The Godforsaken Daughter (7 page)

Chapter seven

A
blue Austin Mini bumped down Oaktree Lane, just as Ruby
had
finished securing the final sheet to the line. It swerved into the yard, narrowly missing a hen, and puttered to a halt by the water pump.

Ruby concealed herself behind the washing line as Miss Ida Nettles extricated herself from the vehicle, an elaborate task because she wasn’t used to the car, having just acquired it. Six months earlier, she’d accomplished the amazing feat of passing her driving test on the seventh attempt, setting a record and making of herself an absolute menace on the road. It was rumored that Mr. Reilly, her instructor, had bought himself a brand-new caravan for seaside breaks on the back of Ida’s incompetence.

Ida, a former midwife, was never going to let retirement stall her. She needed to be out and about, a community activist of sorts, so had reinvented herself as an Avon-lady-cum-nurse who could do hair, makeup, manicures, pedicures, and provide any other kind of cure—whether medicinal or herbal—from the depths of her commodious doctor’s bag. A bag she carried about clamped under her right arm like a bulging baby, fearing the straps too fragile for its many bottles of unguents.

Ruby berated herself for not remembering that Monday was “Ida day”: her mother’s toes got done on Mondays. Had her thoughts not been in such tumult from the weekend’s events, she certainly would have remembered and made herself scarce. Because Ida was nothing more than a busybody who talked down to Ruby as if she were still seven years old, and carried stories from one house to the next, fattened with her own fictions, just for the hell of it. In another life she might well have been a tabloid hack.

From behind the shelter of the sheet, Ruby watched as Ida hauled the bag from the backseat of the car, slammed the door shut, turned, and gazed up at the sky. Then, shielding her eyes from the sun, looked directly across to the garden.

Ruby ducked behind the plum bush, but too late.

“Ruby, is that you?” Ida called out. “You can’t hide from yer auntie Ida.”

Damn!

“Oh
. . .
hello, Ida. Didn’t see you there.” She picked up the laundry basket and, with reluctance, went to greet her. “Just putting the wash out.”

“I see that. Well, how’s the mammy?”

“A bit poorly, but nothing too serious.”

Ida was five feet one, with a frizz of tightly permed hair the color of churned butter. Her tiny face was never without makeup; eyebrows and lipstick crookedly applied, due to progressive myopia, which, for vanity’s sake, she chose to ignore. Today she was in a frock of lapis blue, with eye shadow and sandals to match.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” she said, squinting up at Ruby. “And with what she’s been through, with yer poor father dying like he did
. . .
so sudden and all. Is it any wonder she’s poorly, but sure getting her toes done’ll brighten her up a bit. And how’s yourself, Ruby?” Without preamble, she loaded the doctor’s bag into the laundry basket Ruby was holding. “Now, a big strong girl like you can carry that in for me.”

“Busy, as usual, Ida, so I am,” Ruby said, leading the way into the cool sanctuary of the house.

“Well, that’s good. Takes your mind off your daddy. Now, put that down on the table there, like a good girl, till I get me biscuits.”

Ruby had already plonked down the bag, having performed this ritual many times in the past. In seconds, Ida was diving into it.

“Now, where are they?” She’d flung out a tin of talcum powder, a jar of fish paste, a bottle of Yardley cologne, and a can of hairspray, before spotting the biscuits. “A fig roll for a cuppa tea. You put the kettle on there, Ruby, like a good girl, and I’ll see to your poor mammy. She’s in the bed, no doubt, and that’s where she’ll stay, for it’s the best place to get the toes done.”

“I’ll bring up the tea in a minute,” Ruby said—into empty space, for already Ida was gone, bag and all, up the stairs like a prairie province tornado, leaving behind a pong of scent in the air and a pack of Jacob’s Fig Rolls on the table.

Soon, from overhead, came the sound of muffled greetings and a door closing. Then a thought struck Ruby. This would be the ideal time to go up to the attic and investigate Grandma Edna’s case. The door to the mother’s bedroom would be shut for the best part of an hour—the pedicure, four cups of tea, and a week of gossip having to be gotten through—therefore she would not be seen coming and going on the stairs.

Thinking ahead—the case would be locked, no doubt—she went out to her father’s old toolbox in the shed and found a pair of sturdy pliers. She secreted them in her apron pocket.

A few minutes later, she bore the tea tray up the stairs. She was about to enter the bedroom, but halted when she heard the name “Jamie.” She put her ear to the door. Her mother was speaking.

“.
 . .
and if she didn’t put him out of the field
. . .
me promising it to him on the phone a couple of days before.”

“Away with you, Martha! Put poor Jamie McCloone outta the field
. . .
and him so lonely now without his dog and all.”

“Oh, Ida, you don’t know the half of it. She ran out of the house like her backside was on fire, shouting at him.”

“God, and what did Jamie do?”

“Well, I’m sure he was very shocked at her
. . .
but after a bit they shook hands . . . So he must have been all right about it . . . Then got on the tractor and left. I was so affronted. But you know, between you and me, Ida, I said nothing to her. I’m afraid of her betimes. What she might do—”

“God, d’you think she might attack you, Martha? ’Cos if that’s the case I could have a word with Dr. Brewster, about gettin’ her in.”

Ruby’s grip on the tray tightened. She knew that “gettin’ her in” was code for having her committed to St. Ita’s mental institution.

“Well, hopefully it’ll not come to that. Don’t know what’s got into her since Vinny died
. . .
I’m afraid in my own house. And when May and June come home at the weekends, it’s like the Divil himself gets—”

Ruby steeled herself. She pushed open the bedroom door, immediately killing the conversation. The room was shrouded in Ida’s cigarette smoke. Both women looked her way, surprised faces confirming their guilt.

“I’m going upstairs to clean the windees,” Ruby said, setting the tray down stiffly on a table beside Ida.

“God, isn’t Ruby such a great help to you, Martha,” Ida said, flicking her cigarette in the ornate trinket box she carried about with her as an ashtray. “Sure where would you be without her?”

“Oh, she does her best,” the mother said, unable to meet Ruby’s eye, “but she can be a bit of a handful at times, Ida.”

“Well, you miss the farm work, don’t you, Ruby? Must be hard to get used to women’s work in the house.” Ida lifted the teapot and poured. “But y’know, if you met a nice fella, a nice farming fella, you’d be made, now, wouldn’t you?”

“Ruby’s not interested in men. Not the marrying kind. Never has—”

“There’s water in the kettle if youse want more tea,” Ruby cut across her. “But you’ll have to get it yourself. I’ve things to do.”

She left the room, shutting the door sharply, snatches of that overheard conversation still fresh in her mind. “Put poor Jamie McCloone outta the field
. . .
and him so lonely now without his dog and all.”

Well, that makes two of us
, she thought.
He’s lonely because he’s on his own and I’m lonely because I’m not.

Chapter eight

T
he attic was reached by a flight of stairs, which gave on to a rickety landing on the third floor. Ruby felt uneasy as she climbed up, not so much because of what she might find, but for her own safety. Would the worm-eaten flooring be able to sustain her extra weight? She could not remember the last time she’d been up there, but was sure it must have been about a decade before, when she was quite a few pounds lighter than she was now. Usually it was her father who visited the attic to store things.

The narrow door cried out as she pushed it open—as if protesting her intrusion—and she found herself in a hot, musty space, which smelled of mold and rancid apples. Long ago, her father used to make cider, and would store the fermentation buckets here in the cool darkness. Her eyes welled up when she spotted two of the big jars, one still unopened, yeast encrusting the sealed lid, sitting just inside the door. How long had it sat there? The cider he’d never got to drink.

When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that unearthing the case was not going to be such an easy task. Her father had been a hoarder, the opposite of her improvident mother—who was always wanting new things. There had been many arguments
between the pair when Ruby was growing up. So, to keep the peace, their compromise had been the way station that was the attic.

The place was crammed: a steamer trunk belonging to Great-Aunt Agatha, which had crossed the Atlantic several times, a baby’s pram filled with toys and stuffed animals, a cane chair and an old green rocker with a stand of corner shelves jammed on top. These items commanded the most space. Boxes in various stages of ruin proliferated—there must have been at least twenty—containing schoolbooks, magazines, vinyl records, and bundles of old newspapers. Scattered here and there were picture frames, lamps, vases, plastic flowers, coat hangers, and a large mirror that used to hang in the living room when Ruby was a child. Pocked now, with many black age spots, it was suitable only for the attic, where throwing ba
ck reflections was as redundant as the rest of the long-retired bric-
a-brac.

She caught sight of a small red suitcase, faded to pink from sixteen summers under the skylight. It was the one she’d carried to Donegal for that ill-fated stint in the Queens Arms. Her only time away from home. Her only suitcase. She’d put it up there as soon as she’d returned home, not wanting any cringing reminders of Mr. Ryan and her failure as a waitress. Out of curiosity, she went over now, hunkered down, and snapped opened the hasps.

There was nothing in it apart from a hairgrip and a white metal badge with her name crookedly written in black marker. At the sight of the badge her heart sank. How unhappy she’d been back then! Thrust out into the big, cruel world—a lamb among wolves. She slammed the lid back down. Stood up and pushed the skylight free, needing air.

“T
HE CASE
!
Y
OU CAME HERE FOR THE CASE.
L
OOK BEHIND YOU
!
”

She jumped. The voice. It was the same one from her dream, but this time clearer and more insistent.

Ruby began to sweat; she wanted to flee the attic but instead found herself turning round, as instructed, and looking above the door.

There, perched on a shelf, was the object of her mission: an ancient, brown case studded with tarnished rivets.

Grasping the leather handle, she eased it down, shutting her eyes against a dust cloud of many vintages. The case, though small, was unusually heavy, and she could see why. It was made of wood with inlays of what looked like snakeskin, on top and along the sides. She found an empty place on the floor beneath the skylight and set it down.

On the front was the image her mother had so scorned: a line drawing of a naked woman with her arms raised, hands joined above her head. Ruby did not find the image offensive. If anything, it reminded her of a pair of closed scissors. On a nameplate underneath she could just about make out the word
Revelation.
Was it the name of the maker, or an indication of what she might find inside?

The case did not have two locks, as she’d expected, but one brass clasp in the middle, shaped like a half-moon and secured with a small padlock. Fortunately, it didn’t look too strong. Two tugs with the pliers had it falling apart.

She slid the clasp free of its leather loop and raised the lid.

A cloth of blue velvet covered the contents, fastened at each corner with ribbons of the same shade, tied in neat bows. Ruby’s fingers hovered over the first bow. She hesitated. Grandma Edna had died thirty-two years before. Those bows had been tied by her way back then. Suddenly, Ruby felt the weight of her trespass and sat back on her heels, closed her eyes, heart hammering with indecision.

“D
ON
’
T BE AFRAID.
L
OOK INSIDE.
”

The voice again: but this time, soft, assuring. She began to breathe more slowly, and soon felt calmer.

Gently, she worked each bow loose, drew back the cover, and peered inside.

She was confronted with an odd sight: a tier of rich blue satin, within which were embedded four objects: a crystal ball, a flat gold disk engraved with a five-pointed star, a knife with a curved blade like that of the crescent moon, and a small silver cup with three chains attached.

Ruby ran her forefinger lightly over each object in turn, afraid to dislodge them. She knew what the crystal ball was for. In Donegal, a lady calling herself Madame Calinda used to do readings with one on the seafront. She’d heard her colleagues discuss how accurate her predictions were, but had been too afraid to venture into her tent. Life was horrible enough back then without hearing even more bad news.

There were tabs either side of the tier. Carefully, she lifted the tray of objects out and set it aside.

The second tier was just like the first, but instead of objects, it held two small books, placed either side of what looked like a length of silver cord wound tightly into a spiral shape. Curious, she pried it free, and was startled to find a very long belt unraveling across the floor. She gathered it up quickly, hoping the dust hadn’t soiled it. It had three knots tied at either end. She attempted to roll it back into its original shape, but the effort was too much. She bundled it on top of the first tier and gave her attention to the other two items.

One, Ruby discovered, was not a book at all, but a pack of cards. The emblem on the front: an elaborate, monochrome drawing of what looked like a deer with the moon between its antlers; below it were the words
The Rider Tarot
.

Tentatively, she drew out the cards and shuffled through them, turning each one face upward as she went. She counted twenty-two in all. They were numbered 0 to 21 in what Ruby recognized as old Irish lettering. Each card bore a full-color illustration, and each came complete with a title. She read each one in turn, intrigued and frightened by their strangeness.

“Death” showed a skeleton in armor riding a horse.

“The Lovers.” A naked boy and girl against a backdrop of what could have been the Garden of Eden. An angel hovering above them.

“The Devil.” The same boy and girl, in chains in front of a throne. On the throne sat a huge, baleful entity. It had bat-like wings and horns growing from its head.

Ruby’s hands shook as she quickly turned the card facedown, and returned it to the pack.

The second item was, indeed, a book: a dream dictionary. Remembering her lucid dream about seeing herself in the coffin, she turned the pages with trepidation, until she reached the entry under the heading “Death.”

Death dreams signify a desire in you to end or escape a current situation, which is causing you unhappiness. They also denote that you are on the brink of great changes in your life.

She looked up from the page, stunned at the accuracy of that statement. She read on.

Dreaming of your own death often occurs when you are facing a major life-altering change. Something has died within you to make way for a new beginning.

There was the phrase she’d heard in her dream. The voice had said it twice. She repeated it now, aloud.

“A new beginning. A new beginning.”

Ruby grew excited. Grandma Edna was talking to her. It was Edna’s voice she was hearing. She was sure of it. That’s why she’d been led to the secret case. That’s why she’d had the dream. There was no need to be afraid.

She replaced the dream dictionary, and was about to restore all the items to their proper place and shut the case, when she noticed that this second tier had tabs either side, just like the first. Perhaps there was something underneath.

She lifted out the second tier. There
was
something. At the bottom, she saw a flat, rectangular object inside a black velvet bag. It had a drawstring of golden cord. Nervously, Ruby lifted it free. She untied the cord and drew out a book. But no ordinary book. This one was handmade. The spine was bound with string and reinforced with two lengths of branch cuttings. It was covered in thick black canvas.

She turned it over.

On the front, calligraphed in gold Celtic script, were the words:

THE BOOK OF LIGHT

Written by Edna Vivian Clare
1854–1952

The book fell from her hands.

Those dates!

Oh God, if Edna wrote the book, how did she know when she was going to die?

Suddenly, she felt sick. Nausea rose in her throat. The urge to flee the attic, strong again. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she should simply burn the case and everything in it.

She tried to get off her knees, but the effort was too much. First, she needed to put everything back. With trembling hands she returned each item to its rightful place.

“S
AVE IT FOR ME,
R
UBY.
S
AVE IT FOR YOURSELF.
”

She stopped. The voice had used her name. Now she knew for certain it was Grandma Edna. She started to weep.

“I’m afraid, Grandma!” she cried. “I’m afraid, so I am.”

“T
HERE IS NO DARKNESS BUT IGNORANCE.
Y
OU ARE PROTECTED.
”

“I am?”

She waited for an answer, but none came. She repeated the words out loud several times. “There is
. . .
no darkness but
. . .
but ignorance. I
. . .
am
. . .
I am protected.”

Repeating the words made her feel calmer. A clearness of purpose overtook her. She knew what she had to do. She fastened the clasp, rose from her knees with ease. Through the skylight, she saw that Ida’s car was still in the yard. Good. That meant the door to her mother’s bedroom would still be closed.

She secured the skylight once more, carefully lifted the case, and left the attic.

She descended the two flights of stairs to the first-floor landing. Murmuring voices from her mother’s room promised safe passage to her own bedroom. She tiptoed inside, crossed to the bed, and placed the case under it. A pelmet of pink valance made for the perfect hiding place.

She felt relieved as she exited the room. Relieved and exhilarated. She had done what her father would have wanted: protected Grandma Edna’s legacy. Those ancient secrets in that black book were now hers to learn.

It was her duty to do so.

Ruby Vivian Clare’s new beginning was about to begin.