Sowing The Seeds Of Love Part 26

'Do you think they'd mind?'

'Mind! You must be joking. That lot would sell their own children for a chance to get a look inside my house. I have to warn you, though, some of them are insufferably bossy. They'll probably give you a pain in the neck trying to take over.'

'I'd be delighted if somebody took over.'

So it was decided.

The sale of the garden to Uri proceeded without a hitch. Uri busied himself with building a house in the apple tree for the children and nailing up a bird box to house the robins through the winter months.

And then one day the bombsh.e.l.l. It didn't look like a bombsh.e.l.l. Just a harmless piece of paper. It was the words that were written on it that were so incendiary.

'Can he do this?' Aoife spoke in hushed tones to Uri. They were both watching Mrs Prendergast, who was hunched over her kitchen table, her head in her hands, a pose that was utterly at odds with her usual composure.

'According to my solicitor, yes, he can. Doesn't mean he'll succeed, of course, but he can slow things down.'

'b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' said Aoife, in even more hushed tones. It wasn't for her to call Lance names, what with his poor wounded mother sitting just a few feet away. Lance was accusing Uri of duress of forcing Mrs Prendergast to sell the garden to him. It was almost laughable: the idea of anyone forcing Mrs Prendergast to do anything. But it must have felt to her like the ultimate betrayal. Lance had literally turned around and bitten the hand that had fed him since he was an infant. He must need the money very badly. Still...

Uri looked furious, in that particular way he had, his face concentrated and fiercely blank. He muttered something in a language Aoife didn't understand, then sat down beside Mrs Prendergast and put his arm around her shoulders, his face close to hers. Aoife left them to it.

She walked out into the garden straight into Seth. Typical.

'Have you heard?' she said. At least they had something constructive to discuss.

'Yes. What a b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

'As usual, Seth, your descriptive powers are spot on.'

She didn't like the way Seth was smiling at her. In her opinion, he wasn't trying hard enough to pretend that everything was normal between them. She was trying her hardest. 'I hope Mrs P can cope with this.' She spoke rapidly, not wanting to leave any gaps for him to fill with words she didn't want to hear.

'Of course she'll cope. She's a tough old bird.'

'You reckon?'

'Yeah. You can bet she's been through a lot worse than this in her life. You can see it in her. She's like one of those ladies the British Empire was founded upon.'

She smiled in spite of herself and hoped he was right.

'Have you seen my dad?'

'He's in there with her now. Which reminds me. Where exactly is he originally from?'

'You mean you've never asked him?'

'I've wanted to but I get the impression he doesn't like talking about his past.'

'He's German. Anyway, I'd better leave them alone if she's upset.'

'They're getting close, aren't they?'

'I suppose they are.'

'Are they "an item", do you think?'

'Couldn't tell you.'

'Would it bother you if they were?'

'Why should it?'

'You know, because he's your dad and she's not your mum.'

'If it makes him happy then I'm happy. A person can't mourn for ever.'

This was said very pointedly and it annoyed Aoife that she had walked straight into it. 'I've got to go,' she said, feeling his eyes bore into her back as she walked away.

It wasn't just his mother who was affected by Lance's legal action. The whole future of the garden was once again in jeopardy. Aoife and Uri had been in the middle of their autumn bulb selection. What now?

'It'll never work, what he's doing,' said Uri. 'No jury will believe it.'

But Aoife noticed that his enthusiasm for their proposed planting extravaganza had waned considerably. Maybe they'd all lost a bit of their zest.

But the plants didn't know what was going on so they did what they always did and kept on growing. There was a renewed poignancy to their loveliness. The gra.s.s was that little bit greener, the colours of the flowers magnified, their scent more intense. Surely this was a change in the perception of those who beheld them and not a trick of nature.

33.

Myrtle found the west of Ireland rugged. It reminded her somehow of Martin's dark features and it seemed fitting that he'd been nurtured by this land.

They arrived in the town a little before eleven on a Thursday morning. The main street was surprisingly dense with people and cattle. 'Fair day,' said Martin. 'I forgot all about it.' He seemed pleased, though. They drove slowly behind a herd of cows, their bony haunches swinging from side to side, surprisingly high. City girl Myrtle had never seen an udder so close, so heavily veined, so pendulous. Although the car windows were shut tight, the stench of excrement was vile. Martin revved at the last of the herd to scare the beast out of the way.

'Stop!' she said.

'What?'

The town's women were out in force, bearing buckets of water and stiff brushes to scrub the dung off their walls. The few men who were left were scattered around in small groups. Conversations stopped and heads turned as the Humber Hawk advanced slowly along the street. Several men nodded in Martin's direction and he raised his fingers from the steering-wheel in salute.

The houses thinned out and the countryside deepened. The rain fell, slanting, and Martin was quiet.

'How far now?'

'Not far.'

He hadn't mentioned the incident on the boat. Neither had she. She doubted he remembered. She wished she didn't.

The land was bad here, Martin had told her, the soil thin. The fields were small and uneven, bounded by low stone walls. Here and there the murky green was interrupted by the black and white of a cow. Apart from that, nothing much. Hedgerows and stones. A lowering grey sky.

'Bleak, isn't it?' Martin was looking at her, his eyes searching.

She chose her words carefully. 'I expect it's nice in the summertime.'

He looked straight ahead, his expression gloomy. 'I'm never coming back.'

Before long and without indicating, Martin turned abruptly down a narrow lane. The going got considerably b.u.mpier as the car careered over numerous potholes. It wasn't much more than a dirt track with a rough line of gra.s.s growing up the centre. And then a long, low, whitewashed cottage loomed before them.

'Is this it?'

'Yes.'

'But it's not thatched.' She was amazed at how disappointed she was.

'I bought my mother a new slate roof two summers ago.' His pride was evident.

He stopped the car and they both got out and stretched. The rain felt like icy pinp.r.i.c.ks on Myrtle's face and hands. As Martin got their bags out of the boot, the front door to the cottage a half-door like the one in her geography book opened inwards. An old woman came out. Myrtle, feeling suddenly shy, stayed by the car and let Martin greet her first. She was tiny, the top of her head only reaching Martin's chest. She had to raise her arms almost vertically to clasp his face in her hands. She must be Martin's mother, although it seemed improbable that she could ever have borne such a hulk of a man, never mind his five siblings. After a brief exchange, Martin beckoned to her. She walked slowly towards them.

'Mam,' he said, 'this is Marnie.'

It wasn't until much later that it dawned on her he'd introduced her as Marnie. That was his name for her. She was his now.

As Myrtle drew close she tried not to look shocked at the woman's ancient appearance. She couldn't have been more than a decade older than her own mother, but the difference in years between them looked more like thirty. The lines on her face were many and deep, and her smile showed that several of her teeth were missing. But it was warm and genuine and made Myrtle feel welcome. She was heartened and relieved as she entered the cottage, and realized how pathetically she wanted this woman to like her.

It wasn't much warmer inside than out, despite the peat fire. A couple of chairs were huddled around it.

'Sit yourself down, my dear. You're very welcome.'

Myrtle was offered the one and only armchair in the room.

'Let me take your coat.'

She would have loved to keep it on but, ever polite, she slipped it off and handed it to Martin's mother.

'You must be parched.'

' I beg your pardon?'

'I'm sure you'd like a cup of tea after your journey.'

'That would be lovely, thank you.'

Myrtle watched in fascination as Mrs Prendergast removed a teapot from a hook above the open fire and poured tea into a cup.

'Bread?'

'Please.'

She cut a thick, rough slice of sodabread and b.u.t.tered it thickly, then handed it to Myrtle.

'Thank you. Did you make this yourself?'

The other woman gave her a strange look. 'I did, of course.'

Myrtle sipped the stewed tea, absorbing everything, while Martin and his mother conversed. The room was a fair size, with a high arched wooden ceiling. The furniture was spa.r.s.e a dresser with crockery, a rough kitchen table with chairs, the armchair she sat in and the rocking-chair in which Mrs Prendergast rocked, a black and white cat purring companionably on her lap. That was it. The floor was linoleum and the open fire appeared to be the only source of heating and cooking. Behind the rocking-chair there was an intriguing curtained alcove, which Myrtle later discovered was where Martin's mother slept.

Photographs were handed around. A head-and-shoulders shot of a man in a police uniform Martin's brother Joe in Boston. Various American grandchildren the offspring of Vincent and Kevin in New York. A picture taken last summer on the occasion of Martin's sister marrying the solicitor from Castlebar.

'Oh, wait till I show you.' Martin's mother got up from her seat in an excited manner, tipping the indignant cat on to the lino. Myrtle looked at Martin, who nodded, and she followed them out to the side of the house where a small, rough extension had been added. Martin's mother opened the door and stood aside. 'Look,' she said, her eyes shining.

Martin stuck his head in first. 'That's great, Mam.'

It was Myrtle's turn. She felt Mrs Prendergast's expectant eyes on her as she peered inside. What to say? 'It's lovely.'

The correct response apparently, as Mrs Prendergast beamed before closing the door reverently and walking ahead of them back into the house.

Myrtle looked up at Martin. 'It's a lavatory,' she whispered, baffled.

'Think yourself lucky. Six months ago you'd have had to go in a hole in the ground.'

They were only back in the house a few minutes when the front door opened again. In walked a man in his thirties, wellingtons, donkey jacket, Aran jumper, cloth cap. A couple of hens ran in with him and he whooshed them out with his feet.

'Martin!' he said, taking off his cap and flinging it on to the table.

Martin got up and the two men shook hands warmly.

'Good to see you. How are you keeping?'

'I'm well. And you?'

'Mighty. Just sold a heifer down at the fair.'

'Did you get a good price for her?' said Mrs Prendergast.

'BeG.o.d, I did.'

The man looked over Martin's shoulder at Myrtle. Martin followed his gaze. 'Sean, this is my wife, Marnie. Marnie, this is my brother, Sean.'

He nodded at her. 'Pleased to meet you.'

So, this was the elder brother Sean. The one who'd got the farm. He was similar to Martin but a shadow of him, his looks not as striking, the jawline a little less defined, the eyes a little less blue. He was shorter than his younger brother too. Less powerful-looking. But he had the same outdoor, craggy look. Myrtle wondered how he'd got home from the fair and realized he must have walked all the way. At first she expected him to be intimidated by her, imagining she must seem quite the sophisticate. But Sean possessed a quiet confidence, and a certainty about who he was that made her feel gauche. He was a man completely comfortable in his own skin, a claim she had never been able to make about herself.

The two men went out to admire the car while Mrs Prendergast made preparations for dinner, Myrtle helping when she was let. She was allowed to dig up the carrots, onions and potatoes from the plot at the back of the house. It reminded her of the Victory Garden her mother had kept during the war. She brought back the vegetables and Martin's mother chopped them for the stew.

The day pa.s.sed pleasantly and uneventfully. Myrtle was amazed at how relaxed she felt, staring into the flames of the peat fire as the short day darkened and closed in around them. She gazed at her husband, who sat at the opposite side of the fire, staring into his own private flames. She felt such an overwhelming surge of love for him that she thought her heart would burst. That night in bed, the bed that as a child he'd shared with his brother Joe, Martin reached for her, but only for rea.s.surance: his mother was on the other side of the wall.

'You don't think any less of me, do you, Marnie?'