Her plan was never going to work. He’d told her. The letters. He’d said to his mother, ‘What will happen when they find out?’
Mrs Foley had waved away his concerns. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.’ Except they hadn’t. They had all fallen off that bridge and were now drowning in the mess she had made.
He threw the rope over the highest strong branch and then tied it off lower down on the trunk.
His mother couldn’t have coped with her failure. Edward could have borne her disappointment in him, he had lived for most of his life with that, but she couldn’t have faced a future where she wasn’t able to make things better. Somehow, even after everything that had happened, she believed she had the power to change things, to rescue him. Edward didn’t know how she could have survived such disappointment. This was the kind thing to do. It had been his mother, all those years before, who had taken the gun out and shown him how to shoot that heifer after it broke its leg. He remembered them standing together in the field, trying to hide his tears as the bark of the gunshot echoed up into the darkness. She had turned to him and told him that it was for the best. He bent down and scooped up her body. This was for the best. It was.
He laid his mother down on the wet grass, the rain splashing against her face. Wiping his tears away to see better, he went to the wall and picked up the small wooden stepladder they had always used when they were picking the apples. He opened it and tried his best to steady the feet on the uneven ground. He lifted his mother’s body and leaned her against the steps. He raised a hand to reach the noose but it was too high. He shifted his weight and fell against his mother’s wet body. He felt her warm shallow breath on his face. Keeping her upright, he climbed a couple of steps until he had managed to grasp the rope. Then, using all his strength, he hauled his mother up in the air. He groaned with the strain. She slipped, he caught her. The ladder began to rock, but with one final effort he managed to slip the noose around his mother’s head. For a moment they were face to face. He wondered if he should kiss her goodbye. No.
He looked away and let go. Her body dropped, knocking the ladder and sending Edward sprawling to the ground. He left the ladder where it was and stood up. In horror, he watched as his mother twitched and kicked. What was happening? It should be over. Her body twisted around towards him, and he saw, thankfully, that her eyes were still shut. He scrambled towards the wheelbarrow. He had so much to do. Still his mother’s feet kicked. One of her shoes had come loose and landed on the grass like a windfall apple. Edward didn’t know what to do. It was not meant to be happening like this.
He pushed the wheelbarrow towards the house, making a low whimpering sound. As he reached the gate he looked back. His mother’s right leg was shuddering. He couldn’t bear it. He would cut her down! Just as he set off towards the hanging body, everything suddenly became still. The rope was still swaying slightly and the rain was dripping from the trees, but his mother was gone. Edward sank to his knees. He bowed his head in front of his mother’s corpse hanging from a rope and felt relief. Huge, life-changing relief. It was over, finally over. Her pain, her disappointment, her longing, all of it: she was at peace.
Night had fallen. Edward got up and pushed the empty wheelbarrow through the darkness back to the yard. Even before he went back into the house he could hear Patricia’s bell ringing in the night air.
Now, more than forty years later, an old man in Clonteer lay in the early morning light and thought he could hear that sound once more. Maybe he could, or perhaps it was just the breakfast trolley clattering in the hallway. He wondered if Patricia had received his letter. The one he had written himself. It had taken him two attempts, sitting at the kitchen table, holding the biro like a spoon, copying the word from the piece of paper where Mrs Lynch had written it out for him. Miss Buggy in the post office had written the address. For days, he had fretted about what he would do if Patricia replied. Who would he get to read it for him? He needn’t have worried, because no response came. Then, three, maybe four years later, an envelope had been waiting for him when he got back to the empty house after work. Nothing but a photograph of a little girl. She was wearing a red pinafore and laughing at something he would never see. Elizabeth. He had put down the bright photograph and looked at what surrounded him. The cream walls with dark clouds of damp gathering in the corners. Old lino on the floor, worn away to the flagstones by the door. The ticking of a clock to remind him that time was passing. He had smiled then. What he had done had been for the best.