Woman of the House (17 page)

“But they don’t want to leave here,” Kate persisted.

“Don’t you try to make trouble between me and my children. That was always part of your problem. You had none of your own, so you wanted to stick your nose into the rearing of mine. Why don’t you get your hooks into David Twomey now, and get a man and children of your own. Was that what you were at when you offered to intercede for him with the parish priest? That was a laugh, to think that you spoiled whatever chance he had.”

Kate sat looking at Martha as she strode up and down the kitchen, her normally pale face red with anger. It came into her mind that one of the Spanish nurses in the London hospital had a saying. She could not remember it exactly but the gist of it was that some people only came alive in controversy. It surely applied to Martha. Mark was right: she would not change her mind.

“It’s been a waste of time coming here,” Kate told her, wearily rising from the chair. “You have no vision of the future; you are blinded by your own narrow-minded prejudices, and there is no love of the land in you.”

“And you are a self-righteous old spinster trying to live your life through your brother’s children,” Martha retorted. “You have no right to come here again. After the sale I doubt that you will want to come back. So get out now and stay out.”

Kate walked slowly towards the back door. She stood there and looked around the kitchen and then walked out into the back yard. Martha banged the door shut behind her.

The yard jobs had been done and a satisfied silence hung over the whole place; only the hens were busy scuffling in the sunshine. The farmyard after feeding time always reminded her of a hospital ward after dinner when all the patients were resting. From here Grandfather Phelan had led her by the hand to see the new calves of the season and then down through the fields of Mossgrove He had done the same with Ned. He had wanted to nurture a love of this place in them and had succeeded. It all seemed so pointless now.

Suddenly she felt old and tired. There was no good, she thought, in fighting the inevitable any longer. Mossgrove was going to be sold and there was nothing that she or anyone else could do about it. She walked up the boreen feeling utterly dejected. The singing birds and the buzz of spring seemed a contradiction of her mood. How could it all have gone so wrong, she wondered. This place that she had thought about every day during her years in London. She had carried it around in her heart like a hidden garden,
knowing that when she came back she would always be welcome here. She thought of Nellie, who had loved this place and sacrificed so much to keep it going. Had she ever thought of selling after Kate’s father had died? She had asked Jack that question once and he had looked at her in surprise. “Nellie sell Mossgrove? The thought never even crossed her mind. The only reason she’d have sold was if we’d gone bankrupt and we had to, but we scrope our way out of that one, thank God.”

She would have to tell Jack that she had failed, might even have made things worse. That was two things that she had messed up in one week. Martha had heard about the other one pretty fast, but of course Lizzy would have been delighted to spread that news around. Martha had a point about everybody knowing your business around here, she thought, but she preferred it to living somewhere where nobody was interested in you.

When she reached Jack’s cottage she decided that she would go in and sit down for a while. Jack never locked the door. She sat in the quietness of his small kitchen and tried to accept the fact that she would never again walk down the boreen to Mossgrove. It would take her a while to get used to the idea. Jack would have to retire, and maybe the time had come for that anyway, though he had always proclaimed that he wanted to die in harness. But that was not to be. Davy would have to go back to England. Poor Davy, he so badly wanted to stay at home, and he was happy in Mossgrove where he got on well with Peter. He was good for Peter right now because Davy understood how he felt, having walked that road himself. Peter is like my father, she thought; if he is not handled properly there will be trouble there yet. Whereas Nora was different: she was like
Nellie, always the peacemaker, but she also had the inner resilience of her grandmother.

Foolish Martha to think that they were Phelans only in name. How could she be so blind? But was she right in other ways? Am I trying to live my life through them? Because if Martha was blind to her own faults there is no reason, Kate thought, why I could not be blind to mine. Should I leave Kilmeen and go away and lead a life totally separate from this place? Am I too wrapped up in Mossgrove and Kilmeen, in the children and Jack, in David and the school?

The door opened quietly and Jack stood there. Suddenly the sight of Jack was too much for her, and she felt tears course down her face.

“It was no good, Jack,” she told him tearfully, rising and walking across to him. “There is no more to be done.”

“I know that you did your best, Kate,” he soothed, putting an arm around her and patting her head as if she was once again a child. “Even the Lord himself advised that having done all we should, then stand still. Maybe we have reached that stage.”

K
ATE HEARD THE
tapping at the door as she slowly surfaced out of the depths of sleep. Who could it be at this hour of the night? she wondered. She had gone to bed exhausted after the trauma of the day and fallen into a deep, deep sleep. Now she tried to pull herself up out of it and to get her brain turning over again. She slid out of the bed and pulled her warm dressing gown around her.

When she had come back to Kilmeen to take up her job here, Sarah had advised the purchase of the warmest dressing gown that she could find.

“It’s one of the requirements for this job,” Sarah had told her. “There is nothing like the comfort of a heavy wool dressing gown to ease the pain of dragging yourself out of a warm bed on a cold night. It wraps itself around you and makes you feel human when the rest of your fellow creatures are sound asleep.”

It was wise advice, Kate thought, as she ran down the stairs to find out who was in trouble at this hour of the night. When she opened the door fear clutched her. Matt Conway was standing there. He looked more dishevelled than usual in a huge overcoat with the collar reaching up over his ears and strings of foxy hair hanging down over it.

“The old woman is dying and wants to talk to you,” he told her abruptly.

“She was fine a few days ago,” Kate said stupidly, trying to recover from the shock of seeing him.

“Well, she’s not now.”

“Did Dr Twomey see her?”

“Yea, and he said she’s had a stroke. I was up with Fr Brady now and he said to tell you that he’ll collect you in a few minutes and bring you out to our place,” he told her in an expressionless voice before simply walking away.

She ran upstairs, got dressed quickly and packed extra towels into her bag, together with anything else that she thought she might need. If Molly Conway died she would have to be laid out, and Biddy Conway did not strike Kate as the kind of woman that would have anything put by for such an emergency.

She had just opened the door when Fr Brady’s black Hillman pulled up outside. He reached across and opened the car door for her. An extremely tall, thin young man, he was curved over the steering wheel, and his dark hair looked as if he had combed it with his fingers. As Kate got into the car he finished his dressing by fastening his collar at the back.

“Good morning, Kate,” he said pleasantly, moving his shoulders to settle more comfortably into his jacket. “As
you can see I’m not at my best at this hour. We’re having an early start to our day.”

“We are indeed, “she agreed. “This is a bit of a surprise because she was fine a few days ago. I was tending her since she cut her leg badly, but of course they did not get it looked after in time. They don’t like outsiders around the place.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“Very few have; it will be part of your rural education.”

He was what Jack termed a “townie” and knew very little about the country.

“What about Kitty?” he asked.

“Sarah told you?”

“She did, and I’m glad,” he said. “It’s better to know what’s going on because then you’re not walking in the dark.”

“Sarah said something like that when we found out,” Kate told him, “and of course she was right.”

“Messy business,” he said quietly.

“Makes you sick in your stomach,” she agreed, “but if Molly dies there is pressure on us to move fast.”

“Molly Conway knows that you know?”

“She does,” Kate said, “and so does he.”

“How did you manage that?” he asked in surprise.

“Without opening my mouth.”

“I could understand the need for that,” he said, “but it was a fair achievement in the circumstances.”

“It just fell right for me on the day.”

“Hope that it falls right for us tonight as well.”

No barking dogs heralded their arrival. He must have them all locked up, Kate thought.

The whole family were gathered together around Molly
Conway’s bed. Kitty’s was the first face that Kate saw, and it was ashen and terrified, a replica of Mark’s drawing. Kate suddenly felt chilled. When she looked at Molly Conway’s face and checked her pulse she knew that it was only a matter of time. The old lady was grey-faced and breathing heavily. When she felt her hand being held she opened her eyes and forced herself to focus.

“Kate Phelan,” she rasped.

“Yes, it’s me,” Kate told her, bending close to her in the bed, “and Fr Brady is here as well to anoint you.”

“He can wait,” she said, struggling for breath. “There is something more important.” She closed her eyes again but took another breath and they fluttered open. “Send them down to the kitchen,” she gasped, looking around the room at her family before sinking back on the pillows.

“Leave us for a few minutes,” Kate said quietly, and they trooped silently out of the room.

Fr Brady stood in the shadows by the window, out of Molly Conway’s line of vision. Kate was glad of his presence in case she needed someone to witness what Molly wanted to say.

“What is it, Molly?” she whispered into the old woman’s ear.

“Are they gone?” she asked with an effort.

“They are.”

There is very little left in her, Kate thought. She could hear the death rattle deep in the old woman’s throat, but still Molly struggled against it. Suddenly, with a determined effort she rose up in the bed and grasped both of Kate’s hands in a vicelike grip. She struggled for breath and the words came out in gasps.

“Kate Phelan?”

“I’m here, Molly. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“It’s Kitty,” the old woman breathed painfully. “Look after Kitty for me.”

“What do you want me to do?” Kate asked.

“I have money left to Mary… to look after Kitty… a lot of money.” The words came in gasps with rasping breaths in between. “In the bank in Ross… in her name… a letter too. You are to get Kitty out of here … up to Mary.”

“I’ll do that,” Kate promised her.

“Tonight,” Molly gasped. “You’re to get her out tonight.”

Kate hesitated for a moment, wondering how on earth she was to get the child out of the house that night. In the shadows Fr Brady moved slightly and nodded his head.

“He’ll help,” the old woman said clearly. Even at this stage Molly was perfectly lucid in her thinking and aware of what was going on in the room.

“I’ll do that, Molly,” Kate promised. “You’ve nothing to worry about now, because I’ll look after Kitty. She’ll be quite safe.”

“Thank God,” the old woman sighed and sank down into the pillows. Kate stepped back into the shadows and Fr Brady, with the anointing oils in his hands, moved over to the bed.

She looked out the window over the valley towards Mossgrove and saw the dawn breaking on the far horizon, and ever so gently a bird chirped, the first note of the dawn chorus. Behind her she could hear the murmur of Fr Brady’s voice and Molly’s breathing getting more laboured. What is it like to die, Kate wondered; to know that you are leaving everything behind and facing into the unknown. She had seen many people die and had never lost her wonder in the presence of death. She had felt the
same sense of wonder in the presence of birth. The beginning and the end.

Fr Brady joined her at the window. “She is sinking fast,” he said; “they’d best come in.” He opened the door and beckoned to the family who were hunched together around the fire. They filed slowly into the bedroom: Matt, Biddy and the two boys who had moved Kitty’s bed, and two older boys whom Kate just knew were Conways when she saw them. They stood awkwardly around the bed, not quite sure what was expected of them, and Kate went out quietly and closed the door behind her.

Kitty was sitting on a chair by the fire, her teeth clenched.

“Is Nana dying?” she forced out the words.

Kate went over to the fire and sat on a wide sugan armchair across from her.

“Do you want to sit here beside me, Kitty?” she asked, moving sideways to make room for the child. Kitty slipped into the chair beside her and Kate put an arm comfortingly around her thin shoulders.

“Your Nana is dying,” she told her, “but she asked me to look after you, and I promised her that I would.”

“She was always very nice to me, but I got a terrible fright tonight when she called me.”

“She was lucky to have you with her. You were a great girl to be able to help her.”

“Where will I sleep now?” Kitty asked fearfully.

“You’re coming back to my house tonight.”

“Am I?” Kitty asked in amazement. “Why so?”

“Because your Nana said so,” Kate replied.

“Oh! Nana said that she would make everything all right.”

“And she did,” Kate told her, lifting Kitty on to her lap. She was rigid with shock and tension. Kate rubbed her hands and legs and gradually she warmed a little. She badly needs a bath, Kate thought, as she looked down at the matted hair and dirt-ringed neck. Poor little mite, she is worse off than Nora. A dead father is better than the monster in this house.

The bedroom door opened and the family filed down into the kitchen. The boys looked bewildered but there were no tears. Their grandmother had helped to rear them, Kate thought, so they must have felt something for her, but there was no evidence of it.

“She’s gone,” Matt said, looking at Kate and his daughter with an expressionless face.

“Will you go over for Sarah and we’ll lay her out?” Kate asked him.

“Sarah will do it by herself,” he told her sharply.

Kate was about to protest, but Fr Brady, coming up out of the room, said quietly to Matt, “We’ll call to Sarah on our way past to spare you the bother of going over, because you will have a lot to do here preparing for the wake.”

“That’s right,” Matt agreed with a triumphant glare at Kate.

“Your mother wanted Kitty to come with us,” Fr Brady added quietly. “She is after a bad shock for one so young and might be better out of the house. Death isn’t easy for any of us, but it’s a terrible shock for one so young.”

“If that’s what the old woman wanted,” Matt agreed hesitantly.

“That’s what she wanted,” Fr Brady told him firmly, “so we’ll be going now and I’ll call back in the morning to make funeral arrangements. When you’ve had a chance to sort things out between yourselves.”

Kitty walked out of the kitchen holding Kate’s hand without a backward glance. She has more courage than I had yesterday, Kate thought. As she passed Matt Conway she barely heard the hiss, “I’ll get you for this yet.” She cast a sideways look at Kitty and knew that she had not heard.

As they drove up the road, the early morning sun shot beams of light across the landscape. It’s a new day and a new start for Kitty, Kate thought, and suddenly her heart lifted and she felt a great surge of admiration for the woman who had just died. Molly Conway had her faults but was a force to be reckoned with even in death.

Kate tapped on the window of Sarah’s bedroom and then went to the front door to wait. After a few minutes Sarah opened the door wrapped in a long wool dressing gown.

“Who’s dead?” she asked simply.

“Molly Conway,” Kate told her, and added: “a stroke. You’ll have to lay her out on your own, Matt didn’t want me around.”

“What about Kitty? Sarah asked quickly.

“In the car with us,” Kate told her, nodding towards Fr Brady’s car.

“How did you manage that?”

“Molly’s instructions, and Fr Brady helped.”

“And where from here?” Sarah asked.

“Up to Mary – she left money for it,” Kate told her.

“I knew she had money,” Sarah said. “I’ll send a telegram to Mary as soon as the post office opens, telling her that Molly is dead.”

“Have you everything that you need for over?” Kate asked, nodding across the valley to Conways. “I’d say Biddy hasn’t even a clean towel in the house.”

“Ah, Kate,” Sarah told her, “I’ve walked down that road before. There are a good few like Biddy knocking around. But not to worry – I’ll manage.”

“I’ll leave you to it, so, and I might see you later on.”

“Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” Kate asked Fr Brady when he pulled up in front of her door.

“It won’t be too much trouble?” he asked, uncoiling himself out of the car.

“Not at all,” she assured him. “I’ll be making it anyway and I’m sure that Kitty would like something too.”

She ushered them into the hallway, then led them into the kitchen.

“What a lovely warm kitchen,” Fr Brady said admiringly.

“The range is great,” Kate told him, putting on the kettle and then rattling up the fire with the long poker between the bars, “especially if you have to go out on a night call.”

Kitty stood looking around her in awe.

“Would you like a cup of warm cocoa?” Kate asked her, and she nodded her head.

“I’d like that too,” Fr Brady told her; “there is something very comforting about cocoa and toast.”

“Cocoa and toast it is, so,” Kate said, putting cuts of bread on top of the still-warm range and three mugs on the side where she spooned the cocoa into them and mixed it with sugar and milk, adding water then from the boiling kettle.

“Now, sit down here,” she told them, putting the mugs of cocoa on the table, “and this will put hair on your chest, as Jack used to tell me when I was small.” Kitty giggled as she drank the cocoa down and chewed the toast with satisfaction.

“You’re a fast eater,” Kate told her as she drained the cup. “Would you like another one?”

“No,” Kitty mumbled, packing the last of the toast into her mouth.

“Come with me, so,” said Kate, holding out her hand. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she told the priest as she and Kitty left the kitchen.

She led Kitty up the stairs and into her small spare bedroom at the back of the house. “Now, Kitty, you can sleep in here, and now I’ll show you the bathroom.”

Kitty looked at the big white bath in admiration. “Mary told me that she had a bath like that in Dublin, but I never was in one.”

“Would you like to go into it now?” Kate asked in surprise. She had been tempted to suggest it but had not wanted to hurt Kitty’s feelings.

“I’d love it,” Kitty said with excitement.

Aren’t children wonderful, Kate thought, as she turned on the taps. She put in expensive bath oil that she had bought in London and spared for special occasions. This is definitely a special occasion, she thought, as she ran her hand through the warm water and bubbles foamed up. She eased Kitty’s clothes off over her head and then lifted her into the bath where she squealed with delight.