Another Heartbeat in the House (48 page)

From beyond the small glazed window of the larder, a gunshot rang out. I turned to young Biddy.

‘Christy is out already,' she said.

‘After rabbits?'

I saw that her pale face had coloured. ‘Ma'am,' she said in a rush. ‘Christy has asked for to marry me.'

I knew, without her having to volunteer the information, that young Biddy was pregnant. I had noticed last night that she was wearing her apron higher, to try to disguise the bump. I was not surprised that she was with child; when last I had been in Lissaguirra, she had been stepping out with a lad named Phelim Daly, a handsome butcher's boy from Doneraile with whom she had been quite besotted. But I was bemused by the notion that Christy might be the father.

‘Phelim is gone to America,' she told me, preempting the question. The colour rose higher in her face. ‘He left a month ago.'

I had noticed, when I passed through the town, that the butcher's was one of the many shops that had been boarded up. ‘And when did Christy propose?' I asked.

‘After Phelim left.'

What a good man Christy Cassidy was! I saw at once that he had volunteered himself as a player in a drama that was none of his making. Since the father of young Biddy's child had been forced to emigrate and leave his sweetheart and unborn baby behind, Christy had stepped in as a substitute.

Young Biddy folded her hands across her belly in a dignified manner. ‘You might have noticed, ma'am, that I am expecting. I am mindful that you may no longer require my services.'

Oh! It was pitiful, how she felt she had to tell me in words that were so formal and unfamiliar to her! It reminded me of the way Annie Thackeray spoke, when she was pretending to be a grown-up. Young Biddy was little more than a child herself; I had taken her on when she was just thirteen. And now, instead of romping up the aisle with her childhood sweetheart, she was marrying a man she did not love.

‘Come here to me, darling,' I said, wrapping my arms around her. ‘Come here to me, mavourneen. What makes you think I'd want to be rid of you? I'd be lost without my pair of Biddies – you know I would!'

Young Biddy clung to me, and buried her face in my shoulder.

‘You're not going to dismiss me?'

‘How could I dismiss family? You've looked after me and my little one for long enough; it's time you had someone to look after you.'

‘Oh, thank you, ma'am! I was scared, so scared that you might put me out, and then where would I be? My mam is gone, and my pa, and Phelim, Phelim is gone, and he's the only man I ever loved, ever! And Christy is so good and kind, and you are too, ma'am, but my heart is broke. My heart is broke, for I know I never will see my Phelim again.'

And as young Biddy gave way to tears so copious they soaked the sleeve of my robe, I racked my brain for the comforting words a mother might say in a similar situation; no easy task, since I had never had the benefit of any such words myself.

‘Won't a baby be a grand thing!' I there-there'd. ‘What fine news, to welcome me home! Shh, shh, Biddy, shh. Just think – a companion for Clara Venus! I must look out all her old baby clothes. And the baby carriage, and the bassinet! I'm delighted that there's to be a new little one at Lissaguirra.'

Especially, I thought wryly, since I did not have to give birth to it.

CLARA VENUS SLEPT
so late that morning that I began to fret. Might she be ill? Might she have been exposed to one of the diseases Dr Donovan had mentioned? Cholera, smallpox, tuberculosis, pellagra … Drowsiness was one of the symptoms of tuberculosis, I knew; then remembered with alarm that numerous passengers on the voyage from London had been suffering from colds: one gentleman had sneezed numerous times without recourse to a handkerchief, and I had been obliged to proffer him a handkerchief of my own.

When I expressed my concerns to Old Biddy, she brewed up a vile-smelling concoction of linseed oil, liquorice, preserved lemons and rum, which she swore would ease any symptoms. She was businesslike and reassuring, but I could tell that she was masking her discomfiture, because she put quantities of water on to boil. Jameson told us to stop fussing. Clara was, he insisted, simply worn out after the long journey, and should be allowed to sleep as late as she liked.

I passed the time puttering around the courtyard, saying hello to Dolly and Minerva, poking about in the kitchen garden, then sitting on a bench by the kitchen door with the wan winter sun on my face while Jameson and Christy talked horses and husbandry. Christy was concerned about the fox that had been staking out the chicken coop. He'd seen in the past the havoc that could be wreaked once a fox gained access – an entire flock would be left dead and maimed – and he was determined to get shot of the animal, for it would be nigh impossible to replace our chickens. Dusk was the best time to nab a fox, he said, for they left their lairs then to go hunting.

I listened in that absent way one does when suffering fatigue – for of course, I had had little sleep the night before. I heard the drone of voices rising and falling, the lazy flap of the laundry on the line, the lively bleat of a young goat, the low clucking of the hens. It was wonderfully slumbrous: my limbs felt liquid and heavy as mercury, and behind the closed lids of my eyes I saw the sun dance in patterns that reminded me of a kaleidoscope my mother had shown me as a child and then I was travelling with her along a track between bean rows with the sky big and high and we kissed each other adieu and then there was no one there except a tall, lean fellow, a scarecrow far away who was moving nearer with every step of his long legs clad in tattered trews that flapped around his bony limbs and he stretched out a hand and I realized that he was not supplicating or begging, no he was here to take something from me and when I saw his face under the broad brim of his hat I knew that he was Death.

The crowing of the cock woke me, and I opened my eyes to see Clara Venus standing in front of me in her nightgown. She was backlit by the sun, clutching a thick slice of bread and honey, and regarding me curiously.

‘Mama, were you sleeping?' she said.

‘Yes.'

‘There is drool coming out of your mouth and you were snoring.'

‘Oh!' I laughed and dug in my pocket for my handkerchief. ‘You mean creature, to tell me so! I must look a fright.' I wiped at my mouth and blew my nose.

‘Why do people snore when they're asleep?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Were you having a dream?'

‘I can't remember,' I lied.

‘Old Biddy made me porridge. I ate it all. I ate two bowls full.'

‘Good girl.' There was clearly nothing wrong with Clara Venus. Jameson had been right when he'd said we were fussing over nothing.

‘Did you eat all yours, Mama?'

‘Yes.'

Another lie. Fatigue made me nauseous, and I could not have stomached porridge for breakfast. I yawned and stretched, and found that my limbs were aching; unsurprisingly, after three nights sleeping at sea with Clara Venus in a cramped bunk.

‘Look,' she said, ‘Young Biddy sewed daisies on my slippers.'

I looked down at Clara's feet. Her little slippers were scattered with silk daisies that had once trimmed a summer bonnet of mine.

‘You silly child!' I mock-chided her. ‘You will catch your death, coming outdoors in nothing but your nightdress and slippers!'

‘Don't you think they're pretty?'

‘They are very pretty, but they are not made for traipsing over a stable yard.'

Scooping her up, I wrapped her in my shawl, then helped myself to a handful of Brussels sprouts from the trug that I had set beside me on the bench. ‘Come,' I said, jouncing her on my hip as I made my way around puddles to where the goats were penned. ‘These fellows have been waiting all morning to welcome you back. They've been calling you non-stop. Clar-raaaaa! Clar-raaaaa!!'

She wriggled and giggled as she fed the goats sprouts, and when they had been devoured and the animals were shrilling for more –
Clar-raaaaa! Clar-raaaaa!
– she gave them her bread and honey, then begged me to pull up some carrots. I set her on the stone pier of the gate, and crouched down by the vegetable patch, feeling a horrible sense of shame as I tugged the tubers from the ground. Old Biddy had told me that earlier in the year she had seen people pulling turnips from the earth and eating them raw.

‘You must not think we can feed the goats every day,' I said, wiping earth from the carrots. ‘This is a treat. We need to be careful with what food we have.'

‘I hate carrots,' announced Clara Venus. ‘I think we should let the goats have all our carrots.'

I was just about to embark on a sermon about what a precious resource they were, and how nutritious, when a shriek made me whirl around. ‘Look! Mama, Mama – look!' Helpless with laughter, Clara was watching two of the goats play at tug o' war with my shawl. They had each taken a fringed edge between their teeth, and were capering like a pair of Morris dancers, snickering and rolling their devilish yellow eyes.

‘Deuce
take
them! Clara, how could you let them! My shawl will be
ruined
!' I dropped the carrots and hastened over. The nanny goat had joined in now, chewing on the woollen cloth as implacably as though she were chewing tobacco, while the kids cavorted around her with scraps of fringe dangling from their mouths. Clara couldn't stop laughing, but I didn't think it was at all funny. The shawl was an old one, but it was one I kept handy on a peg by the kitchen door, that I could sling around my shoulders any time I stepped out, and I was vexed that she had been so careless with it.

‘It's just a shawl.' Jameson joined us, and tried to slide a hand about my waist.

‘Just a shawl?' I shot him a cross look, took hold of his hand and removed it. ‘What does that mean? Is that
just
a hat you're wearing?'

‘What do you think, honey sweet?' he asked Clara, with a complicit smile. ‘Would you like to see the goats eat my hat?'

‘Yes, yes!'

With a cavalier gesture, Jameson doffed the slouch hat he was wearing, then tossed it to the goats. The kids lit upon it with glee, trying to impale it with their baby horns, while their mother looked on approvingly.

Clara Venus laughed so hard that she toppled backwards off the pier, but Jameson caught her just in time, swinging her around so that her nightgown billowed out around her like a white flag, making her crow even louder and sending the hens scuttling in alarm. She had lost a slipper – it had gone spinning into the goats' pen – and as I hurried to retrieve it, one of the kids strutted up and butted me in the derrière.

I would have laughed, another time. Another time I would have joined in with Clara Venus and Jameson as they spluttered and roared with mirth, but something had piqued me, and I could not allow myself to engage. I felt that not only my dignity but my authority had been undermined, and that by taking such a
laisser-aller
stance, Jameson was endorsing – even encouraging – Clara's giddy behaviour. I was not in the mood for this. I felt excluded and school-mistressy and – worst of all – I felt unwelcome.

I shook my head in annoyance. ‘What has possessed you?' I snapped, thrusting the slipper at Jameson.

‘You're a sourpuss today, aren't you?' he said.

‘And you are irresponsible and childish.'

‘What? Having fun with my daughter is childish? I should damn well hope so. You should try it some time.'

‘Oh, shut up,' I told him, turning on my heel.

‘Liza! What's up with you?'

I didn't reply. As I stalked back into the house I knew that I was behaving like a spoilsport, and even when I heard Clara call, ‘Mama! Come back!' I refused to turn around. I kept going with my chin in the air, carrying my stupid dignity with me as if it were something valuable.

For the rest of the morning I sulked. I sulked in my bedchamber as I unpacked my clothes and Clara's. I sulked at lunchtime and would not come down, claiming I had a headache brought on by falling asleep with the sun on my face. I sulked as Clara and Jameson played a rowdy game of hide-and-seek upstairs and down, and I sulked when I heard their receding chatter below my window as they headed off along the path that led into the woods, Clara's light, reedy voice in contrapunto to Jameson's velvet drawl. She was saying something about how cruel it was to kill foxes, and he was explaining that foxes were the cruel ones, for they killed the chickens that laid our eggs. They hadn't bothered to bid me farewell, I observed peevishly. But then, why should they, since I had been behaving like a prize sow? Feeling foolish and uncherished, I donned my Chinese robe and descended the stairs to seek sanctuary with the Biddies in the kitchen.

It was warm there, redolent of comforting stockpot smells, and the sound of the ticking clock was curiously pacifying. Old Biddy was rolling out pastry and singing one of the Irish airs that she had used to sing to Clara when she was colicky as a baby. I had a sudden intense yearning to be mollycoddled, to have someone put me to bed between smooth, freshly laundered sheets, to pull a soft quilt over me, to stroke my hair and sing me lullabies until I fell asleep.