Mannin Woman
by Joan O'Flynn
(from Caught in Amber)
When Sheila left the house that morning she had no intention of being out of doors for very long. She was delighted to waken so early while the house was still silent and when she slipped from beneath the bed covers and pulled on her jeans and bright blue top, she had no thought other than to steal a half hour of peace before the daily bedlam erupted around her. No fear of waking Jim. The second bottle of claret he’d opened last night had left him snoring vigorously until she nudged him over on to his side. He would sleep for some time yet. She crept past the open door of the big bedroom where three tousled-headed faces made a peaceful picture that would be shattered once the boys opened their bright eyes and faced another day. One glance at last night’s debris in the kitchen was enough to make her swiftly tie a chiffon scarf around her long auburn hair, reach for an apple and open the back door.
It was early. The sun had just climbed over the Twelve Bens, brushing their misty peaks with lemon glaze. Birds were rustling and chirruping, hidden in the reeds on the edge of the fresh-water lake. A diver bird was motionless, like an Ethiopian statue carved from ebony, on a white rock, way out in Mannin Bay. The pebbles on the drive crunched noisily underfoot but soon she was on the sandy path that led down the hillside past Nora’s empty house and heading for the coral beach. Climbing over the rusty barbed wire, she abandoned her sandals beside a mound of stones. The glow of the fossilised remains surrounded her and filled her with wonder at their beauty, as her feet sank into the coarse, receptive warmth. Already she could hear activity from the fish farm around the headland. She was unwilling to let her blessed isolation be invaded, or to view the ugly feeding containers. Salmon that should be weaving and diving majestically through the waters of the Atlantic were caged instead, writhing and twitching from the fleas that formed beneath their silver scales. Turning in the opposite direction she started to walk along the shore. The sea sparkled in the sunlight as the tide began to fill. The winking reflections formed a flickering mosaic as Sheila meandered along the curving coastline. Coral was replaced by dry seaweed and then by hard golden sand.
She must have walked a mile or more. The silence was almost tangible as she sat down on an upturned boat to savour the scene. She could see the occasional car passing on the road that twisted its way between the inlet and the lake, the sound of their engines swallowed up in the vastness of the scene. Even the huge truck that careered dextrously around corners as it headed for the fish farm made not a sound as it raised a dusty cloud in its wake. The smoke from Fahy’s house on the lakeside went straight up in a thin blue line from the broad chimney, without a puff of wind to make it falter. Alice would have already kneaded the dough for the brown bread that she sold to the shops in the town. Sheila could almost see the crusty loaves that were puffing up in oblong shapes in the oven and would soon be placed carefully to cool on the windowsill; she could almost smell their nutty flavour. Half way up the hill was a plain white cottage, with scarlet door and window frames. At the gable end a man sat, brush poised, before an easel bearing a large blank canvas. Tubes of oils were strewn on the seat beside him. High in the heavens white wispy clouds hovered against an azure sky.
The birds seemed to have given up on the idea of rising at all this morning, for not one was to be seen except for the diver who, like a mime artist, had changed position but was once again immobile, black wings stretched in the growing warmth of the sun. Sheila pulled at her scarf and released the chestnut coloured curls, shaking her head from side to side in a burnished cascade. Shrugging the straps off her shoulders, she stretched her arms wide, mirroring the diver’s stance and like him, she felt the warmth across her back and neck. No tension could remain after such a glorious spiritual massage. It was as if time stood still, so lost was she in the beauty around her.
The sun climbed high in the sky overhead and drew her back from her reverie. She must get back. The children would have woken up ages ago and God only knew what havoc they would have wreaked on the house. Jim was willing enough, and capable of pouring cereal into a bowl, but he was not gifted in keeping three lively lads amused and out of trouble. She smiled as she thought of how he, an only boy spoilt by two older sisters, sometimes found it hard to cope with his lively family. It would be easier when they were big enough to join him fishing at the White Lady or helping to bring in turf from the bog. Her morning had been so refreshing that she now felt more than ready to face her all-male family and embrace them, full as she was with the beauty of the day. Sheila never felt the call of Greek Islands, or golden Spanish beaches. She was quite content with her annual holiday in this isolated part of Connemara where they were seldom disturbed by anything more exciting than a fresh westerly wind, or a storm that blew itself out in a day or two.
That was in August, the first day of their summer holiday. Sheila thought back on all the years they had spent in this spot and all the memories she had stored up. They had been coming to Connemara for ten years now, ever since Jack was a baby. He had been wheezing and the doctor said not to worry, that a spell by the seaside should clear matters up. And it had, almost miraculously. A couple of days sitting on Omey beach with Atlantic breezes wafting around them and the wheeze had been silenced. Jim and Sheila had fallen in love with the ever-changing skies and the peace of this western tip of Galway and had come here regularly after that as their family grew in number. Two years later Donal, born in the previous November, was only creeping by the summer holidays, and had spent hours sitting among the rounded grey pebbles on the drive, cascading himself with them as he launched handfuls into the air over his head. Sheila remembered sitting in the big picture window of their holiday home with Neil snuggled in her arms sucking lustily just six years ago, only one month old but already sturdily enjoying his accession to the kingdom he was to hold on to as “His Highness The Baby”.
This year’s holiday more than lived up to expectations. The weather, often fickle in the west, remained remarkably warm and sunny. There were only two wet days, one of which they spent in Water World in Galway city, taking the opportunity to do some shopping and visit Burger King. The fourteen days flew past and, as they packed the car on Saturday morning and drove through the town and on towards Maam Cross, the Twelve Bens had never looked more beautiful. For once Sheila was impervious to the squabbling coming from the back of the car, almost enjoying the pang of sadness she always felt when the holidays were over and they were forced to face back to Dublin and the bustle of city life.
It was the last week in September when their lives were shattered. The boys had settled into their new classes in school and the excitement of pleasing their teachers had not yet faded. Jim complained of a headache one evening, so Sheila gave him some tablets to relieve the pain, kissed the top of his head where his hair had started to thin, and went off to bed. Sheila was an early-to-bed person; one has to be when there is morning chaos to be faced. She was in a deep sleep when she woke to find him standing beside the bed, hands pressed tightly to his temples as if trying to squeeze away the pressure within. His face was ashen, eyes glazed with pain. He could only groan as she coaxed him to lie down beside her, it was obvious that this was no ordinary headache. Sheila punched in the numbers of the emergency service before dragging on jeans and sweater and running next door to rouse her neighbour, somebody would have to mind the children if she had to take Jim to hospital. It seemed an eternity before the blue flashing light cruised down the road and up to the door. Neither Jack nor Donal woke, but little Neil was disturbed by the commotion and wandered onto the landing, eyes befuddled with sleep. Seeing strangers everywhere he opened his mouth and wailed for his mother, before crawling between the legs of the paramedics and wedging himself firmly under the bed.
Stretcher, oxygen, blankets; her husband was whisked into the ambulance and Sheila followed, no time to comfort her baby. It broke her heart to go, but she had to be with Jim. The next few hours were hectic. A brain haemorrhage was diagnosed and an emergency operation performed. Sheila sat in the corridor, frantic with worry. She phoned her sister and told her where she was and why. Eileen wanted to come to the hospital to keep Sheila company, but the pressing need was for someone to go to the house and care for the children. She undertook to pass the dreadful news to Jim’s family. Hour after hour dragged by. The nurses were very kind and when Jim’s family arrived they too were full of concern for her, but Sheila was cold to the bone, stunned with this sudden passage of events.
The operation was a success, but the damage had been done. The patient didn’t recover consciousness. Day after day Jim lay in the Intensive Care Unit in a coma. Sheila sat beside his unresponsive body, the rhythmic suction of the ventilator ticking away the minutes. She refused to believe that the damage to his brain was irreversible and she sat beside him for hours, and held his hand, and talked to him, urging him to respond. After a few days the doctors thought he might be able to breathe unaided, so they removed the machine. It was more peaceful then, although the ward he was allocated was small.
As the weeks went by, a new routine became established at home. Her mother, leaving Dad to fend for himself, moved in to mind the children and be some company for her. The morning dash to school was followed by a crawl through city traffic to the hospital. All the time during her daily visits she talked to him. She told him how the children were, and how much they all loved him. Work had not started on the house extension they had planned, but Sheila told him that she was thinking of making a bedroom there, so that when he was better and came home she could chat to him in the afternoon while she cooked his dinner. Sometimes the silence from the bed was oppressive and Sheila stood at the window, the tears that rolled down her face mirrored by October rain that flowed down the outside of the windowpane.
On All Souls Day when she got to the ward the nurse told her that Jim had been very agitated during the night. They were monitoring him carefully, and had changed his medication, but it wasn’t looking good. They feared there was a possibility of another haemorrhage; they would call her if there was any change in his condition. When the children were settled for the night, Sheila placed her mobile phone on the pillow where Jim’s lovely gentle face had lain beside her for twelve short years. She didn’t undress fully, but stretched out on the large double bed staring at the blank panel on her phone. Every so often she feared the battery had run down and pressed one of the buttons to reassure herself. The digital clock disappeared almost instantly, but not before she saw that only minutes had elapsed.
The call from the hospital came at 5am. It was over. The frantic hope she had clung to for five long weeks dissolved into cold black despair. She could feel her heart break in pieces and her hoarse moans of agony awoke her mother and the boys.
Not even the children could help Sheila through the months that followed. She was lost without Jim. She retreated from a world that now held nothing for her. She cried hardly at all, not even at the graveside, her misery was too deep for tears. Her mother stayed on for the first few weeks and it was almost a relief when she returned to her own place, because then Sheila didn’t have to make conversation or even eat if she didn’t want to, and mostly she didn’t. How Santa found the house at Christmas was a mystery, but Sheila went through the motions of admiring the presents, later dutifully joining the rest of the family at Eileen’s for Christmas dinner. They all tried very hard but their conversation failed to rouse any response. If they hadn’t loved her so much they would have been rebuffed by her monosyllabic answers and given up trying to entertain her, but they accepted that she needed more time to come to terms with the fact that Jim was dead.
The boys squabbled a lot as the new year took hold, she hadn’t the heart to divert their energy to something more productive. Jack’s schoolwork deteriorated and Donal wet the bed a few times. Only little Neil, ever her baby, demanded his share of attention. Occasionally she felt some warmth creep back into her body but she never quite managed to catch hold of it.
When the envelope with a Galway postmark dropped in the letterbox at Easter, Sheila was really not interested. It was confirmation of their annual booking of the holiday house. She meant to reply, but the letter somehow lost itself in the clutter that reigned these days and it was weeks later that her mother found it when she was trying to bring some kind of order to the chaos. She wouldn’t hear of Sheila cancelling the reservation. She insisted that the boys needed a holiday and that she herself would bring them if Sheila wouldn’t. They agreed to compromise, and that is how one damp August day they arrived at the last stage of their journey, the long road from Oughterard to Clifden. The blue-grey mountains kept their distance as they headed west and the boys started to point out places they remembered.
Neither Sheila nor her mother spoke, one lost in memories, the other understanding how difficult this must be. For some inexplicable reason, Sheila swung off the main road at Ballinahinch Castle and approached the town by the old ribbon-like road through the bog where she and Jim had often cycled; the younger ones strapped behind and Jack’s plump legs going round and round on the pedals of his first bicycle. The sun burst from behind a cloud as the wilderness unfolded around them in a riot of colour. Brown peaty lakes, the stony ground between them dotted with fluffy white bog cotton and tiny purple and yellow flowers. The scene resembled a carpet woven by angels, a magic carpet that could carry you off effortlessly, weightlessly, all cares forgotten. The beauty overwhelmed her and her eyes filled up as she pulled the car over onto hard ground. Her mother encouraged the boys out of the car before the tears began to fall and drew their attention to two lambs that were bounding from rock to rock in pursuit of their mother. The children were in no hurry, glad to stretch their legs after the long drive. By the time they clambered back into the car Sheila had recovered her composure, and there was an air of tranquillity about her. As the two younger boys continued chattering, Jack placed his hand on her shoulder with gentleness reminiscent of his father.
Before collecting the key to the house, they decided to lay in some provisions. Parking was difficult, but they eventually found a spot and Sheila and her mother got out, the three boys in tow. The bags of food got heavier as they trudged their way down Market Street back towards the car. ‘Hey, Mum,’ cried Jack. ‘Look, look.’ She called to him to hurry up but he refused to be dragged away from the window of the Art Gallery. ‘Look, I think that’s you!’
There in pride of place, complete with broad gilt frame, was the most wonderful painting. The scene was clearly Mannin Bay. The central figure, slight, clad in bright blue jeans, had copper coloured hair haloing her head, untamed curls tumbling around her bare shoulders. Her arms reached out and upwards to sea and sky, like a diver bird, and from her fingers trailed a long chiffon scarf, like a banner of hope.