Another Kind of Life (42 page)

John was asleep on two cushions by her feet, one plump, dimpled arm draped around the soft neck of Molly, their golden Labrador. Ever since Mick Duggan had given them the pup, one of a too-large
litter, John hadn’t wanted to let her out of his sight.

‘Lovely nature,’ Mick had promised them, taking the tiny golden bundle out of his inside pocket. John’s eyes had widened in delight and disbelief.

‘Her mother’s the sweetest-tempered bitch I’ve ever owned,’ Mick said, stroking the puppy’s silky head. ‘This one’ll be good with the little fella, you
wait and see.’

And she had been good, right from the start. John’s shrieks of laughter had filled the kitchen as the new puppy tried desperately to gain her balance, all four paws sliding off in
different directions on the polished linoleum. Richard had been pleased at the boy’s response, at his gentleness in handling the warm, floppy body.

‘It’s good for him, getting used to animals like that. Next thing’s for him to learn they’re not only playthings.’

He had approved later, too, when his son smacked Molly sharply on the nose, a fitting retaliation for the sharp, snapping nips the puppy had suddenly started to inflict on his small hands.

‘That’s it; show her who’s master. Only as much force as you need, mind. There’s never any call to be cruel.’

May had drawn the line at Molly sleeping in the child’s bedroom, but had softened enough to provide her with a basket in the warm corridor between kitchen and scullery. She had very
quickly become the fourth member of their family.

The little boy stirred in his sleep as the puppy shifted under him, straining to get up. Like clockwork, May thought. She stood up from her desk and bent down to stroke the bright head.

‘Time for dinner, Molly?’

May spoke to her gently; she lightly scratched the soft flesh under the pup’s ears. Molly stretched her neck in appreciation, closing her soulful brown eyes, licking May’s wrists
whenever her tongue reached far enough. She was a gentle creature, one whose name suited her surprisingly well, May thought. She smiled as she remembered John’s insistence on naming all the
farm animals to rhyme with Molly.

‘Come along, then.’

The dog now wagged its tail frantically in anticipation of dinner. May was just about to lift the sleeping child when Richard’s distant voice reached her through the half-open window.

‘Tom! Tom! Where the hell are you, man?’

He sounded strange, almost panicked. May stood on tiptoe, holding on to the top frame of the sash, straining to catch a glimpse of him. Her eyes scanned the lower field. Nothing.

She gathered up her dress, not for the first time frustrated at how the long, cumbersome skirts slowed her down. Molly managed to get between her feet, making her trip and stumble.

‘Stay!’ she commanded.

John woke, wailing. She hadn’t the time to stop.

‘Stay with Molly, John! Mama will be back directly!’

Something in Richard’s voice told her she had to hurry. She flung open the door into the hallway.

‘Annie! Annie!’

There was a scuffling sound from upstairs.

‘Annie – look after John, please! I’ll just be a moment! Mr O’Brien needs me!’

She ran all the way down to the river. She could just see the top of Richard’s dark head, bobbing around in an odd manner. As she got closer she could see what was happening. The Friesians
were in the river again. Richard was struggling with Dolly, who kept slipping back into the water, unable to find purchase for her hooves on the muddy slope. The river was higher than it had been
in weeks, as a result of the previous twelve hours’ torrential rain.

Richard turned towards her, head straining over one shoulder.

‘She’s lost confidence, and she’s already gashed her front legs. I need Tom to push her while I try to pull her up the slope – where the hell is he?’

‘I haven’t seen him – not at all this afternoon – can I help?’

Richard’s appearance alarmed May: he was sweating, breathing in great gasping breaths, his face a peculiar, mottled red.

‘Hell roast him anyway! See if he’s above in the yard, will you?’

‘Let’s see if I can help, first.’

Richard hesitated.

‘All right – you stand here, at her head. Just take the halter and talk to her. Try not to startle her.’

Abruptly, Richard turned and waded into the river. He bent down, leaning his back against the terrified animal’s rump.

‘I’m goin’ to push her on three, May – you pull on the halter at the same time. One, two . . . three.’

May had a dim memory of a child, a bright flash of blue smock, leaping from a tree in white June sunshine. Jean-Louis’s grinning face now swam before her eyes as she pulled on
Dolly’s halter, watching as fear rolled around her wide wet eyes.

‘Easy, easy, girl,’ she said firmly, just as she had heard Richard do. But the animal would not budge. Richard stumbled and crashed into the muddying water, regaining his balance
again with difficulty. He cursed softly.

‘It’s not goin’ to work, May. You’ll have to find Tom. I’ll stay with Dolly. For God’s sake tell him to hurry up!’

May gathered up her soaking skirts and half ran, half fell up the muddy bank to the field. In the distance, she could see Tom’s large figure beginning to lope towards her. She ran, as
quickly as she could, waving her arms to attract his attention.

‘Tom – Tom – hurry, please!’

He quickened his pace, settling his cap lower across his forehead.

‘Quick – Dolly’s stuck in the river. We need help to get her out!’

He nodded, his eyes already scanning the swollen water. May had a fleeting thought that there was something wrong – he seemed unwilling to speak, to look at her.

‘Where’s Annie?’

Still there was no answer. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. May was suddenly filled with a sense that something was wrong, or about to be wrong. She could feel a return of the old anxiety, a
feeling of suffocation, of being trapped in some dark place from which there was no escape.

She pushed open the back door, ran through the passageway between kitchen and scullery, out into the broad, sun-filled hallway. She flung open the door to the dining room. Her letters sat
innocently on the writing-desk, the two cushions still bore the imprint of her son’s small body. But there was no John.

Annie was coming down the stairs, fixing the strings of her apron. She was startled to see May, frightened by her air of urgency, her panicked breathlessness.

‘What is it, mam? Is everythin’ all right?’

‘John! Where’s John!’

‘I . . . don’t know, mam. I’ve been . . . cleanin’. Upstairs.’

Annie was nodding, as though agreeing with words spoken by someone else: words which had supplied her with an answer she’d been searching for. Her demeanour was strained, almost guilty.
May felt her panic growing. She couldn’t read her way into the young woman’s expression.

‘Didn’t you hear me call? I told you to look after the child!’

‘No, mam. I didn’t hear nothin’.’

She straightened her shoulders, smoothed her apron firmly.

‘Like I said, I was busy.’

Her face was now openly defiant.

‘The dog – did you hear the dog barking?’

Annie shook her head.

‘Come with me, quickly.’

May ran back towards the scullery, her throat now so taut with fear she could hardly breathe.

‘Hurry – go tell Mr O’Brien. I’ll search the house. Tell him to cover the yard – the byre – the river – anywhere he can think of. Get Tom to help him!
Run!’

Stumbling on the muddied hem of her dress, May went on hands and knees up the stairs and tried to call out to her son. Her voice was choked by sudden, hot tears. She prayed that she would open
the door to John’s room and find Molly tearing at the curtains, eating the rugs again. She tried to tell herself sternly to calm down, to stop being hysterical, but something deep inside was
warning her that her moment had come. That indefinable sense of dread which she had carried with her all her life was now about to be made flesh.

His room was empty, too quiet. Muslin billowed in the wind, voices carried from the water’s edge. All the rest was silence.

One last heave and Dolly finally lurched forward with a suddenness that made Richard stagger in her wake. He brought the switch down with unusual violence across her rump and
she hurried up the last few feet to the pasture.

‘Bloody animal!’ he roared after her.

As if he hadn’t enough to contend with – the whole herd infected with God knows what, and money suddenly owed to everyone, everywhere. He turned angrily to Tom.

‘And where the hell have you been?’

Before Tom had time to answer, Annie arrived at the edge of the river-bank, breathless, wiping her forehead with her sleeve.

‘Please, sir, quickly, sir – Mrs O’Brien says to look for the boy. He’s not in the house – we’re to search everywhere.’

Richard looked at her stupidly. What boy? What was she talking about? He looked blankly from her to Tom.

‘It’s little John, sir, he’s gone missin’.’

Richard felt his anger drain away, leaving a cold and empty space where it had once been.

‘Since when?’

He stood still in the grainy water, Tom just above him on the sloping bank, Annie bending towards them from the edge of the pasture. Something about the way they all stood there struck him as
odd, theatrical almost. It was as though this were really happening somewhere else, the three of them on stage, displaced, representing somebody else’s reality, not his. He noted the
fierceness of the sun over Tom’s left shoulder, and how the man’s large face was thrown almost completely into shadow. Fear paralysed him.

Annie had started to cry.

‘Don’t know, sir. Missus came runnin’ into the house a few minutes ago, screamin’ that he was gone. That’s all I know, sir.’

Richard caught the glance between her and Tom that made something seem clearer to him, but he didn’t know what. Couldn’t put his finger on it. He scrambled up the bank, pushing both
of them out of his way.

‘Get back to the house, Annie – help Mrs O’Brien. Tom, you come with me. Now.’

He wanted to separate them, wanted them not to be together, to whisper away the uneasy guilt he’d seen in both their eyes. He’d deal with whatever it was later: for now, all that
mattered was his son. He sent Tom downriver, whistling for Molly. He made his way upstream, calling cheerfully to John, wanting the boy to know by his tone that no punishment awaited him, no matter
what he had done.

Some instinct brought him towards the lake-boat. It bobbed innocently on the small waves, tap-tapping gently against the side of the wooden jetty.

‘John? Son? Come on out to Pa, now. We’ll go in the boat together. Would you like that?’

His words were returned to him on the breeze. Something had gripped his insides, hard. He didn’t know whether it was hope or despair. He made a bargain with God – if his son lay
silent, playing hide-and-seek in the bottom of the lake-boat, or sleeping under the willows on the river-bank, he would never ask for another thing. Please, God, just let him be safe.

He approached cautiously.

At first it looked to him like an unbleached flour sack, swelling gently with the movement of the water. He laughed out loud in relief, a short, sharp sound, more bark than mirth. One
occasionally floated down from the flour mills a quarter of a mile upstream. On still days, the fine, white, powdery residue clung like a cloud, a sort of hazy halo above the stiff material, before
they both sank slowly into the greenish eddies just beyond the bend in the river. Kneeling on the slippery wooden planks of the jetty, Richard rolled up his sleeve and plunged his hand into the
restless water.

At the same moment, the flour sack stirred and turned, its lazy billow disturbed by the tug of his fingers. Quietly, almost innocently, it revealed its secret to the kneeling man. Small, cold
face. Eyes closed. Bruise like a sad poppy stretching from cheekbone to hairline, its outer edges already turning purple, pewter, indigo.

The watery silence was shattered by the sound of a man’s voice howling. His own.

‘Ah, Jesus, no. No, no, no, dear Jesus, please!’

He gathered his small son into his arms with difficulty, almost losing his balance on the treacherous surface of the jetty. The child felt so heavy, so unfamiliar, that for a moment Richard
wondered was this really his son, or was it someone else’s, someone who had strayed on to his land, or perhaps a body washed down to his farm from further upstream, a mill-child, an orphan, a
son that nobody wanted, that no father would miss. It was an impression he couldn’t shake for several minutes. He pushed the fair hair back from the swollen forehead, looking for signs, for
something to recognize. Eventually the plump curve of the child’s blue-white forearm brought weeping so harsh that he believed he would never be able to bear the pain. He buried his face in
his son’s neck, wondering wildly how he could hide him, bury him, keep May from seeing him like this.

He was so little, so cold. Richard had nothing to wrap him in, no coat, no jacket. He tried again to struggle to his feet.

And then May was beside him, stumbling, kneeling, tearing at her son’s white smock, covering his body with hers in a futile attempt to warm him.

‘No, no, dear God, no! Richard, he’s cold – fetch a blanket – no, no, go – tell Dr O’Connell to come at once! John, John, my little angel, open your
eyes!’

Her cries were those of a wounded animal; their fierceness shocked Richard back to the present again, back to where he was kneeling, sobbing, one large hand on the fair head of his dead son.

Looking up, he caught sight of Annie, her face buried in her apron. Tom stood awkwardly, his hands hanging loosely by his sides, suddenly too big for his body. His eyes were focused on the
distance, on nothing in particular. He stood apart from Annie. He was very carefully not looking at her. It was the distance between the two of them that finally made everything clear to
Richard.

He leapt up the slope and put both hands around the older man’s throat. Roaring in a voice he did not recognize as his own, he pressed hard on the man’s windpipe, needing, wanting to
kill him.