Things You Find in a Pantry

Rosaleen looked different today, having made an effort for Sunday mass and market. Her Sunday clothes were a knee‑length beige‑coloured skirt with a small slit up the middle at the back. She wore a cream slightly see‑through blouse with puffy shoulders, which was tied in a bow at the neck and underneath I could see a lacy bra, though I doubted she knew about its transparency. It was actually quite sophisticated. She’d worn a matching beige jacket with a peacock feather brooch on the lapel, and on her feet were nude patent slingback peep‑toes. Only an inch or two high but she looked good. I said so and her face brightened and her cheeks pinked.

‘Thank you.’

‘Where did you buy it?’

‘Oh,’ she was embarrassed about talking about herself. ‘In Dunshauglin. About a half‑hour away there’s a place that I like. Mary’s very good, God bless her soul…’

I awaited Mary’s tragic news with bated breath. It involved a dead husband and lots of God blessing her.

I tried again with another conversation.

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘A sister in Cork. Helen. She’s a teacher. And I’ve a brother, Brian, in Boston.’

‘Do they ever visit?’

‘Now and then. It’s been a while. Usually Mammy would visit them, Helen in Cork at least, to give her a change of scenery, but now she can’t. She has MS.’ She looked at me then, opening up. ‘Multiple Sclerosis‑do you know what that is?’

‘Kind of. Something about your muscles no longer working.’

‘Close enough. It’s got worse over the years. It gives her awful trouble. That’s why I’m back and forth. I can’t travel, I don’t like to leave her, you know. She needs me.’

It seemed like a lot of people needed Rosaleen. But it struck me that with so many people needing one person, maybe it was more that she needed them to need her. I never wanted to need Rosaleen.

Her mother never arrived to point the accusing finger at me, but two o’clock did. I snuck out of the house unnoticed while Rosaleen was getting the makings of her tarts ready. I’d learned that the three thousand various pies she’d made during the week not only fed us and her mother, but she’d brought them to the Sunday farmers’ market where she sold them along with her home‑made jam, and organic home‑grown vegetables. She’d carried a pouch stuffed with notes and coins to the table, turned her back to take something out of it and then squeezed twenty euro into my hand. I was honestly so touched, I refused to take it but she wasn’t having any of it.

When I reached the castle, Weseley was sitting on the stairs‑my stairs. He was wearing blue jeans, a black T‑shirt with a blue skull on it and blue trainers. Even in the daylight he was cool.

He looked up and pulled his earphones out. ‘He can come tomorrow at ten.’

There was no hello or anything. I was a little put out.

‘Oh. Great, thanks.’ I waited for him to stand up and flutter away, like a little pigeon who’d delivered its message, but he stayed. ‘Actually, could he come at ten fifteen, just in case Rosaleen is delayed leaving?’

‘Yeah, sure, I’ll tell him.’

‘Okay, great, thanks,’ I repeated.

He still didn’t leave and so I stepped in further and leaned against the wall directly opposite him.

‘Do you know the woman who lives in the bungalow?’

‘Rosaleen’s mother? I saw her the first week we moved but not since then. She doesn’t really go out much. She’s old. I think she’s got Alzheimer’s or something.’

‘Have you ever been to her house?’

‘I’ve dropped a few things over for Arthur. Firewood, coal, some furniture, that kind of thing. But Rosaleen always escorts me on and off the premises.’ He smiled. ‘It’s not as if there’s anything over there to steal, if that’s what she’s worried about.’

‘Well she’s worried about something. So Arthur never goes over to the bungalow himself…’ I thought aloud. ‘They mustn’t get along. I wonder why.’

‘Check you out, Nancy Drew. Or how about, I’m now Arthur’s dogsbody so he couldn’t be arsed carrying over dodgy rocking chairs to his mother‑in‑law when he’s paying me next to nothing to do it for him.’

‘But he never even visits her.’

‘You’re really looking for something, aren’t you?’

It reminded me of what Sister Ignatius had said about my mind doing unusual things when it searches. She had known before I did that I was looking for something.

‘It’s just that…’ I thought about it, ‘to be perfectly honest, I’m so bored here.’ I laughed. ‘If I had some sort of life, or friends, or someone to talk to then I wouldn’t be making something out of nothing. I wouldn’t care about Rosaleen and her secrets.’

‘What secrets?’ he laughed. ‘Rosaleen doesn’t have secrets. She just doesn’t understand the art of conversation. She’s so used to spending time on her own, I don’t think she knows to offer information about herself.’

‘I know that, and I had thought of that, but…’

‘But what?’

I don’t know how or why but I suddenly started telling him about everything about the past few days. All the odd conversations, the missing photo album, Arthur’s unusual comment about thinking Mum didn’t want to see him, the way Rosaleen couldn’t stand for me to be in the room with anyone on my own without her there, Rosaleen failing to mention me in her conversation with Sister Ignatius, Sister Ignatius wanting me to ask Rosaleen questions, the comment about Mum lying, Rosaleen wanting to keep Mum up in the room all the time, the secretive way she disappears to the bungalow and not wanting me to cross over, what I’d seen in the back garden, the tray being left on the wall, the argument about not wanting to put our belongings in the garage.

He listened patiently, making enough reactions to encourage me to keep going and not to hold back.

‘Okay…’ he said as soon as I’d finished. ‘That all does sound a little odd, and I get how you can be really suspicious but it could probably all be explained too. Just by the fact that Rosaleen is a bit of a weirdo‑no offence,’ he said quickly. ‘I know she’s your aunt.’

‘No offence taken.’

‘I’m not really here long enough to know anybody properly but Rosaleen doesn’t really speak to anybody in the town. Whenever my mam passes her, she always puts her head down and walks on. I don’t know if she’s just shy or what it is. And about how she is with you, what does she know about being a mother? But that’s not to say that you’re not right Tamara. There could be something they’re keeping from you. I don’t know what the hell that could be, but if anything else weird happens, tell me.’

‘Something else hugely weird is happening,’ I said.

My heart drummed. I couldn’t believe I was going to tell him about the diary. I just wanted him to believe me so much.

‘Tell me.’

‘You’ll think I’m psychotic.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Just please believe me that I’m not lying.’

‘Okay. Tell me,’ he said, getting impatient.

I told him about the diary.

He quite understandably leaned back from me, folded his arms, all body language the equivalent to a computer shutting down. Oh God. He looked at me differently. Never mind the face change when I’d told him dad had died, this was on a whole new level. The guy thought I was a nut.

‘Weseley,’ I began, but I didn’t know what else to say.

‘Yoo‑hoo,’ a voice called suddenly and Weseley snapped out of it and looked towards the doorway. A beautiful blonde entered. She looked directly at him, not noticing me along the wall.

‘Ashley,’ he said, surprised, ‘you’re early.’

‘I know, sorry, blame the excitement of wanting to see you. I brought a blanket.’ She shimmied the basket in her hand. She rushed towards him and dropped the basket by their feet, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, and not in a sisterly way. I felt a surprising twinge of envy, which I shrugged off. As though she’d sensed herself being shrugged off, she opened her eyes and saw me standing there, arms folded, bored with their display.

‘Cute PDA but I’m bored now. Can I go?’

Weseley broke their embrace and turned to me with a smile.

‘Who are you?’ She looked at me like I was a bad smell. ‘Who is she?’ she asked him.

‘I’m his secret lover. We love to do it in old castles fully clothed while I’m leaning against the wall and he’s sitting on the stairs on the other side of the room. It’s tough but we love a challenge. Kinky. Later, lover,’ I winked at him while walking to the door.

‘That’s Tamara,’ I heard him say as I left the castle. ‘She’s just a friend.’

She’s just a friend. Four words that could possibly kill any woman, but, they made me smile. Not only had my freakish rendition of the weirdest story you could ever be told in your life failed to send him charging at me with a torch, wanting to burn me at the stake, but also here in this place, I had made a friend.

And the castle was my witness.

‘Tamara,’ I heard him calling just as the house was coming into view. I took a few steps back, moved closer to the trees so that a peeping Rosaleen wouldn’t see us talking.

He was out of breath by the time he got to me.

‘About the diary thing…’

‘Yeah, I’m sorry, forget it‑’

‘I want to believe you, but I don’t.’

I was both complimented and insulted at the same time.

‘But if you tell me what’s going to happen tomorrow, and then it happens, then I’ll believe you. That makes sense, doesn’t it?’

I nodded.

‘If you’re right, then I’ll help you do whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing.’

I smiled.

‘But if you’re making this up,’ he shook his head and he looked at me oddly again, ‘then you know…’

‘I know. Then you’d like to be my boyfriend. I understand.’

He laughed. ‘So what’s going to happen?’

‘I haven’t read it yet.’

I’d left the house last night before the entry had arrived in the diary and I’d been so busy all morning with my missions that I hadn’t had time to read the diary.

He looked doubtful. I mean, even I barely believed myself and I knew I wasn’t lying.

‘I’ll read it when I get back to the house and then I’ll call you later. Or will you be home? I don’t want to disturb you and Yoo‑hoo.’

He laughed. ‘All right, call me later.’ He started to leave, ‘But by the way, she’s not my girlfriend.’

‘Sure she’s not,’ I called back.

Once in the house I made a point of sitting with Arthur and Rosaleen in the lounge, pretending to read the book Fiona had given me. Then I could wait no longer. I yawned, stretched and excused myself from the room and went upstairs. I removed the diary from underneath the floorboard, moved the chair up against the door again and sat down. I opened the book in hope more than expectation, hoping the new entry had arrived in the early hours of the morning.

As soon as I opened the cover, I saw the words of the previous day disappear as though the new day had drained the ink away, and in their place the neatest writing‑my neatest writing‑began to appear in loops and lines, word after word, so quickly I could barely keep up. The first line made me nervous.

Monday, 6 July

What a disaster! This morning Dr Gedad showed up just like planned. Rosaleen left at ten o’clock for feeding time at the zoo just as I predicted. I watched to make sure nothing fell that would cause her to come running back early. Dr Gedad showed up at ten fifteen on the button. I prayed she wouldn’t look out the window and see his parked car but there was nothing I could do about that. I just needed to get him in and out of the house as quickly as possible. I was waiting for him at the door and he seemed such a warm and lovely man. I shouldn’t have been surprised really, with Weseley as his son. We were in the entrance hall when the front door opened and Rosaleen stepped in. Honestly, the look on her face when she saw him, it was like she’d been caught by the police. Dr Gedad didn’t seem to notice. He was as friendly as anything and introduced himself because they’d never met. Rosaleen just stared at him as though an unearthly thing had been beamed into her precious house. She went on a rather nervous rant about an apple pie; she’d tasted the apple pie and she’d added salt instead of sugar, which was the first time she’d ever done that. She seemed really upset, as though it was the worst thing in the world that anybody could ever do. She’d come home to get the other pie that she’d made for dinner. She was sure me and Arthur would understand if we allowed her to bring it to her mother to eat instead. I mean, it was only an apple pie, but she was practically shaking. I don’t know if it was because she’d made a mistake or because I’d arranged a doctor for Mum behind her back. Dr Gedad asked after her mother, whom he’d heard was unwell, and in the most bizarre twist ever, he ended up talking to Rosaleen in the kitchen, without my being allowed to sit with them, and when they’d finished, Dr Gedad said to me that he was sure that his presence wasn’t needed at all. He was very sorry for my loss, gave me a pamphlet about some counselling and then left.

Now things are worse than they were before I started this. I can’t stand this any more. I can’t stand being here any more. Next time Marcus comes along in his bus, I’m hijacking it and I’m forcing him to take me home. Wherever that is, it’s not here.

Don’t count on my writing tomorrow.

With shaking hands I returned the book to under the floorboard and knew that I had to fix this. I went downstairs and in the kitchen Rosaleen was making her pies for the next day.

I sat and watched her, nervously biting my nails and trying to decide what to do. If I stopped her from using the salt in the pie then that would mean that I could stop her from returning to the gatehouse too early. But if I changed everything then Weseley would never believe me. Which did I need more, a doctor for Mum or an ally here to help me?

‘Tamara, would you mind fetching me the sugar from the pantry, please?’ she broke into my thoughts.

I froze.

She turned round. ‘Tamara?’

‘Yes,’ I snapped out of it. ‘I’ll get it now.’

‘Can you just fill this up to there, that’ll make it easier,’ she smiled pleasantly, enjoying the bonding.

I took the measuring jug from her and I felt like I was outside of myself as I walked to the pantry. In the small room off the kitchen I looked at the floor‑to‑ceiling shelves stocked with everything a person could possibly need for ten years. Condiments separated into Mason jars with screw‑on lids, labelled in perfect penmanship with contents and expiry dates. A shelf of root vegetables: onions, potatoes, yams, carrots. A shelf of canned goods: soups and broths, beans, tinned tomatoes. Below that the grains, all in their glass jars: rice, pasta of all kinds of shapes and colours, beans, oatmeal, lentils, cereals and dried fruits‑sultanas, raisins, apricots. Then there was the baking supplies: flour, sugar, salt and yeast, and so many jars of oils, olive oil, sesame oil, balsamic vinegar, oyster sauce, rails and racks of spices. There were even more jars of honey and jam: strawberry, raspberry, blackberry and even plum. It was endless. The sugar and salt had both been emptied from their packets and poured into jars. The jars were labelled, in that perfect handwriting. My hand shook as I reached for the salt jar. I remembered my lesson from last night: I could change the diary. I didn’t need to follow its story. If I hadn’t found it, life would be going on without any of my knowledge.

But then I thought of Weseley. If I gave Rosaleen the sugar, then she wouldn’t return home tomorrow, she wouldn’t catch the doctor before he went upstairs, she wouldn’t convince him not to see Mum. If I changed the diary, then I would have absolutely no idea what would happen, so I wouldn’t be able to tell Weseley and he wouldn’t believe me about the diary. I’d have lost a new friend and looked like the biggest weirdo on the planet.

But if I told him what was to happen tomorrow, then Mum wouldn’t see a doctor. How much longer could I wait here while she sat upstairs sleeping and waking as though there was no difference between either?

I made my decision and reached for a jar.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 600