On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland (11 page)

‘Hop in. I’ll run you up home.’ Paddy reached across the front seat of the maroon Morris Minor and pushed open the door. ‘All them clouds mean only one thing.’

‘Ah no, Paddy, not at all. I’ve not far to go. You’re very good just the same.’

Paddy scrambled out of the car. ‘Tell me what’s the matter? If you’re short for the Christmas I can lend you a few bob till ‘65 is well in, up to March, if you want.’

‘No, Paddy, thanks, it’s not that. I’m just, I’m just a bit worn down. Nothing more.’

‘C’mon so, hop in. I’ll run you up. And I’ll stick the line up for you while I’m there.’

‘I wouldn’t take you away from the shop. You have – ’

‘Not a bit of bother. That lazy lump of a brother of mine is well able on his own when he wants. And anyway I’ve a bit of business up in Westport.’

‘No, really, Paddy.’ Her dark eyes lowered, and a moment passed before she swept errant auburn locks off the child’s forehead. ‘But if you wouldn’t mind, you could drop her off at Leo and Peggy’s. Peg’s knitting her an Aran cardigan for Christmas. And you won’t have to wait; one of them’ll walk her back over after she gets measured.’

‘Mam, mam, remember you said you’d buy me sweets, remember? I want a Trigger bar, a Trigger bar and lemonade.’

‘That’s enough! I told you, not now! Didn’t I? Didn’t I tell you?’

‘I’ve a brainwave!’ Paddy’s exuberance defused the moment and captured Róisín’s attention. He took Leonora’s hand. ‘It’s half-three now. Why don’t I buy her her Trigger bar and lemonade in Ridgeways, then run her up to Leo’s, and on me way back from Westport I’ll collect her and bring her back over to you. And sure maybe then meself and yourself could have a bottle of stout, or something stronger, for the holidays, if the humour’s on you. What do you say to that?’

Róisín’s smile strained, then with a vacancy her eyes floated up to the lights and trumpet-bearing angel rattling overhead.

‘I want a Flake; I want to get it in Christina’s. I don’t want a Trigger bar any more, mam; I want a Flake and a bottle of lemonade in Christina’s.’

‘Flake and lemonade it is. But we have to ask Mammy first.’ His attention flashed back to Róisín. ‘Are you alright, girl, or what? You’re as pale as a ghost and you need to wipe your eyes. D’you want to nip in to the Beehive or Concannon’s and have a small one, warm you up, get some life back into you?’

‘Not at all, Paddy, thanks, the walk’ll warm me. Just drop her off, if you wouldn’t mind. She’s grand at Leo and Peg’s place, and they always make her a bit to eat.’

‘If that’s what you want, I will. I could knock on your door anyway, later, put the line up for you. Wouldn’t take me five minutes.’

‘Another day, Paddy. You’re always going to trouble for me; you’re too good. Off with you now and do your business; don’t be delaying on account of me.’

‘Mammy, mam – ’

‘Whatttt?! Stopppp! What did I tell you? Stop!’

The child’s face flushed. She hid behind Paddy’s baggy trousers.

‘I suppose Charles himself is away foreign?’ Paddy asked.

Róisín shrugged distractedly.

Paddy reached for the child, still huddling behind him, but she rotated with him, staying out of his view, and was thrilled at his show of bewilderment. ‘You’re being a very good wee girl,’ he said. ‘And you know what? I was told by a fairy princess I met on me way home last night – flying around above John Taylor’s Bar she was – that Santa’s making a grand big present for Leonora Quin of Aranroe, County Mayo, Ireland, Europe, the World. That’s what he wrote on it, and that’s what she told me, and he’ll be here very soon.’

‘Couldn’t tell you, Paddy, where the man is,’ Róisín said. ‘As you already know, I haven’t seen trace nor tidings of him this seven months. And don’t want to. It isn’t for all men, marriage. Not for him.’

‘They say God never closes one door unless he opens another. If things were meant to be that way ‘twas better it happen in the first year.’ After a silent nod from Róisín, Paddy’s tone changed. ‘And about yourself, girl, what is it you see yourself doing? Eventually, I mean. Edna O’Brien says there’s tons of Irish girls getting divorces in England, and marrying again. Anything of that sort cross your mind?’

‘I’m lost, Paddy. Lost. Gospel truth. Knowing what’s best is the hardest thing. Not for me I don’t mean, best for the child, if you understand me. What’s best for the child. Putting things right. All the legal stuff.’

‘Sean’s the man for that. He’ll see you right. And tell me this: the young one in the post office, she said you were down with a bad flu.’

‘Not flu, Paddy. But what’s the use complaining. The child’s healthy, there’s that to be thankful for. And there’s good people here, like Leo and Peg, and Dr Lappin and Fr Foley. But I never like bothering anyone.’

‘Good souls every one.’

‘And yourself as much as any, Paddy McCann. One of the best. And you should hear that.’

‘Ah stop, will you. No better than any other.’

‘I mean what I said. Or I wouldn’t say it. This day of any.’

His eyes lifted to the strings of glowing lights. Then he regarded her directly. ‘Look, maybe a wiser man than me wouldn’t say this, but I’m saying it. I never could take to calling you Róisín Quin, so I won’t. If you weren’t a married woman, Róisín Doyle, I’d be asking you – ’

‘Married, Paddy? For eight months. Now only in name.’

‘I’d be asking you long ago, to go out with me, I would. And I know you know it.’

‘Life, Paddy. Desperate hard station.’ Her hand squeezed his. ‘The right somebody’ll come along for you. I know that. A lovely alive girl. Not half-taken like me. Won’t she be the lucky one. Fall for your good looks and kind nature.’ Her pause brought his regard back to her, whereupon her dark fluid eyes met his. The confluence ended at the blare of a car horn. Beside them Leonora cavorted in the driver’s seat, droning out engine sounds and pulling at the steering wheel.

‘Put the heart crossways in me,’ Paddy said, slapping his chest. ‘Time I was off, I suppose.’ He nudged the child over and fell into the driver’s seat.

‘Second thoughts, Paddy.’ Róisín hunkered down at the open window, ‘Ask Leo and Peg to keep her up there, not to walk her home. I’ll fly down and see Mr Breathnach; I could be delayed, could be late, you never know.’

‘I’ll do that. Any interest in the Christmas Pageant? It’s at eight tonight. I could collect you in the Morris. Car’s grand in the cold. I bet Leo and Peg won’t mind keeping an eye on the lassie.’

Her unfocused stare hung in the divide as she reached in and stroked the child’s head.

‘You’re shaking, look at you,’ Paddy said. ‘That’s it, I’m dropping you up home this minute!’ He pushed out the passenger door. ‘Get in, girl, we’ll get a hot Jameson inside you, warm you up, do you a power of good.’

‘No!’ she said, a sternness in her white wintry face. Paddy offered no retort. ‘Go, Paddy McCann, go on. I need to get walking, that’s all. You’ll be sure it’s Leo you say it to, about keeping her? Wild she is, you know.’ Her attention turned to the child. ‘Only now and then, pet, not all the time.’

‘I will. Y’have to start looking after yourself; that’s the last I’ll say about it.’

She found Paddy’s hand already half-way to her.

‘Happy Christmas, Róisín. Róisín Doyle.’

‘Thanks, Paddy. For everything. You’re a star; you really are.’

His big face flushed.

‘Be good, pet,’ she said as the Morris pulled off into the ebbing day.

Two hours later the black clouds that had menaced since morning deluged Aranroe and all the western lands.

* * *

‘She in here with you?’ Peggy peeked around the scullery door.

‘She’s in the small bedroom,’ Leo said. ‘Playing with the crib figures.’

‘She’s not! I’ve just now been in the two bedrooms.’

Leo shouted the child’s name above the battering of the weather. ‘She’s hiding under a bed, or in the loft; you know the way she is.’

‘I’m telling you she’s not, man! And she couldn’t get into the loft, the ladder’s down.’

‘She’s not far. Has to be somewhere.’ Leo’s demeanour changed. ‘Leonora! Leonora, time to put the lights in the window.’

Together they searched the loft, then in each of the cottage’s four rooms, inside the big brown suitcase they’d bought for their honeymoon, behind the old wool baskets, under the couch, in dressers and sideboards, even inside the turf boxes. The child was nowhere to be found. Outside, the storm from the north had turned into an Atlantic gale and was now whipping against walls and window panes.

‘Jesus, she wouldn’t.’ Peggy’s voice pitched higher. ‘She wouldn’t have rambled off home through the back field.’

‘She’d have no cause to do that, in this weather. Isn’t she afraid of the dark anyway.’

‘She’s done it before. With Róisín away in hospital and you up in the high pastures. I didn’t tell you.’ Peggy’s voice dropped. ‘That’s it; that’s what she’s done.’

Leo pulled his raincoat off the rack. ‘Needs a good smack; she knows better.’

I’ll go with you. Róisín should be home by now. I’ll bring the measure; I promised her I’d finish her cardigan for Christmas.’

‘You’ll need your boots. It’s well flooded.’

They followed the long meadow before stepping down into the squelching softness of the back field, waves of sleet beating against their oilskins. Half-way across, amber room-light beaconed through the dark, then red and green blinking bulbs marking out both front windows of Róisín’s cottage, and soon the faint twinkling of Christmas tree lights.

Leo banged on the door. Nobody appeared. No voices, no sign of life. ‘Róisín, it’s us. Are you in?’ he yelled, pushing the door open. The only sound in the main room was the rapping of rain and the wind in the chimney. The fire in the grate was set, but unlit. On the timber floor, Leonora’s scarlet raincoat lay in a pool, beside it one small black boot.

‘Róisín! Leonora!’ Peggy shouted. ‘Place is frozen cold. Róisín, darling; Leonora, darling, it’s us.’

They entered the kitchen. Empty. Peggy grabbed Leo’s sleeve. ‘Something’s wrong. God forgive me for saying it.’

‘Jesus Christ, are you here or not? Where are you?’ Leo’s calls echoed through the cottage.

‘The bedroom,’ Peggy said, hands covering her face. ‘They’re fast asleep.’

In the dim hallway he gripped the brass knob, eased the door in slightly. A moving shadow accosted him. Candle flicker. He called out, without response. Only a weak, seesaw creaking stood out from the gale. He pushed the door further. On the bed, a small body, prostrate, lying awkwardly, eyes open, lay completely still.

For a heartbeat, he faltered. ‘There you are!’ he said. ‘You are never – ’ Suddenly a cry burst out of him. He sprang to the bed, gripped the child’s tiny shoulders, lifted her forward. ‘Leonora! Peggy!’ Her body sagged in his hands. He shook her, shook her softer, cradled her, then he lowered her to the pillow, talking to her, her face between his palms.

‘Please, Jesus!’ Peggy barged up against him, pulled the limp body upright. ‘Darling, what happened?! Darling, wake up, wake up!’ She rubbed vigorously at the child’s hands, put her ear to her chest, kept shifting position, kept listening. ‘Oh my God, she’s breathing, she’s alive. Wake up for Aunt Peggy, darling, Aunt Peggy and Uncle Leo, we’re here now, wake up, darling.’

‘Thank Christ,’ Leo said, plucking her into his arms as Peggy tucked a blanket around her. ‘She’s like ice and she’s saturated. We have to get her dry, get some heat into her, find a telephone, get Dr Lappin.’ He clutched her to him, rubbing briskly on her back. ‘You’re grand now, Princess. Uncle Leo’s with you now, Uncle Leo’s with you. Everything’s alright.’

Peggy turned for the door.

And saw Róisín.

‘Nooo! Jesus, no.’

Then Leo saw her, behind the half-open door.

Hanging.

No words or sound came out of his deformed face.

Head bent forward, the body swayed with a low rhythmic creaking.

Leo thrust the child toward Peggy. He locked his arms around Róisín’s thighs, lifted her weight off the plastic-covered line. ‘Not this, not this, no, Róisín Doyle, no, no.’

Peggy edged back into the room, Leonora in her arms.

‘The dresser, Peggy. Climb up, cut it, cut it, hurry! Cut it, cut it.’

With the child laid on the bed, she pulled a scissors from a wool basket, climbed on a chair, and cut. Róisín’s slight body crumpled into his arms. ‘Get the child out, get her out,’ he shouted.

As he placed Róisín on the bed her lifeless face caught the light of the candle. He slapped her cheeks, yelled her name over and over, demanded her response, his voice peaking and breaking. ‘For me. Wake up for me. Listen to me, you never would, just this once, listen to me. Wake up! Wake up!’ He pressed his face against hers and let out a long wail. ‘I was here. I was always here, right beside you.’ He lifted her forward, rocked her back and forth, back and forth, locked to her.

Suddenly he stopped. He took her ringless left hand in his, and into her ear he recited a prayer and marked her with the sign of the cross.

In the living room he found Peggy cuddling Leonora before kindling burning in the grate, small clothes hanging on the wire screen.

‘Get hold of yourself, man,’ Peggy’s strong, tearful voice ordered. ‘You’d no part in this. Not your fault. The truth I’m speaking to you.’

‘She’s gone.’ He fell to his knees alongside Peggy. ‘Róisín’s gone.’

‘Shhh, Leo, Leo! She’s gone to God; she’s with God now.’ Peggy tightened the blanket around the comatose child, and let her own sorrow spill out unchecked. ‘We’re going home now, darling. Yes, we are, we’re all going home. You, me and Uncle Leo, home.’

Leo’s heavy hands remained pressed to his eye sockets.

‘You hear me, Leo Reffo? We’re going home; we’re going home right this minute. There’s nothing more you can do here this night.’ She linked one arm into his, and when it seemed her voice was failing she spoke more commandingly. ‘We’ll phone Fr Foley and Dr Lappin, from the kiosk on the hill,’ she said. ‘Here, you take her; she’s always better with you.’ He fastened his arms around the child, and together, under blankets and oilskins, they headed away from the cottage.

In their wake they left Róisín at rest in her bed, a solitary bulb burning overhead, and all the Christmas lights extinguished. And against the swamp and darkness of the back field, they battled forward, clutched together.