A Keeper(14)

‘I always thought she had got money from the shop.’

‘No, no,’ Gillian said, sounding slightly sheepish. ‘That stopped after your granny died.’

Jerry coughed and without looking at Elizabeth or his wife said quietly, ‘To be honest we had a bit of a falling out around that time. It was little wonder she didn’t confide in us.’

‘She just swanned off and left that house sitting there.’

‘It was her house.’

Gillian ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. This was clearly a conversation that had been repeated many times. Elizabeth wondered if the parts of this story that were clearly missing involved her mother at all. Perhaps they were just part of an ongoing battle between her aunt and uncle.

‘There is a woman who might know more than us,’ Jerry volunteered. Gillian gave him a quizzical look.

‘Your mother was great pals with a Rosemary O’Shea.’

‘Rosemary O’Shea?’ Aunt Gillian raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Sure that one is half-cracked.’

‘Is she still in Buncarragh?’ Elizabeth asked, attempting to keep her uncle on track.

‘Oh, she is. You’d know her house. The small ivy-covered one on Connolly’s Quay. It’s just beside what used to be the bike shop. It’s the St Vincent’s charity shop now.’

‘Do you think I could just call in to her?’

‘I don’t see why not. She’s retired. Used to have that little barber shop where the new coffee place is.’

‘I was in it only this morning,’ she said, seemingly delighted at the coincidence.

‘Half-cracked,’ repeated Aunt Gillian, crossing her arms. Elizabeth had been warned.





THEN


This time he was on the platform. When he saw her, a smile flashed across his face and he half-raised his arm, less of a wave, more like flagging down a bus, but still, Patricia saw it as progress.

She really didn’t know how or why she was back at Kent station in Cork. She wanted to blame it on the enthusiasm of Rosemary, but she knew it was more than that. In the few weeks since their first date she had begun to grow fond of him. The man who could barely look her in the eye in person, on paper became sincere, direct and self-deprecating. She looked forward to his letters during the dark days that offered little else. Somehow, she found herself remembering her visit to Cork the way he did. Viewed through his eyes it seemed sweeter than stiff, romantic rather than awkward. She felt she needed to give him a second chance and the sight of his broad grin, however brief, gave her confidence that she had made the right choice.

When she reached him at the end of the platform by the exit, Edward stretched out his hand to her. A gentleman, she thought and offered him the small cream suitcase she had retrieved from under her mother’s deathbed. The bag smacked into Edward’s unsuspecting palm and she realised that he had been going to shake her hand, not carry her case.

‘Sorry.’ She pulled the suitcase back.

‘Sorry. No, let me.’ He fumbled for the handle.

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘No. No, I should,’ and he managed to squeeze his hand under the handle with hers. The touch of his flesh against hers made her immediately release her grip.

‘Thank you.’

He led them wordlessly out to the car park, the noise of the city amplifying their silence. She wondered what sort of car he would drive.

Leading her to a dark green estate car, some sort of Ford perhaps, that didn’t look too ancient, she was pleasantly surprised. As she slipped into the passenger seat however her first impressions were overwhelmed by the smell of the interior. A combination of stale milk and what her father used to call ‘A grand country smell’ – in other words, shit – hung thick around her. Her hand fumbled to roll down the window as soon as Edward had shut her door. She tried not breathing through her nose but she could still taste the stench. She prayed she wouldn’t be sick. Her hands tightened their hold on the leather handle of her handbag. Time was not going to fly.

Edward drove hunched over the wheel, emitting grunts and sighs as he made his way through the city traffic, peering over the dashboard to see if he was in the right lane. Patricia felt it was unwise, unsafe even, to distract him with any of her prepared small talk. Once past Bishopstown, however, as the houses gave way to fields he seemed to relax and sat back in his seat. Patricia tried out some of her questions.

‘Are you busy on the farm at the moment?’

‘So-so.’

‘Are you near a village?’

‘Not really. Muirinish, but there’s nothing there.’

Patricia closed her eyes and breathed as deeply as she dared. She ran through the rest of her questions in her head and accepted that every answer would be a variation on ‘no’.

‘Are you not cold?’

Edward had spoken. The shock of it meant that she hadn’t actually heard what he had said.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your window. Are you not a bit cold?’

‘Oh. Well, I might close it a little. I like the fresh air.’ She wound the window up two thirds, almost excited that he had actually engaged in some sort of conversation. ‘Are you cold?’ she asked.

‘No.’

They drove on with nothing but the steady growl of the engine filling the emptiness.