The Rosary Garden by Nicola White (good books to read for women txt) 📗

presumed Ali would always be trailing behind, in sophistication and experience. That was the deal between them. Roisín had recently upped the stakes by marrying a handsome GAA captain, Colman Carroll, and soon after, baby Emer arrived.

As they drove, Roisín kept going on about how it was a mobile home – not a caravan – that they were living in, and how comfortable and convenient it was. Ali always thought Roisín wasn’t bothered about what anyone thought of her, but something had changed.

The caravan site that Colman managed was half a mile outside the village, where the river ran into Lough Dreena. Roisín turned down a narrow boreen, no more than a rutted lane between high hedges. Fuchsia branches skittered against the car windows. The road crossed a metal bridge and carried on over the brow of an open field where, all at once, the white oblongs of caravans came into view, clustered like giant cattle under the lakeshore trees. The nearest caravan was larger than the rest and was surrounded by a knee-high wooden fence. A rotary washing line trembled beside it in the breeze.

As Roisín stopped the car, the caravan door swung open and a well-built man with a bush of sandy hair came down the steps towards them, his face clenched.

‘Rowsh! I told you I had to get to the grounds by eleven. Out!’

‘Colman. Darlin’. This is my cousin Ali.’

He spared Ali a quick once-over while snatching the car keys from Roisín’s hand.

‘You the famous one?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Well, you’re famous here,’ he said and reversed the car off in a wide curve.

‘Don’t mind him,’ said Roisín. ‘Bear with a sore head. Where’s he left the child?’

In the middle of the tiny living room was a playpen that reminded Ali of a lobster pot. Sitting inside it, a tiny Buddha among soft toys, was Emer. The baby’s mouth dropped open in awe at the sight of a stranger. Then a wriggle of delight convulsed her and she lifted her chubby arms in celebration. Roisín plucked the baby up into the air, spun her around once and brought her to rest on her hip, babbling loving nonsense all the while.

She took Ali on a brief tour of her new home. Ali nodded at the two bedrooms, feigned amazement at the plumbed-in bathroom with its tiny pink bath. She said that it was a lot better than Davy’s house, and Roisín laughed.

‘They’re no better than apes, those boys.’

‘I didn’t even know Davy had a house.’

‘Well – I think he’s a bit embarrassed by it …’

‘Why?’

‘He thought he was going to be setting up a little home, didn’t he, but nothing came of it, of course.’

‘A little home with who?’ she managed to keep her voice conversational.

‘You wouldn’t know her. Girl called Valerie. She only moved here a couple of years ago.’

‘Oh.’ Ali walked away to look at a picture of a football team over the decorative mantelpiece. It made her feel foolish not to know something so important about Davy’s life. It made her feel like she hadn’t been paying proper attention.

‘I’ll make us coffee. You go to Ali, Emer.’ Roisín handed her the baby and went to busy herself in the kitchen area.

Ali held Emer at arm’s length for a moment, unsure of herself. The baby looked unsure of her too. Her brow started to pucker, so Ali brought her into her chest for a cuddle. Emer capitulated, slipping one plump fist into the opening of Ali’s blouse to come to rest stickily against her collarbone, just above her heart. Then she laid her cheek on the curve of Ali’s shoulder, stuffed her thumb in her mouth and sucked on it reflectively. Ali walked away to the front of the caravan, where a wide window brought in the view of the lake.

The baby was limp in her arms. Ali hummed a made-up tune and stroked the hot little back, her palm tickled by the intricate pattern of her cardigan. The fingers under Ali’s shirt flexed and curled in time with the thumb-sucking. Emer’s hair was pale and fine, growing here and there in curls on her shell-pink scalp. With a jolt, Ali realised what it was she was holding – this was what was lost, this.

Her stomach gave an awful lurch. She wanted to sit down, but all her concentration was needed for holding onto the baby.

She must have made some kind of sound, because Roisín was hurrying towards her.

‘Are you okay?’

Ali nodded, but it felt like the child could slip through her arms. She looked down. Emer gazed up at her, steady and accusatory. Roisín was by her side now, the baby being taken from her grip.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Roisín, ‘I didn’t think. It’s upset you.’

Ali wanted to protest that she was fine – fine – but no words would come out. She went to sit on the sofa while Roisín put Emer back into her playpen.

They drank the coffee and Ali asked her cousin normal, boring questions, about her job, about the wedding, about Colman. But Roisín was incapable of finishing a whole sentence without her eyes sliding over to Emer, her conversation fragmented with little bursts of baby-talk directed at the lobster pot.

‘An odd woman came up to me after mass today,’ said Ali, ‘gave me a medal. Your dad said it was Joan’s mother – Joan Dempsey.’

‘Oh yeah? Seemed like they were all gawping at you.’

‘I didn’t see Joan there.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t,’ Roisín said. ‘She’s in the hospital – that mental place in Kinmore: the big building on the road into town.’

‘Yeah, my mother told me. That’s awful. I remember her well from the time we stayed with you.’

Emer started to whinge, bored with her incarceration. ‘Yeah, well, the less said, the better,’ said Roisín. ‘My mother’s got a real thing against Joan, so don’t go reminiscing to her.’

She went over and lifted Emer into her arms just as a woman passed outside the window.

‘Shite,’ said Roisín. A knock came on the glass door.