Beatrice Page 10

  BEATRICE

  Mullaghmeen Woods. She is a being of nature, flitting through the trees, gliding above the sticky path. She is pulled up the hill, like a presence rising towards a ghost-moon. But now it is the day. The sun is early and, while everyone is still asleep, it is at its brightest, full of promise and hope. Who could guess that later, when they eat their breakfasts, it will be grey and raining, and on the radio they will say she is gone.

  She was never really here, but out there, living in the husk of an ancient oak, or babbling like a reel in the brook. These young beeches are her friends. Fine, pale and slender, they huddle on either side of the trail so that all vision becomes vertical. Their leaves have been falling, and now, at the departure of autumn, their colours are most dramatic. If only she had time to stop and look at them. She would carry them with her, wherever she was going. Like the last dance, the best, the most wrenching.

  An ethereal mist weaves around the trees; if she were Eithne she would be afraid. But she’s not. What more is there to fear? Her damage makes her careless. What is outside and wild is safe, what is in her home is most dangerous.

  EITHNE

  Beatrice and Phil had taken magic mushrooms at the concert in Slane. They had also bought a lump of dope and a small jar of dried mushrooms from the guy who had given them the free trial. After Slane, the summer took on an even more leisurely pace for the duo. Beatrice would sleep in late every single morning, while I’d be with Mammy, helping with the chores. It wasn’t until we were eating lunch that Beatrice would appear in the kitchen, usually still in her pyjamas. If Daddy was in this would enrage him.

  The bread would be stuck in my throat as I waited for him to snap. Some days he would shut up and eat quietly like a chastised child. But some days he would start roaring and stamping and storm out of the house. My mother would sigh, call the dog and give her Daddy’s food.

  It was one such day, and Beatrice sat on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs and eating cornflakes.

  ‘Not only do you spend all day in bed, but you can’t be bothered to get dressed when you do finally get up!’ Daddy growled at her.

  ‘Leave her, Joe, she’ll be off to college soon. This is her last summer at home,’ said Mammy.

  ‘College to do what? Nothing useful, that’s for sure. Tell me – how are you going to support yourself as an artist?’

  ‘Philistine,’ Beatrice muttered hopping off the counter and strolling upstairs with her tea.

  ‘What did you say? I heard ya.’

  ‘Can we not have our lunch in peace without you going on?’ Mammy snapped.

  Daddy slammed his knife and fork down and stomped out of the house.

  About half an hour later Phil turned up.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Kelly,’ he said, breezing into the house. ‘Is the lady arisen yet?’

  My mother loved the way he spoke. She smiled.

  ‘She’s up, if that’s what you mean. Will you have a cup of tea, Philip?’

  ‘Thank you, but no. Myself and Lady Beatrice are planning a big walk today, and she has promised to paint me sitting in a cornfield.’

  ‘Eithne, go up and tell Beatrice that Phil is here for her.’

  But Beatrice was already on her way down, carrying a basketful of paints, brushes and paper.

  ‘Can I come with you?’ I asked as they were on the way out.

  ‘Don’t you have friends of your own?’ said Beatrice.

  ‘Take her with you, God love her, she’s so bored here with me,’ said Mammy.

  ‘Well, okay,’ said Beatrice. ‘But you’d better not moan – we’re going for a long walk.’

  ‘I like walking.’ I smiled at Phil, and he winked back at me.

  We set off through the woods at the back of the house, across the bog and through some sweet-smelling meadows. An hour later we stopped on the crest of a small hillock. Phil took out some tobacco, papers and the dope. He rolled a joint which he and Beatrice smoked.

  ‘Can I have some?’ I asked.

  ‘No way. You’re too young.’

  They lay there then chatting. I would go off for a wander when it got too boring. They smoked a couple of joints. Beatrice did not even touch her paints. By the time I got back they would be giggling over something silly.

  ‘I’m going home,’ I announced.

  ‘A bouquet for the young maiden, Eithne.’ Phil laughed, handing me a dishevelled bunch of dandelions.

  ‘Thanks a million,’ I said gruffly. I was fed up, but at least they let me go with them, at least they trusted me.

  I would tramp home feeling frustrated and useless, wishing I was old enough to leave home, and escape from this bog-hole. Beatrice and Phil never returned until after nightfall.

  BEATRICE

  The earth rolled around her in big green waves. The sky was a startling blue, she felt as though she was expanding like Alice in Wonderland after she drank from the little bottle. She looked at him. He was all different shades of blue, soft and smoky. He walked like a stallion. He was laughing.

  ‘Earth goddess,’ he said.

  They lay down on the ground. All their senses were heightened. They watched the sky as it became twilight and the moon emerged. She could see the dome of the sky, the stars sparkling like rips in the dark felt of night, day peeping behind.

  They held hands and then they embraced.

  ‘Let’s take our clothes off,’ she said.

  They took everything off. It felt wonderful, the wind against her chest, the wetness of dewy grass beneath her. She thought she was in the ocean at the bottom of the sea. They lay, side by side, holding hands and fell asleep. That is what they remember.

  When they woke they were shivering. Phil and Beatrice got dressed quickly and raced down the hill. They stopped at the spring to drink, feeling clear-headed and free. The full dark of night was yet to descend. They looked at each other across the stream. The water gurgled beneath them, their eyes were bright, the silence between them was as precious as a rare gem.

  SARAH

  They took the boat. Sarah sat mutely with Beatrice in her arms. She watched England disappear, and all hope retreat. Joe didn’t seem to notice her mood. He went up to the bar again and again. By the time they reached Dun Laoghaire he was twisted.

  Sarah had left without contacting Anthony. Even thinking his name hurt. In all their months of friendship he had not mentioned Harriet. Yet there she was in his life, kissing him . . . Why had he brought her the locket? Why had he asked her to marry him if there was always Harriet? There may have been an explanation, but she had not stayed to find out and now it was too late.

  They were met at Dun Laoghaire harbour by a fat ginger-bearded man with a dirty Ford Escort.

  ‘Tommy!’ yelled Joe. ‘How’s it going? This is my best friend Tommy O’Reilly – Tommy, meet me wife, Sarah.’

  ‘You dark horse.’ Tommy laughed. ‘They’re in uproar at home over your secret marriage. Imagine being married a year and having a baby and all, and not telling your own family? Joseph Kelly, your ma is fierce mad with you.’

  Sarah looked at Joe – married a year?

  Joe helped her into the back of the car and handed her Beatrice.

  ‘It’s easier this way,’ he whispered. ‘Please, just go along with it.’

  Joe got into the front seat. He and Tommy chatted noisily the whole journey. Beatrice fell asleep. Sarah pressed her face against the steamed-up window. Houses gave way to fields; the roads were bad, bumpy and twisting. As they drove further into the countryside she began to notice how green the grass was. It wasn’t this green at home. The landscape attracted her. It was less manicured than the fields in England. There seemed to be more space, and there were certainly fewer cars on the roads.

  Just over an hour after they had left the port they passed through Kells. The shop fronts were dusty and ancient, the houses pressed in together, the road was narrow and twisted. They passed a huge cross in the centre of a crossroads; it had carvings on it and looked
extremely old.

  After Kells the land opened out. The countryside was alien to Sarah. She had grown up in the centre of Southampton, and from there she had gone straight to London. She remembered picnics on the beach as a small child, and day trips to Bournemouth, and once they had gone to Devon to visit an aunt. But this was so different. For a start there were fewer people about. Occasionally they’d pass an old chap on a tractor, who’d give them a wave, his collie dog perched beside him on the seat. Joe and Tommy’s conversation seemed to be completely obsessed by who had left and gone to America, and what they were doing. It sounded to Sarah as if there was no one left in Ireland.

  Eventually they turned off the main road and passed through a village on top of a hill. They turned again and passed through another village, with a beautiful old church. Tommy drove down a narrow road, shaded by large leafy trees. It was a warm day, and dry.

  ‘This is Bog Road,’ said Joe. It was the first thing he had said to her since they had left Dublin.

  Tommy turned into a tiny lane and followed its meandering course for a few miles. They took a sharp left and the car bumped up a pot-holed track to a stone cottage with tiny windows. Sarah’s first thought was how dark it must be inside.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Joe. ‘This is Glenamona.’ He was excited and practically leapt out of the car. The door of the cottage opened and a woman with a crown of curly white hair came running out. Her face was a softer version of Joe’s.

  ‘Joey!’ she cried and fell on him.

  Tommy opened the door for Sarah, and she got out with Beatrice in her arms.

  ‘Ma,’ said Joe breaking free from her, ‘this is Sarah, and my daughter Beatrice.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ The woman wept. She approached Sarah, looking at the baby first. ‘Will you look at her?’ she cooed. Then she looked up at Sarah and her eyes hardened.

  ‘How do you do?’ She extended her hand.

  ‘Hello,’ Sarah said.

  ‘You could have told me.’ Joe’s mother turned on him. ‘Married a year and not so much as blessed in the church. You heathen!’ She clipped his ear, but she was laughing. ‘Come in and have some tea, you must be exhausted.’

  They went into the house; the family crowded around them. As far as Sarah could make out, Joe had three sisters, and a brother who lived in England – apparently a small family by local standards. Plans for their ‘proper’ wedding were already under way.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Father Cleary,’ said Joe’s mother. ‘And he said that Saturday three weeks would be grand.’

  ‘Actually, ma, there’s a problem,’ said Joe.

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’

  ‘Sarah isn’t Catholic.’

  ‘Oh.’ His mother didn’t know what to say.

  ‘But she wants to convert – don’t you, Sarah?’

  ‘I . . .’

  The whole family looked at her.

  ‘Yes, please.’ She felt as though she was asking for another cup of tea, not deciding she wanted to change her religion. Joe had never discussed this with her, and it had never even entered her head. Beatrice began to cry, she was hungry.

  ‘Mrs Kelly, is there somewhere I can feed Beatrice?’

  ‘Have you no bottle?’

  ‘I’m breastfeeding her. Is there a room I can go into?’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, upstairs. The first room you come to, that’s the girls’ room.’

  Sarah got up.

  ‘And please call me Margaret,’ Joe’s mother said stiffly.

  Sarah went upstairs. She could feel the family looking at her as she ascended them, and Mrs Kelly’s disapproval burnt into her back – not only Protestant, but breastfeeding as well.

  EITHNE

  When I wake the next morning Leo has already gone. My head is spinning and my mouth is parched. I stumble out of bed and wander into the kitchen to get a glass of water.

  ‘Oh God,’ I groan, cradling my head in my hands. Feebly, I put on the kettle, and stand staring at my distended reflection.

  I can hear music; I go into the sitting room. Lisa is awake, sitting cross-legged on the duvet, watching MTV and smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Hi,’ she says.

  ‘Hi there.’

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ I say, opening the window.

  ‘You look rough,’ she says brightly.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. Do you want some tea?’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Are we still going, then?’ she asks, as I head towards the kitchen. ‘Down to that village where you grew up?’

  ‘Um, yes, of course.’

  I don’t feel so sure at all; maybe Leo is right.

  ‘Can you do me a favour, Lisa?’

  ‘Course.

  ‘Can I see that birth certificate again?’

  She looks puzzled.

  ‘Sure.’

  She pulls it out of her bag, and hands it to me. I go into the kitchen and hold it up to the light. I scrutinize it and read it again and again:

  Births registered in the sub-district of St Pancras

  in the London Borough of Camden.

  Date and Place of Birth: 1982, Twenty-second May, University College Hospital, St Pancras.

  Name: Margaret (Beatrice had called her Margaret, after Granny)

  Sex: Female

  First Name and Surname and Dwelling Place of Father: Not known

  First Name and Surname and Maiden Name of Mother: Beatrice Kelly

  Rank or Profession of Father: Not known

  Signature, Qualification and Residence of Informant: Beatrice Kelly, Crossakiel, Kells, County Meath, Ireland

  When Registered: 31 May 1982

  There is no denying it. This girl is family. I take a big breath and try to balance myself. Why was Beatrice in London? She didn’t know anyone there – then it comes to me, of course, her father, Jonathan – what’s he called? – Jonathan Voyle, that’s it. Maybe Beatrice had gone to him, and maybe he had helped her. I still can’t understand why she had turned away from Mammy, who would have walked through fire for her, probably reared the child as her own. It still doesn’t make sense. But if I can find out where Jonathan Voyle is, he might be able to tell me where Beatrice is now. I can’t believe that none of us have thought of this before.

  I go back in with the tea, and hand back the certificate.

  ‘She called you after Granny,’ I say, ‘her name was Margaret.’

  ‘I don’t really like it,’ says Lisa, ‘I don’t like Lisa either.’

  ‘Lisa, can you tell me something?’ I ask, changing the subject. ‘Did the agency give you any other contact addresses for where Beatrice had lived in London at the time?’

  ‘No, all they had was the address in Ireland.’

  ‘Right. It’s just I’ve thought of someone who might know where she is.’

  She looks at me enquiringly.

  ‘It’s a really long story,’ I say. I don’t want to tell her about Jonathan Voyle, not just yet. ‘I’ll tell you if I get anywhere.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Can I give Steve a ring? I said I’d be back today.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, go ahead. I’m just going to have a shower.’

  When I come out of the bathroom she is still on the phone. I get dressed quickly. My skin feels sore, prickly, as if I have mild heat rash. I look at the insides of my elbows; hives are beginning to form on the skin. I scratch. The last time I got that rash was just before I got married – I was so stressed out then. This is worse. I can’t think straight; instinct urges me on – a voice inside my head whispering, ‘Go home, go home.’ I know that Leo won’t be happy, but it’s not his business, that’s what I tell myself, it’s all up to me.

  Lisa finally finishes her call and goes into the bathroom. I pick up the phone in the bedroom and dial home.

  ‘Mammy, it’s Eithne. Listen, I’m coming home today – I’m bringing a friend . . . She’s over in Ireland and wants to see a bit of the c
ountry. Is that okay? Great . . . How’s Daddy? . . . It’ll be all right with him, won’t it? . . . Good. See you later . . . Yeah, dinner. That will be great. Bye.’

  Then I call Leo, it goes to call answering, he is probably teaching a class. I leave a message on his voicemail to ring me at home tonight.

  Lisa is still in the bathroom. I eat some cereal and make another pot of coffee. Finally she emerges in my dressing gown.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘No, that’s okay. Coffee?’

  ‘Yeah . . . you don’t have any instant, do you? I don’t really like that stuff.’

  ‘No, sorry, only ground.’

  She takes a mug anyway, and we sit in silence.

  ‘How’s Steve?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s fine. Not too pleased with me, though. He can’t understand why I’d want to find my real mum. He says she isn’t worth it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you have any pictures of her?’

  ‘Not really. Mammy has photos— Hang on a minute, I have this.’

  I go into the study. The small Beata Beatrix, which the Artist painted, is on the desk. I pick it up and go back into the kitchen.

  ‘This is her.’ I hand the painting to Lisa.

  ‘She’s gorgeous,’ she says looking at the delicate oil.

  ‘Yeah, she was. Although there’s a good bit of artistic licence taken in that picture.’

  I am scratching again.

  ‘Right, are you nearly ready?’

  ‘Just give me a minute and I’ll get dressed.’

  She goes back into the sitting room and comes out a few minutes later in the same clothes she wore the day before. I notice that she is cleaning her flashy white runners with toilet roll. She catches me watching her. ‘Nike,’ she says as if I’d understand.