Lena sits at the kitchen table, asking harmless questions about the kids, while Sheila moves the potatoes out of the way and puts the kettle on. Half their lives ago, she would have taken up a knife and cut the spuds while Sheila peeled. She wishes she could; it would make the talk flow more easily. But they’re not on those terms now.
She’s not sure when she last saw Sheila. Sheila rarely comes down to the village; mostly she sends Trey or Maeve to Noreen’s for what she needs. Lena assumed it was out of pride. Back in the day, Sheila was not just a beauty but a cheerful-natured one, making the most of every laugh and brushing away any worries on the grounds that it’d all turn out grand, and Ardnakelty is full of begrudgers who take optimism personally; Lena figured Sheila had no wish to let them pick smugly over the remains of all that. Now, looking at her, she reckons it might be just that Sheila hasn’t the energy to make the trip.
Sheila brings the tea to the table. The mugs have old-fashioned prints of bunnies among wildflowers, faded from washing. “ ’Tis almost too hot for tea,” she says.
“Cal makes it iced these days,” Lena says. “Not with milk, now; just made weak, with sugar and lemon, and kept in the fridge. I don’t mind the heat, but I have to admit I appreciate the iced tea.”
“I hate this heat,” Sheila says. “Everything’s dry as a bone, up here; the wind rattles it all night long. I can’t sleep for the noise.”
“Some people are after getting fans. I’d say that’d block out the noise, or some of it anyhow.”
Sheila shrugs. “Maybe.” She sips at her tea, steadily and mechanically, like it’s another job to be got through before the day can be over.
“Johnny’s looking well,” Lena says. “London suited him.”
“Johnny’s the same as he always was,” Sheila says flatly. “ ’Tis nothing to do with London. He’d be the same anywhere he went.”
Lena’s patience, which isn’t at its fullest this week to begin with, has been further whittled down by the walk up the mountain. She gives up on the small talk, which in any case appears to be getting her nowhere.
“Here’s what I wanted to say to you,” she says. “If you need a hand with anything, ask me.”
Sheila raises her eyes to look at her full on. She says, “What would I need a hand with?”
“I dunno,” Lena says. “You might want a place to stay for a bit, maybe.”
The corner of Sheila’s mouth lifts in something that could be amusement. “You. Taking in me and the four kids.”
“I’d find room.”
“You don’t want us.”
Lena isn’t going to lie to her. “I’d have you and welcome,” she says.
“Why would I go? He hasn’t hit me. And he won’t.”
“You might wanta be away from him.”
“This is my house. And he’s my man.”
“He is, yeah. So you might wanta show everyone he’s nothing to do with you.”
Sheila puts down her mug and looks at Lena. Lena looks back. She wasn’t sure, till now, whether Sheila knew what Johnny is at. Presumably Sheila was wondering the same about her, if she was wondering anything at all. Lena welcomes the new clarity of the situation, regardless of its unpredictability. One of the main things that annoys her about the townland has always been the endless rolling game of who-knows-that-I-know-that-she-knows-that-he-knows.
Sheila says, “Why would you have us?”
“I’ve got awful fond of your Trey.”
Sheila nods, accepting that. “At first I thought you meant for old times’ sake,” she says. “I wouldn’ta fell for that. You were never like that.”
“I wasn’t,” Lena agrees. “I mighta gone that way in my old age, but. I haven’t checked.”
Sheila shakes her head. “I’m grand where I am,” she says. “I wanta have my eye on him.”
“Fair enough,” Lena says. “I’ll take the kids if you want.”
“The little ones are all right here. I told Trey to go down to you till he leaves.”
“I’ll have her. No problem.”
“I know that. She wouldn’t go.”
“Tell her again. And I’ll ask her.”
Sheila nods. “ ’Tis great there’s people that see it in her,” she says, “that she’s worth helping. She oughta make the most of that. No one ever thought that about me.”
Lena considers this. “People thought you had what you wanted, maybe,” she says. “I thought that. There’s no point in trying to help someone outa what they want.”
Sheila shakes her head briefly. “They thought I had what I deserved. That’s different.”
“They’re awful fond of thinking that, around here,” Lena agrees. “I’d say there was plenty that thought the same about me when Sean died.”
“I liked Sean,” Sheila says. “You picked right.” Out in the yard, one of the kids yells, but she doesn’t look around. “There’s people that help me now, anyhow,” she says. “The last coupla years. Bringing me a loada turf for the winter. Mending my fence that was falling down.”
Lena says nothing. She knows why the townland started giving Sheila help.
“I oughta spit in their faces,” Sheila says. “Only I can’t afford to.”
Lena says, “Are you wanting to spit in my face?”
