Woman of the House (13 page)

He had often stood on the headland looking up the field and recited that poem when the barley was ripe and rippling in the wind. She was able to see over the ditches back into the Clune field. That, too, was ploughed, waiting for the potatoes, turnips and mangles that were meant
to feed the people and animals of Mossgrove in the year ahead. Ploughed fields were places full of promise. Jack had told her that when she was a child and she had never forgotten it.

In the fields below she could see the cows grazing and some of them lying down chewing the cud. She liked to look at a field full of cows: they exuded contentment and wholesomeness. In the field beyond them the sheep were dotted around like soft white cushions and she could see that some new lambs had arrived. The chimney of Mossgrove was barely visible in the trees and the smoke was coming straight up, like the spray from a fountain, and diluting into the clear blue sky.

She remembered days like this when she had come home on holidays while training in England. She remembered sitting on top of this gate just as she was now, staying there for a long time and simply absorbing the fact that she was back in her own place. There was no place else where she felt as complete as when she walked the fields here. Phelans had lived here for generations and when she came inside the gate she felt encompassed by them. Her grandfather had been so proud of Mossgrove. Even as a very young child, when he had taken her by the hand and led her out to walk around the farmyard and down the fields, she had sensed his feeling for the place. And yet her father did not have it. Maybe it skipped a generation. Was that why the old man wanted to implant it in his grandchildren? But then Nellie had loved this place too, and that had been a great bond between the old man and herself. When his relations came to visit him, Nellie had entertained them as if they were her own, and indeed she regarded them as such. That was the attitude that had kept Mossgrove going
for so long. Great women marrying in here and setting their standards and keeping things going.

She thought of the women whom she visited around the parish. In many cases those country women were stronger than their menfolk. They handled childbearing and hard work, and many of them managed the money of the farm. Those who were afflicted with troublesome husbands made their own money from the eggs and the fowl around the farmyard. Some of them endured living with difficult mothers-in-law and domineering fathers-in-law. When they married into a house they became “the woman of the house”, but sometimes the title conferred responsibility without authority But they stuck together and helped each other out.

She remembered Sarah spending long hours talking to Nellie when she was young, and she had always felt a sense of security when they sat across the fire from each other in the kitchen and she was told to play in the garden. She knew that no matter how drunk her father would be when he got home, these two women were equal to it.

Then of course there was Jack. What would they have done without Jack? He seemed to have an infinite capacity for holding things together. He had been there like a secure anchor all through her childhood. When her father had died she had been heartbroken, because she had loved him despite all his faults, and Jack had understood and comforted her, and he took his place in many ways. She had sensed as a child that he loved Nellie and she took it for granted. When she grew up she realised what he had done for all of them. Ned and himself had been like father and son – maybe closer, she thought, because she knew of many father-son relationships that
were fraught with disagreements. Now Ned was gone and Jack was still here. It was extraordinary to think that he had seen three owners of Mossgrove die before him, as well as Nellie. Well, the old man’s death was natural enough, because he was a good age, but her father had been a young man and Nellie had only been in her early sixties, the same age as Jack himself. And now Ned, the generation after him. Jack, she thought, had endured great suffering here.

She sat there for a long time, her mind suffused with many thoughts until Toby, waking from his midday sleep, barked for attention.

“You’re right, Toby,” she told him, “it’s time to get a move on, and as well as that I’m stiff from sitting up here like a crow on a branch.”

She wheeled her bike along the road, not wanting to get back quickly into the village because she needed more time on her own. She felt as well that she could not pass Nolans’ without calling in, and she knew that Betty would be turning over every possibility to prevent the sale of Mossgrove, and she felt that it was a pointless exercise because, short of a miracle, she could see nothing to prevent the sale of Mossgrove.

A
S HE GOT
out of bed Jack decided that he felt every day of his sixty-five years, and maybe a few with it. A grey cloud had moved into his mind. It was almost too much for his brain to take in that Mossgrove was for sale. Since Ned’s death it had been tough, and there had been days of despair, but always deep down he had a gut instinct that they would succeed. The return of Kate had confirmed that. She had straightened things out, and slowly they were getting on top of the work. Only last night he had walked home with a new confidence. With the ploughing finished, he was sure that they had turned the corner in Mossgrove.

The weather was good now and the crops once sowed would soon catch up. There was the additional ease of having Davy to help wherever he was needed. He was a good lad. Then Martha was back in action in the house and around the yard. That was good! He had been so sure that
she had decided to do her best to keep Mossgrove going, and he had felt a new appreciation of her. It was great to see her up and about and keeping things in order. When he had told the children that she would not stay down for long he had been pretty certain that he was right. In his opinion some people had the habit of lying down under trouble and he secretly called them “the all-fall-down brigade”, but she was definitely not one of them. All these thoughts had run through his head as he had walked home last night. It had never crossed his mind that she intended to sell out the whole place and turn her back on it. It was hard to take that in. For the first time in his years at Mossgrove he felt that he was up against a stone wall. There was no way out of this one.

He walked down the boreen by the well field and looked across the ditch at his ploughing of the previous week. As he had walked home last night the sight of it had given him much satisfaction. This morning there was no joy in it.

He turned into the field above the house and rounded up the cows to take them down to the yard for early morning milking. Some of them were grazing and raised questioning heads as he approached, others were lying down chewing the cud and rose reluctantly, leaving flattened pools of grass where they had lain. Slowly they turned their heads towards the bottom of the field and the bulk of them came together and headed in that direction. The stragglers dribbled along behind. He had always enjoyed bringing in the cows for milking, walking slowly behind as they ambled at their leisurely pace. It was usually a soothing start to the day, but this morning it only filled his mind with the question of how long more.

Bran bounded in the gap to help with the round-up.

“Good boy, Bran,” Jack praised him automatically, and he darted around the field to round up the slow movers. When they saw him their cloaks of lethargy slipped from them and they strode quickly towards the main herd. As Jack walked slowly behind them he looked over the bawn and viewed them with pride. He could remember most of their mothers and grandmothers. You did not build up a herd like this overnight. It had taken years of breeding and culling to bring them up to this high standard. They were the finest herd in the parish and he took great pride in them. Ned had been a good judge of an animal and knew what to keep and what to sell, and it had paid dividends. He wondered if they would be sold off or would the new owner buy them with the farm. They would probably make more money if sold in ones or twos. It would be a sad day for Mossgrove the day that this bawn of cows went out the gate. The cows were the heartbeat of the farm, and it would be dead without them. He could hardly bear to think of the possibility. There was a pain of defeat and hopelessness in his heart.

The cows found their own way into their stalls and waited patiently to be tied up for milking. He had just started milking the first cow when Davy came in rattling his bucket. But milking cows was the last thing on Davy’s mind.

“Jasus, Jack! Did you see the shagging
Eagle
last night?” he demanded angrily.

“I did, Davy,” Jack said evenly.

“What in the name of Christ is that one thinking of?”

“Easy, Davy,” Jack soothed.

“Easy! How do you mean, easy?” Davy said angrily “Wasn’t it only yesterday that you told me that there was a job here for me. I don’t want to take the boat again.”

“Davy, this is just as big a shock to me as it is to you,” Jack told him quietly.

“Do you mean to tell me that you read it in the
Eagle
like me?”

“That’s right.”

The wind taken out of Davy’s sails, he stood looking at Jack, an incredulous expression on his face.

“Well, she’s one lightning bitch, and that’s all that there is to it,” Davy declared. Then another thought struck him: “Do you think that she’s right in the head?”

“Well, whether she is or she isn’t, she has got the power to make the decision,” Jack told him sadly.

“God, didn’t the Phelans take on trouble the day that they took her on board,” Davy said with feeling.

“Well, they say that it’s for better or worse,” Jack reminded him.

“Jasus, Jack, it couldn’t be much worse than this. You’ll have no job, I’ll have no job … what about the two small ones?”

“She surely told them.”

“Peter didn’t know last night. We were planning something for the summer,” Davy said. “Peter wouldn’t do that if he knew that I wasn’t going to be here. Peter is as straight as a die.”

“They’ll have to be told then, before someone outside the house tells them,” Jack decided, “but it’s no one’s place to do it but their mother’s.”

“Someone had better tell her that,” Davy said, “and while you’re at it, Jack, you might tell her that we would like to have known as well.”

“I don’t think that it would bother her a whole pile,” Jack told him bitterly.

“Do you know something,” Davy said, standing in the channel of the stall with a bucket in one hand and the milking stool propped on his hip, “I’m so bloody mad that I can hardly sit down to milk.”

“Come on, Davy, and get started or we’ll be here all day,” Jack told him wearily.

Davy rattled the bucket in annoyance and, catching the milking stool firmly, he banged it on to the floor beside the cow with such a thud that it caused her to jump sideways in fright and nearly knock Jack and his bucket of milk off his stool.

“Christ, Davy, will you cool down or you’ll be the cause of killing me,” Jack protested as he pushed the offending cow back from him.

Soon afterwards he heard milk dance like rain off the base of Davy’s tin bucket and knew that Davy was working off his frustration, much to the consternation of the cow, who looked back questioningly and moved protestingly from side to side. But gradually Davy slowed down, and then Jack could hear the even tempo as he got back to his normal calm rhythm of milking. Nothing like this to calm the mind, he thought, and he even felt a bit better himself. While he milked Jack decided that for today he would try to keep going as if they were not up for sale. It was the only way that he could survive in this present dilemma. By the time they had the cows milked they had both cooled down a little.

As they walked towards the back door Jack advised Davy: “Now, don’t lose the head when we go into the kitchen and get yourself sacked. Mossgrove isn’t sold yet, you know, and while it isn’t you still have a job.”

“Do you think it mightn’t be?” Davy asked hopefully.

“I have no idea,” Jack told him, “but sometimes in life worries can be overcome by events.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Davy asked.

“Wait and see,” Jack replied, opening the door and going into the back kitchen. When they had their hands washed they went into the kitchen where Martha had the breakfast ready. She dished out the porridge with an expressionless face and silently put the boiled eggs on the table. I suppose I had better say something, Jack thought.

“The two are still in bed?” he asked.

“They’re having their Saturday morning sleep in,” she said evenly.

Now, where do we go from here, he thought. If I don’t mention the sale she is not going to mention it and that will keep us all in the dark…

“Why are you selling Mossgrove?” Davy blurted out.

“That’s my business,” she told him firmly, her face discouraging further questions as she poured milk on to her porridge. Jack could see Davy’s face darkening in temper, so he cut in hurriedly.

“Have you told Nora and Peter?”

“That, too, is my business,” she replied icily.

“God blast it!” Davy shouted angrily. “Are you telling me that it’s none of my business if I don’t have a job in a few weeks’ time?”

“Well, that’s certainly none of my business,” Martha told him. “You both read the paper, so I presume you both know that Mossgrove is for sale, and that is the end of it as far as I’m concerned.”

Davy opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything a step of the stairs creaked and the door at
the bottom of it opened slowly and Nora’s small pale face peered out at them.

“Are we selling Mossgrove?” she asked in a strangled voice. They all looked at her in shocked silence. Martha was the first to recover.

“We’ll talk about it later, Nora,” she said, but Nora was not listening.

“So Kitty Conway was right,” she whispered, staring at her mother; “you’re going to sell Mossgrove and we’ll all be out on the road like tinkers.”

“Nonsense,” Martha said briskly. “You know better than to listen to Kitty Conway.”

“But she was right, wasn’t she, so now I do believe her!” Nora cried.

“Come here and have your breakfast,” Martha told her.

“No, no!” Nora shouted. “I’m going to tell Peter what you’re doing,” and she ran up the stairs crying. They heard her running along the corridor and the door of Peter’s room banging shut behind her.

You could hear a pin drop in the kitchen. Without a further word Martha rose from the table and swept up into the parlour.

Davy looked at Jack in consternation. ‘You told me to keep my mouth shut, but of course I couldn’t,” he said, his big honest face full of regret.

“Well, it was better that they hear it this way than in the village or in school,” Jack told him.

“I suppose so,” Davy said doubtfully.

“Well, eat up anyway because we have a long day ahead of us,” Jack said briskly, “because no matter what upheavals come our way the animals must be fed and the land kept going. I’m going to oil the corn drill after breakfast,” he
finished decisively, even though the thought had only just come into his head. It was better to be doing something.

“Jack, you’re one mighty man!” Davy said appreciatively, “and of course you’re right, so we’ll keep on going and maybe whatever it was you said about our worries being overcome by events might happen.”

I wish to God that I could honestly believe that, Jack thought, but in order to encourage Davy he said, “Fair play to you, you grasped that one.”

“I’m not as thick as I look,” Davy told him, stretching across the table and picking up the egg that Martha had left uneaten.

Later that day, as Jack was oiling the corn drill, Peter came and sat on the shaft. They were in the back of the cart-house behind the trap where the corn drill lay from spring to spring gathering dust. Peter said nothing for a long time and Jack let him alone with his thoughts. It was usually Nora who came to chat with him. Peter had always gone to Ned and then to Davy since he came. But now for some reason he felt the need to talk to himself, and Jack wished that he had answers but knew that he had none.

“She’s making a mistake, isn’t she?” Peter said finally.

“Well, I don’t know what she’s thinking,” Jack told him. “Maybe she feels that she couldn’t manage.”

“But we are managing,” Peter said.

“Well, I thought we were too,” Jack admitted.

“I want to stay here,” Peter said simply.

“Did you talk it over with your mother?”

“She talked and I listened,” Peter said: “a lot of bullshit about education and a better way of life. I don’t want what she calls a better way of life. I want to stay here with Davy and you and Bran.”

At least, Jack thought ruefully, I made it before Bran on his list. Poor Peter, his heart went out to him, but he knew that what he wanted right now was somebody to just listen to him.

“When my grandfather died you ran Mossgrove with Nana Nellie, didn’t you?” Peter asked.

“That’s right.”

“Well, it’s no different now,” Peter said.

That’s where you’re wrong, Jack thought; it is different, because we have a different woman of the house. Nellie loved Mossgrove and Martha doesn’t, and that’s the difference. But if she would only give herself a chance, Jack felt sure that she would grow to love it too. Martha had points that he had often admired, but there was some devil driving her and she could not rest easy. But selling Mossgrove was not going to solve that problem. If for some reason she had to stick with it he felt that things would come right, but there was no talking to her. When she got a notion she became hell-bent in that direction, and at the moment that notion was to sell Mossgrove.

“Listen to me, Peter,” he said firmly, “there is no good in arguing with your mother. It will only back her into a corner, because she has a very stubborn streak. Our best chance is to take it easy and try to coax her around to our way of thinking, and you and Nora are the best to do that.”

“Well, I’m after having a blazing row with her just now and Nora is crying inside in the kitchen. I don’t feel like taking it easy, I feel like kicking her in the shins,” Peter told him bluntly, a mutinous look on his face.

“It’s hard to blame you, I suppose,” Jack sighed, “but we’ll only have to hope for the best.”

He could see that Peter was not getting much comfort
from their conversation. Soon afterwards he got up silently and, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and his shoulders hunched, he strode up the boreen with Bran on his heels, Probably going down to Nolans’, Jack hoped, because maybe Betty Nolan would be more of a help to him, and Jeremy and himself would be able to thrash things out between them.

Soon afterwards Nora arrived, tear-stained and bedraggled. “I don’t want to go to school on Monday,” she said tearfully.