Chapter Thirty-Seven

outside elizabeth’s bedroom window on Fuchsia Lane, the rain

began to fall, hitting off the bedroom window like pebbles and sounding like coins being jigged about in a collection jar. The wind began warming its vocal cords for the night and Elizabeth, tucked up in bed, was transported back to that night she had journeyed out in the late winter darkness to find her mother.

She had packed her schoolbag with only a few things—underwear, two

jumpers and skirts, the book her mother had given her, and her teddy. Her money box had revealed £4.42 and after wrapping her raincoat around her favorite floral dress and stepping into her red Wellington boots, she set out into the cold night. She climbed the small garden wall to avoid the sound of the gate alerting her father, who these days slept like the farmyard dog with one ear pricked. She walked alongside the bushes so as not to be spotted walking up the straight road; the wind pushed and pulled the branches,

causing them to scrape her face and legs and causing wet kisses from soggy leaves to brush against her skin. The wind was vicious that night, it

whipped her legs and stung her ears and cheeks, blowing against her face so hard it took her breath away. Within minutes of walking up the road, her fingers, nose, and lips were numb and her body was freezing to the bone, 265

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but the thought of seeing her mother that night kept her going. And on she journeyed.

Twenty minutes later she arrived at the bridge to Baile na gCroíthe. She had never seen the town at eleven o’clock at night; it was like a ghost town, dark, empty, and silent, as if it were about to bear witness to something and never speak a word of it.

She walked toward Flanagan’s with butterflies in her tummy, no

longer feeling the lash of the cold, just pure excitement at the thrill of being reunited with her mother. She heard Flanagan’s before she saw it—it and the Camel’s Hump were the only buildings in the village with lights on. From an open window, out floated the sounds of a piano, fiddle,

bodhrán, and loud singing and laughter, occasional cheers and whoops.

Elizabeth giggled to herself; it sounded like everyone was having such

fun.

Aunt Kathleen’s car was parked outside, and Elizabeth’s legs automati-

cally moved faster. The front door was open and inside there was a small hallway; the door to the pub was closed, complete with stained glass. Elizabeth stood in the porchway and shook the rain from her raincoat, hung it up alongside the umbrellas on the rack on the wall. Her brown hair was soaking wet, her nose was red and running, and the rain had found its way into the top of her boots; her legs shook from the cold and her feet squelched in the ice-cold pools of water under her feet.

The piano stopped suddenly, followed by a loud roar from a crowd of

men that made Elizabeth jump.

“Come on, Gráinne, sing us another one,” one man slurred, and they

all cheered.

Elizabeth’s heart leaped at the sound of her mother’s name; she was in-

side! She was such a beautiful singer, she sang around the house all the time, composing lullabies and nursery rhymes all by herself. In the mornings, Elizabeth loved to lie in her bed and listen to her mother as she hummed around the rooms of the bungalow. But the voice that began in the silence, followed by the rowdy cheers of drunken men, was not the sweet voice of her mother that she knew so well.

. . .

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In Fuchsia Lane, Elizabeth’s eyes darted open and she sat upright in her bed. Outside, the wind howled like a wounded animal. Her heart was hammering in her chest; her mouth was dry and her body clammy. Throwing the covers off her, she grabbed her car keys on the bedside table, ran down the stairs, threw her raincoat around her shoulders, and escaped the house to her car. The cold drops of rain hit against her face and she remembered why she hated to feel the rain against her face; it reminded her of that night.

She hurried to her car, shivering as the wind tossed her hair across her eyes and face, and by the time she sat behind the wheel, she was already

drenched.

The windscreen wipers lashed across the window furiously as she

drove down the dark roads to the village. Driving over the bridge, she was faced with the ghost town. Everyone was locked safely inside in the warmth of their houses and hostels. Apart from the Camel’s Hump and Flanagan’s, there was no life elsewhere in the village. Elizabeth parked her car and stood across the road from Flanagan’s, standing in the cold rain, staring across at the building, remembering. Remembering that night.

Elizabeth’s ears hurt from the words of the song being sung by the woman; it was crude, and the words disgusting, and sung in such crass and dirty tones. Every rude word Elizabeth was taught not to say by her father was winning the plaudits of a boozy, sozzled pack of beasts.

She stood on tiptoes in order to look through the red of the stained

glass windows to see what awful woman was croaking the awful tune. She

was sure her mother would be sitting beside Kathleen, absolutely disgusted.

Elizabeth’s heart jumped into her throat and for a moment she fought

hard with her body to breathe, for on top of the wooden piano sat her

mother, opening her mouth and releasing all those awful words. A skirt she had never seen before was hitched up to her thighs, and around her a handful of men taunted, teased, and laughed as she threw shapes with her body Elizabeth had never seen any woman do before.

“Now, now lads, calm down over there,” the young Mr. Flanagan called

from behind the bar.

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The men ignored him, continuing to leer at Elizabeth’s mother.

“Mummy,” Elizabeth whimpered.

Elizabeth walked slowly across the road in the rain toward Flanagan’s Pub, her heart beating with the memory so alive in her head. She held out her hand and pushed open the bar door. Mr. Flanagan looked up from behind

the counter and gave her a small smile, looking as though he expected to see her.

Young Elizabeth held out a trembling hand and pushed open the door to

the bar. Her hair was wet and dripping around her face, her bottom lip out and trembling; her big brown eyes looked around the room in panic as she saw the men reach out to touch her mother again. “Leave her alone!” Elizabeth shouted so loudly the room was quietened. Her mother stopped

singing and all heads turned to the little girl standing at the door.

Her mother’s corner of the room erupted in such loud laughter, tears

filled and spilled from Elizabeth’s terrified eyes.

“Boo hoo hoo.” Her mother sang the loudest of them all. “Let’s all try

to save Mummy, shall we?” she slurred. She set her eyes upon Elizabeth; they were bloodshot and dark. They weren’t the eyes Elizabeth remembered so well. They belonged to someone else.

“Shit,” Kathleen cursed, jumping up from the other side of the bar and

rushing over to Elizabeth. “What are you doing here?”

“I c-c-c-came t-t-t-to,” Elizabeth stammered in the quietened room,

looking at her mother in bewilderment, “I came to find my mum so I could live with her.”

“Well, she’s not here,” her mother shrieked. “Get out!” She pointed a

finger at her accusingly. “Drowned little rats aren’t allowed in pubs,” she cackled, knocking back whatever was in her glass but missing her mouth, causing most of it to land down her chest, where it glistened on her neck and replaced the smell of her sweet perfume with whiskey.

“But Mummy,” Elizabeth whimpered.

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“But Mummy,” Gráinne imitated and a few of the men laughed. “I’m

not your mummy,” she said harshly, stepping down onto the piano keys and causing a disturbing sound. “Little drowned Lizzies don’t deserve mummys. They should be poisoned, the whole lot of you,” she spat.

“Kathleen,” Mr. Flanagan shouted, “what are you doing, get her out of

here. She shouldn’t be seeing this.”

“I can’t.” Kathleen stayed rooted to the spot. “I have to keep an eye on Gráinne, I have to bring her back with me.”

Mr. Flanagan’s mouth dropped open in shock at her. “Would you look

at the child?”

Elizabeth’s brown skin had paled. Her lips were blue from the cold and

her teeth were chattering, a soaking-wet floral dress clung to her body, and her legs shook in her Wellington boots.

Kathleen looked from Elizabeth to Gráinne, caught between the two. “I

can’t, Tom,” she hissed.

Tom looked angry. “I’ll have the decency to bring her home myself.”

He grabbed a set of keys from under the bar and started to come around the other side to Elizabeth.

“NO!” Elizabeth screamed. She took one look at her mother, who had

already become bored by this scene and was lost in the arms of a strange man, turned around to face the door, and ran back out to the cold night.

Elizabeth stood at the door of the bar, her hair dripping, rain rolling down her forehead and off her nose, her teeth chattering and her fingers numb.

The sounds of the room weren’t the same; inside there was no music, no

cheers or whoops, no singing, just the sound of an occasional clinking glass and quiet chatter. There were no more than five people in the bar on the quiet Tuesday night.

An aged Tom continued to stare at her.

“My mother,” Elizabeth called out from the door. The sound of her

childlike voice surprised her. “She was an alcoholic.”

Tom nodded.

“She came in here a lot?”

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He nodded again.

“But there were weeks”—she swallowed hard—“weeks at a time when

she wouldn’t leave us.”

Tom’s reply was softly spoken. “She was what you’d call a binge

drinker.”

“And my father . . .” She paused, thinking of her poor father, who

waited and waited at home every night. “He knew this,” she confirmed.

“The patience of a saint.” He nodded.

She looked around the small bar, at the same old piano that stood in the corner. The only thing that had changed in the room was the age of all that was in it.

“That night,” Elizabeth said, her eyes filling with tears. “Thank you.”

Tom just nodded at her sadly.

“Have you seen her since?”

He shook his head.

“Do you . . . do you expect to?” she asked, her voice catching in her

throat.

“Not in this lifetime, Elizabeth.” He confirmed for her what she had always felt deep down.

“Daddy,” Elizabeth whispered to herself and took off out of the bar,

back into the cold night.

Little Elizabeth ran from the pub, feeling every drop of rain lash against her body, feeling her chest hurt as she breathed in the cold air and the water splash up her legs as she pounded in the puddles. She was running home.

Elizabeth jumped into her car and sped off out of the town toward the

mile-long road that led to her father’s bungalow. Approaching headlights caused her to reverse back the way she had come and wait for the car to pass before she could continue her journey. Her father had known all this time and he had never told her. He had never wanted to shatter her illu-sions of her mother. All this time Elizabeth had held her up on a pedestal.

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She had thought her a free spirit and her father a suffocating force, the butterfly catcher. She needed to get to him quickly, to apologize, to make things right. She set off again down the road, only to see a tractor slowly chugging before her, unusual at this late hour. She reversed the car back to the entrance of the road, pulled back by the tide that kept so many people from traveling down the road. With her impatience rising, she abandoned her car and began to run. She ran as fast as she could down the mile-long road that brought her home.

“Daddy,” little Elizabeth sobbed as she ran down the road toward the

bungalow. She screamed his name louder, the wind helping her for the first time that night by lifting her words and carrying them for her toward the bungalow. A light went on, followed by another, and she could see the front door open.

“Daddy!” she cried even louder and ran even faster.

Brendan sat at the window of the bedroom, looking out to the dark night, sipping a cup of tea, hoping among all hopes the vision he was hoping for would appear. He had chased them all away; he had done exactly the opposite of what he wanted, and it was all his fault. All he could do was wait.

Wait for one of his three women to appear. One of whom he knew for cer-

tain would never and could never return.

A movement in the distance caught his eye and he sat to attention like a guard dog. A woman ran toward him, long brown hair floating behind her, her image blurring as the rain hit against the window and streamed down the glass.

It was her.

He dropped his cup and saucer to the floor and stood up, knocking his

chair backward.

“Gráinne,” he whispered.

He grabbed his cane and moved as quickly as his legs would take him to

the front door. Pulling the door open, he strained his eyes in the stormy night to see his wife.

He heard the sound of distant panting as the woman ran.

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“Daddy,” he heard her say. No, she couldn’t be saying that, his Gráinne wouldn’t say that.

“Daddy,” he heard her sob again.

He was taken back twenty years by the familiar sounds. It was his little girl, his little girl was running home in the rain again and she needed him.

“Daddy!” she called again.

“I’m here,” he called quietly at first and then he shouted louder, “I’m here!”

He heard her crying, saw her opening the creaking gate dripping wet,

and just as he did twenty years ago, he held out his arms to her and welcomed her into his embrace.

“I’m here, don’t you worry,” he soothed her, patting her head and rock-

ing her from side to side. “Daddy’s here.”

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 422