couldn’t be buried in consecrated ground. He had to be buried in
unholy ground with the lost souls, criminals, suicides, with no rites, no blessings. And
Carmel wasn’t permitted to be present.
She sat at the dressing table and wrote to
Finbar. The letter was a rush of anguish that shamed her, and caused her to cry afresh
when she reread it. She could never send it. She heard the girl Emily moving downstairs,
but didn’t care, let her root around all she wanted; there was nothing Carmel
cared about down there. Nothing Carmel cared about left anywhere.
Doctor B had had to dope her the night Dan
left with her child and a shovel. The medicine was to stop her doing harm to herself. To
wipe out the feelings, the loss, the absence. It was all about absence – of breath, of
life and now even of dignity and holiness.
She had washed him – she was able to do
that, soaped between his toes and fingers – and dried him slowly, patting gently. She
had wrapped him in the crocheted blanket. He wore his white christening robe. She could
prepare him for it, but she could not part with him, she could not let him out of her
arms. She had screamed and called Dan a devil.
After Dan left to bury the baby, he stayed
away from their bed for a few nights. He must’ve slept somewhere else in the
house, or maybe in the shed. They passed each other in the shop during daylight hours,
frozen solid in their loss. She was told to pray, to get over it, to try to conceive
again, to get on with living. Carmel would do none of those things: she had been forced
to release Samuel from her arms, but she would not so easily give up her grief – why
should she? It was all she had of him, of Samuel. A name Dan would not say.
And where had he buried their baby? That
tormented her till Dan took her to the cemetery one evening at dusk. He showed her a
ditch that ran alongside its shadow side. She walked behind him, weeping, accusing.
‘You don’t recall where you
buried your son.’
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t for
talking by then; he had begun to say
whist
a lot. ‘Whist, woman, whist
your crying.’ Carmel watched the dirt under her feet as she walked, and all sorts
of things passed through her mind: that Samuel was cold, that he was crying somewhere,
that his soul would never see the face of God, would never join with hers. That he was
lost.
‘You can’t remember where you
put my child.’
She was sobbing now; the sun was low in the
sky, turning the fields a golden yellow. She could smell the yew trees, smell spring and
death in the earth, or so she thought, so she felt. Dan had stopped.
‘It’s here.’
‘It?’
‘The grave.’
‘There’s no grave – he’s
buried in a ditch like an animal and you don’t know where he is.’
She was sobbing hard. Where did all the
tears come from – was there no end to them? Dan took her hand.
‘I do know, I marked it.
Look.’
Carmel saw a large smooth stone; it had a
hole in its centre where rain gathered.
‘And see here. I scored the stone, so
we’ll always know.’
He guided her fingers over the surface as if
she were a blind woman. She felt deep, scored letters. She knelt down, and saw the side
of the stone where Dan had etched SAMUEL HOLOHAN – R.I.P.
‘It must’ve taken you the whole
night.’
She stood to meet his eyes.
‘Two nights. It took two.’
Dan’s face was wet with tears.
‘I’m broken, Carmel, I’m broken too.’
And so they both cried, standing beside the
stone that marked their baby’s burial place, neither able to comfort the
other.
8
Sarah spent the morning weeding; she had
received a letter from James. He had copied part of a poem. ‘My love is like a
red, red rose, that’s newly sprung in June. My love is like the melody,
that’s sweetly played in tune.’ She recognized it from their old English
reader. Why hadn’t he copied the whole poem? He wrote that he was sorry, very
sorry. Then he talked about the weather, how good it was. At the end
unholy ground with the lost souls, criminals, suicides, with no rites, no blessings. And
Carmel wasn’t permitted to be present.
She sat at the dressing table and wrote to
Finbar. The letter was a rush of anguish that shamed her, and caused her to cry afresh
when she reread it. She could never send it. She heard the girl Emily moving downstairs,
but didn’t care, let her root around all she wanted; there was nothing Carmel
cared about down there. Nothing Carmel cared about left anywhere.
Doctor B had had to dope her the night Dan
left with her child and a shovel. The medicine was to stop her doing harm to herself. To
wipe out the feelings, the loss, the absence. It was all about absence – of breath, of
life and now even of dignity and holiness.
She had washed him – she was able to do
that, soaped between his toes and fingers – and dried him slowly, patting gently. She
had wrapped him in the crocheted blanket. He wore his white christening robe. She could
prepare him for it, but she could not part with him, she could not let him out of her
arms. She had screamed and called Dan a devil.
After Dan left to bury the baby, he stayed
away from their bed for a few nights. He must’ve slept somewhere else in the
house, or maybe in the shed. They passed each other in the shop during daylight hours,
frozen solid in their loss. She was told to pray, to get over it, to try to conceive
again, to get on with living. Carmel would do none of those things: she had been forced
to release Samuel from her arms, but she would not so easily give up her grief – why
should she? It was all she had of him, of Samuel. A name Dan would not say.
And where had he buried their baby? That
tormented her till Dan took her to the cemetery one evening at dusk. He showed her a
ditch that ran alongside its shadow side. She walked behind him, weeping, accusing.
‘You don’t recall where you
buried your son.’
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t for
talking by then; he had begun to say
whist
a lot. ‘Whist, woman, whist
your crying.’ Carmel watched the dirt under her feet as she walked, and all sorts
of things passed through her mind: that Samuel was cold, that he was crying somewhere,
that his soul would never see the face of God, would never join with hers. That he was
lost.
‘You can’t remember where you
put my child.’
She was sobbing now; the sun was low in the
sky, turning the fields a golden yellow. She could smell the yew trees, smell spring and
death in the earth, or so she thought, so she felt. Dan had stopped.
‘It’s here.’
‘It?’
‘The grave.’
‘There’s no grave – he’s
buried in a ditch like an animal and you don’t know where he is.’
She was sobbing hard. Where did all the
tears come from – was there no end to them? Dan took her hand.
‘I do know, I marked it.
Look.’
Carmel saw a large smooth stone; it had a
hole in its centre where rain gathered.
‘And see here. I scored the stone, so
we’ll always know.’
He guided her fingers over the surface as if
she were a blind woman. She felt deep, scored letters. She knelt down, and saw the side
of the stone where Dan had etched SAMUEL HOLOHAN – R.I.P.
‘It must’ve taken you the whole
night.’
She stood to meet his eyes.
‘Two nights. It took two.’
Dan’s face was wet with tears.
‘I’m broken, Carmel, I’m broken too.’
And so they both cried, standing beside the
stone that marked their baby’s burial place, neither able to comfort the
other.
8
Sarah spent the morning weeding; she had
received a letter from James. He had copied part of a poem. ‘My love is like a
red, red rose, that’s newly sprung in June. My love is like the melody,
that’s sweetly played in tune.’ She recognized it from their old English
reader. Why hadn’t he copied the whole poem? He wrote that he was sorry, very
sorry. Then he talked about the weather, how good it was. At the end
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