The Boy in the Moon. Kate O’Riordan
of her. To the left a few makeshift cupboards led to a belfast sink which sat under an uncurtained sash window.
Beyond the sink stood a few shelves, a curiously ornate leather armchair and a grandfather clock with a sallow face which appeared to be in good condition. Just behind the clock a door led to the back kitchen which contained a grimy stove; a gleaming white fridge, which Julia had purchased herself some years past; a tiny angular cubicle with a shower and toilet, which she had insisted on installing at the same time as the fridge, not feeling well disposed toward using the outside toilet; and a mat with a blanket along one wall which was Jeremiah’s bed. He had not slept in the third upstairs bedroom since the death of his wife.
Her feet scraped back and forth over the stone floor rolling bits of grit beneath the soles of her shoes. She held the cup suspended in mid-air while her unblinking eyes slowly roved around her surroundings.
The door opened behind her letting in a swirl of unseasonally cold May air. Jeremiah approached the hearth with lumps of turf pressed against his chest. He allowed his hands to drop and the rich brown peat fell to the floor. His head inclined toward the fire and then he left again. Julia reached down to pick up a block. It was rectangular in shape, the outside bone dry and wispy, reminding her of loose tobacco. When she broke the block in two, the inside was dark and shiny smooth like treacly fudge and smelled of wet bog. She crumbled the dry outside texture with her fingers, allowing the matted strands to drop to the floor. Then she decided to finish her cold tea before she set about making the fire.
Hours passed. The sky was darkening outside. Julia sat by the table cradling the untouched tea in the cup of her hands. She stared blankly at the lumps of turf on the floor. A mouse, like a tiny dark missile, shot across the room and disappeared under the door to the back kitchen. Her eyes darted after it for a second then returned once more to the turf. Around her, the furniture dissolved into an inky formless mass. An occasional gust of wind rattled the window panes, the grandfather clock ticked into the otherwise silent room.
Thus far, her reception was wholly reminiscent of the first time she had ever set foot in this house. Jeremiah had not attended their small wedding in London and, on their first visit as a couple, had greeted his newly-wed son with some barked order or other. In his haste to comply, Brian had entirely forgotten to introduce Julia, who was left staring around the kitchen with a steadily sinking heart. She had extended her hand but Jeremiah had turned away, with just a nod of his head acknowledging her presence. She had thought then that he was singularly the rudest, most ignorant man she had ever met. She had wished that Brian might at least have had the decency to forewarn her, even a little. As the nightmarish week continued, she came to realize that Brian saw nothing wrong with his father’s behaviour. He just wasn’t ‘much of a talker’, Brian’s phrase to counter her furious nightly whispers.
Julia had wondered if she was especially unwelcome because she was not Irish, not Catholic. But in truth, she came to figure that it didn’t much matter one way or the other. Once they crossed his threshold, Jeremiah gave people things to do, as if, in a way, they could have no other reason for being there in the first place. He had even tried it with Julia – handing her a mop and bucket one day, his eyes grazing the floor meaningfully. ‘Not one hello, or welcome, or how are you,’ she had hissed to Brian later in bed, ‘but a bloody bucket thrust into my hand.’ Brian had laughed. That meant she was accepted, he had tried to explain. Shared work – a communion of sorts. Julia had remained sceptical, but she did wash the floor, for Brian’s sake.
Over the years, she had built up a barrier of indifference to Jeremiah. Resigned to visits when she had forced herself to tick off the days, and sometimes minutes too, until they could return to civilization again. Resentment growing again once Sam was also of an age to follow Jeremiah’s terse commands with an eagerness she had never encountered at home.
And now the strangest thing. Here she was, hoping to stay for an indeterminate time with this least comforting of men. Yet, the last few months had brought about a hasty resketching of Jeremiah in her mind. She had come to wonder if his own griefs throughout the years had made him so diamond hard. There was something in that she could identify with, something familiar amid all the estrangement of recent days. Perhaps it was a longing for his silence which had drawn her here so inexorably. At a time when everyone was trying to find some words of consolation, she had known instinctively that he would offer none. Perhaps, in his own taciturn way, he understood.
When Jeremiah returned he was carrying a small tin pail. He switched on the single, shadeless light overhead. Its wattage was low, serving only to illuminate the immediate area in a shadowy, orange light. He quickly set about the fire, soaking balls of paper in petrol first and heaping the turf on to the flames. As the warmth hit her face, Julia shivered and realized that she was quite frozen.
Jeremiah moved about behind her. She heard him wash his hands. Then he washed the dirty dishes within the sink. After a while she detected the acrid smell of lard melting on the stove in the back kitchen followed by the unmistakable odour of frying fish. The dank, dark kitchen seemed to come alive with the scent. She transferred her attention from the turf to the perfumed air around her. She had had no idea that fish could smell like that. By the time Jeremiah emerged carrying two plates, Julia’s mouth was full of saliva. She had not eaten for nearly two days. The time it took to load up her car and travel here.
He cut slabs from a crusty batch of bread, lathered them with butter and laid them directly on the table. There was a herring and one potato cake for each of them on the plates. He put two forks beside the plates, sat down and began to eat. Without looking at her he nodded toward the tin pail by the sink. ‘Goat’s. She gave a bit if you want it.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.