The Bird Woman (15 page)

When the headstone was finally ready, Liam got it into his head that he wanted to hold a celebration for Marty—a kind of a
second wake. So he set a date and invited along his closest friends from the time that they were all students together.

We held it in the workshop because Liam said Marty was most alive when he was working and that was where it should be. There
were six asked—five men and one woman—plus various partners of both genders.

It was late in October when they all assembled, only a few nights away from Halloween. I’d suggested Halloween night itself,
but that was too much even for Liam, though he couldn’t rightly tell me why. He seemed to have this idea that Marty’s soul
would be wandering around on that night and the wake would draw it close, as a lamp when it’s lit draws a moth.

I’ll never get over being amazed at them down here; they hold the modern world firm in one hand, but all the time they have
the old world grasped tight in the other. You think they are rational beings, and they are, but all the lost centuries are
in them too—and sometimes closer than they care to think of or acknowledge.

It had been all hustle and bustle and preparation. We’d been busy as the blackbirds that flew back and forth all through the
short day, stripping the pyracantha by the workshop door of its tangles of bright berries. By nightfall the table groaned
with food, a big fire was lit, there were candles set in the windows, and Liam had the headstone up on a plinth in the place
of honour. It was a beautiful thing, a granite slab with the name and the dates, and down at the bottom a single sentence.

Only that which cannot be lost in a shipwreck is yours.

“He always said it when he was nicking something he wanted
from one of his friends,” Liam told me. “We said it ourselves—taking the piss—but we nicked far more off him than ever he
did off us, and it was always, always ideas. He had more than all the rest of us put together; they’d come flying out of him
like sparks from a Catherine wheel”

Liam didn’t know where the quotation came from, but he put it there anyway, and up at the top he carved a deep frieze of thrushes
and twining leaves. There were thrushes all around the place as the winter drew in—shy birds, with speckledy dun-coloured
plumage, hopping about, watching our comings and goings with bright, clean eyes. Liam said they reminded him of Marty. He
said it wasn’t right that he’d had to go and live among strangers.

We were shy enough ourselves at the start, but soon the drink did its work and the food warmed our bellies. When I was through
with the feeding and bustling about I went and sat myself down beside Liam. He smiled at me, and his arm went around my shoulders
and his hand took mine. I sat there listening, and as often as not when a story was finished it wasn’t only the speaker’s
eyes that were bright with tears.

We might as well have had it on All Saints’ Eve, I thought, for I’d never met this Marty but I knew him now, and I’m certain
I wasn’t the only one who felt him near. I am telling all this so you’ll better understand what happened next.

There’s a painter from Waterford by the name of John Ryan, and it seems he has psoriasis, a painful, itchy skin condition,
so unsightly that when he was at college he always wore long-sleeved shirts buttoned tight at the wrists. He told of a hot,
bright day when he and his friends were sitting outside and Marty had talked him into rolling his shirtsleeves up and shaming
the devil.

“Then what happens next only this girl I’d been sidling up to for ages and ages comes over and sits herself down on the grass
right beside me,” he said. “Well, one look was enough, she took herself off, and we both knew that she wasn’t coming back.
Marty did his best. He called her a shallow piece, unworthy of my affections, and a whole lot more besides. It made no difference.
That was the old heart broken for at least a month.”

We laughed then, but not without awareness that John Ryan had come alone and his shirtsleeves were still buttoned tight.

I was drunk; I don’t remember the details except that Liam asked me would I try. It was the occasion as well as the drink—there
was an innocence about the night and also a sweetness that’s hard to explain. I don’t think I’d have tried it at any other
time, no matter who it was did the asking.

Well, I woke in the morning and couldn’t believe what I’d done. I lay there remembering, flushed with shame, and more than
I ever wanted anything I wanted Liam to wake and tell me that what I thought had happened hadn’t happened at all.

Liam woke. I asked him had I put my hands on John Ryan or was it a dream? I had, Liam said. He spoke of it almost casually,
he seemed pleased with me and surprised at the state I was in.

A few days later John Ryan phoned. He said his skin was falling off in flakes, but new stuff was forming underneath, as pink
and smooth as a baby’s bottom. Liam talked to him, I didn’t. He said the excitement in John’s voice was wonderful to hear.
Liam was excited just telling me this, and fool that I was, I began to feel a bit pleased with myself as well.

Of course, John Ryan told the story to anyone who would listen to him, and Waterford’s only the next county. It was after
that that word got out and they started to come to the door.

Liam was there when Catherine came next, so they talked in the workshop. After she’d gone he said he was thinking of helping
to
run this collective, especially since they were extending their brief to venues and shows. That was fine by me. Liam’s sociable,
and his work is solitary; I’d always encourage him when outside things come up.

So Catherine started dropping over with information and plans. Mostly it was too cold for paperwork in the workshop, so they’d
closet themselves in the little back room that Liam used as an office; then afterwards they’d come to the kitchen looking
for tea. Sometimes she came and Liam wasn’t there, so she’d call in with me to leave papers for him and she always had a spare
half hour for talk. Neither of us mentioned her hands or my refusing her. I was a bit uncomfortable with her at first, for
I thought she would bring it up again, but she didn’t. After a while I began to notice I wasn’t exactly discouraging when
she put her head round the kitchen door.

It was around this time I started looking out for a job. Not much of a job—a few hours was all I was after. But not bar work,
something regular and local and only in the mornings.

I wanted money, you see. Money to send Andrew to play school, which Liam was against.

“Aren’t there trees and fields and animals all about us?” he said. “Let the child run; there’ll be time enough later for shutting
him up indoors with a pile of books.”

But it wasn’t for learning I wanted it. Andrew had always been quiet and self-absorbed; happy to play alone for hours, he
never strayed far from my side. I hadn’t thought anything of it at first. He’d want other children as he grew older, so what
harm till then if he was my wee boy?

But he didn’t want other children. Suzanna did: at two years old she had the run of any house around that held young children,
and when I called to pick her up she wasn’t ever ready to come home. Not like Andrew. Even when with his cousins he’d
want to know before we left what time we’d be back to collect him. And when we did, there he would be at the gate, watching
out for us, waiting.

He was uncertain with other children, suspicious and wary.

“He’s just shy,” Kathleen said, “don’t be worrying about him. He’ll ease up once he starts school.”

But I was afraid it would be the opposite. I thought if he didn’t learn now how to be in company, he’d be forced off by himself
at school.

I don’t know how it was that I came to tell Catherine my fears, but I did, and somehow once I’d started I couldn’t stop. She
listened, and when I paused or halted, she waited, so I told her the next bit and then the next.

“What age is he?”

“Three. He’ll be four in April; they’ll let him start school in September, but if he does he’ll be on the young side. There’s
a play school in Hubertstown. He could go there for a year, and then he’d be five when he starts into proper school. He’d
be that bit older, more used to the rough-and-tumble. But Liam’s against it. If I want it I’ll have to find the money for
it myself—”

So it was Catherine who showed me the ad in the paper for part-time work in the library in Hubertstown, and it was Catherine
who met me there and took the children off while I went for the interview. She helped me and encouraged me; she seemed to
think it was alright to be doing what I was doing, she seemed to find it quite natural that two women should be conniving
together against the will of a man.

When all the details were sorted, I told Liam about the job in the library. We were outside, the wind cold but the morning
bright, the daffodils opening, the buds on the ash tree darkening
and swelling, the children just through the gate, splashing about in the puddles with Whiskey beside them. We did this every
dry morning now that the spring was breaking. It was one of our pleasures, and a good time to talk.

“I want Andrew to go to play school,” I said to Liam, looking hard at the ground. “Suzanna can go to Kate’s house; I’ve fixed
it with Teresa. She doesn’t want any money, just to have Kate stay over with us when they’re going out, which she does anyway.”
I was babbling now, falling over myself to get all the arrangements in place before he could think of a reason to stop me
taking the job. “But I’ll need the car—only in the mornings; it’s yours for the rest of the day—”

Liam drained his mug and set it down on the wall. Then he turned to me, put his hands on my arms, waited for me to lift my
head and look him in the face.

“Why the library, Ellen?”

I didn’t understand. “What’s wrong with the library?” I said defensively. “I know the pay’s not great, but it’s only mornings.
You’ll have the car back in the afternoons—”

“It’s not the car; we can work that out. And I can see you might want a break from the children—I’ve no problem with that
either. But, Ellen, why the library when you could be at the Healing?”

“The Healing?” I felt myself go rigid under his hands.

“Like you did for John Ryan. You’ve a gift, Ellen. Gifts are supposed to be used, not hidden.”

“That was a fluke, a one-off. It wasn’t me, it should ver have happened—”

“Not you? Christ, Ellen, who else was it?”

“Marty,” I said, believing it, yet amazed to hear myself say it.

Liam gave me a funny look. “What about Andrew then? I suppose that was Marty as well?”

I wouldn’t speak, I looked at the ground. The fear was twisting me up, my stomach felt like a nest of snakes, writhing.

Liam pressed on, stubborn, relentless. “Remember the woman in Cork, Ellen? Don’t try pushing it down and suppressing it, that’s
what she said. And that’s exactly what you’re doing now.”

“That’s my business—”

“Your business? End of story?” His voice was tight. “It’s got nothing to do with me or the children? And what about the people
who come to the door?”

“One or two. Now and again. You make it sound like a queue—”

“Ellen, they come for help and you turn them away—”

It was true. There’d been people calling, and mostly I turned them away. Not always. There’d been a knock on the kitchen door
one evening last week when Liam was over with Dermot. I’d got up and opened the door myself, I hadn’t just called out the
way they do down here, I want to know who it is that I’m asking into my house. There was a woman standing there—in her early
forties by the look of her—a big loose-boned woman with an outdoor face all tight and drawn with pain.

I hadn’t asked her what ailed her—I hadn’t needed to, for I’d known it was the raw burn on her right arm under her white cotton
sleeve. I’d taken her hand, drawn it towards me, and held my left hand over the place. She’d cried out and pulled away as
the heat from my hand found its way through the fabric and met the skinned flesh beneath. I’d held her fast. When I’d seen
her face ease out, I’d dropped her hand.

“Come in,” I’d said then, for I knew well her arm would heal and I had to make sure she would keep it to herself. I’d acted
all in
one action, no thought edging its way in, but the minute it was done I’d cursed myself, for I should have dressed it before
I used my hands at all. That way I could have told her it was the herbs in the cream that would do the trick.

Stacia, she’d said her name was. She’d wanted to pay me, but I’d hushed her and told her I didn’t want it known. She’d given
me a quick, hard look, but she’d seemed to understand. She’d said it didn’t hurt her anymore, and it was hard to keep your
mouth shut when something good happened to you, but she’d tell her bees when she got home and that might be enough.

That’d made sense to me. I’d made tea, and we’d sat there, talking about her bees and how she had sixty jars a year from her
two hives. Then she’d told me about these bee tribes in Nepal, how their bees live in their attics and are as much a part
of their households as a cat or a dog would be in ours.