Woman of the House (8 page)

“It’s not what you think,” Martha said dully. “I couldn’t sleep last night so I made a hot whiskey. I’m not going to turn out like your old fella.”

“Sit up now and have your tea,” Kate said briskly. Martha complied wordlessly.

Having seen the condition of Martha, she decided that she needed a plan of action. She went quickly downstairs, brought the big tin bath from its hook on the wall of the scullery, put it before the fire in the parlour and drew buckets of hot water from the pot beside the kitchen fire until the bath was half full. Betty Nolan’s bundle of washing produced two large clean towels. She draped one over a chair in front of the fire and, before her courage deserted her, she marched up to Martha’s room with the other across her arm.

“Come on now,” she said firmly, removing the tray. Before Martha could object she turned back the clothes and, putting her arm under her shoulder, brought her upright. Then she swung Martha’s legs out over the side of the bed. Martha opened her mouth to protest, but Kate wrapped the towel around her and propelled her towards the door. Martha was about four inches taller than her, so if she decided not to co-operate there was very little Kate could do, but Martha, taken by surprise, came along. When they reached the kitchen Kate guided her towards the parlour door.

“Why are we going up there?” Martha objected, but Kate kept moving her along. The element of surprise was working in her favour. When they had closed the parlour door behind them and she saw the bath of steaming water, Martha balked.

“Not having a bath,” she asserted.

“Oh yes, you are,” Kate told her with determination.

She stooped down and, catching the tail of Martha’s dirty nightdress, she whipped it off over her head before Martha realised what was happening.

“You bitch!” Martha spat.

That’s a good sign, Kate thought. If she was gone into a deep depression there would be no reaction, just meek acceptance.

“Now, into the bath,” Kate instructed in her firmest voice, and she held out her hand to steady Martha. But Martha caught the back of the chair and got in wordlessly.

She’s got a beautiful body, Kate thought; tall and slim and long-limbed, and not a spare pound on her.

“Now wash your hair as well and there’s a spare bucket of water there to rinse it,” Kate told her, “and I’ll be back with clean clothes.”

She whipped up the dirty nightdress and took it with her down to the kitchen.

“Oh God,” she gasped as she collapsed into a chair by the window, “I brought that off by the skin of my teeth.”

The piece of beef was on the table. Jack must have come in while they were in the parlour and like the wise man that he was he had left it and disappeared. She put it on to boil and took the stairs two at a time to get going on all that needed to be done up there. Just as well that I’m a nurse, she thought, as she stripped beds and remade them as fast as possible. A breeze whipped around her from the windows she had opened. She packed the dirty bedclothes into a bag and decided that when Jack was going to the creamery in the morning he could drop it off to Julia Deasy, who took in washing and ironing. It would not be fair to expect Betty to take on this lot. She would call to
Julia tonight and arrange it with her. Julia provided an excellent service and Kate had found her a great help when she came across awkward situations on her rounds and she needed clothes to be washed and dried fast.

When she had the beds made she brushed the rooms and stairs and closed the windows. At least things smell better, she thought, looking around her in satisfaction. She went to Martha’s room and found some clean clothes and underwear and a brush and comb.

When she returned to the parlour Martha was sitting by the fire wrapped in the towels, and the bath with a grey scum on top was pulled sideways. Kate put her clothes on a chair beside her.

“Feeling better now?” she asked quietly.

“You’re the real Florence Nightingale, aren’t you,” Martha said grimly, “washing the destitute.”

“When you’re dressed I’ll brush your hair,” Kate said matter-of-factly, dragging the bath along the floor into the front porch and then out the door where she tilted it sideways on the step and it poured out under the rose bushes. When she returned to the parlour Martha was busy brushing her hair.

“Do you want any help?” Kate asked.

“No,” she was told abruptly.

Kate returned to the kitchen and started on the dinner. When she had everything simmering over the fire, she arranged the rest of the daffodils in a two-pound jam pot on the table where they hung over the sides like old women exchanging the news. Then she made a small arrangement for the Sacred Heart. As she placed the fresh bunch beneath the picture she smiled to see that Nora, despite all the trauma, had continued the house tradition
of keeping seasonal flowers beside the Sacred Heart lamp. Nora was so like Nellie it was uncanny. She was grateful to Ned that he had not let Martha turn the children against Nellie and herself, and of course Jack, wise old Jack, who understood people so well, was always there to put in the good word. She often wondered if Martha could see the resemblance between Nellie and Nora. Martha, who could not bring herself to accept Nellie, and here she was now with a duplicate of her on the floor. Life played strange tricks, Kate thought. Peter was more of a mixture, with a bit of Martha and his grandfather Billy and, hopefully she thought, a bit of Ned or else there are stormy times ahead.

When she heard the latch of the back door being lifted she knew that they were home from school. She was glad to have achieved her target of having the dinner on the table. The door into the kitchen burst open and they stood there with beaming smiles of welcome. For the second time that day she had to control her reaction to appearances. Both of them looked wretched. Nora’s small face seemed to have shrunk and her hair that had always been a glow of curls was now a dull, tangled mess. She was painfully thin and her clothes seemed to hang off her. Peter was gaunt, with dark smudges under his eyes. They were children who had lost the carefree look of childhood.

“Perfect timing,” she told them, smiling.

“Aunty Kate!” Nora shrieked and hurled herself across the kitchen into Kate’s arms.

She looked at Peter over her head and could see that he, too, was relieved to see her. The poor misfortunates, she thought, they must have gone through hell with the last few weeks, judging by the state of the house and their mother. Peter lifted his nose and sniffed appreciatively.

“Oh, that smells good,” he smiled.

“Well, sit yourselves down now and we’ll tuck in,” she told them, and then asked, “Jack is coming, I suppose?”

“Yea,” Nora laughed, “he’ll be right in ’cause we could smell the dinner out in the yard.”

They threw the school sacks on to the chair by the fire and made eagerly for the table.

“Well, how have you been?” Kate asked.

“Terrible,” Peter said, his face darkening. “Is she still in bed?”

“No,” Kate told him, smiling, “your mother is up in the parlour by the fire.”

“Aunty Kate,” Nora gasped in delight, “you’re magic. When did you come home?”

“Last night,” Kate told her, “so I was here early this morning.”

“You’ve done a lot of work,” Nora said slowly, looking around the house taking it all in. “How did you get so much done in one day?”

“By half killing herself,” Jack answered, coming in the door. “And by God but that dinner smells good.”

“Well, sit yourself down, Jack, and we’ll see if it puts hair on your chest,” Kate told him.

“I don’t want it to put hair on my chest,” Nora protested, much to Peter’s amusement.

It was a pleasure to watch them scoff the big bowls of soup.

“There’s eating and drinking in this,” Jack said and added, winking at Nora, “better than fried eggs any day.”

“Ah, Jack, the fried eggs were all right too,” Nora told him loyally.

“Well, we were getting a bit tired of them,” Peter
admitted, “but they were the best we could manage with her in bed and Kate away.”

“Aunty Kate,” Nora wanted to know, “what were you doing away for so long?”

“A course about people with mental problems,” Kate told her.

“That would be most of us,” Jack decided.

“Not you, Jack,” Kate smiled, “you’re the sanest person that I know. How are things out in the yard – are many of the cows calved?”

“Most of them,” Peter answered for him, “and we manage the milking between us morning and evening.”

“It’s no joke having to milk that many before school every morning, Peter,” Kate told him admiringly.

“We manage,” he said proudly. “Dada told me once that he did it after his father died.”

And before he died, Jack thought, remembering Billy’s mornings in bed after late night drinking sessions. He caught Kate’s eye across the table and knew that she was thinking the same thing.

“Well, how were things in school today?” he queried, to change the subject.

“We had Fr Brady,” Nora smiled. “He’s just lovely and drives Miss Buckley mad because he won’t ask catechism questions. We had a concert today and he sang himself, a funny song only I can’t remember the name of it.”

“That went down well with old sour puss, I’d say,” Jack commented, remembering her since the night of the funeral.

As if the same thought ran through Nora’s mind and brought back that day, she asked, earnestly gazing at Kate across the table, “Do you remember, Aunty Kate, the money that you gave me for Dada’s pipe?”

“I do indeed,” Kate told her, feeling the dull pain tighten in her chest. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

“Well, do you think that he knew afterwards that I was going to buy it for him.”

“I’m sure that he did, Norry,” she said gently.

“I’m glad of that,” Nora told her. “I thought he would but I wanted to make sure. You know that you told me to pray to him if I wanted anything and that he would hear me in heaven?”

“Yes,” Kate said quietly.

“Well, you were right, because he sorted out a problem that I had in school after I asking him.”

So that problem is solved, Jack thought; he had wondered a few times about it.

Nora continued seriously, “I’m praying for something else now, that he’ll look after us and won’t let Mossgrove be sold.”

“Mossgrove be sold!” Peter gasped in horror. “What the hell put that into your head, Norry?”

“Kitty Conway said that Mom will sell Mossgrove and that we’ll be all out in the road like tinkers,” Nora told them.

“That’s rubbish,” Peter told her scornfully, “and don’t you mind the Conways.”

“It would take that crowd to think of a thing like that,” Jack said furiously.

Then quietly the door of the kitchen opened slowly and all their eyes swung in that direction. Martha stood there looking at them with a strange smile on her face.

“Y
ou’ll have to get help into Mossgrove,” Betty Nolan declared firmly.

Kate and herself were sitting in Nolans’ bright airy kitchen having tea. She was a large, fair-haired woman with a sunny disposition who said exactly what she thought, and she and Kate had been friends since childhood.

“You’re right there,” Kate agreed. “There is just too much work for Peter and Jack.”

“And Peter is only an overgrown lad anyway,” Betty asserted.

“He wouldn’t like to hear you say that,” Kate told her.

“I know,” Betty agreed, “but you know what I mean. His father had to become a man before his time, and now Peter is caught in the same trap. But this time it’s worse because Ned had Nellie as a back-up, whereas Martha is a different kettle of fish altogether. You wouldn’t know what way that one would jump.”

“Well, you know,” Kate told her, “that I could never really figure Martha out.

“Well, I never had that problem,” Betty said firmly. “She’s a fine, tough, selfish woman, and you’d do well not to forget that. I know now that she’s been through hell, but I doubt if that is going to change the nature of the woman. You could finish up killing yourself struggling to keep that place going as well as trying to do your own job, and what you’ll get from Martha in the heel of the hunt is a fine good kick in the arse. You’d do well to remember that now!”

“You could be right,” Kate agreed, “but then there is Jack to be thought of and the children.”

“Of course, that’s her whip hand isn’t it?” Betty declared. “She knows that where Jack and the children are concerned she has you by the scruff of the neck, as she had Nellie before you.”

“It’s a bit like the fox, the goose and the sheaf of oats isn’t it?” Kate said ruefully.

“Yes, but the first thing for this goose to do,” Betty told her, “is to get help into Mossgrove. Young Davy Shine back the road is home from England and his mother told me that he would stay if he got a job.”

“Is Davy home from England?” Kate asked.

“Sure, he was at the funeral – didn’t you meet him then?” Betty told her in a surprised voice.

“I think that I went blind and deaf for those days,” Kate said; “it’s all a blur in my mind.”

“Maybe it’s better that way,” Betty said comfortingly, putting her hand over Kate’s on the table. “Nature has its own way of dealing with hurts.”

Kate felt a lump in her throat but she swallowed hard. This was no morning for crying: there was too much to be done.

“You’re right about Davy,” she agreed; “he would be ideal for Mossgrove.”

“Didn’t he work there as a young fellow with Ned and Jack?” Betty asked.

“He did indeed, and we were very fond of him. The Shines were always honest and hard-working, and Peter and himself got on well, so we’d have no problem there. But what about Martha?”

“Kate, will you stop pussyfooting around,” Betty said impatiently. “Just get that young fellow into Mossgrove and worry about Martha afterwards. You’ll be the cause of killing Jack. He’s overworked and, worse still, he’s worried sick about the work that he just can’t get around to.”

“You’re right, of course. Sometimes I can’t see things clearly where Mossgrove is concerned.”

“Well, anytime you get dim vision, call to me and I’ll clear the fog.”

“Betty,” Kate said gratefully, “you make everything seem so straightforward. I’ll call to Mossgrove now when I’m passing and tell Jack, and then I’ll call to Shines on my way to Conways.”

“What the hell is taking you to Conways?” Betty demanded in alarm.

“Old Molly Conway must have cut her leg badly, and Doc Twomey sent the girl who replaced me to dress it twice a week, so it was on my list this morning.”

“Well, aren’t they going to get a surprise to see you arriving!”

“There wasn’t a Phelan inside that gate for three generations, I’d say,” Kate said slowly. “My grandfather was the last one.”

“And it cost him dearly.”

“Well, that’s all in the past now.”

“People around here have long memories,” Betty told her.

“Well, I’d better get moving anyway,” Kate decided, rising from the table. “I’ve a good few calls to make. Thanks for the tea and the chat: it did me good.”

As she cycled away from Nolans’, Kate thought that Betty as usual had the situation sized up pretty well. Getting Davy Shine was a brilliant idea. It would take a lot of pressure off Jack.

When she met Jack, going down the boreen to Mossgrove, he thought so as well.

“I’ll call to Shines now when I’m passing. When will I tell him to come?” she asked.

“Oh, the sooner the better,” Jack said in a relieved voice; “tomorrow morning if possible.”

“What about Martha?” Kate asked.

“Leave that to me,” Jack decided. “’Twill be all my idea.”

“How is she today?”

“Up, thanks be to God!” Jack said fervently. “You did the trick over the weekend. There is no way that you are going to get the run of her house.”

“I don’t care for what reason,” Kate declared. “Once she’s out of the bed at all, she’ll keep moving and gradually things will work out.”

“Hopefully,” Jack said.

“I won’t call in at all now,” Kate told him, turning her bike around; “she wouldn’t want to see me anyway so I’ll keep going.”

“God bless you, Kate.” Jack smiled with understanding and headed off down towards the house.

Toby barked inside the wall as she bolted the farm gate beside the cottage.

“Hello, Toby,” she said, “you’re minding the house for Jack?”

He wagged his tail when he recognised the voice and she put her hand in through the bars of Jack’s gate to pat his head. He danced with delight and licked her hand in appreciation.

As she cycled along she was so intent on her thoughts that she had sped past Sarah Jones’ cottage before she realised that Sarah was standing at the gate and looking after her in surprise. Kate braked and swung around, coming to a stop with a scatter of gravel.

“Sorry, Sarah,” she said, “I almost didn’t see you. I was away in a world of my own.”

“Not surprising,” Sarah said sympathetically, putting an arm around her shoulders and giving her a soft kiss on the cheek.

“It’s so good to see you, Sarah,” Kate told her, smiling into the caring face of the little woman who had been her mother’s best friend.

“How are they below?” Sarah asked, nodding in the direction of the farm.

“Not bad, I suppose,” Kate answered slowly, “but it’s going to take a long time.”

“It’s such a relief to Jack to have you back,” Sarah said; “he’s nearly gone demented and poor Agnes Lehane is at her wits’ end over Martha taking to the bed and leaving the children to their own devices.”

“Well, at least she’s out of the bed now anyway,” Kate told her.

“And how are you yourself?” Sarah asked kindly.

“Oh, Sarah, it’s such a relief to be back. I miss him around every corner here, but at least it’s real. Away I felt as if I was living in an artificial bubble.”

“It’s easier to grieve in you own place,” Sarah said; “it’s more natural somehow. How was the course?”

“You’d have enjoyed it,” Kate told her; “you could probably have taught them a thing or two with all your experience.”

“Well, I suppose you learn something about people in thirty years of delivering their babies and laying out their dead,” Sarah admitted.

“Probably a lot more than I’ll ever know.”

“Over the years it will come to you too,” Sarah assured her. “In our job you see people stripped of pretence. I’ve seen family funerals where all the hidden cracks opened up and deep-rooted emotions buried for years floated to the surface.”

“Death and grief throw normal life off the tracks, don’t they,” Kate said thoughtfully. “You’re sort of swimming in uncharted emotional waters and the people around you are doing the same thing.”

“Something like that,” Sarah agreed, “but I best not be delaying you, you probably have calls to make.”

“Yes,” Kate said, “I’m going back to Conways’ now.”

“That should be interesting,” Sarah said evenly.

“I’ve never been there before,” Kate told her, “but you must have often been called.”

“Only when they had no other choice,” Sarah told her. “The Conways like to sort out their own problems. That Matt Conway is a strange man.”

“It’s his mother that I’m calling to see – she cut her leg.”

“Old Molly is getting on a bit,” Sarah mused, “and she’s
not the worst of them. My guess is that they didn’t call the doctor until blood poisoning was threatening.”

“That’s exactly what Doc Twomey said.”

“Some things never change. But I won’t delay you any more now, and Kate – it’s such a lovely spring day – try to look around you as you cycle along. No good in having your head down, it will only give you backache.”

“Right, Sarah,” Kate agreed.

As she cycled along she took Sarah’s advice. Sarah had been such a staunch friend of Nellie’s. She probably knows more about my family than myself, Kate thought, but unlike Betty Nolan, Sarah was one to keep her opinions to herself.

She cycled slowly, taking in her surroundings, and her mood lightened a little. She noticed the soft green shoots ready to uncurl on the beech trees that Ned had planted along the boundary ditch. He would never see them fully grown now, but they would reach their full height in Peter’s lifetime. Ned had always said that you planted trees for future generations.

She came off her bike and stood looking up at the tall young trees and felt that the spirit of Ned was in them. She climbed up on to the ditch and ran her fingers over the cool, smooth bark. From this vantage point she could see along the entire valley. She remembered Mark once telling her that they lived in a horseshoe-shaped valley. He was right. The road curved left above at the school and it ran parallel at the opposite side of the valley, so the houses at both sides looked across at each other with the river in between. He had pointed out that there were seven nails in a horseshoe and there were seven houses in the valley. Starting at the end of the hill there was Nolans’, Jack’s,
Mossgrove, and Sarah Jones’ at one side. Then above at the turn stood the school, to match the clip of the horseshoe, and across the river was Shines’, Lehanes’ and Conways’. The full horseshoe! Mark had got his perspective when he was painting a picture of the valley. Since he had told her that she now saw it through his eyes.

“Kate,” a voice behind her said, “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Jesus Christ!” Kate gasped, swinging around to look down into the smiling face of Mark, who was clambering up on to the ditch beside her. “Mark, you frightened the living daylights out of me!”

“Sorry, Kate,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder and giving her a quick hug. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Oh, I know that,” Kate assured him, “and the strange thing is that I was just thinking of you and your horseshoe theory about the valley.”

She had to take a step sideways to look up at Mark. Incredibly thin and well over six foot tall, he wore his black hair down around his shoulders, which earned him the title of the Apostle in the locality. Kate often wondered at the mystery that he and Martha were brother and sister. Martha was dark, deep and driven, whereas Mark was gentle and almost childlike in his simplicity. Some of the locals regarded him as a “duine le Dia”, one of “God’s people”, but Kate felt that through some strange mixture of genes he was an artistic genius. He had no interest in farming, so the small family farm was rented out in conacre.

He was lucky to have been christened Mark because it had changed his life. His maternal grandmother had had two distant relatives living in the village. They were known to everybody as the Miss Jacksons. Kate could remember
them as two tall, dignified old ladies dressed in black satin and furs who walked grandly to the front seat of the church every Sunday. They filled the air around them with the smell of faded lavender and mothballs. Jack had always said that the Jacksons had “old money”. They had an older brother in America and a much-loved younger brother who had been lost at sea. This brother had been called Mark, and his death had grieved them deeply. When they became aware that there was another Mark in the family, even though not a close relative, they had taken him under their wing. The name Mark meant a lot to them. They had arranged with an artist friend of theirs to give young Mark special tutoring. They had lived in refined comfort in the largest house in the village and had little to do with the locals. They went away occasionally on foreign trips, often taking Mark with them, which made him the envy of every child in the parish but also set him apart from them. Mark spent his time painting and writing music. Old Tady Mikey, a travelling fiddle player, had taught him to play as a child and it seemed to have awoken a hidden world in Mark’s soul, which had led him on to sketching. It was his sketching that fascinated Kate.

“Mark, have you been doing any drawing lately?” she asked him now.

“Yea,” he admitted shyly. “I was actually finishing something that I started a good few years ago.”

“Will we have a look at it?” she asked.

Mark pulled the canvas bag on his back around to the front, poked into it and produced a large sketching pad.

“Ned bought me this,” he told Kate as he turned back the cover.

The drawing was of Ned planting the trees just beside
them. Kate drew in her breath sharply and there was a tightening in her stomach. She felt that Ned could almost step off the page.

“Mark,” she said, looking at him with awe-filled eyes, “you really captured him.”

“Ned was a good friend,” he said simply.

“It shows,” said Kate.

“Would you like to have it?” he asked quietly.

“Oh Mark,” she said, “I would love it but … but maybe Martha would like it.”

“You know that Martha doesn’t like my drawings,” he told her, a shadow coming over his face.

“Mark, I would be so happy to have it,” she said gratefully. “I will have it framed and hang it on my wall. Thank you.”

“There is nobody that I would prefer to have it than you,” he told her. “You can’t take it now on your bike, but I will drop it in to you some night.”