Chapter Two
The next day, it takes longer than it should to get the cows in, but that’s my fault, not theirs. I’m distracted. I’ve been distracted all week, and I don’t like it. I’m not usually so unfocused, especially when I’m working. But for the first time in my life, I have somewhere else I’d rather be.
When I’m finally done, I flick the main light to the barn off and make the short trip back to the house, wanting nothing more than to get into bed.
It’s a Saturday night, but as Dad always says, the animals don’t know it’s the weekend.
They don’t care if you want to sleep in or head out.
They need caring for every day, which means you need to care for them every day.
From sunrise to sunset and sometimes longer than that.
Some people might find it dull, a never-ending list of chores.
But I like it. I like to be busy. Like taking care of things.
I hear voices in the kitchen as soon as I’m through the door, and the thought of dinner makes my stomach rumble, but I take my time.
I change out of my shoes and hang my coat in the porch before heading straight to the bathroom.
Mam’s fastidious about washing hands when I come into the house.
It was drilled into me as soon as I could stand on my own two feet.
But while dirt and muck are easy enough to clean off, there’s nothing to stop the callouses.
The cracked and reddened skin from working outside in the cold.
The same as my dad’s. Same as my mam’s, too.
I never thought too much about it before, but something at the sight of them now makes me pause, and I frown as I examine my palms, imagining Colleen’s soft ones.
I’m extra diligent with the soap this evening.
The rest of my family is waiting for me when I arrive in the kitchen, but my parents don’t seem to mind.
They know I was working. Dad even gives me a nod when I take a seat.
He’s a man of few words, which I guess means I take after him.
I know some people think he’s standoffish, but that’s only because they don’t know him.
I remember him playing with us for hours when I was younger and he has more patience for Rachel than anyone on earth.
Plus, he adores my mother, like we all do.
It makes me feel more comfortable about my own self.
That it’s okay not to have to pretend to be someone else for other people.
“For the growing boy,” Mam says, putting a plate of meat, mashed potatoes and vegetables in front of me. It’s the exact same thing she says to me every night, and I don’t correct her that I a) am a man and b) stopped growing a few years ago at this stage.
“And my wonderful girl,” she says to Rachel, who immediately reaches for the butter.
“I said I’d get Mr Deegan’s shopping tomorrow,” she adds as she takes her seat.
Dad’s already started eating, taking quiet, measured bites as he moves methodically around his plate.
“He hasn’t been feeling well, and his wife doesn’t drive.
We’ll have to get the bus into town, mind you, but it will be a day out.
Rachel, you wanted to look at shoes. I said look,” she warns as my sister’s eyes light up.
“Let me see how that Irish test goes before there’s anything more than that.
It’s going to take the afternoon, so Sean, if you can take Mrs Fallon’s order to her, I’d appreciate it. ”
I nod, even as Rachel smirks. Mam works at the grocers in the village but also takes orders on the farm for a bit of extra money, and occasionally we get roped in to help – especially when it gets busy around this time of year, in the lead up to Christmas.
“Mrs Fallon’s scary,” Rachel says, earning a stern look from our mother.
“She’s not scary.”
But Rachel is unbowed. “She is. All you need to do is cross her path for her to yell at you. Cathy Finnegan says she went after her brother with a walking stick once.”
“And knowing Cathy Finnegan’s brother, I’m sure he deserved it,” Mam says briskly. “In any case, I’m sure Sean is brave enough to handle her. And her order is the reason you were able to get that new school bag last spring, so I’d mind my words if I were you.”
Rachel does mind them, dropping her eyes to her plate as she starts shoveling food into her mouth.
*
The next morning, I set off with six eggs, one apple pie and two loaves of bread.
It’s not a bad day for a walk. No wind. No rain.
Nothing but blue skies overhead. That does mean it’s colder though, and my breath mists the air in front of me with each step.
Delivering these orders isn’t anything new, but it’s the first time I’ve been sent to Mrs Fallon’s, and as I start the two-mile walk to her house, I think about what Rachel said last night. And how she’s not exactly wrong.
Mrs Fallon is scary. Or at least she used to be.
Now that I’m older, I suspect she found it funny to terrify the village kids.
Almost like a hobby. But beyond that, I don’t know much about her other than she’s a widow.
Mam says she married a rich man who died young and, other than that, doesn’t do much except live off the money he left her.
He must have left her a lot.
Her house has to be the biggest in the county, and from the snippets I’ve picked up from people talking, I know she has a cleaner and a gardener and a girl who comes to mend any clothes that need fixing.
You’d wonder what she does all day with so many people to do things for her. It seems from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep I’m doing stuff. When I’m not, it usually means I’ve forgotten something.
I keep up a good pace all the way over the hill, and by the time I reach the end of her lane, I’m practically warm again. I undo my scarf as I pause at the gate, catching my breath as I gaze up at the tall, two-story house beyond.
I’ve only been here once before when Mam used to make her deliveries with seven-year-old me on the back of her bicycle, but if anything, the place is even bigger than I remember.
It’s easily three times the size of mine, with big sash windows and green ivy creeping up the walls. I frown at the sight of the plant. Sure, it looks pretty, but it can’t be good for her brickwork. And her gutters need doing, too.
My brain flips back into farm mode as I go to the front door, cataloging all the things that need to be done as I press the bell. I’m examining a cracked paving stone when I hear the faint thump of a cane before the door creaks open, and a woman peers out.
I don’t know how old Mrs Fallon is. She seemed ancient when I was a child and she seems ancient now. In the back of my mind, I know she wasn’t born that way, that she grew up just like everyone else, but it’s hard to imagine her young. Especially when she’s dressed like she is now.
A dark blue dress, shiny black shoes. Her hair is curled like they wore it twenty years ago, and there’s a string of large white beads around her neck.
I try not to stare, but it’s a lot for someone who, as far as I know, rarely leaves the house anymore.
Mam doesn’t even dress this fancy for Christmas mass.
“Who are you?” she asks, eyeing me warily. Her voice is as raspy as I remember it, probably due to that stubby cigarette between her fingers. Rachel says she smokes like a chimney.
I hold up the shopping bags. “I have your order.”
“Where’s Mary?”
“She had to go into town for Mr Deegan,” I explain. “She asked if I could drop this up to you.”
“Mr Deegan?” She huffs. “That con artist?”
“He’s unwell.”
“He’s always unwell. Your mother does too much for people.” She says it like it’s a bad thing. I don’t point out that she is also one of those people.
“You’re her eldest,” she continues.
I nod.
“The boy.”
I nod again.
“I have a bowl I need to give back to your mother. Come in.” It’s an order, not a question.
And she turns without waiting to see if I’ll follow.
Mam didn’t say anything about this bit, and I hesitate on the doorstep, staring at the polished wooden floors of the hallway.
It’s a pause that seems to irritate Mrs Fallon immensely.
“I don’t pay that girl to wash it for nothing,” she snaps. “It’s just mud. In. You’re letting the heat out.”
I step over the threshold, still getting that creeping sensation that I’m doing something wrong.
I’ve never felt more aware of myself and not in a good way.
My footsteps echo as I walk, and a strange smell of polish and musk fills my nose, so different from the coal and food scents that make up my own home.
Mrs Fallon leads me into the front room just to the right of the entrance and turns so abruptly that I almost trip over my own feet.
“Wait here,” she barks.
And then she leaves me just like that.
I don’t move from my spot, even though there are lots of places to sit.
Stiff-backed settees and dark wooden chairs.
Footstools and large wicker baskets. For a room so big, it somehow feels cramped.
Heavy drapes. Large furniture. The floor is covered in faded, patterned rugs and an old-fashioned record player sits in the corner.
I’m disappointed she doesn’t have a television.
At home, we have a black-and-white set with one channel and I don’t think that’s going to change any time soon despite Rachel’s pleading.
A minute ticks by, but I still don’t move, distracting myself with all the stuff around me.
And there is a lot of stuff. Knickknacks, as my mother calls them.
Small gold boxes and dusty glass vases. Porcelain figures and photographs.
Lots and lots of photographs. On the tables.
On the shelves. The mantelpiece. Dozens of faces stare back at me.
Images of strangers at weddings and parties, in gardens and homes.
Only one figure is present in all of them.
A young woman with a sharp smile who looks strangely familiar.
It takes me a second to realize it’s because it’s Mrs Fallon. A younger version of her, but her, nonetheless.
“Pretty, wasn’t I?”
I glance over my shoulder as she shuffles into the room. I’d been so focused on the pictures that I hadn’t even heard her cane.
“They’re very nice photos,” I say politely.
“That was in London,” she says, pointing to a group shot. “And this one in Dublin. Banba Hall.” She plucks it from the shelf and brings it over to me. “That was when people danced properly.”
“They still do.” Some of them, at least. One of them. I stare at the image, at the girl in her dress. Her arms are held like Colleen sometimes does and her skirt is mid-motion, as though she’s in the middle of a twirl.
Somewhere in the house, a clock starts to chime, and Mrs Fallon snaps into action, putting the photo back on the shelf before jerking her head to the front door. Time to go.
On the doorstep, she presents me with the blue baking bowl Mam makes scones in but grabs my other hand as soon as I take it, shaking my wrist until I relax my fingers. When I do, she drops a few coins into my palm. Coins I can only stare at it. It’s more money than I’d usually see in two weeks.
“That’s for you,” she says. “Not for your mother. Buy yourself a toy.”
“I’m nineteen.”
“A big one, then.” And she shuts the door in my face before I can say thank you.