Beatrice Read online

  ‘Don’t forget you’re my wife,’ he ranted. ‘I’ve been faithful to you for five long years but all you do is reject me. I could have been having it away in London, but I never did, not once. Out of respect, see. And then you do this to me. Do you think I’m a fool? I know you’ve a soft spot for the gentlemen.’

  He had her skirt up and was pulling her pants down.

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know you’ve been with Noel Chaney all afternoon. I can smell him on you. Well, if you’re going to behave like a whore, I’m going to treat you like one.’

  He pushed inside her, she felt as though she was splitting apart. He cursed her and berated her, accusing her of all manner of things with Noel Chaney. It seemed to go on for ever. Eventually he came and lay quite still on top of her, silent, as heavy as a rock. She could not move.

  ‘Sarah,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Sarah. Oh God, forgive me.’

  He got off her. She pushed herself up off her knees, and pulled her pants up. He sat on the ground, his trousers around his ankles. He was sobbing. He could not look at her.

  ‘Why can’t you love me?’ he wailed.

  Her heart turned to stone.

  ‘Don’t you ever, ever touch me again,’ she said. ‘I’ll take a pitchfork, and I’ll shove it straight through your filthy heart while you’re in one of your drunken stupors. I’ll do it, Joe. Don’t ever come near me again.’

  She walked through the wood, and out onto the bog. It had stopped raining and the sun set weakly in front of her. Sarah held herself and wept. Then she took out Noel Chaney’s handkerchief and dried her eyes.

  That was the day her second child was conceived.

  BEATRICE

  Loughcrew. Her scarf flaps across her face and presses against her mouth. She sucks it in and blows it out. They climb the hill, pick their way up the uneven, mud-frosted path. They’re wasting time, precious minutes, but she says they have to come here. The mist weaves around their ankles, rising off the field. Surely they are entering another world? The land is cowering from the winter, and gives off a pungent odour of earth like a frightened animal before the kill.

  They go up, around a grassy curve, and up the final incline. The hag’s chair faces them. But she doesn’t go towards it – too late for wishing now. Instead, she takes his hand, and drags him behind a stack of fallen stones. She hops down into a narrow burial chamber, and pulls him after her. They are sheltered here.

  She starts to kiss him feverishly. He tries to stop her, but she won’t. She cries out, ‘I need you, I need you now.’ He looks frightened. She is like a wild thing. She will surely fly off this mountain if he does not ground her.

  He complies, and lies on top of her. She breathes more easily now, relieved. ‘Please,’ she whispers. ‘Please . . .’ she begs, crying. Eventually he pushes inside her, reluctant, sad for her sorrow. He is too gentle and she urges him on. He is taken away then, and now there is no stopping them. She closes her eyes, and pushes the back of her head against the ancient earth. Then she opens her eyes again and looks in wonder at his dark silhouette against the early morning sky, which is picture-perfect blue, with tiny racing clouds. Faster they scurry, the shadows running across them. She closes her eyes again. She feels like a tree has taken root inside her, it grows, like Jack’s beanstalk, bigger and bigger, taking her over, until it is exploding with blooms.

  Then they are shaking and shivering they are so cold.

  ‘Quick,’ he says taking her hand. They climb out of the chamber, and the wind beats against them. They look about. Lough Sheelin is spread before them, immense and serene, its surface twinkling beneath distant blue hills. The land about falls into hillocky drumlins, and you can imagine entire settlements lying under them.

  A whole civilization sleeps beneath their feet. An odd little tree catches her eye, she points it out. It is knobbly and buckled by the wind, standing on its own small mound. How much more can it take? All the life is beaten out of it and it is misshapen, a freak. This is how he feels, but he says nothing. They walk down the hill, he will not run. At some point her scarf is carried away by the wind. She doesn’t stop. Let them take it, then.

  EITHNE

  This is no ordinary sketchbook, and no ordinary present. The Artist had made it for Beatrice. He made the paper himself, collecting iris leaves from the bog, mixing them into a pulp and straining them.

  The cover is red leather. It is soft and weathered and came from a shoemaker in Berlin, or so he said. Beatrice carried it with her everywhere, with a small bundle of pencils. Her passion was drawing from life – people and the little details of our humanity. She had a real skill for likenesses and many local faces graced the pages. She drew from life at least once every day.

  The red leather sketchbook is small, it can fit into a jacket pocket, but it is striking. Its cover is deep magenta, it looks like blood. Beatrice adored her sketchbook, and would not share it with anyone.

  JOSEPH

  He decided to go the long way home. Tommy had told him that he had seen some of the wire down, and a few of his sheep had strayed onto the road. He had better sort it out before he got home. If only he had a son, someone who could work with him, then he wouldn’t be so tired, so lonely. He had been hoping that Philip, Jack’s son, would have worked with him this summer. But the boy was totally indifferent to the land or any form of labouring. Joe felt awkward next to him. He was well spoken and full of clever words and sayings and Joe felt he was laughing at him, somehow. He didn’t really like him and thought him spoilt. He never said so to Jack. His brother worshipped his son. But just to look at what Philip wore, skipping around the fields all day with Beatrice and Eithne like a girl, made Joe feel sick. Maybe the boy was homosexual. God, he hoped not. He didn’t want that for his brother.

  The sun was setting and Joe breathed deeply. This really could be the most beautiful place in the world. The sky was seared with the fiery colours, the landscape hushed and peaceful. He loved the smell of the land at this time of year; rich and ripe. The summer never felt long enough, the winter always felt too long. Joe fixed the fence and made sure all the sheep were in. It was getting dark. He set off for home and tea. He hoped Sarah had left something for him to eat. It was unlikely, as herself and Eithne had gone to see Aoife for the evening. He decided to cut across a small area of boggy land to save time. In the second field he crossed he saw movement in the half light. At first he thought it was an animal but then he heard human sounds, a woman sighing. He had never heard a woman sigh like that, but he knew instinctively what it meant. He crept closer. Just a quick look. Two naked bodies lay on the grass. They gleamed against the darkening land. They lay side by side, holding hands. The man had his other hand between the woman’s legs. She sighed.

  Joe looked at her face. It was Beatrice.

  He froze. What did they think they were doing on open land, in full view of anyone! They did not notice him. They appeared drunk, in fact. Their movements were slow and their eyes were half closed. It was disgusting, scandalous – they were family, or so everyone else thought. He should storm up to them right now and give them both a good hiding. But for some reason he could not move, he was mesmerized.

  Joe watched, horrified, as Philip slid his penis inside Beatrice. That was all he did, nothing else. Hardly any movement at all. Then they fell asleep, him tucked inside her.

  It was too much. Joe turned and marched out of the field. He was shaking. Enough was enough. That girl was bad blood, not his blood, anyway. She had to be taught a lesson, she could not carry on just as she wished any more. He headed into the centre of the village.

  First he needed a drink.

  EITHNE

  I wake late. There’s still frost – it’s one of those glittering winter mornings. I look out of the window. Mist is curling around the base of Witch’s Hill, slowly vaporizing into the cold air. Everything about winter is more intense here. The sky is pure innocent blue, the trees, bereft of leaves, reach up like blackened limbs, and the ground is
still green, but an old shade, not spring new, the earth beneath pushed up to its outer layer. This morning the grass blades are magical, twinkling like crystallized twigs.

  Lisa’s bed is empty, the quilt rumpled up into a ball in the centre of the mattress.

  I go downstairs, pulling a large sweater of Daddy’s on over my pyjamas. Mammy and Lisa are in the kitchen; Daddy has already left for the day. As I enter the room, I get the feeling that they have been sitting in silence for some time. Lisa looks relieved as I come in. Mammy glances at the clock – it’s eleven.

  ‘You must have been tired,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, I’m exhausted,’ I say. ‘I’ve been working very hard.’

  ‘That’ll be for your solo show?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve so much to do.’

  ‘I’ll make sure Daddy comes this time,’ Mammy says. ‘It’s very exciting,’ she turns to Lisa, ‘isn’t it?’

  Lisa looks confused.

  ‘I haven’t told you that I have my first solo exhibition in Dublin in a few months,’ I tell Lisa quickly.

  ‘That’s great,’ she replies, but without conviction.

  Mammy narrows her eyes and stares at Lisa, and then says, ‘Well, I’m off out, girls – see you later.’

  ‘Thank God, she’s gone,’ says Lisa as soon as Mammy leaves the room. ‘She kept asking me all these questions about art. I just wanted to tell her who I really am.’

  ‘We will . . . later,’ I say.

  I am rifling in Mammy’s sacred kitchen drawer where she keeps everything precious. My fingers pass over the pearls, the beret, the scarf and the sketchbook. I push my hands right to the back and pull out a small pink envelope. I remembered finding this when I was very little and, as I had hoped, it was still in the same place.

  ‘What’s that?’ Lisa asks.

  ‘It’s Mammy’s. I’ll be back in a minute – help yourself to more coffee.’

  I go out into the hall, and read the back of the envelope. An address is embossed on its surface – A. Voyle Esq., Kidderpore Avenue, Hampstead, London NW.

  I pick up the phone and dial directory enquiries.

  We dress up in big heavy jackets, scarves, hats and wellies. The dog comes with us.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asks Lisa.

  ‘Glenamona,’ I say, ‘where my Granny lived. Where Beatrice lived until she was nine.’

  I drive down the hill out of the village, the road twists and turns and we take a sharp left. Here, heavy chestnut trees and evergreens lean over the road creating a tunnel. I turn down Bog Road, and then into the top of Bog Lane, until we come to the drive. I stop the car and park.

  Jack and Bríd only moved out five years ago. It got too hard to keep the place warm, so they built a smart new bungalow, a mile down the road. Daddy wouldn’t let them sell the land, so the family still farms it. He keeps saying that he is going to do up the house and live in it again one day. But it looks wretched now.

  We walk across the little bridge over the stream, which is all but dried up. The orchard at the front of the house is completely gone, and the land lies fallow. The house is dingy grey, several slates have slid off the roof, and the glass has fallen out of the tiny windows, so that they’re boarded up. I push the front door open, and Lisa follows me in. A few bits of furniture litter the house: a paint-stained table in the front room, and a rickety old chair in the downstairs bedroom. There is a letter on the windowsill addressed to Mrs Padraig Kelly, and a dusty, battered copy of Patrick Kavanagh’s poems. I pick that up and pocket it.

  ‘Yuck,’ says Lisa. ‘It really stinks in here.’

  I can see that at some stage someone has let cattle in, there’s bits of hay everywhere and dried-up pats.

  ‘Let’s go to the bog,’ I say.

  We go round the back. Brambles have taken over so that we are forced to walk some way down Bog Lane. As soon as I can, I climb into the field.

  ‘It’s better this way,’ I say. ‘Not so mucky.’

  ‘I’m glad I didn’t wear my trainers,’ says Lisa.

  As we plunge through the wet grass, Lisa turns to me. ‘Have you any idea who my father is?’

  ‘Well . . . Beatrice had this friend, Jakob Rudin, but you don’t look a bit like him, and anyway she wouldn’t have run away if it was him. Then there’s Phil . . . but they were cousins, I’m sure nothing actually happened.’

  ‘It’s just a big bloody wind up, isn’t it?’ She continues, ‘I’ve been thinking – I’m going to go home tomorrow, this is all doing my head in.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘When I was speaking to Steve yesterday he said I should come back. He said this was all pointless, you know?’

  ‘But it’s not, Lisa – we got to meet. You have me now.’

  ‘It’s not the same – I just wanted to know where I came from, so that I could tell my kids. I wanted all this shit sorted out in my life before I got married.’

  ‘But nothing is that simple,’ I say.

  ‘I know that now, that’s why I don’t want to find her any more. Lots of people are adopted and never get to find their real parents, and they’re fine. We’re just stirring up shit.’

  We have begun to walk through the spruce copse – it goes incredibly dark. Her eyes and teeth gleam in the half light, and her head has fallen forward slightly. She stops and lights a cigarette. I feel sorry for her. She doesn’t seem so tall now.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘You can always come back when you’re ready. I’m going to keep looking . . .’

  ‘But what about your husband? Do you think it’s a good idea? I mean I decided it wasn’t fair on Steve. I have to think about my future with him, isn’t it the same for you? Don’t you want to have kids?’

  ‘Not really,’ I mumble.

  ‘I can’t wait to have my own family. We’ve even decided how many – two girls and two boys so it’s all even.’

  I laugh. ‘You can’t order them!’

  We come out of the wood, and we’re on the bog. It is severe here now. The sky has turned white, and the land is darker than mud. Lisa shivers.

  ‘I don’t like it here,’ she says. ‘It’s horrible.’

  ‘Don’t you want to walk across the bog? It’s my favourite place.’

  She looks at me as if I am mad.

  ‘No thanks, I’m freezing – let’s go back.’

  Mammy is home when we get in. I can smell baking in the kitchen – she is attempting bread. Lisa says she’s tired and is going upstairs for a lie down. I go on into the kitchen. My mother stands with her back to me, stirring a big pot.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘Irish stew,’ she says. ‘Something traditional for our English guest.’

  I hang up the coats and dog’s lead, and fill her bowl with water.

  ‘Did you have a good walk?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, it’s cold though.’

  ‘I think it might snow,’ she says. ‘Look at the way the sky’s gone.’

  We stand side by side, looking out of the back window. It reminds me of the days when Beatrice was first gone, and how we memorized the landscape.

  ‘Who’s that girl?’ Mammy asks all of a sudden.

  ‘A friend . . . a student, I told you,’ I say awkwardly.

  ‘But she can’t be an art student,’ says Mammy. ‘I mean, I don’t know much myself but that girl is completely ignorant of the basics. I asked her did she prefer to use watercolours or oil or acrylic and she was completely stuck. She had no idea what any of them are. Art student, she is not. Maybe she’s your friend, though she doesn’t seem your type— Now, why would you lie to me, Eithne?’

  I want to tell her . . . but I don’t know how to begin.

  ‘Mammy, let’s sit by the fire.’

  She sits down by the range, and I sit opposite her.

  ‘Who is that girl?’ she repeats, irritated. ‘I don’t like her, she’s very rude.’

  ‘Mammy, do you remember you always thought that Beatrice would come back
?’

  ‘Why are you talking about that now?’ Her voice squeaks, and she looks frightened.

  ‘I thought she was dead,’ I say. ‘I really did. But you always believed she was out there somewhere, didn’t you?’

  She cannot speak. Just nods her head. Her face has turned grey; she looks worn out, her eyes are large opals of sadness.

  ‘I think you were right,’ I say softly. ‘I was wrong, and you were right.’

  ‘But . . . why?’ The words come strangled out of her. I pause, unsure of how to phrase the next sentence.

  ‘Because of me,’ says a voice from across the room. Lisa has come in behind us. She sits down on a stool by the kitchen table and lights a cigarette. Mammy looks from me to Lisa. She is shaking. I take her hand, but before I can speak, Lisa comes out with it.

  ‘I’m adopted. A few months ago I had my eighteenth birthday. That meant I was old enough to get my birth certificate. I found out who my real mum is.’

  Mammy looks at me. She still has not twigged.

  ‘No, not me,’ I say quietly.

  ‘The adoption agency couldn’t really tell me that much. My mother had left no forwarding address, and she hadn’t contacted them since the day she signed me over. All I have is what’s on the birth certificate.’

  She takes the certificate out of her pocket and gives it to Mammy, who stares at it in disbelief.

  ‘There it is.’

  Mammy reads in slow motion.

  ‘She named her after Granny,’ I say. ‘When Lisa was adopted they changed her name.’

  Mammy grips the paper, staring at it, she is unable to look up.

  ‘That’s why she disappeared, Mammy,’ I say. ‘Beatrice was pregnant.’

  Mammy gasps, she is beginning to hyperventilate.