The Moon At Midnight

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘That’s not Waldo-like.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. I’m glad you said that, by the way. But, no, I don’t think it is. So what do you think I can do about it?’

  Loopy stood up. She had always found that two martinis were dangerous, most particularly when it came to people confessing to emotions to which they might not have admitted when drinking water.

  ‘A friend of mine once told me that when she was seventeen her father asked her into the library to tell her the facts of life. When it came to it, his fact of life was “Never forget, dear, you’re just not the same girl after two dry martinis.” ’ As Waldo laughed Loopy quickly stubbed out her hardly smoked cigarette. ‘Therefore, dear, let us lunch first, and exchange intimate confidences second. Personally I think falling in love is nothing but a pain. I mean do you see where it got me? Three pregnancies and Hugh – not to mention Gwen, glowering at me from the door—’ she added, turning as Gwen, who was becoming more eccentric by the minute, appeared in the sitting room doorway, pinny spread about her now ample figure, in her hand the luncheon bell out of which no sound was coming.

  ‘It’s lunch, Mrs Tate,’ she said, above the sound of the bell now being shaken loudly and silently in her own ear. ‘Roast pork and all the trimmings, but I won’t take responsibility for the pudding, and hope that you told Mr Astley as much?’

  ‘Of course, Gwen. I wouldn’t want you blamed for making it, not in any way.’

  Loopy turned back to Hugh and raised her eyes to heaven.

  Later, after a magnificent lunch, they sat back down in front of the fire and returned to the subject of the day.

  ‘You see,’ Loopy explained, ‘it’s not much fun, being in love I mean. It’s all agony, with or without the loved one, that’s why one has to get married, to stop the rot. I think you feel you need a wife, and I think you may be right.’

  They both laughed. It was that serious.

  ‘This is a very fine car,’ Atlanta Hackett remarked to Walter, having accompanied him to the top of the steps where he had left his Riley. ‘This is a very fine car altogether.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Walter smiled. ‘It’s only a Riley.’

  ‘Only a Riley, do you hear,’ the Widow repeated as she walked round the shiny dark green vehicle. ‘She’s very fine all the same. And just the thing.’

  ‘Just the thing for what, Mrs Hackett?’

  ‘Atlanta, you daft man,’ the Widow scolded him. ‘Didn’t we agree last night on the intimate?’

  ‘I remember very little about most of last night,’ Walter admitted. ‘And I’ve been in the Navy.’

  ‘Ah the Navy’s full of boys when it comes to enjoyin’ themselves. ’Tis being in Cork that learns you. Now you have your directions – and don’t go stopping to ask, for the nearer you get, the more wrong they’ll send ye. ’Tis the absolute way of the world when you’re travelling, and no denying it.’

  Despite his sizeable hangover, Walter had prepared the ground for his journey thoroughly. At breakfast he drew himself a detailed route map, even going to the trouble of noting grid references and compass bearings to pinpoint a house called Culoheen near a lake by the name of Cumeenduff which lay to the west of Knocknabreeda Hill, which was where he was headed.

  It was a clear morning as he drove away, the mists that had been hanging now dispersed by a fresh sea breeze that brought some rain as he passed through the town of Kenmare before bearing northwest into Kerry and the lee of a range of mountains known as Macgillicuddy’s Reeks. The countryside was fearsome, with rough-hewn hills and rough mountains rising behind blue-mist-shrouded lakes and bogs, serpentine roads twisting up rock-strewn mountain passes only to zigzag down the other side, past stone memorials of fallen soldiers and the occasional huge crucifix immortalising martyrs, into valleys watered by teeming rivers, wild high waterfalls that tumbled down granite rock faces or crystal clear springs that gushed down from the mountains along stony beds to tumble under the stone bridges that spanned the narrow winding roads.

  His spirits lifted by the country through which he was driving, Walter tried to recall as much as he could of the conversation he had enjoyed with his hostess after a riotous dinner in the huge kitchen with several members of the Family who had returned from what they all jokingly called ‘the fillums’.

  ‘She has this sponsor now, do you see?’ the Widow had stated.

  ‘A man is keeping her, you mean?’

  ‘Do you listen, not at all. Very grand he is too – the Lord of Tara, no less. He’s sponsoring her to the tune of as much as he can afford which is not a lot since he’s no rich man. But at any rate, it all started with Poor Puss.’

  ‘A sick cat?’

  ‘Ah, will you listen? Kim was out fishing one day and she came back with this injured dolphin – and let me tell you, the fish are all but sacred here, do you see. But didn’t young Kim get us all to fill the old swimming pool with sea water? And didn’t she put old Poor Puss as he got to be christened into it? And didn’t he get better with her love and care? And wasn’t he then returned to the seas, God bless her. Him too. Lordy was here or hereabouts when all this was happening and wasn’t it the very thing. He’s not a well man at all, God help him – but after the high old times with Poor Puss and the three-legged sheep after that and then the old blind owl, didn’t he take such a shine to young Kim and her works that he shrugged off his sickness and was lepping about the place like a five-year-old. So that’s where she is now, up on his land – at least a part of it for he has bits and pieces here there and everywhere. But that’s where she is – up at one of his old houses where with his money and her energy – and some help from one or two others of the Family – she’s running this sort of sanctuary I suppose you’d have to call it. And that’s where you’re to go to see her.’

  And that was where Walter was now, in the wilds of Kerry heading up a rough potholed drive over-hung with wind-bent trees, past fields where donkeys were happily grazing with sheep and a few cattle, until he came to a large stone house painted in pale yellow turning light green with mildew, its roof half thatch and half tile, and with half its large Georgian windows shuttered against the weather – with good reason, too, Walter observed as he drew up outside it, since most of the shuttered windows were very short of glass.

  It had now begun to rain in earnest, so pulling his old doeskin naval coat from the back of his car Walter threw it on and went in search of some life. There was no answer to his ring on the rusty old bell hanging outside the front door and no sign of light or life within. Finally, pulling the big collar of his coat up around his neck, he bent his head against the driving rain and hurried his way round to the side of the house.

  Here at last there was life, to judge from the lights that were shining in the gathering gloom as the November skies emptied on the land beneath and a marrow-cutting wind sprang up, whipping piles of old black leaves into the air and banging any half-open door or window to and fro. As he approached a line of stables and sheds two fox terriers suddenly appeared and made for his ankles, barking furiously. One managed to seize one of Walter’s trouser legs before a bellow from the nearest stable called him off. The two dogs turned at once and ran back to their master.

  A young man dressed as if it was a warm day stood regarding Walter, an old small briar pipe stuck upside down in his mouth. He was thin, tall, with a mop of straight white hair and bright pink albino eyes, dressed in a pair of faded jeans, an old-fashioned short-sleeved Aertex shirt and a sleeveless Fair Isle pullover.

  ‘May I help you?’ he called. ‘Are you lost?’

  ‘I’m looking for Kim Tate!’ Walter replied, a hand over his eyes to shield them from the rain. ‘This is Culoheen House, isn’t it?’

  ‘She’s busy now! Sorry!’ the young man replied. ‘Who shall I say it is?’

  Walter waited, wishing they had been able to get through on the telephone to warn Kim that he was coming. But thanks to the vagaries of both the Irish telephone system and the changeable weather, let
alone the remoteness of Culoheen, the Widow had failed to make contact. Or – as Walter suddenly thought – so she’d said, which was perhaps a different thing.

  ‘Tell her . . .’ Walter began, then hesitated. ‘Tell her it’s someone from England! Family!’

  ‘I will so!’ the young man replied with a nod, ignoring the pelting of the rain as he turned and wandered back inside the building. ‘You’d best wait in the house!’ he called back over one shoulder.

  Hurrying back to the house with the wind and the rain at least behind him this time, Walter pushed his way in through the heavy front door that seemed to be held in place by only half its hinges and looked for a light switch. He found one adjacent to the door but it failed to ignite any electricity. In the gloom of the hall he stumbled against something, something which grunted and then scurried away. Walter promptly lit a match and peered into the gloom, just in time to see what looked like a badger’s brush disappearing ahead of him into the room at the end.

  Finding another switch, one that worked this time, lighting a clear glass low-voltage bulb directly above his head, Walter found himself the object of several pairs of curious but apparently unfrightened eyes. On top of a tallboy, held upright by a pile of books under its one missing leg, sat a barn owl, its talons gripping the edge of the ancient mahogany, its eyes wide open and unblinking. On the shelf below a cardboard box contained a nonchalantly sleeping hare, stretched out to the full with one of its hind legs stiffened by a splint. A moment later a three-legged collie dog wandered out of a side room wagging its long tail in greeting. Walter returned the salutation with a pat to the dog’s head as he headed for the room at the end of the hall.

  The door was open, and led through to a flag-stoned ante-room which in turn led on to a large kitchen with a high vaulted roof, on the rafters of which sat a medley of birds, including a one-eyed raven which, disturbed by the light which Walter put on as he entered, shrieked a defiant warning before jumping off its perch to flop casually down on to the table below where it sat with its head on one side, balefully regarding the intruder with its one good eye. Thanks to a range of stoves and ovens not unlike those at Loughnalaire, in the centre of which glowed a fire fuelled with peat, the room was warm and welcoming, with its large scrubbed table surrounded by a collection of widely differing antique chairs, on the back of one of which perched some sort of bird of prey, possibly a kestrel, but obviously still too sick to make himself a dinner out of any of the small mammals housed in the huge kitchen.

  Walter stared at the scene, shaking his head wearily as he realised that far from being a chimera the kitchen obviously was some sort of haven for sick and injured creatures, and he thought he knew just the person who might be responsible for the chaos.

  After such a long journey he thought he might be forgiven if he made himself a cup of tea, which he duly did, having washed up a mug and dried it on his handkerchief. He dusted off one of the many chairs and sat himself down, only to find his legs knocking against something under the table. He bent down quickly to see who, or what, he had inadvertently kicked, only to set startled eyes on a small badger who promptly disappeared into a dresser cupboard. Walter bent down to the cupboard to find two tiny bright eyes staring at him.

  ‘Don’t worry, old thing, I won’t let on,’ Walter told him, straightening up.

  Some time later the young man from the stables, but without fox terriers, reappeared, but looked startled when he saw Walter, already on his second cup of tea, at the head of the kitchen table offering an arm to the one-eyed raven, which gladly accepted the invitation.

  ‘She can’t see you now,’ he said to Walter, helping himself to a raw carrot from a large bowl of fruit and vegetables that sat on the table. ‘She said you’re to wait. That is if you want to wait.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ Walter said. ‘I’m in no hurry. There’s tea in the pot if you want some. Or I can make some fresh.’

  ‘Let’s do that. I’ll make a fresh brew.’

  ‘I’m Walter, by the way,’ Walter remarked, washing out a mug for the young man and rinsing out his own. ‘And you’d be?’

  ‘Gabriel,’ the young man returned. ‘I’d be Gabriel Ryan, and you’d be Kim’s father.’

  ‘That is correct. Will my daughter see me now? I’ve come a long way.’

  ‘I know that.’ There followed a small silence.

  ‘What I’m trying to say. . .’

  ‘I know what you’re trying to say, Mr Tate,’ Gabriel replied, turning his pink eyes to look at him not unkindly. ‘And what I’m saying is Kim has her hands full and that’s all I know.’

  He sat at the table and poured himself a mug of tea, spooning in two sugars, which he stirred with another carrot selected from the bowl before feeding the carrot to the raven.

  ‘It’s a soft old day, is it not?’ he said. ‘And have you journeyed far today?’

  ‘From Cork. From Loughnalaire.’

  ‘Of course.’ Gabriel nodded another couple of times and sipped at his tea.

  ‘Were you at Loughnalaire?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Walter agreed. ‘Of course. And this place. . .’

  ‘The Widow will have told you about this place, surely.’

  ‘She told me about Kim’s benefactor, but she gave me no idea of what this place was like.’

  ‘This is a grand place. This is a very grand place. This is a very grand place indeed.’

  ‘Are there many of you here? You seem to care for a lot of animals, which can’t be easy. So – so how many of you work here? And are you all from – are you all Family?’

  Gabriel smiled for the first time, a long, languorous smile that curled his small, childlike mouth upwards into a delighted grin. Then he laughed and shook his head.

  ‘No, sir – no, Mr Tate, no – no, we don’t work here. No one works here. This is not work. We live here – and there’s only the three of us. Kim, myself and the Dandy Man. And this isn’t work. This isn’t work at all.’

  ‘No,’ Walter said thoughtfully, understanding that, far from work, what happened here was something entirely different. ‘The Dandy Man sounds intriguing.’

  ‘Intriguing indeed.’ Gabriel took another sip of tea and fed a wizened grape to the raven. ‘You’d be right there. He thought he was Beau Brummell, do you see. And he thought that for a good while.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Is there ever, I wonder? I’ve a notion it’s not something one chooses, but something that chooses you, when you’re in the state.’

  ‘The state.’

  ‘The state of mind that comes on you after a disturbance, let’s say. They call it – sometimes – the balance of the mind, and I always have a feeling that has an aptness about it. The balance of the mind is a fine thing, and if it tilts, that is when the state comes upon you. The Dandy Man had a bad state. Very bad. He had three daughters, he loved them all, and they all died on him.’

  ‘It is wisely said that there’s nothing worse than for a parent to bury a child.’

  ‘I’d say that would be so, Mr Tate. It’s a hard enough thing, I should say, to be a parent and to have the children, without having them to die on you.’

  ‘Three girls.’

  ‘Three girls, and didn’t he love them all?’

  Walter put his cup of tea down and reached inside his pocket for his cigarette case, finding himself in urgent need of a smoke. He offered one to Gabriel who looked at the case with his head on one side, as if considering whether or not to accept, before declining with a shake of his head.

  ‘The Dandy Man was near dead, do you see?’ Gabriel sighed with the recollection. ‘Even the Widow was near despair, and there wasn’t one of us who could ever remember the Widow anywhere near such desolation. Perhaps she had feelings for the Dandy Man, who can say? But she was driven to distraction when he stopped eating, and when he stopped drinking, and when he took to his bed. It was such a thing when he came round, it was such a thing, Mr T
ate, we ceilidhed for a week I’d say.’

  ‘You say he came round,’ Walter said quietly, his cigarette now alight.

  ‘Isn’t that what he did? Isn’t that what you do when you come out of the state? It’s what I would say I felt when I was recovered. That I’d come round. It was the oddest thing with the Dandy Man, the very oddest.’ Gabriel smiled his strange childlike smile again as distance came to his eyes with the memory. ‘It was Poor Puss that did it I’d say – and some of the others would too. The Dandy Man saw it from his window, saw what was going on, and he says Poor Puss called to him – which was why he left his bed that day and got in the water with him. When Poor Puss was returned to the sea, Kim used to take her boat out with whoever was keen on it, and Poor Puss would appear and we’d all swim with him. The Dandy Man, too. . .’

  Before he could go any further, the kitchen door opened and a small, slight man in his middle age appeared dressed in baggy thornproof trousers, a shapeless Aran polo neck sweater and large wellington boots, yet from the way he carried and presented himself he could have been wearing the best of suits from Savile Row and hand-made shoes from Lobb. He had, Walter observed, a pair of the saddest-looking eyes he had ever seen on anyone, and yet a moment later, when Gabriel introduced them to each other, his smile banished the tragic look in a second.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, presenting himself in the traditional manner of a French gentleman, heels together and with a nod of his head as he offered his hand.

  ‘This is Kim’s Da, Jean,’ Gabriel said. ‘Mr Tate, this is Jean Bouchet.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ the Dandy replied, with a different inflexion now he knew who Walter was. ‘You are to be congratulated. You have ze most remarkable daughtaire.’

  After yet another cup of tea accompanied by a delicious bacon sandwich, the Dandy Man and Gabriel were about to return to the stables when a whirlwind blew into the kitchen. Kim’s dramatic and noisy arrival seemed to surprise no one except Walter who found himself up on his feet the moment she burst through the door.