Cave of Secrets (11 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Elizabeth Finds Courage

‘I
did not see your mother.’ Muiris was answering Tom’s question, but he was looking at Bríd as he spoke. ‘The children were already on their way home when I met them.’

‘Tomás can stay with us until he is stronger,’ Donal announced. ‘His mother told me so.’

‘She told
me
,’ Maura insisted.

‘All right, she told you. But only because you kept on and on about it. You know how Maura is,’ said Donal. ‘Once she gets her teeth into something.’

Tom was amazed that his mother had given her
permission
. He knew it was only a temporary reprieve. When he was stronger – whenever that might be – he would have to face her. And if she was not furious when she found out about his summer’s activities, his father certainly would be.

He could not even imagine what his father would do to
him. Unless, of course, something happened to his father in the meantime.

Which would be even worse.

Not so long ago, life had seemed simple. He had felt like a man. Now he was reduced to being a child again, and
helpless
.

Muiris asked, ‘Why were you on the cliffs yesterday, Tomás?’

Yesterday seemed so long ago. It was hard to remember. There were no words for his feelings. ‘I was coming here. I just wanted to be here.’

Muiris exchanged a look with his wife.

At midday Bríd gave him another cup of the ferny-tasting drink, and then some bread and cheese. He did not feel much like eating. Maura sat beside him and tore off bits of bread. Making little cooing sounds, she pressed them against his lips. When he laughed, she pushed them in.

Afterwards he felt drowsy. There was some pain but only at a distance; it did not really touch him. He closed his eyes for a minute.

When he opened them it was night again.

The cabin was filled with people. Seán and Séamus were there with most of the clan. No one noticed that Tom was awake, so he closed his eyes again and lay listening
contentedly
to the hum of their voices. The good-humoured banter, the earnest conversations, the silly jokes and colourful stories.

Tom understood more Irish than he would have a year
ago. Perhaps someone will sing, he thought hopefully.

His leg was not hurting. He was warm and comfortable and surrounded by friends. His very good friends. He would have to return to Roaringwater House eventually, but he did not want to think about that. He did not want to think at all, just drift and dream and pretend … pretend he was home to stay.

The old man said sharply, ‘You are playing with fire, Muiris.’

‘When have I not?’

‘This fire will burn you to a cinder. Mind what I tell you.’

‘The matter was settled long ago.’

‘We thought it was. You stir embers with a stick and they flare up again.’

Muiris said, ‘The stick was not in my hand but in Donal’s.’

‘The child’s hand, the man’s arm,’ the old woman intoned.

The conversations faded away. Or Tom faded away. Into a pleasant dream of sunlight glittering on the bay and a soft wind blowing. The voices of people became the voices of seabirds.

On the following morning Bríd unwrapped Tom’s leg. With a dry muslin cloth she gently wiped away the thick paste that covered it. ‘This was made from comfrey,’ she explained as she worked.

They examined the leg together. ‘It’s all shrivelled,’ Tom said worriedly.

‘It is shrivelled,’ the woman agreed, ‘but that is from the binding, not the break. There is no swelling, and see how straight the bone lies. Now you must drink a decoction of comfrey. Then we can wrap you up again.’

The decoction of comfrey was more bitter than the ferny drink. Tom made a face. ‘Isn’t anything else good for broken bones?’

‘Many things, Tomás. For a person your age and a break like this, I use comfrey inside and out.’

‘At least you don’t bleed me.’

She looked at him in horror.

When the leg was tightly wrapped she gave the boy a stout blackthorn stick to lean upon and allowed him to hobble about the cabin. ‘Do not hit that leg against anything,’ she warned.

‘Believe me, I don’t want to.’

Donal and Maura had been sent outside while their mother worked on Tom’s leg. Now the little girl came
running
in. ‘Tomflynn’s all well!’ she chirped. She was about to throw her arms around him when Bríd stopped her. ‘Be as careful with him as with a bird’s egg,
a
mhúirnín
,’ she warned the child.

‘Is he still broken?’

‘Not broken, but not mended either.’

Maura bunched up her forehead in a small child’s version of a frown. ‘He must be one or the other.’

‘There is an in-between place, too,’ said her mother. ‘A lot of time is spent in in-between places.’

Maura looked Tom up and down. ‘When you’re not ’tween will ye play with me again?’

‘You can count on it!’ he promised.

Tom’s delight at being up did not last long. He tired quickly, and soon was ready to go back to bed. The leg ached. Bríd gave him a delicious pudding made from carrageen moss and honey, then more of the ferny drink. He went to sleep before the sun did.

Next morning he felt – almost – like his old self. In a few more days he would be well able to return to Roaringwater House. He did not suggest this to anyone. Nor did anyone mention it to him. The temporary bed that had been made up for him in the cabin remained. The blankets were aired, but never folded and put away.

Bríd gave him a homespun tunic and a woollen coat to wear. ‘These were Seán’s,’ she said, ‘when he was your size. There are some woollen trews as well, but we don’t want to put them over your leg.’

As Tom’s strength returned he made himself useful. There was always work to be done, work which did not require two sound legs. He opened oysters, he gutted and scaled fish, he sharpened knives and plaited rope and mended baskets.

‘Pleasant it is,’ Bríd remarked, ‘to have a man’s help inside the house as well as outside.’

As soon as my leg heals I can do a man’s work outside, Tom thought with satisfaction.

Yet Roaringwater House remained on the horizon of his mind like a storm at sea waiting to blow in.

In their bed at night Bríd and Muiris discussed him in hushed voices. ‘We cannot keep Tomás forever,’ she reminded her husband.

‘The boy is making good progress,’ he replied, ‘but
healing
cannot be hurried, you know yourself. When the time is right we will take him home.’

‘Who will take him?’

‘I will, Bríd.’

‘There is no need for you to go. Send Fergal instead.’

‘What sort of chieftain lets others do the hard things for him?’

Bríd gave a wifely sigh. ‘Your uncle was right, Muiris. You are playing with fire.’

Catherine Flynn ordered the servants to set a place for Tom at every meal. Simon and the other male servants were under strict orders to keep a watch out for him.

‘I do not understand you, Mother,’ Virginia complained. ‘I simply do not understand your abandoning Tom to strangers.’ 

When Herbert Fox arrived to pay a call on Elizabeth, she told him what she knew of the situation. Fox, a grizzled man with yellowed teeth and sour breath, was as puzzled as the girls. ‘Why have you not sent someone to fetch the boy home long before this?’ he asked Catherine Flynn.

‘A broken leg can take a long time to heal,’ she said. ‘Tom is being well minded where he is, and does not have stairs to climb.’

‘Where
is
he exactly, Mrs Flynn?’

She would not meet his eyes. ‘Not far away. Among friends.’

‘Your mother will not give me any direct answers,’ Fox told Tom’s sisters. ‘I am convinced that something is wrong. I shall send my own men to bring him home. It is my duty to your family, Elizabeth.’

Elizabeth drew a deep breath. Her clenched fists were hidden in the folds of her skirt. ‘We appreciate your concern, Mr Fox, but you are not yet part of this family. I think it best if we accept our mother’s decision.’

After he left the room Virginia broke into laughter. ‘I cannot believe you defied him, Lizzie!’

‘My knees were shaking,’ her sister admitted. ‘But I am so tired of always doing what some man tells me. Besides, he could not find Tom anyway unless Mother told him where to look.’

Caroline said, ‘Do you think she knows?’

‘I am certain of it.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The End of Winter

E
piphany came and went. St Brigid’s Day approached. The weather was as cold as ever but the daylight lasted longer. Tom’s leg itched unbearably. He could not stop clawing at the bindings. Every time Bríd changed them he begged her to leave them off entirely.

One morning she said, ‘If your leg was not bound, Tomás, could you walk unaided?’

‘I could of course.’

‘Then you are ready to go home. Young bones mend quickly.’

‘I mean, I think I can walk. But maybe not. I’m sure I’ll still need the stick.’

Bríd’s eyes danced with amusement. ‘Do you want me to re-bind your leg after all?’

‘Yes, please,’ he said, embarrassed to be caught out.

That night on the pillow they shared, Bríd told Muiris, ‘The time is right. We cannot keep Tomás away from his own family any longer.’

Her husband lay silent in the darkness. She listened to his breathing until she fell asleep.

The following morning he asked Tom to come outside with him. The boy was delighted, thinking he was going to help Muiris. One look at the man’s serious expression in the daylight told him otherwise.

‘You are happy with us, Tomás, and we are happy with you. Never doubt that.’

Tom’s heart sank. ‘You’re going to send me home, aren’t you? Please, for my sake, let me stay. For another week?’

‘For your sake I would,’ Muiris replied. ‘This is for the sake of someone else. Tomorrow I will take you in the currach.’

Tom made a deliberate effort to enjoy his last day with them. But he felt like a traitor. Now that it was a certainty, he had to admit to himself that part of him really did want to go home. To see his mother and his sisters again, to sleep in his own bed-closet and eat the sort of food he had eaten all his life.

When it was time to leave, Donal and Maura
accompanied
him to the boat. The little girl had tears in her eyes. ‘You’ll come back soon, Tomflynn?’

‘I will of course.’

Donal held out a closed fist. When he turned it over and opened it, a striped sea shell lay on his palm. ‘This is the shell you found,’ he told Tom. ‘The first day the three of us were together.’

‘It’s Tomflynn’s ’pology!’ Maura exclaimed.

‘Take it with you,’ said Donal.

‘I gave it to you, it’s yours now.’

‘Bring it back to me when you come.’

As the currach pulled away from the shore Tom looked back at them. He felt an awful ache in his throat.

‘Would you like to help me row, Tomás?’

‘Yes, please!’

Seen from the water, the cove appeared smaller than he remembered. Nor was the cliff above as steep. ‘There is a sort of path behind those rocks,’ Tom told Muiris. ‘It’s easier than it looks. I think I can get to the top by myself.’

The man ignored him. Rowing to water’s edge, he jumped out and pulled the currach onto the beach. ‘Help me turn this over, Tomás.’

Muiris went straight to the foot of the hidden path as if he knew where it was. ‘Bring your stick,’ he called to the surprised boy.

As they neared the top Tom said, ‘I can go on from here, Muiris.’

‘So can I.’

They set off across the windswept earth together.

A mile was a greater distance than Tom remembered. He leaned on the stick, but soon that was not enough. Muiris knew before he did. He swooped the boy into his arms and carried him until they were in sight of Roaringwater House.
‘You might want to walk from here, Tomás. In case anyone sees.’

‘Are you going back now?’

Muiris squared his shoulders. ‘I am not going back now.’

They marched to the front door together.

Virginia and her mother were in the hall, discussing
possible
repairs for the Persian rug. ‘There is no one in Munster who could mend it properly,’ Mrs Flynn declared.

‘Then let me try.’

‘Your pride outruns your ability, Virginia. One mistake could ruin it forever. Then what would your father say? No, I think the best thing to do is to send the rug to Dublin.’

‘Will that not be expensive?’

‘Very, I suspect. But it will be a nice surprise for your father when he comes home. And we should be able to afford it by then,’ she added.

A powerful fist pounded on the front door. Both women gave a start. Mrs Flynn glanced around for a servant to answer the summons, but there was none in the hall. She went to the door herself. Virginia followed her.

The heavy door creaked on its iron hinges. The woman said over her shoulder, ‘We must have this oiled before–’

She stopped. Put one hand to her throat.

‘Dia dhuit, a Chaitríona
,’ said Muiris Ó Driscoll.

Virginia edged past her mother, who seemed to have grown roots where she stood. ‘There you are at last, Tom!
Come into the house at once. You gave us such a fright!’ Without glancing at his companion, she flung her arms around her brother and gave him a hug. Then she swept him into the house and shouted for her sisters.

Catherine and Muiris stood looking at each other.