Beatrice Page 18

  ‘Sarah, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Noel . . . please can I come in?’

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? Of course you can’t come in. You’re in your nightdress, for Heaven’s sake.’

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ she whined.

  ‘Go home, Sarah.’

  She turned and walked back down the drive. She was sobbing. At the gate Noel caught up with her. He took her by the hand, and led her behind a thick stand of rhododendrons.

  ‘All right, all right. Just once more,’ he said. They fell down onto the soft, mossy ground. Sarah sat on top of him, guided him inside her and rode Noel Chaney as though she was going to the ends of the earth. She closed her eyes and saw everything crashing around her: Anthony – the manor house – being a lady. It was all demolished. Now all she could see was the moon-shadowed night, and all she could hear were Noel Chaney’s gasps. He came inside her. She sat for a minute, then got up, wiping herself with the hem of her nightdress.

  ‘I’m fine now,’ she said calmly and walked through the rhododendron wall. She got her bicycle and mounted it. Noel came out of the bushes. He was bemused. His head on one side.

  ‘Good luck, Sarah,’ he said.

  Sarah smiled. A car passed them, a dirty old Ford Escort. Then everything was quiet again.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Sarah and pushed off down the lane on her bicycle.

  EITHNE

  Lisa leaves the day before the funeral, wanting to forget all about us. When she had recovered from the shock of Lisa’s identity, Mammy had gone into overdrive, saying that she was going to get the Gardaí to open the case again. After wanting to find out the truth for so long, I had suddenly felt fearful . . . something about Daddy’s behaviour had worried me terribly. Now all Lisa wanted to do was get away from us. I could hardly blame her.

  My father has died, and they cannot tell me whether it was an accident or suicide. They say he would have known it was madness to go wandering on the bog on a night as cold as that. Either that or he was so drunk he did not know where he was going. They found him lying rigid in the reeds. He was cradling the whiskey bottle.

  Maybe we killed him: Mammy, Beatrice and I.

  I had seen him angry before, but never like that. I daren’t think what it could mean. Has Daddy been hiding something all these years?

  Uncle Jack was the first to find out about what had happened to Daddy. He came with the Gardaí to tell us. I was just back from my drive. Only Lisa was shocked, and then she was embarrassed. I had been expecting this all my life. My mother was very matter of fact. After about five minutes she asked what we had to do next – the post-mortem, the inquest, the funeral.

  Had she ever loved him?

  Leo grew up within the shelter of a loving family. Sometimes he finds my fear of attachment and of having children hard to understand. I try to explain. But he asks, ‘Did your father hit your mother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he beat you or your sister?’

  ‘Well, he slapped us a couple of times and shouted at us, and he and Mammy argued all the time.’

  ‘All couples have rows. You should know that.’

  ‘There was no love.’

  ‘Did your parents love you?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘That’s what’s important. Myself and Clara don’t love each other any more, but we love Shauna. She knows that and she’s happy. That’s what counts.’

  ‘But you and Clara don’t live together. Our family home was like living in a cold war. It was awful to watch.’

  Leo would shake his head. You could tell he thought I was being melodramatic. He wanted another child and found it hard to understand my reluctance.

  I have to ring him now. I haven’t spoken to him since our row on the phone the other night. He has hurt me. I don’t understand why he can’t accept Lisa. Maybe he is sick of it all . . . I know he has a point. But at the moment he has made me feel deserted, more alone than I have ever felt in my life.

  *

  This morning Daddy died. We sit at the kitchen table, brandy in our tea, Uncle Jack, Mammy, Lisa, the poor Garda and me. Even Uncle Jack cannot cry. The fog still hangs heavy around the house. I am cold in my bones and shivering. Daddy has betrayed me. He walked his own lonely path into the bog without telling me where or why he was going. Has he forgotten the stories he told me when I was little? Has he completely forgotten my reverence? Suddenly I feel I will choke. I walk out of the back door, and stumble across our dirty patch of lawn. In the field next door, cattle loom out of the fog. They eyeball me. Leaning against the fence is Daddy’s spade. It is old, the handle splintered and worn. It is a fitting symbol and focus for my grief. I pick it up and hurl it towards the startled cattle.

  BEATRICE

  He had been drinking for hours and could hardly hold himself straight. He crashed through the front door. The house was dark and quiet. There was a fire glowing in the range. He thought he was alone until he saw her sitting on a stool next to it. She watched him. He could see disgust in her eyes.

  ‘Little whore!’ he spat.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘What did you just call me?’

  ‘I called you a fucking whore,’ he shouted.

  ‘Oh really, and where did you pick that up from? From the throngs of people in this shit-hole who have nothing better to do than make up lies about me? You’re my bloody father, you should defend me.’

  ‘You’re no daughter of mine!’

  ‘Yes, I am. You chose me! You took Mammy and me from that hospital, almost by force, I would say. So you made me your daughter. Like it or lump it.’

  ‘I saw you tonight,’ he said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I saw you with my nephew, Philip. I saw you corrupting him.’

  ‘God, now he’s rambling. We were sitting in a field . . . we had a sleep. Okay, so we took our clothes off. Big deal.’

  ‘You’re bad through and through. You turned your mother against me.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. Go to bed, Joseph. You’re making a scene. Just get out of my sight.’

  She turned her back to him and huddled in front of the fire. He went towards her, and kicked the stool from under her. She fell, cried out, and hit her head on the hearth. She lay on her side unconscious. Joe pushed her onto her back. He continued to shout at her, ‘Don’t think you can do this to me. You bitch! I’m in charge, not you.’

  He lifted Beatrice’s skirt, and pulled down her pants. He began to undo his trousers. Then he stopped. He rose, as quickly as he could, and stumbled across the kitchen to the sink, vomiting into it. What was he thinking of? He must be demented. He lunged across to the other side of the room, and went into the sitting room. He had to get away from her. Joe fell onto the sofa and passed out. His last thought was, ‘Thank God.’

  When Beatrice opened her eyes it was completely dark. The fire had gone out. Her head hurt. There was blood on her lips. She shivered; the stone floor was freezing. She shifted her body. Why was the hem of her skirt brushing her lips? Why were her pants around her ankles? Beatrice started to whimper. She stood up, and put her clothes straight. Her hands were shaking. There was a terrible smell in the room. Banging into the table, into the chairs, she managed to get out of the house. It was brighter outside, her head still hurt, and her teeth were chattering. She began to cry. What had happened? What had he done to her? Beatrice picked up her bicycle, and fled. She was never coming back.

  FIVE: THE COMPACT

  EITHNE

  Mammy possessed one family heirloom. It was a small brass compact, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which had belonged to her grandmother. Nothing precious, but then the Quigleys had never been wealthy.

  Its cheap metal is tarnished now, the clasp is broken, the mirror is cracked and the mother-of-pearl butterfly on its lid is incomplete. The thin puff is long gone, but there are traces of face powder still in the bottom. Forensics had a field day with that.

  Sarah’
s father had given it to his daughter when she was a little girl. He thought she could play with it. Sarah always carried her compact with her, from childhood to adulthood. She did not wear much make-up but she always dusted her face with powder before she went out. Just to take the shine off it.

  When Beatrice went off to college Mammy gave her the compact. It was a grand gesture and Beatrice knew this. She gave it to Beatrice as she was getting on the bus for Dublin, weighed down with bags. Nothing was ever said. The elder woman just handed it over. Beatrice began to cry. She seemed so pale. Ever since she’d decided to stay with the Artist – in preparation for art college, so she said – she had not seemed herself. Mammy had not wanted her to stay there, but Beatrice had insisted. Mammy had grudgingly agreed, but said that Daddy would never comply. Surprisingly he did.

  The compact was found open, sitting on a stone by the spring in Baile Fobhair. You might think it had been left there as a charm. The cracked mirror gleamed in the fairy-tale light, and reflected back the dingy spring full of coppers. But whoever found it thought it might mean something to someone. They handed it in at the local pub. It was the pub where Mammy worked.

  We went to see the Seven Wonders of Fore or Baile Fobhair, the day before Beatrice left for art college. It was just Beatrice and I. Phil had gone back to England a couple of weeks earlier. Since Beatrice had been staying with the Artist she had not seen Phil, and he never called at the house any more.

  I missed Phil. Although I had moaned on our walks, he had paid me some attention. He was so charming. And the two of them made me feel as though I was part of something special. But since he had gone, things were dull. I was back at school, and dreading Beatrice’s departure.

  Beatrice did not go to Mass any more. Mammy had given up trying to make her go, and surprisingly Daddy had said nothing. It was like he had given up on her completely. The Sunday before Beatrice left, Mammy and Daddy stopped off at Glenamona on the way home from Mass. I went on ahead. Beatrice was waiting for me.

  ‘Get your bike,’ she said. ‘We’re going to St Feichin’s place.’

  St Feichin had founded Baile Fobhair, town of the spring. This very special valley was home to seven mysterious ‘wonders’: the monastery in a bog, the mill without a race, the water that flows uphill, the tree that won’t burn, the water that won’t boil, the anchorite in the stone, and the stone raised by St Feichin’s prayers.

  Uncle Jack had brought us here first, and it was one of our favourite places. Although the wonders can be described as folklore at best, hogwash at worst, there is no doubt that Fore has a unique energy.

  We cycled down the hill, into the valley of Fore. The ruined abbey lay nestled below the hills, its stone was a soft-focus grey, and it seemed to me like a gentle mist drifted out from the ruins. It looked like something from a mystical world; a place that could just disappear during the blink of an eye.

  We got off our bicycles.

  ‘I felt it was important we spend my last day here. I thought we should each make a wish,’ Beatrice said.

  She walked up to a wizened old tree, known as the tree that won’t burn. I followed her. Beatrice thrust a copper into the gnarled trunk, and closed her eyes. I watched her lips moving. She opened one eye.

  ‘Come on, make a wish.’

  I found a tuppence in my pocket, leant forward and pushed it into the spongy bark. We were not the only ones. The tree was riddled with coins. There were all sorts of things attached to its branches – hair scrunchies, plastic bags, scraps of material, even crisp packets tied and twisted. It looked like a head of hair in rags. I closed my eyes and hunted for a wish. It took a while.

  ‘Finished?’ She nudged me.

  ‘Why do they do that?’ I said, pointing to the decorations on the tree.

  ‘I’m not sure. I think they’re charms. The travellers tie them to the tree so their prayers or wishes will come true.’

  ‘I’d like to be a traveller,’ I said.

  ‘You’d never survive,’ Beatrice said, authoritively. She started to walk towards the abbey. I caught up with her.

  ‘Beatrice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now that you’re going away to college, you won’t forget about me, will you?’

  She turned suddenly, and hugged me fiercely. ‘Don’t be daft.’ She cradled my face in her hands. ‘Eithne, sweet, you’re my sister.’ Her eyes were dark limitless pools. ‘You’re the most important person in my life, apart from Mammy.’

  ‘You won’t go away and never come back?’

  ‘I’m only going to be in Dublin. I’ll be down all the time. You’re being silly.’

  ‘But, well, what about Daddy?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you have to hate him so much?’

  ‘I don’t hate him. It’s just . . . Eithne, I really can’t talk about this.’

  ‘It’s not his fault that he isn’t your real Daddy, but he loves you, I know he does.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Her mood changed, and she looked away from me, at the abbey, the hills, the clouds, who knows?

  ‘Be careful, Eithne,’ she said. ‘Daddy has lots of problems.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘About the drink.’

  ‘Just be careful,’ she replied.

  ‘Is that why you won’t stay at home any more? Is it because of Daddy? Has something happened?’

  ‘Nothing happened, Eithne. I have just . . . grown up, and seen our father for what he is, a pathetic drunk. If you can’t see that, you’re a fool. Why should I have to spend time in the company of that man?’

  She charged ahead, and began to climb the hill opposite the abbey, going faster and faster. Eventually I gave up trying to catch her, and sat on a stone by the mausoleum.

  This was where the anchorite’s cell had been. He never left his stone, and survived on food left out for him by the locals.

  That would be the thing. Hide in a stone. I looked at Beatrice. She was a speck now, climbing higher and higher, bearing her stony heart with her. I could hardly carry my conflicting feelings for a father and a sister. They weighed me down so that all I managed was one heavy sob.

  BEATRICE

  The dark village. As they drive past she closes her eyes. It is night, a dark one, but she does not want to see even the house lights from the road. They would remind her of what home once was. They would remind her of Eithne, and of how she wishes to tell her. How did her life all of sudden get to be so serious?

  She thinks of the summer she has just spent and how she felt so free and full of excitement at her approaching independence. Now that’s all spoilt. Her college days have hardly begun and they are ruined. She shrinks back in her seat, and clutches herself. The tears roll down her cheeks but she says nothing. Her heart is depleted while something else grows inside her. It horrifies her to think of it.

  She knows well the laws of nature; her granny had taught her much about folklore, and the good and the evil that lurks in the land about. Her granny had seen a banshee once, the night old Mrs O’Reilly, her neighbour, had died. It made Beatrice’s blood curdle to remember Granny’s description, ‘I heard the banshee’s cry. I was in bed and I got up. I wanted to see her for once. I was curious.’

  ‘What did it sound like, Granny?’

  ‘It’s hard to describe, a scream, not unlike a vixen’s howl, but on the same note, holding it, and going on and on, until it finally faded away.’

  ‘And did you see her, Granny?’

  ‘Oh yes, I did, to be sure. The banshee was outside the back door of the house. Child, she was a fright to see. Oh my Lord, I crossed myself I did, and she leered at me, her face pulled into the most horrific scream, her eyes red as a wild wolf, and her hair, white and lank. But worst of all, she had no body at all. Oh sweet Jesus, I believed then, so I did. I believed in it all after that.’

  ‘But Mammy said that the banshee’s not bad. She said she’s a little old woman who just combs her hair. She says she only
comes when someone good is dying.’

  ‘Well, there’s some that see her like that, and then there’s others who see her like I did.’

  Beatrice knows well how something bad can get inside you. She is sure that is what she is carrying – pure evil. She shivers, pulls down the sun-visor, and peers into its little mirror. She does look different.

  Out of the corner of her eye she can see the village disappearing behind them as they drive down the hill. She can see the pub on the corner; an old lad goes in. That’ll be him, she thought, in a couple of years, that’s what he’ll be, an old piss-head. Well, I shan’t let him get away with it.

  The handball alley is on the other side of the road, for once there are no teenagers hanging about outside. They drive past the small council estate. Everything is quiet in there, two lorries and a tractor sit parked and silent. But there are hardly any lights on in the houses. She can see them all in the field behind the estate, standing around their Hallowe’en bonfire. It was a good one this year, the kids had been collecting stuff for weeks, and now it was piled high and fiercely blazing. Sparks shot up into the dark night, and Beatrice imagined all those people she had grown up with standing around the fire. She was not close to anyone; they were all so different from her. The girls didn’t want to travel, and the boys just wanted to marry you. And, anyway, because the Kellys did not actually live on the estate they were treated a bit differently, which was ridiculous because they were probably worse off than any of them. But that was how it was. They owned their own house and that meant a lot.