Once more, she echoes my thoughts, and somehow manages to laugh, even when she is sad. When people are far away like that,how can we be sure that they even exist anymore? Perhaps she has an answer for that. Perhaps she could let me know whether anybody from Kilmarra is still in Kilmarra, if it exists as it did, or if it still exists at all. You know? Like does the butcher still open for an hour on Sundays, and do your sisters still remember my name? I look at her for a long moment and allow myself to move a little bit closer to her warmth.
Betty shifts her weight, moves away from me, out of the doorframe to step onto the grass, bending down to stroke the yard cat and then leaning against the house.
‘If you were to go, I’m sure Tom and Jack would look after themselves. They might be encouraged to be married.’
Something about this puts a twinge of insecurity through me. As though Tom and Jack don’t really need me, as though they could replace me with any woman they came by. And I’m sure it means nothing, but I feel it as something.
No, she wouldn’t want me to leave the country. As unknown as we are to each other, she would miss me calling down in the evenings. This new and precious routine is all that is pulling us out of the winter. She would miss me. And I would miss her.
‘Tom used to talk about going off somewhere, I don’t know why he never did.’
This seems to intrigue her, but I don’t want to tell her all the reasons that Tom’s life hasn’t worked out the way that he wanted it to. There isn’t time. Moreover, I don’t know if I’m allowed. Before she can ask about it, I put the topic of conversation back to myself.
‘I wouldn’t want to go all that way just to find myself in the same situation as I’m in here. Cooking and cleaning and looking after people. Even if it was as someone’s wife.’
Surprising, how quickly that came to me. It seems rather a fully formed opinion to have spat out. I didn’t know I felt that way.
‘What harm is it being someone’s wife?’
She asks, and I wonder what other opinions would come out if I let myself speak. The truth is too embarrassing. That I’ve never had a chance at being somebody’s wife, and so the idea of it has made me bitter. I wonder if she would still want to be my friend if she knew what a failure my romantic life has been.
Would she understand it if I said there was never anyone with enough patience for me? That there was never anyone worth my patience? When I can scarcely hold on to friends, what chance have I with a lover?
There was one short week with the father of a holidaying family from Leitrim. I thought that I would have to fight myself not to fall for him. That I would want so much more than a week, and that when it was over I would think of him all the time; that I’d be crying into my pillow, trying to feel the last of him on my lips. But in the end, a week of being pressed up against him was more than enough. Besides the very odd occasion that somebody mentions Leitrim, I don’t think of him at all. That was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a relationship – what do you make of that?
I couldn’t really count the afternoon with the man whose name I can’t recall in Cork city.
Or the scattered winter nights I shared with Niall Schumaker, an unmarried schoolteacher in Fernmore. He was good to me, he really liked me. I could tell. But there was more passion in five minutes of conversation with Milly Hayes. More love in just the suggestion of your smile. Imagine. Pathetic.
I don’t remember these affairs often, or with any particular fondness. They were exciting when they were happening, but as soon as each one ended I was just embarrassed.
Just things that happened, void of romance. Void of meaning. I tryto convince myself that I used those men in the same way that they used me. I wouldn’t want Betty to know that I had so little regard for my virginity that I threw it at the first man that came my way.
It’s too much for me to think about, and so I know it would be too much to tell her. Instead I wait for myself to reveal another new opinion.
‘There’s nothing wrong with being somebody’s wife. I think I just want to try being independent, that’s all.’
It sounds like an impressive, forward-thinking idea; at the very least, it smooths over my mistake. So I commit to it, even when, really, independence is the very last thing that I want. What I actually want is for somebody to hold on to me so tightly that we become one thing, never separating. To be married with children tying me to somebody. To have a sister, the bond of blood keeping us together. To have anything more than meaningless sex and adulterated friendships.
‘You could have independence, Anna. Of course you could.’
How quickly and easily she validates me. That’s what it is. I realise now, Betty validates me. She makes me feel like a person. That’s why I want to be around her so badly. She sees me as new, without my siblings and without my past, and makes me feel like I am my own clean thing. My own woman. That perhaps I don’t need to lean on my brothers so much. Perhaps they don’t define me. Perhaps my past doesn’t need to follow me. Exhilarating. Betty could show me how to leave everything that happened behind me. How to close the door on it and start living a new life.
‘But I’m glad to hear you’ve no intention of immigrating. It’s nice to have a new family in the town. The young people are always leaving, it’s good to have a few coming in for a change.’
Betty could be the person I’ve been looking for. Somebody with patience for me. Somebody worth my patience. Who could give memore than a few scattered nights, more than a week of her time. Who might want to stay in my life, always. Don’t you think that I deserve that? Suddenly I want to hug her, to have her wrapped around me. So tightly that I would melt into her skin, and stay warm inside her for a while.
‘Would you ask your small girl to call up to me after school on Monday? I want her to make a few Brigid’s Crosses for me. ’Tis a way easier for little nimble fingers.’
I nod, in awe. What a good woman. Taking my worry off me. Taking my responsibility off me.
Leaving her house, I feel a foot taller than everybody. Ready to enjoy myself, to be a new person.
And I think of her hair caught on the grass. If she ever does that again, I will catch the hair and keep it in my pocket.
The sky is darkening as Tom and I go.
‘Would you ever immigrate, Tom?’
