This little story is based off an old Irish story. I translated it from Irish, and then wrote this one- shot off it. An Bhean Óg is about a young woman who is a good mother, but is sent to a remote village for the summer. She is well educated but is lacking in home making skills. She dislikes when her husband comes to visit.

I alway saw Esme in this young woman, when I was studying it in school. If she had never ran away from her abusive ex- husband, and her son had lived. To mix it up a little it is set in Ireland. Set in the early 1920's, 30's.

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"one out of every ten and then
another third of those again
women - in a case like yours.

anything may have caused it, spores,
a childhood accident; one sees
day after day these mysteries.

You never will, never you know
but take it well woman, grow
your garden, keep house, good-bye.

Barren, never to know the load
of his child in you, what is your body
now if not a famine road?" Eavan Boland, The Famine Road

The Young Woman

Because her two children used to wake her so early, she used to get ready for the beach early. She would put them into the pram, along with lunch for the middle of the day, and a book. Esme disliked kitchen work and she hadn't heard about vitamins; she had a shop bought loaf of bread, jam and a bottle of milk for lunch everyday.
"The Co-operative Movement in Great Britain" by Beatrice Webb, was her book, because her conscience had turned to such a topic. Anyway she didn't have anything more to do with the long, warm days. Sometimes she brought sowing with her, but she wasn't any good at that, like the cooking. She sometimes thought she was becoming materialistic, but she quickly shook that thought out of her mind.
The beach was a quarter of a mile down the road, and there was heat in the sun of that morning. It was August and there was a drought that year. There was dust on the roads. The pram had left tracks on the dust, and her footprints behind them.
She was wearing canvas shoes, with rubber soles, which were commonly worn at that time. A broad straw hat sat on top of her head, and she wore a loose, sleeveless, cotton dress. This was the kind of dress that was usually worn during pregnancy.
She placed the pram under the shadow of the cliff out of the sun, so that the milk would not sour. The sand was as cold as the sea under her feet. But she would stretch out on the hot sand, further out of the shadows.
Esme was slender as a goose, but there was no stiffness about her. Every movement of her body was heavy, like there was an incredible tiredness pressing on her.

If there was anybody watching her undressing the children, you would hardly think she would be able to finish the simple job, she was so low. She was graceful in everything she did.
She spoke to her children a lot although her little boy was the only one to talk back. She heard that speaking to her children inspires their minds early, and she was afraid that her girl was slow at learning.
She named everything in Irish. There was a lot of words that the locals used, that she had never heard before. She had learned her Irish out of a book. She had no relationship with the people of the area. When anybody would meet her, they would salute each other- she knew that was necessary- but never any more than that. She had a soft, musical voice, but she stuttered and stopped in the middle of sentences, as if she had forgotten what she wanted to say.
She would not speak baby talk to her children, only proper, correct conversation. She knew that the other talk would damage the child's mind. Her little boy was able to speak very well, and he was not yet three years old.
Esme and her children used to go swimming together. The children trusted her and they were not afraid of the water at all. She kept her daughter in her arms and let her down slowly into the smaller waves. Her little boy ran in and out of the sparkly foamed waves. He always splashed his mother, laughing with happiness.
Esme used to dry them carefully, and dressed them again. Her soul was filled with delight and peace, as she watched these two little children of her own. But she didn't give thanks to any God, as she didn't believe in any.
When they had finished eating their lunch, she would put them both in the pram to go to sleep. She would then stretch out to do some reading, or to write a letter, or to mend some socks. She would have barely started when the shadows would creep out onto the sand, and it would be time to go home.
In the early days, she used to write to her husband every day, letters that were filled with intellect in good English. He was an intelligent and high minded man, and wished for her to be as well. In the last four days, she didn't bother write any. It would take four days for the letters to get from this remote corner to the big, bustling city. She was expecting him that night anyway.
He would arrive on his motor bike, and he would be expecting a bright, clean house, a tasty supper and a happy woman. Because of all this work to be done, she woke the children earlier, and turned her back on the beach.
As she walked home, she let out a heavy sigh when she thought about all the things she needed to do: prepare a meat dinner, light the lamps and tidy herself up.

She remembered that he did not like powder on her face.... but she was loyal and she hardly recognised the shiver of despair that ran through her.