Chapter 28
Dotty
If Dotty lived to be five hundred years old, she’d never understand how she got through the next few weeks after her father ended up in the well.
It helped that their house took on a completely different shape, as did her mother.
Perhaps her mother thought the change in Dotty herself was down to some sort of terrible grief at losing her father.
Well, she was wrong about that. Dotty was simply petrified that anyone would find out what had happened in Mr Morrison’s garden.
That first evening, Dotty made her excuses.
Belly ache. Too many gooseberries and a mild reproach meant she could hide in her room for the night.
She didn’t sleep, how could she? Instead, she sat up in bed, listening to every floorboard creak, every stroke of the old poplar tree branches outside against her bedroom window.
Her mother didn’t sleep either. She heard her pad up and down the stairs several times over the course of the evening.
Her father had stayed out before. If there was an occasion, or sometimes for no occasion at all, he could stay out until the early morning and then stagger noisily to bed with only the muffled sounds of her mother trying to mollify him quietly for what remained of the night.
Dotty knew she couldn’t stay hidden forever, but the next few days shot past her as if they were unconnected images taking place around her, just beyond her reach.
Search parties were organised; her mother watched the door silently, as if there was some chance he would walk through it at any moment.
It felt as if every neighbour on the road sat in the front room drinking tea and talking about it being such a terrible to-do.
No-one, not one person, asked Dotty if she knew anything of her father’s whereabouts. Not even her mother. Which was strange, because her mother asked just about everyone else, she even went to the local garda station with Mrs Macken and reported him missing.
It was a week later, maybe longer, when Dotty heard the doorbell ring. Time had taken on a new form in their lives; now it was measured out by ticking seconds on the clock, she couldn’t possibly hope to calculate those into days or even into hours sometimes.
Mrs Macken. Again. At least she did not come bearing awful dinners that they could not face and did not want to eat.
Her mother brought her into the front room where they sat for a small while.
Mrs Macken would not drink tea and refused cake, which was probably just as well, since Mrs Gillespie had made it and Dotty wouldn’t have put it past Lickey to spit in it if he knew it was being given away.
It had always been the way, Dotty wasn’t sure why, but as soon as adult voices dropped to a whisper, you could be guaranteed it was then the interesting things were being said.
Mrs Macken and her mother spoke in whispers that afternoon, but thankfully, they were both of an age where they couldn’t bear not to have fresh air slice through a room , so the door was left ajar.
At first, from her vantage point at the top of the stairs, Dotty feared that maybe Constance had let the cat out of the bag.
This thought occurred to her often and, when it did, she felt bile rise uncomfortably in her chest, a thin layer of sweat oozing from her palms. This time she had to fight hard to stay exactly where she was, rather than bolt out into the wet afternoon.
It was better to move closer to the open door, try and pick up what was being said.
‘It’s just a thought,’ Mrs Macken said softly.
‘But that’s just it, I can’t think… it’s all so much. I mean, Norman has always been the one to decide these things and…’
‘But Norman is not here, Sylvie, and you’re a grown woman, you can make your own choices. For goodness’ sake, you can’t tell me he decided everything.’ There was a taut silence then. ‘Sorry, I just… I didn’t mean…’
‘No, no, you’re right. I shouldn’t have let him, but…
’ Her mother began to weep quietly. ‘It’s just, it’s always been like that.
I was so young when I married him, only just sixteen, and he took care of me.
You know, I’m not like you, I can’t just go out and make a life for myself, you’ve no idea where I came from or what…
’ She seemed to gather up her words for a moment.
‘Well, no-one expected very much for any of us, put it like that. I was the only one of my family to get away, the rest of them are all…’ She didn’t say it, but maybe she didn’t need to.
‘Simple farming folk?’ Mrs Macken was being kind.
‘ Stocious drunks , Norman called them and he was right, my parents just didn’t really…’
‘None of that matters, Sylvie. You are not your parents, you don’t have to live like them and you don’t need Norman Wren to make you a better person. You are just fine as you are.’
‘I’m sure he’ll come back, it’s just…’
‘We’ve checked everywhere, the hospitals, the guards. Sylvie, you have to do something, you can’t live on fresh air and Nellie Gillespie’s leftovers.’
‘God, they’re awful.’ Sylvie giggled; it was a strange sound because, suddenly, Dotty realised, her mother rarely smiled, she hardly ever laughed.
‘I know, I’d rather starve.’ Maggie was laughing too. ‘So, will you think about it?’ There was silence, a long silence, and Dotty was on the point of bursting into the sitting room to ask exactly what it was her mother had to think about.
‘I probably should ask Dotty first.’ Her mother hesitated.
‘Or you could tell her, see her reaction and if she doesn’t like it then maybe figure out another solution.’
‘Just tell her?’
‘Yes, Sylvie, just tell her. You’re in charge, remember. Even if Norman Wren walks in that door this minute, you always have to be in charge of what’s best for you and what’s best for Dotty.’
‘Oh God.’ Sylvie began to cry.
‘What is it?’
‘I never realised I could…’
‘Look, whatever has gone on, this could be a fresh start. We’re leaving for Pin Hill Island in two weeks, now, you can come with us, keep house, we’ll give you a fancy title and there’s a cottage, you’ll have some money and it’s safe.
You know what it’s like here as soon as you are a woman without a man.
They’ll turn on you as quick as milk in summer.
And you’re young and far too pretty, probably even worse for you!
They’ll all be expecting you to have designs on their husbands.
’ Mrs Macken’s expression changed, as if the very idea was ridiculous.
‘I could be a housekeeper?’ Sylvie declared with a shot of surprise. ‘I could have a job and my own money?’
‘Not a lot of money, probably to start, but enough, and you’ll have the cottage and you’ll both eat with us, so…’
‘You’re very kind… offering me this, you didn’t have to…’
‘Far from it,’ Mrs Macken said softly. ‘It’s the least I can do, and anyway, it’ll work out well for us too. I’m a terrible cook and I can hardly manage to keep the small house here in one piece. I’ll never manage a mansion like Ocean’s End.’
‘I suppose, we’ll be going up in the world,’ Sylvie murmured.
‘It’ll be an adventure,’ Mrs Macken said and it sounded to Dotty, at least, as if it had been agreed.
They were moving to Pin Hill Island with Constance and Mrs Macken and she breathed a sigh of relief.
She couldn’t get away from this place – and the idea that her father lay dead at the bottom of the well in Mr Morrison’s garden only yards away – fast enough.