Black Harvest (9 page)

To everyone’s surprise Alison had stopped crying. She began making little cooing noises and pulling at Oliver’s hair. “Huh, she won’t shut up for me,” Colin said enviously. But he was glad really. Oliver went up half a notch in his
estimation, he was gentle with Alison.

They all sat round the table with the baby on Oliver’s knee. He rubbed his eyes. “I think your mother should take her to a hospital,” he said firmly.

Prill was shocked. “But why, Oll? What could they do? Don’t you think it’s just a mood she’s in? I mean, she’s not got a high temperature, and she’s eating.”

“I think she may be starving.”

“Oh, come on, that’s just ridiculous,” Colin exploded.

“No it isn’t,” Oliver said patiently. “There is an illness, I don’t know what it’s called and it’s very rare, when whatever you eat doesn’t do you any good. It’s something to do with your blood and things. You just lose weight, and—”

“And what?”

“What happens if they can’t get you better?” Prill asked anxiously.

“You die.”

“Oh, how on earth can that be right?” Colin was shouting. “How on earth do you know that?” But he was frightened.

Oliver was maddeningly calm. “Don’t forget my mother was a nurse. She’s treated all kinds of people. When she worked on the intensive care unit at St Thomas’s—”

“Yes, well, don’t let’s go into that,” Colin said curtly, “you’ve said enough for one day.”

Prill was looking at Alison. “You’ve certainly done the trick with her, Oll, she’s actually smiling.”

He was pleased. “Do you think she likes me?” He didn’t seem to notice how she was bending his fingers back, or making a wet patch on his knees.

“Seems to.” In spite of everything, Prill was feeling better. They had misjudged Oliver, saying he was babyish, having quiet sniggers behind his back. Just in these last few minutes he seemed to have come over to their side. If her mother did go off tomorrow to find another doctor, it was reassuring to think of Oliver being there. The thought of it actually comforted her.

I
T WAS VERY
hot when they went to bed, but there was thunder around and no one could sleep. Colin and Prill lay sweating under damp sheets, and all the doors and windows were open to bring the temperature down. Oliver was in his usual cocoon of bedding, breathing steadily, with his face to the wall. Colin envied him, not knowing he was wide awake listening to Alison crying.

They were all hungry. Prill had brought nothing back from Mooneys’ Stores so Mrs Blakeman had made do with what was left, three very small eggs, a heel of bread, and the rest of the frozen chips. After that there were two wrinkled apples to share out. Colin was ravenous. He’d always said it looked disgusting but he really believed he could have eaten a jar of Alison’s baby food. The only other food in the house was dog meat, about a dozen tins of it, in one of the kitchen
cupboards. Because of Jessie’s lack of interest the supply was going down extremely slowly.

Oliver wasn’t thinking about meals. Under the bedclothes his hands were clapped over his ears again, anything to muffle the baby’s crying. It could never have been as bad as this before. Auntie Jeannie was forever getting up, walking about with her and going back to bed again. He did feel sorry for her.

At one in the morning a storm broke over the bungalow. The thunder was ear-splitting and as it rolled and crashed over the sky the baby cried quite hopelessly, and louder than ever. Prill didn’t like storms either and the rain was coming into her room. She got up and closed the windows. The lightning was like an arc lamp, splashing the small field with a second’s jagged light before it plunged her back into the hot, airless dark.

The field was empty. The picture of that wasted, ragged creature clawing soil into her mouth then wordlessly screaming at her, close at hand, was carved deeply into Prill’s memory. But Father Hagan could be right. She did have a vivid imagination; Mrs Pollock was always telling her that in English lessons. Perhaps that, and the feverishness, and something she’d read… But Prill could no longer distinguish between what she actually saw and heard and the strange tricks her mind was playing on her. So much had happened.

The baby’s pain was real enough. They were all awake and they all heard it. As the storm raged over their heads, that voice said everything. Their fear was in it, and their pain, and
their sense of loneliness. Oliver found it unbearable. He felt he might suddenly get up and quietly strangle Alison if she didn’t stop crying, and yet he wanted to comfort her too. It was the most heartrending cry he had ever heard.

When daylight came Colin got up first, feeling very light-headed. It was the effect of sleeplessness and very little food. Instinctively he made his way to the kitchen for something to eat, but someone was there already. The door was open a crack, and he could hear noises.

Something told him not to burst in so he nudged the door open with his foot. He could hear Alison growling bad-temperedly. “Na… na…” she was moaning, and pushing a spoon away from her mouth. Then he heard his mother’s voice. She was crying.

Colin stepped back. He’d only seen her in tears once before, when Grandpa Blakeman died; they had been very fond of each other. Now he was appalled, not because he thought mothers had no right to cry, but because of what it meant, here, in this strange house, all on their own, without his father.

She had become a different person in the last few days. Dad was the moody one, given to fits of bad temper and the occasional rage. Mum was much calmer. She always coped in a crisis.

But now she was withdrawing from them; she seemed unable to make her mind up about anything. One minute she was all for getting Dad back, the next she was off the idea and seemed perfectly happy to stay where she was. All yesterday
she had sat in the kitchen while Alison screamed the place down, waiting for a hopeless doctor who may, or may not, turn up. There was a limpness about her. It was almost as if she was past caring.

Colin went back to his bedroom, pulled some clothes on, and crept outside. But she heard the front door click. “Where are you going, Colin?” she called out. “It’s only half past six.”

“I thought I’d walk into Ballimagliesh. I’m going to see if there’s another doctor around, someone who could look at Alison. I’ll find someone to take you to his surgery. Perhaps someone runs a taxi service. They often do, in remote places like this. I’ll buy some bread and stuff, if anywhere’s open.”

She didn’t try to stop him. He just heard an expressionless, “Oh, all right. I hope you won’t be gone too long though.” That was odd in itself, she would normally have cross-questioned him about how far it was, and whether he had enough money. She would have told him not to thumb lifts.

He was going to do that anyway, if anything came along, but the road was empty. In the distance, under some big trees, he saw two small figures silhouetted against the pale sky, their arms thrust out into the road. When Colin walked past them they stuck out their hands aggressively, almost as if they were trying to get hold of him.

“Don’t think we’ll be lucky, do you?” he said. “Shanks’s pony, I should think, all the way to the village.” But they didn’t reply; they just opened and shut their mouths at him, and yet no words came out. Funny folk, he thought, and something about the way they stood there made him shiver
slightly. But he hadn’t got time to stop and talk to them, he had to get to Ballimagliesh.

At eight o’clock Prill and Oliver faced one another across the kitchen table. Between them they had managed to weigh the baby on the bathroom scales. First Mrs Blakeman had stood on them with Alison, then she’d given her to Prill and weighed herself again. Oliver had made them do everything twice and written the figures down in a notebook.

She wasn’t the kind of mother who kept neat photo albums or baby books, but she did know what Alison should weigh, and according to Oliver she’d lost half a stone. “She can’t have lost that much,” said Prill. “Seventeen take away three…then from that you deduct…” he muttered, doing rapid mathematics. “Oh, do shut up, Oll,” Prill said. “We don’t need all those facts and figures.”

He really was peculiar. Last night he’d been so lovely with Alison, calming her down when nobody else could. Now, with these brisk calculations, he was frightening her mother to death. How could he be so thick-skinned?

Mrs Blakeman had already packed a suitcase and a bag of baby things. She came into the kitchen with her coat on, and Alison stuffed under one arm like a parcel. She said quietly, “Of course, now we’re going to see another doctor she’s decided to calm down. She’s like Jessie, contrary. Listen to her, guzzling that biscuit!”

It was reassuring to hear Jessie crunching away again, but the two children were concentrating on Alison. She may have
stopped griping but she looked dreadful. Her pink baby chubbiness had gone and there was an unhealthy transparency about her skin. Her face had shrunk somehow; she looked more like a little old man than a young child.

Mrs Blakeman stood by the window watching out for Colin. They’d had nothing to eat yet, and Oliver’s stomach was rumbling, so was Prill’s. “Is there any breakfast?” she said.

“I found some tins in the back of a cupboard. You could open those. There are some tomatoes, I think, and those baked beans with sausages. I don’t want anything.”

Her voice was toneless and flat. She didn’t even turn round to look at them. It was as if what strength she had left, after the sleepless days and nights, had all been sucked into Alison. There was nothing left over for them.

“Come on, then,” Oliver said. Tinned tomatoes were his chief hate, baked beans a close second, but they had to eat something or they’d all be ill. He started getting saucepans out. “By the time these are ready, Colin may be back. Hope he’s got some bread.”

The day was muggy and quite dark, and all the kitchen lights were on. Oliver bustled round, filling the electric kettle and turning on rings. Then there was a loud click and everything went off together. “Oh
no
! Not an electricity cut. I wonder if it’s just the fuse? If I knew where the box was I could probably—” Then Mrs Blakeman said, “Here’s Mr O’Malley.” She didn’t seem to notice about the electricity.

The farmer looked unusually smart in a speckled tweed suit, a new hat and highly polished shoes. “I just came to tell
you about the power,” he said. “Last night’s storm did a lot of damage, there are lines down all over. The electricity board’s on with the repairs already, to be sure, and that’s why the supply’s off. It’ll be back on this afternoon, about five, I’m thinking.” He flicked a cotton thread off his suit and pulled his tie straight. “We’ll not be here ourselves; we’re away for the next couple of days. Got to go down into Galway. Donal usually keeps an eye on the place for us. We go every year, about this time. We’ve got family down there.”

Prill stared at him and words formed silently. “Please don’t go,” she wanted to say. “Please don’t shut up your friendly farmhouse and leave us at the mercies of that smelly old man. Please don’t leave us here.” Instead she said coldly to Oliver, “That’s our breakfast finished then. We can’t even heat those pans up now.”

Mr O’Malley saw the empty tins on the table and listened to Oliver explaining that there was no food in the house. “This won’t do at all,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll send Kevin straight down with something, so I will. And how are you for the milk?”

“We’ve not got any,” Mrs Blakeman said. It was the first time she’d spoken. “I had to throw yesterday’s away last night. It was off again; it had turned almost solid. I think the dog drank some of it too. It was sick.” She hadn’t told the children about the milk, that frightened Prill, so did her voice. It had a dangerous edge to it, it was barbed, not like her mother’s voice at all.

John O’Malley turned pink and glanced at the big red
setter as it crept back under the table. It had a biscuit in its mouth but its eyes were glassy and its coat dull. If it was his dog he’d get the vet to it. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I don’t know what Donal’s playing at these days. I’m very sorry, missus, indeed I am. I’ll speak to him.” He paused. “Er, there’s a vet in the village. His name’s Keen. Get him to have a look at the dog, if you’re worried.” He looked at his watch. “We’re going soon but the boy’ll be right down with some food. Don’t want you to go hungry.” He smiled rather nervously and tugged at his collar. He was annoyed about the milk. Donal Morrissey was too old to help in the dairy. He’d have found someone else years ago, if it hadn’t been for his wife Eileen.

Colin passed the farmer on his way down the track. The old blue pick-up bumped past him shedding bits of straw. It was about as respectable as the “taxi” he’d found in Ballimagliesh.

The only sign of life in the village had been the string of fairy lights above Danny’s Bar. Inside he’d found someone sitting behind the counter, eating breakfast.

“Come in, come in do,” a voice shouted. “You’ll be from the bungalow? And how’s the little baby now?” It seemed that everyone knew everything in Ballimagliesh. Mary Malone ran Danny’s Bar. She was seventy, very short, and weighed seventeen stone. She was tucking into a huge plateful of bacon and potato cakes. Colin’s mouth watered. He mustn’t go back without food, but first to business.

She wiped her mouth as he explained what he wanted,
then said placidly, “Young Danny’ll take her, don’t you worry. He’s a driver. He does trips when there’s nothing else on. I’ll speak to him now.”

There was a telephone on the bar counter. She picked the receiver up. Things were clearly arranged so that she only walked about when strictly necessary. “Where is he?” Colin said.

“Upstairs in his bed, if I know anything.
Danny!
” she bellowed. “Get down here, will you! There’s a boy here, his mother wants to go to Sligo General. Their baby’s sick. Move yourself.”

She scrubbed at her plate with a piece of bread. “He’ll be down. He’ll get your mother to Sligo. Might have to get the car filled up first, might take a while, it’s early yet. Would you like to wait here?” Suddenly all the lights went off. “Oh, Jesus Mary, wonder how long we’ll be off this time? Danny won’t like missing his rashers and potato, I’m thinking.”

Kevin O’Malley left a basket outside the bungalow door and went away. His parents were in the pick-up, having words about Donal Morrissey. Dad thought the lady was quite angry about the milk and Kevin didn’t want to speak to her. The basket contained fresh milk, two new loaves, and a cake his mother had made for Aunt Mary in Knockferry. He’d been looking forward to a bit of that himself.

Colin brought the basket in with him. As soon as she saw him his mother picked up the suitcase, grabbed Alison, and pushed past him into the hall. “Did you find anyone?”