The Wild Seed (36 page)

‘I’ll help,’ Catherine said, ‘and I’m sure Mrs Grenfell will let you work at home. When your time comes, I’ll support us until you are strong again.’

‘Love you, child, you can’t take on such a burden, don’t talk so soft.’ Doreen rose to her feet. ‘I’ve tried hot baths and gin, tried jumping off a chair, nothing will shift it.’

She could see that Catherine was shocked by the seemingly callous words.

‘Look Cath, I hate that man, I don’t want his seed growing inside me. What if I had a boy? Would he be a bully like Meadows?’

‘It might be a lovely little girl,’ Catherine said gently and Doreen shook her head.

‘I just don’t want it, can’t you understand that?’

‘Well, there’s not a lot you can do about it now, is there?’ Catherine said.

‘Oh, isn’t there. Well, just you wait and see, I won’t have Meadows’s child; I don’t want it and I won’t keep it.’

‘You can’t mean to go to old Ma Piper!’ Catherine’s tone was filled with horror. Mrs Piper lived in a run-down house in the poorest part of town, she was old and dirty but adept with a hot crochet hook. Most of the women who went to her for help survived with little harm done; the unlucky few did not.

Doreen knew all of that but she was prepared to face the dangers rather than carry her loathsome husband’s child.

‘Don’t look so worried, love, I know what I’m doing. Now, let’s drop the subject, tell me what’s been going on at the shop, is Mrs Grenfell making a profit do you think?’

Catherine shook her head. ‘I don’t know anything about that but she doesn’t seem so worried these days.’

‘Well, let’s hope she’s pulling herself out of the slump otherwise it’s down the privie for all of us.’

Catherine was still a little naïve, still a bit of a child in spite of her chequered love life. Doreen allowed herself a glimmer of humour, at least Catherine had not been fool enough to get herself married to the first man who bedded her.

It was early next morning when Doreen found herself seated in the front parlour of Mrs Piper’s house.

‘Well, Doreen Meadows, got yourself with child from a seed that’s not your husband’s, is it?’

Doreen smiled thinly. ‘It’s my husband that’s put me like this and I don’t want anything of his, ever.’

‘Can’t say I blame you, knocked you about a bit in his time, hasn’t he? But then, they’re all the same, give ’em plenty of beer and a willing woman and they’re happy.’

Doreen wished the old woman would stop blathering, her hands were sweating, her mouth was dry and suddenly she was afraid. ‘Meadows is not fussy about “willing”, so long as he has his way. Are you going to get on with the job, Mrs Piper, or not?’

‘Get in the kitchen, if you’re in such a hurry, and get your drawers off. Don’t worry, it’ll be over before you know it.’

It was cold in the kitchen, a thin strip of light pierced the gloom between the shabby curtains and the room smelt of stale food. Doreen swallowed hard.

‘Get up on the table then.’ Mrs Piper quickly spread newspaper over the grimy table top. ‘Don’t look so worried, I don’t lose my girls; well, not many of them.’

Doreen hesitated, she felt the urge to run, to get right away from the old woman.

‘Do you want this brat or not?’ The words fell into the silence and Doreen was galvanized into life. She clambered awkwardly onto the table and looked up at the cracked ceiling festooned with cobwebs.

‘Let me get at it then, girl. Come on, you’re no trembling virgin, let’s see what I’m about.’

Doreen closed her eyes, she was cold, she had never been so terrified in all her life, not even when Meadows had beaten her almost senseless. Violence of that kind, she knew; this ordeal before her was very different.

She felt Mrs Piper probe into the deep recesses of her being and reacted abruptly.

‘There, there, don’t clamp your knees together or I can’t do nothing to help. Be easy now, this won’t hurt, I promise you.’

Mrs Piper had, quite clearly, never undergone an operation of this kind, for the pain, when it came, was sharp, searing, threatening to tear Doreen in two.

‘That’s it.’ Mrs Piper sounded pleased with herself. ‘That’s shaken the little birdie off its perch. Want a cup of tea? Don’t charge for that.’

Doreen sat up shakily, reading the kindly phrased offer correctly. She dug in her pocket and brought out the purse of money, money that represented the month’s wages Hari Grenfell had advanced her.

‘Now, get off home with you, do a bit of housework, get the blood flowing, that’s what’s needed now to clear you out good an’ proper.’

Doreen found herself out in the cold air, she felt disorientated, her eyes did not appear to focus clearly on the roadway stretching out before her. It seemed a long way back to her house, though in reality it was a mere two streets away.

Indoors, she sank into a chair, her eyes closing. She smiled weakly remembering Mrs Piper’s exhortations to do a bit of housework and knew she had no strength to lift her arms, let alone wield a broom.

Perhaps she was going to die and perhaps it served her right. What she had done was a mortal sin, at least in the eyes of the Catholic Church to which Doreen had once belonged. But that was when life was clean and simple, that was before she had married Meadows.

The blood came suddenly. Doreen watched abstractedly as the stain spread across her skirt. The room was growing dim, perhaps she should light the lamp. It was too much trouble, the darkness was closing in and it was warm and welcoming.

Catherine walked briskly along the high street turning uphill towards Baptist Well. She was tired, it had been a long day at work but she knew Doreen would have a hot meal waiting and a good fire to welcome her home.

‘Catherine.’ The voice stopped her abruptly. She closed her eyes against the rush of anger, her hands clenching into fists before she composed herself and faced him.

‘What do you want now, Boyo?’ Her tone was as cold as the air around her. ‘Hasn’t it sunk in yet that I’ve got nothing to say to you?’

‘I have to talk to you.’ Boyo reached out towards her but she side-stepped his hand.

‘Go away.’ She pushed past him and stepped into the dim porch of Doreen’s house. She moved along the passage towards the kitchen and, suddenly, the smell of blood, like old iron, was almost tangible. Through the gloom she saw the still figure of Doreen lying on the floor and she cried out in terror.

Footsteps pounded along the passageway behind her. ‘What is it?’ Boyo was beside her, gripping her arms. She shook her head, unable to speak and pointed to where Doreen was slumped against the cold flags.

‘Light the lamp,’ Boyo instructed and she obeyed him with fumbling fingers. ‘Bring it over here.’ Boyo was kneeling down beside the inert figure and as she approached, Catherine could see the dark stain that covered Doreen’s skirt from waist to hem.

‘Is she dead?’ Her voice sounded insubstantial, as though she was whispering in a high-ceilinged church. She held the lamp higher and in the flickering flame she saw that Doreen was waxen, unmoving.

‘Not far from it.’ Boyo rose to his feet. ‘Stay here, I’ll fetch a cab, we’ll take her to the hospital.’ He turned briefly, ‘Get something to wrap her in, she’s like ice, she’s lost a lot of blood.’

Catherine put the lamp carefully on the table and hurried upstairs. She took a thick woollen shawl from one of the beds and paused for a moment, trying to push away the knowledge of what her friend had done, what she must have faced alone. She forced herself to hurry as she retraced her steps back to the kitchen.

She entered the room at the same moment as Boyo did, he took the shawl from her and carefully wrapped it around Doreen before lifting her gently in his arms. The cab driver looked down at them doubtfully but at Boyo’s sharp command, he took up the reins and urged the horse forward.

The hospital corridors were quiet, the brown and green painted walls sombre in the dim lighting. Doreen was taken from Boyo’s arms and swept away behind closed doors.

Boyo took Catherine’s arm and led her to a bench near the entrance of the hospital. Outside, a pale moon glinted through the branches of the young trees planted near the gates.

‘How did this happen?’ Boyo said, leaning towards Catherine.

Catherine shook her head. ‘Doreen was having a child.’ Her voice was strained. ‘Her husband raped her and she didn’t want it. She must have gone to old Ma Piper. Poor Doreen, will she be all right?’

‘I don’t know but it’s something she has brought on herself isn’t it?’ Boyo said quietly. Catherine looked up at him, straining to see him clearly in the gloom.

‘Don’t you dare to judge.’ Her tone was hard. ‘What gives you the right to be so holy and good?’

‘I lost my son, though perhaps you have forgotten that. It didn’t touch you, after all.’

She leaned closer to him. ‘I know the memory must be painful for you but that was a different situation entirely. Doreen’s husband is an animal, he beats her whenever he feels like it. She couldn’t go on carrying his child, it would have given Meadows even more of a hold on her than ever.’

She touched Boyo’s hand and his fingers grasped hers, strong and warm.

‘I wonder what’s happening in there, I don’t think I could bear it if Doreen dies.’ Catherine’s voice trembled and Boyo’s hand held hers firmly.

‘We can only wait and see, Cat.’ The old endearment slipped out unnoticed by Boyo but Catherine winced. How easy it would be to slip back into the old ways, to become Boyo’s woman again. He would take her back to their house in Caswell, he would take her away from the hardness of the life she was now leading. The thought was very tempting and Catherine closed her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder, glad that she was not alone.

It was going to be more difficult than Liam had imagined to farm the new lands to the north of Cork. The ground had been allowed to grow wild for years, it would need many seasons before good crops could be grown there.

The farmhouse was spacious, sprawling over almost half an acre of land, there were more rooms than Liam could ever inhabit alone. He smiled as he set the kindling in the huge fireplace. Once he brought Catherine here, gave her babies to care for, the house would be filled with love and laughter.

Maeve’s advice about the spoiled farmland had proved sound. Cork was expanding, building land was needed and prices were set to rise. Good had been wrought from evil; what had seemed an insurmountable problem had been resolved in a most satisfactory way. Soon, he would have a great deal to offer Catherine: a fine house, for he intended to renovate the old farmhouse, and prime farmland supporting rich crops and fine milk herds and further up into the hills, pasture lands for sheep.

Once Liam had the money from the sale of the old land, he could begin his work, start afresh. He sank down onto a log and looked up towards the sky. He would have the last laugh over Boyo Hopkins, after all.

His gaze sharpened as he saw a figure toiling up the hill towards him. He rose to his feet, his hand shading his eyes from the dying light and for a moment, he wondered if Catherine was coming to him. Then he recognized the figure, it was Patricia.

He ran down the hill towards her and took the bag from her hand. He could see she was tired, her eyes were shadowed, her footsteps slow. He did not have to ask her what was wrong for when her shawl slipped apart, the curve of her belly was plain to see.

In the farmhouse, she sank into a chair near the fire and held out her hands to the glow. Liam made her some hot tea and sat with her, looking at her in compassion.

‘He kicked me out,’ she said at last. ‘Once the baby began to show Terrence wanted nothing more to do with me.’

‘I thought he was in love with you,’ Liam said, ‘the way he looked at you, as though you were the best prize this side of the Irish Sea.’

‘Sure, so did I,’ Patricia said dryly. ‘What he was in love with was the thought of breaking in a virgin, he kept on about it enough to whoever would listen to him.’ She smiled mirthlessly. ‘It wasn’t even worth it, all that gasping and pushing and shoving. If that’s what love is about then sure I can do without it.’

She began to cry, silent tears ran along her cheeks and she dashed them away with shaking fingers. Liam, moved, took her in his arms. ‘Why didn’t you go to live with Dad?’ he asked, rocking her as though she was a child. ‘The cottage I found for them is big enough for three, heaven knows.’

‘And have Gran laugh at me?’ Patricia’s voice rose. ‘Have her saying “I told you so”.’ She leaned back in his arms. ‘Say I can stay here, Liam. I’ll work, I’ll keep house for you, I won’t be any trouble, I promise.’

‘Of course you can stay here.’ Liam rubbed gently at her eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘Though how I’m going to put up with that acid tongue of yours, sure only the good Lord knows!’

Patricia was laughing then, laughing and crying at the same time.

‘At least Gran was right about something,’ Liam said, smiling to soften his words; ‘sleeping with a man has certainly made you one of the human race at last.’

She reached out and slapped his face lightly with her fingertips. ‘Monster!’ It was the first time he had seen her laugh so easily. It seemed his sister, during her time away, had found a new sense of humour.

Bethan looked at her husband with narrowed eyes. ‘It’s good of you to worry about me but really there’s no need. I like being here alone.’ Her voice was soft, for the spirit of Elizabeth was with her, urging her to make the most of this unexpected opportunity to regain Boyo’s sympathy if not his love.

When he had called, she had been sitting alone in the upstairs room but no, not quite alone. Elizabeth had been close, comforting her. When Boyo had arrived Elizabeth had withdrawn to the corner of the room, watching, waiting.

‘I’m concerned, that’s all.’ Boyo moved towards the window and Bethan saw him frown at the overhang of dark rocks, knowing he hated the enclosed feeling the greyness gave him. She smiled to herself, Boyo Hopkins would be hers again, one day, when the time was right.

He was looking very handsome, her husband, but there was a light in his eyes that she didn’t like the look of. Suspicion rose within her like a monster and became a certainty.