Chapter Seven

The next day, I was out in the meadow, hanging my wet wash on the line. It was such a fine day. I stood back admiring my work. Where I come from, you put your wash outside you might never see it again. And if you do it will be sootier than before you started. So this was a pleasure for me. There’s nothing so nice as clean nightgowns and white things in the wind. Especially after a storm. I went back toward the house. Just as I passed the stone shed a hand came out and covered my mouth. I would have screamed but I knew the hand. I knew it and I wanted it on me.

He pulled me up against the wall and held me, tightly, by the small of my back. We stood like that, breathing hard, the wind and our mouths taking in the breath of the other. He raised his hands and held the outline of my breasts. His eyelids closed halfway. That emerald slipped from his eyes. I felt that hardness against my hip.

“Claire,” he whispered. “Claire.”

Leather slapped. The clatter of rust and metal. We broke apart. It was Uncle Ned, leading Morocco from the stall to take back to Mrs. Audrey Whitetree-Murphy. I burst away from Temple and ran in the low window at the back of the house.

“Mornin’!”

I turned and saw Temple hail Uncle Ned.

Uncle Ned raised the empty pipe from his mouth with delight. “Out early!” he cried.

“Come to ask for your expert advice.” Temple, cool as you please, fell into step. He never did see Liam coming, thoughtful, from the shed we’d just been in.

I stood very still and pulled myself together. I was just about to go up the stairs when I glanced to the parlor and saw Aunt Bridey sitting in there on her ancient chair. Her head was bent. She was doing crewelwork on a wooden stand.

As usual, she greeted me with chilly disapproval. Then, “I’m just waitin’ here for Mr. Truelove,” she excused herself.

As if sitting-down work was a pastime reserved for idlers. Like my mother, I thought.

“The solicitor,” she added.

“Yes. I met Mr. Truelove. At the wake.” I was just about to turn and go on when I noticed what she was doing. It was a page of lilies on a green background.

“Aunt Bridey!” I gasped. “That’s beautiful!” Now I could see why she thought she could afford to scoff at others. I don’t believe I’d ever seen needlework so fine or capable and well done. Maybe she’d dreamed of some sort of greatness and recognition and was disappointed.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” she said. She didn’t look up.

I never really got what that expression meant and I still don’t but I had the feeling she was pleased. I thought I’d take advantage. “You know, if you have a minute,” I said, “I was hoping to talk to you about Jenny Rose.”

“If it’s about her moving into that cold studio, I won’t hear of it. We’ll get along just fine here, the way things are, for now. She can sleep in the loft.”

“No, I didn’t mean that.” I stood behind her. “I was thinking about school.”

“School! She won’t go.” She looked up, a needle in her mouth, a thread of bright yarn down her chin. “And Peg went to so much trouble to get her in up in Cork!”

I leaned over. “Goodness, Aunt Bridey! I’ve never seen such exquisite handiwork. You’re an artist.”

She didn’t answer, just kept on going, but you could tell the room was that much lighter.

“I guess you did the kneeler that was before the coffin? I noticed how beautiful that was.”

She threaded her silver needle with one apt movement. “May God leave you your eyes, my mother used to say. And look, he has.”

“You know,” I said, “the funny thing is, it’s you who Jenny Rose gets all her talent from. I see that now.”

She stopped what she was doing. “You should have seen the pictures on the walls of her house,” she said. “The house that went up in smoke. The slate house. She had all scenes painted on the walls, gardens, other rooms you’d think you could walk right into … with people in them. You’d think you were never alone. ‘Tromp l’oeil’ you call them. Trick of the eye. She had a cupboard done in the pantry, you’d swear you could reach for the flour, it was that real. And wee mice on the shelf. They’d give you a start! They’re all gone, now. Gone for good.” Her face became sad. “A course, Jenny Rose spent most of her time alone. Peg saw to that. Keeping people away just by her very nature.”

It was like I’d opened the gate with the magical word and now here came the gush. “Was she very private?” I said.

“Peg? Manipulative.” She made a face.

As if she herself wasn’t. “Oh,” I said, but she knew what I was thinking.

“There was always bad blood between me and Peg.” Her eyes gleamed. “I’m not going to pretend different now, because she’s gone.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“You young people think everything’s okay. It’s as if because you’ve talked about it, that makes it all right. Well, it isn’t all right. None of it is. It’s a sin!”

I was afraid to say a word.

Then she said, “Peg ruined my sister Dierdre’s life. And I told her so, the day she left.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

“You quarreled with Peg the day she died?”

“I did.”

“Good no one knows about that,” I joked.

“I don’t care.” Her eyes glazed over. It was as if I weren’t there. “She could have had a husband of her own. And children of her own.”

“She has Jenny Rose,” I pointed out.

“It’s not the same.”

“It is the same.” I stood firm. How dare she?

“Well,” she wavered, winding thread around a spool, “that’s neither here nor there. The fact is, Dierdre was young. She was easily led. I hate to say it, my own sister, but she was weak.” She pursed her lips. “Along comes this big ungainly woman. Older. A mannish type. She took Dierdre into her confidence. Dierdre felt important for the first time. We all were impressed with Peg, back then. We were just country schoolgirls. We didn’t know the ways of the world. So there you are. She succumbed to her advances. Dierdre loved to be the pretty young thing.” Bridey sighed. “She always would be young and pretty next to Peg. I think that’s what she thought. It was almost revolting.” She shook her head. “There were days”—she leaned toward me and lowered her voice, confidentially—“she’d wear pigtails. St. Patrick! How we put up with it! You wouldn’t know it now, but Dierdre was a looker.”

“My mother told me she was fair.”

“I always thought that was why your mother didn’t take the veil.”

“What?” This was news. “I thought my mother gave up her dreams of the convent when she met my father.”

Bridey busied herself with her needle, as if she’d said too much. “I’m sure it keeps things nice to tell your father that.” She pursed her lips. “But she’d never have seen your father if she hadn’t already given up the idea. I tell you, it was a great shock for your mother, what happened. It touched her very deeply. I thought we’d never see her again when she left with your father and I was right. We didn’t have a car back then, you know. Things were very different. They left in a donkey cart, goin’ up the road with her hope chest pokin’ out in the air. Your mother was wavin’ her good green scarf, like she was off to a festival.” For a while she didn’t say anything. She was looking down that road of long ago. “If it weren’t for Jenny Rose, we’d never have seen her again.” There was a yearning in that voice I recognized.

“She would have come.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You could have taken a vacation to the States. They have all sorts of package deals.”

“For your mother it always had to be nicey-nice. She always had to picture things as if it would all work out well in the end. Well, some things don’t work out well. You can see that.” Bridey’s mouth dropped. “She didn’t care at all what people would say, once she was set to leave. ‘Have faith,’ she would say. I can hear her still.”

“I can hear her too. She’s still telling us all to have faith.” And now here I was telling Jenny Rose.

“But then Mary didn’t have to stay, did she?” Aunt Bridey went on bitterly. “She didn’t have to hear the whispers and the sniggers.”

“It must have been so hard for you,” I said.

Aunt Bridey looked at me suddenly and I saw there were tears in her eyes. “It was,” she said. She grappled for her hanky, found it in her pocket and gave her nose a good honk. She didn’t much care for this position, though: me sitting before her feeling sorry for her. “That’s yarn from us, you know,” she said, changing the subject. “From Skibbereen. All hand done. Seamus’s mother tools the yarn. Good sheep and goat yarn from our own animals.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and it’s Jenny Rose who colors them. All natural. Dyed with vegetables and things from the sea. She dyes with tea, even. Anything handy that lasts. You see that phosphorescent cast inside the lilies? Jenny Rose grinds abalone shells and things like that, then she makes a paste and dyes them. She finds all sorts of colors and blends them for me. There’s a rich marine fauna in Lough Hyne. It’s sixty fathoms deep in some parts, so you can imagine what you can find.” She was breathless with the whole thing.

“I still can’t believe how lovely! I’m so impressed.” I dropped onto the couch.

“Yes, everyone likes them.”

“Well, where do you sell them?” We were on safer ground again.

“Oh, we don’t sell them. This one will go to the church. They’ll use this next Easter for the altar cloth, if I finish in time. I never have much time.”

“What, you never sell them?”

She laughed. I don’t think I’d ever heard Bridey laugh. It was a good sound. There was the family resemblance in the cadence and the tone. She shook her head and I knew just what she was thinking: These Americans! They’ll be wanting to make money from everything!

“Well, do you show them?” I said. “Like in a museum?”

“Sure, too many people want them, to be leaving them off in some museum.”

“So, what, you give them away as gifts, like at Christmas and birthdays?”

“And feast days, yes.”

“That’s great. Gee. I don’t suppose you’d let me photograph you like this, would you? With the morning sun coming in?”

She raised her chin. “I don’t see why not.”

“Great. Let me just run and get my camera. It’s with my purse in the kitchen. Don’t move, now.” I passed my reflection in the hallway mirror and saw Temple’s hands upon my breasts. I held them myself, my head thrown back just for a moment. He was here. In Skibbereen. I would have him. This time I would have him! I slowed my breathing down and went back in. I found her just as I’d left her. “Oh!” I aimed and shot before she might turn. “Gorgeous.” Then I fine-tuned my focus and light.

“Just keep working away, is it?” Her voice tentative and soft. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Here she was, mean old Aunt Bridey, being good for me. And all because she had the dreams she’d dreamed for herself in front of her now. All set, at last, for the world. How many miles of thread had Bridey gone through like this? How many years at it in sunshine and rain in this very same window? The best of her on a cloth before her. We all had our dreams, once, hadn’t we? I pushed away the broken Taj Mahal dreams. My fingers still trembled. Oh, Temple’s nearness had excited me. I swallowed hard and aimed anew. I’d make these like March light on cherry bark. I’d make them slicing and neat as the world of her dreams and I’d show her as she would be proud to be seen. “Yes, that’s great.” I kept my voice even-keeled so as not to lose her. “They really should be in a museum though, so the world could get a look at them.”

“They do. At mass.”

“Yes, of course.” You could hear the robins battling in the gutter. “How’s Dierdre?” I said. Right away you could see her face tighten. It didn’t matter, now. I’d got her good.

“Sad.” She shrugged.

“She’ll be sad for a while, I guess.”

“Yes.”

“Aunt Bridey, tell me please about Seamus.”

“What you see is what you get there, missy.”

“Yes but his imitations are so sinister for one so … innocent.”

“You mean yesterday? Ah, he’s not like that. The way you think. He’s like a myna bird. He just mimics what he figures will get a rise out of everyone. That’s just the one side of him. The other is the lonely, slow fellow. He can’t even get through singing the alphabet when he has to think about it, see?”

“Would he, I mean did he … ever hurt someone?”

“Seamus? Never! Well.” She seemed to remember something, then dismissed it. “No,” she said. “Seamus is the gentlest creature in the world. I’d bet my life on it.”

I only pray, I thought, you’ll never have to.

“He plays the flute, did you know?”

“He does?” I moved the curtain to clear its lacey shadows from her cheek.

“Oh, he has a lovely touch. He doesn’t know what he’s playing, but you put that Mozart on and he’ll play that as well. The trouble is, he’ll only play what he wants and when he wants, so you can’t put him on show or anything, you see.”

“Where ever did he learn the flute?”

“Just picked it up. His mother had a piano, you know. Years ago. Everyone played something. A musical family. You’d never know it now. The way they live. Fly-by-night.” She clicked her tongue. “There now, that’s enough. I’ve had enough being looked at through a hole,” she admonished me.

I clicked my camera shut, thanked her and left. But at last I had a feeling of earned, if hard-won, truce. I couldn’t resist, though, and I turned at the door and said, “How did Peg react when you told her she’d ruined your sister’s life?”

“Well,” she said, “it didn’t help none.”

I went up to my room and stood before the mirror, scrutinizing my image for what Temple had seen. I was flushed and excited, all right.

Jenny Rose stuck her head in. “Care to go to widow Wooly’s?”

“Who?”

“You know, Seamus’s mother.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sure. I’d love a long walk.” He’ll value me more if I’m not easy to be had, was my thought. “Just let me grab a warm sweater and my stuff.”

“What’s that, your wee bag of film?”

“That’s just what it is.” I ruffled her hair, loving the countrified way she spoke.

We clomped down the stairs. Jenny Rose took a stringbag and filled it with apples, most of a butter cake and a fleet of delicious-looking scones. There was a half bottle of shampoo on the ledge. She drew some water from the tap into it, shook it up, screwed the cap on tight, put it in its own plastic bag then threw that in, too. “She can use that,” she explained. “She’ll use it for everything: dishes, the washing, the lot. Seamus doesn’t always think to stock up on Domestos.” She smiled. “His concerns lie more in the direction of chocolate biscuits.” She opened the door and sunlight dazzled us. Jenny Rose charged ahead. I was more gingerly stepping into the light, I tested the threshold floor with my toe for the ledge. The bright air had a nip to it and I was glad my mother’d made me bring the heavy sweater. There stood Uncle Ned, Liam and Temple Fortune with Morocco in their midst. Behind them was a cart with a ramp they were trying to convince Morocco to get into. They weren’t having much luck. Seamus, left out, squatted on the ground against the shed and watched them.

I tried not to look at Temple.

“Come along, Seamus.” Jenny Rose nudged his cap down over his eyes. “What’s the problem, Uncle Ned?”

“I’ve got him, I’ve got him,” Liam was saying, struggling with Morocco’s bridle.

“Watch ye’self now, lad,” Uncle Ned warned. “Don’t nick his legs.”

“I’m doin’ me best.”

“We’ve got to get him back to Audrey Whitetree-Murphy intact.” There was an unfamiliar note of petulance in Ned’s voice.

They pushed Morocco this way and that, but they didn’t seem to be getting him any closer to the cart. Aunt Bridey and Aunt Dierdre stood in the parlor door, watching, their arms crossed.

Temple Fortune peeked at me from beneath his cap. His face was very red. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll stand behind and push and you lot stay in front and pull.”

“That wouldn’t be a wise position to take,” Uncle Ned said. “Just you think about it for a minute.”

“I see what you mean,” Temple said unhappily.

“I wonder what it is they’re doing?” Seamus conversed with some imaginary bystander.

The donkey made airplane landing signals with his ears. Going anywhere didn’t seem to be in his plans. The men stood by in a huddle. Perspiration ran down their faces. Liam took out a package of cigarettes. They discussed what to do.

“Are you finished with the donkey?” Seamus asked them.

“Yeah,” Uncle Ned brushed him off. Then, back to the men, “You know, we could get a female, over in Bantry…”

“That’s the silliest thing I ever did hear,” Liam said.

“Have you no more carrots?” Temple asked them.

Meanwhile, Seamus unhooked the cart and rolled it around past the strategists.

“Morocco’s eaten the carrots from the rabbits and back long ago,” Uncle Ned muttered. “Of course we might try a nice apple.”

“He’s wise to them carrots,” Liam agreed.

“You’ll keep your hands from my apples, do you hear me?” Bridey called across the yard. “They’re more dear than that donkey.”

Seamus placed the ramp of the cart just behind Morocco, then went up to Morocco’s face and took hold of the bit. “Come on, laddie,” he ordered.

Morocco, unperturbed, took his obligatory two steps backwards.

“And if there was something wrong with his blasted legs, it’s her highness would have to do something about it,” Aunt Bridey roared.

“Come on, drive with me to Donneygal,” Seamus urged and pulled him forward.

Morocco took another step backwards, away from Seamus and onto the ramp of the cart with his hind legs.

“Come on, you dog, come on with you.” He yanked him forward, anger in his voice now.

Morocco took a cool set of steps backwards right up the ramp.

“Now, you know you must come,” Seamus pleaded.

Morocco, tail first, slithered his ample behind in the tight-fitting stall. His smug, velvet eyes said “so there.” Seamus dropped the gate, patted the donkey and kicked away the ramp before one of the fellows would trip on it.

“Ready?” Jenny Rose asked him.

“You haven’t forgotten the scones?” He hobbled along down the road right behind us.