Only Our Own

by Anne Henning Jocelyn

My parents had also come out of their bedroom;

  stood there in their nightclothes, blinking sleepily, fearfully;

  a far cry from the elegant Earl and Countess

  normally seen by the world.

  More loud thuds issued from downstairs,

  and I ran to my mother, who put an arm

  protectively around me. ‘Don’t worry,’

  my father said to us. ‘I have my gun.’

  At this point we were joined by my eldest brother,

  your great-uncle, Viscount Laurence –

  in fact, my only surviving brother.

  Correct as ever, he had taken the time

  to get into his shirt and trousers, even his boots.

  He showed no sign of fear,

  but then, he was a man of action.

  He had withstood German onslaught at the Somme,

  returned a war hero, decorated twice over.

  He was not going to be intimidated

  by some local incursion.

  We all peered down over the banister,

  just in time to see the blade of an axe

  break through the hinges of the solid front door.

  A moment later the door fell in

  and a crowd of men, twenty or thirty of them,

  swarmed into the hall.

  My father raised his gun and called out

  in his most imperious voice:

  ‘Leave this house, or I’ll shoot!’

  In reply a volley was fired in his direction.

  It hit the chandelier – prisms shattered in all directions,

  leaving the light-bulb swinging nakedly on its wire.

  ‘Drop your gun!’ came a stern order from downstairs,

  and my father, with an anxious glance

  towards my mother and myself, obeyed.

  We were commanded down to the hall,

  where we were surrounded by men

  armed with axes, spades and sledge-hammers.

  Most had rags tied over their faces, but the two leaders –

  the ones who carried guns – were unmasked.

  While they were complete strangers,

  many of the others appeared familiar.

  I didn’t need to see their faces to recognize their bodies;

  I’d seen them often enough.

  They were men from the village,

  men who worked for us,

  who’d been entertained, with their families,

  in that very hall, only a few weeks back,

  at the traditional Christmas party.

  There had been plenty of food and drink for everyone,

  and Christmas gifts for the children.

  My brother, who knew these lads as well as anyone,

  tried to reason with them.

  These shenanigans, he argued, would not help their cause,

  only make matters worse.

  But one of the leaders stuck a gun in his face

  and told him to shut up.

  Our parents were informed they had fifteen minutes

  to save what they could.

  Father immediately began to unhook

  the smaller Old Masters from the walls,

  while my mother dashed into the dining-room

  to gather up as much silver as she could carry.

  Petrus, who had been hiding behind them,

  suddenly plucked up his Pekingese courage

  and ran up to one of the men,

  snarling fiercely and snapping at his ankles,

  which were all he could reach.

  He was a very brave little dog,

  though still only a puppy.

  Another, smaller man raised his spade

  and hit Petrus over the head.

  When, with a scream, I rushed to his rescue,

  my eyes met those of the assailant.

  It was Fiónn, son of the woman who did our laundry.

  I’d known him all my life.

  Now he turned away,

  as I picked up the limp little body

  and clutched it, sobbing, to my chest.

  Pause.

  Two men were bringing in large containers of petrol –

  our containers, our petrol, from our garage –

  and proceeded to pour the petrol

  over carpets and soft furniture,

  while others made a point of opening all the windows

  for a good draught.

  My brother wasn’t going to stand for it.

  Though still with a gun pointing at him, he took command,

  addressing these men as if they were his troops:

  ordered them to go back home to their families;

  behave like the decent men he knew them all to be.

  The leaders warned him, several times,

  to stand back and be quiet, but he paid no heed.

  He never thought they would shoot.

  But they did.

  They blew his head off.

  Right in front of us.

  Overcome by emotion, she pauses.

  Enter TITANIA, flustered, from outside, gives a start as she sees ELIZA.

  TITANIA: Grandma! What are you doing up?

  ELIZA: (In a huge effort to compose herself.) How is the calf?

  TITANIA: The calf?

  They look at each other.

  TITANIA: Good night.

  She exits.

  ELIZA takes a moment to compose herself again; then starts writing frenetically.

  FADE OUT.

  MUSIC: Funereal.

  SCENE 2

  LIGHTS UP on the dining-room, some weeks later, table laid for three.

  MEG, dressed up in a long skirt and a gold brocade jacket, is putting the finishing touches to a splendid centre-piece of moss, ivy and dark red roses.

  Enter TITANIA, wrapped in a heavy tartan dressing-gown.

  MEG, more assertive than in the previous scene, looks at her.

  MEG: Still in your dressing-gown?

  Are you not well?

  TITANIA: The house is freezing.

  MEG: You should be used to it by now.

  It would be nice to see you properly attired once in a while.

  On the rare occasions that you make an appearance.

  TITANIA does not respond, just stands watching her mother critically.

  TITANIA: Why do you bother with all this stuff?

  Now Grandma is gone we can start living like normal people.

  MEG: (Swallowing her hurt.) This is for a very special occasion.

  TITANIA: Like what?

  MEG: Like our twentieth wedding anniversary.

  My share of good fortune.

  Coming at a time when I had more or less given up hope of ever seeing it happen.

  Pause.

  MEG: Finding a husband in Connemara was never an easy matter.

  So many of our kind had either been killed in action or gone away to live in England.

  TITANIA: Your kind?

  MEG: In your grandmother’s day it was even worse.

  No question of picking and choosing.

  TITANIA: Still – how could she settle for a man like Grandpa?

  MEG: My father was a very good man, Titania. But I agree – mother wasn’t really cut out to be the wife of a rural dean.

  TITANIA: Such a dreary old stick.

  Pause.

  MEG: When it came to my turn, efforts were made.

  Eligible young men were invited to stay, ostensibly to catch salmon.

  The fishery at this time was in dire need of a manager – my grandfather was well past retirement age, and my father’s line was more sermon than salmon.

  But the ones who had a hand with fish never took a shine to me – and the few who did were no use to us at all.

  TITANIA: You’ve never told me how you and father met.

  MEG: He, too, came to fish, but that was much later, after my grandfather died.

  Mother and I were struggling to run the fishery on our own.

  We both lik
ed the look of this customer, so we invited him to dinner.

  We learnt that he was a recently retired army major, with no fixed plans for the future other than indulge his passion for fly-fishing.

  TITANIA: So he was reeled in – just like that?

  MEG: (Laughing.) Yes.

  TITANIA: And dragged off to the altar?

  MEG: Oh it suited him as well.

  His life had been awfully unsettled.

  Growing up in India, with Anglo-Irish parents… then being all over the place with the British army.

  That’s why he’d never married.

  I’m sure he welcomed a chance to have his loose ends firmly and finally tied up…

  Pause.

  The flower arrangement finished, MEG applies herself to folding three starched napkins into a complicated pattern.

  TITANIA: There’s something I’d like you to clarify.

  You know Grandma’s funeral. The notice in the Irish Times. Giving the time and place and then saying: ‘Family only’.

  MEG: Yes?

  TITANIA: What was the meaning of that?

  MEG: Isn’t that clear enough?

  TITANIA: Dozens of people turned up who were not our family.

  MEG: They were in a manner of speaking.

  TITANIA: Ah! You mean they were all Protestants? Is that it?

  ‘Family only’ was code for ‘No Catholics’?

  MEG: (Deep breath.) You know what it’s like here amongst the local people.

  They attend every single funeral, even if their worst enemy is being buried.

  Because it’s expected of them.

  We wanted to relieve them of that obligation.

  Give them a valid excuse to stay away.

  TITANIA: Why don’t you say it straight out?

  You were determined no local people would darken the doorstep of your precious church.

  MEG: No. It wasn’t like that.

  They wouldn’t have wanted to come.

  TITANIA: How do you know? Did you ask them?

  MEG: Your grandmother was nothing to them.

  TITANIA: What about her neighbours?

  All the people who worked here over the years?

  The postman, the blacksmith, the vet, the man who serviced her car?

  Some of them knew her well.

  They may even have liked her.

  MEG: They were hardly her bosom friends.

  TITANIA: But they might have wanted to pay their last respects.

  Didn’t they have a right to decide that for themselves?

  MEG: We wanted to make it easier for them.

  TITANIA: Oh come on! At least be honest.

  MEG: The reason we don’t associate with the local people is because we are different.

  TITANIA: Yeah. Superior, right?

  MEG: No. Just different.

  We don’t mix, and it’s better that way.

  For everyone.

  TITANIA: That’s how people defend racism.

  Pause.

  ELIZA fixes her gaze on the mantelpiece.

  MEG: Talking of Grandma, I just remember – she left something for you.

  She picks up a bulky manila envelope from the mantelpiece.

  MEG: I found this today when I finally got around to clearing out her bedroom.

  It says: ‘For Titania.’

  TITANIA: Money?

  MEG: I doubt it.

  MEG holds out the envelope until TITANIA, reluctantly, takes it.

  She opens it, pulls out a sheaf of papers, glances at it.

  TITANIA: (Reads on the top page.) ‘My dear Titania. There is something I feel you should know.’

  MEG: (Muttering.) I might have guessed.

  TITANIA: This is so typical!

  She was for ever badgering me, telling me how to behave, how to speak, how to dress.

  Now here she is, hounding me from the grave, trying to tell me what to think.

  MEG: Well that’s between you and her.

  I’m only the messenger.

  She exits.

  TITANIA starts to read somewhere in the middle of the pile of papers.

  LIGHTS DIM on the room, SPOT on ELIZA at her desk.

  ELIZA: As we’d been left near enough destitute,

  Mamma wanted us to go and live

  with her parents in Gloucestershire.

  She argued there was nothing left for us in Ireland,

  the Anglo-Irish culture had had its day.

  But for my father settling in England was not an option.

  He considered himself an Irishman,

  his family had been Irish for eight hundred years,

  he had as much right as anyone to stay.

  So instead we came here, to Connemara,

  to this remote fishing lodge built by my grandfather.

  It was damp and cramped and offered little

  in the way of comfort and mod cons,

  but over time that could all be remedied.

  I took to life in Connemara.

  I liked the freedom of the wide open spaces,

  the wild rugged countryside,

  which I got to explore on horseback.

  There was no question of formal schooling,

  only the odd lesson with my mother.

  The lack of friends my own age was made up

  by the company of various pets.

  We managed to build a reasonable existence for ourselves.

  Father threw himself heart and soul into his new life:

  renovating and extending the lodge,

  laying out the garden, planting trees,

  farming the few acres we had

  and developing the commercial salmon fishery.

  The main thing, he said, was to foster

  all the essential qualities of our previous life.

  Make sure that, whatever had been taken from us,

  we still remained the same.

  Mamma had no part in this –

  but then she was English. An English rose.

  Unable to get over the loss of all she had cherished,

  she retreated into her own world,

  showing signs of early dementia –

  brought on, I believe, by a genuine wish to forget:

  the past, the present, everything other than

  her happy English childhood,

  which she recalled without difficulty.

  It was left to my father and me

  to run the establishment between us,

  while the lady of the house spent her days in her bedroom,

  staring into space and dreaming of England.

  SPOT down on ELIZA, lights up on the room.

  TITANIA shrugs, puts the sheets together, returns them to the envelope, looks around for a place to get rid of it. Her eyes fall briefly on the fire, then settle on the bookcase. She pulls up a chair, climbs it, stuffs the envelope down behind the books on the top shelf.

  TITANIA replaces the chair, goes over to the side-board, finds a bowl of Crème Caramel and helps herself with the serving-spoon.

  MEG re-enters, carrying a tray with three dishes of seafood cocktail. Seeing TITANIA eating away, she puts down the tray and snatches the spoon away from her.

  TITANIA: I’m hungry!

  MEG: That’s tonight’s dessert you’re eating!

  TITANIA: So what? It’s all going to the same place.

  MEG: Now listen! As long as you are a member of this household, you will behave like a civilized person.

  Once you have your own home you can do as you like.

  Except by then I sincerely hope you’ll have grown up a bit.

  TITANIA: You’re beginning to sound like Grandma.

  MEG: We are just about to have dinner.

  As you can see, the table is laid for three.

  Because tonight we shall expect you to grace us, for once,

  with your presence. Is that understood?

  There is a knock on the door, just off stage right.

  MEG goes to answer
it.

  MEG: (Half off, addressing McHugh, giving him time to answer.)

  Oh, good evening, Mr McHugh…

  Yes, of course.

  I’ll be with you in a minute.

  She closes the door, returns with a bill in her hand.

  TITANIA: Who is that?

  MEG: Mr McHugh. The undertaker.

  He’s brought the bill for the coffin.

  I have to get my cheque book.

  TITANIA: You left him standing out there?

  In the pouring rain?

  MEG exits stage left.

  TITANIA goes to the front door, opens it.

  TITANIA: (Half off, cordially addressing McHugh.) Mr McHugh!

  Come on in!…

  Filthy evening, isn’t it? I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea…

  Do come in… Oh please do!

  MEG returns, glares at TITANIA, goes out to hand over the cheque.

  MEG: (Half off.) Here we are, Mr McHugh.

  Thank you for coming up. Good night.

  She returns, shutting the door behind her.

  TITANIA: He wouldn’t come in.

  MEG: Of course not.

  You silly girl, you embarrassed him.

  TITANIA: Why? Because he knew he wouldn’t be welcome?

  Because he’s not considered good enough?

  MEG: My dear –

  there are things you don’t understand.

  TITANIA: I’ll tell you what I do understand!

  That you are a Protestant snob!

  Just like Grandma! And father too!

  Enter ANDREW with a bottle of white wine. He goes on to uncork it, decant the wine and fill the glasses.

  ANDREW: What’s all this about?

  TITANIA: It’s about mother leaving a decent man standing out in the cold wind and rain – just because he’s a Catholic!

  MEG: It’s not us, Titania. It’s them. Their church.

  It won’t let them enter our homes.

  They’d be in trouble if they did.

  TITANIA: So you admit it’s all about religion.

  ANDREW: Like it or not – these issues run deep.

  TITANIA: I think you’re pathetic.

  Hanging on to old crap like that.

  Don’t you see, no one gives a damn any more.

  Except you two.

  Pause.

  MEG: Oh well. Dinner is ready.

  She and ANDREW take their seats.

  MEG: (To TITANIA.) Take off that dressing-gown.

  If you sit over by the fire, you’ll be warm enough.

  TITANIA takes her seat but keeps her dressing-gown on.

  ANDREW: (Sternly, to TITANIA.) Do as you’re told.

  Take that thing off!

  TITANIA stands up, lets her dressing-gown fall to the floor, revealing only skin-tight leggings and a T-shirt underneath.

  She is nearly six months pregnant.