Strawberry Fields (35 page)

Read Strawberry Fields Online

Authors: Katie Flynn

Tags: #Fiction, #Sagas

BOOK: Strawberry Fields
2.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
So she’s just being practical, Sara told herself, heaving the sheet up over her shoulders, and I must be practical, too. Gran’s old; I mustn’t set so much store by her company that I go to pieces when she dies. I’ve got to learn self-sufficiency, as Gran once did – as Clarrie has.
But she knew, as she felt sleep overtaking her, that it would not be easy.
She wasn’t there again, of course. Brogan went round and knocked on the door as soon as he and his father had finished their supper on Christmas Eve and no one answered, though the neighbour poked her head round the door. It wasn’t the same girl as last time but a younger, prettier one. She smiled at Brogan.
‘Hello – they’re away. Gone for Christmas. They’ll be back day after Boxing Day.’
Brogan groaned. ‘Oh lor, and I’m off meself in the morning, to Dublin on the boat. Isn’t that just me luck, now?’
‘Well, when will you be comin’ back?’ the girl asked curiously. ‘Can you not pop round then?’
‘I might,’ Brogan said cautiously. ‘Only . . . is things the same? Have Sara and her gran gone away wit’ her army friend?’
‘That’s it,’ the girl said. ‘Gone to stay wi’ the parents, Mr and Mrs Boote, as ’ouse guests.’ She sighed enviously. ‘They’ll ’ave a gay old time, I reckon.’
‘I’ll try an’ come round again when I’m passin’ through on me way back to Crewe,’ Brogan said, trying to sound firm and resolute but merely succeeding, he thought, in sounding offended by Sara’s absence. He had taken off his cap when the girl had first spoken, now he replaced it on his head. ‘Season’s greetings to you, Miss,’ he finished.
Walking down the road, hands in pockets, head down, Brogan tried to tell himself that he should take this as a warning. Sara was obviously living in the pocket of this Boote person, he couldn’t blame her, but he had best forget her.
After all, I didn’t do a thing to keep meself in her mind; I didn’t even write, he reminded himself. Only letters were so hard, you had to put on paper things you wouldn’t mind saying, but didn’t fancy seeing in black and white.
He was home at his father’s lodgings before the dark depression hit him, mocking him with his total inadequacy, his stupidity, the sheer absurdity of expecting a girl like Sara to take a feller like him seriously. He sat glowering in the chair by the fire and Peader, assuming that his son, like himself, was suffering all the awful pangs of extreme homesickness and was unable to bear the thought of waking, tomorrow morning, with only the voyage on the ferry ahead of him instead of the usual jollities of Christmas Day, said they’d best be off to bed, for they’d a long day ahead of them tomorrow.
‘I’ve a long life ahead of me, and I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do wit’ it,’ Brogan said morosely. ‘I’m sick an’ tired of bein’ alone, Daddy, sick an’ tired.’
‘Never mind, boy,’ Peader said bracingly. ‘By this time tomorrow we’ll be in the bosom of our family – for a whole week!’
And if Brogan’s smile was not as wide as it could have been, Peader was too absorbed in his own happy anticipation to notice.
Christmas in Dublin would have gone well but for the vexed question of the family crossing the water. Deirdre, when it was put to her, did not show any of the enthusiasm at the thought of being with her man again, living as a proper family once more, which Peader had confidently expected. Instead she pulled a doubtful face; sure and wasn’t she Dublin born and bred? She’d never considered leaving the area, she was happy here, knew everyone, was known by everyone. She didn’t want to end up living in a foreign country, not understanding the people, not knowing the customs, longing all the time for Dublin, the Liberties, even for Swift’s Alley and the neighbours she had known all her life.
And Peader, who never grumbled, who had lived alone in England now for twelve years, suddenly saw red – he, who had never shouted, never thrown his weight about, actually shouted, went red in the face so that veins stood out on his forehead!
‘
You
don’t want to live in a foreign country?
You
won’t understand the people, or know the customs? What about me, you selfish bitch? Haven’t I lived there for a dozen years, sent all me money home, been heartsick for Dublin, for you, for me kids . . . and haven’t I stayed there, regardless, so’s you could be happy, have a decent life? Yet when I ask if you could come over the water to be with me, what do you say?’ Peader put on a squeaky voice:
‘Oh, Peader, but amn’t I Dublin born and bred? What would I do in a foreign country, knowin’ no one? How would I live, not understandin’ their ways?’
He reverted to his own voice. ‘In twelve years, Deirdre, I’ve never laid an eye or a hand on another woman, I’ve t’ought of you every night, every mornin’. But by God, if you won’t come back wit’ me, then that’s goin’ to change so it is!’
Polly, who had been curled up on the hearthrug, leaning against Delilah, with Lionel purring on her lap, stared with big eyes at this sudden and unexpected parental storm. Her father had used a bad word – worse, he had used it to describe her mother who was the best person in the whole world! And what had happened to their lovely Christmas contentment? It had vanished the moment Daddy started talking about them living in Liverpool so they could all be together. But now Mammy was crying and Daddy was quiet, his big hands resting on his knees, his eyes cast down.
‘Mammy,’ Polly ventured. ‘What’s Liverpool like?’
‘I don’t know, alanna, and I don’t want to know . . .’ Mammy began but this, it appeared, was too much for Daddy. He crashed out an oath and jumped to his feet.
‘I’m not stayin’ where I’m not wanted,’ he said thickly. ‘I’m for the pub – are you comin’, Brogan?’
Brogan never argued with anyone and now Polly saw that he looked acutely unhappy. But then he seemed to remember something, and he stood up.
‘I’ll come wit’ you, Daddy,’ he said. ‘Mammy needs time to think – and to remember, perhaps.’
It sounded threatening. Mammy thought so too, for she gave another strangled sob and held out her hands to Brogan, but he turned and left the room in his father’s wake, only casting one quick, comforting glance at Polly.
It’s nothin’, really,
the look seemed to say.
They’ll be over it in a trice, alanna, and kissin’ an’ huggin’ by bedtime
.
It would have been nice had she believed it, but the minute the door closed behind them Mammy ran over to her, picked her off the hearthrug and gave her a fierce, rib-cracking hug.
‘Sure an’ you wouldn’t want to go over the water to Liverpool, would you, my darlin’ girl?’ she said coaxingly. ‘It’s a cold, dark country, England, full of cold, dark people. They don’t sing, nor worship, nor even speak as we do. Ah, you’d be unhappy far from your school, from Aideen . . . from Tad, for that matter. Say you’d rather stay here, wit’ your mammy.’
‘I’d rather stay wit’ you, Mammy,’ Polly whispered, but she felt a traitor even saying it. Brogan and Daddy were so good, they worked so hard, Mammy was always saying she wanted them back in Dublin again. Well, they couldn’t come back, Daddy had explained it so that even Polly understood. But they could go to him. He had said a house in the country, a bit of a garden . . . a good life. Was that so terrible? Was it so bad to live in another country, when you were living with someone you loved?
But Mammy was crying again, great big tears were coursing down her cheeks and plopping on to poor Delilah, who looked up, eyes heavy with reproach. He wanted his warm and cuddly Polly back on the rug, and Lionel, stalking indignantly towards him having been tipped unceremoniously off Polly’s small lap, was making him nervous. Delilah’s large, tent-like ears quivered apprehensively upright as he wondered what the ginger cat might do to him, when Lionel got close enough.
‘Your mammy’s not a selfish . . . a selfish person, is she, Polly?’ Mammy was saying between sobs. ‘’Tis your daddy’s who’s the selfish one, threatenin’ to take me across the water – me, a Dublin rose, to be torn up by me roots and planted in cold Liverpool soil . . . oh, I cannot, cannot bear it!’
‘Daddy won’t make you go, Mammy,’ Polly said. She found she was crying herself – oh, Mother of God, what a great baby she was, thank heaven Tad wasn’t here, for devil a bit of sympathy would she get from him, for blubbin’ like a baby just because her mammy was doing the same. ‘Daddy’s good an’ kind, you’ve always said so. He sends all his money home, the dote, an’ he’s not a drinkin’ man, either, thanks to all the saints.’
Hearing her own words quoted back at her stopped Mammy in her tracks. She sniffed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand, then began dabbing at her eyes with the linen runner which stopped the Brylcreem from the boys’ heads getting on the nice chairs.
‘He
is
good and kind, alanna. So why does he want to make me so unhappy?’
It was unanswerable, of course. But even as she spoke, Mammy loosened her grip slightly and Polly slid through her hands like a trout through water and landed back on the hearthrug where she immediately flung her own arms round Delilah and gave him a kiss right on the end of his wet, black nose.
‘Dear Delly,’ she said against his soft face. ‘Shall we go a walk? It’s Christmas night, we might see Santy Claus – or the banshee!’
‘Oh, bugger the banshee,’ Mammy shouted suddenly, as Polly got to her feet. ‘You’re not goin’ out there alone and leavin’ me here, so miserable? Ivan’s been asleep this past hour and the boys aren’t home yet . . . I don’t want to be here alone!’
‘But Delilah’s got to go out for his last visit,’ Polly pointed out primly, conveniently forgetting the many times she had whined to Donal or Martin to take the dog out for her because it was cold outside and she was terribly tired. ‘When he was a little puppy you said to me, you said, “Who’s goin’ to take him out at dead o’ night for his last visit?” and I telled you then I would, so I have to, of course.’
‘Oh, all right, leave me then,’ Mammy said wearily. ‘I’m goin’ to bed.’
And for the first time ever that she could remember, Polly came back to the house, fresh and tingling after a brisk run through the streets with one hand on Delilah’s shaggy head, to find her mother actually in bed and to all intents and purposes, asleep.
I wonder should I jump in beside her? Polly asked herself as she changed out of her clothes into the shift she wore in bed. Only she did say I was to have the mattress in the livin’ room, and I could lie it on the sofa if I’d a mind.
When she was in her shift Polly went and poured herself a drink of water and then pulled out the mattress. Her bedding was folded up on top of it and she shook it out, hoping that Daddy and Brogan would come back in before she was asleep so that one or other of them could sit by the fire and read her a story. She was perfectly capable of reading herself a story, of course, but Mammy had formed the habit of story-reading when Polly had been small and somehow the habit had continued – and Ivan loved the stories too, which was nice. The two of them sat on either side of Mammy, thumbs in mouths, and listened in perfect amity for once. And then sleep came so much quicker and easier, with lovely story-thoughts churning gently round in your brain and all your worries banished.
But the clock on the mantel ticked and tocked and the pendulum swung hypnotically and Lionel, curled up in the crook of Polly’s knees, purred so deeply and vibrantly that soon keeping awake was more than Polly could cope with. Her eyelids drooped, firelight dazzled on the lids, thoughts slowed . . . and she slept.
She was woken by soft voices; men’s voices. Brogan and Daddy. She did not want them to know she was awake so she opened a crack of her eye and peered at the clock on the mantel first. It said three o’clock in the morning – she had scarcely known there was such a time! And Daddy and Brogan were sitting on either side of the fire, in the good chairs, talking.
‘Daddy, I know how you miss her, I know, none better.’ Brogan was saying. ‘I don’t know the hunger, because I’m a single feller, but I know the missin’. In me own way I miss the kids, too, specially Polly. But Daddy, would it be fair to take the littl’un back to Liverpool? There’s that to consider when you’re thinkin’ it out, too.’
‘No need.’ That was Daddy’s voice, dark and flat with despair, but with a slur to it that Polly had never heard before. ‘Deirdre won’t cross the water; mebbe I shouldn’t have asked her.’
‘You had every right,’ Brogan said, his gentle voice almost angry. ‘Every right in the world, Daddy. Mammy cannot realise, she cannot have thought, of what you’ve done for our family. Why, you’ve been after givin’ them the best years of your life, and when Mammy thinks on, she’ll be shamed by what she’s said tonight.’
‘I called her a selfish bitch,’ Daddy said dully. ‘When I know in me heart she’s the most generous woman who ever walked this earth. Why did I do it, Brogan? Why did I set my tongue to words I’m ashamed of? It wasn’t the drink for I’d not touched a drop, as you well know.’
‘Well, you’ve touched a drop now, so don’t go maudlin on me,’ Brogan said, with humour in his voice. ‘You’ve a hard head on you, Daddy, for you drank enough porter to drown a better man – I never seen anything like it in all me puff. Now shall I be helpin’ you into bed? Or will you jump in as you are?’
‘I’ll wake Deirdre,’ his father said crossly. ‘’Tis a wife’s duty to help her man to bed when he’s had a few. If I’d been like other men she’d have been helpin’ me to bed these many nights . . . and suitin’ me when I got there, too.’

Other books

Tiranosaurio by Douglas Preston
A Bit of You by Bailey Bradford
You & Me by Padgett Powell
The Rise of Ren Crown by Anne Zoelle
Shine (Short Story) by Jodi Picoult
Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon