It had not occurred to me that boys would one day come calling on Emer. And I knew then that I could never allow such a thing to happen. After all, my daughter belonged to me. That was the natural order of things. And no son of an Englishwoman and a once malodorous prodigal could be allowed near her. That was the day when things changed between the two of us.
Once we were certain, I banned Emer from leaving the house. There had been enough mud-slinging about me after Niamh’s passing without adding to it now. Thankfully, I didn’t have to insist, as she withdrew into herself anyway, spending most of the day in her room or lying on the sofa, falling in and out of sleep. Her belly grew big and her ankles swelled to such an extent that I asked her to wear slippers around the house instead of going barefoot, as those hooves of hers were ugly things to behold.
I asked her once whether there was a chance that Luke Hartigan might be responsible for her shame and she started to laugh before burying her face in her hands, the knuckles growing white as she pressed her fingers against her temples.
I barely know him, she said, a note of defiance in her voice that I chose to ignore. If I’ve talked to him more than half a dozen times in my life, that’s as much as I can remember.
But it’s not talking to someone that makes you a mother; everyone knows that. I considered various methods for getting rid of the baby but there was a risk that these could kill Emer too and I couldn’t take that chance, not after everything that had happened with Niamh. The last thing I needed was another visit from the sergeant. So I decided to wait until the creature was born and act then.
Had it been a boy, I might have reconsidered. A son, a grandson, however I might have defined him, I could have trained him up to run the farm with me. Looking after two of us would have given Emer something to do, for I swear there are days when that girl just sits around bone idle, staring out the window.
I didn’t let the doctor, the young lad, anywhere near her. Women were having babies long before doctors were invented and I predicted that her body would do most of the work for her without any encouragement from the likes of him. And I was right too. She started in the afternoon and I lay her down on her bed before sharpening a knife and scalding the blade in the fire for when the time came to cut the cord.
When she finally stopped screaming and the house was quiet again, save for the mewling of the child, I went in and did my best to avoid looking at the mess she’d left behind her on the sheets. I told her she could wait until the morning when she had her strength back to wash them up and she reached towards me, arms outstretched, emitting an animal-like sound as I took the baby from her and squeezed my fingers together on either side of the infant’s nose, the heel of my hand over her mouth until she went silent. Looking around as I waited, I was surprised to see a photograph of Niamh on Emer’s bedside table. I’d never noticed it before, but then every time I’d come in here it had been the middle of the night and I’d never once thought to turn the lights on.
Outside I laid the bundle on the ground while I got on with the grave-digging and then planted the little mite in the ground before filling her over. She would be warm there at least, in the dark and tightly packed earth.
They say we’re going to have a good summer this year. It’ll only be a few days before Emer is up and about again and then I will start my planting. I might take on a boy from the village to help me. Luke Hartigan, perhaps, just to keep an eye on him. Maybe I’ll sow the seeds for the peppers and the sweet potatoes that my father would never let me plant when I was a child. He’s long gone, after all, and has no say in these matters any more. The land is mine now. And by God, I’ll put anything that I want into it.
About the Author
John Boyne was born in Ireland in 1971. He is the author of nine novels for adults and five for younger readers, including the international bestsellers The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, which has sold more than six million copies worldwide, The Absolutist, A History of Loneliness and, most recently, The Boy at the Top of the Mountain. His novels are published in over forty-five languages. He is married and lives in Dublin.
www.johnboyne.com
@john_boyne
Also by John Boyne
NOVELS
The Thief of Time
The Congress of Rough Riders
Crippen
Next of Kin
Mutiny on the Bounty
The House of Special Purpose
The Absolutist
This House Is Haunted
A History of Loneliness
NOVELS FOR YOUNGER READERS
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas
Noah Barleywater Runs Away
The Terrible Thing That Happened to Barnaby Brocket
Stay Where You Are and Then Leave
The Boy at the Top of the Mountain
For more information on John Boyne and his books, see his website at www.johnboyne.com
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Doubleday
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © John Boyne 2015
Some of these stories originally appeared elsewhere, in slightly different forms:
‘Rest Day’ in The Irish Times; ‘Araby’ in Dubliners 100; ‘Empire Tour’ in The Moth; ‘The Vespa’ in Books Ireland; ‘The Country You Called Home’ in The Great War; ‘Beneath the Earth’ in The Penny Dreadful.
John Boyne has asserted his right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473526174
ISBNs 9780857523402 (hb)
9780857523419 (tpb)
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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