If men dressed in armour had come galloping towards me on horseback and waving swords, they wouldn’t have seemed out of place. The estate was steeped in history, crowded with ghosts of the past, and now here I was, just another person ready to begin my story. The trees had seen it all, yet still I held their interest, and as the light summer breeze blew, leaves swished to one another making the sounds of gossiping lips, never growing bored of another generation’s journey.
I followed the main road and finally the trees, which were cleverly landscaped to conceal the castle, fell away. Even though it was me that was moving towards it, the castle felt suddenly upon me, as though it had sneaked towards me without my even noticing, a whole pile of sneaky stone and mortar on its tiptoes with a finger across its lips, as if it hadn’t had a bit of fun for the past few hundred years. I stopped walking when it came in sight. Little me before big castle. It felt to me to be more domineering, more commanding as a ruin than as a castle because there it stood before me with its scars revealed, all wounded and bloody from battle. And I stood before it, feeling a shadow of who I used to be, with my scars revealed. We instantly bonded.
We studied one another and then I walked towards it, and it didn’t blink once.
Though I could have walked into the castle through the gaping hole in the side wall, I felt it would be more respectful to enter through the other bite life had taken out of it, which used to be the front entrance. Respectful to whom, I don’t exactly know, but I think I was trying to appeal to the softer side of the castle. I paused at the door, a respectful pause, and then went inside. There was a lot of green, a lot of rubble. It was eerily quiet within the walls, and I felt as though I was intruding on somebody’s house. The weeds, the dandelions, the nettles, all stopped what they were doing to look up. I don’t know why, but I started crying.
Just as I’d felt sad for the bluebottle, I felt sad for the castle, but realistically, I think I felt those things because I was mostly sad for myself. I felt like I could hear the castle moan and whine as it was left to stand here, falling apart, while the trees around it continued to grow. I moved over to one of the walls, the stones rough and so large I could imagine the strength of the hands that had carried, or which had been forced to carry, them. I hunkered down in the corner, pressed my ear against the stone and closed my eyes. I don’t know what I was listening for, I don’t really know what I was doing, trying to comfort a wall, but it’s what I did anyway.
If I’d told Zoey and Laura what I’d done they’d have carted me off to the fashion house of bumless smocks for sure, but I felt like I’d connected to the building in some way. I don’t know, maybe because I’d lost my home and I felt that I had nothing that was truly mine, coming across this building that wasn’t anybody’s, I wanted to make it mine. Or maybe it was just that when people are lonely they cling to anything not to feel that way any more. For me, that anything was the castle.
I don’t know how long I stayed there but eventually the sun was going down behind the trees, casting a sprinkle of sparkling light on the ruin every time the trees swished from side to side. I watched it for a while and then I realised the surroundings were heading towards dusk. It must have been around ten p.m.
My legs were stiff from being in the same position for so long as I slowly rose to my feet. From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something move. A shadow. A figure. Not an animal, yet it darted. I wasn’t sure. Not wanting whatever or whoever it was to come up behind me, I kept my back to the castle entrance and moved backwards quickly. I heard another noise—an owl or something squawked and I jumped out of my skin and got ready to run. Unable to see the ground underneath the growth, I tripped over a rock and fell backwards to the ground. I smacked my head, whimpered, and I could hear the panic in my voice as I fell into the disgusting overgrowth with God knows what living in it. My vision blurred a little, black spots appearing in place of the line of the ruined roof against the indigo sky. I climbed to my feet, used my hands to push myself up, scraped against the pebbles and rocks, which cut into my skin, and I didn’t look back as I ran as fast as my Uggs would take me. It felt like for ever until the house came into sight, as though the road and the trees were conspiring to keep me running on a treadmill.
Finally the house came into view. Barbara’s SUV was gone from outside and I knew then that I’d been completely cut off. The drawbridge had been lifted. Almost as soon as the house came into sight the front door opened and Rosaleen stood there watching me, as though she had been standing there waiting since the moment I left.
‘Come in, come in,’ she said with urgency in her voice.
I finally stepped over the threshold and into my new life, and the beginning began. My once-clean pink Uggs were now filthy from the castle walk, as I stepped onto the flagstoned hallway. The house was deathly quiet.
‘Let’s have a look at you,’ Rosaleen said, holding my wrists tightly, and took a step back to give me the once-over. But her once-over went twice, then three times…I tugged away from her and her grip instinctively tightened, but then as though she realised what she’d done, or she saw how my face changed, she finally let go.
Her voice was sweeter. ‘I’ll darn those for you. Leave them in the basket by the armchair in the sitting room.’
‘Darn what?’
‘Your trousers.’
‘They’re jeans. They’re supposed to be like this.’ I looked down at my ripped jeans, so torn apart that there was hardly any denim visible at all. Underneath my jeans my leopard-print tights were revealed, which was the idea. ‘They’re not supposed to be dirty, though.’
‘Oh. Well, you can leave them in the basket in the kitchen.’
‘You have a lot of baskets.’
‘Just two.’
I’m not sure if what I’d said was a joke or a smart comment but she missed it either way.
‘Okay. Well, I’m going to my room…’ I waited for her to guide me but she just stared at me. ‘Where is it?’
‘What about a cuppa? I made an apple tart.’ Her tone was almost pleading.
‘Eh, no, thanks, I’m not very hungry.’ I felt my stomach grumble in response and hoped she wouldn’t hear it.
‘Of course. Of course you’re not,’ she berated herself silently.
‘Which way is my room?’
‘Up the stairs, the second door on the left. Your mum is the last room on the right.’ ‘Okay I’ll go see her.’ I began to make my way upstairs. ‘No, child,’ Rosaleen said quickly. ‘Leave her. She’s resting.’
‘I’d just like to say good night to her,’ I smiled tightly.
‘No, no, you must leave her,’ she said firmly.
I swallowed. ‘Okay.’
I slowly backed away and went upstairs, each step creaking under my foot. From the landing I could still see the hallway, Rosaleen was standing there watching me. I smiled tightly and went into my room, closed the door firmly behind me and leaned against it, my heart pounding.
I stayed in there for five minutes, barely taking in the room, knowing I had enough time ahead of me to come to terms with my new space, but first I needed to see my mother. When I opened the door again slowly, I peeped my head out and looked down from the landing balcony and into the hallway. Rosaleen was gone. I opened the door wider and stepped outside. I jumped. There she was, standing outside Mum’s bedroom door, like a guard dog.
‘I just checked on her,’ she whispered, her green eyes glowing. ‘She’s sleeping. You best go and get some rest now.’
I hate being told what to do. I used to never do what I was told, but something about Rosaleen’s voice, about the look in her eye, about the feel of the house and the way she was standing, told me that I wasn’t in control now. I went back into my room and closed the door, without another word.
Later that night, when inside the house and outside were like woollen opaque tights—so thick with darkness I couldn’t make out any shapes—I woke up thinking there was someone in the room. I heard breathing
above my bed and smelled that familiar soapy lavender smell, and so I scrunched my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep. I don’t know how long Rosaleen stayed there watching me but it felt like an eternity. Even after I heard her leave the room and the door gently clicked I kept my eyes tightly shut, my heart pounding so loudly I was afraid she would hear it, until I eventually fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Elephant in the Room
I awoke the next morning at around six a.m to the sound of the birds calling to one another. Their constant whistling and chatter made me feel as though the house had been air-lifted in the middle of the night and transported to bird world. Their selfish noisy banter reminded me of the builders we’d had working on our swimming pool, who went about their business loudly and cockily, as though we weren’t still living in the house. There was one guy, Steve, who kept trying to get a look at me in my bedroom while I was getting dressed. So one morning I really gave him something to look at. Don’t get the wrong impression; I took three hairpieces and pinned them to my bikini—you can guess where—and I took off my bathrobe and paraded around my room like Chewbacca, pretending I didn’t know he was looking. He never looked again after that, but a few of the others used to stare at me whenever I passed by, so I can only assume he told them, dirty little bugger. Well there would be no such games here, unless I wanted to send a red squirrel flying off his branch in shock.
The blue and white checked curtains did little to keep out the sunlight. The room was fully lit like a bar at closing time; all blemishes, drunkards and cheaters revealed. I lay in bed, wide awake, and stared at the room that was now my room. It didn’t seem very my; I wondered if it would ever feel my. It was a simple room, surprisingly warm. Not just from the morning sun streaming into the room, but it was cosy warm, in an authentic Laura Ashley way and though I usually hated all that twee stuff, it worked here. Where it didn’t work was in my friend Zoey’s bedroom, which her mum decorated to suit a ten-year-old, in an obvious attempt to convince herself her daughter was sweet and innocent. That room was the equivalent of her sticking her daughter into a pickle jar. It was never going to work. It wasn’t so much that the lid came off when her mother wasn’t looking, but more that Zoey liked pickles a little too much.
The bedrooms were in the eaves of the house, the ceilings sloping towards the windows. There was a cracked white-painted wooden chair in one corner with an old blue and white checked pillow on it. The walls were a pale blue, but didn’t feel cold. There was a white-painted free-standing wardrobe that was just big enough to hold my underwear. My bed had a metal frame, white linen and a blue floral duvet cover with a duck-egg-blue cashmere throw at the end. Above the door to my room hung a simple St Bridget’s cross. On the windowsill was a vase of fresh wildflowers—lavender, bluebells, other things I couldn’t recognise. Rosaleen had gone to a lot of trouble.
There was a noise coming from downstairs. Plates were clanging, water running, a kettle whistled, there was the sizzle of food on a pan and eventually the smell of a fry drifted upstairs and into my room. I realised that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime in Barbara’s, when Lulu had made us divine sashimi. I also hadn’t been to the toilet yet and so my bladder and stomach conspired to get me out of bed. Just as I thought of it, through the paper-thin walls, I heard the door next to my room close and lock. I heard the toilet lid lift and then the trickle of urine as it splashed against the bottom of the bowl. It was falling from a height, so unless Rosaleen pissed while on stilts, it was Arthur.
Judging by the sounds coming from both the kitchen and the bathroom, I guessed my mother wasn’t in either room. Now would be my chance to see her. I stepped into my pink Uggs, wrapped the duck-egg-blue blanket around my shoulders and sneaked down the hall to Mum’s room.
Despite my lightness of foot, the floorboards creaked with every step. Hearing the toilet flush in the bathroom, I ran down the hall and entered Mum’s room without knocking. I don’t know what I expected but I suppose something closer to the sight that had greeted me each morning over the previous two weeks. That sight was a dark cave-like room, and buried somewhere beneath the duvet would be Mum. But I was pleasantly surprised that morning. Her room was even brighter than mine—a kind of buttery yellow that was fresh and clean. Her vase on the windowsill was filled with buttercups and dandelions, long green grasses all tied together in yellow ribbon. Her room must have been directly above the living room as there was an open fireplace along the wall with a photograph of the Pope above it, which made me shudder. Not the Pope—I’d rather Zac Efron were on my wall—it was the fire that made me uncomfortable. I’ve just never liked them. The fireplace had white moulding with black inside, and it looked as though it had had plenty of use, which I thought was weird for a spare bedroom. They must have had a lot of guests, though they didn’t strike me as the sociable entertaining type. Then I noticed the en suite and realised Rosaleen and Arthur must have given Mum their bedroom.
Mum was sitting in a white rocking chair, not rocking, and she was facing the window, which looked out over the back garden. Her hair was pinned back neatly, she was dressed in an apricot-coloured floaty silk robe and she was wearing the same pink lipstick she’d had on since the day of Dad’s funeral. She wore a small smile, so tiny, but it was there, and she looked like she was intently studying yesterday. When I came near her, she looked up and her smile grew.
‘Good morning, Mum.’ I gave her a kiss on her forehead and sat down beside her on the edge of her already made bed. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said happily, and my heart lifted.
‘I did too,’ I realised as I spoke. ‘It’s so quiet here, isn’t it?’ I decided not to mention anything about Rosaleen being in my bedroom last night, in case I’d dreamed it. It would be so embarrassing to accuse somebody of that, at least until I had further evidence.
‘Yes, it is,’ Mum said again.
We sat together looking out into the back garden. In the middle of the one-acre garden stood an oak tree, its branches veering out in all directions, just begging to be climbed. A beautiful tree, it rose up to the sky grandly, filled with green. It was sturdy and solid and I understood why Mum kept looking at it. It was safe and secure, and if it had stood there for a few hundred years, you could trust it was going to stay there for a bit longer. Stability in our rocky lives right now. A robin hopped from one branch to the other, seeming excited to have the entire tree to itself, like a child who was playing musical chairs alone. That was something I’d never have looked at before either: a tree with a bird. And even if I’d seen it, I’d never have compared it to a child who was playing musical chairs alone. Zoey and Laura would seriously have a problem with me. I was beginning to have problems with me. Thinking of them gave me pangs for home.
‘I don’t like it here, Mum,’ I finally said, and realised my voice shook and I was close to tears. ‘Can’t we stay in Dublin? With friends?’
Mum looked at me and smiled warmly. ‘Oh, we’ll be okay here. It will all be okay.’
I was so relieved to hear her say that, to hear the strength, the confidence, the leadership I needed.
‘But how long are we going to stay here? What’s our plan? Where am I going to school in September? Can I still go to St Mary’s?’
Mum looked away from me then, keeping her smile but gazing out of the window. ‘We’ll be okay here. It will all be okay.’
‘I know, Mum,’ I said, getting frustrated but trying to keep my tone soft. ‘You just said that, but for how long?’
She was quiet.
‘Mum?’ My tone hardened.
‘We’ll be okay here,’ she repeated. ‘It will all be okay.’
I’m a good person, but only when I want to be, and so I leaned up close to her ear and just as I was about to say something so truly horrible that I can’t even write it, there was a light knock on the door and it was quickly opened by Rosaleen.
‘There you both are,’ she said, as though s
he’d been searching high and low for us.
I quickly moved my mouth away from Mum’s ear and sat back down on the bed. Rosaleen stared at me as though she could read my mind. Then her face softened and she entered the room with a silver breakfast tray in her hand, wearing a new tea dress that exposed her flesh-coloured slip down by her knees.
‘Now, Jennifer, I hope you had a lovely rest last night.’
‘Yes, lovely.’ Mum looked at her and smiled, and I felt so angry at her for fooling everybody else when she wasn’t fooling me.
‘That’s great so. I’ve made you some breakfast, just a few little bites to keep you going…’ Rosaleen continued nattering like that as she moved around the room, pulling furniture, dragging chairs, plumping pillows, while I watched her.
A few bites, she’d said. A few bites for a few hundred people. The tray was loaded with food. Slices of fruit, cereal, a plate piled with toast, two boiled eggs, a little bowl of what looked like honey, another bowl of strawberry jam and another of marmalade. Also on the tray was a teapot, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar, all sorts of cutlery and napkins. For somebody who normally just had a breakfast bar and an espresso in the morning, and only because she felt she had to, Mum had a task on her hands.
‘Lovely,’ Mum said, addressing the tray before her on a little wooden table and not looking at Rosaleen at all. ‘Thank you.’
I wondered then if Mum knew that what had been placed in front of her was to be eaten by her, and wasn’t just a work of art.
‘You’re very welcome. Now is there anything else you want at all?’
‘Her house back, the love of her life back…’ I said, sarcastically. I didn’t aim the joke at Rosaleen, her being the butt of that particular comment wasn’t the intention at all. I was just letting off steam, generally. But I think Rosaleen took it personally. She looked shaken and—oh I don’t know—if she was hurt, embarrassed or angry. She looked at Mum to make sure she wouldn’t be broken by my words.