‘We could mike him up,’ Lee the youngest brother suggested, licking down a hand-rolled smoke. ‘Shove a microphone in his soundbox.’
‘Or you could ask him if he plays bass, couldn’t you, you dumb ox?’
All the brothers stared at their sister, the penny finally dropping.
‘Well?’ They turned as one on Blue. Tam immediately assumed an over-modest expression.
‘Ah have, just a little,’ he confessed.
‘Do you read, man?’
‘Yup.’
‘Now where you boys would be without your little sister Ah don’t know.’
‘We ain’t heard him play yet, only folk song crap.’ Brewster the eldest brother looked round the rest, nodding.
So Tam, having familiarised himself with the borrowed bass guitar, auditioned for The Bros, ending with extemporising for them through a couple of his favourite Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley numbers.
The Bros stared at him, then at each other, as he finished.
Tammy stared at them. ‘He’s going to blow you away, boys!’
Of course this wasn’t true, and Tam knew it. Bass guitarists didn’t hog the act, they just kept their head down and left all the showing off to the singer and the fender boys. The bass guitarist, if good and knowing his job, laid down the beat, giving a good solid bass line, which, when confident, he could improve on. This was what Tam did at the gig, which ended, unpredictably, in a riot.
‘Cool, man,’ Lee told him, through his home-rolled. ‘And I thought you were just some blue dude. Cool, man.’
Tam was still holding his borrowed guitar when Tammy kissed him.
‘Tammy, much as you’re the cat’s pyjamas, I have to tell you I treasure my backside more than your kisses.’
He stood away from her, holding the bass guitar, now in its case, between himself and her all too desirable body.
‘Big Daddy’s no way of finding out, Blue boy.’
‘Maybe not, but it’s not something I want to risk.’
He backed off, and only just in time. Seconds later, Big Daddy, otherwise known as R.J., appeared on the scene, and Tam only thanked God, his lucky stars, and anything else that came to mind that he’d jumped backwards from Tammy, and not forwards to her all too luscious lips.
A few days later Tammy left for a long holiday in Northern California, while Tam took himself off to Reedsville to buy a bass guitar. Not a new one – he’d not enough money for that – but the instrument was good, and hardly used, and it soon supplied him with enough upon which he could concentrate to enable him to forget Tammy’s kisses, at least until he received a postcard from her.
Dear Blue, I have met the most handsome life guard you have ever seen. He is teaching me to dive. Take care of yourself – Wild Thing.
Tam stared at the message. Wild Thing. That’s what Tammy had called herself in the hay. He went back to his guitar. Might make a good song. ‘Wild thing, may you never be tame.’ He smiled. That would be his wish for Tammy.
Flavia awoke to an unusual sound. She sat up, frowning, still sleepy, but the sound continued and she soon recognised it. It was the sound of her parents quarelling. She lay down again. No need to ask over what they might be arguing so vociferously. It was bound to be Flavia herself, and her modelling career. She pulled a pillow over her head, trying to drown the sound out, trying not to feel both frustrated and furious that such a small thing as her wish to become a model should bring her parents’ marriage to a state of near divorce.
The next morning she crept downstairs hoping against hope to see neither of them, only to bump into her mother standing in the kitchen beside the percolating coffee pot.
‘I talked him round,’ she told the astonished Flavia in a weary voice. She handed Flavia her schoolbooks in her school bag. ‘There are conditions, mind. No professional work, nothing like that. You can only model for the shop, for Laurel Cottage, nothing else.’
‘Oh, but that’s useless.’ Flavia threw the strap of the bag over her shoulder and shook her head in despair while at the same time unscrewing a jar of marmalade, eating a spoonful, putting back the lid, and turning to go, well satisfied with her breakfast.
‘It might be useless, Flave, but it’s at least something. Oh, and one other thing.’
Flavia turned to look at her mother.
‘You have to have at least five O-levels before you leave school.’
‘Five O-levels. For modelling?’
‘I know, I know, but he’s right in that. Even models do their job better if they’re intelligent.’
Rusty waved goodbye at the door, watching Flavia, her skirt hitched five inches higher than it should be, striding off to the bus stop and school.
‘’Bye, Mum.’
‘’Bye.’
Rusty shut the front door and leaned against it. What she hadn’t told Flavia was how Peter had taken the news of Laurel Cottage.
‘You’re doing what you want to do now, Rusty, so I got to thinking of all the things I haven’t done, and I realised that you’re right, we should each do our thing, as they say nowadays. So one of these days, when I’m quite sure of everything, I’m going to take myself off for a bit travelling. Derek – you know, Derek Woods – he’s a mind to do the same, once his children have finished school, so that’s what we thought we’d do. Take off somewhere, Australia, the West Indies, places we haven’t seen.’
For no reason that she could think Rusty had been left feeling winded by this announcement, most particularly since, having talked and shouted Peter down about Flavia, she couldn’t find one reason why Peter shouldn’t also, like the women in his family, strike out on his own whenever he wanted.
Now, however, in the morning, it all seemed so different, and listening to the ticking of the kitchen clock, the silent house, the odd car passing by, the radio still on in their bedroom, it seemed to Rusty that she’d somehow been bested by Peter.
But the truth was that he had only stated the truth. She was striking out on her own account, and therefore there was no reason why he shouldn’t do the same. So why did she have the feeling that somehow or another, by announcing his plans to travel, he was revenging himself on her for starting up Laurel Cottage Designs?
She sighed, and started to clear the breakfast things. Not that it mattered, not in the grand scheme of things, for if going to Dunkirk with Mr Kinnersley to rescue stranded British soldiers had taught her one thing and one thing alone, it was to concentrate only on the bigger issues in life. All that mattered now was that she made a success of what she was about to do. She stared at the dishes she had just placed in the sink. For what she and Laurel Cottage Designs were about to do, may the Lord make her, and Flavia, truly thankful. Amen.
Chapter Seven
Kim had just begun to get through what the Widow Hackett always called ‘the caterpillar phase’ when her mother suggested that she came home for a break. Kim refused. Judy was hurt. The Widow was forced to write and explain.
What we at Loughnalaire have observed with our family here is that when they arrive they are as it were only eggs, or perhaps larva. This, you will not be so surprised to hear, is the dullest and most awkward stage. The new arrivals retreat into themselves. Just as our caterpillars here do, they hang around on branches, waiting, as it were, to arrive at the next stage, but never quite knowing themselves when it might happen. It is at this stage that it is often found helpful to adopt another name – in Kim’s case, Jenny. Assuming the name of someone she imagines she has to take responsibility for injuring.
The next stage is only reached when the alien name, and with it the assumption of unbearable guilt, is set aside. Kim is now at that stage. She is once again called ‘Kim’, and so she has become a pupa (chrysalis), but not a butterfly. That is why she is refusing to come home. She cannot risk not becoming a butterfly. This has nothing to do with her love for you and her home but everything to do with her progress. Please do not feel upset, either you or your husband. When you next see her I am sure, wh
enever it is, and it will assuredly be in God’s good time, she will be a butterfly. Much changed, of course, but a butterfly none the less.
Yours truly,
Atlanta Hackett
Whatever she might write in a letter to Mrs Walter Tate, there was no doubt that the Widow Hackett was all too aware of the problems that came about if the butterfly stage was actually never reached.
A part of her often wondered whether the atmosphere at Loughnalaire worked against its finally happening, whether once the caterpillars were making good progress, feeding off the atmosphere, finding themselves in a way of life that was reassuring, they didn’t refuse to even become pupae, solely because the atmosphere had been too cosseting.
It was a problem that she confided to no one except her handyman, the inimitable Mad Rufus.
‘I sometimes think that some of them will never leave us, and that’s the truth, that they’ll still be here when they reach their first centenary and you and I are either up there, or down there. But leave us they have to.’
Mad Rufus, who was busy staring into the fire, before proceeding to pretend to paint the back larder, shook his head.
‘And haven’t I always told you so, Widow Hackett? In your success at mending the crocks that turn up here, saving your presence of course, you have created for yourself a problem of tenantry. We have to face it, if you weren’t a native of these shores they’d be accusing you of being part of the old Ascendancy, you’ve that many housed here.’
‘We’re a charity, Rufus, a charity, nothing less and nothing more, thanks be.’
‘Exactly so.’ Mad Rufus sighed. ‘So who is it,’ he asked in a kindly tone, ‘that we have to send on their way this week?’
‘Napoleon.’
‘Ah, yes, old Boney. Well now, he’s going to be a bit difficult to chase off. You’ll be needing a Wellington for that, doubtless.’
The Widow nodded. She would. ‘Or my six guns.’
She sighed. Sometimes she had only to take the guns out and lay them on the table. Sometimes she would have to draw; rarely, she had to shoot. Today, this morning, she had a bad feeling that she might have to shoot. She stretched out her hand and patted her dog’s head.
‘Will you want me to stay with you, then?’ Mad Rufus towered over the Widow from the other side of the desk, while slipping a copy of her favourite Yeats into the front of his dungarees.
‘No, don’t stay, just hover.’
‘I’ll show him in, so.’
The Widow nodded. She was sure it was going to be a shooting job, but it had to be done. Napoleon had long ago progressed to the butterfly stage, and he had to go to make room for others with greater need. The fact that he was refusing to admit that he was now a butterfly was no one’s fault, but Loughnalaire was not a housing scheme, nor was it a holiday home, it was a place of restoration, and once restored the inmates had to fly.
Mad Rufus was even now ushering a reluctant Napoleon through the door, and clearing his throat loudly as he did so, at the same time pulling a face behind the poor man’s back. The face, and Mad Rufus’s motion of drawing two hipster guns from his overall side pockets while bending his knees told the Widow everything. Napoleon was intent on making a fight of it. She straightened her back, said a prayer to her favourite saint, and began her message of farewell in her wonderful, impressive baritone voice, the red velvet sleeve of her embroidered jacket catching the sunlight from the window as she gestured towards the great wide world that would soon, if she had anything to do with it, be awaiting Napoleon.
* * *
Nearing the end of Kim’s first term at Loughnalaire, as summer was about to cool, shed its greenery, and paint itself into russet and brown, Kim started to emerge into her last stage.
It was one of those days when the air is both warm and clear and the hint of winter is to be sensed but not felt. Kim and Dorothy were out with Phelim following Kim’s now favourite occupation, namely fishing. Amidst many squeals of delight Dorothy had caught a conger eel, and Kim and Phelim had drawn a fine haul of mackerel. On their way back to the harbour the seas calmed and they drew near to another craft travelling considerably slower, but weighed down by what seemed to be a large fish in a large net.
‘What d’ye have there now?’ Phelim shouted, chapped hand cupped to his mouth. ‘Looks like a bit of a shark or the likes! Or a marlin be’haps!’
‘Not at all, and aren’t you wrong on all counts? What I have here, Phelim O’Brien, is nothing less than a purpuss! Some foreen scallion had him caught up in his net and wasn’t he tryin’ his best to martyr the poor creachur?’
‘Is he alive, so?’
‘He is that! There or thereabouts anyways. But didn’t I have to pay money to save him, God bless my wife. She’ll be after killing me when she gets to hear.’
The two smacks were alongside now in the calmer waters, nearing the harbour. From her position in the prow Kim could see the big creature in the net, lying semi-dormant in waters that were colouring a beastly red around it.
‘Is he sure he’s not dead?’ she asked Phelim anxiously. ‘He looks ever so badly hurt, doesn’t he?’
‘No,’ Phelim reassured her as he leaned towards the victim. ‘He’s not dead at all, no, he’s conserving his strength that’s all. They’ve more sense in their one fin, have fish, than we have in our whole bodies. Now see here, Kim, you take the helm while I help Tomas O’Flanagan bring the poor fellow in, and by that I mean the purpuss, not Tomas. He’ll probably die on us, and by that I mean the purpuss, not Tomas, but at least he’ll not end up on the table, and by that I mean—’
‘The porpoise, not Tomas!’ Kim and Dorothy finished for him.
‘It’s actually a dolphin, I think you’ll find,’ Kim told Phelim primly.
‘Call it what you will, it’s one of the Mer folk, and we have to save him from the foreeners. Mer folk has always to be saved, for they bring bad luck, else.’
‘Do you mean mermaids?’ Dorothy wanted to know.
‘Mermaids, or Mermen, Mer folk must be protected.’
By now the other smack was alongside the jetty and was tying up. The net containing the injured creature was at the far side of the boat. Kim leaned over in order to get a better view. As with the pony in the shafts when she had first arrived at Cobh, she was met with a gaze of such intelligence that it pierced her heart. Two small eyes searched hers, wondering, always wondering, why man was as he was? Blood was coming from the dolphin’s netted body, from his shiny bottlenose. Kim found herself praying that the netted creature was not wounded internally, for if he was there would surely be no way of saving him.
‘How much did you have to pay for him?’ she asked Tomas in her Alice in Wonderland voice. ‘Whatever you had to pay I will reimburse you for your efforts.’
‘You’ll do better than that, miss,’ the fisherman replied huffily, struggling with his heavy ropes. ‘Ye want the purpuss ye’ll be paying me exactly what I paid for him, and that’ll be ten bub.’
Kim put her hand into her jacket pocket and fished out a ten shilling note, but before she could hand it over Phelim had reached across and tapped her lightly on her arm.
‘And where will you be thinkin’ of taking the creachur? Sure he’ll not fit into one of Widow Hackett’s baths, any more than he will fit into one of our boats.’
‘Phelim, all we have to do is keep his skin wet, and find out what’s wrong with him. I’ve read all about it in one of Widow Hackett’s American magazines. More and more people are taking in sea creatures off the coast of California, to heal them and then return them to the sea.’
‘Yes, and we can put him in Widow Hackett’s swimming pool,’ Dorothy enthused. ‘It will be quite big enough for a dolphin, and we can make him better. The pool’s empty just now, but it will hold water enough, and we can keep him there while he recovers.’
‘Always provided that he has no internal injuries.’
As this conversation neared its end, Phelim took the ten shilling note out of
Kim’s hand, and put it back into the pocket from which it had come.
‘You’ll charge this poor gel the going rate. You’re a hard man, Tomas, to be robbin’ a poor girl from Loughnalaire.’
‘A man has to live, now, Phelim,’ Tomas moaned, and he shook his head, an expression of such tragedy on his face that with the disappearance of the ten shilling note it looked as if he had lost a dearly loved relative.
‘A man has to live, but not by bread alone, Tomas, not by bread alone. And not by cheatin’ neither. Five bub is what you’d have paid, and five bub is what you’ll be getting, and not a penny more.’
‘He can have his five other bob if he recovers,’ Kim hissed at Phelim.
‘Fair enough, girl.’ Phelim nodded his handsome head. ‘Fair enough. And as for you, Tomas O’Flanagan, ye’ll take the going rate for purpuss rescue, or ye’ll take nothing at all.’ He took five shillings from Kim’s hand and offered it to his fellow fisherman.
‘Man has to live, Phelim, man has to live,’ Tomas moaned.
‘A man has to live be rights, but not be cheatin’. Now don’t forget to keep that for your poor auld mither, and not hand it to that rascally barman brother of yours for pints, now.’
Leaving the two men to argue and josh each other, Kim and Dorothy hurried back to Loughnalaire to prepare the rescue operations for the purpuss – or Mer person, as Kim thought of the dolphin now – hoping that none of its wounds were internal.
‘Or,’ as Kim remarked sagely, ‘it will turn out to have been a waste of five whole shillings.’
Waldo was worried. He hadn’t heard from Lionel for some few days, which was very un-Eastcott-like. Normally they would be on what Lionel still called ‘the blower’ at least once every few days, exchanging views, making plans, passing the time of day.
‘My fault, I haven’t called you. Been dashing about a bit,’ Waldo explained, relieved to hear the older man’s voice.
‘Chundering along, chundering along,’ Lionel told him, speaking a little too far away from the phone which made him sound suddenly a great deal older.
The Moon At Midnight Page 20
