Another Kind of Life (43 page)

‘You! Both of you! You’re to blame for this! Fornicating while my son drowned!’

All the blood had drained from Tom’s face. He was gasping for breath, tearing at Richard’s hands, his own useless in the face of such terrified, white-hot strength.

It seemed to be Annie’s screams which eventually made Richard loosen his grip and step back, shocked into silence. Instead, it was a thought that had its own clear logic, its own beauty of
resolution. Almost forgetting his grief, he strode off in the direction of the house, his mind sharp, clear, like a clean blue light.

He no longer heard May’s sobs, no longer saw her bent over the lifeless body.

The shotgun was always locked away. He was a careful man about such things. He reached up and took the key from the dusty surface at the top of the cabinet. He took what he wanted and locked the
cabinet after him again, replacing the box of shells on the second shelf, putting the key into his pocket this time. No loaded guns in the vicinity of the house; it was his father’s one
unshakeable rule. He carried the shotgun under his arm like a broken branch, and made his way towards the river again. He waited until he was close to the last line of willows before he placed both
shells into the breech. He had no idea how long he’d been gone; it was puzzling – everyone was just as he had left them. In a way, he had expected something to have changed.

All three turned around at the sound of the shotgun being loaded. Richard raised it to his shoulder, drew the sight closer to his eye. The long barrel pointed like a finger, direct, unflinching.
He watched, unmoved, as Annie ran towards her lover, screaming, clutching at his chest. With one arm, Tom swept her behind his back, meeting Richard’s eye for the first time.

‘We din’t do no wrong, Mr O’Brien, sir. We din’t hear the Missus call . . .’

May was crooning softly, her mouth buried in the soft, milky flesh just under John’s ear, his small body arcing back over her arms, one hand just brushing the surface of the jetty gently,
uselessly. Richard felt something give inside his chest. He was consumed with an unbearable tenderness towards his son. His eyes filled, and for a moment, Tom’s face with its peaked cap
blurred and swam before him.

‘Go,’ he said softly. He motioned towards the farm gates with the barrel of his shotgun. ‘Get out, both of you. If I ever see either of you within a ten-mile radius of here,
Christ help me, I’ll shoot you.’

Sobbing distractedly, Annie reached for Tom’s hand. She dragged him up the bank, away from the river. He followed, unwillingly, it seemed to Richard. He had a split-second, wild desire to
shoot the man in the back. It was the only punishment that felt fitting.

May was silent now, rocking her son back and forwards, back and forwards.

‘Poor little scrap,’ he heard her whisper, over and over.

Richard knelt behind her, placed both hands on her shoulders. He spoke quietly into her ear, avoiding his son’s face, which was becoming somehow featureless, almost formless.

‘Let’s get him up to the house. Let me carry him.’

She shrugged him off with surprising strength.

They stayed like that, for hours it seemed to Richard. He found her rocking motion soothing. He swayed with her, holding her close, until the breathless arrival at the water’s edge of Mick
Duggan and his wife Bridie.

They’d found Molly’s body, trapped in the reeds by the fence at the bottom of their lower field. At first, Mick had thought it was a young fox, maybe poisoned or
shot for killing chickens. But he was puzzled – no news of any foxes on the prowl had reached him, and Bridie was always on the alert, clucking like a demented hen herself at the first sign
of danger to her little beauties.

He’d climbed carefully between the wires of the fence, holding the dangerous barbs as far away from his body as he could, easing his large frame safely through. He went closer to the river
to have a good look. Molly’s coat was matted, covered in green slime, but Mick had recognized her instantly once he knelt at the water’s edge.

He pulled the swollen body out of the water, and felt a surge of compassion. He’d been really fond of that little dog, and her gentle mother. He had a sudden stab of misgiving. He knew
Richard O’Brien to be a careful man: if something like this had happened, then it was likely there was some sort of trouble above at his neighbours’ farm.

He manoeuvred his way with difficulty back through the barbed wire, still holding on to Molly’s waterlogged body. He walked quickly back towards the house. Bridie was feeding the chickens,
letting them roam freely around the yard as usual, occasionally stooping to pick up an egg that she had missed earlier. She was proud of her chickens. She still had a sense of wonder at the large,
warm eggs that they produced, just for her. She loved handling their translucent shells, loved the tiny, breathy feathers that often clung to their speckled surface. She had grown to regard them as
a sort of fragile daily miracle that she was fortunate enough to witness. She smiled as she saw Mick approach, then her face froze.

One look at his expression was enough.

‘What? What is it?’ she said fearfully.

At the same time, her eyes rested on the sodden bundle under her husband’s arm.

Mick held out the puppy’s body to her, wordlessly.

‘Ah, dear God,’ she said, her eyes filling. ‘Poor little thing. How did that happen?’

Mick shrugged his shoulders.

‘I don’t know, but I’ll tell you this – something at the O’Briens’ is not right.’

Bridie stroked the puppy’s cold nose.

‘What a shame. Little John will be broken-hearted. Let me leave these eggs inside and we’ll go down together.’

She gestured towards her husband’s burden.

‘I think we’d best leave Molly here. We might be able to pretend she’s gone missin’, or somethin’. Better that the child doesn’t see her like that.’

She took off her apron and pulled the door closed behind her.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

They set off together down the road that led to the neighbouring farm. Almost at once, Bridie spotted two figures hurrying off into the distance, something vaguely comical about their ungainly
speed.

‘Isn’t that Tom?’ she asked her husband. ‘And Annie? What on earth are they doin’ runnin’ off like that?’

Mick didn’t reply. He quickened his pace and Bridie put her arm through his, almost trotting to keep up with him.

They reached the farm, but neither of them called out. As they crossed the front pasture, the total silence suddenly unnerved them. The air around them seemed to have stilled, as though time had
stopped itself in its own tracks. All the doors of the house were wide open. Curtains bellied and sagged gently through upstairs windows. There was no one to be seen anywhere, no movement of man or
animal. They made their way automatically towards the river, Bridie holding on very tight to Mick’s solid arm. Still they saw no one.

Suddenly, Bridie heard a sound that made something chill inside her. She gripped Mick’s arm, hard. He had heard it too, and for an instant, his big face looked wide open, helpless.

‘Come on, love,’ Bridie said, steering them both towards the sound, in the direction of the jetty. At first, all they could hear was the swell and hurry of water, indistinguishable
now from the rush of wind through swaying, leaf-laden branches. Once they made their way around the gentle bend in the river, they saw them.

Hoping, dreading, praying for it not to be so, Bridie saw May and Richard kneeling over something white. She didn’t need to look any closer. May’s body was despair made flesh.
Richard was kneeling behind her, clutching her to him, holding on. A few more steps and Bridie saw, all too clearly, the small, drained face, the livid bruise, the lifelessness.

‘Dear God, no,’ she whispered.

She made her way on to the jetty, placing first one foot, then the other, carefully planting the sole of each sturdy boot, still holding on to Mick’s outstretched hand. She bent down, her
face level with May’s. She looked for a moment into Richard’s eyes, and looked away again. She couldn’t bear to hold his gaze. She put her hands on May’s shoulders and
squeezed them gently.

‘Come on, love.’

She caressed the cold arms, waiting until the younger woman looked up at her. Then she took one of May’s hands gently in hers.

‘Come with me, pet. Let his dad carry him to the house. Come on now.’

It made her sad, looking into May’s empty eyes.

‘It’s John,’ she said, her voice full of wonder.

Bridie swallowed.

‘Let’s take care of him in the house. It’s warmer there.’

May rose obediently, allowing Richard to take the full weight of the small, still body. She clung to Bridie’s hand, not letting go even when they had to scramble up the bank together.

Bridie put her arm around May’s shoulders, keeping her moving towards the house. She didn’t want her to see as the two men struggled to climb the bank, holding on carefully to the
now awkward, absent body of her dead child.

May woke, her heart pounding. For a moment, she lay in the darkness, trying to piece together the fractured details of her dream. She let out a little cry of relief.

‘Oh, thank God, thank God it was a dream!’

Richard was awake beside her at once. But there was still something dark beneath the surface of her memory which she could not place. It puzzled her.

Richard took her hand.

‘May? Are you all right?’

Something in his voice broke the spell and she wailed, clutching at him.

‘Oh, no, no – I don’t want it to be real! Please don’t let it be real!’

She sobbed harshly, holding on for comfort. When she felt the tears on his face, she knew she was lost. It had happened; it was real. He could not make this better. She could not make it better.
They held each other for a long time.

With John’s death, she felt part of herself slipping away. She watched it go, wondering how much of herself would be left. Wondering if she cared.

Hours somehow slipped by, becoming days. Richard still fed the animals, tended the farm, but it was all too much for him. He worked the longest hours he could, welcoming the
exhaustion of his labour, sometimes working until he dropped. He toiled savagely, punishing the soil. Shovelling animal shit was better, easier than watching his wife disappear bit by bit in front
of his eyes. At night, he slept badly, an uneasy, dream-filled state which brought him no rest. He was aware of May’s weeping, of her wanderings around the darkened house. He felt powerless;
they spoke less and less.

May spent her days aimlessly. With no Annie and no Tom, the house gradually began to sag. Bridie still came and brought food. She tried to get May to change out of her nightgown, to clean up a
little. May never said a word to her. She knew that Bridie would eventually go back to her own life, leaving her in peace.

This morning, she sat listlessly, counting. She had taken to sitting in the rocking chair in John’s room, sometimes looking out the window when the bright sight of water had ceased to
hurt. The first Monday without John; the first rainfall; the first full week, then the second week. She wanted Ellie and Hannah to be with her, but she angrily didn’t want her sister’s
daughters, her twin boys. Life wasn’t fair. Hannah had babies all the time. May had nothing, nothing at all. Why hadn’t God taken one of
her
baby boys? She’d still have
plenty left.

There was a sudden movement in among the laurels. May sat forward and leaned her head closer to the window. She could see nothing. Sunlight was filtering through the trees, making a constant
lazy pattern on the grass beneath. She sat back again; it hadn’t been that kind of slow, leafy movement, but something altogether more familiar, more recognizable, although she couldn’t
put her finger on it. She would wait. Something told her it would happen again. Suddenly, the air in the bedroom became very still; in response, she stopped the soothing, rocking motion of her
chair. And then she heard it.

‘Mama?’

The voice was unmistakably his. She was filled with such joy that she could hardly breathe. Slowly, she stood up, and moved as close to the window as she could get. She pressed her body against
it for support. Everything was trembling; she didn’t trust her legs to keep her upright. She clung to the top of the sash. John was standing there, under the trees, in his white smock. He
held his right hand to his face.

‘Mama, face hurt.’

Still May didn’t move. His words were clear; she heard them distinctly inside her head, as much John’s voice as if he’d been standing right beside her. She had known it all
along; he would never leave her. She knew that the thread of connection between them was much too strong for him to break. She smiled down at him, but didn’t speak. She knew she had to tread
very gently, carefully, in case he took fright.

He took his hand away from his face and she saw the bruise. No longer dark, it was again poppy-coloured in places, silvery in others. It changed emphasis as she watched. She was afraid to leave
the window, afraid to let him out of her sight, in case he disappeared on her again. She wouldn’t be able to bear that.

‘Wait,’ she whispered, finally, and it seemed to her that he nodded in reply.

She lurched down the corridor, holding both arms straight out from her shoulders, needing to feel the wall solid under her fingertips. She stumbled on the top stair, and had a bright vision of
herself hurtling downwards, out of control, to the hallway below. Its clarity frightened her. She gripped the banisters tightly and walked carefully, step after unsteady step, down the stairs. She
prayed that he would wait for her.

The front door was already open. She stepped outside and moved quickly to her right, where the shade of the laurel trees was deepest. She stood in the spot where she had first seen him, and
closed her eyes. She was able to see him again, that way, as he really was. His face, the day he’d seen Molly for the first time. His small, plump arms pulling strongly on the oars of the
lake-boat. His smell at bedtime, wrapped by her body, listening with wide eyes as she and Richard told him a bedtime story.