Let Them Lie, page 3
Seeing the pain flicker across her mother’s face, Aoife wanted to do something practical to help.
‘How about I tackle some weeding? I bet Sam doesn’t spare Karol to weed your flower garden.’
‘Indeed, he does not. Sam is just like your father – he just doesn’t see the point of garden flowers, but Karol does keep my herb garden tidy for me. Yes, I’d love it if you would make a start on it. I find my knees aren’t able for kneeling to weed these days.’
‘By the way, Mam, when are Kate and the kids coming?’
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? She rang when you were out to say she’d get here at about six.’
As Aoife mounted the steps to the back garden, she noticed the neglect. Her mother’s arthritis must be troubling her because the flower garden was suffocating under a vicious onslaught of weeds. Chickweed – or Stellaria media – she was pleased to remember the Latin name – was leading the attack, strangling and entwining everything in its path. She spent a satisfying half-hour ripping it off the defenceless flowers. As she dumped the weeds in the hedge, she remembered her father telling her that chickweed could be eaten, but she didn’t feel her mam would appreciate her whipping up a batch of pesto with it or sprinkling it into a salad. She smiled as she imagined the look on Sam’s face if presented with it.
Surveying the amount of work yet to be done, Aoife sighed. Resolutely, she mounted a rear-guard action on the weeds from the far wall. As a reward for her efforts, she would allow herself a break when she had cleared at least one bed from its odious colonisers. As she worked, she noticed Karol entering the garden. He was carrying a shovel and a pickaxe. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly three o’clock. She had been weeding for close to an hour and the flower bed was only half-finished. Deciding to redouble her efforts, she promised herself that she would get this bed finished within the next half-hour. Then she would make herself a nice cup of tea and have a sweet treat.
In the distance, she heard the slicing sounds of Karol digging. She worked rapidly if a little less accurately and soon, feeling pleased with her efforts, was ready to take a break. As she headed for the house, she passed Karol and offered to bring him a cup of tea. He had taken off his jumper while he worked. He looked tired. Aoife wondered what kind of work he did back in Poland. His skinny frame didn’t seem fit for hard physical labour.
Her mam, busy ironing, declined the offer of a cuppa. Aoife filled two mugs with tea and cut generous slices of her mam’s gingerbread. Heading back to the garden, she signalled Karol to join her on the weathered garden seat. He perched beside her awkwardly, giving an impression of being about to take flight at any moment. But he gulped the tea and ate the gingerbread with relish.
Struggling to make conversation, she asked, ‘Do you get back to Poland often?’
‘I went back at Christmas.’
‘I suppose your family misses you terribly.’
He nodded but was silent.
She was wondering if he’d even understood her until he said, ‘I have a wife in Poland, Karina, and our baby we call Maja. I miss them. But it is good to have a job here. Sam is a good boss – very fair, so I am happy to be here.’ A warm smile lit up his face as he pulled out his phone and showed her a picture of a pretty, dark-haired woman holding a baby of about nine months. They were sitting in a sunlit garden or park. Both baby and mother were smiling.
‘They’re lovely,’ she said.
Nodding and smiling, Karol replaced the phone in his jacket. Then gulping down the last of the tea, he headed back to where he was digging.
She watched him go. Gracefully, he picked up his shovel and resumed his efforts. She watched for a while, appreciating the smooth rhythm of his body as he worked. Eventually, her conscience prodded her back to her weeding. Besides, although there was plenty of sunshine, she was getting cold.
Rolling up her sleeves, she started on the next bed. It was standing up better to the weeds. The shrubs here were better established. As she worked, she daydreamed. When her father was alive and he set her the task of weeding, she used to imagine the weeds were an enemy launching an assault on a village, and she was a mercenary who was going to liberate the poor villagers. She allowed herself to slip back into this childish fantasy until she noticed it wasn’t only the weeds she was ripping out in her enthusiasm.
Her thoughts turned to her wedding. She still hadn’t got a dress. All they had done was to book the church, the hotel, and of course a band. They would have to organise themselves or things would end up in a shambles. Would Kate be willing to help? The four-year age gap separating them seemed less now that they were adults, but it would be nice to spend more time together. It was hard to get Kate on her own; she was so busy with the kids and Kenny. Her sister had always been there to help her through the minor crises of adolescence. She handed over money when her rent was short in college and gave gentle advice if asked. But it struck her how little she knew about her sister. For example, was Kate happy in her marriage?
Married at twenty and a mother by twenty-one. What did Kate see in Kenny? He was pleasant enough, but he seemed such a nonentity. He mooched around, found a perch, and blended into the background. Trying to engage him in conversation was agonizingly tedious. The only memorable conversation they had was about music. Unlike her, he was a big Country music fan and was amazingly knowledgeable about it. She had been so startled by his enthusiasm and passion for the genre that she faked interest too. It was a revelation to hear him talk so much and with such enthusiasm. The downside of that conversation was his insistence on gifting her with country music CDs and albums for subsequent birthday and Christmas gifts. Connor had thought she was a fan after seeing her collection. She was astounded one day to hear Kate say how fond Kenny was of her. Maybe she should make more of an effort to get to know him better – after all, there must be more to him than his taste in music.
As she continued to work, her back ached. Standing up to stretch, she noticed Karol staring into the hole he was digging. Then he turned his head and beckoned to her energetically. Glad of an excuse to abandon the weeding, she ambled over.
‘See what I have found,’ he said, pointing down.
She looked and saw the skeletal remains of a dog and beside it a package wrapped in black polythene, half-covered in clay. It must have been where Polly, their dad’s old dog, was buried. Excitement swept over her – what could the package be?
‘Hurry, Karol, lift it out!’
He jumped down into the pit and, scrambling about, scraped the package free and passed it up. She grabbed it eagerly, dying to examine it, but offered him a hand up out of the deep pit. He shook his head and scrambled up, brushing mud from his clothes.
She carried the box over to the bench where she had just lately enjoyed her tea break. Eagerly she peeled off the tightly wrapped black-plastic covering. It revealed what appeared to be a battered yellow biscuit tin. Its colour was faded by long immersion in wet clay, but it kept a recognisable buttery tinge. The eroded lettering on the tin was long past recognition. Her excitement subsided. It was too much to expect it to be a treasure trove. Probably Kate or Sam had buried a time capsule as children, and it had been long forgotten. Still, it was buried too deeply surely, to be the work of children.
Her attempts to open it were defeated as it was rusted shut. She called out to Karol, who was watching from beside the grave.
‘Do you have a knife?’
Karol patted down his pockets and produced a small penknife. She used the sharp blade to prise the lid open. It took a bit of an effort and she squealed as she slit her thumb. Bright blood dripped over the tin, but the lid loosened, and she felt it give.
CHAPTER 3
The lid wobbled, and Aoife pulled it off and threw it to one side. Karol fussed over her bleeding thumb. Sticking it in her mouth, she stared at the contents of the box. Inside was a small, discoloured, cloth flour-bag. Not wanting to get blood on it, she dug in her jeans pocket, found a paper tissue and wrapped it around her thumb. She fumbled with the bag, which was knotted with coarse twine and wouldn’t open. This time she got Karol to use the knife. She watched with mounting excitement as he slit the twine and pulled the opening apart.
He moved aside to let her examine the contents. Although he said nothing, she sensed his curiosity.
She upended the bag and watched as its contents tumbled out – a little dolphin earring, a ring, a scarf, a lock of hair tied with a shoelace, a tube of lipstick, and a hardback notebook. Aoife sagged a little with disappointment. She had been hoping for treasure in old coins or jewels, perhaps. Still, this was intriguing.
Karol replaced his knife in his pocket. Sensing his disappointment, she thanked him for his help. He left the garden, presumably to fetch Nell’s body.
She examined the notebook. It was about the size of a paperback. The cover was red leather. Carefully, she opened it. Although the tin was airtight, some dampness had caused the pages to stick together. She didn’t want to damage it by forcing them apart, but from what she could see of the writing the script was small and neat. Once more she felt excitement course through her. As she held it, she struggled to see if there was a name on the flyleaf, but her finger started to bleed, and the paper soaked up her blood like a sponge.
Karol caught her attention as he reappeared carrying a sack containing the body of Nell. She walked over to him and watched as he dropped the stiff bundle into the open grave. Sickened, she watched the body bounce as it hit the ground. Then she stood back as Karol filled in the pit. In moments, the sack was covered with black soil.
Karol stamped on the grave. He picked up his spade and, nodding to her, left the garden.
Poor Nell. It seemed wrong not to have Sam and her mother present for the burial. Perhaps she should have called them before Karol filled in the grave. Well, it was too late now.
Glancing at her watch, she decided she had done enough gardening. Replacing the items in the box, she headed back to the house and left it on the hall table.
Her mother had nodded off with a newspaper on her lap, her lined face soft with the vulnerability of sleep. A protective, almost maternal tenderness swept over Aoife. Agnes had not had an easy life, widowed in her late forties with three children to bring up and a farm to run. Had there been any men in her mother’s life since her dad’s death? She had no recollection of her mother going out, never mind dating when she was growing up. It must have been very lonely for her. Aoife tried to imagine how she would feel if anything happened to Connor, and her heart lurched uncomfortably. Poor Mam, channelling all her love into her children, the only thing she had left of her husband. She tried to imagine what she must have gone through over the lonely years of her widowhood and made her mind up to be a more loving daughter.
The sound of her approach must have disturbed her mother as she gave a small gasp and opened her eyes. For a moment she stared blankly at her daughter and then smiled.
‘What time is it, pet?’
‘It’s gone four. Would you like a cup of tea, Mam?’
Agnes shook her head. ‘No tea for me. I’d best be thinking about getting something ready for Sam’s supper. I thought I’d make a few sandwiches for Kate and the young ones when they arrive. To tide them over till after the Mass this evening.’
‘You sit here and I’ll get something ready, Mam,’ said Aoife.
But, before she could move, her mother had launched herself to her feet.
‘You’ve been slaving for hours in the garden, love. Why don’t you put your feet up?’
‘Ah no, I’m fine.’
Her mother headed for the kitchen, then paused to ask, ‘By the way, did Karol get Nell buried?’
About to open her mouth to tell her about the box, Aoife hesitated.
Instead, she said, ‘Yeah, we buried Nell in the back garden. You know what – I think I will lie down for a few minutes. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.’
She retrieved the tin from the hall table and took it upstairs with her.
She needed a shower. The water was hot, and she lathered soap generously over her body. Her cut thumb throbbed, robbing her shower of pleasure. She turned the water off and, reaching for a towel, dried off briskly.
Searching the bathroom cabinet she found a plaster, and awkwardly applied it to her injured thumb.
She pulled on fresh underwear and a tracksuit top and leggings, fetched her hair dryer and dried her hair.
Sitting on the bed, her curiosity mounted as she opened the box once more. Examining the items, she wondered why someone would have buried them. They seemed odd things to place in a time capsule if that was what it was. The hair looked human and was almost black and slightly coarse, and the shoelace holding it together was also dark. Who would bury a lock of hair? Perhaps it belonged to a girl who had died, and her lover buried the jewellery with her hair. It was all very odd. The earring, a plastic pink dolphin, seemed an unremarkable item to bury in a time capsule, similarly the pink lipstick which looked well used, and the scarf although colourful and pretty was made of polyester. The most interesting item apart from the notebook was the little gold Claddagh ring. It was small, clearly meant for daintier fingers than hers and, as she inspected it, she noticed it had the initials PF engraved on the inside.
She turned her attention to the notebook. Its leather had dulled to a faded red colour and its pages clung together as though unwilling to give up their secrets. Aoife smiled at the fanciful nature of her thoughts, but felt renewed determination to unravel this mystery. Rummaging in her make-up bag, she found a nail file. Carefully she slid the file between the first and second pages, slowly working to release them from their damp embrace.
The pages were covered in cramped handwriting. The writing was in ink, a fountain pen most likely, the handwriting free-flowing but very tiny. It would be difficult to decipher. With mounting excitement, she began to read.
I’ve made so many attempts to write my account and each time I’ve started I couldn’t get what was in my head to surrender to the page. I felt terrified that she would read it. Strange that the first accounting I made to paper, I also feared being read. But if that Harpy came across my scribbling, I know for sure she would make good her threat and consign me to the mental hospital or perhaps to jail. So, caution was my byword and after I had written I would burn the pages and for a time feel peace.
Aoife felt the hairs on her arms rise. Who or what was the Harpy?
Freedom came eventually but dull grey liberty it was, until the day my love came into my drab existence and transformed it into a Life. The joy, the light I delighted in made me whole again and I believed I could be the man she wanted me to be. For years I felt no need to soak my pain and my cure onto the page. That is, until now. Paradise had fissures, and in those dark times I had to return to old ways.
Aoife was puzzled. This had the atmosphere of a gothic novel. Was that what it was?
It was loneliness that once more broke me and made me unburden myself at least onto the blank page. I have kept my secret for a long time now. The burden has not lessened. The strain of preserving my known life with this darkness that I have within is causing me more trouble with each passing month. I need – I must speak, or at least in this journal find some outlet. I fear I will burst, explode, or implode with the vastness of my secret and the deceptions I carry out daily.
I want to relive those terrifying, momentous days when I was a giant upon the earth. I had the power of life or death over those lost souls. I am lonely with the weight of the secret, yet to share it would mean absolute ruin for me, but also for the others.
Aoife stirred uneasily. What the hell! This story was getting creepier by the minute. What exactly had the writer done?
The others are a burden I cannot leave down. Sometimes as I lie beside her, I long to reach over and reveal to her my true nature. But I know she would not understand – that my words would first puzzle and then frighten her. Her mind cannot comprehend how I am. My secret would not fill her with admiration but with terror and she would turn her face from mine in horror. I feel the pain of this separation, this gulf between my need to share and her incapacity to understand.
Aoife stopped reading, her initial curiosity and excitement now tempered with a dose of trepidation. Who had written this? It was sounding distinctly sinister. Was it a diary or was it an attempt at writing a horror novel? She continued reading but with some reluctance.
So, I have chosen a safer means of revisiting the past. I suppose, too, I need to leave some record of my deeds. Why, I don’t know. For now, I will begin at the beginning, my beginning.
I was born in pain. My aunt said that I emerged screaming like a demon arriving into the world, my mother’s cries and mine conjoined. The birth was hard and my mother, torn and battered, never had another child again, whether through choice or birth injuries I will never know. My father died when I was three, so I have little recollection of him. But he left my mother with a small farm and seven children to rear on its meagre fields. Survival was what our life was all about. White-knuckle survival, staggering from one mealtime to the next. Somehow, she did it. She fed and clothed us and sent us to school. There was no famine of the belly, only of the heart. We were love-starved because all of Mother’s energy was used on just surviving. Many would say that, of course, her valiant attempts to rear us were a deep expression of her love, but I felt impoverished. Perhaps that’s why – no, I cannot blame what I have become on my mother like some sad excuse.
At least in those early days, I had the companionship of my brothers and sisters. They were older than me and far too busy to bother with a small child, except for C. She tried to look after me and give me the affection Mother never offered. I once asked C. why Mother disliked me so much and she lied and said I was imagining things. That of course Mother loved me, she loved us all, she just found it hard to show it. But I knew that although Mother was harsh and demanding of all her children, she didn’t withhold her emotions from me and they were of dislike, even hatred. I vaguely knew it was something I had done, but whenever I came close to remembering, my mind would shrink away. So not even C. would answer my questions about why Mother hated me.
