only Aoife now, and when she is gone I might leave Hob’s Hallow and all the obligations of this place and the O’Malley name behind me.
* * *
‘How’s our darling Aoife, Miren dear? Is she quite well?’ asks Aunt Florence Walsh, who’s really just another cousin, yet so old it’s easier to call her “aunt”. She’s short and round, but none of the fat remains in her face which means she’s wrinkled with sunken cheeks. Wrapped in black, she looks like a prune topped with silver hair that appears soft as a cloud. I can tell from experience it’s nothing of the sort: as a child I touched it, expecting floss, yet finding something sharp and dry and prickly. I felt for days afterwards that there were shards beneath my skin, and I was slapped for my trouble, which I never forgot.
‘She is very well, Aunt. How kind of you to ask.’
It’s nothing of the sort. The old carrion bird is younger than Aoife by a few years but looks older. In her head, I think there’s a race to see who survives longest; I wonder how many others are taking bets. I know who I’d put money on, if I had any.
‘She’s very adaptable, our Aoife, I’m sure she’ll survive whatever life throws at her.’ Aunt Florence reaches towards me, touches the tiny pintucked frills on my sleeve as if to judge their value. This gown is old, greening with age for it’s not even mine – my mother’s, I think, and worn at her own grandparents’ funerals. I suspect it belonged to another O’Malley or three before that. The style is antique, but all that matters is that it’s black; Maura took the waist in a little for I’m more slender than Isolde was. For a moment I consider slapping away the spidery hand with its grasping fingers, a long-delayed revenge, but her bones would probably shatter. It’s tempting, though.
‘And so resourceful. Look at all this!’ She gestures to the spread of food and drink laid out in the long hall once used for balls when we could afford to entertain. Sideboards circle the walls and tables form a line up the middle, all are weighted down with provisions. Everything’s (well, in this room) been cleaned and polished and tidied by the four maids Aidan Fitzpatrick “loaned” us, an unusual attention to duty for this last office for my grandfather. Both Aoife and I have grown used to a light fall of dust most of the time, with even my grandmother accepting that Maura’s getting too old for much beyond rubbing a cloth across easily reachable surfaces in a desultory fashion. Florence’s icy blue eyes gleam as she says, ‘Most impressive with such a pinched purse.’
‘Grandmother can be most persuasive when she wishes, Aunt, as you and Uncle Silas well know.’ Florence’s husband, long-gone, unlamented by most, was rumoured to have been talked out of a good portion of money not long before his death; never paid back either as Aoife had also convinced him that the debt should be forgiven in his will. Even more rumours abound as to how she managed to sway him. Aoife is, as Florrie’s observed, resourceful. Ruthlessly so.
Aunt’s face convulses, the benign expression she tries so hard to cultivate simply cannot stand against the malignance that lives inside and it pushes up like some great sea creature surfacing. A glimpse, then it’s gone. I’m not afraid of her, but for a moment my knees felt shaky, perhaps because in that moment Florence looked rather like Aoife. Not in the features, no, but the ill-intent.
‘You’ve got more than enough of her blood,’ she says and it sounds like a curse. She smiles. ‘I’m glad she’s well. Take care of yourself, Miren.’
Aunt Florence moves off, slowly, and I watch as she makes her way through the press of black-clad bodies. She stops here and there to say something, touch someone. Some recoil from her; others lean in.
The crowd seems to have thinned, but I doubt it’s because anyone’s left yet – although those planning to get back to Breakwater before dark will want to go soon. Relatives will be wandering the house, of course, spreading like webs from wing to wing to see what they can see. It’s not often they have the chance nowadays to visit, invitations to dine have been thin on the ground for some years. Hopefully they’ll not steal anything; not because they need to steal, but because a souvenir is something to crow about in future. They’ll be hard-pressed to find anything of value, even the multitude of silver objects – vases, busts, plates, cutlery, door handles, jugs, goblets, what-have-you – has gone, sold to pay bills over the decades. Only Aidan Fitzpatrick’s been a regular caller, asking after Aoife and Óisín’s health, checking if they need anything but not, I’ve noticed, actually giving something of consequence. Just enough to stave off the bailiffs, not enough to rescue them.
Us.
Florence disappears from my view and I glance again at the feast. How many more creditors will this bring to our door? How did Aoife coax anyone to extend credit? She knows as well as I do there’ll be nothing going sp
are after Óisín’s will is read. We’ll be lucky to keep the house, but the last of the ships will need to be sold off to cover what’s owing.
Not to mention the death duties.
Once, we’d have known what they might be, what portion, but there’s no longer a council to decide that. It’s been thus for almost four years, since a woman arrived in Breakwater and began to make it her own. The gathering of men who’d governed gradually died off, apparently naturally or accidentally, and those who remained were happy to benefit from Bethany Lawrence’s new order. She has her finger on the pulse of the city and where she applies pressure, it either speeds up or halts altogether. The tales we hear from the tinkers who travel the length and breadth of the land say she’s called the Queen of Thieves behind her back (sensibly), and she gathers taxes and bribes and tithes as surely as both Church and State once did (the archbishop too is her lapdog, by all accounts, accepting whatever scraps she throws to him). Mind you, it’s said she keeps the municipality clean and well-run. What might she demand from us? Rumour has it that the rich families of Breakwater have found themselves either providing coin or favours when an inheritance is in the offing; sometimes both. It strikes me as the sort of deal an O’Malley might once have made, but she’s not one of us. Neither Aoife nor Óisín have had contact with her and she’s never approached either in person or via go-between; a sure sign of how insignificant we’ve become, that predators don’t give us even a glance. Or perhaps, just perhaps, some of our reputation remains, some echo that makes even the powerful wary.
Perhaps we’ll hear nothing. Perhaps our poverty is too deep, too known, for anyone to bother demanding anything of us. One can but hope.
All the Murmuring Bones Page 2