Beatrice Page 14

  As winter progressed and made the landscape even bleaker, it became increasingly hard for Joe to find a permanent job. He was able to get bits and pieces of casual labouring but none of it was well paid. Eventually he decided to go back to London to work on the building sites.

  ‘It’ll only be for a few months,’ he told Sarah. ‘I’ll not find work with such good money here. I can save up fast in London and then we can build our house.’

  ‘Can’t I come with you?’ said Sarah.

  ‘No. Sure, we’d spend everything just on living in London. You’re better off here; it’s the best place for Beatrice, and besides I need you to look after Mammy.’

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Sarah, you know I don’t want to go, but we have to make these sacrifices so that we can build the house.’

  ‘I don’t care about the house.’

  Her eyes beseeched him, but he looked straight through her.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, where would we raise our children?’

  Joe left after Christmas. What was meant to be a few months turned into six, then one year, then two, until the next five years had flown by. He visited, but never for too long, and so Sarah stayed waiting. He was always saving for the new house, yet whenever he was home he never had money to spare.

  Meanwhile, not one foundation stone was laid of Joe’s dream house. The truth was, that although he professed to love Glenamona, he could not bear to be there for long. He missed London and needed to be anonymous. At home, his mother’s love swamped him, and although it was a tight-knit community, with good people around them, he never felt comfortable. Not after what had happened when he was at school. It took only twenty-four hours in Glenamona before he became restless and agitated. In London, he felt freer.

  So why didn’t Joe move back to London permanently and take Sarah and Beatrice with him? Because he was afraid. He believed that if Sarah went back to England, she would never stay with him. He was sure of that. Those people she had worked for would get their hands on her. Ever since his father died, Joe had been desperate to have his own family and now he had it, he was never letting go. Back in London, Sarah would have options, in Glenamona she had none. She was not a prisoner, but where could she go? She never talked about her family, and she never seemed to miss them.

  For the best part of nine years Sarah continued to live with Margaret who, like most Irish mammies, doted on her sons, yet was sharp enough with the girls. But she was a decent woman, and although she never let Sarah forget that she was an outsider, at the same time it was against her nature not to draw her into the family circle.

  As for the three sisters, Aoife married her childhood sweetheart Dermod on a wild, wet day the April after Sarah’s own marriage. By October her first child was born, but no one was counting, not a mention of it. Sarah drew comfort from the baby’s birth; at least she was not the only sinner in the flock, and now she could help Aoife and give her advice. How strange, she thought, that she, simple Sarah, should be the expert on babies. Sarah called on Aoife many times in the first year of baby Grace’s life. She was able to give Aoife all Beatrice’s baby clothes. It thrilled her to be consulted and admired. She and Aoife became quite close. But then things began to chill between them, just after Aoife became pregnant again. She kept hinting how great it would be if she and Sarah had their second babies at the same time. Surely it was time Sarah had another one? Beatrice was growing fast, and soon the gap between siblings would be too big. Sarah was horrified – the last thing she wanted was another child. She backed off, and started to visit Aoife less frequently.

  Not long after Aoife had got married, Mary, the second sister, went to Dublin to work as a nurse. For someone involved in the caring profession, Sarah found her extremely cold. Mary kept her distance from Sarah. Whenever she was in her company the Englishwoman felt nervous; it was as though she knew.

  So it happened that Bríd and Sarah were the only two remaining in the house with Margaret. Bríd’s opinion of Sarah grew as she saw the other woman throwing herself into her daily chores. Sarah had always been a hard worker, but the unrelieved boredom of Glenamona made her embrace any distraction.

  Bríd was a good teacher. Soon Sarah had mastered the mechanics of the family tractor and how to manoeuvre it over the bumpy land. As winter progressed, Bríd and Sarah would head down to the bog, the two of them crushed in the cab of the tractor with Molly, the family dog. They’d work non-stop for several hours, loading the trailer with peat. This was a different bog from the place Joe had taken her the first time they made love. That had been a place of colour and beauty. This land was dark and deadly. No birds sang, and the air was heavy with the odour of a nearby copse of spruce. It was from this place that they took their peat; never from Glenamona, never the home bog.

  Sometimes Sarah and Bríd would see groups of men in the woods by the bog. They had shotguns and wore hunting caps.

  ‘Shooting foxes,’ Bríd told her.

  It was a sinister place and Sarah did not care for it.

  Bríd hardly spoke, but on the way back to the house she would sometimes take a small jar out of her jacket pocket, unscrew the lid and dip her finger in it.

  ‘Want some?’ she asked Sarah the first time she produced the jar.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Primrose honey. I made it.’

  Sarah dipped her finger in the jar then licked it. She could smell its sweet aroma before she registered its taste, then the delicacy of its flavour was incredibly powerful. She licked her finger again.

  ‘Nice, uh?’ laughed Bríd as she started up the tractor.

  Most evenings the women sat in the kitchen by the range. Margaret knitting (usually for Beatrice), Sarah with the child on her lap and Bríd reading the paper. The ritual was always the same. Sometimes Margaret would turn on the radio, and they’d listen to music in silence. There was no television or record player.

  On rare occasions, once Beatrice was asleep upstairs, Margaret would get out the best glasses and a dusty brandy bottle kept in a back cupboard. Giving each glass a wipe she would fill them with a good measure of brandy. At the same time she would fill a small jug with water and place it on the table. The three women would sit around the range sipping their brandy and water. Sometimes Margaret would tell stories about her childhood. Sarah enjoyed these. It seemed such a dramatic world, straight out of a film. When Margaret was a young girl there had been a war of independence in Ireland, followed by a civil war. The countryside had been streaked with violence. Many good men were lost, many heroes made. Margaret’s own father had been killed fighting when she was only eight. It was a fact she constantly referred to. She had adored her father.

  Then she would move on and talk about her husband, Padraig. They had lived just one field away from each other all their lives. He had been fifteen years her senior, but this had not daunted young Margaret in the least. At last she had found a man fit to replace the icon she had made of her father. Margaret worshipped Padraig. He had been her be all and end all. Sometimes, if she had too much brandy she would talk of the night Padraig died. At this point Bríd always left the room.

  ‘I woke in the night and I heard him say, “Oh my God,” and I thought he was just saying it in his sleep. But when I woke in the morning he would not move. Dead. Me darlin’ Paddy had died right next to me in the bed and I did nothing. Just went back to sleep. Thirty years married and I still didn’t know when he was lying stricken next to me.’

  ‘There was nothing you could have done,’ Sarah always said, but it fell on deaf ears.

  ‘I’ll never forgive myself,’ Margaret lamented. ‘When he needed me the most I let him down. Here I am now, all alone. My sons are both in England. Our family in bits.’

  Inevitably she would turn her attention to Joe. ‘Can you not get Joseph to come home?’ she would plead.

  ‘He wants to save for the house,’ Sarah always said lamely. ‘He’ll be back soon.’

  And
he did visit frequently at first, but never staying too long. Sarah could not say that she minded. His visits were an awful strain. Each time she saw him, he was less attractive to her. He was putting on weight and the heavy drinking had affected his general appearance. Even his eyes began to lose their intensity. Besides, she dreaded getting pregnant again. Usually she would pretend to have her period when he came home, but if he stayed longer than a week she had to concede. Joe would make love to her with the desperation of a man who knew he could never win. Each time Sarah lay down for him he could see an even greater distance in her eyes. A chill existed between them. Joe blamed himself. He promised Sarah that he would be back soon. The house would be built. They would make a family. Sarah hoped not. She liked it when it was just herself, Margaret and Bríd. For the first time in her life she enjoyed the company of women and being treated as an equal. Beatrice was growing into a lively little girl with soft auburn hair and a cheeky smile. She did not look like Sarah, nor did she look like Joe, of course. She had Voyle eyes.

  This was something which confused Margaret, who constantly questioned Beatrice’s looks. What colour eyes had Sarah’s parents?

  As Beatrice grew older Sarah gained a little more independence. Every Friday she cycled into town and visited the market. She always purchased some fish for dinner and afterwards she browsed in the shops. Sometimes she bought new wool to make a jersey for Beatrice, or ribbons for her hair. Every week Sarah went to a small cafe at the corner of the main crossroads in town. She would have a pot of tea and a scone with jam. She always brought a book with her, and for a full hour she savoured her solitude.

  There were other folk in the cafe and sometimes a smartly dressed man arrived while she was there. He always sat at the table next to hers and ordered a pot of tea. Then he would take out that day’s paper and hide behind it. When he was there Sarah smelt sandalwood. She found it a most delicious odour. And even though the man was not particularly handsome, Sarah found herself daydreaming about him.

  About five years after Sarah came to live in Glenamona she set off as usual on her Friday trip to town. She was feeling low because Joe was due home the following evening. Margaret was in a flurry of excitement as she always was the day before Joe came, but Sarah dreaded seeing him. His last visit had been a disaster. As usual Sarah had pretended to have her period, but this time Joe had found out.

  ‘You’re unnatural,’ he had spat at her. ‘Don’t you want to have a baby with me? Am I not good enough for you? Don’t forget it’s me who saved you and made you respectable.’

  And then he had slammed out of the house and got slaughtered in the pub. That night he had slept on the sofa and had left early the next day. Sarah had not spoken to him since.

  The weather matched her mood. It was wet and windy, and it was hard work cycling into town. She had a huge shopping list from Margaret:

  A couple of good chops for Joe

  Several bottles of stout for Joe

  The tobacco Joe likes

  A tin of the barley sugar sweets Joe likes

  A jar of Joe’s favourite coffee

  A big sack of spuds

  She would not have time for her tea and scone, and not a penny left to buy something for Beatrice. She ploughed on, soaked through, and completed all her chores in town. It was becoming quite stormy and Sarah decided to head for home before it turned really bad.

  She faced head on into the gale, and spun down the hill. The wind knocked her breath, like someone was hitting her in the chest, and her headscarf was stuck to her scalp. Suddenly her bicycle jerked to one side. She stopped pedalling.

  ‘Damn!’

  She had a puncture, of all the bad luck. She began wheeling the bike along in the heavy rain; it would be hours before she got home. By then she would be exhausted and freezing.

  A car passed. It pulled in.

  The door opened . . . It was sandalwood man.

  ‘Do you need some help?’ he called over to her.

  ‘Oh yes, thank you so much.’ She approached his shiny green car. ‘I’ve a puncture,’ she shouted back against the wind.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said, getting out of the car. He peered gingerly at the damaged wheel. ‘I’m afraid I’m no good at that sort of thing, but perhaps I might be able to give you a lift home?’

  ‘That would be wonderful, thank you.’

  ‘Here, let me help you.’

  He took the bike and jammed it into the boot of the car, using string to secure the open trunk. He opened the door for her and Sarah got in. By now they were both soaked, rain streamed down their faces. She took off her headscarf, which looked like a wet rag, and shook out her hair. It fell about her face in damp curls. The car began to steam up.

  ‘Please, take this.’ He handed her a handkerchief. It smelt of sandalwood. ‘Where can I take you?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re very kind. Glenamona. Thank you,’ she replied, as she gently dabbed her face with his hankerchief.

  ‘Right. You’ve plenty of shopping there,’ he said, gesturing to her packages.

  ‘Yes, my husband is due home from England tomorrow.’

  She bit her tongue, she should never have said that. She was in a car, on her own with sandalwood man, now she had ruined it.

  ‘Right,’ he said again. ‘Joe Kelly, would that be? My father knew his father well. Padraig Kelly used to work for us.’

  ‘I always thought he had his own farm.’

  ‘This was years ago, before he set up his own place. My father always had a lot of time for Padraig. Excuse me,’ he said turning his head towards her, ‘I haven’t introduced myself properly – Noel Chaney.’

  This was Mr Chaney, then. She had heard of him and his spectacular Georgian house. Noel Chaney came from old land-owning stock. They sat in silence for a while. Then he said, ‘And where are you from, Mrs Kelly?’

  ‘England. Southampton. I lived in London for a while.’

  ‘London, such a wonderful city!’ he said enthusiastically.

  ‘A world away from here,’ sighed Sarah.

  They looked out into the beating rain.

  ‘Yes, the weather can get you down, and the lack of culture, of course. But I find living here keens my senses. I do things I wouldn’t do in town, like hunting and fishing, and I have time to contemplate. In London everything happens so fast you’ve no time to pause,’ he said.

  ‘I think I’ve done enough contemplating to last a lifetime,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Is that so? And what do you think about, Mrs Kelly?’

  He glanced at her, and there was a twinkle in his eye. Was he flirting with her? She smiled at him.

  ‘Nothing much.’

  She gave him a sideways glance and he smiled at her. She noticed that his hands were smooth and golden with perfectly manicured nails; quite, quite different from Joe’s rough claws.

  They had turned down the lane. Noel Chaney drove her up to the house.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Neither of them moved.

  ‘Any time,’ he said. He suddenly leant across her, and opened her door from the inside.

  ‘Your handkerchief,’ she said, hardly able to speak.

  ‘Keep it. I’ve plenty more,’ he said.

  He got out of the car, and took her bike out of the boot. The wind had abated slightly, and although the rain still fell hard and fast, it was easier to see his face. It shocked her, because he looked extremely handsome now she was able to look straight at him. They were standing very close to each other; he passed her the bike. They exchanged a glance just for a second, but it was enough for her to know that he liked what he saw too. Not saying another word he got back into the car. She could feel him watching her as she wheeled the bicycle round the side of the house. Then he turned the car and was gone.

  Preoccupied with this tiny drama in her uneventful daily round, Sarah had not noticed Tommy O’Reilly’s dirty old Ford Escort parked outside the cottage. When she walked in through the back door, she jumped, guiltily, she had not expec
ted to see Tommy and Joe sitting at the kitchen table. The two men had just opened a bottle of whiskey.

  Joe was facing the kitchen window. His expression was murderous.

  ‘Who was that?’ he snapped.

  ‘Goodness, what a surprise,’ said Sarah, ignoring his question. ‘I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.’

  ‘Obviously,’ muttered Joe.

  ‘He thought he’d surprise you all,’ said Tommy nervously.

  ‘Where’s Margaret and Beatrice?’ asked Sarah, putting her purchases away.

  ‘They went round to see my mother. She’s dying to see the little girl,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Bríd?’

  ‘She’s not back. I haven’t seen her yet,’ said Joe. ‘Who was that?’ he repeated.

  ‘Just a lift. A man called Noel Chaney. You see, I got a puncture—’

  Joe got up from the table swiftly and gave her a smart slap across the face. Sarah staggered, shocked. He must have been drinking all day.

  ‘Steady on,’ said Tommy.

  Joe ignored him.

  ‘So that’s what’s been going on while I’ve been breaking my back for you, slaving on site after site in England. I should have known. Once a tart, always a tart.’

  ‘Joe, it was raining, I had a puncture, the man gave me a lift—’

  He shoved her.

  ‘That’s why you’ve gone off me. You’ve been having it away with that toffee-nosed bastard!’

  ‘Joe! Come on now. Calm down,’ Tommy said.

  Sarah was scared. She ran out of the kitchen, out of the back door and into the lashing rain, across the muddy yard and down Bog Lane. She ran and ran until she came to the woods. Then she stopped under the shelter of the trees. The rain pattered above her, everything was slashed with grey. She took breath for a second. Then she heard a footfall behind her, but before she could turn she was pushed in the back. She fell onto the forest floor, a sharp stick stuck into her chin. She tried to scream but her mouth was muzzled by the earth. Joe was on top of her.