Beatrice Page 20

  I met Phil first. Beatrice was still on holiday in Majorca when he arrived. He was every country girl’s fantasy, so suave. Uncle Jack brought him down to the house to meet us the day he arrived. I have never seen Jack so pleased, he was positively beaming. We sat in the front room and Mammy made a special tea, scones, barm brack and, as always, ham sandwiches.

  Phil lived in London with his mother and step-father. We had heard that they were rich. They had a house in a place called Chelsea, which impressed Mammy a lot. She said that they must move in ‘high circles’. Phil, though, regarded himself a radical. He was almost immediately at loggerheads with Daddy over Margaret Thatcher. Phil said she was a fascist, whereas Daddy admired her hard-line politics. Uncle Jack speedily changed the subject.

  ‘Eithne, why don’t you give your cousin a tour of the village?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Phil didn’t look too keen, but he got up and followed me. He was eighteen and absolutely gorgeous to my thirteen-year-old eyes. I was incredibly conscious of a spot on my nose. We walked out of the door, and Phil put these mad, mirror sunglasses on. He still managed to look cool.

  ‘How old are you?’ he said, taking out a packet of cigarettes and lighting up.

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘And your sister, Beatrice?’ He offered me a cigarette.

  Flattered, I shook my head. ‘She’s seventeen, nearly eighteen.’

  ‘When’ll she be back?’

  ‘Saturday. She’s in Majorca.’

  ‘The poet Robert Graves lived there.’

  I nodded my head, knowledgeably. I had never heard of Robert Graves.

  ‘I could have gone to Italy this summer,’ he continued, ‘with my mother and step-father, they’ve a villa near Rome. But I decided to come here instead.’

  I looked at him. His hair was blond and devilishly tousled. I felt weak.

  ‘Why?’ I could not possibly imagine giving up a free trip to the sun.

  ‘Because I wanted to get to know Jack. Anyway, my stepfather bribed me. He’s as sick of me as I am of him. He’s going to buy me a car when I get back. I can’t wait to have wheels.’

  We had circled the village.

  ‘Is this it?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Any pubs?’

  ‘Two.’ I pointed them out.

  ‘Let’s go for a drink.’

  I hesitated.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot you were only thirteen. You look older.’

  I blushed with pleasure.

  ‘We can still go in. I’ll have a lemonade,’ I said.

  ‘Deal,’ he replied. ‘I hope my other cousin is as pretty as you.’

  I glowed, colouring from head to toe.

  *

  Nearly twenty years later and Joni Mitchell sings across the airwaves as the radio blasts from behind the bar.

  I have been waiting in the hotel, with my single whiskey, for well over an hour. I have butterflies. It is still snowing – maybe the bus was cancelled.

  A flurry of people arrive . . . here he comes now. Philip. I would recognize him anywhere. A more rugged, filled-out version of the eighteen-year-old boy strolls into the hotel. The same blue eyes. There is something instantly familiar about them. Of course he does not recognize me. I have changed, I am glad to say, since I was thirteen.

  ‘Phil!’ I wave. He sees me and comes over.

  ‘Eithne?’ he says, questioningly.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say.

  We embrace.

  ‘My God!’ he says. ‘You look so different. It’s been a long time.’

  He carries a camera bag on his shoulder.

  ‘Are you planning to make a film of the funeral?’ I ask.

  ‘No, no. I bring it with me everywhere. Just habit; you know, being a journalist dash film-maker.’

  ‘Poser . . .’ I tease him.

  ‘Let’s have a drink,’ he says.

  ‘I’d better not. I’m driving.’

  ‘Please . . . go on – I can’t face Jack just yet. I haven’t seen him in so long.’

  ‘Too long,’ I say.

  ‘I know . . . I just couldn’t bear to come back, after Beatrice went. We’ve spoken on the phone often, and he’s come over to see me – I’ve been away a lot – but I just couldn’t handle this place after what happened to Beatrice.’

  I look away. It always comes back to that.

  ‘I see her everywhere,’ he whispers.

  ‘So do I.’ My eyes glisten. ‘I have something to tell you about Beatrice.’

  He looks up. ‘What?’

  ‘Get the drinks first. I’ll have a Coke.’

  He goes to the bar. I fiddle with my hands; I look at the clock, and then at Phil’s back. It is so strange seeing him again after all this time. I still think he is gorgeous; my thirteen-year-old taste can’t have been too bad. We have spoken on the phone a couple of times, and emailed now and again, but he was always too busy, Phil said, to come back. He even missed my wedding because he was filming in the Ukraine. In all our correspondence we carefully skirt round the Beatrice issue. It is too much pain for us both.

  Phil comes back with the drinks, and we sit in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘I’m sorry about your father, Eithne,’ he says, eventually.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, he died of the cold, so to speak. He collapsed on the bog, the night before last. He was full of the drink as usual. He got hypothermia and his heart stopped.’

  ‘The demon drink.’

  ‘It killed his dreams.’

  ‘Is he at home?’

  ‘No, he’s in the church. I’ll be glad when this is all over,’ I say shakily.

  He puts his hand over mine, and then he asks softly, ‘What were you going to tell me about Beatrice?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you something.’ I pause. ‘It’s a bit personal . . .’

  ‘You know you can ask me anything. Go on spit it out.’ He smiles.

  ‘Did you and Beatrice . . . well . . . were you an “item”?’

  ‘An “item”? Do you mean were we sleeping together?’

  ‘Yes . . . so?’

  ‘You might remember that Beatrice lived in your house, and I lived with Jack and Bríd.’

  ‘You know what I mean, there were plenty of opportunities.’

  ‘This all seems a bit irrelevant now.’

  ‘Did you?’ I press.

  ‘No . . . well, at least, I don’t think so. We were so high on magic mushrooms that summer I can’t remember much, to be honest.’

  He pauses, taking a sip from his drink.

  ‘We did take our clothes off once, but that wasn’t really sexual, it was more like getting down to nature. Anyway, then we both conked out on the grass. Nothing happened . . . no, nothing at all,’ he adds more firmly.

  ‘Well, you two did spend ninety per cent of the time stoned,’ I say. ‘It’s possible . . .’

  ‘No, I really don’t think so. I remember that was the day we fell out over that artist chappy. If she was sleeping with anyone, it was probably him.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Well, we rowed over him.’

  Jakob Rudin, the father of my sister’s child? But why had Jakob stayed and she had gone? It made no sense.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ Phil asks.

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘Four days ago a girl turned up on my doorstep, called Lisa. She claims she is Beatrice’s daughter.’

  ‘What!’ He nearly knocks over his drink.

  ‘She says she was adopted just after she was born.’

  ‘But I thought Beatrice was dead,’ he says. ‘I mean she has to be dead . . .’He trails off.

  ‘She had her birth certificate with Beatrice’s name, and copies of the adoption papers. Phil, she is Beatrice’s daughter.’

  ‘Beatrice is alive?’ he speaks slowly, in shock.

  ‘It seems so,’ I say
.

  ‘Oh my God!’ He gulps. ‘So you thought I might be the father of this girl?’

  ‘I was hoping . . .’

  ‘She must be Jakob Rudin’s child. He might know where Beatrice is. Did you ask him?’

  ‘He’s dead . . . and I don’t think he is. I think Beatrice would have told him she was pregnant, and I don’t think he would have rejected her . . . Anyway, if Beatrice was having Jakob Rudin’s child, why did she run away? There was no need to go. He would have looked after her and we would never have shunned her.’

  ‘It does seem strange. Beatrice was never one to mind what other people thought. But how will we ever know now that Jakob is dead? Was there anything about the father on this girl’s birth certificate?’

  ‘No . . . there was nothing under the father’s name or address.’

  ‘I can’t believe that Beatrice could be alive.’ Phil grips my hand. ‘Eithne, we have to find her.’

  ‘Did Beatrice ever tell you that Daddy wasn’t her real father?’

  ‘Yes, I always knew.’

  ‘I thought she might have gone there – to her real father’s house in London – so I rang yesterday morning but there was no one in. And now . . . I don’t know what to do – I don’t know whether we should just leave it all.’

  ‘What do you mean? Eithne, your sister could be alive, why on earth do you want to leave it now?’

  ‘There’s something else,’ I say. ‘All this has something to do with Daddy. I think he knew something, which he has been keeping from us all these years.’

  I tell Phil about Daddy attacking Lisa the night he died.

  ‘I know I never saw eye to eye with your father, but he had his principles. I don’t think he would have done what you think he might,’ Phil says carefully.

  ‘I don’t know what to think any more.’ I begin shaking, and take a slug of his whiskey. ‘I’m scared, Phil,’ I whisper. ‘All I know is that sometimes the drink made Daddy lose sight of himself. It took him over, and he became someone dark, not nice.’

  ‘No, Eithne,’ says Phil. ‘You mustn’t believe that.’

  I tremble, smearing tears with the back of my hand. We sit quietly. Phil hands me a tissue. I try to claw back from the edge.

  ‘Eithne,’ he whispers. ‘If Beatrice is alive then maybe she will turn up tomorrow morning.’

  I gasp. ‘Oh, Phil. I hadn’t even thought of that.’

  BEATRICE

  Dear Jakob

  I did it. I’m here in London. Thanks for helping me. You’re the only person I can trust, Jakob.

  I wish you were here. I know you said you didn’t want to come, and you’re scared. But so am I. Couldn’t we go somewhere together, until this whole thing is over? We could be like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. We could go and live in Mexico, and you could be the famous artist, and I could paint as well. And we would have lots of Bohemian artist friends, and just be free. Please come, Jakob, please . . . please . . .

  Every night I have really weird dreams. They’re not nightmares. Just strange dreams about funny-looking birds – and creatures that look as though they’ve come straight out of a Bosch painting. I suppose it makes sense – doesn’t it? I mean there’s someone else inside me – so there’s two brains ticking away. It’s bound to make my head go funny.

  I want him to think I’m dead. I want him to think he made me die. He deserves to think it’s all his fault. I will tell Mammy and Eithne soon. But not yet . . . You see he has to tell them why first. I want him to have to confess.

  God, Jakob. Have you ever hated someone this much? When I think about him and what he did to me, I just feel sick. I mean I feel sick all the time anyway – but when I realized I was pregnant . . . You see, up till then I had tried to forget all about it; pretend it didn’t really happen – I mean, I don’t remember it happening so it was easy to forget. But then – when I didn’t get my period, and I was in college, in the loos, throwing up . . . Oh, Jesus, Jakob, it all came back – and I knew – and I kept thinking, he’s put some kind of monster inside me. And it’s making me go mad.

  I’ll never forget the day I found out – I got one of those kits and did it in the bathroom in my digs. Jesus, when it went blue, do you know what I did? I just charged out of the flat, and went straight into a shop, and bought a huge bottle of gin. Then I went home, and ran a boiling-hot bath – I scalded myself getting in – and I drank that whole bottle of gin. And I waited, and nothing happened – I just threw up again. Whatever he’s put inside me has stuck fast.

  That’s why I’m here. I’m going to do it, Jakob. I’m going to get rid of this thing in me. It has to be bad.

  This is my address for now. I’m in a hostel just round the corner from where my real father lives. I’m going to go and see him tomorrow. He won’t turn his back on me, not his own flesh and blood.

  Take care, Jakob, and write to me soon or come. Please come. Let me know what’s happening at home, and when he tells them why I’ve gone.

  Love B

  EITHNE

  We walk the fields, which are laced with ice, in total silence. I look at Phil and he seems so out of context. This man I remember as a boy reaching adulthood, like a son of the summer sun, shining, golden and warm, appears now as ethereal as a ghost. The night chill casts a blue shadow across him. His hair is white in the moonlight, and he moves with precision like an Arabian stallion. Phil takes my hand. There is warmth still in his fingertips.

  It has been a long evening. Mass first in the church, followed by refreshments at our house, with the family commemorating my father through alcohol. Strangely fitting. I am as drunk as the rest of them. Tommy O’Reilly is singing, Mammy retreats to bed, while Jack cries at last.

  Phil and I escape. We run out of the house like two wild children – whooping and shrieking. Then we take each field at a time, sprinting like nocturnal animals, stiff blades of grass crunching beneath our feet. We stop. Without a word, Phil turns to face me. The moon slips behind a cloud, and then slowly emerges again. The landscape is thrown into high relief. Our cheeks glow silver. He strokes my face, and his eyes entreat me.

  Where is Leo? He should be here now, comforting me. He is my husband.

  There is an empty cottage on the ridge of the field. Phil leads me towards it. He kicks open the door. The grate is filled with an ancient bird’s nest and twigs and leaves. Phil lights the humble kindling. We squat side by side. Smoke starts to billow out into the room.

  ‘The chimney must be blocked,’ he says.

  I start to cry, hot rushed tears. It is all too much for me.

  ‘Eithne . . . Eithne . . .’ he whispers.

  Phil begins to kiss me. It is like drinking a case of wine.

  ‘No,’ I say, pulling back. ‘No, Phil, we mustn’t.’

  Phil takes my hand, and holds it against his heart.

  ‘You’re right, Eithne,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘It’s okay.’ I gulp back my tears.

  ‘I really loved her,’ Phil says, beginning to shake. ‘Oh God! Why did I have to be so proud?’

  He cries, and I hold him, crying too. We cling to each other, and wallow in our grief, new and old. Our sorrow soars high above us, like a shooting star. It burns a hole in the seamless frozen night. Snow begins to fall through the ragged cottage roof. It pads around us, keeps safe our secret wake.

  BEATRICE

  Dear Jakob

  Did you get my letter? I know I only sent it yesterday, but if you get this one and have not replied yet, please write to me. Has Daddy told them what happened yet? I suppose there’s no way you’ll know that. They’ll probably call off the search. I wonder if he’ll get sent to prison. Eithne will hate me.

  You told me to tell the Gardaí when I found out. But, Jakob, you should know by now that no one would believe me. They’d have sent down the priest and he would have given me a big talk. Then they wouldn’t have let me out of their sight so I wouldn’t have been able to come here and get an abortion. No,
Daddy has to tell them. He’ll have to.

  The woman who runs this hostel is Greek. She’s pregnant as well. Jakob, she looks so huge. Her name’s Alexa. She gave me dinner last night and didn’t ask me to pay for it. It was delicious. I hadn’t eaten all day and I was starving.

  Today I wandered around London. It’s so big. I went to the National Gallery like you told me. It was brilliant – I had no idea Van Eyck’s Arnolfini Marriage was so small. I saw so many paintings, it was exhausting but I was inspired as well. I can’t wait to get back to painting again, after all this.

  I was thinking of going to Cambridge to see Phil. But I’m still cross with him, and then how could I explain this? He might tell Uncle Jack where I am. I can’t face anyone, not just yet.

  I know what you’re thinking. No, I haven’t been to see my father yet.

  I can’t decide what to wear. I don’t want to look shabby. I walked past the house in Hampstead yesterday. It’s so posh around there. I have to look good, Jakob. I want him to like me. I don’t want it to be just about money, I want him to want to know me.

  Please write soon, Jakob. I feel so alone. I wish I was sitting in your garden, drawing, and drinking your special lapsang souchong tea.

  Love B

  EITHNE

  Leo and Mick arrive an hour before the funeral.

  The weather has turned mild, and the landscape is sluiced with moisture. They are sitting drinking tea with my mother in the kitchen as I come in through the back door, my face speckled with rain.

  ‘Eithne.’ Leo rises, comes over and embraces me.

  ‘I’m all wet,’ I say.

  ‘I’m so sorry, love,’ he says. I move away from him. I feel strange.

  ‘I’m sorry about your father,’ says Mick. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Do you want some tea?’ Mammy asks me.

  ‘Yes, please, Mam.’

  She gets a mug and pours another cup.

  ‘How’s Shauna?’ I ask Leo.

  ‘She’s fine now. It was just a twenty-four-hour bug. She sends her love; so does my mother.’