In the Company of Others (27 page)

I have of course said nothing to Keegan & do not believe he is implicated—we will bide our time as F is after all a grand cook though slovenly in the kitchen. Further, I find the proximity of their room—to where I now sit to write—a Grievance.
Why do I so often act without thinking?
There stands the cottage with its greater comforts but The Bride of All the World wishes to be in the big house & with the servants’ quarters on the top floor yet unfinished, twas the only room available to satisfy her whim.

I find the master and mistress more often pressed to satisfy the caprice of servants than the other way round.

17 October 1862

We learned yesterday why Jessie is so rotund. She is pregnant into the fifth month.

After a morning of loud weeping and hand-wringing with C, all was again calm. If she had told us, she said, we would not have taken her on. She has no home to go to as her people have disowned her and the child’s father has run away to Antrim.

Ruse & subterfuge appear to be the ticket these days at Cathair Mohr, but as much to the point—when she came into the surgery seeking work, why did I not perceive that she was carrying a child? And how did C miss this?

I thought she was overly fond of the table, says C.

That alone should have been a warning, I say.

As to what we shall do in this predicament, C and I merely exchange a look—that is all we have time or energy to offer the other.

Keegan recommends a cousin as the man for overseeing the demesne. But taking his wife into account, I have had enough of Keegan’s staffing the place and will go down to my Solicitor who knows town puffs & able countrymen alike.

I took Balfour’s daughter a sweet when I called up with my Onion. You must thank the doctor, says Lady Balfour to the girl who is slow-witted as any tot. Balfour stands nearby, looking dour.

We’ve thanked the doctor well enough and bloody more, says Lady B’s grinding little consort. He’s built his pile upon the thanks we’ve given him. Balfour laughs, then, revealing teeth the color of sheep dung.

I hardly remember laughter of my own in recent times—yet this morning was able to enjoy the Medicine of mirth such as I had not done in years.

A reported to the Surgery at seven-thirty wearing a cap she had made. That she has never in her life seen a nurses cap is evident. Her version, albeit white, features a starched central peak banded at the base with bits of yellowing lace.

She goes about her work soberly, lighting the fire she laid last evening, putting the fresh linen on the table, pulling the little step stool out for the patient to clamber up.

Three anxious souls wait beyond the door.

And who is there for us this mornin’, sir?’ says A, bright as any penny.

Edema, Goiter, & Dyspepsia, say I.

Her laughter is generous & unaffected.

That would be Missus O’Bierne, Missus Teague an’ Danny Moore’s grandda, she says in her careful English.

Tis pride I am feeling for Aoife O’Leary’s quick wit.

Before Edema comes in, however, I know I must say something about the cap—it is in the room with us like a whale & no one speaking of it.

Your cap! I say.

Twill make my work in the Surgery more . . . proper, she says, coloring.

She sees I am tentative. I see she is deciding between disappointment & saving face. At once she removes the cap & goes to the far table & pops it on the human skull I keep—tis a wonder to most patients, a fright to others.

The cap is a perfect foil for the vacant eyes and ancient teeth. I start laughing & cannot stop. Tears are soon running down—the Foolishness of my laughter cannot be restrained, it is contagious as any pox for A is also laughing unhindered. I then hear the answering guffaw of Pat Moore beyond the door whereupon I open the door & stick my head out & both women erupt into laughter at the sight of their country physician looking the lunatic.

Something is going out of me—I am a pustule draining poisonous matter. It is the sort of release for which one would pay money.

Laughing yet, I step out & take Missus O’Bierne’s crusty ould hand & lead her into the Surgery & there is C, standing white & still at the door from the hall.

At the look of her, we fall instantly silent & she turns & goes—we hear her footsteps along the flagstones.

I do not know the date

Time it is a- flying, as the poet says

I can confess this nowhere but here. Upon standing in the yard this morning & seeing Fiona wring the necks of three hens, I felt vilely ill & faint. And then came the axe & the blood. I who have seen rivers of blood could not bear the sight.

My days of training & practice in Philadelphia seem as far from me as the planets from Earth. After arriving Pa. in 1828, there came the cholera epidemic four years later, with 900 dead.

I remember C imploring Uncle not to leave the house in the evenings—from the cradle both C & I had impressed upon us a fear of night air, to the extent we imagined it as veritably writhing with wicked humours of every type. But away he would go, pulling the broad lapel of his overcoat about his face & setting off in the carriage with his driver, Mercy, a freed slave from Virginia. We knew we may not see him for some days, or he may appear the next morning at breakfast. No one ever showed surprise at his coming & going nor was any mention made of where he had been or might be going. Sukey knew more than the rest of us, but was as remote about Uncle’s affairs as he.

And the riots—they were ever at the Riots in Pa., Negroes & Irish fighting for the same jobs, the same housing & wages—300 constables called in to quell the bloody fracases at South Street above Seventh.

Riots in ’35 followed by an outbreak of typhus, & in 1849, cholera again with a death toll of 1,000.

Tis making Ireland look the safe place, said Uncle.

I remember this tonight upon the brink of Winter, & think how little prejudice was turned against Uncle for his Irish blood, & how I flourished in his shadow. ‘He’s not like the rest of your lot,’ was said to me on several occasions. It was the first time I felt the menace of something I now erase from memory once for all.

J is a good worker & has quickly made herself useful—we cannot turn her out & so will have a babby in the house come spring. God knows if it is not one thing, tis a dozen more—C again with the headache & the Passiflora no comfort. I hardly know what is to be done.

4 November

I have come face to face with the darkness in myself—has it always been there & I have chosen to look away? Or has it come upon me solely because of the ravening hunger I must deny? I am stalked like prey.

10 November?

Last night was black & starless & no candle nor firelight in her chamber. Yet there seemed a Phosphoresence in the room.

I had brought up a Compress of ice & took it to the chaise where she lay inert as any corpse. I stooped to apply the compress to her forehead, but something in her spirit rebuked me.

What is it, my love? I ask.

I am not your love, she says.

It was as if someone else had spoken.

This house is your love. The Irish poor are your love. I am your occasional nurse.

The remark was beyond my comprehension.

I thought we shared this dream, I said at last.

I did share it, she said. I did wish to come here, I did wish to live in the little cottage with its dirt floor & red hens & I did wish to come at last to this house & enter into your private dream. But now tis like the fairies have stolen you & I am gone from your heart. I have searched for my place there, the old place I have called Home these many years but the door is closed & I fear it shall soon be locked.

I felt all the known world slipping from me. Suddenly I could no longer stand & I sat in the chair beside the chaise.

Do you want the Oil, I say, my voice nearly gone.

You touch me with the Oil but your hands no longer know me.

We are often weary, I say. It is the long hours & the many obligations . . .

I ken your needs before you know them yourself, she says. But you remember little of mine. When I speak to you, you do not hear—your mind has hidden from me. I once saw myself in your eyes but I am never there these many months.

I gave you this house, I say, for it is all I know to say.

You gave this house to the people, we but live & work here. You gave this house to Ireland as a banner for hope & courage.

I am trembling like an old man. The mist is rising in me.

You are unfair, I say.

I am a woman, she says.

The compress ices my fingers, but I can not put it to her forehead. It is a Benediction that can not yet be offered. I lay the compress on the stone sill of the window & cross myself & make a petition. The Phosphorescence continues—for a very long time I sit frozen, my breast tormented nearly beyond endurance. I know of course what I must do.

I lean close to reckon whether she is sleeping now & hear her ragged breathing—she is awake. I say her name & she stirs.

I must take something from you, I say. I hardly recognize my voice. But I vow to give you myself in return.

She turns on the chaise & in the darkness I see the milky white of her eyes opened to me.

As God is my witness, I say, I never touched her.

After a time her cold hand takes mine & we hold to each other, drawing the little warmth into ourselves.

He inserted his bookmark next to Cynthia’s, sobered. He and his sleeping wife were now at the same hard place in the life of Fintan O’Donnell. He closed the journal and went into the bathroom and removed the robe.

Twenty-eight

The email sailed in under the door as he dressed for dinner.

He passed the email to her and waited.

There! Laughter unhindered. He would hug Emma Newland’s neck when he got home. As for what he’d say about the absence of a $300 vase, shipping not included, he would cross that bridge when he got to it.

‘Will you be all right, then?’ he asked. She was watching an Irish game show from her wing chair, obediently elevating the Historic Ankle.

‘Go and be as the butterfly,’ she said, waving him off.

He stepped out to the hall, closed the door behind him, opened it again. ‘No fair reading the journal ahead of me, Kav’na.’

In the library, Anna introduced a merry party of Sweeneys and the woman who writes books—tall, with a cloud of graying hair, accompanied by her ten-year-old niece, who had learned Gaelic for the trip.

‘
Gaelic?
’ he said, astonished.

‘Only enough to get by,’ said Emily.

The sunshine had returned to Broughadoon. When Maureen came round with a tray of cheese biscuits, he kissed her on both cheeks.

‘And how did you find your aunt?’

‘Ninety-four she is, with every tooth her own an’ Mass twice a day. I took me paintin’ along, ’twas seen by th’ half of Ballina.’

‘Cynthia will be happy you’re home.’

‘I’ll be takin’ up her dinner. I can hardly turn my back on th’ poor darlin’ for th’ trouble she’s into.’

William sported a tie he hadn’t seen; Liam was his personable self, chatting up the newbies, delivering drinks. Feast or famine, this lodging business—a full house was a very good thing.

He was spooning up the last of his sugar-free afters when Seamus called. Into the kitchen and the gargle of Dishwasher #1.

‘Mrs. Conor is askin’ you up tomorrow at eleven.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Mrs. Conor. She’s askin’ for you.’

He was surprised. They had spoken but once on the night ride to Sligo. He had said, ‘I’m praying for you.’ White with pain, she had snapped at him: ‘Do as you please.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Dr. Feeney’s on his way down, said he’d meet you at th’ front hall, if you’d be so kind.’

‘How is she?’

‘Th’ tremors an’ all th’ rest. ’t is killin’ me to see it.’

‘Let the nurses do the seeing,’ he said. ‘Your being there is enough, I’m sure it’s a comfort to her.’

‘So.’ Seamus sounded desolate in that desolate house.

‘Anything I can do tonight?’ he asked.

‘Ye could say a bit of a prayer for us.’

He went to the library, realizing that in a way he couldn’t understand, it was killing him, too. He felt the force of something coming down, falling to pieces.

When the Rover wheeled in, he was waiting at the door.

‘She’s still determined to go off th’ drink,’ said Feeney. ‘This is serious business for someone her age; she could die, I told her that. She said she was dying anyway—she wants to go through with it.’

Feeney removed his jacket, hung it on an antler.

‘But Paddy must be out of the house. They drink together, he’ll figure a way to get it to her. So I’ve asked him to leave.’

‘What did he say to that?’

‘He’s scared out of his wits by the screaming, the look of her in such a fix. He’s willing to bail out and wants to make it quick. God knows I dreaded routing the man from his own house, but it’s done.’

They walked into the library, still empty of guests. The sound of laughter from the dining room.

‘I managed to get two of the best nurses in Sligo. Cassie Fletcher is very competent, she cared for her old father for some years. He did the same thing—dried out at home at a late age—so she’s familiar with the backside of Gehenna. She’ll live in, with Eileen as relief. As to Eileen, she’s quick to carry through, and good-hearted. ’

Feeney went to the fire, though the night was warm. ‘I’ll do all in my power to keep her comfortable, Tim. The odds look impossible, but I’m going to believe it can work.’

‘I’ll believe it with you.’

‘She’s tough. Very tough. Maybe she can do it. God knows, I hope so. ’Tis dangerous business—the seizures, for one thing, if it comes to that. The tremoring has already begun, the rapid heart rate, the nausea. Then there’s the hematoma—I don’t think you knew. The swelling is massive, half the size of her leg.’

He’d made hospital rounds in Mitford for roughly twenty years; he was familiar with the hell of hematoma.

‘What was her general condition before this happened?’

‘Nutritionally deprived—the usual in this case. Dehydration. A compromised immune system which begs respiratory infection. So, she started low and this will drive her lower.’

‘The detox—how does it usually progress?’

‘Depending on the length and severity of the addiction, tremoring and nausea, then blinding headaches, heavy sweats, tactile hallucinations—usually itching, as if bugs were crawling on the skin. In the end stages, it all escalates to delirium tremens. Mother of God, we must pray against that.’

Ash lifted from the turf, vanished up the chimney like moths.

‘Let’s say it goes better than expected. How long to get clean?’

‘Three, maybe four weeks. After that, she’ll be completely wiped for a few months until we get her weight up.’

Liam was right about the Sisyphus business.

‘All that said’—Feeney drew in his breath—‘there’s a bright side. It wasn’t a broken hip, which requires surgery and begs the blood clot. And with two disabled arms and a leg, she has no recourse to the gin.

‘I’m only twenty minutes away in an emergency, and of course I’ll stop by Catharmore every evening. There’s no one waiting for me at home but the old housekeeper, who slips in to watch my telly if I’m running late.’

‘Flat-screen, I’m guessing.’

‘Forty-two inches.’ The doctor laughed, ironic, walked away from the fire. ‘I must speak with Liam tonight about the seriousness of this. Not looking forward to it.’

Blow upon blow for Liam. For everyone, really.

‘Seamus says she wants you up there in the morning?’

‘Aye,’ he said.

Feeney shook his hand. ‘
Bail ó Dhia ort
,’ said Feeney. ‘The blessing of God on you.’

He had no capacity for laughter and small talk. When the new crowd flooded into the library, he went back to the room.

‘Evelyn Conor asked me up tomorrow at eleven.’

‘That’s good. Thank heaven.’

He emptied his pocket onto the dresser top, in view of Ben Bulben. ‘How about a little after-dinner entertainment?’

‘You’ve learned a poem.’

‘I have not. I’ve merely planned to learn a poem. Let’s see what Fintan is up to, poor devil.’

‘I thought his vow to Caitlin very moving.’

‘I agree. A few entries back, he referred to what he called
these mute pages
. Not so mute, I’d say.’

‘Do you ever?’

‘Ever what?’

‘Long for someone else?’

‘Good grief, woman, who would I long for?’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I would kill you.’

He switched on the avid bulb, found the bookmarks, opened the skim of a man’s life.

9 November 1863

I have never felt such despair—The knife I thrust to the hilt in my own heart is no recompense for the two hearts I have torn asunder.

Tis little more than first light as I walk out this morning into a sullen rain & cross the yard to the carriage house. Keegan gives me a look as he hitches Adam to the traces. He does not speak—I know at once the nature of his surly mood. So closely have we worked together that I often ken his thoughts before he realizes them himself. Tis a blow to find he thinks so little of whatever character I may possess.

I do not want him helping her into the carriage—he does not deserve the privilege. I will drive to the rear door & help her up myself, for all that.

Lay a fire in the Surgery & bedchambers, I say to him.

He stands gawping at me.

Now, I say.

He gives me a fierce look—I could crack him with the whip for his bloody insolence.

I draw the carriage as close to the door as I am able & see Caitlin & Aoife waiting inside the hall. C’s face is drawn with suffering. Aoife is wearing the thin dress she wore when she came to us. The Bride of the World stands further back, looking as contemptuous as her husband. I am judged & will be judged, by a household gone from sweet temper to sour suspicion.

There is nothing in her young face to betray her feelings, she who so naturally displays feeling of every agreeable kind. I harden my heart against the torment which we all feel so keenly, enough to break us if we but let it.

I stand down & offer my hand as any civilized being would do & she takes it & climbs barefoot into the carriage & I hoist up her stool & the one bag with her two frocks & the shoes from her father’s last—she will not take more, not even the coat I had made for her in Dublin.

There are no useless parting words cried from the hall, no masking chatter.

We drive for some time without speaking—she clutches the stool in her lap, as for comfort.

I never touched you, I say.

You never did, no.

She is different today, even her dark hair is done up in a way I have not seen. I had all along thought her to be a lass, but she is a woman today with a woman’s face set toward the eye of the storm.

I am wicked, I say.

You are not wicked, she says. You are good.

I feel the tears on my face.

My father will be angry with me for failing.

Twas I who failed. You must never think you failed.

Something I done . . . did, she says, I don’t know what.

You did nothing wrong. You were of the greatest help to us. We could hardly have made it without you.

I thought of her lighting the lamps in the evening, the clear, clean bell of the globe shining, the flame finding its being in the trimmed wick.

I should like to go to school & become a Physician, she says.

I am astonished & pleased, but the Truth must be told.

A woman can’t become a Physician, I say.

She turns her head & looks at me for the first time. Her green eyes blaze. That is wicked, she says.

Yes.

She is right, of course. There is so much I would tell her, but none of it will do.

I believe in you, I say at last. There is a terrible longing to speak her name &I know at that moment I will never speak it again.

Aoife, I say.

My God, my God, I cry, silent as a stone.

What’s she done to put ye off, that back she comes as spoiled goods?

Aoife has gone inside & I am standing in a misting rain with O’Leary the Shoemaker, chickens pecking about our feet.

She has done nothing wrong, I say. She is a fine worker & considerate of all.

Was she a liar, then, or a thief? I’ll give her a flaying she’ll not forget.