Let Them Lie Page 2

  ‘OK, you two, dinner is ready so get eating!’ Agnes came and pushed her son and daughter towards the table.

  Sam winked at his sister as he sat down. ‘I could eat a bit, I suppose,’ he said, heaping his plate full of stew from the bowl on the table.

  His mother smiled fondly at him as she sat beside Aoife. She doted on her son, although she fiercely denied that was the case when teased by her daughters.

  ‘How’s work going?’ Sam asked. ‘Are those kids still driving you to distraction?’

  ‘Well, they keep me busy. I’m enjoying my first-year class. They’re a mad bunch but great craic too. I’ve promised to take them on a trip to Tayto Park if they behave themselves for the remainder of the term. But I’m not holding my breath that they’ll manage to keep out of mischief.’

  Aoife loved her job as a secondary-school teacher – well, most of the time anyway. But there were days when the work of shovelling information down the throats of reluctant pupils took its toll. She enjoyed the kids; she just wished the system didn’t require her to bulldoze them into cramming for exams. There wasn’t enough time to stop and think and explore with them. She regaled Sam and her mother with tales of school life as they ate and made them laugh as she told them of some of the antics of her students.

  It was with great difficulty that she prevented her mother from piling second helpings on her plate. Sated, she sat back in her chair and sighed contentedly.

  Agnes immediately jumped to her feet and arrived back at the table with a freshly baked apple tart and a jug of piping hot custard. Aoife, her stomach bursting, agreed to take a small slice. She knew only too well that resistance wasn’t an option as her mother had baked it in honour of her homecoming. Sam showed no such reluctance and she watched as he practically inhaled an enormous slice.

  Eventually, Sam finished eating and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, crumpled it into a ball, and turned to his mother. ‘I’d love a cup of tea, Mam.’

  Aoife frowned as her mother got to her feet. Why couldn’t he get it himself instead of ordering her mother around? She felt traitorous for thinking critically of her brother, but her mam seemed to have missed the feminist movement of her generation and lived to serve others, especially the men in her family. All her life Agnes O’Driscoll had cared for her husband and children. It was second nature for her to put their needs first. Wryly, Aoife realised it was also second nature for her children to expect her to.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on, Mam,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you sit down for a bit?’

  At first Agnes protested but relented and sat back down beside Sam.

  While Aoife scalded the teapot and boiled the kettle, she listened to the soft murmur of her mother’s voice enquiring about the progress of work on the farm. She took out the china teacups and carried them to the table; her mother hated mugs. As she waited for the tea to brew, she shook some biscuits onto a plate. Agnes had a weakness for Fig Rolls. She joined her mother and brother and the three of them sipped appreciatively. The tea tasted so much nicer in her mother’s house. Perhaps because, when she was here, she took time to make it properly, to use loose tea leaves, and to give it time to brew – the resultant tea was always more refreshing, and comforting. Or maybe it was just the lovely feeling of home that added flavour.

  ‘How is Connor?’

  Sam’s deep voice shook her from her reverie.

  ‘He’s fine. He’s working hard to finish his thesis in time for the wedding.’

  She knew the next question before her mam uttered it.

  ‘When’s he going to get a job, love?’

  Aoife sighed, irritated. ‘As soon as he finishes his Master’s he is going to take a job with his brother. He isn’t interested in being an estate agent long-term, but it will give him time to explore his options.’

  Sam raised his eyebrows.

  ‘What’s the problem with that, Sam? Not everyone knows what they want to do with their life straight off.’

  ‘No offence, but most people have some inkling of what they want to do by the time they’re in their thirties. Your Connor is a perpetual student. How many times did he jump ship from one college course to another?’

  ‘OK! I admit it has taken him a while to find what he wants to do, but this time he will finish what he started. He is going to hand in his thesis in the next few weeks.’

  ‘But what exactly is he qualified to do? He has an arts degree, and he’s doing a thesis on some obscure poet. What is his long-term plan?’

  Aoife lifted her cup and saucer, and walked stiffly to the sink. She had no answer for her brother. Connor was drifting along, and she was growing impatient herself. In a few months, they would be married and, if they wanted to buy a house, it would depend on her earnings.

  She kept hoping that Connor would find his niche, accepting that writing poetry wasn’t an occupation but a creative outlet. But she couldn’t fault him for his commitment to his craft. He got up before six and spent a couple of hours writing before heading into college or his part-time job in the local shop and then, in the evening, he sat in their bedroom working for another couple of hours. Some nights she woke to find him still at work polishing up a poem or piece of prose. It was a pity that being a writer didn’t reward all this dedication. She knew it was impossible to make a living from writing poetry unless you were Seamus Heaney.

  The job offer from his brother was a godsend. The brothers didn’t get on, but Connor’s parents had applied pressure and he was starting work in September. If only he would find it tolerable enough to stick at it for a year or two, at least until they could get some savings together.

  Sam must have registered her downhearted expression when she returned to the table because he changed the subject. Shortly after, at Agnes’s prompting, they went into the living room where they spent the rest of the evening staring at the fire, cracking jokes and discussing the goings-on in the locality.

  Their mam said little, contentedly listening and dozing beside the fire. It was after twelve when they shook their mother awake and headed to bed.

  Sam hugged Aoife on the landing. ‘It’s good to have you home, love,’ he whispered.

  CHAPTER 2

  The sound of a cock crowing, followed by the bellowing of cattle, and the hum of milking machines jolted Aoife awake. In the city, the noise was perpetual and lost its power to intrude. She slept through blaring car horns, the brutal insistence of pneumatic drills ripping through pavements, and even the cacophony of her alarm clock. Connor joked that she would sleep through Doomsday. Here in the country, the morning sound leached into her sleep and turned her from unconscious owl to reluctant lark in an instant.

  Throwing her arms back against the headboard, she stretched until her body ached pleasurably. Then springing out of bed, she ran with rapidly cooling feet into the tiled bathroom. She shivered as lukewarm water trickled from the ancient shower-head. Getting out of the shower, she cursed, realising that she had left her towel in the bedroom. Grabbing a small hand-towel for modesty, she raced into her room to retrieve it.

  It was just past nine when she descended the stairs to have her breakfast.

  The smells emanating from the little kitchen were enticing. Freshly grilled bacon, and the sound of frying eggs made her mouth water in anticipation. Funny, but she hadn’t felt the slightest bit hungry until now.

  Her mam greeted her with a beaming smile as she buttered toast at the counter.

  ‘Sam is due in from the milking shortly, so you are just in time to tuck into a nice fry-up. Fetch some cutlery and sit yourself down.’

  Aoife got a place ready for herself as Sam came through the back door. He removed his boots in the scullery and washed his hands. He was wearing his farm clothes – a holey jumper and a battered blue windbreaker. His unshaven face made him look scruffy and younger somehow.

  They sat down to eat.

  Agnes was her usual lively, chatty self but Sam, even for him, was unusually quiet.

  ‘Is there anything the matter, son?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘It’s Nell – she seems to have gone missing.’

  Nell was a fifteen-year-old sheepdog, an ever-present feature of the farm. She wasn’t a house dog but dearly loved nonetheless.

  ‘It’s not like her to just disappear,’ Sam said. ‘I hope something hasn’t happened to her.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’ Aoife asked.

  Sam wrinkled his forehead. ‘I fed her at bedtime, and she seemed OK. She’s getting on a bit, but she wasn’t ailing. I hope she didn’t get knocked down by some idiot coming home from the pub last night.’

  Soberly, they recalled what happened to Bradys’ Labrador last winter. Hit by a car, the poor dog had dragged herself home to die.

  Now Sam had lost his usual hearty appetite and picked at his food. Aoife hadn’t realised how attached he was to Nell. Like most farmers, he was unsentimental about animals. Nell wasn’t a pet, she was a working dog, but over time what had started as a respect for her herding abilities had become tinged with genuine affection. Her disappearance had clearly hit him hard.

  ‘Look here,’ said Aoife, ‘why don’t I take a spin round the roads and see if I can find her? She may have gone off for a run and just went too far.’

  Sam nodded. ‘That would be great. I’d look myself, but I have a lot on this morning.’

  He took a final slurp of tea, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went out.

  The two women mused over Nell’s possible whereabouts as they washed up.

  Aoife was glad of her jacket as she walked out into the chilly morning. The sun was high in the steely blue sky. As she drove slowly down the country roads, she realised she had little hope of finding Nell but wanted to try for Sam’s sake. Every so often she stopped to call for the dog and asked a few people she encountered along the roads. No one had seen Nell.

  She was on her way back home when, in the distance, she heard the rumble of a tractor approaching along the road and pulled over to let it pass. Her heart sank when she saw it was Jack Costello from the next farm. Feck it! Even in mucky farm clothes, he managed to look elegant. Jack and Aoife had attended the same primary school, and it was from Jack that she had received her first kiss and delivered her only slap. Vividly she recalled the sharp sting of her hand on his cheek after he had decided that a slow dance entitled him to more than just a stroll around the floor. Despite the lapse of time, the memory still had the power to embarrass. She cringed as he swung himself off the tractor.

  ‘Hi, stranger,’ he drawled, winking at her.

  Prick, she thought.

  On the few occasions that their paths crossed, Jack always seemed to be mock-flirting with her. He held out his hand and awkwardly she extended her own. Her hand looked puny and useless in his larger, sunburnt one. His back was to the sun, forcing her to squint up at him. ‘Hello, Jack, it’s good to see you,’ she said crisply.

  He smirked at her. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Sorry, what do you mean?’

  Jack laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter. Hey, when’s the big day? Sam tells me you’re getting married soon.’

  After launching into an account of her wedding plans she trailed off, realising she was oversharing for what was merely a polite enquiry.

  ‘What about you, Jack? Do you have any plans to settle down?’

  He reached over to pull a stray feather from her jacket, making her flinch.

  ‘Who, me? Get married? No, I had my heart broken a long time ago. A little virago told me exactly what she thought of me and I’m still recovering from the dent in my self-esteem.’

  Pink colour washed over her face, and she cursed his ability to embarrass her. Desperate to change the subject, she asked, ‘Have you seen Nell around? She’s gone missing, and Sam is worried she might have got run over.’

  Jack’s smile dissolved. ‘That’s a pity. She’s a nice dog. I’ll keep an eye open for her, Aoife.’

  He jumped back up onto the tractor and switched on the engine.

  ‘You take care! See you later!’ he called as he drove away.

  Shivering in the cool air, she got back into her car and drove home.

  The farmyard was deserted. Sam was probably checking on cattle or repairing machinery. As she stood looking around, she noticed the changes. The yard, usually untidy, looked almost immaculate. Someone had washed it down, and there wasn’t a weed poking through the concrete surface. Her father used to get her to pull the stray wisps of grass that pushed through the cracks in the cement. Over the years the grass had enveloped more and more of the yard, but now it was free of its invaders. Where did Sam get the time?

  Aoife wandered over to her mother’s herb patch. Here too all was in perfect order. Rosemary, thyme, sage, and bay leaves competed aggressively for space. But there was not a weed in sight.

  She bent down to tie her shoelace then whirled around when she heard a cough. Glancing up, she saw a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, very pale and thin.

  He stood beside her, appearing slightly anxious. His fair hair blown about by the wind was already thinning.

  ‘Are you looking for Sam?’ she asked.

  ‘No, miss, I work for Sam. My name is Karol.’

  She realised at once he was foreign – his voice was accented and his speech patterns too precise. He was probably East European.

  She stretched out her hand. ‘Hi, my name is Aoife. I’m Sam’s sister. I didn’t realise that Sam had taken someone on to work the farm.’

  He hesitated and held his hands up for her to inspect. There were very dirty.

  She didn’t withdraw her hand and they shook hands firmly.

  ‘I have been working here two months with your brother.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘I am from Poland. I was born in Poznan. It is good to meet with you.’

  ‘I hope you are enjoying your stay in Ireland. Sam doesn’t work you too hard, does he?’

  He smiled and shrugged, then raised his hand in farewell as he turned away and headed back up the yard towards the cowshed.

  Aoife wandered back to the house where Agnes was cooking the dinner. She switched on the kettle and made herself and her mother a coffee. She had hers in a mug, but her mother drank from her usual china cup. Aoife remembered how her dad used to tease her mother for being posh, refusing to use a mug.

  ‘No luck finding Nell, then?’ Agnes asked.

  Aoife shook her head. ‘Sam is going to be upset. I tried everywhere I could think of. I even asked Jack Costello to keep an eye open for her. It looks bad, doesn’t it?’

  Her mother had glanced up at the mention of Jack’s name. ‘Do you know Jack is planning to sell his farm? Now that the parents are dead, he’s going to move to Dublin. I heard he bought a few houses years ago, so he won’t be short of a few quid.’

  Aoife felt a twinge of annoyance that Jack had the foresight to buy property at the right time. Why hadn’t Connor had similar foresight? After all, his family was in the property business. But, then again, Connor never had the spare cash or the steady income to invest. She knew that his brother James had amassed a sizeable chunk of real estate. Connor was against property owners and landlords on principle. So was she too, in theory, but it would be nice to have the solid security of bricks and mortar. Still, now that they were getting married, she hoped Connor would be more interested in financial security. Guiltily, she wondered if she was becoming very grasping and materialistic herself.

  ‘When did Sam take on that new guy?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve met Karol. He’s such a pleasant lad and a hard worker. He doesn’t keep set hours. Sam is dreading the day he leaves. He’s very reliable – turns up every day like clockwork. Not like some who will only appear if their hangover allows.’ Her mother was referring to the parade of locals who had worked for Sam over the years. They had often let him down, especially on a Monday morning.

  Aoife left her mam preparing dinner and went up to her room to read. Immersed in her book, she lost track of time, until her mother calling her for dinner jerked her back to reality.

  As soon as she entered the kitchen, she could sense the gloom.

  Her mam was dishing out the dinner and looked shrunken. Sam sat at the head of the table; his head bowed. Karol was carefully washing his hands at the sink. Eventually, he too sat down, looking uncomfortable.

  Her mother turned to her.

  ‘They found Nell. She was in the old hayshed. She must have crawled in to die.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sam. What happened to her?’

  Sam’s eyes remained firmly fixed on his plate. ‘Nothing happened, she just died. She was a fair old age. It’s better really. She didn’t seem to have suffered.’

  Immediately he changed the subject by praising the dinner and outlining the work that he had been doing and the work he planned for the afternoon.

  Then they relapsed into silence for the remainder of the meal.

  When they finished eating Sam got up and turned to Karol.

  ‘Will you bury her out in the back? I’ll show you where. It may take you a while, but you can knock off when it’s done.’

  Karol nodded as he too stood up.

  After the men left, Aoife helped her mother clear away the dinner things. Agnes was very quiet.

  ‘You were very fond of Nell, weren’t you, Mam?’

  ‘It’s foolish to get too attached to animals. It’s just that it reminds me of your father bringing home Polly. He wanted to make a good working dog out of her. But, instead, he turned her into a real auld pet. Remember, Aoife, you used to follow her around the place when you were a wee one. She died shortly after your father passed.’

  Agnes’s eyes filled up and Aoife thought what a pity that Nell should have died the day of her dad’s anniversary.

  ‘Do you still miss him, Mam?’

  She nodded. ‘He missed out on so much. He never saw you grow up, or Kate get married, or any of his grandchildren. I feel angry about that. He was so young, love – we should have had more time together – and, of course, you missed out on having a dad.’