This time on the train Patricia refused to listen to her doubts. Edward would be different and suddenly things would be easy between them. She unwrapped the tinfoil around her cheese and ham sandwich and ate with gusto. She felt like a woman who had cracked the code.
Early signs were hard to read because he had brought his mother with him to the station.
‘Our neighbour Mrs Maloney has been up in the Mercy Hospital for weeks. Tests and more tests. They still don’t know what is wrong with the poor creature. The family have found it very hard to get up to see her so when Teddy was driving up I thought I’d take advantage of the lift. I think she was delighted to see someone from home. Just to get all the news …’
Mrs Foley’s advancing army of talk laid waste any possibility of a conversation with Edward, so Patricia sat patiently with her cream case in the back seat.
‘Do you mind? I hope you don’t mind. I get fierce car sick in the back. I’m all right in the front, amn’t I, Teddy?’
The wind welcomed them back to Muirinish. Like a washing line of coats and scarves the trio made their way from the car to the back door. Patricia was impressed by the way Edward’s mother strode through the storm, unmoved by its force. Once inside Edward disappeared almost at once. ‘The milking, I better …’ He looked at Patricia and she felt he wanted to say more, but before she could speak he was gone.
‘Now I suppose you’d like to go and settle yourself. I put you in the same small front room again. Do you want a hand with your case? Sure, it’s light. You’ll be grand. Up you go.’ Edward’s mother ushered Patricia from the room and she walked up the creaking stairs. The house seemed darker than before and now that she was alone the noise of the storm outside was louder than she recalled. On the landing, through the gloom, she looked around. Five doors. One was the bathroom, even colder and damper than her own at Convent Hill. The central door in front of her led to her small room with its single bed and tall narrow window that looked out to sea. She wondered what was behind the other three. She wasn’t even sure which room belonged to Edward or where his mother slept. From the outside the house seemed much larger than this. Did one of the doors lead to a corridor of further rooms? Pushing open her door she turned on the light, the fringed shade casting a shadow all around the room. The curtains hadn’t been drawn and the glossy golden material shifted slightly as the window rattled against the elements. From outside came the complaining cries of seagulls being buffeted high above the house. She sat on the bed, still wearing her coat. A sinking feeling had replaced all her optimism of earlier in the day. This was just going to be another weekend of awkward silences. She sighed and lifted her case onto the bed.
Opening it, she reached for her toilet bag. Like so much else in her life now, it had been her mother’s. She remembered the day it was purchased. The two of them had been in Deasy’s Chemists looking in the section to the right of the door that she normally only visited at Christmas searching for fancy soaps or bath salts. Her mother had picked the bag out because of the butterfly resting on the cornflower that adorned it. ‘Won’t that cheer me up when I’m in hospital?’ It was an uncharacteristically positive remark for her mother to make which was probably why Patricia always recalled it. She reached for her toothpaste and toothbrush so that she could freshen up before heading downstairs, but the small bag slipped from the bed onto the floor. Patricia bent down to retrieve it and when she did, she noticed something else under the bed. What was it? The object was just beyond her grasp and she had to lie flat on her stomach to reach it. As she re-emerged from under the bed she looked down at her hand and stared for a moment. Something so familiar and yet it had been so many years since she had seen one, never mind held one in her hand. A baby’s dummy. A soother. Pink plastic, the rubber of the teat not yet perished. It couldn’t have lain there for forty years. She would ask Edward about it. At least it would be something to talk about.
Back downstairs a random selection of pots sat on the Aga, steam billowing up to the ceiling, but there was no sign of Edward or Mrs Foley. Patricia wasn’t sure what to do. She hated the awkwardness of being a guest. Through the window she saw a light spilling from the door of one of the outhouses and a shadow moving. Perhaps she could help with something rather than just sitting around waiting to be fed. She didn’t want her hostess to get the impression that she was lazy.
Outside the wind was so strong it made her laugh. Somewhere in the distance a door or a shutter had come loose and was banging in protest. Patricia weaved her way across the yard, one hand trying to control her hair, the other preventing her skirt from billowing skywards. She could see Mrs Foley’s back, a few chickens pecking at the dirt floor around her. Suddenly, wings spread wide and Patricia realised that the old woman was holding one of the birds by its feet. Almost before she could understand what was happening Mrs Foley grabbed hold of the chicken’s head and twisted sharply. The squawking ceased and the neck hung limp but the wings took longer to understand that all hope of flight was lost. The other chickens went about their business, seemingly unaware that one of their number had met its grisly end. Patricia was standing just outside the door now and was wondering how she should alert Mrs Foley to her presence, when the old lady slapped the dead bird on the rough bench in front of her and with one swipe took its head off with a large knife. The violence of it made Patricia gasp.