Foster
Authors: Claire Keegan
Claire Keegan
For Ita Marcus
and in memory of David Marcus
Early on a Sunday, after first Mass in Clonegal, my father, instead of taking me home, drives deep into Wexford towards the coast where my mother’s people came from. It is a hot day, bright, with patches of shade and greenish, sudden light along the road. We pass through the village of Shillelagh where my father lost our red Shorthorn in a game of forty-five, and on past the mart in Carnew where the man who won the heifer sold her shortly afterwards. My father throws his hat on the passenger seat, winds down the window, and smokes. I shake the plaits out of my hair and lie flat on the back seat, looking up through the rear window. In places there’s a bare, blue sky. In places the blue sky is chalked over with clouds, but mostly it
is a heady mixture of sky and trees scratched over by ESB wires across which, every now and then, small, brownish flocks of vanishing birds race.
I wonder what it will be like, this place belonging to the Kinsellas. I see a tall woman standing over me, making me drink milk still hot from the cow. I see another, less likely version of her in an apron, pouring pancake batter onto a frying pan, asking would I like another, the way my mother sometimes does when she is in good humour. The man will be her size. He will take me to town on the tractor and buy me red lemonade and crisps. Or he’ll make me clean out sheds and pick stones and pull rag-weed and docks out of the fields. I see him pulling what I hope will be a fifty-pence piece from his pocket but it turns out to be a handkerchief. I wonder if they live in an old farmhouse or a new bungalow, whether they will have an outhouse or an indoor bathroom with a toilet and running water. I picture myself lying in a dark
bedroom with other girls, saying things we won’t repeat when morning comes.
An age, it seems, passes before the car slows and turns into a tarred, narrow lane, then a thrill as the wheels slam over the metal bars of a cattle grid. On either side, thick hedges are trimmed square. At the end of the lane there’s a long, white house with trees whose limbs are trailing the ground.
‘Da,’ I say. ‘The trees.’
‘What about ’em?’
‘They’re sick,’ I say.
‘They’re weeping willows,’ he says, and clears his throat.
In the yard, tall, shiny panes reflect our coming. I see myself looking out from the back seat wild as a tinker’s child with my hair all loose but my father, at the wheel, looks just like my father. A big, loose hound whose coat is littered with the shadows of the trees lets out a few rough, half-hearted barks, then sits on the step and looks back at the doorway where the man
has come out to stand. He has a square body like the men my sisters sometimes draw, but his eyebrows are white, to match his hair. He looks nothing like my mother’s people, who are all tall with long arms, and I wonder if we have not come to the wrong house.
‘Dan,’ he says, and tightens himself. ‘What way are you?’
‘John,’ Da says.
They stand, looking out over the yard for a moment and then they are talking rain: how little rain there is, how the fields need rain, how the priest in Kilmuckridge prayed for rain that very morning, how a summer like it was never before known. There is a pause during which my father spits and then the conversation turns to the price of cattle, the EEC, butter mountains, the cost of lime and sheep-dip. It is something I am used to, this way men have of not talking: they like to kick a divot out of the grass with a boot heel, to slap the roof of a car before it takes off, to spit, to sit with their
legs wide apart, as though they do not care.
When the woman comes out, she pays no heed to the men. She is even taller than my mother with the same black hair but hers is cut tight like a helmet. She’s wearing a printed blouse and brown, flared trousers. The car door is opened and I am taken out, and kissed. My face, being kissed, turns hot against hers.
‘The last time I saw you, you were in the pram,’ she says, and stands back, expecting an answer.
‘The pram’s broken.’
‘What happened at all?’
‘My brother used it for a wheelbarrow and the wheel fell off.’
She laughs and licks her thumb and wipes something off my face. I can feel her thumb, softer than my mother’s, wiping whatever it is away. When she looks at my clothes, I see my thin, cotton dress, my dusty sandals through her eyes. There’s a moment when neither one of us knows what to say. A queer, ripe breeze is crossing the yard.
‘Come on in, a Leanbh.’
She leads me into the house. There’s a moment of darkness in the hallway; when I hesitate, she hesitates with me. We walk through into the heat of the kitchen where I am told to sit down, to make myself at home. Under the smell of baking there’s some disinfectant, some bleach. She lifts a rhubarb tart out of the oven and puts it on the bench to cool: syrup on the point of bubbling over, thin leaves of pastry baked into the crust. A cool draught from the door blows in but here it is hot and still and clean. Tall ox-eyed daisies are still as the tall glass of water they are standing in. There is no sign, anywhere, of a child.
‘So how is your mammy keeping?’
‘She won a tenner on the prize bonds.’
‘She did not.’
‘She did,’ I say. ‘We all had jelly and ice cream and she bought a new tube and a mending kit for the bicycle.’
‘Well, wasn’t that a treat.’
‘It was,’ I say, and feel, again, the steel teeth of the comb against my scalp earlier that morning, the strength of my mother’s hands as she wove the plaits tight, her belly at my back, hard with the next baby. I think of the clean pants she packed in the suitcase, the letter, and what she may have written. Words had passed between them:
‘How long should they keep her?’
‘Can’t they keep her as long as they like?’
‘Is that what I’ll say?’
‘Say what you like. Isn’t it what you always do.’
Now, the woman fills an enamel jug with milk.
‘Your mother must be busy.’
‘She’s waiting for them to come and cut the hay.’
‘Have ye not the hay cut?’ she says. ‘Aren’t ye late?’
When the men come in from the yard, it grows momentarily dark, then brightens once again when they sit down.
‘Well, Missus,’ says Da, pulling out a chair.
‘Dan,’ she says, in a different voice.
‘There’s a scorcher of a day.’
‘’Tis hot, surely.’ She turns her back to watch the kettle, waiting.
‘Wouldn’t the fields be glad of a sup of rain,’ he says.
‘Won’t we have the rain for long enough.’ She looks at the wall as though a picture is hanging there but there is no picture on that wall, just a big mahogany clock with two hands and a big copper pendulum, swinging.
‘Wasn’t it a great year for the hay all the same. Never saw the like of it,’ says Da. ‘The loft is full to capacity. I nearly split my head on the rafters pitching it in.’
I wonder why my father lies about the hay. He is given to lying about things that would be nice, if they were true. Somewhere, further off, someone has started up a chainsaw and it drones on like a big, stinging wasp for a while in the distance. I wish I was out there, working.
I am unused to sitting still and do not know what to do with my hands. Part of me wants my father to leave me here while another part of me wants him to take me back, to what I know. I am in a spot where I can neither be what I always am nor turn into what I could be.
The kettle lets off steam and rumbles up to boiling point, its steel lid clapping. The presence of a black-and-white cat moves on the window ledge. On the floor, across the hard, clean tiles, the woman’s shadow stretches, almost reaching my chair. Kinsella gets up and takes a stack of plates from the cupboard, opens a drawer and takes out knives and forks, teaspoons. He takes the lid off a jar of beetroot and puts it on a saucer with a little serving fork, leaves out sandwich spread and salad cream. My father watches closely as he does this. Already there’s a bowl of tomatoes and onions, chopped fine, a fresh loaf, a block of red cheddar.
‘And what way is Mary?’ the woman says.
‘Mary? She’s coming near her time.’ Da sits back, satisfied.
‘I suppose the last babby is getting hardy?’
‘Aye,’ Da says. ‘It’s the feeding them that’s the trouble. There’s no appetite like a child’s and, believe you me, this one is no different.’
‘Ah, don’t we all eat in spurts, the same as we grow,’ says the woman, as though this is something he should know.
‘She’ll ate but you can work her.’
Kinsella looks up. ‘There’ll be no need for any of that,’ he says. ‘The child will have no more to do than help Edna around the house.’
‘We’ll keep the child gladly,’ the woman echoes. ‘She’s welcome here.’
‘She’ll ate ye out of house and home,’ Da says, ‘but I don’t suppose there’ll be a word about it this time twelve months.’
When we sit in at the table, Da reaches for the beetroot. He doesn’t use the serving fork but pitches it onto the plate with his own. It
stains the pink ham, bleeds. Tea is poured. There’s a patchy silence as we eat, as our knives and forks break up what’s on our plates. Then, after some time, the tart is cut. Cream falls over the hot pastry, into pools.
Now that my father has delivered me and eaten his fill, he is anxious to light his fag and get away. Always, it’s the same: he never stays in any place long after he’s eaten, not like my mother who would talk until it grew dark and light again. This, at least, is what my father says even though I have never known it to happen. With my mother it is all work: us, the butter-making, the dinners, the washing up and getting up and getting ready for Mass and school, weaning calves, and hiring men to plough and harrow the fields, stretching the money and setting the alarm. But this is a different type of house. Here there is room, and time to think. There may even be money to spare.
‘I’d better hit the road,’ Da says.
‘What hurry is on you?’ Kinsella says.
‘The daylight is burning, and I’ve yet the spuds to spray.’
‘There’s no fear of blight these evenings,’ the woman says, but she rises anyway, picks up the sharp knife and goes out the back door. I want to go with her, to shake the clay off whatever she cuts and carry it back into the house. A type of silence climbs and grows tall between the men while she is out.
‘Give this to Mary,’ she says, coming in. ‘I’m snowed under with rhubarb, whatever kind of year it is.’
My father takes it from her but it is as awkward as the baby in his arms. A stalk falls to the floor and then another. He waits for her to pick it up, to hand it to him. She waits for him to do it. Neither one of them will budge. In the end, it’s Kinsella who stoops to lift it.
‘There now,’ he says.
Out in the yard, my father throws the rhubarb onto the back seat, gets in behind the wheel and starts the engine.
‘Good luck to ye,’ he says. ‘I hope this girl will give no trouble.’ He turns to me then. ‘Try not to fall into the fire, you.’
I watch him reverse, turn into the lane, and drive away. I hear the wheels slam over the cattle grid, then the changing of gears and the noise of the motor going back the road we came. Why did he leave without so much as a good-bye, without ever mentioning that he would come back for me? The strange, ripe breeze that’s crossing the yard feels cooler now, and big white clouds have marched in across the barn.
‘What’s ailing you, Child?’ the woman says.
I look at my feet, dirty in my sandals.
Kinsella stands in close. ‘Whatever it is, tell us. We won’t mind.’
‘Lord God Almighty, didn’t he go and forget all about your bits and bobs!’ the woman says. ‘No wonder you’re in a state. Well, hasn’t he a head like a sieve, the same man.’
‘What matter,’ Kinsella says. ‘We’ll have you togged out in no time.’
‘There won’t be a word about it this time twelve months,’ the woman says.
They laugh hard for a moment then stop. When I follow the woman back inside, I want her to say something, to put my mind at ease. Instead, she clears the table, picks up the sharp knife and stands in the light under the window, washing the blade under the running tap. She stares at me as she wipes it clean, and puts it away.
‘Now, Girleen,’ she says. ‘I think it’s past time you had a bath.’