Beatrice Page 22
‘Come on back to the house,’ she says. ‘I’m making tea.’
‘In a minute.’
I watch her as she heads back up the lane, and then I am on my own again. I get up, and circle the graveyard. Although it is still daylight, there is frost on the tips of the blades of grass. I smell woodsmoke, and another night approaching.
I go over to the darkest corner of the graveyard, as a vague memory stirs. Pulling aside some creepers, I see an oval marble slab, slanting out of the ground. I move towards it. The grave belongs to a young woman who died when she was only twenty-seven. Beatrice and I used to spend time at this grave, thinking how awful that was, to die so young. As I bend down to read the inscription again, I notice something buried under a pile of moss, a tiny corner of red velvet.
My heart beats faster. I recognize the fabric. Surely not?
I pull away the moss and then a heavy stone, underneath is a cellophane bag, inside is a small, embroidered purse. Air has got into the bag so that most of the purse is rotten, but a corner of red velvet remains intact.
There is no doubt – it is a purse I gave to Beatrice. I made it out of a piece of velvet Mammy cut up from an old dress. I had just learnt how to cross-stitch and I had enthusiastically decorated the tiny thing. It had been my going-away present to my sister.
It hurt me to think that she had expelled this too – like all the other things. Did she leave them as a code for me to decipher, or was it just a process of forgetting all about us?
I think back to the last letter I read. She had said she was coming home, but she never did. The only two people who could help me solve the mystery were dead now: my father and the Artist.
I look at the rotten purse, and then, surprising myself, I don’t pick it up. I leave it there. Let the birds pick at it, the slugs rot it, what can it do for me now? My survival instinct is strong. I know that if I want my life back, I will have to relinquish the past.
As I pass the fire of letters, it is all ashes now. Soon the wind will blow them away. I wish it could do the same to what I now know.
SARAH
Five days after her husband died, Sarah changed the sheets.
She missed him.
Although she had never loved Joseph, now he was gone she felt even more lonely than before. More than anything else, she felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Maybe she had pushed him towards his death? When she could think about Joseph, just as a man, not as her husband, she felt incredibly sad and even sorry for him, despite what he had done to her in the past.
All these years, since the day Eithne was conceived, she had never let him touch her, and he had respected that, although they had always shared a bed. Sarah missed his presence next to her; his child-like slumber, when she could watch his oblivion and regret the day they had ever met. When he was drinking he would sleep downstairs on the sofa, but if it was a good week, if he managed to stay away from the pub, he would sleep upstairs. He liked to prop himself up with two pillows, and read the daily paper. As his black curls greyed, he began to wear reading glasses. He would scan the arts pages, looking for a mention of Eithne in some exhibition or other. Although he could not really understand her work, he was incredibly proud of her. And he had taught Sarah something, to look at her second daughter in a different light, to appreciate her talent.
For four nights after Joe died, Sarah slept on his side of the bed. She could smell him in the bed still. She hoped that by lying there, maybe some answers would come to her. What was it Joseph had not told her about Beatrice?
On the fifth day she rose, and stripped the bed. She washed the sheets, by hand, in the bath. She wrung them out until her knuckles were red and her nose ran. Then she went outside to hang them. It was windy still. She pegged the sheets up, and they fluttered like a row of angels. It was crazy really, they would never dry out here. It had already begun to rain. But she needed them aired so that when she ironed them their scent would be crisp and new.
Sarah stood by the back door, holding her empty laundry basket, and staring into space. The sheets flapped loudly in front of her, they obscured her view of the garden, and the road beyond. But she sensed someone.
As the sheets lifted with the rhythm of the wind, she saw a figure walking up the road towards the house that was all hers now. She could not make out who it was but she felt an air of expectancy encompass her. A particularly strong gust of wind lifted the corner of one sheet, and twisted it around the line. Now she had a perfect view.
The figure had reached her garden gate. It was a man, not much older than herself. He was dark. He looked at her. Sarah dropped her basket and her mouth fell open. She had longed for this moment for over thirty years.
There he stood on her front lawn, the line of laundry between them. The sheets slapped and clapped in the wind as Anthony Voyle walked towards her. She raised her hands to her mouth. Speechless.
BEATRICE
In Eithne’s wood she walks like a queen. Her feet bounce up and down, cushioned by a carpet of old moss and discoloured needles. She begins to run again, weaving in and out of the trees. She hears the birds, but there is silence behind the sound, like a veil ready to lift on the day. Cobwebs catch on her cheeks, and stray pine needles spin on single threads around her. The trees are tight, already bare and spiky, ready to tear her skin. In this part of the wood they are so close together. She can see shadows. She senses that she is not alone.
The land lifts, and she climbs over a rabbit warren, careful not to lose her footing. Pushing her way through the tangled undergrowth and vines, which hang like wispy grey hair, she comes out at a clearing. She stands at the foot of the big lime tree, surveying its majesty. Eithne always called it the Grandpa Tree, Beatrice called it the Ancient Tree. They always made wishes here. Sometimes they came true.
She goes up to it now and touches it. There is barbed wire behind it and a fairy-tale view of rolling green hills, with the cairns perched on the top and evergreen woods at their base. She doesn’t know what to ask for, she just wants some peace. She wants a rest from all the shadows following her, night and day, when she is awake and asleep.
In the clearing the wind picks up and leaves start to whirl around her. It sounds like it’s raining, a big downpour, but it is just the lime tree, creaking, swaying and dropping his leaves. It is just the sound of release.
PHIL
Phil left the day after the funeral. He still found it hard to be in that place. When he looked at the landscape of Ireland, he was immediately locked into his eighteen-year-old heart. Beatrice was the first girl he had ever loved, and he had found it impossible to forget her, even maybe to forgive her.
When he first heard she was missing he had been angry with her. It was just typical of Beatrice, and he had expected her to turn up on his doorstep at his digs in Cambridge any day. But she never came. And then he began to believe what everyone else was saying – that she had been murdered.
But they had had a pact that if either of them were on the other side, they would contact the other – show them somehow that they were dead. He had never seen a sign, and so Beatrice’s disappearance confirmed his atheism: from now on he would only believe in what he saw right before him.
Phil was dedicated to his career. He approached his work as a documentary film-maker with the same commitment as a military man. He wasn’t afraid . . . because someone had to go out there and show the world what was going on. What frightened him was not what he saw in the war zones, not the devastation or the human suffering, what frightened him was being back at home, and every man’s indifference.
He had hoped that Beatrice would show up at his uncle’s funeral – but even as he had said those words to Eithne he had doubted them. She had been absent for too long. Wherever she was she was never going back to Ireland.
However, his documentary mind told him there was a chink of hope, a possible breakthrough – the Voyles. For Eithne’s sake, Phil decided to pay them a visit. If he found nothing out, then he would never hav
e to tell Eithne. He knew she was too afraid now to take it any further. She had loved her father. So he would do it for her, because he had loved her sister.
Phil lived in Kilburn. It only took him ten minutes to drive up the Finchley Road and head into Hampstead. The address had been easy to find – they were in the phone book. All along, right under his nose.
There was the house. A huge mansion: two marble columns gleamed in the winter sunlight, and the garden was exquisitely manicured. These people had money. Phil parked his old Volvo estate, which looked even shabbier here. He took a deep breath, walked up to the door, and knocked. It opened almost immediately, as if someone had been waiting for him.
‘Jonathan Voyle?’ he asked.
He was looking at a dark grey-haired man who must have been in his late fifties, yet he had the physique of a younger man; tall and erect. He reminded Phil of some of the older army men he had come across. It was his face and hair which gave his age away. He was completely grey, and his skin was etched with deep worry lines.
‘No,’ said the man. ‘Who are you?’
‘Pardon me, my name is Philip Kelly.’ His voice wavered, he was nervous.
‘Well, what do you want?’ the man asked abruptly.
‘I’m looking for Jonathan Voyle,’ Phil repeated.
‘I’m afraid he died five years ago,’ he said. ‘I’m his brother.’
Phil could have walked away, but instinct stopped him. He came straight to the point.
‘Can you tell me . . . do you know where Beatrice Kelly lives?’ he asked. ‘I’m her cousin.’
Anthony Voyle stared at the younger man.
‘Beatrice Kelly?’ he said. ‘Sarah Kelly’s daughter? Do you know Sarah?’
‘Of course, I’m her nephew,’ he said.
The older man seemed lost for words. What colour was in his cheeks quickly faded.
‘Come in, then,’ he said finally, each word followed by a choked rasp. Phil followed him into a huge sitting room, with a big fire.
‘Sit down, please.’
Phil sat on one of the sofas.
Anthony remained standing. He said nothing for a couple of minutes, then went over to one of the bay windows, leant against the shutters and looked at the bare trees. The clock ticked. Phil coughed.
‘How is Sarah?’ Anthony asked, his voice barely rising above a whisper.
‘Not great,’ Phil replied. ‘Her husband just died.’
‘Oh.’ Anthony turned; he looked shocked.
Phil began to wonder whether this had been such a good idea. He had been expecting Jonathan, and now he wasn’t sure how much his brother knew. Anthony stood staring at him. Phil began to shift his feet. Maybe he should go? Then as if reading his thoughts, Anthony came out of his trance.
‘So how can I help you?’ he asked stiffly, pulling himself up to his full height.
‘We lost Beatrice, Sarah’s daughter,’ Phil blurted out, ‘years ago now – eighteen years ago to be precise. I discovered that your brother was her real father. I thought maybe she might have come here, that maybe your family might know where she went . . .’
‘I see,’ Anthony said nodding. He was very odd. He didn’t seem surprised at all, and was less shocked than when Phil had mentioned Sarah. He didn’t deny the fact that Jonathan was Beatrice’s father either.
‘But I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve already told you my brother died – of cancer – a few years ago.’
He began walking around the room. Round and round. Phil got up.
‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ he said. ‘It was just a long shot.’
Anthony didn’t reply, instead he kept circling the room. Phil stood hesitant, unsure what to do.
‘She did come here once,’ he said eventually. ‘But Jonathan just gave her money and sent her away.’
‘Why didn’t you contact her parents? Surely you must have realized something was wrong?’ Phil said accusingly.
‘He didn’t tell me about Beatrice’s visit until he was on his deathbed. If I had known at the time I would, of course, have found her and helped her. I would have brought her home . . . to Sarah. But by then it was too late.’
‘Didn’t you ever see her again?’
‘No, not once. I think Jonathan did come to regret his actions, especially after Vicky died.’
He stopped walking and stared out of the window again.
‘Who was Vicky?’ Phil asked.
‘His daughter . . . my niece. She was killed in a car crash when she was only nineteen.’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ Phil plunged on, ‘but, please Mr Voyle, think again – did your brother ever mention Beatrice again?’
He said nothing for a while. Then he said, sadly, ‘No, I’m sorry.’ He sighed. ‘There’s been a lot of tragedy in this house. The last day I saw Sarah was the day before my mother died. She fell down the stairs in the middle of the night. She was going to get a glass of water. What a stupid way to go.’
Again silence. Finally, he walked over to a table, and opened a drawer.
‘I suppose you should have this,’ he said, taking out a small brown purse. He handed it to Phil.
The purse was very ugly. It was made of brown plastic, and, although it was old-fashioned, it looked as though it had hardly been used.
‘It belonged to Beatrice,’ said Anthony.
Phil opened it. Inside there was money. They were old notes – some green one-pound notes, and a few of the large five-pound and ten-pound notes . . . there was about sixty pounds in the purse in all.
‘Jonathan gave this to me on the day he died. He told me to mind it until, one day, Beatrice might return,’ he explained. ‘I don’t think she ever will.’
‘But the money?’
‘My brother had given her money,’ he said. ‘To have an abortion.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘The day after he gave it to her, he found this pushed through the door. There was a note with it. It’s inside.’
There was a small piece of paper twisted inside the notes. Phil pulled it out.
I don’t want your money, or your love.
He looked at Anthony. The older man shook his head.
‘I’d better go,’ Phil said, a lump inside his throat.
‘You must give me your aunt’s address in Ireland.’
‘Sure.’
Anthony coughed and shuffled his feet.
‘Maybe I should wait until she gets over her husband’s death, before getting in touch with her.’
‘It wasn’t a match made in heaven,’ Phil told him. ‘She could do with a friend.’
‘Really?’ Anthony replied, his expression lifting.
Phil could see that Anthony had something in his pocket. He kept touching it. He took it out, and twisted it round his fingers. It was a gold chain, with a locket.
‘What’s that?’ Phil asked.
But the older man said nothing. Looking embarrassed, he thrust the locket back in his pocket and showed Phil the way out.
Phil walked back to his car, gripping the brown plastic purse. There was no point telling Eithne about it, there was no point telling anyone.
‘Where are you, Beatrice?’ he whispered, and looked up at the sky. It had gone completely white. All of sudden his face was struck by small sharp stones of ice and the heavens opened. He ran to the car and sat inside while giant hail slammed on his roof. He sat in his car, angry. Why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t you come to Cambridge?
When the storm stopped everything melted, except for one large hailstone lodged in his wipers. It was there all the way home. He took it as a sign.
EITHNE
All Souls’ Week, 1981. We went to the graveyard every day and prayed for the dead people; all those held hostage in purgatory. We were doing our duty, Mammy, Daddy and I, sending out our plenary indulgences, messages to the unknowable. It was the only time Mammy would leave the house. She clung on to her shaky faith, because that’s all she had.
Years later I made an etching called ‘All Souls’ Day’. It is the only picture I’ve made with the three of us in it. I used the small Protestant graveyard as the setting for the composition. The dense green yew trees create a striking contrast with the cool grey hues of the gravestones. We are heavily etched, outlined in black, and bowed down with sorrow. What is nice about the picture is that Mammy and Daddy stand either side of me. At least we are united.
It takes me a long time to forgive Leo, but I do.
We head west for a while after the funeral. Leo’s sister Marta has a house in Connemara, which she lets to us for a month. He takes leave from college, and tells Clara he can’t take Shauna for a while. He is going to incredible lengths though, at first, I just don’t see it. My pain makes him a shadow, and I feed off the landscape for solace. Now I know why Mammy sat at the back door for so many years.
The wet moorlands of Connemara suit my mood with their grey skies and soft relentless rain; the rich and staggeringly brilliant browns of the bogs are a comfort to me. The space is wide and I need this.
I let Leo walk with me. Every day we go down to the sea’s edge. At first we say little to each other. Our relationship is struggling on shifting sands, one wrong word could sink it.
Then, hesitantly, Leo begins to talk. About little things at first – a shell, the waves, a seagull singing above, a stray wildflower in the sand. We pay attention to the small things. We use them to nourish our relationship.
One day Leo takes my hand and I don’t pull away. Then I begin to draw. I take photographs of the sea, film after film. And then I cannot stop painting. I try to use other colours but in the end all I see is blue, blue, blue. I end up with an eternal blue abyss. There is no structure to the work, just vigorous brush strokes, and what Leo calls ‘an abandoned energy’. It is different from anything I have ever made.