At some point in the night Patricia had woken. She lay there listening for Elizabeth but then realised she could hear heavier breathing. ‘Edward?’ she whispered, but he didn’t respond. He must be asleep, she thought to herself, not bothering to wonder why he was still in the room. As she waited to fall back to sleep she had an unexpected feeling of contentment. Was this all so terrible? Edward was a kind man and she adored the baby. Maybe she should stop struggling and embrace this as her life. She had read somewhere that if you were drowning the best thing to do was not to fight it. Just breathe in the water and fill your lungs. Should she do that? Just inhale and surrender herself to this new life? Was pretending to choose something that very different from actually wanting it? Later when Elizabeth’s crying had woken her, she turned on the bedside lamp and found that she and the baby were alone once more.
The next day after breakfast, Patricia had been armed with some tired-looking yellow dusters and a tin of polish to dust and clean a room she had never even stepped foot in before. It was one of the front rooms by the entrance hall and Patricia doubted it had been used in a year or more. Dead flies were scattered on the windowsills and woodlice lay in dusty graves in the corners of the room. The door had been left ajar so that she could hear Elizabeth if she started to cry.
Patricia didn’t like to admit it but cleaning did give her a strange sense of satisfaction. She was methodical and thorough. She tackled the window frames and pictures first, then the floor and finally the furniture. It irritated her that she hadn’t been given access to the Hoover. She knew there was one, she’d heard it, but for some reason she wasn’t considered responsible enough to use it. Did Mrs Foley think she was going to ride it to freedom?
Kneeling on the windowsill trying to get cobwebs out of the folds in the curtains, she looked outside. A dense rain was being driven almost sideways across the front of the house. Today was not ideal for an escape attempt. She got down and looked around. How long had this furniture been here? The small brown sofa with a gold trim along its cushions looked so old she doubted that even Mrs Foley as a blushing bride had ever seen it looking new. The carpet on the floor was threadbare enough to have been rescued from the ruins of the castle.
An engine! Patricia threw down her duster and pressed herself against the window to see if she could catch a glimpse of the vehicle. A flash of dark green disappeared behind the side of the house. It was just Teddy. She returned to her work, wondering if she would share the fate of the flies, to be found one day, a crisp husk waiting uselessly at the window.
A few moments later, Edward stuck his head around the door.
‘A letter for you there.’ He held out an envelope and smiled.
Patricia crossed the room and took it without uttering a word. She had to keep reminding him that this situation wasn’t normal and would never become anything close to that. Her feelings from the night before had unsettled her. Was she beginning to crack? Had Mrs Foley’s plan begun to work? She must not consider surrender. Edward left her alone.
Turning the envelope over she saw that it was addressed to Mrs Edward Foley. Her first instinct was to crumple the paper in her fists and throw it away, but she was fairly sure that the handwriting belonged to Rosemary. She checked the postmark. It was Buncarragh. Her heart beating faster, she sat down and ripped it open.
7 Connolly’s Quay,
Buncarragh
Dear Patricia,
Sorry not to have written sooner but then you haven’t exactly kept the postman very busy yourself! I want to hear all your news. How’s married life treating you? Are you sick of milking cows yet? I hope it is all going very well and that the two of you are very happy.
My big news is at the top of the page. I’ve bought a house! I’m thrilled with myself. It’s only small but it is all mine. It’s a few doors down from Busteed’s and looks out on the trees by the river. I sold my site on the home place so I thought I’d better do something with the money and not just spend it all on cakes and frothy coffee. I‘m officially a grown up! It’s not a hundred per cent yet but I think I might be going into business for myself too. Mrs Beamish is being a right cow. If I have to attempt one more shag hairdo, I might end up in prison. I’m not safe with the scissors. Fat bot’s mother came in the other day with a picture of your one, Jane Fonda! I felt like suggesting Kojak might be more her style … ha ha!
*
Patricia’s reading was interrupted by voices coming from the kitchen. They were getting louder and sounded angry. She pushed the letter into the pocket of her nylon housecoat and went to the door to hear better. It was Edward’s voice but she could make out only some words.