But if the curses of the lost made islands sink, there would be no islands left.
* * *
It took Nellie some time to get used to being a married woman. It was odd to have somebody else around all the time. She had been used to going for days without seeing anyone, especially in summer when she had spent less time at old Aoife’s. The one item she had insisted on bringing with her to Philip’s cottage was the sweater she had brought—or perhaps which had brought her—to the island.
The Flahertys had been reluctant to give it up. It was their opinion that it ought to be given directly to Clara O’Connor, as a memento of her husband. Nellie was not ready for that. She had gotten quite wild on a number of occasions as they tried to persuade her to part with it. Once the sweater had dried from its original washing—which took upwards of a week in that climate—she had always kept it with her. She rarely wore it, except at infrequent times when she was alone, but she kept it draped over her bed, and if she was upset about anything, she would go and huddle there, wrapped in it. Before sleep, she would often lay it flat and trace over its pattern with her hands, sometimes with her eyes closed. She would try to imagine the lives of the sheep from whose wool it had been made. She would think of them wandering, eating salt grass, with their absurdly hairy bodies and thin legs. She would picture the drama of their shearing, how they were rounded up and caught and held, struggling, as their coats were cut off, and then they would bound away, feeling strangely light and small. Then their stinky fleeces would be washed and dried and carded and spun into yarn, and then knitted. Nellie pictured human hands doing this. She avoided thinking about Clara O’Connor, whose hands they must have been.
This sweater had come to her. It had saved her. What did it have to do with Clara O’Connor? Now? Why would she even want it? After all, it had not saved her husband. No, it had saved her, Nellie. Hers was the greater claim. Life is more important than death.
When she moved to Philip’s house with him, she kept the sweater folded neatly on a shelf in their bedroom. She would often touch it, patting it lightly, as she went in or out of the room. Philip remarked on this. “It’s a relic of yours,” he would say. “A touchstone. I’ve seen reliquaries like that, you know, with shiny patches on them from all the hands touching them over the years.” He used to joke that it would end up threadbare. Nellie did not like to think of it threadbare.
However, as the months went on with Philip, her husband, and her new life in their cottage, her mind began to dwell on Clara O’Connor. She tried to avoid thinking about her, but her thoughts became more and more insistent. Clara had been married too. She had been married for a far longer time than Nellie, for years and years, and she had two children. They were teenage boys now, according to Anna Flaherty. So! said a triumphant voice in Nellie’s head, see! She has two sons! What would she need an old sweater for? Nellie tried to bolster up this voice, but it was slowly and steadily drowned out by a rising conviction that she had to go and see Clara O’Connor, and talk to her . . . and, finally, give her back the sweater that her husband had worn to sea. Nellie shed many tears over this conviction. She tried to make it go away but she couldn’t.
At length, she talked to Philip about it. He agreed, gently, that they should go and talk to Clara, and at least show her the sweater. So, one autumn day, they set out. Clara lived quite far away. It was a good three hours’ walk. Nellie carried the sweater in her arms, clutched tight against her chest. Philip looked at her pityingly but was quiet. They walked all that way with very little conversation.
When they got to the O’Connors’ door, Nellie said she would like to go in alone. Philip nodded. He went and sat on the garden wall, and waved to her to go on. Nellie released one hand from the sweater and knocked on the door.
A tall, fair woman with a tired, lined face opened the door. “Clara O’Connor? Clara?” said Nellie. The woman gave the faintest, briefest nod at that name. Nellie, biting her lips hard, thrust the folded sweater suddenly into the woman’s hands. There were damp patches on it from her sweaty hands. The woman looked down, surprised.
“I am Nellie,” said Nellie to Clara O’Connor. Clara looked at her quickly, shrewdly. She knew that name. She gathered the wool against her chest and turned to go in. But she did not close the door.
“Come in,” she said. Nellie hesitated. She heard the woman’s skirts swishing across the room. She breathed deeply and went in the door. Clara had the sweater spread out on the kitchen table. She was looking down at it silently, with both palms flat on it. Her face was as pale as paper in a book. She said nothing but Nellie saw her hands trembling on the wool.
“I know it is yours,” said Nellie. “I am sorry I kept it. I couldn’t help it.”
“’Tis no matter,” replied the woman, though Nellie could see that, of course, it was a great matter. People say such things. Clara was silent another moment. “Thank you for bringing it,” she said. Suddenly, her knees seemed to give, and she sat down on a kitchen chair with a thump and gathered the sweater up before her on the table, pressing her face into it, clutching it with her hands. All the time, she remained so silent that Nellie thought she had been struck deaf again. But there had been the little thump as she hit the chair, and the woman’s shallow breathing. She moved tentatively forward and touched Clara O’Connor’s shoulder. Under her hand, the woman’s flesh was trembling and trembling, almost vibrating.
“I should go now,” said Nellie.
“No,” said Clara.
“Where are your children?” said Nellie. “Do you want me to fetch them?”
“Working,” replied Clara. She sat up, holding the sweater to her. “I’ll show it to them later. They’ll be amazed, amazed to have something of his. Joseph’s. Something that he touched, and wore. We’ve had nothing.”
“But didn’t he sit on that chair, and build these walls, and everything?” asked Nellie.
“He did. He did,” said Clara, looking around, bewildered. “But this is the thing. I’ve been waiting for it ever since I heard what happened.”
Nellie’s eyes filled with tears but her voice was steady. She felt that if she gave way, Clara would too, and that the woman would be embarrassed. “Well, here it is,” she said. “Now you have it. It saved my life, and now it’s come back to you.”
“I’ll tell you about him, shall I?” said Clara. “Seeing as he wore it before you did?”
“I want to know,” said Nellie, simply.
So, Clara O’Connor talked for two hours about her husband. Nellie thought briefly about Philip waiting outside on the wall. He was a patient man. She decided to let him be patient. Clara told her that she and Joseph had known each other since childhood. They were second cousins. Cousin marriages were common on such a small island. He had been tall and fair, like her. Easygoing. Kind. An excellent father. An excellent farmer. Good with beasts and children. He rarely fished. It had not even been his boat that he had been lost in. He had borrowed it from a neighbour. Clara had been worrying about paying the neighbour back ever since for the boat, though he had told her it was unnecessary. Joseph had only gone out because there had been an unusually rich herring run. He just couldn’t let the opportunity go, he had said, what with those two boys growing so fast. “You know, I was even angry with the boys about it,” said Clara, her voice shaking. “I was cold to them, I was so angry. I’m ashamed of it now.”