Beatrice Read online

  I let go.

  And then, one day, all of a sudden, it is spring. We shed our heavy coats and go for a hike by the sea. The sun is strong and golden, and everything around us is budding. This day is fresh and new.

  We have brought food and it is warm enough to sit on the sand and picnic. Leo has even brought a bottle of wine. He pops it open and fills two beakers.

  ‘Eithne,’ he says after a while, ‘I have to go back.’

  He is missing Shauna.

  He looks at me, with his Slavic eyes, and his clear, pearly skin.

  ‘Will you come with me?’ he asks.

  I look out at the Atlantic. What he has done has not been wrong, but can I ever trust him again?

  ‘Do you understand why I did it?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I chew my salty lips. ‘Yes, I know you thought it was the right thing to do. It’s okay,’ I say. ‘It’s all over now. We can go on.’

  We huddle together on the dunes. Then he turns and kisses me. I half close my eyes, his yellow hair is streaked against the blue sky. I kiss him back for the first time in months.

  Relief, emotion, love floods us. We lie back on the sand, and let it sink around us. It is sticky and damp. We cling to each other like two lost children.

  It is different from before. Maybe then I made love blind. Now my eyes are open and I look at the face of the man who decided to become involved in my suffering. It no longer matters whether he was right or wrong. Wordless, we look at each other as our bodies fuse and we conceive our first child.

  JOSEPH

  No one had thought to look in what Beatrice and Eithne had called the secret garden. Of course Joe knew about it. He had heard them at night in their bedroom, whispering about the hidden door at the back of the shed, and their wild sanctuary behind. He had smiled to himself at the time, pleased that the children had found somewhere of their own. He had never violated their privacy. Not until today.

  Beatrice had been missing for two weeks. By now all her things had been found, and the Gardaí were on an extensive hunt for any further clues. Sarah was beside herself. Eithne was pale and quiet. Everyone assumed Beatrice had been killed.

  But, guiltily, he thought there might be other reasons why she was gone. She had always overreacted. What had happened had been an accident, but she seemed to have totally gone off the deep end: moving into that foreign artist’s house – if anyone knew where she was Jakob did – and refusing to speak to him. Joe had not told anyone about that night, and he wasn’t going to now. She’d come back.

  He had to force the door open because he couldn’t find where the girls had put the key. Joe was shocked at how overgrown the little garden was: you couldn’t see daylight. He went back into the shed and got a torch, then he returned to the garden and began to look.

  It didn’t take long to find the box. Beatrice had left it in an obvious spot so that Eithne would see it. He prised it open. There was a letter inside.

  Dear Eithne

  I’ve wanted to tell you so much but I just couldn’t say it to your face. I have to warn you, though, and I know you’ll come here and find this – don’t trust Daddy. I know you love him but he did a terrible thing to me, Eithne, and I’m worried for you.

  Do you remember the night that you and Mammy went to see Aunty Aoife last summer, some time after that rock concert? Well, that night Daddy came home very drunk, we argued and he knocked me out. Eithne, he did an awful thing. I can’t even say it. But now I’m pregnant. I can’t tell anyone because I’m going to England to have an abortion.

  Then I’ll come back.

  Please don’t show anyone this letter. Tell Mammy that you know I’ll be back soon. Hopefully, Daddy will tell you why I had to go, because I suppose the Gardaí will be looking for me, and everything.

  I love you loads and loads, and I’ll see you soon.

  Love Beatrice

  Joe began to shake. What was she saying? He didn’t do it. He hadn’t touched her in that way. How could she accuse him of such a thing? The little witch was trying to turn Eithne against him. He wanted to rip the letter into shreds, but for some reason he didn’t. Instead he took out a pencil end from his trouser pocket, and scrawled at the bottom of the letter.

  I, Joseph Padraig Kelly, swear that I never harmed one hair on the head of my daughter, Beatrice Kelly. She is a liar, no true Kelly.

  I know who the father is. I saw with my own eyes that sinner of a daughter, God forgive her, corrupting my brother’s son. I’ve not said one word out of respect for my brother, and for the shame I feel on behalf of my daughter.

  No doubt she’ll come back soon enough, tail between her legs. But we’d all be better off without her.

  14 November 1981

  Then he put the letter back in the box, and dug a deep hole underneath a bed of ivy. He buried the box there. He was sure it would never be found.

  EITHNE

  Thirty pieces hang against the stark white walls of the Wright Gallery. The press release describes the divergence in style of the work and their range in colour and tone. It proclaims the exhibition as an ambitious first solo show, and the artist as an emerging new talent.

  I don’t want success, that’s not what I’m after. I just want to be able to practise my craft and improve. I just want my pictures to mean something to someone.

  The exhibition is split into two halves – my etchings comprise the first half called ‘Underearth’ and are explorations of the land around home, some with reference to Beatrice’s missing objects. The second half of the show, ‘Underwater’, are the paintings I made when I was in Connemara. It is this part of the show which particularly pleases Eliza Wright.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting any paintings, Eithne,’ she says. ‘I love them. They’re super. They remind me of some of Camille Souter’s work. Excellent. And good sales, I see.’

  The show has nearly sold out and it is still only opening night. Shauna is flying around the place, overexcited and thrilled by all the attention from her parents’ friends. Clara comes over to me.

  ‘Well done,’ she says. ‘I love your new work, Eithne.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply.

  ‘I’m so glad you guys worked things out.’ She squeezes my hand and moves away. I could be offended or annoyed that Leo confided in her, but none of that stuff matters any more.

  ‘I’m so proud of you,’ Mammy says, coming up from behind. She looks wonderful, literally ten years younger; an exquisite duck-egg-blue shawl is around her shoulders. ‘We bought number seventeen and number twenty-two.’

  ‘Mammy, I would have given them to you,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, let him.’ She giggles. ‘He can afford it. Especially now I’ve sold the house. You will go down and sort everything out, won’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, Mammy, I’ll even gut the secret garden.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘It’s a place myself and Beatrice used to hang out.’

  ‘God knows what you’ll find in there, but you keep it all, Eithne; I don’t want to go back, ever.’

  I look over at Anthony Voyle, who is talking to Sasha, who looks cool in a knitted pink outfit full of holes. Anthony is taller than Daddy, but I am struck by how similar they look – dark grey hair, striking eyes, what I would call beautiful.

  ‘Where’s Jack?’ Mammy asks. ‘I’ll get him to buy one as well.’

  ‘He’s over with Phil. But, Mammy, please don’t bully him. I don’t want anyone to buy anything unless they actually like it.’

  ‘Of course he likes them, it’s just a matter of deciding which one he likes best.’

  She goes over to Jack and Phil, while Leo comes towards me.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ he says, putting his arm around my thickening waist.

  ‘I feel like a dumpling,’ I say.

  ‘Rubbish, you’re blooming,’ he says, pleased as punch. It has been a good week for us. His public art commission is well under way, the latest scan at the hospital went well, and now my opening is packe
d and selling out.

  ‘Nearly time for speeches,’ he says.

  ‘Get me another Ballygowan, will you? My throat has all dried up.’

  But before he has a chance, Eliza Wright takes the floor.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I would like to welcome you to “Underearth: Underwater”, a breathtaking exhibition of work by an emerging artist, Eithne Kelly, who it seems is equally talented as a print-maker and a painter.’

  She speaks for a few minutes, and as she is talking the door of the gallery opens and I see Lisa come in with a tall, good-looking guy who must be Steve.

  I am really surprised to see them. Lisa and I have been emailing each other regularly, and I had told her about the opening, but I had never expected her to come all this way. I am pleased. Particularly as she is pregnant as well and, although she is two months behind me, she is already bigger than I am. I can see a big flashy engagement ring on her finger, and I smile to myself. It seems that some of her dreams are coming true. She is very pretty in her own way, but I still can’t get over how different she looks from Beatrice. And when I think about it, she doesn’t look a bit like Daddy either.

  A big gang of relatives has congregated in one corner of the gallery, and as Eliza introduces me and I go forward to make a speech I notice Phil out of the corner of my eye. He is standing right next to Lisa.

  All of a sudden I see it. It is as plain as day. They have exactly the same keen blue eyes, the same shape of the brow, and the same rounded chin, the full lips and the turned-up nose. It is unmistakable. I am looking at a father and his child.

  A wave of relief almost knocks me over. ‘Thank you, Daddy,’ I whisper as I take the podium.

  BEATRICE

  Being in water always made her feel better. She remembered when she was a little girl, playing with Eithne and her cousins in the stream at Granny’s house. It was a beautiful clear brook. Beside it was a well of sweet spring water, which the family used. There was no comparison to the metallic-tasting water which came out of a tap.

  A tiny stone bridge crossed the stream and this led the way to the house. Beatrice liked to think that the stream was their moat, and if needs be, they could pull the bridge up, and keep everyone outside the family away.

  The children played on the far side of the bridge. They’d scramble down the brambly bank and start gathering stones. Beatrice was always the fastest, even though she had to help Eithne, who was still in nappies. Her baby sister didn’t like the water much, she was happy to sit on the bank and play with the reeds. Beatrice and her younger cousins ran like mad things, collecting stones, as large as they could find, and building a dam as far from the bridge as they could manage. Then they’d sit back and watch the water rise. Eventually they could wait no longer and, flinging off their clothes, they’d jump into the soft bog water, splashing and screaming with sheer delight.

  Beatrice had never forgotten how this thrilled her.

  She loved to submerge herself completely. And with her eyes open she would let herself sink to the bottom. Slowly, slowly, blue sky became brown water. All you could see were muddy clouds kicked up by the children. She longed to go to the sea, where she knew she’d be able actually to see what was there – sea horses and starfish and such like.

  Sometimes when she did this – sinking to the bottom like a dead thing – she frightened her cousins. They’d plead with her to stop, and Eithne would start to cry. Beatrice loved to tease them. They were such babies.

  But the stream was a dangerous place. If one of the children couldn’t be found it was always the first place the women looked. And they were constantly warned never to go on their own, never to go too far down where the stream-bed turned to thick, boggy quicksand, and you could get stuck and pulled down.

  Nevertheless, it was impossible to keep the children away from the water. In the summer, they lived in the stream and built whole cities on its surface. Piling stone upon stone they created a fantasy world of citadels, and castles decorated with wild flowers. They populated the city with reed folk, who travelled in reed boats. They even filled the boats with tiny wild strawberries, which they imagined their people eating. They built them twig houses, in their water-city, and pathways of stone across the stream, with tiny little bridges made of shiny, bright pebbles.

  Each day, if the weather stayed fine, the children worked away extending their fairy city into a magic land. If it was a rare week of hot sunshine, then Aunt Aoife would let her brood stay in Glenamona. The children were so dedicated to their mission that they went to bed when they were told and rose early, racing down to the stream as soon as they had finished their breakfasts. At night, they chatted and wriggled in their beds, and on mattresses on the floor, telling stories about their fairyland. After the others had fallen asleep, Beatrice would listen hard, sitting up by the window, and staring out into the completely black night. She could hear tiny voices, tinkling in the distance, she was sure she could see miniature lights bobbing above the stream. She longed to be tiny as well, then she could sail down the stream in one of the reed boats.

  But such a good thing could never last for ever, and when the weather broke there would be tears. Just one strong gust of wind could wipe out their world. It was a miracle it had survived for seven whole days. It was so fragile.

  BEATRICE

  NOËLLE HARRISON was born in London in 1967. She studied at the University of London, and moved to Ireland in 1991. She has written and produced three stage plays, Northern Landscapes, Black Virgin and Runaway Wife, and one short film Blue Void. She has won awards for her short stories, and has written extensively on visual art in Ireland, contributing to various journals and artists’ catalogues. She lectures part-time in the history of art. Beatrice is her first novel.

  Noëlle Harrison lives in Oldcastle, County Meath, with her young son.

  Praise for Beatrice

  ‘This is a haunting story of a family full of love, sadness and secrets, with beautifully-drawn characters, a lyrical style and scenery so clear you could almost touch it’

  Choice Magazine

  ‘. . . A promising and enjoyable first novel’

  Irish Independent

  ‘I enjoyed every minute of this novel. My advice is: wait for a rainy day, take the phone off the hook, and dive in’

  Dublin Evening Herald

  FOR CLAIRE, COREY AND BARRY

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am grateful for the creative guidance and editing of my writing angel Kate Bootle, and the passion of my agent Marianne Gunn O’Connor, as well as the genius editorial input of Alison Walsh at Tivoli and Imogen Taylor at Macmillan. My precious band of readers was Donna Ansley, Alice Barry, Anakana Schofield, Anne Duggan and Mary McGreal, who gave me valuable critique and friendship. I would also like to thank Dermot Bolger for his insightful critique.

  I have been inspired by the wisdom of my late Uncle Amancio, the ethereal etchings of Cora Cummins as a source for Eithne’s work, the vibrant art of Noreen Walshe, in particular the painting In Anima Vitae – The Aran Kiss which features in the book, and the evocative photograph ‘Frozen Reeds in Mist’ by Steve Neale, which was the visual catalyst for the passage on Lough Bán.

  Thank you to old friends from England – Jo Southall, Dom Rotheroe, Ajith Hettiaratchy, Synnóve Bakke, Manoushka Gold and Niki Winterson – who pushed me towards the path of writing, and to those in Ireland – Eileen Blishen, Bernie McGrath, Therese Dalton, Jenny Brady, Emer Marron, Debbie Hutchinson, Carol O’Connor, Sarah Beardmore and Anne Hill – who helped me remain steadfast. I am also indebted to Maura Carty and her daughters Rosie and Mags, who helped me so much with stories of life in North County Meath, and by looking after my son while I wrote.

  Most of all I thank my family for their unerring support: my mother Claire, my brother Fintan, my son Corey, my step-daughter, Helena, my old faithful Chloë and, finally, Barry, who brought me to North Meath and the beginning of it all.

  EPILOGUE

  Midsummer
’s day. Dawn. She woke to the angry lap of water, and the motion of a rough sea which had dominated her sleep. She felt dizzy and sick. She stumbled out of the hold and onto the deck. She hung over the side and vomited.

  It hadn’t all been like this. There had been beautiful days, when she had lain in the sun, on the roof of the boat, and soaked up its rays. On those days, she had felt as though she was healing from all the hurt and sadness she had endured over the past year. She had felt positive, and was glad she had followed Alexa’s advice and taken this crewing job. It was a good way to get over things.

  Here, in the middle of the deep blue sea there was nothing to focus on, just the vast expanse of water and the vast expanse of sky. It helped to get things into perspective.

  But now they were near land. In fact, they had been able to see land for several days but the sea had been so agitated it had been unsafe to go any closer to the shore. They had to wait until it settled.

  She felt as though she was going crazy. She wanted so badly to feel terra firma under her feet. Every day she felt more and more nauseous. They said this always happened, that everyone got seasick, no matter how good a sailor they were. But she just wanted to get off the boat.

  She had come to her senses. She wanted her baby back. And she wanted to go home. She closed her eyes and saw her mammy in the kitchen. She could almost smell her – sweet pink roses – that’s what she smelt like. She wanted her mammy to hold her so badly it made her gasp.

  Beatrice stared down at the water. There was nothing left in her stomach to throw up. She looked at the shadows beneath the sea’s surface. There was no reason to be afraid. She got up quickly and fetched a plastic bag. She collected together her few possessions and put them in it. Then she tied it to her waist. She was going to go home. She was a good swimmer, and she was sure she could make it to land. She did not fear the water.