John Johns has finally called. I was feeling stronger. I was clearer in my mind than I had been for years. The fever burned a loftful of fluff from between my ears. I knew what I wanted. Now all I had to figure out was how to get it. I was sitting up against my pillows when Auntie Eileen brought the phone in. Her face is straight, no fake smile or worrying frown, but I know her too well. When it’s really bad news she hangs a fag on her bottom lip to waste no time in getting it lit. I’m still holding the phone when I hear her strike a match just outside the bedroom door. I clear my throat and try to stop feeling sick. I must make sure there’s no wobble in my voice when this is the first time I’ve spoken to my husband in over two weeks.
I had good news, if I could get it delivered! I wanted to be his, I wanted him to be mine! He’d be delighted with my change of heart, surely? Catherine was gone, Joe Loughrey might well have never existed. We couldn’t go on like this, a man and a woman only bound together under a patchwork quilt? We could be equals, we could try talking to each other, we could live out our days in the beauty of Johns Farm.
I had my speech all planned. It was glossy – a brilliant summary of all the things that I had got wrong since I became Mrs Mary Johns. A sudden memory of him running out of ten-pence pieces when he was in the horrible digs in London popped up. He had been working to save money to build a bigger, better Johns Farm, one that had kept us all cosy and warm. All he ever asked me before the pips went was if I needed anything. Well, I did need something now: I needed him. I needed him to come home. I held the phone tight against my chest to protect him, because there was something I had to shout out loud and clear before me and him got down to business.
– Auntie Eileen! Get away from that door, you nosy old woman!
– Spoilsport!
The sound of her finally clip-clopping down the stairs leaves me no option but to plunge in. This is the moment I reach out and ask for what I want. This is the moment I paint all the colour that I can bring now that the sun is high in the cloudless sky.
– Hello …
– Mary?
– John!
– Mary, I’m not planning on coming back. I wanted you to hear it from me before I tell the children. There’s nothing there for me now, nothing. I’ll decide what to do about the farm and let you know later.
– What about me?
– I’ll decide what to do about you, too.
The phone clicked in my hand. My husband always was a man of few words. Had he known all along that I was nothing? My speech gave a few little death throes in my breast before it croaked. He was gone and all I had to chew on was dust.
I stared at the dead phone for a good long while. When that got old, I collapsed back on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a longer while. I willed Granny Moo to appear with the flimsiest of signs on what turn to take next but even she let me down. I would have to find my own way. I grasped the nettle. Minds can be changed, hearts too – I was proof. I roped in Serena; she was going to make the first approach then the boys were all going to have a go. They smiled like indulgent parents at my grand scheme to turn their father round when he’d already made his feelings clear. We all knew he wasn’t easily turned.
Never one to take a hint, the more I thought about it, the better it got until it shone on the horizon, a huge gold dome where all my worries would disappear. John would let me have my say, he’d understand why I couldn’t open my own mouth and why the children would be so eloquent on my behalf – he’d always been a reasonable man.
John had taken his sons out in Belfast. They had told all the old tales of Bridie over pizzas and beers and laughed ’til they cried. They still missed her. I had a flashback to the man I had seen weeping in Omagh, the man who wanted me to hold his hand, the man who had worried about me in case he never came back, the man who made me promise that I would visit. The man who had looked at me with … what on his face? What was that on his face? Why could I still not read him?
Oh! They had so much news! I breathed in, my chest rattled in protest, but there was something I needed to know, something I was quite desperate to know. I’d given them their lines. They’d carried my message straight to him like good little pigeons. I wasn’t put off by the fact that Serena hadn’t been hopeful. Hope was my friend! Hope was my harbour! Hope was the only nail not in the coffin.
– Tell me … did he ask about me at all? About how I was doin’?
– No.
– Did he say he wanted to give us another go?
– No.
– Is he comin’ home?
– No.