Page 63 of Merrily Ever After
She smiles shyly, looking pleased as she glances down at her boots and then at the empty cup in my hand. She takes a deep breath. “Well, maybe if you—”
“Coll. You ready?” One of her friends appears at her side, sending a brief look my way as she grabs her free hand.
“Yeah.” Colleen’s eyes linger on mine even as she’s tugged away. “Bye, Sean.”
I manage another nod and, with one last smile, she leaves, following her friend across the floor. I stare after her, probably looking like an idiot, but all I can think about is how that was the closest she’s ever been to me. The longest we’ve ever spoken. And as Thin Lizzy starts over the speakers, I settle back against the wall, committing each word to memory as I wait for my heartbeat to calm.
Chapter Two
The next day, it takes longer than it should to get the cows in, but that’s my fault, not theirs. I’m distracted. I’ve been distracted all week, and I don’t like it. I’m not usually so unfocused, especially when I’m working. But for the first time in my life, I have somewhere else I’d rather be.
When I’m finally done, I flick the main light to the barn off and make the short trip back to the house, wanting nothing more than to get into bed. It’s a Saturday night, but as Dad always says, the animals don’t know it’s the weekend. They don’t care if you want to sleep in or head out. They need caring for every day, which meansyouneed to care for them every day. From sunrise to sunset and sometimes longer than that. Some people might find it dull, a never-ending list of chores. But I like it. I like to be busy. Like taking care of things.
I hear voices in the kitchen as soon as I’m through the door, and the thought of dinner makes my stomach rumble, but I take my time. I change out of my shoes and hang my coat in the porch before heading straight to the bathroom. Mam’s fastidious about washing hands when I come into the house. It was drilled into me as soon as I could stand on my own two feet. But while dirt and muck are easy enough to clean off, there’s nothing to stop the callouses. The cracked and reddened skin from working outside in the cold. The same as my dad’s. Same as my mam’s, too.
I never thought too much about it before, but something at the sight of them now makes me pause, and I frown as I examine my palms, imagining Colleen’s soft ones.
I’m extra diligent with the soap this evening.
The rest of my family is waiting for me when I arrive in the kitchen, but my parents don’t seem to mind. They know I was working. Dad even gives me a nod when I take a seat. He’s a man of few words, which I guess means I take after him. I know some people think he’s standoffish, but that’s only because they don’t know him. I remember him playing with us for hours when I was younger and he has more patience for Rachel than anyone on earth. Plus, he adores my mother, like we all do. It makes me feel more comfortable about my own self. That it’s okay not to have to pretend to be someone else for other people.
“For the growing boy,” Mam says, putting a plate of meat, mashed potatoes and vegetables in front of me. It’s the exact same thing she says to me every night, and I don’t correct her that I a) am a man and b) stopped growing a few years ago at this stage.
“And my wonderful girl,” she says to Rachel, who immediately reaches for the butter. “I said I’d get Mr Deegan’s shopping tomorrow,” she adds as she takes her seat. Dad’s already started eating, taking quiet, measured bites as he moves methodically around his plate. “He hasn’t been feeling well, and his wife doesn’t drive. We’ll have to get the bus into town, mind you, but it will be a day out. Rachel, you wanted to look at shoes. I said look,” she warns as my sister’s eyes light up. “Let me see how that Irish test goes before there’s anything more than that. It’s going to take the afternoon, so Sean, if you can take Mrs Fallon’s order to her, I’d appreciate it.”
I nod, even as Rachel smirks. Mam works at the grocers in the village but also takes orders on the farm for a bit of extra money, and occasionally we get roped in to help – especially when it gets busy around this time of year, in the lead up to Christmas.
“Mrs Fallon’s scary,” Rachel says, earning a stern look from our mother.
“She’s not scary.”
But Rachel is unbowed. “She is. All you need to do is cross her path for her to yell at you. Cathy Finnegan says she went after her brother with a walking stick once.”
“And knowing Cathy Finnegan’s brother, I’m sure he deserved it,” Mam says briskly. “In any case, I’m sure Sean is brave enough to handle her. And her order is the reason you were able to get that new school bag last spring, so I’d mind my words if I were you.”
Rachel does mind them, dropping her eyes to her plate as she starts shoveling food into her mouth.
*
The next morning, I set off with six eggs, one apple pie and two loaves of bread. It’s not a bad day for a walk. No wind. No rain. Nothing but blue skies overhead. That does mean it’s colder though, and my breath mists the air in front of me with each step. Delivering these orders isn’t anything new, but it’s the first time I’ve been sent to Mrs Fallon’s, and as I start the two-mile walk to her house, I think about what Rachel said last night. And how she’s not exactly wrong.
Mrs Fallonisscary. Or at least she used to be. Now that I’m older, I suspect she found it funny to terrify the village kids. Almost like a hobby. But beyond that, I don’t know much about her other than she’s a widow. Mam says she married a rich man who died young and, other than that, doesn’t do much except live off the money he left her.
He must have left her a lot.
Her house has to be the biggest in the county, and from the snippets I’ve picked up from people talking, I know she has a cleaner and a gardener and a girl who comes to mend any clothes that need fixing.
You’d wonder what she does all day with so many people to do things for her. It seems from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep I’m doing stuff. When I’m not, it usually means I’ve forgotten something.
I keep up a good pace all the way over the hill, and by the time I reach the end of her lane, I’m practically warm again. I undo my scarf as I pause at the gate, catching my breath as I gaze up at the tall, two-story house beyond.
I’ve only been here once before when Mam used to make her deliveries with seven-year-old me on the back of her bicycle, but if anything, the place is even bigger than I remember.
It’s easily three times the size of mine, with big sash windows and green ivy creeping up the walls. I frown at the sight of the plant. Sure, it looks pretty, but it can’t be good for her brickwork. And her gutters need doing, too.
My brain flips back into farm mode as I go to the front door, cataloging all the things that need to be done as I press the bell. I’m examining a cracked paving stone when I hear the faint thump of a cane before the door creaks open, and a woman peers out.
I don’t know how old Mrs Fallon is. She seemed ancient when I was a child and she seems ancient now. In the back of my mind, I know she wasn’t born that way, that she grew up just like everyone else, but it’s hard to imagine her young. Especially when she’s dressed like she is now.
