Light A Penny Candle (17 page)

‘You can’t spoil Christmas Day,’ she said like an echo.

Violet looked at her. There was not a trace of irony in what Elizabeth had said.

Downstairs George was huffing and puffing with damp sticks to light a fire that wouldn’t catch.

Tears came down Violet’s pale face.

‘It’s all such a dreadful mess,’ she sobbed. ‘It wasn’t meant to be like this. It’s all such a hopeless mess. …’

‘Mother, it’s all going to be fine.’ Elizabeth was distraught to see Mother’s shoulders heaving like this. With her foot she closed the bedroom door in case Father should hear and come up to make things worse.

‘No, it’s all turned out wrong. There’s no point in any of it. I couldn’t be more sorry, but I can’t think what else I could do … I tried my best, but I’m just not a good little housewife … I can’t stand polishing up a house and cooking meals for nothing. …’

‘But Mother, it’s not for nothing, it’s for us,’ cried Elizabeth. ‘And we’re very grateful, and when you’re
better
we’ll help you much more. I was saying to Father that we don’t do enough for you. …’

Violet looked at her with swimming eyes. ‘You still don’t understand, you’ll never understand. Oh God, it’s such a hopeless mess.’

She turned her head on the pillow, and Elizabeth decided not to force any more beef tea on her. She sat there for a while but Mother said no more; her breathing became less agitated and then she slept or pretended to sleep. Elizabeth crept out.

Father looked like a big eager dog as he knelt by the fire with a newspaper hoping the draught would catch the flames. ‘How is she?’ he whispered.

Elizabeth paused. ‘She’s fine Dad, she’s having a little sleep.’

She went back to the kitchen table which had been set for the festive meal. There were drawings of robins on cards, with holly in their beaks; Elizabeth had cut them out as shapes. There were three home-made Santa Claus figures propping up the table napkins. Bits of ivy and greenery had been criss-crossed across the table. Elizabeth sat down and looked at the plate of corned beef, and the three pieces of chicken. She had stood in a queue for four hours to get the chicken pieces; the corned beef was from a tin. She felt fifty as she prepared the Christmas dinner.

Dear Aisling,

I meant to write, but everything was so confused and awful here, I couldn’t take my mind away from it all.
First
about you … now remember the way you used to get away with everything by looking as if you were doing something? It worked before, why won’t it work now; or is there any point in saying to Sister Catherine, let’s have a truce? Or what about actually doing what they say and forgetting everything else except work for two terms? Then you’ll be top of the class and they’ll all be delighted and they’ll leave you alone.

I don’t think the first will work. Maybe we’re all too old now to get away with things, or maybe the nuns are worried about exam results. In your place I would make a truce with Old Catherine. Honestly, she was nice, but you’ll never believe it. She was very lonely, she’s much older than the other nuns. She lives for the pupils, and she’d feel so happy if you had a man-to-man talk, or a girl-to-nun talk. But you won’t I suppose. So that leaves the last solution, work yourself to the bone as they say. You could regard it as a kind of a competition. You’ll show them, you’ll prove them wrong about you. I honestly think you could wipe the floor with the rest of the class. Monica (not the cat!) was asking me about you and I told her you were brighter than anyone here in Weston High, and she couldn’t believe it, because she actually thinks I’m bright. And I’m not, I just put my fingers in my ears and learn.

Please let me know what happens. I wish you would write every day. I wish
I
could write every day.
It
all seems so far away sometimes, and then when I was reading your letter about Maureen and Brendan Daly – of course I remember him, he was awful – it all comes back. Did she get engaged, are they really in-laws now? I suppose we’ll all have to be very polite and not say anything bad about them in case they become Maureen’s nearest and dearest. Isn’t it funny though that she likes him! You’d think Maureen could have anyone. …

I keep rambling on and on about Maureen because I want to put off writing the next part.

Everything is so frightening here at home. Mother was very ill over Christmas. She was in bed for ten days, it was a chest cold and flu but she was very weak, and she lay there like a ghost. But she worried all the time about something, and I think that she’s thinking about leaving us and going away. Now please, please, please, don’t tell Aunt Eileen this, I may be wrong, it may have been just because she was so ill. But she kept apologising for things not turning out right, as if something was over.

I think Dad knows it too and won’t admit it. Whenever I say that we might all do something, you know something cheerful that would please Mother, he just asks what’s the point. If you knew how awful it is. They are both moving around the house apologising if they come into the same room as each other. No, don’t laugh, that’s what it’s like. It seems impossible to try to place it in Kilgarret, with
everyone
running in and out of rooms all the time, but here there’s only the three of us, and I sit reading and pretending not to be watching them.

Could you pray that it will be all right? I suppose you must know that I sort of gave up my faith. I never knew if I really had the faith anyway, since you wouldn’t let me go to communion and confession, but whatever I had of it is gone. Just pray that Mother won’t go away with Mr Elton, please Aisling, and ask people at school to pray for a special intention. I know you won’t tell anyone. Mr Elton’s very nice, it was he who took that silly picture, the present to you all, and he’s always laughing and making jokes. And now that Mother’s better and everything, she meets him a lot, and I’m so afraid he and she might be thinking of going off together. Sometimes when I come in from school and there’s a note from Mother on the table saying she may be late, I’m almost afraid to read it in case it’s saying more than that.

I may be wrong. Remember the time we all thought that Eamonn was drowned in the river, and he’d just gone home the other way? Well, that’s the kind of fear I have now.

Love from

Elizabeth

Harry had said that no good came out of lies. Harry had said that there was nothing evil and wrong about falling in love, and now Violet must take the deception out of it by
telling
them. She must say it fair and square to George, she must tell Elizabeth. She must explain that there was no need for hurt or blame.

Violet wished it was as easy as that. Harry’s wife, long gone from anyone’s life and living in the west of England with her new husband, presented no problem. Harry had no children. He would be very happy to include Elizabeth in their household if she wanted to come. He was starting a new business, they would have a flat over the premises. There would be plenty of room for the girl.

Violet decided to tell them the day before Elizabeth’s sixteenth birthday. But she knew that they both had seen it coming. The May sunshine fell on the table and on Violet’s restless thin hands, which twisted and turned as she spoke.

Father didn’t answer. He just sat there with his head bent.

‘George, please say something,’ Violet said.

‘What is there to say? You’ve made up your mind.’

‘Daddy, don’t let it happen, say something to show Mother you want her to stay,’ begged Elizabeth.

‘Mother knows I want her to stay,’ said George.

‘Oh don’t be so weak Daddy, do something,’ Elizabeth cried.

George lifted his head.

‘Why am
I
the one who is weak, why am
I
the one who must say something, do something?
I’ve
done nothing.
I’ve
just done what anyone else does, plod along. This is what happens.’

‘But George, we have to talk, we have to talk about arrangements.’

‘Make whatever arrangements you like.’

Elizabeth stood up.

‘If you have to talk about arrangements, like for a battle, you won’t want me here. I’ll go upstairs and I’ll come down when you’ve finished.’

George had stood up also.

‘No, there’s no talk about arrangements. Do what you like Violet, set up whatever you want. I presume you want me to divorce you, you’re not suggesting that I give you evidence or anything. …’

‘No, of course. …’

‘Fine, then whenever it’s to be done get some solicitor to write a letter. …’

‘But George. …’

‘That’s all, isn’t it? I’m going out for a walk now. I’ll be back at teatime.’

‘But Daddy, you can’t walk out now, you can’t just go out of the room and not discuss it. …’

‘George, what about Elizabeth, what will we do? Will you …? I mean. …’

‘Elizabeth is a grown-up girl, she’s almost sixteen years of age. She can go with you or stay here, or move between both houses … I presume you will have a house. Your friend isn’t going to expect you to live in his van is he …?’ George had reached the door. ‘I’ll be back for tea,’ he said and closed it behind him.

Violet and Elizabeth looked at each other.

‘I’m sorry Daddy was so weak, he’s a bit afraid of you, that’s it,’ Elizabeth said.

‘Oh …’ Violet began to speak but she was choked with emotion. She moved over and held Elizabeth’s hand. ‘Do you understand, do you have any understanding?’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘Yes Mother, I do, I think I do. It’s awful, but I think I do understand. And you’d better cheer up because if the point of going off with Mr Elton is to have more life and fun and zing and everything, there’s no point in feeling guilty and wretched. …’

‘It’s not going off, it’s only half a mile away. Will you come? Harry wants you to, and I do. Very much.’

‘No Mother, I can’t, who’d look after Father? But I’ll come often to see you, honestly and I…’ Her voice broke.

‘What darling?’ Violet looked at her, trying to help out the words.

‘I was … I was wondering, if it happened because I went away? If I had been here during the war, would you and Dad have been more of a family, you know? More to keep you together.’

‘Oh my poor child.’ Violet put both her arms around Elizabeth, she hugged her, and swayed as her voice was saying soothingly into Elizabeth’s hair, ‘My poor child, in all the useless years that your father and I have been pretending to get along like normal people, you were the one thing that made any sense out of it all. You’ve always been the only thing that made sense of seventeen years of wrong turnings, and George thinks that too. If you were to blame yourself that would be the last straw.’

Mother sat and talked for another hour, about loneliness and age and the fear that you might go to the grave not knowing any spark. She talked about the war and the blitz and about people making fresh starts. She said lamely that George might find a nice lady who shared his interests. And then to Elizabeth’s horror she went upstairs to pack.

‘You’re going now, Mother!’ she cried.

‘Darling, you don’t expect me to serve beans on toast and talk to your father normally when I’ve told him that I’ve committed adultery and am leaving him?’

‘No of course not,’ said Elizabeth.

VII

… OH DO STOP
apologising for blots and lines being crooked and not knowing what to say. I just want you to say
something
. You were always the one who told me that the important thing was to say
something
, not to wait until I knew what to say, and thought it was right. I’ve started doing it. But
you
must continue to do it.

If you knew what it was like here. If you had even just a small idea, I think you would be so stunned that even you would be speechless. It’s very kind of you to write and say perhaps they’ll get over it, but it’s not like that. It’s not a bit like Uncle Sean and Auntie Eileen shouting at each other, because that was only for the evening at most. And anyway they always talked immediately afterwards, and then there was the whole family… there were all of you, and the house, and the shop, and everything. Here there’s nothing, there’s only the two of them, and they keep telling me I’m grown-up.

I wish I wish so much I could have stayed in Kilgarret. Suppose I had got a job after school there, or helped Aunt Eileen with the accounts or in the house or something. Then they might have had to hold off until I came back. They could have said they couldn’t have done anything serious until I was home. But, you see, the awful thing is that they both say to me that I’m so sensible and I’m so understanding … but I don’t understand anything. I’m
not
grown-up. I wish they could see that. Mr Elton keeps saying to me that he’d like me to call him Uncle Harry. I told him I was no relation and that, without wishing to be difficult, it was a bit artificial. That’s what I said.

He said, ‘You called those people in Ireland Uncle and Auntie and you’d never met them, and look at how well that worked out.’ I said to him that that was totally different, that I had gone to live with you, I was part of the family. I told him I lived there for over a third of my life. (I just worked it out.) And then Mr Elton said, ‘Well, Elizabeth, your mother and I hope you’ll live with us a lot of the time, even most of the time too, so don’t you think it’s a bit formal to have all this “Mr” business? I don’t call you Miss White, now, do I?’

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

‘Right, that’s a good girl,’ he said. He thought I was considering it. But I feel that if I
did
call him Uncle Harry it would be letting Father down somehow. Giving in or something, letting Father see that the other side had won.

Father always calls him ‘Your-mother’s-friend-Mr-Elton’. She went to live in a boarding house. Well she calls it living there, but it’s so odd. She only pays a little because she helps the woman run the place. I went in there on Tuesday and she was in this awful room with all kinds of dirty sheets with a frightful smell and Mother was sorting them for the laundry. It really smelt foul. I said to Mother I couldn’t believe she was doing this, and she said that a woman had to have dignity, and that she couldn’t sit at home and wait for Father to make up his mind about the divorce, while eating his food and living in lodgings he had paid for; she had to make her own way.