‘Stomachs are a-talkin’. They’ve already been out the backyard.’
She smiled at this, stuck her tongue in the thimble. ‘I’ll fix my hair and come.’ She gave the thimble back and closed the door. I was sick of this routine.
I was standing against the dining room wall, waiting to be of service, when Lizzie came down, sat at the end of the table. ‘Good morning,’ Mrs Borden said. I wondered why she bothered. Lizzie broke a johnnycake in half, stuffed it into her mouth.
‘What are your plans today, Father?’
‘Work, of course.’
‘Of course, Father.’
‘And what will you do today?’ Mrs Borden asked her.
‘I’ve Sunday school planning.’ Lizzie sweet as the thimble.
Mrs Borden sipped tea. ‘What will you teach the children this time?’
Lizzie cocked her head. ‘What would you teach them?’ Her voice was a tart raspberry pulling on cheeks.
Mrs Borden blushed. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’d probably stick to hymns.’
Mr Borden chewed slowly, said nothing.
Lizzie rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t teach children the moral life by singing, Mrs Borden.’
Mr Borden placed his knife and fork on the clean tablecloth, made pork butter stains. One more thing I’d have to clean. He cupped his hand over his mouth and belched. ‘And sometimes you can’t teach children the moral life no matter what method you use.’
Lizzie reddened. ‘Father?’
‘I’m surprised the Reverend lets you teach as often as you do.’
Lizzie’s jaw angled. ‘I’m a good teacher, Father. The children like me.’
‘Children like children, I suppose.’
‘Andrew . . .’ Mrs Borden choked her words.
I pushed myself into the wall, wanted to disappear inside of it, did not want to see a grown woman squirm in front of her father. The wall was hot against my hands and Lizzie shot me a look, made my face burn. I did not care to see, did not care to listen to the conversation.
Lizzie said, ‘What’s wrong, Father?’
‘Your mother and I have been ill.’
Lizzie straightened her back, got stiff. ‘Bridget mentioned.’
‘There’s no reason we should be.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘Unless, of course, there’s disease in the house.’
‘There’s not, Father.’
He arrowed a finger towards her. ‘You’ve not got rid of your pigeons, Lizzie.’
‘That’s because I shouldn’t have to. They’re kept safe in the barn.’
‘Nonsense. You let them out and they come inside through the roof and leave their filth around.’ He pointed to the ceiling, the sky, to God.
Lizzie tightened her fists under the table. I did not care to be in the room.
‘I’ve not done that, Father.’
‘I want you to get rid of them.’
‘No.’
Mr Borden pushed himself upright, a giant. ‘Don’t defy me, Lizzie.’
‘But they’re mine. You should fix the roof if you’re so worried about disease.’ Her eyes wide. I sunk against the wall, hard in my back. Lizzie should’ve known better.
‘What’s that you teach the children? Obey and honour?’ Mr Borden leaned into his chair, made it creak, made me think he’d fall back and Jack and Jill his head.
Lizzie slammed her hands on the dining room table, made her piece of pork jump off the plate and onto the floor. ‘That’s different.’
Mr Borden stood then, adjusted his trousers and came towards Lizzie. I’d seen this before. I prepared myself. I could see little yellow string-saliva in his beard. He went in close to Lizzie, slapped her across the face. Oh, the sound filled the room, that noise of skin, a cleaver working meat, and Lizzie’s head snapped to the side, her shoulders metered wide, wings, and my heart raced, my knees weakened, brought sweat to my brow. Lizzie stared at her father.
‘Andrew, please.’ Mrs Borden held her napkin tight.
‘You better start listening to me, Lizzie.’
Lizzie shook her head. ‘You’re a nasty.’
Mr Borden struck her again. I did not know where to look. Lizzie ran out of the dining room, went up the stairs and slammed the door. Mr and Mrs Borden didn’t say anything and I collected the dishes, careful not to make too much noise. I left the room, my face ran hot, the feel of wanting to cry. How I wanted to leave the house right there and then.
I sympathised with Lizzie in that moment, the suffering. There’d been that moment back in Cork at the estate where I worked. I’d been touched one too many times by the master of the house. He was a giant hand, reached for my breasts as I poured him coffee, the way he did, and this time I looked at him, his dirty-red wine-coloured, mushroom-bulbed nose, his English matchstick teeth, and I slapped his hands off me, slapped his chest, slapped his face. Hot coffee went everywhere, made him leap from his chair.
‘Look at what you’ve done!’ he yelled.
‘Ya keep yer bloody hands to yerself. Ya shouldn’t’ve touched me.’
He came close to me, smelled of damp wool, of coffee grounds. ‘I’m the one who gives orders around here. Who do you think you are?’
I was beginning to find out. I was sent packing, was sent without a recommendation. It had been my third posting. I was running out of options.
‘Ya didn’t need to go do that,’ my brother said. We were all standing in our warmed kitchen when I told them what had happened.
‘Ya know nothin’ about what it’s like.’
He ran his stubby fingers through his hair. ‘If yer so smart, whatcha gonna do now?’
Like women and men before me I counted out money, counted out how far it would take me. Away from here, away from grubby landowners. America. Mammy and Daddy didn’t want me to go, said they’d miss their baby girl, said to at least try Dublin.
‘I’m hearin’ girls are makin’ more money there. Let me have an adventure,’ I told them.
‘It’ll kill us,’ Nanna said, ‘but it would kill ya more to stay,’ and she stroked my cheeks with her half-sized finger, the one she lost when she fell under a horse, and it was smooth and knobbly like a newborn bird head.
Just like that I got my ticket for the SS Republic down in Queenstown. A grown woman full of decisions. I knocked on doors in streets around our house, said, ‘I’m havin’ my American wake. Come see me off.’
Come they did. They filled me up with food and drink, cabbage and bacon, mutton with soda bread. Mammy made loaves of brack, made sure there were chunks of plum, my favourite, and for hours I was toasted with mulled wine, toasted with all their home-grown drops.
They filled my ears with fiddle and drum, flute and cruit, got my heart beating in time with ‘The Devil and the Bailiff’, and I was danced from one neighbour to another, danced from a brother to a sister to a brother. Everyone laughing, screaming out song. I took that in, tried not to think about it ending.
Daddy had organised the photographer and so we stood there, arms around shoulders, all of us sweating against each other, staying still, trying not to blink, and Nanna said, ‘I’ll die before this bloody photograph is taken.’ Oh, that sent us breaking, made the photographer stomp his foot, tell us we were useless. ‘Now I’ll have ta take it again.’