A short while later she heard a door and the man’s voice in the hall again. She hadn’t dreamt it! Rushing to the door she began to drum hard against the wood with her fists. ‘Help! Please help me!’ She waited, but the only sound she heard was the front door being swung shut.
She crossed the room to the window and saw a priest cycling unsteadily down the thin gravel path towards the lane. She knocked on the window but she knew it was futile. Her rescuer had gone. She braced herself for the arrival of Mrs Foley. Doubtless, she would storm up the stairs to berate her for daring to make such a racket, but no visit came.
It was hours later when the door opened slowly and Mrs Foley placed a cup of tea delicately on her bedside locker.
‘I thought you might have worked up a thirst.’
Patricia couldn’t look at her.
‘I had a nice visit there from Father Manning. He called out to meet Edward’s new bride.’
Despite herself, Patricia looked at Mrs Foley aghast. This was so completely insane, she thought she might faint.
The old woman was leaning against the door frame, with a studied air of nonchalance.
‘I explained to him that you suffer something terrible with your nerves. He was most sympathetic. Very understanding. We said a little prayer together for you. Do you feel any better, Patricia?’ Mrs Foley’s voice was cloying with mock concern.
Patricia wanted to get as far away from this woman as she could. She ran to the corner of the room and pushed her face against the wall, grinding her teeth with fury and frustration.
A small voice from across the room said, ‘Ah, the power of prayer.’ And the door closed with a click.
Downstairs a door was opened and then shut and she heard a little snatch of the theme to The Late Late Show. Saturday. It must be Saturday, she thought. How many nights had she lain in her own bedroom in Buncarragh while her mother watched the television in the living room beneath? In her mind she saw the faces of people she knew back home lit up by the flickering screen as they sat in front of their televisions. Not one of them thinking of her lying alone and helpless in the dark.
She must have fallen asleep again because the next thing she was aware of was someone gently tapping her shoulder. Opening her eyes with a start she could immediately make out Edward’s large frame against the light spilling into her room from the landing.
‘Edward?’
‘Shush, she’ll hear you,’ he whispered urgently. Then getting his face so close to hers that she could feel his breath against her cheek, he spoke slowly and quietly. ‘Tomorrow night. Be ready. And eat. The food is safe now.’ He stood up straight and turned to the door. Just before he closed it he put his head back into the room and repeated in a whisper, ‘Tomorrow night.’
Patricia stared into the darkness. What was going to happen tomorrow night? Was it something to look forward to or dread? Could she trust Edward? She felt more awake than she had in many days.
‘Aren’t you a good girl?’ Mrs Foley cooed when she came to collect Patricia’s tray. ‘That’s more like it. You’ll be up and around in no time.’
Patricia smiled, before she remembered that she wasn’t an invalid and Mrs Foley was her gaoler, not some selfless Florence Nightingale. She twisted her body to the wall and the old woman left her room.
The hours seemed to pass even more slowly when she was anticipating … what? What had Edward meant? The sunlight left the sky and still she waited. Would there be a sign? Might she miss it? She wouldn’t go to sleep. Edward had told her to be ready.
Dinner came and went but nothing happened. Maybe Edward was wrong, or had something changed? She sat on her bed and listened for something out of the ordinary.
Despite her best intentions, she fell asleep. When she woke up someone had switched off her light. She turned it back on. The curtains were drawn. Sitting up, Patricia thought she could hear voices. They sounded excited or distressed and seemed to be some distance from the house. She leapt from her bed and hurried to peer out of the window. She just caught a glimpse of Mrs Foley, bent against the wind, with a coat pulled over her nightdress. She seemed to be shouting at someone. Feeling braver, Patricia pressed herself against the glass. She could hear Edward’s voice coming from further away and there was something strange about the way the light played against the side of the house. An uneven orange glow. Mrs Foley appeared again, this time carrying a couple of heavy-looking buckets. A fire! There must be a fire somewhere. Was this what Edward had meant? Was this the moment, her opportunity to escape? She rushed to the door and tried the handle. It opened! On the floor in front of her was a brown tweed coat and an old pair of shoes in worn black leather. Edward! He must have left them for her. Patricia put her feet into the shoes – a little big but they’d do – and then slipped on the heavy coat. She paused at the top of the stairs and listened. The voices were still coming from outside. Holding on to the banister to steady herself, she made her way downstairs as quickly as she could. Mrs Foley had been at the front of the house so Patricia headed through the kitchen. Still unsure of her balance she leaned on the chairs by the table and slowly made her way towards the back door. Reaching it she suddenly worried that it would be locked. Her heart felt tight and frantic. She lifted the latch and the old door fell towards her with the force of the wind.