“What did she threaten you with?” Eamon smiled and put his hand on Donal’s shoulder.
“Ducking in the marl hole or worse,” Donal grinned.
“Is it too windy for Aunt Margaret?” Carmel asked when she came to the door.
“Does Aunt Margaret know about Niamh’s child?” Donal asked.
“No, she doesn’t,” Carmel said. She shook her head and sighed.
“What are you going to do?” Donal asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll worry about that in about half an hour. If it’s too draughty for Aunt Margaret out here then we’ll move the table inside.”
“If you put her sitting in the sun,” Donal said.
“And you can all have drinks now,” Carmel said. “Martini, red or white wine, sherry, gin and tonic. Cathy, what would you like?”
“This is like the Continent,” Donal said. “Eating out in the open. You’d think that we were in Italy.”
“Wait until Frank Murphy’s tractor goes by,” Eamon said. “Then we’ll all know that we’re in Cush.”
When Aunt Margaret arrived Carmel brought out a rug in case she needed it to wrap around her shoulders. Niamh carried out a high chair for the baby who immediately began to bang a spoon against the plastic table which was attached to the chair.
“Isn’t he the grand little fellow, Aunt Margaret?” Carmel said.
Eamon wondered if Niamh had told his aunt about the baby on the journey from the town, but Aunt Margaret gave no sign. She smiled.
“Isn’t it funny, the way he’s banging the spoon?” she said.
They all sat down to eat, busied themselves passing the food and pouring more wine. A few times the wind blew up, rustling the leaves in the low hawthorn bush at the edge of the garden, but the sun remained strong.
“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” Aunt Margaret said.
“It’s definitely the best day so far this summer,” Carmel said.
Niamh tried to spoonfeed the baby, but he was too distracted by the company to eat anything. Carmel went in to prepare the dessert while Donal cleared away the dishes.
“It’s good to see him pulling his weight,” Niamh said to Cathy. “His father never does a tap around the house.” She smiled at her father.
“Doesn’t he work all year?” Aunt Margaret asked.
Carmel carried out a tray with rhubarb tart and cream and plates and cups and saucers. Donal came behind her with a pot of coffee. It was agreed that Donal and Cathy would do the washing up. Carmel sat back in her chair, her cup in her two hands and spoke to Aunt Margaret about her trip to Wexford and what she had bought there, and what the shops were like. She was so much more at case here, Eamon noticed, than in Dublin. When Donal and Cathy came back out, Carmel tried to find a topic which would interest them all. Niamh put the baby on the grass with some toys.
“Would you like to live in the country, Cathy?” Carmel asked.
They discussed the country then, how lonely it could be, but how you would know everyone and you would have better neighbours than in the city.
“I like Dublin,” Carmel said, “but I’m not from there and I’d be more at home in a small town. In Dublin we know everyone around us, but it’s not the same. They’re all from different places and they all have their own lives.”
Donal and Cathy got their swimming-togs from the car.
“It’s too soon after eating,” Carmel said. “You’ll get a cramp.”
“We’re going to go for a walk first,” Donal said. “We’ll walk the food off us. Niamh is going to come with us, if the baby is okay here.”
“The baby’s fine here,” Carmel said. “But you should leave another hour before you go into the water.”
When they had left, Carmel went into the house to make more tea for Aunt Margaret.
“You’re in very bad form today,” she said to Eamon when she met him in the kitchen.
“Am I?” he asked. “I feel okay. I’m just not talking.”
“As long as you’re not fed up with all the visitors.”
“I’m sorry if I seem fed up. I’m enjoying all the conversation.”
As soon as Carmel went out again, the baby began to cry. She lifted him up, put his face in close against her face and smiled at him. He continued to cry, ignoring her smiles and trying to push her away.
“He’s usually not like this at all,” she said to Aunt Margaret. “He’s usually very happy and content. Aren’t you?” She held the baby high in the air and suddenly he smiled at her.
“Now look at him, he’s smiling.” He smiled again, a broad smile.
Carmel began to tell Aunt Margaret about the baby and what a shock it was when Niamh told her the news.
“I was in Clarendon Street church that day,” she said. “I told God that if he had anything special for me to do, I would offer it up. I remembered that later on. I meant it. I did, Margaret. And when I came home wasn’t Niamh waiting for me. She was afraid to tell me. At first I didn’t know what to say, but anyway I decided that we’d do everything we could to help her. I supported the Amendment, I’m pro-life all the way. So you have to have the courage of your convictions, and do your best. And I’m going to take the baby every day in the autumn, because Niamh is going to work full time and she needs every encouragement.”
He listened to Carmel as she spoke, noticing that she left no room for Aunt Margaret to dissent from what she was saying. He did not know that Niamh was going to work full time. Carmel had never told him that she was going to take the baby every day in the autumn, but maybe, he thought, this was her way of telling him.
Carmel poured him a brandy. He nursed the glass in his hand and sat back in the chair, listening to the two women talking, glad in some vague way that his two children were close by, with each other, maybe in the water now, enjoying the day as well. He closed his eyes and drank in the heat of the fading sun.
After the photograph had been taken, Donal and Cathy drove Aunt Margaret back into the town on their way back to Dublin.
“Keep up the good work,” Donal said to him as they shook hands.
“The Four Courts will never fall again, you can be sure of that,” he said in reply, smiling sourly.
“Good luck anyway,” he said to Cathy. “I’ll know you the next time I see you.”
“But will she know you?” Donal asked.
“Stop, Donal, we’ve caused enough trouble,” Cathy said.
It occurred to Eamon what a good story their earlier confrontation would make when they got back to Dublin.
* * *
Carmel was cleaning off the table in the garden when he first noticed her holding her head.
“I shouldn’t have had that brandy,” she said.
“I’ll finish the table,” he said. “You’ve been working hard all day. Go and lie down.”
He had expected her to protest; it was unlike her to walk away so calmly. When she had gone he carried the cups and glasses back into the kitchen and put them on the draining-board. He still thought that she would reappear, but she did not. When he had put the tablecloth into the washbag in the bathroom he tiptoed into the bedroom. The curtains were drawn and she was lying on the bed with her eyes open.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Do you have a headache?”
“It’s not exactly a headache. I don’t know what it is. Maybe if I sleep for a while it’ll go.”
“Do you want me to lie beside you, Carmel?” he asked.
“Yes, or maybe just leave the door open, so I’ll know that you’re out there. I feel a terrible lightness in my legs. I don’t know what it is.”
“Do you want a doctor?”
“Eamon, I feel awful,” she said.
“Would you like me to get the doctor?”
“No, I’ll sleep for a while.”
He left the door open and the light on and sat reading in the living room. The baby was asleep and Niamh had gone to bed. He could see Carmel’s shape in the bed through the open door. She seemed to b
e asleep. He went in and lay beside her, reading with his clothes on. He did not want to sleep but soon he found that he was drowsy so he got into his pyjamas and turned off the light. Carmel did not stir as he got under the blankets and he was careful not to disturb her.
* * *
She woke in the small hours; he felt her moving and then heard her voice. He turned and held her in the dark, but she seemed to push him away. Her voice was muffled, and he could not understand what she was trying to say. He listened and then sat up and turned on the lamp beside the bed. She had her face in the pillow and was still mumbling something. When she turned towards him he saw a terrible distress in her face; her face seemed distorted as she tried to speak. He felt a cold sweat as he watched her move her hand up to her head and hold it, as though she were in pain.
“Carmel, I’m going into Blackwater to get a doctor. I’ll ask Niamh to come and mind you.”
He woke Niamh. He did not know what to say to her.
“Don’t wake the baby,” she said.
He went in with her to the bedroom. Carmel was still holding her head with one hand as she lay back, inert, on the bed. Her eyes were open.
“Can you stay with her? I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said.
It was close to dawn when the ambulance came. Eamon had to open the gates so that it could turn.
“She has a good chance if we can get her in quickly,” the doctor said.
“I’ll follow in the car.”
“There’s no real point, I wouldn’t say,” the doctor said.
They wheeled her out on a stretcher. She was still awake, and looked as though she was desperately trying to keep her eyes open. He went and held her hand.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said. “We all love you Carmel.” He saw no response in her eyes. He was not sure that she could hear him.
When they closed the doors of the ambulance he turned again to the doctor.
“I’d love to have gone with her,” he said.
“No, they’ll start treating her immediately.”
“Is it a stroke?”
“Looks like that.”
“Is it bad?”
“If they get her to Wexford she has a good chance, but you never know.”
“I think I’ll drive in and wait in the hospital. We’ve no telephone here. It seems odd, but we never thought we’d need one.”
He drove along the narrow roads in a daze, trying to remind himself all the time what had happened, trying to go through the previous day in search of clues. He sat waiting in the cold, square waiting room of Wexford Hospital. He watched through the glass panel as nurses and doctors and orderlies and patients in dressing-gowns and pyjamas moved up and down the corridor. He watched for a familiar face, he looked up each time the door opened in dread of a figure coming towards him with news. He worried about Niamh at home with her child, waiting for word, waiting for the noise of his car returning.
They told him that she was stable, and when he asked them for more news the nurse told him that she could not elaborate. At lunchtime he walked into the town; when he came back he asked once more how she was, and if he could see her.
“It would be better if she had no visitors,” the nurse said.
“Do you think that she will pull through?” he asked.
“She’s stable,” the nurse said, “and we have her under observation all the time.”
“But she’ll survive, won’t she?”
“She’s had a very serious stroke.” It sounded like an accusation.
He left the hospital and drove back to Cush. Niamh was feeding the baby when he came in.
“There’s no news yet,” he said. “She’s in intensive care.”
He lay on the bed in his clothes until he fell asleep. Niamh woke him when it was time for dinner. He had a shower and a change of clothes. Later, he sat on his own in the porch and watched the beams from the lighthouse crisscrossing the darkness.
They telephoned in the morning and were told that she was still stable and could be visited for a short time. Niamh left the baby with Mrs. Murphy in the house above them on the lane and they drove to Wexford.
“I brought her a book,” Niamh said. “I know that she won’t be able to read, but I thought it might be nice for her to have it beside the bed.”
They sat in the waiting room. The coffee-dispensing machine had spilled over and a woman was mopping up the floor. Neither of them spoke; Niamh went several times to ask the nurses if they could see Carmel, but she was told that they would have to wait. When the matron appeared he knew by her attitude that someone had found out that he was a judge. She led them along the corridor towards Carmel’s ward. She told him that the consultant wanted to see him before he left.
There were only two beds in the darkened room; the other one was empty. He went in quietly while Niamh waited outside with the matron. He noticed the heat in the room and the pale skin of her arms.
“You’re much better, Carmel,” he whispered. He was afraid to touch her. “You’re going to be great.”
She began to mumble as though in a dream, as though she was deeply disturbed by something.
“I’m listening, I’m here, Carmel.”
The mumbling continued; he strained to make out what she was saying. It seemed to be a precise, definite question. She was asking him something. He listened again. Was I worse before? Was I with . . . But he could only guess that these were the words. He stayed still. He concentrated on her, on being with her, saying nothing, trying not to think.
When he went outside Niamh was waiting to go in. The matron told him that the consultant was ready now, in his office on the next floor. When he was finished with the consultant, she said, he could come back down to her office.
“Judge Redmond,” the consultant said and stood up from his desk.
“Is she going to pull through?” Eamon asked him when they had shaken hands.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m going to send her to Dublin. She’s still in trouble, but she must be very strong. There could be some damage, I’m not sure, but they’ll know better up there. I would have had the ambulance earlier, except we’re short-staffed, but she’ll be going up in the next hour. Incidentally, are you insured for the Blackrock Clinic?”
“No,” Eamon said. “Should she go there?”
“I’m going to send her to Vincent’s for the moment.”
“When you say damage what do you mean?”
“To be honest, there’s a fair chance that her speech and her general mobility will be impaired. That’s the best I can tell you.”
“And the worst?”
“She’s stable for the moment anyway. As I say, she’s very strong. Some people are.”
Eamon and Niamh drove in silence back to Cush, collected the baby, packed their things and set off for Dublin.
“Do you want me to drive?” Niamh asked.
“Maybe in a while; do you mind?”
“It’s terrible to think of her on this road as well in an ambulance, isn’t it?” Niamh said.
“She was doing too much. We should never have let her work so hard,” he said. “Do you want to come and stay at home?” he asked.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay in the flat. There’s a phone there.”
“You would be very welcome.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay in the flat.”
“What did Donal say?”
“He’s in a terrible state.”
“I don’t know what financial arrangements you have with your mother. She’s in charge of all the money, but I’d like to keep it up, whatever it is.”
“I’m actually doing very well. I’ve worked out a new way of processing the polls, so I’m in demand. But thanks, all the same.”
When he reached home he telephoned St. Vincent’s Hospital; the nurse on duty told him that Carmel was still stable and could be visited only by members of her immediate family. He could come at seven o’clock. He drove to t
he supermarket and bought a newspaper and some groceries. He sat in the car park for a while, not wanting to go home. He went in search of flowers and bought another newspaper before driving to the hospital and waiting in the car park until seven o’clock.
The nurse in charge took out her chart and looked at it.
“I don’t know why they kept her in Wexford for so long,” she said. “We should have had her here immediately. We have her under observation.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“She has to be checked every few minutes. It could go one way or the other. We’ll know in the next couple of days,” she said. “You’re the judge, aren’t you?” she added, as though it were an afterthought.
“Yes,” he said. “Can I go and sit with her?”
“She won’t remember anything,” the nurse said.
“I’d like to sit beside her for a while.”
She was quiet; he did not know whether she was asleep or unconscious. Maybe she was drugged. She looked peaceful.
“Carmel, I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here, I’m beside you.”
He could see the grey roots of her hair, and the light-coloured skin of her arm reminded him of her when she was younger. He was afraid to touch her, as though one small movement could damage her even more.
CHAPTER FOUR
He drove home from the hospital and waited in the empty house in case the phone would ring. He made himself a sandwich and drank a few glasses of brandy. He hoped that he would be able to sleep. He was drawn back all the time to the scene in the Cathedral when he was young, his father standing up as though something had shot slowly through him. As the night drew on he did not turn on the light, but waited in the dark.
He could not remember how long he had stayed with his Aunt Kitty during his father’s first illness. He remembered waiting for news and listening in case something was said, but he knew that if he asked he would be fobbed off. The wind, he remembered, for the first weeks was bitterly cold and the evenings were dark, and the house always seemed strange and alien. He could not wait to go home.
“I’m going to fail my Intercert if I don’t study,” he said to his Aunt Kitty.
There was no secondary school nearby, only a technical school. She assured him that they studied English and Irish there as well, and he could do woodwork and mechanical drawing.