An Irish Heart Page 7

  I was riddled with guilt. My every thought was of Timothy O’Brien. When I closed my eyes, I saw his face, dead but still glaring. I felt I would burst from my own remorse, if I did not find some way to let it loose, if only for a little while, from its cramped compartment within my chest.

  But what was I to do? I had no one to talk to. And even if I did, I could not tell them this!

  I found myself wandering to my room; and before I knew what I was about, I had removed my journal from its hiding place. With no reserve of courage or sense to combat my inclination, I sat down stiffly at the table, and began to write.

  November 1, 1914

  I’ve done something more terrible than I thought myself capable of. I didn’t know what to do. He came at me – he wanted to kill me. He thought I was my mother. He was deluded, he was deranged. What else could I do?

  These excuses are easy to make; but somewhat more difficult to accept as justification for what I have done. Yet I write them anyway – for if I do not speak at least a little on my own behalf, who else ever will?

  But oh, God, I beseech your forgiveness! If there was yet a time when I would call upon you, with absolute sincerity and earnestness, I do so now!

  I killed my own father.

  The stone by which he died lies at the bottom of the stream.

  His body lies beneath a mound of cold dirt.

  His eyes remain open.

  Oh, God, please forgive me.

  ***

  On my seventh night of living in an empty house, just before dusk, there came a heavy knocking at the front door.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  I waited, hoping that the visitor would depart if ignored. But, quite as usual, my luck did not run that deep.

  Knock, knock.

  I stood up, and walked slowly to the door.

  Knock, knock.

  I reached out, and took hold of the knob.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Finally, I opened the door. It was George Shaughnessy, the owner of the shoe-shop (as well as many other shoe-shops besides) where my father worked.

  Used to work.

  “Hello, Katharine,” he said gruffly. “Do you mind if I come in?”

  “No,” I said reluctantly, stepping aside to admit him.

  Shaughnessy went straight for the table, settling his considerable bulk into the chair I had been sitting in.

  “I see I’ve interrupted your supper,” he said.

  “It’s all right.”

  He nodded. Of course, he had not expected me to complain.

  “Katharine, I have a few questions for you. Would you have a seat?”

  I sat down opposite him at the table, moving with legs that felt made of stone.

  “What is it, Mr Shaughnessy?”

  He looked down at my plate. “I see that you’re eating alone.”

  “I most always do.”

  “You don’t eat supper with your father?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s unheard of in my house.”

  I nodded, not knowing how I should respond.

  He sighed. “Well, I suppose that doesn’t matter. Where is your father, anyhow?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Shaughnessy narrowed his eyes at me. “You don’t know where your father is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Excuse me if I have trouble believing that.”

  I tried to look pitiful. (I might note that, especially in my present state of mind, it was not all that difficult.) “Mr Shaughnessy,” I said, “my father spends most nights out of the house. I hardly ever even see him.”

  “You live in the same house, but you hardly ever see him?”

  “No, sir. Not really.”

  “Well, when was the last time you saw him, Katharine?”

  His round, red face was more than intimidating.

  I was growing very nervous. I feared that I would slip, and make some small mistake that would give me away entirely.

  “Katharine?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Yesterday, I suppose. By the time I woke up this morning, he was already gone. I assumed he’d gone to work.”

  “He didn’t come to work today, Katharine. He hasn’t been to work in a week. Do you have any idea why?”

  I did my best to appear shocked. “A whole week, sir?”

  “Aye – a whole week. I’m a busy man, young lady, and I don’t have time to go chasing after people. But Timothy O’Brien skipped out on me, and I don’t take that sort of thing lightly. If you’re trying to protect him, you might as well not waste your time. I will find him.”

  No, you won’t.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Shaughnessy, I really do wish I could help you. I just don’t know how I can.”

  “I’ll tell you what you can do. The next time you see that lousy, no-good father of yours, you tell him that George Shaughnessy is looking for him. Tell him that when I find him, I’m going to lay him flatter than a sheet-cake. Tell him he won’t be able to find employment with anyone else in this town – or any other goddamned town – so long as he lives.” He stood up more quickly than I thought a man of his size would be able. “You tell him that.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said quietly, watching as he stormed out of the house.

  ***

  More knocking came, three days later. By that time, I had run completely out of food, and spent all my time sitting in the parlour with dark thoughts flitting through my mind.

  My heart might never have been what one would call the angels’ playground; but it was blacker and heavier during those lonely days than it had ever been before.

  I closed my eyes, and prayed for the knocking to cease. I did not think that I could face Mr Shaughnessy again.

  I waited nearly five minutes, but the knocker refused to desist. Almost angry by then, I jumped up out of my chair and half-ran into the kitchen, throwing open the door without a second thought.

  “My God, Kate! You look terrible.”

  I saw the curly black hair and pencil-thin moustache; and cursed myself for answering his call.

  “Kind of you to say,” I said coldly.

  Jeffrey Donovan looked mildly ashamed. “I didn’t mean it that way, Kate. But really, are you all right?”

  I looked at him suspiciously. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “It’s all over town, you know. Your father’s disappearance. George Shaughnessy practically has a bounty out on his head.”

  I said nothing.

  “Well, where is he, Kate?”

  “I have no idea where he is. Why does everyone assume that I know? The man tells me nothing. He barely even speaks to me.”

  His face softened a bit. “Oh, darling, I know. Is it really so horrible, living with him?”

  I grimaced. “Please don’t call me that.”

  His expression fell. “What?”

  “Don’t call me ‘darling.’”

  “You’re so cruel to me, Kate. I’ll never understand why.”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry, Jeffrey. But it’s been a very difficult week, you know! I’ve no idea where my father has gone; and people keep asking me. You think I don’t care? Well, I do, Jeffrey. I have hardly any food, and no money to buy any. All because he’s vanished, without so much as a word to me!”

  This outburst came so very naturally, that I was almost ashamed of myself. But not quite so much, that I would have betrayed any faith I may have inspired in Jeffrey Donovan.

  He looked truly upset. “That’s awful,” he said. “Until he returns, I insist that you come and stay with me. I have plenty of space, and plenty of food. Won’t you please come?”

  I shook my head. “No, no, I can’t do that. Thank you for offering, but I can’t accept that.”

  He looked bewildered. “What do you mean? There’s really no other option, is there? You have to eat.”

  “I’m leaving today,” I lied. “I’m going to stay with my aunt.”

  “Oh,” he said, looking immensely
disappointed. “Well, I suppose it’s better that way.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He said nothing. I waited for him to turn and leave – but he didn’t.

  “What’s the matter, Jeffrey?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he said, looking quickly away.

  “I suppose I should go back inside, then.” I rubbed my arms, pretending to be chilled. “Goodbye, Jeffrey.”

  I moved to shut the door, but he stopped me with one hand. “Wait. Wait just a moment, Kate.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about something.”

  He cleared his throat loudly.

  “About?”

  “You know what about. You’ve turned me down three times, and you’ve never even given me a reason. Do you hate me so?”

  I closed my eyes, and pinched the bridge of my nose. I was in no mood for this.

  “If you were already involved with someone else, or if you had any good reason at all, I’d gladly leave you alone! But it seems that you push me away for nothing. Don’t you know how good your life could be, if you married me?”

  I fought the urge to slap him in the face. I recollected Mrs Stiles’s own expression, when I told her that I’d said no to him; and felt a hot indignation begin to burn, just below the surface.

  My goodness! You didn’t do that, did you, dear?

  “This is not the proper time to discuss this, Jeffrey.”

  “But when will it be? I’ve tried so many times – and you will not hear me! I’m in love with you, Kate, doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “You don’t even know me, Jeffrey.”

  He seemed hurt. “How can you say that?”

  “I say it because it’s true. You don’t know the first thing about me. Why in the world would you want to marry me? Chances are, you wouldn’t even like me very much.”

  He smiled. “There’s no chance of that.”

  I couldn’t bear it any longer. “Please, Jeffrey, won’t you just go? I’m sorry, but I have no interest in marrying you. No matter how many times you ask, I’ll never want to. I don’t mean to hurt you – but I won’t play this game, not for another second.”

  I thought I saw tears in his eyes; but he put up a brave front. “Fine,” he said. “That’s just fine. I’ll not be made a fool of. Do you have any idea how many girls would love to be in your shoes? I’m something of a catch, if you haven’t noticed.”

  I wanted to vomit. “Of course you are, Jeffrey. So I’ll tell you one thing more, what might make all this something less than a lost cause.”

  His face looked almost hopeful again.

  “Find yourself another girl – and give her my shoes.”

  I slammed the door in his face.

  ***

  I had no intention of going to Aunt Aggie’s. I was sure that, if I went to her, I would tell her what I’d done.

  Would I have to live forever with this secret?

  But, although I would not go to her, she came to me. It seemed that Shaughnessy had gone to bother her, as well.

  “Oh, dear, what’s happened?” she cried. “George Shaughnessy was spouting some strange things about your father. That he’s vanished!”

  “He has, Aunt Aggie. No one knows where he’s gone.”

  It was awfully hard to lie to her.

  “Oh, my girl! You must have been going through such a time!”

  “I’m all right, Aggie, really. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Not worry? How can I not worry? With you here all by yourself!”

  “You live by yourself.”

  She frowned. “Well, that’s true.”

  I offered her a smile. “Oh, come now, Auntie. Everything’s fine. I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually.”

  “You’re probably right, dear. But you’re still coming to my house for supper. And you’ll spend the night.”

  “It seems like I don’t have much of a choice in the matter,” I said, though not unhappily. In truth, I very much desired to be taken for a while from my place of misery.

  “You certainly don’t,” said Aggie. “Come with me, now. Let’s get on.”

  Beneath the relief that surged my heart at those words, there bubbled a more subtle broth, which warned of the possible repercussions of this visit.

  Yet I took Aggie’s hand, and was off with her down the drive, at the end of which waited the little gig of Ethel-the-bridge-player.

  ***

  I returned home next day, tired from a night of non-truth-telling.

  If it was this unbearable already, well – I was simply convinced that I would die of my guilt. I kissed Aggie’s cheek, and closed the door upon her; after which I flung myself down to the kitchen floor, and beat upon it with my fists, till they could beat no more.

  Chapter 7

  By the time Monday morning had dawned, I was weaker than one of the old beggars who frequented Cobbler Street in spring. When I moved, I staggered about from room to room – but mostly I just sat, in one place or another, staring out of whatever window was nearest me.

  I was on the watch for the black reaper of souls. If there were any in the world which needed reaping, at that moment, it was mine. So I awaited Him patiently, anticipating the sweep of his scythe with a mixture of fear and impatience.

  I had no more eggs. No matter how I might plead with them, no matter how I might beg, the hens would not lay. I eventually ceased with my supplications, and left them to themselves.

  I felt more than poorly about it, of course, but I decided after a little that I must steal from Mr Grady’s garden. Now, as I look back upon it, I’m quite sure that – had I only asked – Mr Grady would have been more than glad to let me have some of his vegetables. At the time, though, it seemed more improbable that not. I had the sneaking suspicion that, if I were to ask, I would be found out right away.

  They would all know me for what I was. I would be marched out before them, and hung by the neck from a tree, for any and all to see. There dangles she, they would say, who dost murder guiltlessly, and who dost taketh from her neighbours without leave! Oh, Lord – do have mercy upon this poor child’s soul! Saveth this creature, oh Lord, from that fiery pit into which she hath cast herself! Oh, have mercy upon the villain of Wimple Street!

  I stole twice in a row: once on Monday and again on Wednesday. I ate dear Mr Grady’s cabbage, beans and tomatoes at my kitchen table, feeling every part the villain. The villain of Wimple Street!

  I sat, watching the clock on the parlour mantel, wondering who would arrive first: the police to arrest me, or the reaper to collect me. I prayed for the latter, so as to spare myself the degradation, of that mouldy bread on which I would subsist till my execution. I would be hanged – oh, I would, I would! I knew it from the start; I told it before! Surely Mr Grady would come to see me hang; and then I would admit to him where his food had gone. No, sir, not rabbits! It was the murderer next door.

  At least I would die an honest murderer.

  ***

  Exactly one week after Jeffrey Donovan’s visit, there came another round of knocking at the door.

  I choked on the carrot I was munching. I coughed and spluttered, and tripped my anxious way to the front door.

  I cleared my throat. “Who is it?”

  “Theodora Alaster.”

  I breathed a great sigh of relief, and opened the door.

  Theodora Alaster stood before me, dressed in a grey cloak, a hood covering her head.

  “What brings you here?” I asked.

  “I heard something in town,” she said. “Something troubling. I thought I would come and see for myself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jeffrey Donovan is spreading the word about your father’s disappearance.Says he suspects some sort of foul play – though what he could know about anything like that I have no idea.” She paused. “Not that I know anything about any of it, anyway.”

  “There’s nothing to know.”


  “Might I ask what’s going on?”

  “Nothing that concerns you,” I said shortly.

  I immediately regretted having said that. The mere look upon her face was enough to fill me with more remorse than I would have thought necessary.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be.” She grasped her cloak more tightly about her, and turned to leave. “I shouldn’t have come. Forgive me.”

  As she made her way back down the steps, I realised that I did not want her to go. I had been alone for longer than I wished to be.

  “Theodora,” I called. “Please wait.”

  She turned around.

  “Come back. Please.”

  She returned to the stoop; but appeared as if she had done so somewhat against her will.

  “Please come in,” I said.

  I opened the door wider. She entered the kitchen, and removed her hood.

  I had no more tea, so I offered her a glass of water. We sat down quietly at the table.

  It was a few minutes before either of us spoke.

  “Is what Donovan says true?” she asked finally. “Is your father gone?”

  “Yes, he’s gone. I don’t know where. I don’t know why.” I stopped to take a drink, my throat parched with lies. “No one seems to believe me.”

  She made me a small smile. “Well, I believe you.”

  That made me feel even worse.

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “More than two weeks.”

  “My God,” she said. “That’s terrible.”

  “Yes, it is.” I could not look at her while I spoke. “A terrible thing.”

  “Do you think something happened to him?”

  “I just don’t know.”

  “I’m so sorry, Kate.”

  “Thank you.”

  I downed the rest of my water in two gulps.

  “You know, though,” she said, looking confused, “I don’t understand what interest Jeffrey Donovan has in any of this. Your father didn’t work for him, did he?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Then why does he care?”

  I thought of how best to explain. “Well,” I said, “do you remember the fellow I told you about, that first morning we spoke? Whom I said you were welcome to – for I didn’t want him?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s Jeffrey.”