Another Kind of Life (41 page)

‘Go, Richard,’ she’d said, calmly. ‘It will be some time yet.’

When he returned with a breathless Bridie in tow, she had already built up the fire in their bedroom, and spread layers of old hemp sheets and flat, cotton towels over their bed. She was in her
nightgown, barefoot, and paced the bedroom with one hand pressed into the small of her back, the other rubbing her distended stomach. Richard had charged up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
He could have sworn he heard her talking as he reached the bedroom door. He couldn’t make out the words, only the tone: comforting, reassuring – for herself or for the child, who could
be sure. She’d turned and smiled at both of them as Richard opened the door.

‘Thank you, Bridie – I’m sorry for getting you up at such an unearthly hour.’

‘Now, child, you don’t need to be sorry about anything. Will ye lie down on the bed for a bit and let’s see what this child’s intentions are?’

Richard sat on the bed beside her, and took her hand. He knew what was ahead of her, and he was terrified for her safety. Cows calving, horses in foal, ewes lambing – he had seen it all,
been up to his own elbows in amniotic fluid, blood, faecal matter when the animal was in distress. But this was his
wife
: he couldn’t plunge into her body if things were too slow,
harvesting her child as if it were just another one of his flock. This was women’s business: she wouldn’t want him there, and Bridie was the next best thing he knew.

Bridie’s cloak was already off, her sleeves rolled up, her wide, honest face full of good humour. Five sons of her own grown and gone, and ‘nary a one o’ them a farmer’
she’d say cheerfully, with no trace of bitterness. She’d acted as unofficial midwife for years in this corner of Meath, helping out most when the babies made their appearance
unexpectedly or tardily. Nothing made her flap, May thought. Her very presence brought comfort and confidence.

‘Hot water, Richard, if you please, and some soap, there’s a good man.’

Richard took his dismissal humbly. He waited in the kitchen until the water boiled on the range, filled the enamel basin and carried it carefully upstairs, the new bar of soap nestling in his
waistcoat pocket.

‘I’ll be right outside if you need me,’ he said, kissing May on the forehead, tasting the saltiness of the sweat that was already beginning to build up there.

‘Go and smoke yer pipe, man dear. ’Twill be a while yet.’

Bridie nodded encouragingly at him, her eyes telling him to go now, her arm around May as they walked slowly up and down the room. May seemed to have forgotten his presence, her face filled with
frightened concentration.

Richard smoked and prayed. He boiled water, in case more was needed, made tea for all of them and occasionally made his way upstairs to the landing, just to listen at the bedroom door. Once, he
almost went in, when May’s cries pierced him to the heart. Then he heard Bridie’s voice above it all, hearty, urging her on, and knew all was well.

He could do nothing except wait.

He thought he heard his name being called, but it became confused with a small, high-pitched wailing somewhere in the back of his dream. He jerked awake, suddenly realizing
where he was, suddenly remembering.

‘Richard!’

Bridie’s voice was loud and clear, and unmistakably cheerful. Thank God, oh thank God and his Holy Mother it was over, she must be safe, both of them must be safe.

He bounded up the stairs, stumbling on the last step in his eagerness. There was the most tremendous sense of calm in the bedroom. May lay in their bed with a tiny swaddled form close to her. He
noticed with a shock how clean she looked: her nightgown was different, her hair brushed, her face warm and shiny. Bridie was busy with a pile of sheets in the corner.

‘It’s a little boy,’ May said softly.

He searched her face. Her eyes were bloodshot, veins broken with the effort of giving birth. He had seen that in ewes, too. He felt a lump gather in his throat. He kissed her hand.

The baby was smaller than he could ever have believed possible, its body fitting almost completely into his own large grip.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ was all he could say, a sob strangling him.

‘Do you still want to call him John?’ she asked, pulling the blankets back gently so that he could see his son’s face more clearly.

He nodded. She smiled up at him.

‘Then John it is.’

She closed her eyes.

He sat beside her, unmoving. All he could do was gaze on the red, wrinkled cheeks of his baby son. Bridie went about the room quietly, building up the fire, touching May’s forehead from
time to time. But there was no anxiety in her movements.

‘Is she well?’ Richard whispered after a time.

She smiled at him.

‘Fine. She’s stronger than ye think. An’ the little fellow’s perfect. A bit thin, but that’s what ye’d expect: he’ll catch up, right enough. Fed
an’ all with nary a complaint.’

She continued to fold the bloodied sheets and towels and her simple busyness filled Richard with gratitude.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ she said, ‘ye’d take none yerself the time ye saved half our flock when the lower field flooded.’

‘That’s different,’ he protested. ‘That’s friends and neighbours, one as much as the other.’

‘So’s this.’

‘Thank you anyway.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She bobbed politely in a mock curtsy. ‘An’ now I’m goin’ to soak these sheets in cold water ’til tomorrow. Will you
stay?’

He nodded.

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll be just a while. If ye’re worried, call me. I’ll not be far.’

When she came back, he insisted she rest. She refused to leave the bedroom, nodding off instead in the old armchair beside the fire. She woke suddenly, seconds before the baby wailed into
wakefulness, and helped May adjust his tiny mouth on her breast so that he suckled contentedly.

‘You get some sleep, Richard,’ said May, after they had watched Bridie change and clean the whimpering baby. ‘You’ll have the animals to tend to in a few
hours.’

Eventually he gave in, feeling no exhaustion, only a sense of pure elation. He had been given what he’d accepted as impossible for so many years before May. A son to take over the land, a
boy to work for, to build the farm for, a child to make it all worthwhile.

He slept, his dreams filled with future.

T
HE
LAKE-BOAT WAS
tied up where it always was. Richard liked to see to things like that himself. He’d checked that the bow
line was secure; didn’t want the boat drifting off downstream. John had loved sitting in it, trailing his gleeful hands in the water while Richard kept a firm grip on the straps of his small
son’s trousers. He was glad the child showed no fear, neither of the farm animals nor the water. This land would be his; he would learn to respect it as he grew older, and whatever measure of
fear came with that respect was enough. May was still nervous around the cattle; they sensed it and were jittery in her presence. He was glad that his son, even at three, showed that he was made of
better farming stuff.

Yesterday, Richard had taken him in the boat for the first time, despite May’s initial reluctance to allow it.

‘He’ll be safe with me. He has to start getting used to the water sometime. The younger the better.’

May had known better than to argue. Richard was rarely insistent in matters concerning the boy; he was usually content to let her be Mother. But when it came to the things necessary to men who
worked and lived the land, his quiet stubborn streak would not be gainsaid. She had held out only for a little while, more for show than anything else, then given in gracefully. She liked giving
Richard the satisfaction of having his own way, liked the dark burn of desire in his eyes afterwards. She had stood watching from the river-bank as he had shown the little boy how to pull on the
oars. They could both see the surprising strength and determination of the small arms as John sat safely between his father’s legs and tried to pull as he had been shown. He believed that his
was the strength that moved the lake-boat smoothly away from the wooden jetty and off downstream. His blue eyes were ablaze with excitement.

‘Pa – Mama, look! Me row Pa’s boat!’

May had kept to the river-bank, keeping pace with them, cheering John’s progress.

‘Who’s a clever boy! Sit close to Pa, now, no jumping about!’

Richard remembered how girlish she had looked, looping her long skirts over her left arm, almost running at times to keep up with them, her face prettily flushed. It had been a perfect
afternoon. He felt proud of his family, proud of his life, of what he had made – what they had made. John’s small presence permeated every aspect of their lives. Since his arrival, May
had been completely happy. All traces of her former brittleness had disappeared. It was like watching someone being made whole again. Richard had always known that there was a great need in her,
right from the first time he’d met her. There had been someone else before him, that much was plain. He had never cared, and they had never spoken of it. He still thanked God each day that
the unbelievable had happened: somehow, May loved him enough to be his wife. He knew that he and the boy, but above all the boy, had gone a long way towards making her life complete.

Richard surveyed his fields now, grateful once more to his father for the opportunity to make this his future. The old man had defied convention, leaving the farm to the one who loved the land
best, passing over the elder son in favour of Richard. He felt only a little regret that Matthew, now a prosperous publican in Dublin, saw fit never to speak to him again after the reading of their
father’s will. He’d never cared much for him anyway, him or his self-satisfied wife. He remembered how she had darted greedily around the farmhouse, her small, sharp eyes calculating
its worth, already seeing the auctioneer’s gavel strike out all the financial uncertainty of her husband’s latest ventures. And that before the old man’s body was cold in the bed
upstairs.

This was what he cared for now – this farm and this family. He liked the slow tasks of walking the land, noting the breaches in the fence which waited to be fixed, keeping a close, almost
paternal eye on the animals that roved freely across his lush green pasture. The river was unusually low just now, the summer heat blue and intense, shivering just above its surface. Heavy rain was
forecast, and Richard watched the sky anxiously. The land was parched, but too much rain at once brought its own problems. He wanted to be prepared. Two of the Friesians stood in the water’s
lazy depths, tails swishing, ignoring the clouds of midges that had suddenly descended from the trees above the river-bank.

‘All right, old girl.’

Richard’s voice was soothing as he waded knee-deep into the water, patting the flanks of the younger animal, making no sudden movements. She turned her head and gazed at him blankly,
rolling her huge, brown eyes. He could see himself reflected in their translucent depths: a figure made suddenly tiny and insignificant. He smiled to himself. A cow’s-eye view of the
man’s world. He stroked her head, still murmuring.

‘That’s the girl, good girl, Dolly.’

Swiftly, he passed the halter around her neck. It was done in an instant; immediately, the animal began to tremble. Richard could see the movements of the powerful muscles jerking beneath the
silky hide. It was always the same – she slithered and stumbled her way down into the cool, glad water, but it was quite another matter clambering up again.

‘Good girl, good girl.’

Richard continued to pat her, and began very gently to draw her with him towards the sloping river-bank. The mother watched, shaking her head from time to time as though despairing of her
daughter’s stupidity.
She
could look after herself. She’d begin to follow at once, Richard knew from past experience. She was older, more sure-footed, less likely to startle than
the younger creature. Her baleful eye never left him as he began the gradual ascent back up to the pasture, stooping to pick up a switch he had cut earlier. One sharp strike across Dolly’s
rump would be sufficient to make her scramble up the first reluctant few feet on to the field above, and safety.

‘There y’are now,’ he said, slapping her encouragingly as she lumbered off to graze under the trees. The mother scrambled after her, fear illuminating her eyes as she made the
last desperate effort to heave herself up the remaining foot or two of the slope. Her front knees buckled and Richard thought she wasn’t going to make it. He moved towards her to help pull
her forward. At the last minute she steadied herself and walked away with stately dignity to join her daughter. Richard grinned after her affectionately. Same performance every evening during hot
weather; talk about not learning from your mistakes. It was always these two; the others didn’t bother. Otherwise, he’d have to start thinking about a fence. Bloody expensive, though,
all along that stretch of river. He’d take his chances; hadn’t lost one of them yet.

May sat at her writing-desk in the dining room, glancing occasionally out the bay window. She never tired of the view. Laurel trees with their long, frond-like leaves framed
either side of her garden, which in turn led gently on to the sloping front pasture. She had to remember to keep the gate closed, always, otherwise the animals trampled everywhere, devouring her
plants. John had learned quickly how to duck between the gate’s five bars, and recently she had seen his small, grinning triumph as he had managed, a little unsteadily, to climb right up to
the top and over the other side.

She could see Richard’s tall figure in the distance, stooping from time to time to tend to one of the animals. He was worried about the mysterious fungal infection which had recently swept
like fire through the herd. He had never seen anything like it before. He had been silent, preoccupied, occasionally short-tempered over the past few days. The last thing May wanted to do was worry
him about money. She sighed and wrote her signature with a flourish at the end of her letter, the fourth she had composed that afternoon. Perhaps it would buy them another few weeks; Richard had
always been a good customer, they deserved a little credit when times were tough, just to tide them over.