House of Memories (9 page)

“Where’s Mom?” she asked.

“Outside somewhere,” he told her without even looking up.

Nora settled herself on the sofa beside him, which caused him to turn an amused face in her direction.

“No post mortem about the afters of last night now, Norry,” he cautioned.

“Would I?” she smiled innocently.

“You would so,” he told her. “Yourself and Rosie nearly discuss what you had for your breakfast.”

“Well, you’re on the wrong track now,” she told him dismissively. “I have a more serious matter to discuss.”

“Oh? Let’s hear it,” he said with interest, putting down the newspaper.

He listened intently, nodding his head occasionally, as she filled him in on the details about the school and the hotel.

“It’s Mom,” he declared without hesitation.

“But why would it be Mom?” Nora protested, even though the thought had crossed her mind.

“Because it all adds up,” Peter declared.

“How does it all add up?” she demanded, wondering how on earth Peter had figured that out.

“As soon as she eased off trying to run this place, I felt sure that there had to be another agenda, and as well as that she was getting fed up here when she did not have it all her own way. She was looking for more challenging horizons, and a hotel would be right up her alley. She’d just love getting it up and going, and having staff to manage would be her notion of
heaven. It has to be her idea,” Peter declared with certainty.

“But what about the school?” Nora protested.

“The school wouldn’t cost Mom a thought as long as she was getting what she wanted,” he told her.

“But that’s not fair,” Nora asserted angrily.

“When did Mom ever play fair?” Peter demanded.

“You always see the bad side of her,” she told him.

“I see the real Mom, and you always think that she is other than she is,” he declared.

“And anyway,” Nora said triumphantly, “you said that she had no notion of marrying Rodney Jackson, so how is she going to take over his old home?”

“You must have come down in the last shower, Norry! Didn’t I tell you Mom was going to use this situation to her advantage. She is not going to marry him, but she is going to use him.”

“You could be wrong…” Nora broke off in confusion as a slight movement by the back door caught her eye and she looked up to see her mother viewing the two of them coldly. Nora felt her face transfuse with guilty colour, but Peter was unruffled.

“Listening at doors is not a good idea, Mother,” he told her cooly.

“Well, it’s nice to know what a high opinion you have of your mother,” she challenged him, striding across the kitchen and glaring down at him.

“Can you contradict me?” Peter challenged.

“You’ll have to wait and find out, won’t you?” she informed him icily and swept out the front door.

A
S
D
ANNY CAME
in the door, he saw the two letters on the kitchen table. Johnny must have called while he was at the creamery, and now the letter with the creamery cheque was there on the table. He had been waiting for it for days. It came at the end of each month, but it could be a few days early or late. This month it was late. Most of his neighbours probably did not even notice that it was late, but for him every day was vital. This cheque was his lifeline. It was his only income during these months. Other farmers had calves to sell in the spring, but he did not want to sell because he needed to build up his herd, and because he was feeding them with some of their mothers’ milk, the supply to the creamery was not great. As a result the cheque was small, but at least it was something coming in. He was hoping that this month might be a bit up on last month, though he knew in his heart that it was highly unlikely. He did not want to consider the possibility that it could be gone down.

The brown envelope made a crinkling sound as he picked it up, and it gave him a little glow of satisfaction to see the name “Danny Conway” printed inside the transparent flap. The creamery had changed the account to his name, and it was the only semblance of ownership that he had to the farm. He picked a knife off the table, slid it under the flap and ripped the envelope open. Holding his breath, he eased out the flimsy statement with attached cheque and the figure “30” danced up at him. Well, at least it had not gone down and was actually up a few shillings. Next month he knew that it would be better, because two more cows would have calved and the bigger calves were graduating on to sour milk, which meant more fresh milk going to the creamery. So he was over the milk slump for this year.

All of this thirty pounds was already accounted for. He had to pay something off the grocery bill, and there was a sizeable bill for pig feeding, and he owed the vet for the last call. He hated owing money, but there was no other way to survive at the moment. The spending of every penny was weighed up before he finally decided. He would not have gone to the dance last week only Kitty had insisted and given him the money, and it had been great! For just a few hours he had forgotten about the bills and the money. There had only been music and dancing and feeling good. Nora and himself had such fun together, and she seemed so happy to be dancing with him that it made his night. The day after, his troubles did not seem so overpowering. But now that euphoria had worn off, and he sat at the table trying to figure out ways that he could stretch this thirty pounds further. He had to feed the pigs, and his own food requirements were already cut to a minimum. Sometimes he just had to get
the vet; if he had not got him for the cow she could have died, and that would have been a major catastrophe. So there was no way that he could spend less. He never bought meat except an occasional pound of sausages, which he made last the whole week. When the girls came home, they always brought a big roast that lasted for days and days. Mary was great! Sometimes he got a letter with a five pound note inside, which he put away to buy something to help improve the buildings or fertilizer for the land.

He knew that the girls were keeping his mother in Dublin to build her up after all she had gone through, and he felt from her letters that they were succeeding. But as well as that, they understood that he could live more cheaply on his own and that he was young enough to survive hardship. They knew how hard the struggle was, but they had no idea that he had it in mind to restore the old house as well. To them that would have been totally beyond what was possible. Maybe they would be right. When he looked at his meagre cheque he was inclined to agree with them. He was hardly able to survive and do what was necessary to improve the farm buildings, and here he was with crazy notions of restoring the old house. Maybe he should forget about the house. As it was he could not even get into it!

Then his eye fell on the other letter and he recognised Rory’s writing. Now what did he want? He felt a certain sense of apprehension as he took up the letter. Typical of Rory, it was even grubby on the outside. It was brief and to the point:

If you want the bloody farm I will sign over my claim for five hundred pounds. There is a business here that I could put the money into and stay where I am instead of going back to that cursed hole.

He smiled ruefully. Five hundred pounds was about as far from him as the sun that was trying to break through and shine in the window. It would be impossible to lay his hands on it. His life seemed to be all about impossibilities at the moment. And yet a few weeks ago, when he had discussed things with Jack, he had been full of hope. What was wrong with him this morning? But at the back of his mind he knew that it was the sight of Peter Phelan at the creamery earlier with his new tractor and trailer full of shining churns. Peter Phelan was already on the top of the ladder, and he was struggling to get his foot on the bottom rung. Life was not fair!

A restless scraping of hooves out in the yard reminded him that Bessie was still under the creamery cart and protesting as well that life was not fair. With a sigh he left the letters on the table and went out to attend to her and the churn. After leading her to the milk stand, he poured the skim milk into the old tar barrel that had served that purpose for years. He untackled Bessie, and when he opened the gate into the haggard, she galloped off in delight to join Rusty, the old mare who was almost as old as himself. He would have to round the two of them up again later, because he intended to finish ploughing the high field after he had done the yard jobs. His father had never gone into ploughing or the setting of grain of any kind but had depended solely on the cows, and he had not looked after them very well either. The farm supported only fourteen cows, but Danny knew that, managed properly, it had the feeding of forty. Well run, Furze Hill could be a good, viable place, better even than Mossgrove.

Over the winter he had attended farming classes that the local Macra branch had put on in the village hall. The instructor,
seeing his intense interest, had given him books to read, and late into the night he had studied all aspects of farm improvement. He had got his soil tested and he knew that the land here was top class and that he had no wet field as they had across in Mossgrove. It was ironic that the two fields of Mossgrove that had caused all the bother were wet and coarse and subject to flooding from the river and the two that his grandfather had bought beside the village were fine, flat, dry fields.

As he washed the churn and scalded it clean, his sense of well-being began to return. His determination surfaced when he thought of Nana Molly and all she had suffered and her lost dream of Furze Hill. His mother too deserved a break, and he could just imagine the delight of the girls if ever the old house emerged from the grove that smothered it at the moment. He had a lot to fight for, and he was not going to let the immensity of the task get him down. When the farmwork was done in the evenings, he had started to clear around the old arch, and though it was slow, painstaking work, it was giving him great satisfaction. Now, however, he needed to turn his attention to the job on hand, so he brushed out the cow stalls and the stable and checked the hen house for eggs. He made a bran mash for the cow who had calved the night before and looked in on the baby calf who had already got his legs under him and was standing up for his rights in the crowded calf house. The pigs as usual were hungry, so manoeuvring the intricate door he got in to feed them. In another few weeks they would be ready for the factory, and that would be more money to oil the wheels of his hardship. The thought of that made him feel better.

When he went back into the kitchen to have something to eat before he went ploughing, he reread Rory’s letter and
smiled grimly to himself. Trust Rory to ask for enough anyway! But at least it was good to know that money could get him out. For himself the land would have been more important than the money. It was Nana Molly who had passed on that love of the land to him, but Rory had had no time for Nana Molly and no such attachment to the place.

Danny rounded up Rusty and Bessie, who was reluctant to come as she thought that having gone to the creamery she had her bit done for the day. But when she was lined up with Rusty behind the plough, she settled down happily. Ploughing was new to him, but when he had put his hands on the plough for the first time, there was an awakening of a connectedness to the brown earth. Jack had told him that ploughmen were born with the love of the earth in their blood. Jack was right. Now he lined the horses up beside the last furrow, and after a little while the three of them moved together in harmony. All day he guided them up and down the hilly field, and though clods of earth clung to his boots and his shoulders ached from balancing the plough to create straight furrows, a deep sense of satisfaction grew in his gut. As the hours passed, the ploughing soothed him, but when the shadows started to lengthen across the furrows, he decided to call a halt. There was the milking and the yard jobs yet to be done, and Rusty was beginning to tire. She was nearly too old for ploughing, but he could not afford to retire her. He looked after her well, and because she was a great-hearted horse, she continued to give of her best. He untied them from the plough, and they led him home across the fields into the haggard. When he had the tackling taken off them, they galloped away, glad to be free.

The yard was full of noise as the pigs squealed with hunger
and the calves bellowed to be fed and the hens cackled for attention. But the first on his agenda were the cows, and it was here that he missed his mother, because while he was milking she would look after the yard jobs. He knew that there was too much work for one person in the day-to-day running of the place, not to mind the work of reclamation that he did every night. But he had been ground down for so long that now, when he had the freedom to get things done, he was energised by the challenge. As yet he could not see light at the end of the tunnel, and there were days when he wondered if he would ever see it, but an inner drive kept him going. He held on to the belief that one day the farm would be a thriving concern and that the house in the trees would stand tall and free and that he would have made good Nana Molly’s faith in him.

When he was finally finished and all the animals were quieted down for the night, it was dusk, but he decided that before he went in to have his supper he would spend a little time clearing around the arch. He had been working at it by night for a few weeks, and every morning he had to restrain himself from resuming the clearing of the night before, but he knew that the farmwork had to take priority over anything else. Tonight he might finally get to the other side, and this would eliminate the need to go out into the road to get in over the wall beside the front gate.

He picked up his slasher and saws from where he had tidied them away the night before and started to cut through determinedly. The growth was dense, and he could feel the briars catch at his sleeves as he slashed in around them. Nature when left to herself soon wrapped her arms tightly around everything. But slowly his hacking began to have an impact,
and then suddenly when he cut the leg of one scrawny tree, a huge wad of ivy came free from around the arch. Standing well back he pulled at the ivy. It came away like a trailing cloak, and gradually the whole arch was revealed. He whistled in appreciation: it was a solid arch of red brick in perfect condition. A glow of satisfaction suffused his whole being. These Barry ancestors certainly knew how to build! Careful in case he would loosen the brickwork, he eased away the blanket of surrounding ivy.

It was now too dark to do much more, but he was determined to burrow his way through to the front door, which was not far away from this angle. He cut on determinedly and rammed his way through the undergrowth in what he hoped was the right direction. When he hit a wall he knew that he had arrived somewhere in the general direction of where he had intended. Then he worked along by the wall and found that he was just to the left of the front door. At last the path through the arch was open. Tomorrow evening he would clear it properly. He put away his tools carefully and headed back into the kitchen.

Inside it was cold and dark, and after lighting the oil lamp he rekindled the fire with dry sticks and bits of broken turf. Soon the flames were licking the bottom of the kettle, and he put two of the eggs that he had collected earlier into a black saucepan and rested it beside the kettle. He pulled up the only half-comfortable chair in the kitchen and sat down. A wave of exhaustion swept over him, and though he tried to resist it, sleep overpowered him. A grey mist swept him over to the door of Furze Hill, where he was trying one key after another. He could hear Nana Molly’s voice urging him to keep trying. She had to get in, she cried, because someone was trying to
hold her back. Every key he tried disappeared into the keyhole; Nana’s voice was getting more agitated and he was getting more desperate.

He jumped up in fright as a gentle hand on his shoulder woke him. Fr Brady was standing behind him.

“Sorry to wake you, Danny, but I’ve the tea made and the eggs are boiled, and you probably need something inside you,” he smiled.

“God, thanks, Father,” he said gratefully. “I’m glad to wake up because I was having a strange dream.”

“Well, I’ll join you for supper,” Fr Brady smiled as he sat to the already laid out table, “because Kate gave me an apple tart for you, and I can’t let you have all that to yourself.”

But when Danny looked at the table there was cheese and brown bread on it as well.

“You’re feeding the hungry, Father,” he said ruefully.

“Not really,” Fr Tim told him lightly, “just helping a friend who is struggling gallantly up a high hill and who is almost within sight of the summit.”

“The summit could be quite a distance yet,” Danny said as he joined him at the table.