He rang the bell and then leaned in against the wall, out of the rain. Hands in his pockets, listening for her. Then the door opened in a spill of light, and it was Lizzie.
“There she is,” he said, and stepped straight in past her, headed for the warmth.
“Dad…”
Henry thumped his stumpy tail when he saw who it was, but he didn’t get up and Dan fussed him for a minute. Lizzie’s homework things were all over the sofa. He shoved them out of the way and took the spot she’d been sitting in, right next to the fire.
“Look at the height of you,” he said, “You’re shooting up.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen me for ages.” She perched on the edge of the armchair nearest the door.
“Sure I was here the other week.”
“You were not.”
“I was. You were out somewhere. Did your mother not tell you?”
Lizzie said nothing. Dan stretched out his legs and rested his feet on the dog’s back. Henry didn’t mind that.
“What about a cuppa for your auld Da?”
He listened to the sounds from the kitchen as she clinked around in there. Her mother would likely have biscuits in. He wouldn’t mind something sweet.
The fire had a good glow going, and the mantel clock was ticking away, same as ever. Lizzie was 13 last birthday so it was thirteen years since they’d took this house and set that fancy clock on the mantelpiece. Thirteen years in a house Maureen thought she was too good for. Her bloody Da had it drummed into her that she was a Donnelly and could expect the best. Well, she could and she did, but she was a long time waiting for it.
Lizzie brought the mugs of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other–Hobnobs. Him and her both liked their Hobnobs.
“Move that stuff,” she said, and when he’d lifted her books off, she settled on the other end of the sofa and put the plate between them. She did well in school, did their Lizzie. Never any trouble getting her to do her homework. She’d always been a bright wee thing. When she was no age he would take her with him out on the milk run, and she’d read out the orders for him. Great company, she was. Cute as a button.
He had loved those mornings. Loved being up at the farm before light, warmth pouring out of the dairy shed.Him and the wean in their wellies, and the rich smell of cowshit in the good country air, and the air steaming with their breath and the breath of the cows.
But you can’t raise a family on a milk round. Maureen’s father said he’d put him over the middle arch of the town bridge if he didn’t get a proper job. So he went into the factory then, and the milk was sold cheap to Allied Dairies.
“Is your Mammy at work?” he said, although he knew she would be.
“Mm-hmm.”
They held their cups of milky tea and concentrated on dunking their Hobnobs just the right amount, catching the soggy biscuit end before it fell off. The dog was snoring gently, and the fire was glowing, and the mantel clock was marking time. Lizzie had her feet pulled up under her. Look at those long legs – she was getting tall. Thirteen. He hardly knew her.
“I was up at the farm,” he said, and he spoke softly into the softness of the room.
“Were you?” Her head snapped up to look at him, eyes like her mother’s. “How was me Uncle James?”
“Grand. Grand.”
She loved the farm. Loved that her auld Da had grown up there. In that white-washed foursquare house, with the dairy yard milling with cows. When she was wee, he would pick her up so she could rub their big trusting faces and smell their sweet grassy breath. Even after he gave up the milk round, he had her out there all the time, seeing her Granny and Granda and her Great-uncle James. Now there was only Jamesy living out there, the old bastard, still going strong. And no cows at all.
“Why did you not call for me?”
“Ach, I didn’t know I was going,”he said.
It wasn’t true, and saying it didn’t help. The wean wasn’t stupid. She looked at him out of the side of her eye, and then drank the last of her tea, tipping the cup so as to let the sugary, biscuity sludge drip into her mouth.
“Lizzie, love,” Dan leaned a bit closer, his arm along the back of the sofa, “Uncle Jamesy’s not as young as he used to be.”
She was toying with her mug, turning it in her hands. She was not looking at him now.
“You know he’s had his name down for an old folk’s bungalow? Well, one’s come up in The Heights.”
She was a bright one, his Lizzie. She knew what it meant.
“You’ll be able to call in and see him after school.”
He didn’t need to say it. He didn’t need to say it out loud.
Maureen’s mantel clock whirred, winding up to chime. She’d be finishing her shift and getting back soon.
“Sure the place is half-derelict, Pet, it’s not fit to live in.”
She would know that. She would know that Uncle Jamesy would be better off in the town. It wasn’t the farm it used to be. The days were gone when it sung to the sound of cows lowing for their breakfast, and the yard pooled with light from the milking shed. The days were gone when it could have been a home for a family. And when a child’s breath could make time stand still in the frosty air.
Deborah Templeton lives on the north coast of Ireland. She writes for all kinds of contexts, including soundwalks and live performance. Water’s Edge was published in audio and book formats by Confingo (UK) in 2023.
If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines.
Please share this story to give it maximum distribution. Exposure is our authors’ only pay. You can also help our contributors gain exposure by back linking to them and to RFM’s homepage.
Image generated by AI
