A Kiss and a Promise (17 page)

‘But Mam, what’s this got to do wi’ our Ginny?’ George asked. ‘I’m sure she’s never heard tell of this Violet, same as me.’

Mrs Bennett stared very hard at her son; was he mad or something? Couldn’t he see how Ginny was a constant reminder of the hated Violet, who had taken her man? But she must be patient with him. ‘Ginny is the very image of Violet. She’s got Violet’s ginger curls – I hate ginger hair – and all them horrible little freckles … why, even her eyes is the same, blue instead of a decent brown, with them ugly white lashes. It weren’t so bad when she were a baby, but first off she killed my Stella and then she got more ’n’ more like our Violet. She even talks like her – Violet were always the clever one, always top o’ the class, though she were younger than meself. But I didn’t mind that, we liked being different in some ways, I just minded her takin’ my feller.’

‘But our dad was crazy about you, Mam,’ George pointed out. ‘You’ve told us over and over what a grand feller he was and how happy he made you. Once you’d got him, why did you grudge your sister that feller, Neil?’

‘Dunno, doesn’t matter,’ his mother muttered. She had known this story was going to tire her, and tire her it certainly had. But at least George now knew why she hated Ginny and perhaps he would help her in some way. If he sent Ginny to live with Lewis and took his old mam in, she thought hopefully, then life would definitely improve. Of course she would not have wanted to live with George and Mary had she been her normal self, because they would not have approved of her drinking. But right now, the horrors of having the drink forced out of her system, and the illness which had followed, were clearing her mind. She knew she would never let another drink pass her lips. She was a reformed character. She would get rid of the nasty brat, move in with one of her sons – she would even hand over some of Michael’s monthly money – and drink nothing but tea for the rest of her life. That way, she told herself drowsily, I really
will
live to be a hundred.

Michael stood at the rail of the ship looking down on the crowded quayside. He was waiting for his friend, Nobby Clarke, because the two of them had decided that today was the day they would go ashore. Someone had told them that there was a local market in which various native-made goods were sold and since they both wanted small things to take home to parents, girls, relatives and so on, it seemed an ideal opportunity.

‘Everything’s dirt cheap,’ one of the older men had assured them. ‘Of course, you have to bargain, but if you stick to your guns you’ll get something pretty decent for a few coppers. I always visit the market when I’m ashore.’

So here was Michael, standing at the rail, with the hot African sun beating down on his head, wondering what gifts he could buy for his parents. Mammy liked pretty things, preferably something she could wear, whereas his daddy liked what you might call curios, strange objects which he could place upon the mantel or take into town in his pocket to show his pals on market day.

Market day! Michael had stayed on the farm for three long years after his return from Liverpool, but at the end of that time the sheer boredom, the hard work and the lack of any spare money had got him down to such an extent that he had become morose, his unhappiness showing clearly enough for his mother to remark on it.

‘The trouble is, you’ve had a taste of the outside world,’ she had observed. ‘You left here a boy, content with the farm, a few pals and an occasional meeting with a pretty girl. You went away and saw the world, realised there was more to life than growing potatoes and turnips, feeding pigs and cows and wringing a hen’s neck for a special dinner a couple of times a year. And then, of course, you found love, and perhaps that was the biggest change of all. You’ve done well, lad, to stick it for three years with never a complaint but I think the time has come when you should go away, if only for a few months. Other lads do, you know; in November, they take a berth on a coaster or even on one of the big liners, and don’t come back till March or April. It’s the quietest time of year for a farmer but this place isn’t huge and, as you know all too well, farming is an uncertain business. We may do well one year but the next we’ll be scraping the bottom of the barrel to feed ourselves, let alone have something over to sell from stock. If you go to sea again, no doubt you’ll send us back some of the money you earn, and in a bad year that would be more use to us than your labour.’

Michael had not realised how irksome the narrow life on the land had become. Even his leisure time was boring, particularly in the winter. In summer, he would go for long rambles on the cliffs, collect seabirds’ eggs, fish from the rocks, or go out in the
Orla
with his father, trawling the sea loughs, even adventuring out to the Atlantic fishing grounds when the weather was clement.

In winter, there really was not enough work to keep the three of them occupied. Feeding the stock, ploughing their oddly shaped little fields, fetching in peat for the fire and water from the well, were tasks that he and his father shared out meticulously, but it still left long periods when there was really very little to do. But he felt that to leap at his mother’s suggestion would seem ungrateful, so when he did speak, it was hesitantly. ‘Oh, aye, winters are a bit trying, but what would Daddy say? Sure and isn’t it himself who’d have most of the work on his hands? He might think I were running out on him – on you both, come to that.’

It had been a fine September evening, almost seven years earlier, and he and his mother had been sitting on the rocks, fishing for anything they could get. Maeve had looked up at him and smiled. There was so much sympathy and understanding in her face that Michael had to fight back tears. His mammy understood all right. She knew how he missed Stella, how he longed for her constantly, how he found other girls pale shadows when compared with the woman he had loved and lost. And she had clearly also realised that the repetitive, but often backbreaking, work on the farm enabled him to think too much.

Sean had never paid his son a wage, nor had Michael expected him to. Farmers always told their sons that they were working for their own benefit in later years and, since this was true in most cases, sons did not complain. Michael had had to ask for the allowance which he sent to Liverpool every month, but had explained that Stella’s mother was very old and relied on the money as her only source of income. Both Maeve and Sean had accepted this without question, having no reason to doubt his word, and had never wondered, aloud, why he should do such a thing; it was common practice in Ireland, as in England, to support one’s parents in their old age. He had missed the independence that his naval pay had given him, though, as well as missing his shipmates and the excitement of seeing the world for the first time.

‘Running out on us?’ His mother gave a snort of laughter. ‘We managed without you whilst you were fighting the war and, as I’ve already said, if you could allow us a little money …’ Michael leaned over and squeezed her shoulders. She was a wonderful woman, so she was; she knew him better than he knew himself!

‘Oh, Mammy, of course I’ll send money home, you know that. And – and if you really mean it … well, it would do me the world of good to get away.’

So he had signed on with the
Mary Louise
, a cargo ship, which had come into Castlemaine harbour to take local produce on board, and had remained with her ever since. She was liable to be away from her home port for six months or more at a time, since she would deliver one cargo and pick up another, taking it to its destination, wherever that might lie, and relying upon loading another cargo for a different destination as soon as she had room in her holds. Michael had sailed with her to many strange and exotic ports, was well paid for his long absences and thoroughly enjoyed the life.

He had been home no more than half a dozen times during the seven years he had sailed on the
Mary Louise
, since that first momentous decision to return to sea.

One reason why he felt no guilt, now, over his prolonged absence was because a distant cousin, Declan, had come to the farm. At the time, Declan had been twelve and had been sent by his ailing mother when the doctors had told her she would not live to see the year out. ‘I know you’ll be good to me son, and won’t grudge him his food, for that’s all I’m asking,’ she had written pathetically. ‘His father left me when Declan was a toddler, and when I go he’ll be alone in the world. You were always a good woman, Maeve, so I’ve no fear that you won’t do right by my son. God bless you. Siobhan.’

As soon as Declan was strong enough, he became Sean’s right-hand man and on his eighteenth birthday the family had begun to pay him a wage. ‘He’ll never replace you, Michael, but we felt it only fair to pay him what we’d have paid any worker who weren’t a close relative,’ Michael’s mother had written. ‘I know you won’t want to come back until you decide to settle down, but when you do, there’s room for us all. Your daddy has a decent flock of sheep, grazing on the common land, and he and Declan have been bringing in good catches of cod, enough to salt down what we don’t use ourselves, to sell in the market.’

Her letter had gone on to talk about other farming matters but it had eased Michael’s conscience. He knew he would go home one day, but that day had not yet come. Perhaps he might remain with the ship until age forced him to leave the sea, but when he did go back, it was good to know that there would be a strong, younger man to help him run the old place.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Michael. I got collared by old Dixon; he wanted some stores brought up to the galley, which held me up a bit. Still, I’m here now. Shall we go?’ It was Nobby, breathless but grinning, and toting a canvas kitbag which he patted significantly as the two of them clattered down the gangway. ‘Several of the fellers have asked me to pick up fruit, if we see anything suitable, and Cook wants any sort of green vegetables – do they grow cabbage in West Africa? – so I brung this along.’

‘You won’t get many cabbages in that,’ Michael observed as they reached the quay, but Nobby shook his head and punched Michael on the shoulder. ‘You mad? I’m not carting cabbages, or not the number Cook wants anyhow. I’ll tell ’em to deliver a couple of boxes – more if they’ve got ’em – and Cook’ll pay when they arrive. Cor, ain’t it hot, though?’

Michael agreed that it was, and presently they reached the market. It was held on a huge open space dotted with palm trees and was a hive of activity. Extraordinary things were being sold and for some time Michael and Nobby merely wandered, allowing their eyes to dwell incredulously on such items as dried and smoked snake, rats which had been skinned and jointed for the table, and other lumps of gory meat which they could not identify. This did not matter much, however, since most of the meat was crawling with flies, and looked thoroughly unappetising – if not inedible – to a European eye.

There were also stalls selling lengths of gaudy cotton and voile materials with colours so brilliant that they hurt the eye, as well as displays of local crafts. Some of the woodcarvings were extraordinarily clever and Michael bought a number of beautifully carved little barrels which fitted into one another, for the sheer pleasure of handling such an exquisite object. There were seven barrels in all and inside the last was a tiny wooden figurine. The biggest barrel was no more than three inches high and Michael, pocketing it and parting with the small sum of money required, told Nobby that it was just the sort of thing his father liked. He then bought a length of pale blue material, patterned with brilliant birds. It would make up into a nice full summer skirt, which his mother could wear with a dark blouse, and was exotic enough to mean her friends would guess that it came from her seafaring son.

He was considerably exercised in his mind over what he should buy for Declan, for the skinny boy was now a sturdy young man. Finally, he decided on a clasp knife with a carved ivory handle, into which the blade fitted snugly. It would be a useful tool about the farm, but it was also beautiful and unusual and would, he thought, give the young man pleasure.

They found vegetable and fruit stalls and bought a goodly supply of each, not forgetting to order the cabbages for the cook. Then Nobby suggested that they might buy some lemonade and some rum, mix them together to make a long, cooling drink, and sit under the trees for a while, for the heat was now intense and both young men were tired. Michael was doubtful about the wisdom of the lemonade – local water could not always be relied upon – but Nobby saw a soda fountain with a familiar brand name, so they bought that instead and mixed it with a very potent local rum. The drink brought sweat pricking out on their brows but also seemed to make the heat more bearable, and they sat down on a small knoll, only feet away from the stalls, to watch the comings and goings of the crowd and enjoy a little breeze which occasionally wafted over them.

Michael found himself watching a tall, elegant woman in a long pastel-coloured sari, a fold of which she had drawn over her head. She appeared to be of Indian blood for she had a narrow, aquiline nose, skin as pale as any European and a red caste mark in the middle of her forehead. Michael thought she was beautiful and sat up in order to see her better. She was accompanied by a young girl of maybe seven or eight who, like herself, was paler-skinned than the locals, though she had a quantity of dusty, frizzy, brownish-black hair. She was quite a pretty child, though clad in a stained cotton shift, ragged about the hem, and, naturally, was barefoot. She was carrying a huge basket, heavily laden with various types of root vegetables, and was obviously finding it as much as she could do to lift it, for she would stagger a few paces and then stand it down on the ground whilst sweat streamed down her face and neck.

It can’t be mother and daughter surely, Michael asked himself, as the ill-assorted couple came level with him. No mother would expect her child to cope with such a weight alone; she would give her a hand. No, I suppose the poor little creature is some sort of maidservant, but even so, if that woman had an ounce of pity in her nature …