Martina Evans

poet / novelist

CHAPTER EIGHT

The black pump stood like a long face in the middle of the village and if Bernie Kingston hadn’t believed in runningw ater the Beulah would have had an excuse to go to the punp, and there she was bound to meet Joe, whose large new house, complete with balcony and short tree-lined drive, was just a stone’s throw away.
For a long time after Beulah had lain on the Costello’s drawing room floor, she thought longingly of the iron pump. How she could stroll down there for a bucket or two and meet Joe again. Renew their friendship over the clear water that was as cold as a stethoscope against her skin.
‘I believe in taps and that is that!’ said Berties. ‘God knows what germs one would pick up at that old pump with every dog of the road licking it from all angles. It’s no wonderthe Pyms of Garryowen are so sickly!’ Bertie twisted his taps on and off, splashing the front of his grey flannel shirt.
Poleites liked to talk about other Poleites. The ones that were too fast and the ones that were too antiquated. Stories circulated about remote Poleites, like the Hollands of Skibbereen who wouldn’t even wear shop-bought shoes and went around with badly cured cow-hide sacks tied onto their ankles, ‘I don’t know if there is any truth in that,’ said Han Kingston a hundred times, but Bertie wouldn’t be denied his story. Years later, Beulah found out that the Hollands weren’t Poleites at all, just Catholics who were a bit touched, couldn’t be bothered to wear shoes and slopped around in dirty torn galoshes.
However, by the time Beulah reached sixteen, the last place she wanted to be seen was at the pump, struggling with buckets of water. One January there was a problem with the water, a pipe burst in the yard. Bertie called Louis over and as they stood in the yard looking and talking under their wide brimmed hats, Han began to fret,’How long are you going to stand there? You’ll have to go down to the pump, Beulah. Take the new bucket and fill it up.
Beulah looked at the bucket, horrified. Joe Costello was home on holidays from university. He was a man now, with soft tan gloves and shirts with cuff links. She couldn’t bear Joe to see her heaving buckets around like a common servant girl.
Hester looked up from the sheets she was hemming and said, ‘I’ll go.’ Hester was hoping to see Margaret Costello, home from Dublin. Margaret was a year into her domestic science course at Sion Hill College and might be found traipsing around the village in her finery. Hester was always looking for ideas for sewing and making things, sje’d copy ideas from anyone. She wasn’t worried about heaving buckets in front of anyone, because she thought that there was no higher honour than to be a hard-working Poleite.’Go on, then,’ Beulah said, thrusting the shiny new bucket at Hester.
‘Stop right there,’ said Han, looking very severe. ‘Is it the way Beulah is getting too grand for God’s work?’
‘Beulah has a bit of a cold.’ But Hester was never very convincing. ‘You’re the one with the cold,’ said Han. ‘Out that door, Beulah.’


Beulah wore her new black coat, it was long and it was wide, but not half long or wide enough. She would have liked to disappear into it entirely, become a tree or a bush or a bit of a fence so that no one could see her. She shuffled along, kicking the frozen ruts with the toe of her boot. The sight of Louis reminded her that her marriage was only six months away. She gave Bertie and Louis a wide berth, but they still looked up when she passed the furthest end of the yard. They put their hands up to the brims of their hats to shade against the dazzleof the sun on the frost. Beulah put her hand up too, to give a noncommital wave but really to block out the sight of them.
When Beulah arrived at the pump, she faced Costello’s new house and kept her eyes on the front door. If she saw Joe she was determined to make a run for it no matter what the outcome.
Holding her coat away with one hand, she began to crank the punp handle up and down. It was humiliating beyond all. She didn’t know what she looked like, but it had to be the opposite of Margaret Costello, who had been around the village all Christmas in a scarlet coat with lipstick to match, smelling of roses, collecting holly and visiting the church, when Beulah knew that she wasn’t the slightest bit religious. But then they were all like that, people who went to Mass, bursting out of hats and suits. What kind of God were they trying to impress? The Bucket was nearly full and she hadn’t seen a soul. She would be gone soon and no one would be any the wiser. ‘Thank the Lord,’ said Beulah who hadn’t thought about him at all until now.
‘Happy New Year to yourself, Beulah,’ said Joe Costello coming up behind her, with a bottle-shaped parcel wrapped in brown paper.
‘Oh, Happy New Year,’ said Beulah, standing in front of the bucket. She never thought that he might come from the other direction.
‘Nellie Sheehan said there is a burst pipe on your farm.’
‘Did she?’ Beulah kept standing in front of the bucket, glad that her coat was big enough to hide the shakes in her legs.
‘Do you want a hand with that?’ Joe pointed behind Beulah’s legs. She felt weak. Was she translucent? She was afraid to talk in her country accent.
Joe picked up the bucket, ‘In Jervis Street Hospital, it’s the nurses from the country that are the best ones, you know.’ It felt like he might be giving her an admiring look, Beulah looked ahead stiffly. She did not know how to react to talk about nurses, who were considered minor demons in the Poleite world. Was he comparing her to a nurse? Did she want to be? She did. Anything that he admired.
‘Do you get many of them up at the university?’ she asked, as her feet snapped the thin ice in the puddles that lined the side of the road.
‘Not at the university, at the hospital, I’m there nearly all the time now, because I am in my final year.’
Beulah felt incredibly trusted yet she couldn’t speak. She tried to breathe ina sympathetic way, white tornados of breath steamed into the air in front of her.Joe put the brown bottle-shaped parcel into his pocket and his hand swung as he balanced the bucket. He brushed against Beulah’s dress and spots of water fell dark against his tweed trousers.
‘I admire women who work hard and are natural. Don’t wear makeup.’Joe turned his head around to Beulah. She kept looking straight ahead. ‘I think red lipstick is an abomination, unnatural like the bright arterial blood froma consumptive.’
‘What kind of blood?’asked Beulah.
‘Arterial, it’s bright red because it is oxygenated.’
‘You learn beautiful words at the university, arterial and oxygenated ,’ Beulah tried out the words herself in a sudden burst of confidence. The syllables rolled around her mouth like acid drops, sweet and sour.
As they came to the top of Kingston’s avenue, Joeput down the bucket. ‘There’s a lot of Latin there all right,’ said Joe proudly. ‘You don’t have much of that, do you?’
‘We have King James’s English.’
‘Which one now was he? Was he related to Bonny Prince Charlie?’ Joe laughed.
Beualah didn’t know what to do with herself. She pretended to be dazzled by the sun, put her hand up to her forehead and the wide black sleeve of her coat fell back. Joe reached out and caught her wrist with his right hand, ‘That’s your styloid process.’ He touched the bony knob on the outside of her wrist. ‘The styloid process is that projection at the end of your ulna. The radius and ulna are the two bones in your forearm and cross over about halfway up,’ Joe slid his arm halfway up Beulah’s arm for a moment and then took it away. He looked embarrassed.
Beulah said, ‘It is very interesting.’
‘Do you find it very interesting? I hope it isn’t against your religion.
‘It is not,’ Beulah looked away while she lied.
‘Well, you know that other little bony projection on your ankle?’
Beulah nodded eagerly, wondering if she should take her boots off.
‘That’scalled the lateral malleolus,’ Joe didn’t touch her again. ‘I better go or they’ll be looking for me.’ He took the bottle out of his pocket. As Beulah’s eyes fell upon it, he said, ‘Whiskey for Father, I don’t touch it at all myself.’ But he didn’t look at her when he said this.
There was a buzz of voices around the turn of the avenue and Beulah quickly picked up the bucket as Louis and Bertie came into view.
‘Goodbye so,’ said Joe.
‘Goodbye,’said Beulah, not looking at him.
She was still listening to his feet crunching away on the crisp earth when Bertie asked, ‘What was that young Costello doing? Was he trying to talk to you?’
‘He offered to carry the water.’
‘I hope you told him, no.’
‘I did indeed,’ said Beulah tossing her head and trying not to look excited when Bertie said, ‘The impertinent pup! He’d get you on your own for one minute and the next thing he’d be trying to take your temperature.’
When Bertie was gone, Beulah touched the bony knob on the inside of her wrist. Styloid process, she said the words over and over againthat night when she was going to sleep. She imagined that Joe was taking her temperature.