A Keeper(17)

Once inside, the rough stone walls provided some protection from the storm.

‘Is it always this windy here?’

‘Not all the time, but there’s nearly always a bit of a breeze off the sea.’

Through what might have once been a window or a door Patricia could see the waves crashing against the bottom of the cliff. Edward leaned close, closer than was necessary. He smelled of soap, not the sweet perfume of Camay or Imperial Leather, but the fresh tang of that hard butter-yellow block her mother had used for hand-washing her smalls. She liked it. ‘That’s the beach down there but if you follow it around behind this, it turns into the start of the marsh.’ Patricia craned her neck to see where he was pointing. ‘We drove across it,’ he added by way of explanation. ‘They say the Foleys built the castle because they were protected by the marsh behind them and any boats coming from the sea would be frightened of running aground.’ She nodded to show she understood. His voice soothed her. Not as deep as his monosyllabic grunts had led her to believe, the lazy lilt of his West Cork accent made her feel oddly calm. Their eyes met and neither of them looked away. She could feel the heat of his body in the cold damp cave of the ruined walls. She wondered if he might try to kiss her again, but then without warning he simply reached out his right hand and gently squeezed her breast. It was so unexpected, she didn’t flinch. Her eyes looked down at the mottled pink of his hand and then back up to his expressionless face. He removed his hand and said, ‘I’d better get on with the milking.’ Edward turned and walked away leaving Patricia to ponder if it had been her modest bosom that had prompted him to seek out the heaving udders in the milking parlour.





NOW


The sun changed everything. The bare branches of the horse chestnut trees looked jubilant against the blue sky, and the shimmering water of the weir took on an air of celebration. Elizabeth found she was swinging her arms as she walked down Connolly’s Quay. It had always been one of her favourite streets in the town. The long row of trees and the strip of grass separating the road from the steep drop down to the river. The houses were much as she remembered them and Busteed’s lounge bar still had its hanging baskets bursting with brightness even in January. Wedged between the former bike shop and a large grey house that used to be the home of Dr Wilson was, just as described by her uncle, a small ivy-clad cottage.

Standing in front of the door with its frosted glass panels, Elizabeth hesitated. Why was she here? What good would answers do her now, especially when she didn’t really know what the questions were? Before she could ring the bell, an aggressive burst of yapping broke out behind the door. She could just make out the blurred silhouettes of two small dogs jumping and clawing at the glass. Before she could decide to change her mind about this visit, a much larger form loomed towards the panels and the door was pulled ajar.

A ruddy-faced woman stuck her head out, younger-looking than Elizabeth had been expecting, but with a strong ridge of grey roots topping the rest of her hair that had been dyed a glossy aubergine colour.

‘Maxi! Dick! Shut up!’ The woman kicked at the small dogs trying to make good their noisy escape from behind the door.

‘Hello. Are you Rosemary O’Shea?’

‘I am. Will you stop it?’ she said, still addressing her pets.

‘Sorry to bother you. I’m Elizabeth, Patricia Keane’s daughter.’

Rosemary’s face changed. She looked her visitor up and down, as if searching for some hint of her old friend. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.’ Both women paused for a moment before Rosemary continued, ‘Will you come in? Then these pests might calm down.’

A plain hall with bare pine floorboards led back towards a bright cluttered kitchen. The dogs, now revealed to be black and tan Yorkshire Terriers, ran rings around their ankles, quickly deciding that they were delighted that the woman they had been zealously keeping out had been invited in.

‘Maxi, Dick, go to your bed.’ Rosemary pointed at a pile of old towels and chewed-up dolls below the large window that looked out onto a small courtyard garden.

‘Wasn’t there a group, Maxi, Dick and Twink?’

‘I did have three but Twink got hit by a car.’

Elizabeth looked confused. ‘I hadn’t heard.’

‘Twink the dog. Actual Twink is still with us as far as I know. Tea?’ She brandished a kettle.

‘Yes please. That would be nice.’

‘Sit down there.’ Elizabeth assumed she was referring to the one kitchen chair that wasn’t piled high with newspapers and magazines. ‘I have herbal if you’d prefer.’

‘No. No thanks, regular is fine.’

‘Builder’s it is!’ she said, turning to the sink and stove.

From behind, Elizabeth was able to get a better look at her. The hunch of her shoulders was the only thing that betrayed her true age. Her thick wool cardigan was long and appeared to be weighed down by the over-stuffed pockets. Underneath it she wore a strange shapeless green and yellow shift that came almost to her ankles and on her feet she had a pair of burgundy velvet slippers, the rubber heels worn away like ancient steps.

Rosemary O’Shea had never been a woman with a plan. As a young girl she had preferred to wait and see what came along. Now that she was in her mid-seventies she wondered if that had been a mistake. Financially things had turned out all right. The sale of a site carved from the family farm as part of her inheritance had been enough to start up her little barber shop. Over the years, it hadn’t always been easy, but she had managed to keep going. Fashions changed but she had always stuck to what she called ‘a boy’s cut’. They either liked it or lumped it. That’s why she had got out of ladies’ hairdressing with the fanciful pictures ripped from magazines and the tears and tantrums when a mirror revealed that they would never look like one of Charlie’s Angels. Men weren’t like that and the odd few she had encountered that wanted some trendy style or look never came back. She could operate on autopilot, which suited her, and there was enough chat from the men or mothers bringing in their kids to make the days pass in a pleasant blur. Oddly it was age that had forced her to confront the future. Painful varicose veins and knees that were aching by lunchtime made her realise that she couldn’t work forever. The problem she had was that she couldn’t see how she would ever be able to afford to retire, but then along came the offer from the coffee company and now she was sitting prettier than she ever had.