Authors: Kate Kerrigan
Life went back to how it had been before I met John. Dull, dead days; the boredom barely broken by meals and Masses. My mother collected me from school and I spent my afternoons in the house studying and praying and being “good.” On Saturdays, my mother dressed me up in my woollen coat and bonnet and sent me to town to visit the parish priest’s house with my father. Miss Kennedy, recovered from the shock of seeing me wearing John’s trousers, always made a great show of giving me her special biscuits.
“Look at that now, Eileen—your favorite currant biscuits. Aren’t you a lucky girl?” my father would exclaim. He glowed when Miss Kennedy was in the room.
“Thank you,” I would answer, nibbling discreetly.
They are not my favorite
.
They are dry, the currants look like dead flies, and Maidy Hogan makes the best buns and biscuits in the world.
That was what I wanted to say, but I just ate the biscuits and felt sad. Everything made me feel sad; everything I saw reminded me of where I wanted to be. Mysterious wildflowers lost their magic now that Paud could not name them for me. Even biscuits didn’t interest me because Maidy hadn’t made them. Sometimes, when I thought of John and me climbing trees and chasing sheep and laughing all the time, my heart hurt so badly it felt like I had been punched.
I saw John every day in school. He came and spoke to me in break time, but he was popular and always got called away again by the other boys. In any case we were never alone, because Kathleen was always stuck to me. I’d stand at the wall looking over at him laughing and wrestling with his friends and I’d think:
He’s forgotten about me, he’s not my friend any more.
I didn’t cry when my father caned my hand, but I wanted to cry when I thought John didn’t love me.
One day he sent one of the boys over to distract Kathleen. “Show me them glasses, Condon, till I can see through them.” Paddy Molloy was no charmer, but it did the trick. Poor Kathleen was grateful for any attention she got.
John took me aside. “My ma wants to know if you can come over this Saturday?” Maidy wasn’t his ma, but he called her that anyway.
“I can’t, my ma won’t let me.” I never called my mother “Ma”—only when I was talking to other people.
“Is it because of what you said to Miss Kennedy? I said you shouldn’t have climbed that tree, I told you . . .”
I was raging—it was as if he was saying this was all my fault. “It was not! It was because I was wearing
your
trousers!” John blushed and looked away. Immediately I was sorry I had said about the trousers, but I couldn’t take it back. Anyway, it was true.
“I’d better get back to Paddy,” he said, and he turned and went back to the boys.
My heart was broken. I had ruined everything. John would never speak to me again, I was certain of it. I went to the toilet and sobbed into the sleeve of my sweater until break was over.
That night I felt sick and could not eat. I moved food around my plate, but did not put it in my mouth. My mother said nothing about it.
The following day was Saturday. My father was out and my mother was getting us ready to walk into town for groceries when Maidy Hogan called to the door.
My heart leapt.
“I’ve come to see if Eileen would like to come around to us this afternoon?”
Even the sound of her voice warmed me.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We are just leaving to run some errands.”
“I’ll send Paud down with the cart to save you walking.”
I flinched. My mother would never be seen traveling in a horse and cart, or even riding a bicycle. When we had to go any distance, my father ordered a horse and trap and a driver to take us. As I got older, we were one of the few families in the area who could afford to hire a motorcar. Otherwise we walked. Heads high, shoes shining, that was how we went about—my father called it “maintaining dignity and decorum.”
“There’s no need, we’re fine,” my mother said, tartly.
I was hiding in the drawing room, peering through the door into the hall. My mother’s profile was sharp: chin set, mouth tight. I wished I could shrink down to an inch high, rush out the door between my mother’s legs and jump into Maidy’s pocket. Then she could take me home to live with her without upsetting my parents, and I could be happy again.
“But thank you for offering,” my mother added. Her hand gripped the side of the front door.
Before she could close it, Maidy said, “Is everything all right, Attracta?” My mother flinched at the sound of her Christian name. Maidy went on, “Only we haven’t seen Ellie in a while and we . . . well, we just hope there isn’t anything wrong?”
“Wrong? What could be wrong?” In my parents’ world nothing was ever “wrong.” Yet everything felt wrong to me.
“Oh no, I just mean . . . well, John and Ellie are such good friends, and as we haven’t seen her for a while I was worried that, well—might we have done something to offend you?”
I looked intently at my mother and thought I saw her face soften slightly. I thought she might explain about the trousers, and then Maidy would laugh and say “sorry” and they would agree “no harm done,” and everything would be back to normal. But I also knew in my heart that wouldn’t happen. My father had not even been able to say the word “trousers,” so my mother would certainly not be able to explain the upset. She paused, then said, “No, Maidy.”
“Well then.” But Maidy wouldn’t let me go that easily. “Perhaps she’ll be free to come down another day soon?”
“Perhaps,” my mother said. It was a lie, and I knew it. “Good-bye now.”
She closed the door before Maidy had even finished saying “Good-bye.”
I knew then that I was trapped. Trapped in this house, praying and sitting still and being “good.” Trapped in my own body, never allowed to skip or run, or climb trees or laugh out loud, or say and do anything I pleased, ever again.
They were going to keep me inside forever.
A week passed. John smiled at me across the playground and came over a few times and tried to talk to me, but he kept getting called away. I didn’t mind that, because the fullness of our friendship wasn’t for other people to see. I was just glad that he didn’t hate me, especially after the way my parents had behaved.
The following Saturday, early—just after breakfast and our single morning decade of the rosary—there was a knock on the door. My father had shaved and was getting dressed, so my mother took off her apron, settled her hair in the hallstand mirror and opened it nervously. Who could be calling at this time? I quickly took up my position at the drawing-room door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Flaherty.” It was John. “These are for you.”
He was holding an enormous bouquet of flowers, mostly roses and lilac. The Hogans had wild roses scrabbling abundantly up the side of their house, almost covering their doorway—and a huge lilac tree that smelt so sweet on a warm day, you could get giddy just standing next to it. He thrust the bouquet into my mother’s hand before she could object. I could smell summer off them.
“And I’ve these for you as well,” he said, holding out a wooden box of duck eggs. I was sure I saw a smile strain on my mother’s lips. He had charmed her. It was working!
“Thank you, John. Maidy must have sent you down . . .”
“Oh no, Mrs. Flaherty. I came down myself to see if Ellie would like to—”
“We have no need of flowers, thank you, John, nor eggs.” My father had leaned over my mother and was going to close the door.
“But they are from the best of our laying ducks, Sir . . .”
“No matter,” said my father, removing the box of eggs from the crook of my mother’s arm and handing them back to John. My mother clung to her flowers. “And I suggest you consult your guardians before purloining their goods to give away to the neighbors. Good day.” He shut the door in John’s face. John immediately banged on it again, and my father raised his eyes to heaven. “A tearaway—and small wonder, with no parents to guide him.”
“The eggs were mine to give away, Sir,” shouted John through the door. His strong voice sounded distant, muffled by the thickness of the wood.
I rushed out of the drawing room and faced my father. “The ducks are his—Paud gave them to him, and John reared them himself. The eggs are his to give away!” My father glared at me, but I didn’t care—I stood firm. “You can cane me if you like, Sir, but those eggs are John’s to give away.”
His eyebrows rose and his mouth tightened. I suppose he was thinking that perhaps he would cane me, but then he seemed to think better of it and, looking out of the window, said only, “Whatever the case, he’s gone now.” He took the flowers from my mother. “I’ll give these to Miss Kennedy for the church. They’ll come to some use there.” Then he opened the door and left for the day, leaving us standing—my mother’s arms still crooked where the beautiful flowers should have been, and me friendless.
My plan was simple. I would not eat until my parents let me see John again, or until I died. Whichever came first.
After John came round to the house that day, I realized that he had done his best, and his best had not been good enough for my parents. I had dreamed that he might climb up to my bedroom window and carry me off in the horse and cart to the Hogans’ to live happily ever after. But even if he did, I knew now that my parents would come and get me, and that was no good either. I needed my parents’ permission to see him so that everything could be back the way it had been before.
My mother didn’t notice at all. That was my fault. I always ate breakfast alone, and she picked up the bowl of porridge and scooped the leftover mush away into the bin without even looking. At dinner I was frightened of offending her, so I swirled the food around and made it look as if I had eaten some of it. My mother was as thin as a rake and not interested in eating herself, so she didn’t pay attention to any food I left behind. By the end of the second day, I was feeling very weak. Not wanting to cheat, I had even given my school bun and milk to Kathleen. On the third day I was late for school because I had to sit down on the road to rest. I realized this was going to be much, much harder than I had thought, and I hadn’t even got my message across.
On the fourth day I felt floaty and light-headed. After my mother threw away my breakfast again, I murmured five decades of the rosary and prayed that my father would have his tea with us that evening. If we could eat formally at the dining-room table, I could sit throughout with my hands on my lap and he would notice my protest. But he didn’t. My fifth day of not eating was a Saturday, and I was too weak to get out of bed. My mother called me from the bottom of the stairs for my breakfast, but I could not move. She came up to see what was the matter. She stood at end of the bed. “Are you sick?” she said.
I whispered, “I have a tummy pain.”
“I’ll bring your breakfast up.”
At last, I thought, she’ll notice.
Ten minutes later, she came back up. She helped me sit up in bed and placed a tray across my lap. The tray had a cloth on it that was embroidered with flowers and swallows. I wondered if she had embroidered it herself or if someone had given it to her, but I didn’t ask. On the tray was a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea in a china cup and saucer.
“I’m not hungry.”
My father came into the room. He was dressed and ready to go out for the day. He was in a hurry to get away, and seemed even more distracted and cross than usual. “What’s the matter with her?”
“She doesn’t feel well.”
“Is she not eating her breakfast?”
“It’s probably best she doesn’t eat if she feels sick.”
He picked the spoon up and let some porridge slop back into the bowl. “Perhaps you should give the child something she might want to eat.”
My mother’s lips clamped into a tight line. She picked up the tray and went downstairs.
He followed her, saying, “If she’s not better later, I’ll call Doctor Bourke out to her. I’ll be back by six.”
I lay down and drifted quickly off to sleep.
I woke up to the sound of Doctor Bourke’s gentle voice. He was leaning over me, saying, “Wake up, Ellie, now, there’s a good girl.” It was dark outside and the faces of my parents, who stood behind him, glowed orange in the lamplight. They looked warm and worried. For a moment I felt happy, as the doctor checked my pulse and felt my forehead. “Her temperature is normal, but her blood pressure is very low. She’s pale—you say she wouldn’t eat earlier and she’s been asleep like this all day? Has she been vomiting?”
“She’s been perfect all week,” my mother said.
“Eating all right?”
“Well, yes.”
I knew I had to say something, otherwise this could go on forever and I might die. “I haven’t eaten for five days.” It burst out in a sudden shout, which surprised me—and them. My mother took a sharp breath and put her hands up to her mouth. Her eyes went wide and frantic as if I had let out a terrible secret. Perhaps she had known all along and wanted me to die? My father looked at my mother. She looked back at my father, shaking her head.
Only Doctor Bourke looked at me. “Have you been feeling this sick for five whole days, Ellie?”
Would my father and mother be mortified if I told the doctor how I deliberately hadn’t eaten? Perhaps this had been a terrible idea after all. But then I had a good thought—my father wouldn’t punish me in front of Doctor Bourke. In any case, he
couldn’t
punish me now that I really was genuinely sick. Doctor Bourke’s face was soft and kind, and I decided to spill out everything in front of him. It felt safe. “I didn’t eat because I’m not allowed over to play with John Hogan any more, because Maidy put me in his trousers so my uniform wouldn’t get dirty, then I climbed a tree and gave cheek to Miss Kennedy.” His eyes widened. I didn’t look at my parents. I was too afraid, so I just kept my eyes on Doctor Bourke.
He didn’t turn away from me. He said, “I see,” with a straight, serious face. Then: “Well now, Ellie, that sounds like a dreadful business altogether. Now tell me—are you sorry for what you did?”
I could see where he was going. “Yes, Doctor, I am very sorry.”
“And did you say sorry to your parents for the trouble you caused them?”
I realized I hadn’t. But then, it hadn’t been presented to me as an option before then. “No, Doctor Bourke, I didn’t.”
“Well, perhaps if you apologize to your parents, then they will let you over to the Hogans’ house again and we can forget all of this starving yourself nonsense.”
I looked up at my parents. They were like statues. I did not know whether they were frozen with shock because I had starved myself for five straight days without them noticing, or because of the way Doctor Bourke had spoken to me. I guessed it was a mixture of both. My father wore an expression I had never seen before. He looked a little afraid.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Doctor Bourke stood up and went over to my parents. “There now, no need to worry any more,” he said touching my father on the shoulder. “I expect this young lady will be ready for her dinner shortly, and maybe we’ll persuade John to bring down one of Maidy’s famous apple tarts before too long. Doctor’s orders!”
My father let out a cough, but there was nothing he could say. There were only two people more important than my father that I knew of—Father Mac and Doctor Bourke. He had to do as he was told. Doctor’s orders! I was a genius for waiting until now to say anything; my plan had worked.
Before they left the room, my mother came over and touched me on the head. Her hand faltered before she laid it gently on my hair. It felt so wonderful that I closed my eyes and smiled. Then it was gone, and she followed my father and the doctor downstairs.