Frantic, Patricia picked up the chair from beside the bed and rushing at the window smashed a leg through a pane of glass. The noise and violence shocked her, and she stood still for a moment, before dropping the chair and rushing to the broken window. ‘Rosemary!’ she howled into the bitter breeze. It was too late. A horrified Patricia watched the blue bonnet inching backwards. ‘No. I’m up here,’ but her voice was little more than a whisper now. She pressed her palm against the window and sank to the floor. Her body was convulsed by weeping, her mouth stretched wide by gasping sobs. So close, but her tears weren’t just for her missed opportunity to escape, they were the relieved tears of a woman who had discovered that somebody truly cared about her. Rosemary, silly, funny Rosemary had driven all the way from Buncarragh all by herself because she was so worried for her friend. Patricia threw herself onto the bed and let her tears soak into the pillow, until eventually she fell asleep.
She was woken with a start by a dishevelled Mrs Foley bursting into her room, a red and white tea towel flapping in one hand. She picked up the chair that was lying on the floor and put it back by the bed. Then she turned her full attention to Patricia. Mrs Foley’s face was crimson with rage and spittle flew from her mouth as she spat out her words.
‘You’d better learn to behave, Missy. Any more nonsense like that, I will tie you to that bed. Do you hear me? Hand and foot! Your precious Edward won’t save you! Do you understand?’
This was a Mrs Foley that Patricia hadn’t seen before. She seemed crazed and unpredictable. Dangerous. The tea towel was twisted tightly between her fists and Patricia was reminded of the night she had seen the old woman wring the chicken’s neck in the outhouse. ‘Do you understand me?’ she asked again.
‘Yes,’ Patricia whispered and then a little louder, ‘I understand.’
‘Good. And maybe that will blow some sense into you.’ The old lady waved a hand, trembling with anger, at the broken window, ‘because I won’t be fixing it.’
She slammed the door and turned the key.
Patricia didn’t know how long she had been left alone for or what time it was, but it was dark outside when the door opened again and Edward inched his way into the room. He was carrying a sheet of cardboard. She knew her eyes must be red and swollen but she didn’t care.
‘I’ve come to fix the window.’ He was speaking in a whisper. Patricia wondered if his mother knew that he was doing this.
He crossed the room and began to tear out a square of cardboard.
‘It was my friend Rosemary. People are looking for me. You are going to have to let me go. I have to go home, Edward,’ Patricia implored him. ‘You can’t just keep me here. It’s wrong!’ She had to make him understand.
He turned and walked to the bed. ‘You’re not to upset Mammy. Please. You don’t understand, Patricia. Don’t rile her. It will only make things worse for you.’
He sounded deadly serious. Patricia wasn’t sure if it was the cold from the broken window or fear, but she was shivering. What was Mrs Foley capable of?
More days went by. How many? Patricia couldn’t be certain. It became light, it got dark, the days crept past her window. Sometimes the wind whistled around the eaves, or she might wake to hear it roaring past the house, rattling the windows, but it never seemed to stop. Patricia struggled to remember what silence sounded like. Once or twice she thought she heard a car or voices but it was just the crashing of a high tide or the wind in the branches. She found some old magazines in an otherwise empty wardrobe, and dutifully flicked through them. The People’s Friend. Woman’s Weekly. Not magazines she could ever imagine Mrs Foley buying. She read stories of romance. Nurses falling in love with doctors while they saved lives in Africa, Scottish chieftains grabbing red-haired farm girls roughly and throwing them down on banks of heather, but always with a happy ending. Patricia had no idea how her strange tale would conclude. They couldn’t keep her here forever and why would they want to? It made no sense.
One morning Mrs Foley came into her room as usual and placed the tray along the side of the bed. Patricia ignored her. There was nothing to be gained from asking questions. How many times had she pleaded with the old woman to tell her about Rosemary, what she had said to her friend? But nothing. Just the plates of barely touched food collected at regular intervals.
Mrs Foley jabbed a finger at the tray. ‘Some post for you there.’ Patricia jolted with the shock of hearing a voice and rattled the cup and saucer. Before she could gather her thoughts and respond, the old woman had left, turning the key in the lock.