‘I’m perfectly capable.’
I shook my head. Whole bloody family was crazy. I thought of leaving right there and then. But Mrs Borden had my tin. She’d got me good. I cut bread into thick slices, slathered on butter and raspberry jam, had a teaspoon myself. The taste reminded me of Nanna, her standing in our kitchen at home, her singing ‘The Rovin’ Girl’ as she stirred raspberry and sugar in the preserve pot, made jam that got your tongue bursting with happiness. Nanna cooking, Nanna singing, me dancing around the kitchen, bumping into her as I joined in and sang, ‘And there she came up over that hill, her rovin’ heart still beatin’ true. I bless the day I got to say, “My girl came home with the love that once was mine.”’
Before I went back into the Bordens I had another teaspoon of jam. I deserved it. I put everything on a serving tray, held my breath and made my way to the dining room.
They were still talking about Lizzie’s new job. ‘Well I for one think it’s wonderful you’re caring for someone in the community,’ John said. ‘Charity begins at home, they say.’
Mr Borden said, ‘Of course. As long as Lizzie doesn’t become sidetracked.’
Lizzie gave Mr Borden a mighty fine dirty look. ‘By what?’
‘Just remember what does and does not belong to you.’ Mr Borden raised his spoon in the air, Lizzie clasped hands on the table. I put her plate in front of her, poured her tea, poured them all tea. It was thick in there, made it hard to breathe. Lizzie breathed rapid hot. She took a bite of jammed bread, dripped a little on the tablecloth. She was always making me clean more. I went to leave the room when Mrs Borden said, ‘Won’t you stay?’ I tensed, my neck pinched, made my jaw feel like it’d been hit with a hammer.
‘What on earth for?’ Mr Borden said, saved me from an evening with them.
‘We may need extra things,’ she said.
‘It’s alright, Mrs Borden. Ya can fetch me if ya should need me.’
Mrs Borden’s face prickled up like a horned melon, her lips tight and pale. She could do nothing but nod yes. Oh, I smiled big at her. I got out of there, left them stewing.
I went looking for my tin along the small crevices leading up to the attic. It was hot upstairs, sweat beaded under my hair. I took my bonnet off, fanned my face with it. I thought to check Mr and Mrs Borden’s bedroom. I turned the handle, knew it would be locked but did it anyway. Some things need proving, some things need trying. Locked. I came out onto the landing, pressed my head against the window, looked into the thick night. I wanted to be out there, wanted the ringing of crickets in my ear, wanted to be walking, going no place in particular, just me on my own, maybe even me and Mary. We could happen across a friend, two friends, their friends, smelling of hot tobacco, of kitchens and yards. We would take to some of Fall River’s back alleys, to the places where you could gamble some, dance some like we were in Ireland, back at the crossroads on a Sunday after church. We’d talk about that, how we missed it, a fiddler tickling strings, us being out in the fresh air, the kicked-up dirt road in our eyes, on our tongues, shoes cobbling leather against one another, tap, tap, tap, ankle, toe, ankle, toe, the fiddler mustering the winds to whip us up good, us dancing faster, us laughing, us alive. Mary and me in the alleyways of Fall River. She was the best to dance with, the way she’d hook right under your arm, all tight, and make you feel like you could fly. ‘Swing me round again!’ I’d say and Mary would. I could kiss Mary for making me forget about the Bordens from time to time. Often I would, sloppy on her cheeks, just like a sister.
A thunderclap of doors slamming. Oh, I felt that through the window. I pulled back, put my bonnet back on. Another door echoed and the house shuddered. There’d be no more searching for my tin tonight. Downstairs I found Mr and Mrs Borden in the sitting room, all quiet, him on the sofa, she on the chair near the window.
‘Where did you go?’ Mrs Borden asked. She looked me over, tried to find a secret on me.
‘I took to me room, marm.’
She said nothing. What could she? I eased on in, went to the dining room, began to stack the dishes. I got to wondering where John and Lizzie were. Lizzie had left behind more jam, had breadcrumbs on her seat. I brushed them off into my hand, put the crumbs in my pocket. Taking dishes to the scullery, I noticed the door to the basement open, watched Lizzie come, a storm. She looked like she’d been crying and she blew by me and walked into the sitting room. ‘I’m going to see Alice Russell,’ she hogged.
‘It’s getting on,’ Mr Borden said.
‘You’ve not worried about that in the past, Father.’
I heard her open the cupboard under the stairs, move a hanger, close the cupboard again. Out she went through the front door, made a little earthquake inside.
‘You need to talk to her about the way she shuts the door, Andrew.’
‘Hmmm.’
I took a wet cloth, poked back into the dining room and began wiping everything down. The Bordens were quiet, the way they had become. I could never get used to the hot and cold rhythm of the house, could never trust it. Mammy and Daddy, always the chattering kind, always talking of feelings, always knowing where things stood. Good or bad. That’s what I was used to. Mr and Mrs Borden were so quiet that I could hear John breathe his way up the basement stairs and it was then that I knew he’d been outside and that Lizzie must’ve been there with him. I did not care to know their conversations. John stood at the dining room door, watched me.
‘You’ve missed a spot, Bridget.’ He pointed to Lizzie’s chair leg.
‘Oh.’
‘Would hate for you to attract flies. They’re so difficult to get rid of.’
There were many other things difficult to get rid of.
From the sitting room Mr Borden said, ‘Would you care to join us, John?’
He moved in and I checked over the chair leg. The tiniest of jam. I went to wipe it down, stopped myself. If Mrs Borden was going to punish me by taking my tin, I’d leave it be, see what the sweetness would attract. I stopped my head in the door to the sitting room.
‘Sorry to be interruptin’, marm, but I’ll do the dishes and be done for the night.’
‘Thank you, Bridget.’
John sat himself across from Mrs Borden, stretched his legs and stroked his short beard. She eyed him, pulled her arm across her stomach. ‘Actually, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m feeling poorly and need to retire.’ She stood.
‘What a shame, Abby. I was looking forward to having a last cup of tea with you.’
‘I’m sure we can do so tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I’m sure we can.’
Mrs Borden called me back in. ‘Bridget, before you finish, you may like to see Mr Borden and Mr Morse have what they need.’
‘Yes, marm.’
She went to Mr Borden, kissed him on the forehead, the way you do when proving loyalty, and he patted her hand, didn’t watch her leave the way John did. I was left on my own to ask, ‘Can I get you anything?’