Authors: Iris Gower
In the kitchen the cook was seated in a rocking-chair, her hands on her lap, her eyes closed. She was breathing heavily, almost snoring and Boyo felt a dart of pity for the old woman, she should not have to work, not at her age. No wonder she was staying here at Ty Craig, no-one else would take her on.
‘I’ve done a drink ready to take up to Mrs Hopkins,’ Cara said. ‘I’ve put an extra cup of hot milk for you too, sir, thought you could do with it on such a cold night.’
It was cold, Boyo had not realized it while he had been riding from town but a sharp easterly wind seemed to have blown up and now the trees outside were swaying, the branches moaning like distraught spirits. He was being absurd, he was allowing the atmosphere of the house to affect him as badly as it did the young maid.
‘Give me the tray.’ He took the stairs two at a time, the draught in the hallway was lifting the door knocker, rattling brass against the wood with an insistent beat. He glanced over his shoulder and looked at the paintings of some of Bethan’s ancestors and for a split second, the eyes seemed to be alive and following him.
It was cold in the bedroom, Bethan, it seemed, was soundly asleep. Just as he thought, the maid was making a fuss about nothing. Boyo put the tray onto the small bedside table, noticing the array of coloured glass bottles. They were unmarked and he wondered what sort of rubbish Bethan was pouring into herself.
As quietly as he could, he placed coals onto the fire so that the flames shot anew up into the draughty chimney. Even the leaping flames offered little comfort and Boyo rubbed his fingers, trying to bring some warmth into them.
He thought he heard a sound behind him but when he turned, Bethan was still lying quietly against the pillow, her hair spread out around her. In the firelight, it seemed to glow red, almost as red as Catherine’s.
He dusted his hands and moved into the dressing-room to wash the grime from his fingers. When he returned to the bedroom, the fire looked dull and lifeless and with a sigh, Boyo took up the glass of hot milk, forcing himself to think clearly. He was here to watch Bethan as she slept, to make sure she was not subject to strange fits, as Cara had claimed.
He sank into a rocking-chair and finished off the milk, the warmth of it was comforting. He closed his eyes, suddenly weary, he was too tired to think anymore. He had failed in his attempt to win Catherine over and nothing else seemed important, not even the wife who was the one obstacle standing in the way of his happiness.
His thoughts became hazy, he tried to drag himself to full wakefulness but he was fighting a losing battle. He saw himself rise from the chair as if watching an apparition. He saw white arms reach up for him, saw firelight gleam on red hair, felt the smoothness of skin beneath his touch. Desire surged through him. He was plunging into the softness beneath him, arms were clinging to him, breasts were pressing against his chest. The act seemed to go on and on. It was as if the life was being drained from him as a hotness surged through his loins. He fell gasping, his senses reeling and then his mind was blank, he was being plunged into a deep darkness.
When he awoke, he was sitting in the rocking-chair, fully dressed. The bed was empty. Of Bethan there was no sign.
Boyo rubbed his eyes, had he had a weird, fantastic dream? He rose to his feet, his limbs felt heavy. He went into the dressing-room, he would wash his face in cold water, splash away the foolish illusions of the night, for illusions they must be, there was no other explanation.
Downstairs, a calm, collected Bethan greeted him with a smile. She looked perfectly normal, as though she had slept peaceful as a baby throughout the night, which was more than he had done. Boyo wondered at the vividness of his dream, if that was indeed what it was.
‘Good morning, nice to see your face when I woke this morning.’ Bethan handed him some tea. ‘To what do I owe the honour of your visit?’
He was thrown into confusion, what could he say? That the maid suspected Bethan either of having fits or of consorting with the spirit world. ‘I came over to talk, I came up to your room, it was late, I should have known you would be asleep. I sat in the chair for a moment and I must have dozed off.’
‘Well, whatever, it’s wonderful to see you.’ She studied him carefully. ‘You look rather tired, perhaps you did not sleep too well in that uncomfortable chair.’
‘Probably not.’ He drank the tea thirstily and then rose to his feet. ‘I must go.’ He moved to the door and let himself out into the hallway. Cara hovered beside him and he drew her outside.
‘I’m afraid I’ve nothing to report, I fell asleep. Did you hear anything in the night?’
The girl looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know, sir, I think I just left it all to you to sort out.’
‘I see.’ He felt she was not telling him the truth but there was no way he could force her to speak.
As he rode home, he felt tiredness sweep over him, he was drained, as though he had moved mountains during the night. He was getting as fanciful as that silly maid, it was about time he snapped out of this nonsensical way of thinking.
Once home, he went to his bedroom and pulled off his clothes, they smelt of Ty Craig and Bethan. Naked, he stood before the mirror. Quite what he expected to see he did not know. He turned from the waist and his breath hissed sharply between his teeth. There, scarring the whiteness of his skin, were the livid marks of a woman’s nails.
The hills outside Cork were verdant, lush, the breezes from the sea were balmy. As Catherine climbed down from the cart and stared up at the largeness of the convent rearing upwards against the sky, she knew she could love this country, love Ireland more than she could ever love the man she was going to marry; and she would marry Liam. One day, one day, but not yet, a small voice inside her head said.
She thought of Boyo with a sense of pain, it was rumoured that he was back with his wife. He was not hers, had never been hers and yet she could not regret the times she had spent in his arms. She had known love, the singing, passionate kind of love that only comes once in a lifetime. The sort of love that makes the touch of a hand, a glance, a magical moment to remember.
Now she was back in Ireland, the country of her ancestors, at least on her father’s side. The country of her husband-to-be and she’d never felt more miserable and unsettled in the whole of her life.
Her mother had asked her to come, she had wonderful news to impart. Catherine could guess what it was and as she entered the portals of the convent, she made an effort to appear relaxed and happy.
Fon came across the great hallway, arms outstretched, she was looking brown and happy, her hair completely grey now. ‘I have asked to be received into holy orders, Cath.’ Fon took her daughter in her arms and hugged her. ‘As soon as I’m able, I’ll start my novitiate.’
Catherine knew it had to come and yet she felt abandoned, as though her last link with the security of her childhood had been severed. She looked at her mother’s arms, brown under the rolled-up sleeves and the hands ingrained with earth and knew she should be happy for her.
‘You look as though it suits you, Mam.’ She tried to inject warmth into her tone but Fon was looking at her quizzically.
‘I’m still your mother, Cath, I will always be here for you if you want to talk anything over with me, mind.’
Catherine remembered the last time she had ‘talked things over’ with Fon. Then, her mother had been impatient, telling Catherine what to do with her life rather than listening to her unhappiness.
‘Is anything wrong, Catherine? You seem a little on the edgy side.’
‘I’m getting along just fine, Mam,’ Catherine said. ‘I’ve got a new job now, I’m training to be a hatter, getting quite good at it, I am.’
Fon took her daughter’s hand and looked at the ring glinting there. ‘And when are you going to marry and give me grandchildren? Don’t leave it too long, love, I’m not getting any younger, remember.’
‘That’s silly talk, Mam,’ Catherine said quickly. ‘You are the picture of health, you’ll live to be a hundred.’
‘Don’t avoid the question, have you named the day?’
Catherine thought of Liam, waiting for her in the old farmhouse and Patricia, his sister, scorned by her lover. A mother now but not changed for the better by her experiences. She sighed, ‘I will do, quite soon.’
‘Come along,’ Fon said, suddenly brisk, ‘the sisters have requested that you eat with them. Later, we will pray together for God to give you guidance.’
It was cool within the walls of the convent and strangely peaceful. The supper was a simple affair of soup and bread and fruit piled in huge earthenware bowls.
Later, she talked with Fon but it was mostly about the convent, about the peace of mind Fon had gained from being there. And, at last, when Catherine took her leave, she hugged her mother as though she was saying goodbye to her for ever.
As Catherine guided the pony and trap along the craggy hillside, the verdant grass interspersed with outcrops of rock looked cool, silvered by the moonlight.
She felt as if the power of her mother’s prayers was with her and she envied Fon her tranquillity. Fon had so much more strength of mind, of purpose, than Catherine ever had. So far, Catherine knew, she had been swaying in the breeze like a fallen leaf. It was high time she took her fate in her own hands and shaped her future the way she wanted it.
She felt filled with energy as she breathed in the soft Irish air and felt the first small drops of gentle rain. She was young, she had her health and strength, she had her whole life before her. What was she going to do with it?
She drove the cart over the brow of the hill, before her was spread the sea. It stretched calm and serene, as far as the eye could see. From this distant vantage point, the waves breaking on the shore made little sound, little movement in the still of the night.
So what did she really want? Catherine asked herself and the answer was there, in her heart, her mind, in the base of her being: she wanted Boyo, she longed to be in his arms.
‘Then for heaven’s sake go out and get him!’ Her voice drifted away on the breeze carried like a leaf towards the sea. Would it breach the gulf of the distance between herself and the man she loved? Would he know, somewhere in the core of him, that she was coming home to him?
She had wanted life to be easy but did she think of her parents wresting a living out of the bleak hill farmlands? Jamie had proved he had courage, surely she had some of the spirit of her father in her?
She jerked the reins, her progress more purposeful now as she turned back towards the farmstead. She would tell Liam face to face, that she could never marry him. In spite of herself, doubts about her feelings surfaced; she liked being with Liam, would miss him when she returned home but surely that was friendship, not love?
This was a new era, a time when women were finding a voice, when she herself was learning a trade that could take her anywhere she wanted to go.
She arrived at the farmhouse with a sense of relief. Through the windows gleamed the lights of the lamps and as Catherine entered the kitchen, Patricia turned, her face a mask of dislike and Catherine wondered what there was about her that evoked lust in men and hatred in women.
‘He’s still out in the fields working, there’s a lot to be done and I can’t help him, not with the baby to look after,’ Patricia said. Her tone implying that Catherine was neglecting to do her duty. Catherine picked up the kettle and Patricia moved forward to intervene. ‘I’ll do that.’ Her tone was hostile.
‘No need.’ Normally Catherine would have allowed Patricia to have her way but now a sense of rebelliousness was rioting through her; she had been quiet for long enough. ‘I’m not helpless, I can make myself a cup of tea.’ She turned to look at Patricia, the girl’s mouth was drawn downwards, sullen, mutinous. ‘If Liam had his way, I would be mistress here, you would have to do what I said or leave, it would be as simple as that.’
Patricia was silent, staring at her as though Catherine had suddenly grown two heads. She moved away from the fire and sat near the crib where her baby lay. After the first feeling of triumph, a sense of pity took its place. Catherine realized how easy it would be to assert her power over the other girl, the thought gave her no pleasure.
‘You needn’t worry,’ she said, ‘you will always have a place here.’
‘I don’t believe you, you want me out, I know you do.’
‘Please, there’s no need to worry, I mean it.’ She poured tea for both of them and sat at the table, her face in her hands.
‘What’s wrong, is your mother sick again?’ Patricia was making an effort to be nice and Catherine felt a pinch of guilt at her own spiteful outburst.
‘My mother is looking better than I’ve seen her for many a month.’
‘What is it then, you look different?’
‘You’ll know soon enough. Now, what are we going to give Liam when he comes in from the fields?’
Patricia smiled, ‘So you do find me useful for something then, even if it’s only as head cook and bottle washer.’
Catherine looked at her levelly, ‘It didn’t take you long to revert to your old self, did it? If you wish, I can make the food myself, I was brought up on a farm, I know how to cook a meal for a man, never doubt it.’
Patricia seemed to have regained some of her spirit. ‘Not very good at business though, were you? Let your farm run into debt and lost it, that wasn’t very clever, was it?’
‘No,’ Catherine agreed solemnly, ‘it wasn’t clever at all.’ She lifted her head. ‘But I have learned a valuable lesson from it which is only just becoming clear to me: in this world you fight for what you want, fight any way you can, with any weapon at your disposal.’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘My weapons are my strong spirit, and my determination. What are yours, Patricia, a spiteful tongue and a shrivelled soul?’
Patricia began to cry so quietly that at first Catherine didn’t realize what was happening. Patricia’s face crumpled slowly, like paper screwed into a ball, and tears ran unchecked down her face splashing onto the inert hands in her lap.