James grew them from seeds, which were sent to him from Texas, America. To be honest, they look to me like they are gone past their best, slightly wrinkled at the surface. But they aren’t mouldy either. What do I know?
I suppose James envisioned the peppers being eaten in a meal. However, between us, we can’t think of what to put them in. Bettysays the best thing to do is boil them, but they seem too special for that. Surely there isn’t any harm in eating them raw.
And so, we sit around the kitchen table eating these peppers, uncooked. Not saving them for anything special, rather, making this ordinary moment into something special. Bright yellow and green. James wrote that they can grow to a ripeness that turns them red. It’s a sweet, sort of earthy taste. Not like the pepper you’d sprinkle onto the dinner, not at all. These are the size of a hand, maybe a little bit less, and very light on the stomach. I suppose that is what they want in the hot weather of Texas, I’m not sure how much call James would have for them over in Northampton.
I wouldn’t be in a rush to try them again. But isn’t it amazing that I’ve come to a point in my life where I am tasting imported vegetables that started as seeds all the way in America?
‘The lads must eat this sort of thing all the time in New York.’
Betty says, talking about her brothers. Her face fills up with happiness, and immediately then with sadness. Although I try to keep to myself, and to remain immersed in the flavour and crunch of the peppers, her face is more captivating. If I had to distil women to one thing, it would be a face like this. The intense and easy union of joy and despair. What would Mammy have made of these peppers, I wonder.
It’s hard for me to believe that these are real people and that this is real food. That this is my life, you know? How quickly it has all changed. I never met anybody so generous. I never felt more grateful. It’s Bill, glorious Bill. A genius of a man, so genuine and generous, giving his time and life and peppers to me. It’s as though he wants me to know everything that he knows, and to have every luxury that he has. If I only knew what good deed I did in my life that paired us up. Perhaps he is my guardian angel. Perhaps he has the spirit of my father guiding him, looking after us both.
And I must say, it all brings me back to you. Not in a sad way. I’m just aware that peppers are something you never got to try. Something you never even knew existed. It brings me back to the kitchen in Kilmarra, with you and Jack. On days when Anna wasn’t feeling right, you would come up and make our dinner. It all looks so warm in my memory, even though it hurt at the time. Washed carrots and parsnips scintillating on the side, bread batter in your cuticles.
Every time, you would show Peggy something new. Even if it was just something small, just to keep her involved and learning. You made her feel so special.
I can still see Jack peering over your shoulder, unbothered when you batted him away, asking to be shown a certain technique for peeling again. And you would show him, always, even when you knew he would never do the peeling and he would never really take it in. I think he used to just let on that he wanted to learn so you would slow down and make it all last longer. He was good for you, I think. Now that you’re gone, I really do know that ye were right for each other. His hand on the small of your back. The golden sun coming in the window. A shame.
I was green watching ye, I can admit that now. Absolutely green with envy. I’ll say it once: clearly, I was never in love with you, Lillian. But my God, I was head over heels for the idea of you. How swiftly it was all torn to the ground. I wonder will you get the chance to taste a pepper where you are. I blink away the slight pool that has gathered at my lashes and bring myself back to the small paradise of Betty’s kitchen. Hot coffee in my cup and a seat saved for me.
Loose tea, lemon curd, peppers. These are the wonders in my life today, all granted to me by Bill. I want to write a poem about this moment. I want Bill to grade and praise it. I want to write him music and prayers.
It isn’t that I worship him, just I want him to feel worshipped. I want him to feel how grateful I am. I want him to know what a good man he is, and how, in such a small amount of time, he has begun to repair the irreparable within me. I take another bite of the pepper. Isn’t it sweet to be here? For twenty-nine years I’ve been alive. For the last half an hour, I’ve lived.
Anna
HEAPS OF GOLDEN ONIONS, SOFTstalked carrots, stacks of eggs and bunches of flowers. A bright morning. The Saturday market here is much larger than in Kilmarra. Women call out to each other. Men knock into me as though they can’t see me. Peggy snatches her little hand out of mine. And Betty is just up ahead, moving in and out of sight. I like to keep an eye on her when I can. I like to take note of when she drops into Doyle’s. When the car is missing from her driveway, and if she comes back with groceries or new clothes in the boot. I notice when she goes on her evening walks with Ciara Moore. I watch from six pews back in Mass, and although I can only see the back of her head, her face is clear to me. Her thoughts are clear to me.
Everything moves fast. It’s hard to feel settled when she is out of my line of vision. All the big men smell of sweat, and somebody steps on my foot as I try to catch Peggy’s hand again. We push through the people, and I feel her trying to pull away from me. Among the crowd I realise how small she is. I hate the uneven line between being her sister and her parent. If I was only her sister, I could shout at her, I could push her down and run off without her. But I am not only her sister. There were days when I could drop Peggy over to you while I came into the market. You’d spend the afternoon reading to her, singing with her, showing her how to play your fiddle. Jack used to say you weresnooty for not sitting her in front of the television, remember? And you would smirk and tell him to feck off, that clever girls like Peggy shouldn’t waste their time with television. There was a time when you would smirk at me like that. Something got in the way, though, and then came the sad time when you only gave me polite, obliging smiles. Like you didn’t know me at all.
Betty appears in the crowd again, much closer than she was before. Too close, perhaps. I don’t want her to catch me, I just want to know what she’s up to. Who she’s with. Where she goes.
I lift Peggy onto my back. She is too big for this, we look stupid. She kicks me, but I hold on to her.
‘We’ll be faster like this.’
I say to her, and she buries her face into my hair, presumably mortified.
‘Faster to where? Where are we going?’
The benefit of being her big sister and her parent at once is that I can ignore her when it suits me. She stays quiet up on my back, as I wander around the market, seeing who Betty buys her messages from, who she makes small talk with and who she avoids. I just want to learn her better, in the ways she won’t tell me in words. A mass of people separates us. Wide backs and big coats, boots and caps. And then, a gap in the crowd. And Betty’s face, looking right back at me. She jumps back. Like she has seen a ghost.
I drop Peggy onto the ground, and she races to Betty.
‘Hello, pet!’
She says, kneeling down to Peggy’s height. Fussing over her. Pulling the cardigan up over her shoulders and rolling her sleeves down. It’s embarrassing for me to realise how scruffy Peggy looks, and know that Betty probably thinks this is my fault. Why doesn’t she fix my cardigan, too?
‘Anna, would you let Peggy come with me down to mine for a while? I’ve a big, long list of jobs she can help me with. We might go and see Ciara’s puppies!’
She says, and winks at Peggy. And I feel the wink like a knife through my muscle. But no, actually, no it’s fine. Peggy is bouncing at the thought of the puppies, the thought of an afternoon in Betty’s perfect home, and time away from me, I presume. I’m not jealous of how mad Peggy is for Betty; sure I’m the same myself.
‘Absolutely! Sure we’ll all go, will we?’
I say, and Betty hesitates for a second, but only to think of what Peggy can do first. The whole walk, Peggy holds Betty’s hand like a tiny child. They talk about baking and school and clothes. Things that they seem to have spoken about before, private jokes between the two of them that jump up to hit me in the face.
Down at Betty’s house, I take my usual seat at the table. And I relax.
