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.‘Will you bring tea, Mary – and can you take the children for something?’Her face was very pale, Mary thought, and her eyes looked suspiciously bright.‘Of course, ma’am,’ she said quickly, lifting Maeve, holding out her free hand to Eileen, who had come to the door at once on hearing Mary’s voice.She took the two babies with her to the kitchen, settling them both on the rug across from the range.She loved them, both of them, but her heart warmed more to Eileen Cecilia.She always thought of the older girl as Eileen Cecilia, and she had never stopped being grateful to Hannah for the generosity of this one, heartfelt gesture.Seven years had passed now, almost to the week.It was difficult to comprehend that Cecilia had been gone that long.Missing her got easier, mostly, but at times her sister appeared to her in sleep, bringing with her a ferocity of grieving that still took Mary by surprise.But she was happy here.Her only worry now was that Mr Charles would go too far with his politicking, and that she would be left without a home for the third time in her life.She prayed to St Jude every night that it would not be so.She didn’t think she could bear it.She handed each of the two little girls a piece of bread and butter dipped in sugar as she waited for the kettle to boil.No matter what happened, she had no control over any of it.She’d do her work, keep her counsel and trust that her favourite saint would hear her yet.May: Spring 1903BRIDIE DUGGAN WASHED her hands vigorously, the drops of water chinking against the sides of the blue-rimmed enamel basin.Steam rose from her hands as she turned the soap over and over, working up a good lather.Her hands looked even redder and coarser than usual against the delicate white froth.May was conscious of her warm presence, content in the peacefulness of her bedroom, soothed by the crackling of the flames in the fireplace.Occasionally, a log spat and fizzled out into the air, its flame lost in the early morning sunlight streaming through the window.Richard had finally given in to exhaustion and gone into the small bedroom next door to sleep.‘You gave us quite a scare, my girl,’ said Bridie, drying her hands now on the towel that hung by the washstand.‘Thank God and his holy Mother ye’re both safe.This little fellow was in a right hurry to make his appearance.’May smiled up at her dreamily.Her eyes kept closing, but she didn’t want them to.She wanted to keep awake for ever, to keep on looking and looking at the small, perfect form in the cradle beside her.A little boy.Richard had wept with relief and gratitude as the tiny wail had pierced the silence at five o’clock this morning, four short hours ago.They had been awake all night, May disbelieving that it was time: she had another three weeks to go, at least: it was only a pain in her back, it would go away if she walked, if she had a hot-water bottle, if she had another cup of tea.But it didn’t go away, and at one o’clock there was no longer any doubt.There was a great, warm, slippery gush under May’s skirts and she touched herself quickly to make sure it was water, not blood.Richard cursed himself for not having gone for help earlier.He finally threw his overcoat over his shoulders, torn between wanting to stay with his wife and wanting to get Bridie to help her through the birth.He was afraid of what she was about to endure, afraid she wouldn’t have the strength for it.But she surprised him.‘Go, Richard,’ she’d said, calmly.‘It will be some time yet.’When he returned with a breathless Bridie in tow, she had already built up the fire in their bedroom, and spread layers of old hemp sheets and flat, cotton towels over their bed.She was in her nightgown, barefoot, and paced the bedroom with one hand pressed into the small of her back, the other rubbing her distended stomach.Richard had charged up the stairs, taking them two at a time.He could have sworn he heard her talking as he reached the bedroom door.He couldn’t make out the words, only the tone: comforting, reassuring – for herself or for the child, who could be sure.She’d turned and smiled at both of them as Richard opened the door.‘Thank you, Bridie – I’m sorry for getting you up at such an unearthly hour.’‘Now, child, you don’t need to be sorry about anything.Will ye lie down on the bed for a bit and let’s see what this child’s intentions are?’Richard sat on the bed beside her, and took her hand.He knew what was ahead of her, and he was terrified for her safety.Cows calving, horses in foal, ewes lambing – he had seen it all, been up to his own elbows in amniotic fluid, blood, faecal matter when the animal was in distress.But this was his wife: he couldn’t plunge into her body if things were too slow, harvesting her child as if it were just another one of his flock.This was women’s business: she wouldn’t want him there, and Bridie was the next best thing he knew.Bridie’s cloak was already off, her sleeves rolled up, her wide, honest face full of good humour.Five sons of her own grown and gone, and ‘nary a one o’ them a farmer’ she’d say cheerfully, with no trace of bitterness.She’d acted as unofficial midwife for years in this corner of Meath, helping out most when the babies made their appearance unexpectedly or tardily [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]