A Keeper(28)

The toast tasted good. She ate two slices and then drank her tea. Sick or ill weren’t the precise words for how she felt, but something wasn’t right. Peculiar. Yes, she decided, that was just the word for it, peculiar.

She only realised that she had fallen asleep when the crash of the tray hitting the floor woke her up. Her body felt even heavier than before. She thought she remembered Mrs Foley coming in to clean up the mess but she might have imagined it. The rest of the day was a blur of sleeping and waking. There had been no sign of Edward all day but at some point his mother had spoon-fed her a bowl of soup. It had been dark outside. The old woman had helped her onto a commode by the window. Patricia knew she was supposed to be angry with this old lady but found that she was just grateful to her for her kindness.

The next day passed by in a similar fog of deep sleeps interrupted by visits from Mrs Foley with various offerings of sandwiches or soup. Patricia was vaguely aware that this was the day she was supposed to go back home to Buncarragh. She had meant to ask if she could use the phone to call her brother to explain what happened but she wasn’t sure she had. The wind was back and the rattle of the window seemed to fill her head whether she was asleep or awake.

On the third day she woke to find she was wearing a nightdress that didn’t belong to her and the chair where her clothes had been folded neatly was now empty. More tea. She remembered getting sick over the side of the bed and now a smell of Dettol hung in the air.

Was it the fourth day when Mrs Foley told her about the doctor’s visit? Apparently they had called him out and she had slept right through. He could find nothing wrong, she was told, but maybe she was a little anaemic. She had sipped at a cup of beef tea, while Mrs Foley wiped the drips of liquid from her chin with a towel. Patricia wanted to cry but she found she didn’t have the strength. Sleep.

Looking back she wasn’t sure when she had lost track of the days. Had it been the fifth day or the sixth, or even a week? More? She didn’t know. Time ceased to matter, and her world had shrunk to her narrow bed and the short shuffle across the room to use the commode. Sometimes she heard Edward and his mother talking downstairs. She recognised that they were not normal conversations. They were arguing. She could hear the anger but couldn’t make out the words. The phone had rung a few times. It must be for her. It must, but it never was. When she remembered she repeated her plea to let her brother in Buncarragh know where she was. They would be worried about her. Even as she said the words she doubted them. Would anyone really care? Worse, she wondered if anyone had even noticed her absence. She had vanished and the world looked exactly the same.

Mrs Foley did her best to reassure her.

‘I phoned the shop. I spoke to a very nice woman, your sister-in-law I think …’

‘Gillian?’ Patricia asked, trying to imagine her reaction to this call from a strange woman in County Cork.

‘Gillian, that’s the very woman. Well, she hopes you get well soon and you aren’t to worry about a thing. Now you can stop your fretting, that’s all sorted.’

Patricia put her head back on the pillow, relieved that people knew where she was.

That night she dreamt she was back at Convent Hill. The house looked the same as it always had but she knew she must have been away because she was very happy to be back home. Patricia was looking for her mother. In her dream she wasn’t dead, Patricia just couldn’t find her. She looked in the rooms on the ground floor and then raced upstairs to check the bedrooms. In the wall between the bathroom and her own room there was a door that she had never seen before. Finding it unlocked she stepped through it. Had she just forgotten this room? It was lined with dark wood panelling and in the centre was a round table covered with books. How had she never seen this room before? Had her mother been keeping it a secret from her? On the far wall she noticed another door. Opening it she found herself at the top of a wrought-iron spiral staircase that led down into a large conservatory filled with tropical plants. Brightly coloured parrots fluttered beneath the glass ceiling. She carefully descended the staircase. The smell reminded her of the botanical gardens in Dublin. When Patricia reached the bottom step she saw a long dark room behind her full of terracotta pots and gardening equipment but as she walked through it the room became a kitchen, but like the ones you might find in a hotel, with metal surfaces and oversized ovens. At the far end there was a grey wooden door. It was rattling and Patricia felt afraid for the first time, uneasy about what was behind it. She had scarcely touched the handle when the door exploded inwards and Patricia found she was standing in front of Castle House being whipped by the wind, staring out to sea. She was back! She had been in Buncarragh but now here she was again. She tried to scream but made no sound. When she woke the wind from her dream was still howling outside her window.

The next morning as the door was pushed open, she knew at once that something was different. She heard the clatter of the spoon against the saucer as the tray was manoeuvred into the room and looking up she was surprised to see, not Mrs Foley, but Edward. He stood by the bed holding her breakfast. Patricia patted the mattress and he put down the tray. Despite everything she found herself worrying about how she looked. She imagined how her unwashed hair clung to her brow, her pale, sweaty complexion devoid of make-up. She pawed ineffectually at her parting to try and improve its appearance.

‘How are you feeling?’

She stared up at him.

‘Where have you been?’ Her voice sounded small and dry compared to his.