Sowing The Seeds Of Love Part 27

It was safer saying this into the pitch darkness.

'Why would I think less of you?'

'Now that you've seen where I come from.'

'If anything, I think more of you. I can see how far you've come.'

He pulled her closer to him and she knew she'd said the right thing.

They left early the next morning, after a hearty breakfast of sodabread and eggs. Martin's mother waved until they were out of sight.

'How long since your father died?'

'Six years.'

'What was he like?' The silent spectre of the man had hung over their entire visit.

'Let's just say he was handy with his fists.' Martin's face had closed, signifying that the subject was over.

After visiting Martin's sister in Castlebar, they spent a couple of days in Westport, then headed down to Killala Bay. It was a wild day. The waves hurled themselves at the rocks and the wind whipped up mini-sandstorms. Martin stared out to sea, his mood reflective, as it had been since the start of their honeymoon.

Together they explored the desolate beauty of Connemara, illuminated by the sun at rare intervals. The sight of two children with a donkey and a cart of peat almost made up for Myrtle's disappointment at the lack of a thatched roof on Martin's mother's cottage. Then it was on to Galway City, Yeats country in Sligo, and home to Dublin to start their new life together.

34.

It was shocking, really, how alone she felt. The acuteness of her loneliness bit into her soul, removing ma.s.sive chunks of the Myrtle she used to be the Marnie she used to be... whoever it was she used to be. It left her uncertain of herself in an uncertain world where everything seemed a pale imitation of her life in London. She had Martin, of course. But Martin was never at home. And she had no need of a job, not now that she was a wife, comfortably looked after by her able husband. She was expected to be content with furnis.h.i.+ng her new home on the outskirts of the pathetic little town that laughingly called itself a city. She threw herself into the task, bringing her considerable good taste to bear on what she had to admit was a most handsome Victorian red-brick house. Martin was delighted with the result and bought her a new-fangled Hotpoint was.h.i.+ng-machine as a reward. She would have enjoyed it more if she'd had someone to show it to.

She had her prize, though: her man. Then why did she feel so hollow? She tried so hard to do everything that was expected of her. She checked her hair and makeup to ensure she looked perfect for Martin when he came home. She cooked his favourite meals, timing them with precision. The trouble was, she never knew when to expect him. He became impossible to predict. And all too often his meals would slowly congeal in the lower half of the oven. She tried not to be annoyed. She knew how hard he worked and she didn't want to waste what little time she had with him arguing, especially since he was often the only person she'd spoken to all day. But in spite of this, or perhaps because of it, she began to fray at the edges. It didn't help that he came in most nights reeking of whiskey. They couldn't all be business meetings.

The first time she confronted him she stood, pinny on, hands on hips, feeling like a fishwife out of a film. 'What time do you call this?'

He didn't answer, instead choosing to walk past her into the sitting room. A decanter of whiskey sat on a silver tray on a side table, flanked by two upside-down cut-gla.s.s tumblers. They hadn't been a wedding present. Almost everything in the house was hand-picked by Myrtle and paid for by Martin. There'd been a dearth of presents on her side. On his, anything decent could scarcely be stretched to.

Martin turned one of the gla.s.ses the right way up and sloshed a generous quant.i.ty into it. He downed it in one go. Was it normal for a man to drink so much? Myrtle had no idea. Her own father had been teetotal and she had no one else to compare him to. Martin had drunk a lot during their courts.h.i.+p, but she hadn't paid it much heed since they were out socializing all the time. Alcohol had been intrinsic to their lifestyle. And she'd always known that he loved going out. It was just that it had never occurred to her that, once they were married, he'd be going out without her. The party was over. Or, rather, she was no longer invited.

'Well?' She stood behind him now, hands still planted on hips, furious at being ignored.

'What's for dinner?' he said, still with his back to her.

'You mean what was for dinner. It was lamb chops but they've burned to a crisp so now there's nothing.'

He turned to her, having refilled his gla.s.s. He took a sip, appraising her thoughtfully. 'Well, you'd better make me something else, then.'

He walked away from her, leaving her stranded on the rug in the sitting room. Once she'd got over her initial shock, she was in hot pursuit. 'How dare you walk away from me? I will not make you another dinner '

The words were gasped out of her because he turned suddenly and grabbed her roughly by the chin. He brought his face down close to hers and hissed into it, 'No wife of mine speaks to me like that. Now get me some food.' His features were contorted. He released her chin, pus.h.i.+ng her back as he did so. Myrtle was trembling with outrage and fear. How dare he? Never in all her born days... She'd never seen her father treat her mother like that he'd never laid a hand on her. She had always dismissed her parents' marriage as pa.s.sionless. Now... She touched the tender skin on her chin, then covered her mouth with her hand as she started to cry. Silent, free-flowing, gut-wrenching tears. Her first instinct was to run and tell someone preferably her mother. But the only person she had to tell was waiting to be fed. So she went into the kitchen and started cooking.

In time, Myrtle began to meet a few women of her own age, mostly at her own dinner parties. Martin would announce that he had invited a few 'a.s.sociates' over. If she was lucky, she'd get twenty-four hours' notice. More often than not, she'd have just a few hours to prepare.

The first time it happened, she rushed out to Eason's and bought Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management and f.a.n.n.y Cradock's latest. She spent the afternoon cooking up a storm. She thought it had gone well. Everyone had been in raptures over her sherry trifle. Still, you never knew with the Irish they did tend to exaggerate. With an almost physical stab of longing, she wished she was back among her own people. Still, the women had been kind to her. At one stage, while the men were talking shop, one of them had whispered to her: 'Your husband is so handsome.'

She had felt herself expanding with pride. Yes, Martin was handsome. And he was hers. She was proud, too, of the way he held court over the dinner table, entertaining everyone with his highly embellished stories, taking care of every awkward pause and empty gla.s.s. And he must have been pleased with her because he winked at her when no one was looking. It was a good night, which continued in the bedroom later.

She didn't know what to make of it. Her new life. Her new role. Her new husband. It was all so hard to get her head around. What was normal, what was not. What was acceptable, what was not. If only she had a sounding board. Something or someone to judge it all against. But there was no one. This isolation was disconcerting. She'd always known who she was it had never occurred to her to question it. But now, uprooted, she had to rediscover herself all over again. She wasn't sure she liked what she was finding, reflected as she was in the eyes of just one other. She was uncertain now. Of herself. Of him. Unease seeped into her soul. Had her father been right? The thought was summarily banished because it wasn't fit to be admitted.

She saw that her husband had two sides: Public Martin and Private Martin. Public Martin was loud and gregarious the craic all the way up to ninety. Private Martin was saturnine and introspective. He sat in a chair in the dark with a five o'clock shadow. The only thing the two men had in common was that they were both drink-fuelled. It frightened her, the prospect of living in a strange land with a total stranger. She tiptoed around this dark side, not wanting to get on the wrong side. This was what she had chosen. Her bed to lie in. Her man to understand. She tried.

Myrtle was lying in bed one morning, listening to Martin getting ready. She lay on her right side, facing away from him. Her stillness, the absence of rhythmic breathing, betrayed her wakefulness. He came around to her side and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down thoughtfully at her listless form as he b.u.t.toned the cuffs of the blue s.h.i.+rt that she and her iron knew intimately. She turned on to her back and looked up at him.

'What's wrong?' he said.

Don't you know?

'Nothing's wrong.'

Not when he looked at her like that, there wasn't. The gentle, tender Martin.

'You know what you need?' he said, his eyes warm.

'What?'

'A baby.'

'A baby!' Her voice was incredulous, although she didn't know why. Isn't that what married couples did? Breed?

'Yes, a baby. You know. Tiny little creatures. Squawk a lot.'

'I know what a baby is.'

'Think about it.' He bent down and kissed the tip of her nose.

She lay there for a long time after he'd gone. A baby. It wasn't that she hadn't thought about it. Part of her longed to have Martin's children. But the other part... She felt so empty. Of course, she wouldn't feel empty if she had a baby growing inside her. She rubbed her taut belly and tried to imagine. Maybe Martin would be home more often if they had a family. That thought sealed it. Her dream of what their life together would be had slipped away from her of late. But now it drew back into sharp focus. She with her swollen belly, wearing a charming maternity smock that she'd made herself, Martin's hand on the demure rise of the material. A laughing Martin bouncing a laughing baby boy on his lap. Because, for some reason, her fantasy conjured a boy, dark and dimpled and handsome like his father. She didn't know why this should be so because in her heart she'd always wanted a girl. Something about having no sisters and a distant relations.h.i.+p with her mother. She could give birth to her own sister. Or create the mother-daughter relations.h.i.+p that she'd always yearned for. But a boy was what she saw. Either s.e.x would change them from a struggling couple into a family. Complete. And there might be other babies lots of them. As the glee took hold of her, she stretched her body to the maximum, fingertips grazing the headboard, toes flexed. Then she curled up abruptly into the foetal position, hugging herself and rocking gently. Maybe if they had a baby Martin wouldn't drink so much.

The trouble with family planning is that it's not an exact science. This can work either way. In Myrtle's case, what happened was nothing. A whole lot of trying and a whole lot of nothing. And the more nothing happened, the more anxious she became. It wasn't something she discussed with anyone, least of all Martin. He just went about his business as usual and, for all she knew, had forgotten their conversation. She couldn't. It began to consume her, tensing her shoulders and creasing her brow. She'd be sitting there and, before she knew it, a thumbnail would be bitten to the quick. She also developed the habit of chewing her lower lip. Barely four months had pa.s.sed. No time at all in the great scheme of things.

One night Martin came home extra late and extra drunk. She'd learned to read the signs at a glance. She placed the remains of his partially charred dinner before him. He chewed it slowly. His well-well-well-done steak. 'What's this c.r.a.p?'

'I can make you an omelette if you like.'

'I don't want an omelette. I want a steak. A decent f.u.c.king steak.'

He stood abruptly, pus.h.i.+ng back his chair with his calf muscles, causing it to screech against the kitchen floor. Myrtle winced. 'Stupid b.l.o.o.d.y woman. Can't do anything right. Can't cook. Can't even b.l.o.o.d.y well get pregnant.'

He pushed past her, out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. She knew better than to follow him. But she could see him as clearly as if she had, slos.h.i.+ng the whiskey into the tumbler and knocking it back. She felt her cheeks burn with shame. He was right. She was useless. She'd never thought it before but she thought it now. Who was she to contradict what was ultimately the truth? She was a failure as a wife she felt it in every nerve and sinew. To her shame, he felt it too.

It took another two years. Two long years. In the words of Martin: 'You could have given birth twice by now.' But she was pregnant. That was the thing. The triumph. And no one was going to take it away from her, least of all Martin who, she could tell, was pleased.

She longed to tell her own parents. When the three-month danger period had elapsed, she wrote them a carefully crafted letter, informing them as to her condition and asking after their health. It contained no hint of recrimination. Neither did it contain an apology. She received no reply. And during the silent months that followed, something inside Myrtle withered and died.

But a new excitement coloured her days. A life that had been dull and empty was now vibrant and full of possibilities. She had a nursery to decorate, clothes to make for herself and the baby, blankets to crochet. It was down to her, just as she had always known it would be. She didn't mind. It was the way she preferred it, really. Myrtle had always been solitary in her pleasures. And, of course, now she was never alone. She took to talking to the embryo, the foetus, the baby.

'What will we call him?' Martin asked.

'How do you know it's going to be a him?'

'How could it not be?'

She smiled. She felt the same way.

'How about Martin?' he said.

'Wouldn't that be a little confusing?'

'It worked for my father and me.' He was defensive.

She didn't care. There was no way her son was having such a Catholic name. But she'd save that argument for another day.

They'd been getting on quite well since they'd found out she was pregnant, both antic.i.p.ating the difference a baby would make to their lives. But everything changed once she started to show. He would stare at her belly, an odd, unfathomable expression on his face. He grew sullen and withdrawn, and stopped touching her. She began to feel isolated again. Fearful. Were the first years of marriage so difficult for everyone? She'd never have guessed it could be so hard. If she didn't know better, she would have said he resented the new life growing inside his wife, was jealous even, ridiculous as the notion sounded. How could he be jealous of someone who didn't even exist yet? His own flesh and blood, for G.o.d's sake.

The late nights away from her grew more frequent again. The heavy drinking, briefly suspended, began again in earnest. He would roll in spoiling for a fight and she, in her heightened emotional state, was increasingly willing to give him what he wanted. Ready, in fact, to goad him. She felt that her vulnerable condition gave her a superior edge, made her, ironically, invulnerable.

'Here he is,' she said one night, easing herself out of her chair, in the way peculiar to heavily pregnant women. 'Stinking of booze as usual. You should be ashamed of yourself, treating your wife this way. I am carrying your child, you know.'

She was indignant, self-righteous. Martin said nothing as he stood unsteadily in the hall, eyeing her warily.

'Is this how you're planning to behave when our child is born? A fine example you're going to be.' She came right up to him, standing close. And her eyes widened with incredulity.

'What's that smell?'

'What smell?' He looked a bit scared.

'You know what smell. It's perfume! It is, isn't it? You've been with a woman.'

'Don't be so b.l.o.o.d.y stupid.'

'Don't you call me stupid. You have, haven't you? You're reeking of it.'

Her voice rose several octaves, out of control, hysterical.

'How could you do that to me? I'm your wife. I'm having your baby.'

She drew back her hand and slapped him across the face, feeling as if her life had descended into some bad piece of melodrama. Without missing a beat, Martin slapped her back. Except his slap was in a different category. While he experienced a light sting, she was sent thundering into the wall. At first she didn't know what had happened. She'd never been struck before. She felt as if someone had tried to twist her head from her neck. For a few seconds, she remained where she was, dazed and stunned, then slid to the floor, her knees falling to the side, her eyes blinking repeatedly.

In an instant Martin was all over her. 'Oh, Jesus, Jesus, I'm sorry. Are you all right? Can you get up? Oh, Jesus. Here, I'll help you, you're all right, you're all right.'

She focused on his unnaturally white face as he scooped her up and carried her into the sitting room. He laid her tenderly on the couch and placed cus.h.i.+ons behind her back and head. She continued to focus on his face, his jawline twitching. She couldn't fully comprehend what had happened. It was so far outside her usual frame of reference. Should she have seen it coming after the previous incident, which, she realized now, she had successfully put at the back of her mind?

'Oh, my darling, you're all right, you're all right,' Martin was muttering over and over, half to her and half to himself.

'The baby,' she said.

'What about it? Is something wrong?'

'I don't know, but...'

'Do you feel any different?'

'Well, no. But I think I should be checked by a doctor.'

'No! No reason to bother a doctor. None at all. You're fine. I'll look after you.' He left the room like a man on a mission. She lay on the couch, s.h.i.+vering slightly. Then her teeth started to chatter, which caused a shooting pain in the bottom left half of her face. She reached up with shaking fingers and touched her cheek. Her skin felt hot and she could feel it throbbing. Martin returned. He was carrying a frozen steak and the bedspread from upstairs. 'Here. Hold this against your face.'

She did as he had instructed and felt some soothing. He arranged the bedspread around her, tucking it up to her chin and around her feet, from which he gently removed her slippers.

'You hit me,' she said, eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g, teeth still chattering.

'No, I didn't.'

'What do you mean, you '

'I know I did, but it was only a slap. And you slapped me first.' He attempted a sickly smile.

'And that makes it all right?' She started to cry properly.

'Oh, G.o.d. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' He cradled her, laying his cheek against her good side. 'I'll never do anything like that again. I swear to you, Marnie. I'll never hit you again. I'll change. It'll be all right. Everything's going to be all right, you and the baby.' He rocked her back and forth and she cried in his arms.

'The perfume,' she said.

'There's no other woman, Marnie. I swear to G.o.d. There's only you. No other woman but you. I was in a club, that's all. You know how you get crushed up against everybody.'

She wanted desperately to believe him, his tender words balm to her aching spirit. The throbbing in her cheek subsided to a dull ache and she ceased to shake. Martin sat with his arms around her for an hour or more, the room, the house growing dark around them. Until he felt she believed him.

In time the fingermarks faded and her cheek was no longer tender. Martin continued to be attentive and remorseful. No more late nights. He came home when he said he would. If there had been a woman, she was put on the back burner. The baby was all right: he stayed where he was until ten days before his due date. Martin wasn't present for the birth. He was relegated to the smoke-filled waiting room with all the other expectant fathers. But he came in as soon as he was let and allowed Myrtle to call their son Lance, either out of a sense of guilt or some upwardly mobile tendency within him.

Lance had his father's hair but not his eyes. His eyes were Myrtle's slate-blue-grey eyes that saw the world for how it was and not how they wanted it to be. He was quite a sedate baby, which was just as well, because how would she have coped otherwise, what with everything else the situation had thrown at her? Martin's strange moods one minute delighted with her and the new baby, the next sulky and petulant, as if he were the older sibling instead of the father, jealous and vying for her attention. Until this point she had only needed to be wary of his moods when he had drink taken. But now, as if aching nipples and eyes falling out of her head with tiredness weren't enough, she had his mercurial rantings to put up with.

'You're giving that child too much attention.'

'You're spoiling him. Let him cry.'

And: 'You care more about that baby than you do about me.'

Of course I b.l.o.o.d.y well do, Myrtle felt like screaming. What do you expect?