Beatrice Page 16

  ‘Are you okay, Mammy?’ I take her hands. Gradually her breathing slows down. She looks up then, at me, and then stares at Lisa.

  ‘I think Beatrice could be alive,’ I whisper.

  ‘Why?’ she chokes. ‘Why?’

  Suddenly we became aware of the draught. Daddy is standing in the doorway. He is still in his boots. I don’t know how long he has been standing there but he must have heard what Lisa said. His face is as red as Mammy’s is white.

  ‘Get out of my house!’ he shouts, and lunges forward grabbing Lisa by the hair.

  ‘Get out of my house!’ he repeats. ‘You’re lying! You’re evil!’

  Lisa screams.

  ‘Get the fuck off me!’ She still has a cigarette in her hand and, as my father begins to drag her out of the room by her hair, as Mammy and I stand up, frozen by shock and fear, Lisa takes the cigarette and stabs my father’s free hand. He yelps and lets go. There is sudden calm. Everyone stares at each other, unsure of what will happen next.

  And then we see a surprisingly sorry look on Daddy’s face. He looks at Mammy and then at me, and then he turns on his heel and walks out of the house, leaving the door swinging open.

  BEATRICE

  Innocence does not last for ever.

  Everything was fine until they passed the Artist’s house. By then the effects of their high had completely worn off. They felt sluggish, low and, worst of all, plain dull, and they had their first argument.

  ‘Let’s call into Jakob,’ said Beatrice, taking Phil’s hand and guiding him towards the house.

  ‘No.’ Phil pulled his hand away.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just don’t want to go in.’

  ‘But why, Phil? You’ve never met him. He’s totally cool. He’s got some brandy, we could have a drink.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Well, what is it, then?’

  ‘I just don’t think it’s right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s old enough to be your father.’

  ‘So? He’s my friend, Phil. There’s no age limit on friends. Why are you so uptight? Jesus, look at you.’

  Beatrice started to laugh. A red rag to a bull.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You! Dressed like the essence of free love, and behaving like an uptight prig. What a contradiction!’

  ‘I do have principles, Beatrice.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘I don’t sleep around.’

  Beatrice stopped laughing.

  ‘Nor do I,’ she hissed.

  ‘Everybody knows, about you and the Artist. What you do is your business, but I don’t want to meet him. I don’t want to shake his hand.’

  ‘Jakob is my friend. He teaches me about art. I’ve never slept with anyone. I told you that. How could you believe such utter crap.’

  ‘Everybody says—’

  ‘Everybody says, everybody says. Don’t you know better than to listen to them? You think that you’re so high and mighty. You’re just an English twit.’

  Before Phil had a chance to reply, Beatrice had turned on her heel and headed back the way they had come. Phil stood in the middle of the road, watching her, powerless as she disappeared, emphatically, into the night.

  His head throbbed. He could not remember why they had argued, all he knew was that it was irredeemable. A light came on in the Artist’s house. Phil thought about it. Then he thrust his hands into his pockets, and stomped up the hill home. He was empty, sad and very hungry.

  SARAH

  Sarah’s second labour was worse than the first. What she remembered most about it was not so much the pain as the loneliness. At least when she had had Beatrice she had been in a busy London hospital with plenty of student midwives to hold her hand. Eithne was born in Cavan hospital where there was no pain relief and no comfort. Joe would have been there if he had been allowed. He even came back from England when she was due. But he was the last person Sarah wanted to see. So he spent the long labour in the pub with Tommy O’Reilly. Margaret was ill again, and the three sisters were busy looking after their mother. They were tough women – to them child-birth was no big deal, so Sarah suffered alone, mute with pain, angry at her grief.

  Eithne’s conception was something Sarah had wanted to forget. But as life took hold inside her she could not deny her own. Even so, her swollen belly was like a dagger hanging above Joe’s head. He could not bear to see Sarah pregnant and so he spent nearly all of the next nine months working in London. Margaret could not understand this – especially as she was not in the best of health herself, and wanted her family round her. Mary came back from Dublin for good and got a nursing job in Navan hospital. Aoife was beside herself with excitement. At last her sister-in-law was catching up. She already had three, with another on the way. There was news of Jack, marital difficulties and a planned move home, but no word from Joe. When Margaret rang he was never in, when she wrote he never replied. She began to turn on her daughter-in-law.

  ‘Why can’t you go over to London and persuade him to come home? Doesn’t he want to be here when the baby comes? Doesn’t he realize his old mam doesn’t have long to go?’

  Sarah would admonish her, ‘You mustn’t talk like that. You’ve another grandchild on the way to spoil, don’t you be saying rubbish like that. Besides, I can’t go over to London. Joe is working hard and we’ll have another mouth to feed soon.’

  All lies. There had been no money from England for weeks, and Sarah was making ends meet doing a cleaning job. She told Margaret it was just for pocket money, but really it was keeping them going.

  Sarah had only spoken to Joe once since the ‘incident’.

  He had rung his mother on her birthday, and before Sarah could get out of the room Margaret had pushed the telephone into her hand.

  ‘Tell him,’ she hissed.

  By then Sarah was four months gone. The women had known for a while, but she had still not told Joe.

  ‘Hello, Joe,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Sarah.’ He was drunk.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said quickly.

  She could hear him knocking against the wall.

  ‘What? But how? I mean when?’

  ‘You know when.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah . . . I – I can’t stop thinking about that. If only . . . Will I come home?’ he gushed.

  ‘No. Please don’t, not on my account anyway,’ she said coldly. She handed the telephone back to Margaret, who was staring at her strangely. Sarah went upstairs. Beatrice was painting. She was sitting at the landing window with her paints and paper spread out on the wide sill. She was making butterfly shapes. Sarah put her arms around her tiny daughter.

  ‘What are you painting there?’ she said huskily.

  ‘Butterflies. Look.’ The child splashed paint on to the paper, folded it in half and then opened it out again.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ said Sarah.

  One of her mother’s tears slid down the little girl’s cheek.

  ‘Mammy, why are you crying?’

  ‘I’m not, love, I just have something in my eye.’

  The next day Sarah started a new cleaning job. It was for Noel Chaney, of all people. His housekeeper had gone on holiday for two weeks, and Mr Chaney needed someone to do some light cleaning work every day. Sarah had seen the card in a shop window in town. Her heart had missed a beat when she read his name and number at the bottom. At first she thought she had better not ring, and then she said to herself, ‘What’s the harm? I can give him back his handkerchief.’

  But deep down she knew something else was motivating her. When she phoned, Noel Chaney did indeed remember her. He was delighted that someone he knew, and therefore could trust, would be working for him.

  Sarah arrived early that first morning, with the memory of her bitter announcement on the telephone still fresh. The house was everything she had expected it to be; not as opulent as the Voyles’, but larger and older. Two hounds greeted her as
she made her way to the back door. It swung open and Noel Chaney stood before her, smiling, with a cup of coffee in his hand.

  ‘You’re early,’ he said.

  He had grown a moustache since she had last seen him. He looked older, and he was fair, like Jonathan. She wondered where Jonathan was now. Did he remember her?

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Noel Chaney.

  Sarah had paled. She lost her balance and stumbled over the threshold. Noel Chaney caught her by the arm.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, mortified.

  ‘Sit down, please. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Oh, tea, please.’

  He put the kettle on. The colour gradually came back to her cheeks. Her hair shone, and her skin glowed in the way it does when you are pregnant.

  ‘You look very well. What I mean is, you don’t look ill,’ Noel Chaney said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sarah. ‘You see, I’m expecting.’

  It just slipped out. She felt so comfortable with Noel Chaney. He was like Anthony.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said smiling.

  After she had had her tea, Noel Chaney showed her what he wanted done in the house. Then he went into the library. She heard him rustling the paper, and smelt his pipe. The sandalwood odour was everywhere. She breathed in deeply.

  Sarah started upstairs. She made his bed, and dusted his dressing table. There was really not that much to do, he was very tidy. There was a picture of a young woman on his locker. She was fair with blue eyes. Beside the photograph was a beautiful old hairbrush; it was old, the silver slightly tarnished, smooth with age and the bristles were so soft it was practically useless. She picked it up, and gently pulled it through her hair, looking in the mirror on the dressing table and wishing she was the girl in the picture. The clock on the landing struck ten. She jumped.

  ‘Snap out of it,’ she whispered to herself.

  For the following hour she became a whirlwind of activity. She brushed the stairs, swept the hall and dusted the sitting room. By then it was time to prepare Noel Chaney’s lunch. She got going in the kitchen. He had asked for shepherd’s pie. She managed it fairly well, although she knew she wasn’t the best of cooks. At least it was on time. Loading the food onto a large tray she took it into the dining room and laid it out on the table. Then she walked hesitantly towards the library. The house had been so completely silent, apart from the clock striking, that it was hard to imagine anyone else was there. She stood outside the library door nervously. She could hear a newspaper rustling, a short cough. She knocked.

  ‘Come in.’

  She went in. Noel Chaney looked up from his desk.

  ‘Your lunch is ready. Would you like me to serve you?’

  ‘No, that’s fine, Sarah. Thank you, I’ll help myself.’

  Her hand on the door knob she paused.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  She walked up to him, and took his handkerchief out of her pocket.

  ‘I just wanted to give you this back,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, but you can keep it, Sarah.’

  There was an awkward pause.

  ‘Would you like to stay for lunch?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t . . .’ She pushed the handkerchief into his hands.

  ‘Sarah . . .’ he began. Sandalwood pervaded her. Before she could stop herself, she leant forward and kissed him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and made to leave.

  He caught her arm, pulled her towards him and kissed her. Sarah took off her cardigan and her blouse. He unclipped her bra. Her breasts were heavy. He undid her skirt and put his hands around her thickening waist. She stood naked, a woman in early pregnancy craving love.

  ‘You are absolutely beautiful,’ he said. Then he kissed her again. He led her to the couch, where he undressed. Their naked bodies unravelled, and opened up to each other. Sensation shot through her. She had not felt like this in so long.

  When they had finished, Sarah was shaking.

  ‘You must think I am terrible,’ she said.

  ‘Oh no, Mrs Kelly. You are a magnificent woman.’

  He handed her back the handkerchief.

  ‘I hope you’ll come back tomorrow,’ he said and, getting dressed quickly, he left the room.

  Sarah sat for a second, stunned. She looked across the couch at a large gilded mirror. She did not look wicked. Then she got dressed, and raced out of the house. She ran down the lane, forgetting her bicycle. She ran and ran until she came to the bog. There she stood in the centre of its bleakness and laughed and laughed. Loud, mad, unabashed laughter, releasing five years of captivity.

  JOSEPH

  He stood among the rushes, swaying. He was here, in his beloved bog. He was trying to reconcile himself. It had taken him all evening and many pints to bring himself to this point. The wind had dropped and it was freezing. The bog-earth beneath him was hard, an icing of frost sparkled above its black innards. It was a full moon, and Joe could see clearly about him. The landscape was silent, as if touched by a spell that held time still. Not even the animals were out in the fields. Too cold. Everyone was inside.

  Joe did not feel the cold. All he could feel was anger. It was an anger which had coursed through him for as long as he could remember. It wasn’t about Sarah, or Beatrice, or the girl that Eithne had brought down with her. They were all casualties, the outcome of his rage. He could not go back, he knew that. Now the truth was out, now they would surely find Beatrice, he could not bear to face them all. Not again.

  No.

  It had all started with Miss Lundy. It was all her fault. They always said, of course, that he should have known better. He was thirteen, for goodness’ sake; practically a man in rural terms. But Miss Lundy, his teacher, had frightened him.

  She made him a teacher’s pet and had forced him to stay after school every day, to help her with her marking. He would never forget his school mates’ sniggers as they left the room, and his frozen terror as Miss Lundy, a hefty, middle-aged spinster, came towards him.

  It would always start the same way.

  She didn’t whip him, or strip, or do anything dramatic.

  ‘Sit down next to me, Joseph, and pass me the copy books as I mark,’ she would say.

  He sat next to her and, not saying a word, she would put her hand on his trousers, her fingers splayed over his penis. She would rub and rub as she marked with the other hand. He was terrified, yet he did not know what to do. Was he imagining this? Miss Lundy never said a word, her face was expressionless, she did not even raise an eyebrow. All of a sudden she would stop. He was left torn. She would order him to go. Joe would stumble out of the schoolroom. He would run home, sobbing and emasculated.

  This was Joe’s dark secret. He never told anyone about Miss Lundy, but of course there were rumours. The other children would jeer at him in the school yard, everyone knew – although they never saw it as abuse. Nor did Joe. He just wondered what was wrong with him, why did she pick on him?

  When Joe returned from England with Sarah by his side, he thought that everyone would think he was normal, at last he might gain a little respect. Miss Lundy was long gone. Forgotten.

  But she came back. On that awful day when Sarah returned from town with Noel Chaney, Joe had seen Miss Lundy in his wife’s face. Had recognized her cold indifference. It blinded him to all reason, to all sense of himself.

  And Beatrice. Miss Lundy was there that night too. Turning his mind.

  Joe sighed. He gripped a whiskey bottle in his hand. It was almost frozen to his fingers. He raised it to his mouth. He looked again across the bog, and wondered about its infinite appeal to him. He drank the whiskey as though it was nectar, and then, having drunk himself unconscious, he fell forwards into the rushes.

  He landed face down, rigid, like many of the trees he had once felled on the marsh.

  EITHNE

  I adore hand-made paper. I know h
ow to make it myself. I did a paper-making workshop a few years ago, but somehow it never works quite as well as it should. Like baking bread, paper-making is an intuitive craft, a skill you need to be born with. When we were in Majorca we found a shop selling hand-made paper in the old part of Palma. It was tucked away behind the Gothic cathedral, in a narrow alley sitting in a pretty row between an antique shop and a book store. The shop sold paper of every colour, texture and size imaginable. It sold it in single sheets, in reams, in writing blocks, as well as envelopes, notebooks and sketchbooks. It was expensive, but I couldn’t resist and bought a pile of sketchbooks.

  When I first owned these precious books I could hardly bear to mark the pages. I’d spend hours fingering them, letting the tips of my fingers rub their rough edges. And I’d smell them too. They smelt profoundly ancient and earthbound; I imagined them drying outside, sun-baked and golden. After a while, I shyly started writing a few notes in pencil accompanied by the tiniest sketches. However, after I was given my solo exhibition, my confidence surged and I started using pen and ink. My sketchbook is my constant companion. I never go anywhere without it. I stick photographs in it – Polaroid shots of different landscapes, as well as more carefully composed photographs. I write in pencil, ink, even biro or marker. I press leaves and flowers, add splashes of paint, cuttings from papers and magazines, even smears of bog-earth. It is my definitive scrapbook: a collection of all my random thoughts and observations. This is the foundation to anything I print. It is its primary layer – its conception.

  Beatrice’s sketchbook is very different to mine. She was not, maybe I should say not yet, a conceptual artist. She loved life drawing. Beatrice’s feelings were expressed through the gesture of each figure she drew or painted, how the head was held, and how people moved their bodies.

  Beatrice’s life drawings were nearly always faceless, ending at the chin. But she did not shy away from portraits. She just preferred to separate the head from the body. She had a skill for likenesses, something I’m no good at.