Hiatus

 1945. Sixteen years old. School over and done with, Dad was gone and Mum had precious few funds to keep us going. Yet, I didn’t feel consciously unhappy. Life was on hold and aimless.  Jobs were few for a young girl in a country setting so I walked country roads, read books and shopped for groceries.

On a beautiful May morning, I cycled down the driveway. The verdant hedgerows bloomed with hawthorn blossom, white as a winter snowdrift but blessed by an occasional pink flowered bush that signalled the approach of summer.  The cherry trees were heavy with flowers, pregnant with the hope of fruit to come. On either side of the road, the fields spread out like a patchwork quilt of varying shades of green.  Quietly lay the contented sheep, so still that they looked like embroidered needlepoint. It was lambing season and the lambs gambolled around their tranquil mothers.

The village store once belonged to my great-grandfather. The store hadn’t changed much in almost a century. Oil lamps still swung from the ceiling for many country houses had no electric power. The wooden floor creaked beneath my feet. The musty smell of Irish dampness hung in the air, despite the turf fire that burned in the corner fireplace.  Mr. McCartney stood behind the long wooden counter, peering over large metal scales and rubbing his chubby red hands on his flour sack apron. He fixed me with his bulbous blue eyes as he said:

“It’s a grand morning but there’s rain coming. How’s your mother doing? Is she getting over it? That was a hard time for her losing her husband.”

“Mum’s doing alright. She spends a lot of time with her sister and brother. Never off the bus, going back and forth to see them.”

Many years passed before I questioned the fact that nobody asked me how I felt about my Dad’s death. Maybe we still lived in an age where girls should be seen but not heard. It never occurred to me to tell my own experience nor did it occur to Mr. McCartney to ask.  Young girls could ride bikes and pick up groceries but only grown women felt grief.  The night before he died, I fed my Dad soup. The soup kept dribbling down his chin. I kept spooning it back in his mouth and finally gave up. Next day, he died. I went to the village to phone my aunt and uncle. I have no memory of the walk there and back.

I handed Mr. McCartney my list and he measured tea, sugar, oatmeal and flour into brown paper bags. A voice rang out from the back of the store and I turned to see Mrs. Nimick, the bank manager’s wife. She waved her hand as she cried out: “Hello, Lily. What are you doing in that cotton dress? It isn’t summer yet. How’s your mother coming along? I see her go by on the way up to the big house to see her sister. Lovely woman, your mother. I must have her over for tea.”

“I’ll tell her to give you a call next time she’s down your way. We were sorry to hear about your dog.”

Mrs Nimick’s eyes filled with tears as she pulled out a white linen handkerchief and blew her nose.

“I was heart-broken. Wee Mac, he was such a darling. But Mr. Nimick is getting me another dog. Same breed. West Highland terrier. Nobody will ever take Wee Mac’s place but time heals all. Well, dear, safe home and remember me to your mother.”

She bustled out the door in her sensible tweed suit, carrying her umbrella. Mr. McCartney rolled his eyes and muttered, “Never had children and makes too much of dogs. The old boy had to fork over and send her to the seaside for a fortnight. Nervous breakdown or so I heard. And a war going on and good men losing their lives every day.”

“Thanks then, I’m off,” I packed the bags into the basket on my bike. The skies darkened as huge raindrops pelted down. But I thought that the gods weren’t punishing me for wearing my red and white cotton dress because spring weather changes in an instant. The most important thing was to salvage my new shoes. Not quality shoes, not even leather.  But pretty snazzy and they cost clothing coupons and money that Mum could not afford.  To me, they were the height of glamour with straps that tied around my ankles.  So I got off my bike, took off my shoes and tucked them under the paper bags. Although sodden and bare footed, I completed the journey with shoes intact.

We lived in an old cottage through the charity of relatives. Mum put in a bathroom but it was not a great success. Cold running water was pumped from a well and hot water constantly bubbled over the turf fire.  Mum filled kettles with water and hauled them into the bathroom as she lectured me, “Get out of those clothes right now. You’ll catch your death of cold. One thing, at that we have become experts, is sponge baths.  So remember, wash up as far as possible and down as far as possible and don’t forget to wash possible.”

I put on my pink chenille dressing gown and ran a comb through my blonde hair. All the while, I could hear Mum complaining as she laid the paper bags on the kitchen table. She said, “What a sodden mess. Busy looking after your precious shoes but did you think about our groceries? Oh well, come in by the fire. We’ll have coffee.”

Mum and I sat close a bright fire in the living room and we sipped great sugared coffee laced with thick cream and munched on ginger biscuits. I said,” Mrs. Nimick was at the store, she wants you to come for tea. She is still crying about the dog. Mr. McCartney says she’s crazy.”

“She loved that dog. He was adorable. She carried it a bit far. Like he wore plaid pyjamas, had his own wee bed and slept on his back. At least, that’s the story their maid Maisie spread around the village.”

We fell into uncontrollable laughter that dissolved into tears. Storms of tears washing away our grief.  For months, Dad’s unexplainable early senility placed him beyond our reach.  Maybe, our numbness got us through. Carrying trays of teacups, passing plates of sandwiches after the funeral; fetching coats from the bedrooms and showing people to the door. Waving goodbye.  “Thanks for coming.”

We hugged. Outside our window a double rainbow rose above the mists. Mum said, “Look at that. We’ll be alright.”