All That I Leave Behind (22 page)

I’m not a fool and I know that we can’t live on lettuce over the winter, so I’ve got a little job at Sean O’Reilly’s; he says it’s because he could really do with a hand, ‘and you have a gift for the land’, but I think he’s just being kind. He can see how difficult things are, how hard it is to keep afloat; honestly, sometimes when I wake up on a dark winter morning, my breath misting into the bedroom, I wonder if I really want to face the day at all. Sometimes the weight of it just pins me to the bed, the sense that if some little thing fails, we’ll starve, but then I reason with myself that at least I’m living the life I’ve chosen. I’m totally free, and if this is the price of freedom, well, I’ll just have to pay it.

After I’ve done my morning jobs, I leave the babies with John-Joe, kissing him on the top of his head as they clamber over him while he sits in front of the range, feet up, cigarette in hand, and I try to suppress the flicker of resentment that he can sit here, relaxed as you like, while there are logs to be chopped for the fire and potato drills to be dug. But he’s a good father, I know that. He loves the babies and he just seems to know how to talk to them, how to get down on the floor on all fours and let them climb all over him, while I feel myself quickly grow bored of it; he doesn’t mind spending hours in the one spot on the canal with them in their tiny little wellies as they dig around in the mud and pick up snails and worms between finger and thumb. Only Pius seems to try him. He doesn’t like his son’s restless nature, the way he learned to pull himself up and over the bars of his cot as soon as he learned to stand up. ‘That child was sent to try me,’ he’d often say. Ironic, I thought, seeing as he resembles you to a tee.

I put on my wellies and I walk the thirty yards or so and push the gate into Sean’s yard and, as I do so, I feel my heart lift. A whole afternoon to talk about plants and hens and seedlings; to pick up a fluffy hen and to feel her little body in my hands, as her head gently turns to one side and she fixes me with a beady eye; to help Sean fill the rows of feeding troughs and to check their claws for any sign of disease. And then, when the work is done, to follow him into the kitchen and munch on the batch of scones I left in the range to stay warm, and to drink tea and to talk about world events, the end of the war in Vietnam, the boat people and how terrible their suffering is. Sean is full of curiosity about the life we’re leading; he asks me the kinds of questions I should probably have asked myself. Like how we plan eventually to do without money at all. He scratches his head. ‘Do the ESB accept eggs in payment of bills?’

‘No.’ I laugh. ‘John-Joe’s working on a generator at the moment that runs on diesel oil, which is much cheaper than electricity.’ At least, he says he is. He pulls out the big rolls of wallpaper which he found behind the wardrobe in the bedroom, on the back of which he’s drawn elaborate plans which look rather like Leonardo’s drawings for some of his gadgets. I pray that he knows what he’s doing. And I pray that he finishes the job this time.

‘I’m thinking of getting some livestock,’ I say then.

He thinks for a bit. ‘Well, a cow would be a bit of a challenge just yet, with the milking and all; and you’d be needing the vet every so often – the badgers are a divil for passing on TB, and there’s brucellosis and ringworm – but you’d get all the milk and cheese you need.’

‘I was thinking of a couple of goats, actually,’ I say. ‘They produce milk too and they’re easier to mind.’

‘As long as you don’t mind them eating all the crops you’ve lovingly tended.’ He smiles. ‘And the stink of them; and then there’s the slaughter, I suppose …’

‘The slaughter?’ I turn to him and I see that he’s grinning at me. ‘You’re teasing me.’

‘Well, I am and I amn’t,’ he says. ‘If you get any kind of livestock, you have to be prepared for that possibility. I used to keep a few pigs myself, and it nearly killed me to slaughter them because they’re intelligent creatures. I could see it in their eyes, the day I was going to do it. They just knew.’ He sighed. ‘But that’s the way of the land and you have to accept that.’

‘I didn’t think you’d be soft-hearted about it, Sean. I thought you farmers were all far too practical for that.’ I smile.

‘Well, maybe I’m more soft-hearted than you think.’ And he smiles and his eyes crinkle up at the sides and I get the sense that he likes me, maybe more than he should. And I know I should feel guiltier about it than I do. I should probably make more of my status, drop John-Joe’s name into the conversation more, but I tell myself that I’m making money to support my family, accepting the few eggs that Sean hands me or the sack of spuds that he says is just going to waste, and giving him an extra big smile and seeing his eyes melt. He’s a friend, and friends are hard to come by in this life.

‘You’ll make some woman a fine husband,’ I say now, watching his face flush a livid red. He doesn’t answer me, just fills another cup of tea from the pot on the range, and I know that I’ve offended him in some way, making light of his feelings. I’m about to apologise, when he says, ‘I’ll find out about the goats, if you like. Some mad eejit or other will have a pair, I’m sure.’ And before I can answer, he’s gone out the door to the henhouse. When I leave, he’s still there, the door closed. I don’t open it to shout goodbye, the way I normally do.

When I come home, the kids are sitting up having their tea, little hands grasping carrots and slices of apple, the bread I made that morning. John-Joe is sitting at the table, and opposite is a woman I’ve never seen before, a girl. She’s pretty, with long brown hair and a dusting of freckles on her nose. She’s also young, sixteen if she’s a day. I have no idea what she’s doing in my kitchen. There’s no reason for her to be here.

‘Hi,’ I say.

She blushes and mutters something into the cup of tea sitting in front of her.

‘This is Aileen, Paddy Mitchell’s girl. She came down to see about giving us a hand with the kids,’ John-Joe says. ‘Is that right, Aileen?’ and he winks and she blushes again, but I catch the look he gives her then, a sly flash of the eye that makes my stomach flip. Oh, I think. There’s something about that look that I don’t like. All I know, and I can’t even voice it in words, is that it isn’t the kind of look a man of John-Joe’s age should be giving a girl of hers. I feel queasy, and I need this girl to leave.

‘Well, that’s a great idea,’ I manage, ‘but we’d probably need to have a think about it to see if we can afford it. I’ll discuss it with my husband, and then we’ll be in touch, Eileen, is that OK?’ The mispronunciation of her name is deliberate, and as I say it, ‘Eileen’, she winces. She opens her mouth and I know she’s going to correct me and I cut her off. ‘We need to put the babies to bed now, so let me show you out,’ I say brightly, lifting the thin coat she’s draped over the chair, a child’s coat, in my hand and leading her out to the hall. The girl clearly has no choice but to follow me, but not before saying something under her breath to John-Joe. I don’t hear his reply.

I watch her walk down the path to the gate, her shoulders hunched, her hair flying behind her in the wind. And when I’m sure she’s gone, I shut the front door with a bang and stride back into the kitchen. The two cups of tea are still on the table, barely cold, and when I see them, I can’t help it, the words just come rushing out of my mouth. ‘Why was that girl here, in my house?’

He blusters at first. ‘What the fuck are you on about?’

I nod at the teacup.

‘For God’s sake,’ he protests. ‘I was trying to help you. I can see how much the kids take out of you and I thought we could do with a hand, that’s all.’ But he doesn’t quite catch my eye, turning instead to rummage in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes.

‘She’s too young for you,’ I say quietly, turning to put the kettle on the hot plate of the range.

He tuts, puffing smoke out through his teeth. ‘You know, that’s rich, coming from you,’ he says. ‘With your boyfriend across the way.’ I turn around because his voice is suddenly loud and Mary-Pat looks up from her tea, eyes round. She looks as if she’s going to cry.

I feel the rage grip me then, a sudden wave of it. ‘I’m earning money to put food on the table,’ I hiss. I go to my purse and empty it out onto the table with a clatter of coins. ‘Which is more than I can say for you.’

His eyes flash and he grabs hold of the edge of my jumper, pushing his face into mine. ‘Is that right now? The boyfriend pays well, does he?’ And he grabs me and starts pushing his hand under my coat. ‘Get off me,’ I shout and push him onto the floor. I don’t push him hard, just a little shove, but he’s doubled over and he’s not making a sound, until I hear a sob. And then the babies are crying, all three of them, a frightened wail that makes my hair stand on end. Mary-Pat has climbed off her chair and goes to stand behind her daddy’s knees, her tiny head sticking out, thumb in her mouth. ‘Get up, Daddy, it’s all right. We’ll put a plaster on the boo-boo,’ she’s saying, nudging him gently with her hand. ‘Get up, Daddy.’ Why doesn’t she stand behind me, I wonder.

He lies there for a while, crying softly, and I turn my back, clutching the rail along the edge of the range for support.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet. ‘For God’s sake, Michelle, do you know what you’re doing to me? I can’t stand this. I need you. I don’t care about her or your fancy man …’

‘Well, that’s good to know.’

‘Ah, for Christ’s sake, will you just come here to me?’ And he comes up to me and wraps his arms around me, and I can feel him against me. And then he starts to kiss me behind the ear, the way he knows I like, and he murmurs, ‘Wouldn’t do this with that O’Reilly fellow, would you? Smell of chicken shit would put you off. I don’t smell of chicken shit, now, do I?’

I’m forced to laugh, and he tickles me then. ‘Well, do I?’

‘No.’ I giggle. ‘No, you don’t.’ He always could wrap me around his little finger.

In the end, we leave June in the playpen in the living room, and we give Mary-Pat some crayons and a big roll of wallpaper and we ask her to draw us something special. We tell Pi it’s bed time, because that’s the only time he will actually let us put him to bed, and maybe he wonders why Mammy’s in too much of a rush to wash his little face and hands and read him a story, instead popping him into bed and closing the door tightly, turning the knob that little bit extra so that the snib jams in the lock, the way it does, because the door’s broken. I try to tell myself that I’m not locking my child into his room so that I can make love to my husband and I try to ignore his thumping on the door, his plaintive, ‘Mammeee – need a wee,’ as we crash into each other on the landing and do it right there, him pulling up my skirt and pushing my knickers down and me pulling at the belt of his trousers and grabbing hold of the zip on his fly and pulling so hard that he gives a yelp, ‘Jesus Christ woman, hold on, you’ll have my balls off,’ and as he pushes me up against the wall and lifts me so that he can slide inside me, and I give a little scream and then we’re both laughing and panting and sighing and licking and it feels like never before. But when I feel him coming to the end, I whisper, ‘Wait.’

He groans and stops for a second, his breath rasping in my ear. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘It’s just … no more babies, John-Joe, please. I can’t.’

He looks as if he will die of disappointment, so I say, ‘I have an idea,’ and I slide off him. ‘Come on.’

‘What the –?’ His face is a mask of disappointment, his breath coming in rasps, his trousers around his ankles. I go into my bedroom to the little drawer beside the bed, to where I put the brown envelope that Bridie gave me and for which, until now, I’ve had no need, and I take one of the foil-wrapped condoms out and I call out, ‘John-Joe, in here.’

There’s a rustle and a crash, followed by a shouted ‘fuck’ from the landing and then he shuffles in the door, his trousers around his ankles, penis still erect. ‘What is it, Michelle? I’m in agony here.’ He looks comical, but when he sees the condoms, his whole face lights up. ‘You beauty! Where the hell did you get those?’

‘I have a source,’ I say coyly, ‘now hurry up.’ And he jumps on top of me so enthusiastically I think the bed will give way underneath us. And I try not to think of Bridie, or that girl with her lovely hair, or how he must laugh with her the way he doesn’t with me any more, or about Sean and the way he looks at me sometimes.

We lie on the bed after, catching our breath, a tangle of sheets, clothes and limbs, and I lean on his chest, listening to his heart, feeling it beating steadily underneath his ribs.

‘You know, I don’t love anyone but you,’ he says. He’s not looking at me but staring up at the ceiling. ‘You know that, Michelle. From the day I first met you, you were the only one for me. You have to believe me.’

I don’t say anything for a few moments, because I’m thinking. I’m not really sure I do believe him, because I’ve seen it. Not just silly Fidelma in the post office, or this young girl, but the way women are with him, fluttering around him. He seems to bring that out in them, the butterfly. How strange, I think, that he never brought that out in me. Instead, he’s made me hard, impatient, as if he’s a boy and not a grown man and I’m his mother, not his wife, or his lover, or his companion. His bloody mother.

I try a different tack. ‘Look, I know you’re scared,’ I say. ‘I’m scared too, sometimes, that we won’t make it here. But it’ll be OK, I know it will. We just need to remember what we’re trying to do here. What we’re trying to achieve.’

I know I’ve made a mistake when he groans. ‘Achieve. For fuck’s sake. You make it all sound like some kind of cow-shit enterprise, like we’re some bacon factory in Ballina or something.’ He sits up then and begins to pull his trousers and underpants on, grunting with the effort. Then he curses and lies back down beside me and gives a heavy sigh. ‘Look, I am scared. Scared that we’ll starve in this place, that we won’t survive another winter, and it’s all so bloody hard.’ He thumps the bed. ‘Why the hell does it have to be so hard?’

I sit bolt upright then. ‘John-Joe,’ I say quietly, ‘I know it’s hard, but we both went into this together, you know that. And I can’t do it without you. Please don’t give up on me.’