Cold Pastoral (22 page)

“Oh,” she breathed to the night, “oh, isn't it beautiful?”

She had uncovered an ivory ship, with a sail, a jib, a flag and a keel fitting snugly in a grooved black stand. White, with clean lines, it was
a symbol of the sea-life that she knew. More than that it had white
sails. White sails, white sails? Tim was always talking about white sails!
It was her first letter from a boy. Feeling it should be contemplated,
she opened it as quickly as possible.

Darling Gretel
,

I love this ship and hope you will too, because it has a white sail. I saw it in
a window and I've been afraid it would be gone before I could buy it for you.
Remember the love-potion we drank when our hearts became fettered together.
I am your vassal like the story in the Book of Operas, and I want you to
show a white sail for me always. I wish I could have been the fellow who saved
you yesterday. That would have meant being your knight and your vassal.
I looked at the life-saving badge I won this summer and wondered what good
it was to me. I'm sure I could have brought you in without hitting you under
the chin. I hate that fellow, and they say he's a naval swell. The sloop went
out this afternoon and I'm glad. I must stop now. I hope old witchface didn't
do any hocus-pocus on you. Tomorrow we must talk. I've got news. When
I got home this afternoon Uncle was here for supper. He's taking me for a
two weeks' trip on one of the coastal boats. He thinks it will be good for my
geology. He knows a lot about glaciation and when the cliffs were laid down.
The ways he talks makes me think the rocks are broody
.

Mary Immaculate giggled out loud and then put her head under
the bedclothes.

I hate to go away because I'll miss you like anything, but I'll take my uke
and I hear they have a piano on board
.

I'm all ink
,
With love from your vassal
,
     
TIM

Life was unbelievable in its promise. Gently touching the ship, the
gift of her vassal, she saw it in the Place as a more poetic thing than it
could be by the sea that had given her birth. What she would suffer if
she had to return to the Cove! Her long walk from it was illustrated
in a strange sequel to her accident.

On the Wednesday that David and Felice came to tea the family was lounging in chairs on the mater's lawn. Between them and the bulk of the house colour blazed from bells, cups and the discs of many flowers. In desultory conversation, continually animated by Mary Immaculate, and immobility challenged by her walks round the flower-beds, they saw Lilas approaching, followed by someone they did not know. The maid's mouth was down at the corners and her hair under her cap was as vivid as a nasturtium. Mary Immaculate had known for a long time that a tablespoonful of peroxide and half a lemon went into the water that washed it.

“Who can it be?” questioned Lady Fitz Henry. “It's unlike Lilas to let anyone in without telling me.”

Mary Immaculate looked, and stood like a statue of incredulity.

“Mom!” she ejaculated.

An undefinable instinct brought the Fitz Henrys to their feet. Felice remained seated, becoming a receiver for their reactions. Detached, she saw Lady Fitz Henry smoothing a frown from her forehead. The fisherman's wife was invading her doorsteps! Philip was frowning over eyes that seemed to be searching for a paper denying maternal rights. David was merely curious and full of interest in a situation. They looked formidable in their similar front. Always on the side of the weak, she stood up to extend some alien comfort.

Over her shoulder Mary Immaculate looked back, exploring the possibilities of her mother's reception. Standing between her two families, she could not stir towards either.

Josephine advanced under their eyes, and nothing about her suggested ordeal. Her shoes were dusty, her nose shiny, but her walk suffused serenity. Days filled with work, and leisure given to prayer, gave her an equality beyond the standards of man. Frequently calling to mind the greatness of God and her own nothingness, she trusted the humility of others. She wore a brown knitted skirt, a cardigan coat over a wool-lace jumper. The newness of the suit was evinced in the startling whiteness of skin suddenly exposed against a red neck. Hair had been washed and frizzed by some agency and lay bunched under a toque of the same wool as her suit. Hands in cotton gloves clasped a cheap bag. Josephine had come to town! Molasses-brown eyes stared with frank interest, while full lips smiled away from teeth holding black-edged cavities.

Lilas left her with a down-curve of her mouth and an obvious air of having delivered something questionable.

Mother and daughter faced each other in a moment's silent regard.

“Mom,” said Mary Immaculate, “how are you, Mom?” It was unmistakable that her nostrils held the Fitz Henry vibration. Scrubbed as she was, Josephine held a secret cling of dishwater and cooking, emanating from wool picked up at odd moments in a kitchen.

“Mom,” she said again, “how is Pop and the boys?”

Newly acquired social sense asserted itself, but she made no attempt to tender the Fitz Henry greetings to Josephine. Neither did her mother gesture towards her daughter. Scrupulosity forbade that she should act like a mother, and the situation was too difficult for Mary Immaculate. All she could do was to smile in a wholehearted way. Her clothes and grooming had taken Josephine's breath away.

“My!” she breathed on a long exhale, “ain't you grand now, Mary Immaculate! Let me look at you! You've grown like a weed and no mistake! The like of it, in a real silk dress and not cut from a remnant I'll be bound!” She was fingering a bit of material between her gloved fingers. “Well, well,” she admired in childish wonder, “and your hair! It's a dream and shows your grand pole!”

It was impossible not to smile with her. Lady Fitz Henry relaxed to cordiality and the frown disappeared from Philip's forehead. When Josephine raised the child's dress and examined her petticoat and knickers David laughed out loud. None of them hurried her or distracted attention from satisfaction in her child's clothes. When she was ready Mary Immaculate turned round.

“Mater,” she said quietly, “this is Mom!”

There was no flaw in Lady Fitz Henry's greeting or easy presentation of her daughter-in-law and two sons. Josephine was so glad to see them that they found themselves smiling in reciprocal warmth.

Soon she was seated in a straight canvas chair with the points of her unfilled gloves showing against her bag. Instantly she explained herself, looking at Philip.

“It was you, sir, who wrote me the kind letters when she was in hospital. I hope it's not against the paper to come today?”

“We're very glad to see you, Mrs. Keilly,” interposed Lady Fitz Henry. Mary Immaculate stood between them like a hostage, and anxiety for the situation made her tall and taut.

Detached again, Felice debated with her S.P.C. mind. Over-sensitiveness made her feel the child's struggle with values. She seemed to be coping with the riddle of what constituted a lady. Without delusions of her state, her own mother shone with qualities reflecting good things. The mater was smooth and poised, with a gentle voice. The child looked from one to the other, standing midway between. Felice wanted to help, but she knew it was the child's own problem, and Josephine was sure of her purpose.

“I came unexpected, ma'am,” she said, including them all with her eyes. “It was last Sunday after I washed up. I was tired and I lay down for a spell. I must have dropped off, for as clear as this day I saw my child in the sea. That wouldn't have troubled me much, but, level as it was, it went over her head. Then I knew something had happened and I had to come. In our world the sea mustn't go over the head! Her Pop said I was daft, but I had my own bit of money from the few eggs I sold and I didn't heed. I would have come the next day but I had a bit of knitting on hand.”

It was plain that even in anxiety she must come to town in state.

The family exchanged glances, but Mary Immaculate smiled with a secret droop of her lids.

David rallied with the story. Sensing Josephine's romantic soul, he gave value to the accident of the past Sunday. Its colour and elaboration put it out of bounds of recognition, but Josephine's responses told them it held the core of her expectations.

“Drowned, sir, now didn't I know it?”

“Over her head and lying on the bottom! Glory be to God, to think of it now!”

“Couldn't swim, sir! That would be nothing to her if she minded to go. Blessed Joseph, 'tis you that's the Father and Guardian of Virgins! Mary Immaculate, aren't you ashamed now, giving them all that trouble?”

“Yes, Mom,” she said blandly, while the family smiled together.

There was something spacious in David. Deciding to entertain Josephine, he disposed of the drowning and began to discuss the fishery as if baits, traps, trawls and hand-lines were a part of his life. His wife's hair came down lower on her brow. David was bound to get lost in a topic of which he had little knowledge. Philip rescued him twice, but when Josephine said, “I like him to go cross-handed, sir,” his answer was merely agreeable, “Yes, indeed, Mrs. Keilly, it sounds much more interesting.” Giving him a gentle look, suggesting silence, his mother put the conversation in the channels of intelligence. She was not the widow of a shipowner and fish-exporter without a knowledge of the seasons. She could talk to Josephine and place the bait in the right sequence and know when the trapping and trawling began and ended. It appeared that Benedict had been very successful with the trap-skiff and was looking forward to a good return from the hand-line.

“The autumn fish are better, Mrs. Keilly,” said Philip encouragingly. Realising who knew her world, she gave David the smile of indulgence.

Wonder of her surroundings gradually distracted her, and she became absentminded in the quest of sights. “Ma'am,” she sighed, “I wish I had the time for a few flowers, but it's as much as I can manage to raise a few vegetables.”

“Would you like some flowers, Mrs. Keilly? Mary, run and fetch my scissors.”

“Ma'am!” said Josephine, flushing with pleasure. “If I could have a bit of wet paper for the stalks?”

When Mary brought the scissors and paper Lady Fitz Henry went round the flower-beds, and the family could see the best blooms extravagantly gathered. Josephine watched the falling flowers and addressed her daughter.

“Mary Immaculate!”

The child knew the tone.

“Yes, Mom,” she said distractingly, “how is Molly Conway?”

“The same! The like of her never changes.”

“Do you ever give her a good feed, Mom?”

“That I do,” said Josephine. “When I have a bit of a treat I send Ignatius down to get her. I knitted a few things, too! The poor thing was not much underneath.”

“That was lovely, Mom.”

“Mary Immaculate!”

“Yes, Mom, how are the boys?”

David smiled widely, listening to lightning evasion.

“Oh, I forgot,” said Josephine, momentarily distracted, “Dalmatius is married.”

“No, Mom!” said the child, startled. “Not Teresa Rawlins? Why, she's got consumption.”

“Don't we know it,” said Josephine acceptingly. “Your Pop says he won't get the winter out of her.”

David choked, though Philip and Felice kept their smiles within bounds.

“Mary Immaculate,” said Josephine with one-minded firmness.

“Yes, Mom,” she answered, eying the Fitz Henrys in mute resignation.

“Do you go to Mass regular, and on Holy Days of Obligation?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Do you go to Confession and Holy Communion?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Do you remember the seven deadly sins and do none of them?”

“Yes, Mom,” she said with her eyes instinctively gazing at the sky.

“Do you pray morning and evening?”

“Yes, Mom.”

The family eyed their paragon doubtfully, but her face was too devotional to acknowledge the eyes of the world. A tiny smile lay in the corner of her mouth.

“Do you fast on the right days?”

“Mrs. Keilly, I—” interrupted Philip in a reasonable voice.

“Just a minute, sir,” said Josephine firmly but respectfully.

“Do you fast, Mary Immaculate?”

“Yes, Mom,” she said with gentle conviction.

“I should hope so,” said Josephine, “with the good things you get to eat. Mind yourself, now, and remember the hopes of Heaven and the pains of Hell.”

“Yes, Mom,” she said agreeably.

Philip's frown was awful as he bent forward in his chair. Glaring at his child his mouth opened to speak. A definite kick from David restrained him and he transferred his frown to his brother. Imperturbably David watched Josephine, delighting in her increasing bouquet.

“There, Mrs. Keilly,” said Lady Fitz Henry, coming towards her
with a cluster of colour. “The paper, Mary!”

“Oh,” said Josephine, “aren't they beautiful now! 'Twill be grand
to walk through the streets with them. I must be off, ma'am, and
thankful I am that you didn't mind my coming.”

“Can't we give you tea, Mrs. Keilly?”

It was obvious Josephine had no intention of breaking bread with
them. She had been graciously received and she was graciously going.
She had been three years in a kitchen like Lady Fitz Henry's.

“No, thank you, ma'am,” she said, rising to her feet. “I came in at
noon and I'm going out on the Shore train at six. Benedict will meet
me with the skiff across the Bay.”

The family stood up. “May I drive you to the station, Mrs. Keilly?”
asked philip. Had he been receptive Mary Immaculate's smile would
have taken the frown from his mind.

Josephine laughed at the suggestion.

“Sure, sir, I wouldn't deny my eyes to run through the town that
fast. 'Tis kindly meant but I'd like to walk. I like to see the bits of grass
and the flowers, and the babies in pink and blue, and the shops with
baskets of fruit. 'Tis a treat I'm going to give myself, so don't ask me
to ride.”