Chapters (15)
‘Why on earth should that be?’ his grandmother demanded, prompting him to cite examples of abandoned projects in the past: a road in Co. Mayo that was washed away when it was half constructed, a tramway there was to have been in Limerick.
Villana contributed an observation to the conversation; Lionel none. ‘A statue of O’Connell,’ John James continued, ‘was planned one time for Clonakilty. To be cast in bronze, only they lost the middle part of it and poor O’Connell came out a dwarf.’
Villana laughed: that was so, she agreed, she had heard the statue talked about. Lionel still said nothing. It surprised me that I had never heard in Bandon this story of Clonakilty’s statue, the two towns being close to one another. But I did not remark on that.
After dinner I took the ironing to the first-floor hot-press, and then completed my evening tasks in the kitchen. Patty remained for a while, reading Ireland’s Own at the table after Brigid had gone down to the gate-lodge; then she said goodnight. I repaired some pillowslips that would be needed for the visitors. I waited, the kettle boiling on the range, but when Lionel came in he said he was tired tonight and would go to bed at once.
I feel more than ever that I live in a cobweb of other people’s lives and do not understand the cobweb’s nature. These are the people I knew as children; this is the same house; trees and shrubs are as they were. I remind myself of that when everywhere I sense what I can only call distortion; I know no better word. I tell myself that John James suffers from his wounded leg, that it’s his brother’s choice to live a peasant’s life, that other girls have married sticks for husbands.
I tell myself, but I feel as though I’m telling lies. The old woman sits austerely at the dinner table, preserving with them a privacy they hardly deign to recognise. I am not worthy of whatever secret there is, only good for the chores a poor relation must take on as her due. ‘The place would fall to pieces after I’ve gone,’ the old woman said the day I came back. ‘Thank you for returning, Sarah.’ But at dinner and in the drawing-room I feel trapped by my own weakness, more than ever I was trapped in the boarding-school or in my father’s rectory. I should leave Carriglas, but I cannot find the courage.