The Keeper of Secrets, page 12
We dithered over what to feed him. Angela did offer to feed him herself, but Mrs Kelland advised against it. I was inclined to agree with her but at the end of the day I only wanted what was best for Michael. In the end we settled on SMA formula milk. Michael took to his bottles, and I had the pleasure of feeding him. Sitting in my chair, Michael snuggled against my chest as I fed and winded him, his contented gurgles music to my soul.
Ed adored him. He hung over his bassinet every evening, admiring his downy cheeks and his shock of dark hair. Our son was very much loved and wanted. Our lives together were complete. It felt so right.
We worried about Angela of course. It took her a while to bounce back after the birth. She threw herself into work in the hotel, taking over most of my work as well as her own, giving me time to look after the baby. Mrs Kelland helped. She kept an eye on her, made sure she was eating right, but more importantly feeling right about giving us her baby.
“She is fine with her decision, Lizzie,” Mrs Kelland reassured me over tea and apple pie.
“Are you sure? I’m just so worried about her. What if having the baby has resurrected all those feelings she had for Vinnie Fisher? That scoundrel who put her in this position. She did love him once.”
“Don’t even mention his name. An excuse for a man, that’s what he is,” Mrs Kelland said. “Angela may have loved him once, but she doesn’t anymore. Love has to be nurtured, shared between two people, for it to survive. Her love for that guy never had a chance because it was never reciprocated. He used her, then abandoned her.”
“I hope you’re right. I really do.”
“Look how things turned out. You and Ed have your little family. The precious little boy has a mother and a father who will cherish him. And as for Angela, she knows she has made the right decision. Not only for her but for that little baby.”
Mrs Kelland was right of course. Angela bounced back. A little heavier, a little wiser but the old bubbly Angela emerged again, and we welcomed her back.
Michael was six months old when we made the journey back to Pensacola. We were all sad to leave the Kellands. Nuala was a true friend whose generosity I will always treasure. As for Mrs Kelland, we all cried when we said our goodbyes. Such a dynamo of a woman, she was an example to us all and we swore to keep in touch.
Back home we were treated to a hero’s welcome. Our house had been sublet while we were away. The tenants had looked after it well and left it in good condition. That wasn’t enough for Mrs Anderson. With Kate’s help they got it ready for us, cleaning it and polishing the floors and windows. As a final touch they strung the veranda with bunting and a large ‘welcome home’ sign.
Mrs Anderson cooed over Michael. It was touching to see her usually cross features soften when she looked at him.
“Why, Lizzie. Such a gorgeous boy. The spit of his father, of course. He looks just like Ed did as a baby.”
“He’s a real Anderson all right, Mom.” Angela grinned.
Which he was. We were not telling any lies in that regard. It helped that he looked like the Andersons. Not one person doubted his parentage. Not Ed’s parents or any of the neighbours and friends. Our secret was safe.
Chapter 27
Catherine McCarthy
The fact that Ma lived on another continent made it easy to keep the secret from her. I felt guilty writing that first letter home, announcing his birth, but leaving out the fact that I didn’t give birth to him. After that it became so much easier. When I wrote to her, telling her every detail of Michael’s life, I wrote as a doting mother and that is what I was. I adored that child, loved every inch of his sweet little body. The facts of his birth disappeared into the inner regions of my mind. To me, he was mine. I was his mother, Ed his father. We adored him.
There were days I wished I could talk to my mother face to face. I missed her advice. At times I was at a loss to know what to do with this little life I held in my arms. Was I feeding him right? Was I holding him right? Was he teething? Was he sick? Mrs Anderson assured me I was a great mother, that I had taken to motherhood like a duck to water, but I missed my mother. Ireland was so far away and the possibility of ever seeing her again was so remote.
She wrote to me every month without fail. Sometimes her letters were only one page long, but I treasured that page. Writing back was difficult at times. Between looking after our baby and keeping the household my days were long. But I was the happiest I had ever been. I loved being a mother, took pleasure in every bottle, every spoon feed. Hanging his washing on the line gave me joy. I sang as I swept the floor. Every evening Ed arrived home to a joyful household. His joy matched mine. We both felt blessed, humbled even by how happy we were.
Then a few months later I got the letter from Aunt Jean. I opened it, smiling broadly, anticipating all the frivolous news from Queenstown. How her girls were doing, stories about her grandchildren. Aunt Jean loved to pass on the gossip. I had to read the letter twice for it to make sense to me. My mother was dead. Aunt Jean wrote to tell me my mother was dead. She said it was sudden. Mum wasn’t ill, no warning signs at all. She just keeled over in the kitchen and was dead before she hit the floor. As I read her words for the second time, I felt my knees buckle under me. I slowly sank to the floor with the letter still clutched in my hand.
When Ed arrived in from work, I was still sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor staring blankly at the letter. Michael played around my feet with a saucepan lid and a wooden spoon. I was totally oblivious, totally shocked, catatonic I suppose you’d call it.
“Lizzie, what is it? What’s wrong?” Ed joined me on the floor.
Wordlessly I handed him the letter. I couldn’t articulate its contents. My mind was numb. The words, your mother is dead, circulated round and round in a never-ending loop. I couldn’t get past those words.
“Oh, Lizzie.” Ed pulled me into his arms. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
I looked at him, but I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. It was almost as if I had lost my mind, albeit temporarily. I couldn’t function. Ed pulled me to my feet and led me to a chair. He set about making me a strong cup of tea. Michael was tired and hungry at that stage. He pulled at my skirts, calling me, “Mama, Mama.”
It was his voice that penetrated my brain. It felt like someone was calling me out of a deep dream. The world was quiet with only the words on the page circulating, then suddenly I heard my baby’s calls, the kettle boiling on the stove, the chickens outside in the henhouse clucking in annoyance at something.
“My mother is dead,” I said to no one in particular. “I am an orphan.”
“You are not alone, honey,” Ed said. “You have me. You have Michael.”
I gasped. It felt like my life up until that point danced in front of my brain. The pain when Maggie died. My mother’s anguish. My father’s anger. Aunt Jean and her calming presence. Introducing Ed to my family. Aíne dying. The journey across the sea leaving everything and everyone I had ever known behind me. I looked down at my son, tugging on my skirts. Lifting him into my arms I inhaled his sweet baby breath. Tears choked me and I let them fall. Michael became upset and I couldn’t bear that.
“It’s okay, baby. Mama is okay. Let’s get you some dinner, yes?”
My son smiled at me. A wary, uncertain smile followed by a hug. Ed squeezed my shoulder and with that touch, I felt his love and support. I couldn’t wallow in my grief. Yes, I’d had a dreadful shock. It was so unexpected. But the shock had now subsided. Painful, intense grief would follow but for now I had a family to look after.
After we ate and I had settled Michael for the night, we sat on the veranda, listening to the crickets in the distance. I read Aunt Jean’s letter again. This time I cried. I couldn’t stop the flow. Ed held me and let me cry until I couldn’t cry anymore.
“I knew this day would come but I didn’t expect it to happen like this,” I said. “I knew the day I left Queenstown I would never see her again. But… I suppose a part of me hoped.”
Ed listened, one arm around my shoulder, the other holding a spare handkerchief.
“These past few years have been so hard on her. We were so happy in Primrose Cottage. She was so happy. Her and Da sang and danced. Don’t get me wrong, they worked hard but they were happy.” Another sob escaped me as memories flooded back.
“And then Maggie. Ma was so angry. When Maggie died, she lost her mind for a while. I swear she did. Aunt Jean brought her back to us.”
With the memory of those months when Aunt Jean moved into Primrose Cottage came the memory of Jimmy as a young boy.
“Poor Jimmy. We lost our sister, then our Da, now Ma. I have you and Michael, but Jimmy has no one.” The thoughts of Jimmy brought a fresh onslaught of tears.
Ed turned to me, his earnest face in shadow, his eyes deep pools. “Write to Jimmy. Tell him to come to us. There’s nothing to keep him in Ireland anymore.”
A faint stirring of hope wound around my chest. Jimmy, here in Florida. My brother living here with me. A yearning for home threatened to overwhelm me. That familiar wave of homesickness. In Ireland at this time of year, the farm workers would be flat out baling hay. Every field would have rolls of golden bales waiting to be taken away. Another month and the leaves on the trees would slowly change from worn-out green to gold, yellow and russet. The fun we had as children playing in the fallen leaves that settled on the ground around the cottage like a blanket in the autumn. There was a crispness in the air, berries on the hedges and full pantries.
Living in subtropical Florida, my son would never experience late summer or autumn the way I did. But when I found myself thinking like that, I reminded myself that he would have other memories about his childhood. They would be just as precious as mine, only different.
Ed was right. I needed my brother here with me. With Ma and Da both gone and the war over, there was nothing to keep him in Ireland. He needed a new direction. I was sure he would find it here in America. The land of opportunity.
Chapter 28
Jimmy
When Jimmy wrote to say he had booked his passage to America my heart leapt. It had been five years since I had set eyes on him. He was sailing into New York in August and planned to visit friends there but promised to make his way to Florida within a few months.
I waited expectantly week after week, watching out for the postman, anxious for word on when he would arrive. By the week before Christmas, I had given up hope.
“I don’t understand it, Ed, I haven’t heard a word from him. Not one letter since he left Ireland. What if something has happened to him?”
“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably working, trying to get enough money to travel this far south.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do, Lizzie. Jimmy is well able to look after himself. Don’t forget, he spent a couple of years fighting the British, then another year fighting in that bloody civil war. Your brother will turn up here when he’s good and ready.”
Ed was right of course. On Christmas Eve morning I went out to the henhouse to look for eggs. I had gathered an even dozen, placing them in my wicker basket, when I heard raised voices coming from the house. Next thing the kitchen window flew open, and Michael shouted out to me.
“Mom, come quick.” He closed the window quickly and disappeared from my line of vision. Tutting to myself, annoyed at being disturbed, I opened the back door.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
I didn’t recognise him at first. He was taller than I remembered. His face looked older than it should have, with the look of my father about him.
“Hello, Lizzie.”
His voice was deep, raw with emotion. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, frozen in the doorway staring at my not so little brother. Michael took the basket from me, touching my arm.
“Say something, Mom.”
“Jimmy,” I whispered.
I threw my arms around him, hugging him so tightly, slightly afraid that if I let go, he would disappear again.
“Where were you? I was so worried. I thought something had happened to you.” The questions tumbled out of my mouth, one after the other, not giving him time to answer even one. Eventually over tea and boiled eggs he filled us in on his adventures travelling from New York to Florida. We sat around the table laughing and talking. Every so often I leaned over and touched him. A tap on his arm or rub of his cheek, to convince myself that it was true, Jimmy was here in our home, with me. My little brother sat at my kitchen table, and I was ecstatic.
Of course, being Christmas Eve, he was laden down with gifts for us. There was a set of tin soldiers for Michael, a hip flask full of Irish whiskey for Ed, and a beautiful shawl for me. Then he gave me our mother’s wedding ring. For the second time that day I was struck dumb. I slipped the slim band of red gold onto the third finger of my right hand. It fitted perfectly. Instantly I was transported to happier times when my parents danced around the kitchen floor. When our cottage was filled with light, love and laughter. Before Maggie died.
As if he could read my thoughts Jimmy placed his hand over mine.
“Remember Ma and Da dancing around the kitchen? You and Maggie clapping as Da sang. They were good times, Lizzie.”
“They were,” I said, “but…”
“No buts. These last ten years were hard but they’re behind us. Time to look forward.”
I couldn’t wait to introduce my brother to my in-laws the following day. It was my year to host Christmas dinner. The Andersons planned to arrive shortly after noon. That gave us time to spend with Michael before Kate and Angela descended and showered him with presents. Ed’s parents arrived first. Mrs Anderson sniffed her disapproval, of course but Bart Anderson made up for her hostility. Jimmy took it all in his stride and before long had my mother-in-law giggling like a schoolgirl. I was quite impressed myself. My shy little brother had grown into a very charming, articulate man. He was mid-story when Kate and Angela arrived.
“What’s going on here?”
Much to my surprise, Mrs Anderson made the introductions.
“Perfect timing, girls. This is Lizzie’s brother, Jimmy.”
Jimmy was the perfect gentleman and the ideal dinner guest. We had a wonderful Christmas day, full of good food and pleasant conversation. Jimmy went out of his way to charm Mrs Anderson, an achievement that wasn’t lost on her daughters.
“I’d swear my mother was batting her eyelashes at Jimmy at one stage,” Angela said as we washed up after dinner.
“I know. It’s hilarious,” said Kate. I was elbow deep in hot soapy water, while Angela wiped the clean dishes and Kate put them away.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mother so enthralled with anyone. Not even Ed,” Angela said. Which was a valid point. Mrs Anderson hung on her son’s every word.
“He’s very charming,” Kate said. I caught Angela’s eye. We both saw the faint blush on Kate’s normally alabaster cheeks.
Angela winked at me. “Quite good-looking too.”
Kate nodded and turned away to straighten up the stack of plates she had only finished putting in the cupboard. Jimmy arrived in the kitchen then, offering to help.
“Now there’s a first, ladies. A man offering to help in the kitchen,” Angela said.
“Ed does help out… sometimes.”
“Not when Mother is in the house,” Angela said.
We all laughed at that. Mrs Anderson had very set ideas on the roles of men and women, both in the home and out of it. Her daughters were constantly lectured that they were too independent for their own good, that they needed to find husbands and settle down. Lectures that both women largely ignored.
With the kitchen cleared, I brought a pot of freshly brewed coffee to the table. Kate had set the table with my best china cups while Angela cut thick slices of Christmas cake.
“Delicious, Lizzie,” Jimmy said. “It tastes just like Ma’s.”
I basked in the praise, not just from Jimmy but from my in-laws as well. Looking around the room I reckoned it was the best Christmas ever. Good food, surrounded by people I loved. I still missed my ma and da. There wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t think of them. And Maggie. But life moves on. I counted my blessings. Initially I was scared of Mrs Anderson. I came to realise that her bark was worse than her bite. Mr Anderson was a gentleman in every sense of the word, whose support from our very first meeting was unwavering. Angela and Kate were like sisters to me. They could never replace Maggie in my heart, but Maggie remained forever a child. Angela and Kate were adult sisters, best friends, confidantes. Lucky Lizzie felt apt once again. There was so much to be grateful for. A husband I loved and respected, who loved me with equal passion. A son we both idolised. And now my brother, my last link to the country of my birth, here, in my house, part of my family. It was the perfect Christmas.
Chapter 29
Hurricane
The next few years were the happiest in my life. I don’t think I wore rose-tinted glasses. Having Michael in our lives changed everything for us. We had worries of course, but they were the normal ones everyone struggled with. Angela settled in and seemed quite content as a doting aunt. Florida boomed. There was massive construction, on the railways, buildings, hotels. Jimmy found work straight away, working his way up to foreman. At one stage Ed was tempted to quit the naval yard and take up work on the railroads. Thank God he didn’t. That would have been a disaster for us. As I’ve learned since, a boom is usually followed by a bust. Florida’s bust came earlier than the rest of the States. It started with a massive hurricane the autumn after Michael turned three.
Born in West Cork, the south-west of the island of Ireland, I was accustomed to strong winds and heavy rain, but nothing prepared me for the hurricane. It arrived in late September and nearly brought us to our knees. We had advance warning which Ed paid heed to, thankfully. Not everyone did pay attention to the weather warning and paid dearly for it. When Ed heard the warnings, he arrived home and started work securing our home. When he told me to move the furniture from the veranda inside the house, I told him he was overreacting. He wasn’t. Ed covered the windows with timber he had been saving to build a new shed. In the garden he tied down everything that moved. He instructed me to fill pots and kettles with water, cover them and leave them in the larder. When he told me to put the hens in the bathroom, I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. Finally, he pushed the kitchen table into the centre of the room and put blankets underneath it.
