A Keeper(23)

Outside the wind was so strong it made her laugh. Somewhere in the distance a door or a shutter had come loose and was banging in protest. Patricia weaved her way across the yard, one hand trying to control her hair, the other preventing her skirt from billowing skywards. She could see Mrs Foley’s back, a few chickens pecking at the dirt floor around her. Suddenly, wings spread wide and Patricia realised that the old woman was holding one of the birds by its feet. Almost before she could understand what was happening Mrs Foley grabbed hold of the chicken’s head and twisted sharply. The squawking ceased and the neck hung limp but the wings took longer to understand that all hope of flight was lost. The other chickens went about their business, seemingly unaware that one of their number had met its grisly end. Patricia was standing just outside the door now and was wondering how she should alert Mrs Foley to her presence, when the old lady slapped the dead bird on the rough bench in front of her and with one swipe took its head off with a large knife. The violence of it made Patricia gasp.

Mrs Foley turned and held the headless corpse upside down. The red juice steamed as it trickled noisily into a waiting bucket.

‘Oh, there you are!’ she said by way of greeting.

‘Yes.’ Patricia wondered if she had been meant to witness this gruesome scene. As if to reassure her Mrs Foley raised her free hand and absent-mindedly licked the blood that was dripping from it. Something shifted in Patricia’s stomach.

‘That’s Sunday lunch sorted,’ Mrs Foley said, holding the bird aloft with a smile, but all Patricia could see was the smear of blood across her teeth.

Back in the house Mrs Foley disappeared with the dead chicken and when she re-emerged began checking pots, poking their contents with a well-worn wooden spoon. Patricia was standing by the back door, unsure if she should sit down or not.

‘I was saying to Teddy, dinner’s going to be a while, so maybe he’d like to take you down to Carey’s for a drink. I don’t keep drink in the house. Myself and Teddy would never have one. Christmas maybe. The odd sherry. I was telling him it would be nice to take you out. Show you around the place. It’s a nice little pub, with a lounge bar as well. Quiet enough. You’d never get any trouble in there. Not like a city pub. I suppose you’d never go to the pub in Buncarragh, would you?’ Patricia shook her head, knowing better than to try and interrupt Catherine Foley’s monologue, but her hostess persisted with her enquiries. ‘Do you have a lot of friends back home?’ The pause for breath suggested that an answer was in fact required.

‘No. Not really. I couldn’t get out much looking after my mother.’

‘Of course, of course. But you have your family, don’t you? How’s your brother keeping? They’re all well?’

‘Yes, thank you. All fine.’ Patricia felt like a fraud mentioning Jerry and Gillian as if they were one big happy family.

Mrs Foley had stopped mid-stir and was staring at Patricia. It seemed she required a fuller response.

‘We aren’t really that close. There have been some disagreements about our mother’s will,’ she confessed.

The old woman nodded sympathetically. ‘Isn’t that sad. Often the way of course. Often the way.’

When Edward returned from the milking, he was sporting a fresh shirt and jumper and his hair was slicked back off his face. Before he could speak his mother launched into an explanation of how she had told Patricia all about the trip to the pub and the two young people were ushered to the door.

Once outside they braced themselves against the wind.

‘Is it a walk?’ Patricia asked, sincerely hoping that it wasn’t.

‘A bit far, I’d say. We’ll take the car.’

As they sat side by side in the darkness with the tight beams of the headlights making a glowing tunnel along the road ahead, Patricia felt better. It was just the two of them. She looked at Edward. His profile, lit by the instruments on the dashboard, looked strong and handsome. She liked the lines around his eyes from all the years of squinting through the winter storms and summer sun. The stubble of his chin meeting the soft pink of his lip made her shift in her seat, almost embarrassed.

‘I’m glad I came back.’

‘So am I.’

A short silence but then it was Edward who continued. ‘Sorry about my mother. I think she is just so glad to have someone to talk to.’

‘She’s grand. It was nice of her to suggest we do this.’

‘Yes.’

Patricia quickly lost all sense of direction as the car twisted its way through the narrow roads. They had turned right out of the gates of Castle House, away from the causeway that crossed the marsh, but after that they had turned inland into a maze of identical-looking hedgerows and ditches. Before long the car slowed down as it approached a crossroads and there was the unexpected sight of a small stone-clad building that housed the pub. The lights from the two large windows on either side of the door spilled out onto a gravel forecourt revealing a lone petrol pump and a couple of parked cars.

Inside, the room was split in two. On one side a long bar with stools led down to a brick fireplace, while on the other side low tables and small padded seats were pressed against a long dark-green vinyl-covered banquette. A barman just past the point of being referred to as young was stooped over a newspaper and two old men, wearing flat caps and nursing pints of stout, were perched at the end of the bar nearest to the half-hearted fire. All three looked up to examine the newcomers.