‘Do call me Bobbie.’ I picked up the other case and followed her to the foot of the stairs. I noticed that the suit of armour was lashed together with a skipping rope and a nylon stocking. A mouse sitting on its haunches in the shadow of the sedan chair stopped to wipe its paws over its face before running off.
‘I will. And you must call me Constance, Connie or Con. Whatever you like.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Don’t take any notice of Maud. She gets bored and likes to tease.’
As we walked up to the first landing where the staircase divided, I noticed a screwdriver, a half-eaten sausage, a hairdryer and some curls of orange peel deposited randomly on the steps.
‘She has arthritis.’ Constance panted a little for she had the heavier case. ‘I suspect she’s always in pain, though she never says anything. And her life hasn’t been easy. Of course, it’s supposed to be a vale of tears, so we’re told, but still I sometimes wonder why God didn’t just make us happy and good instead of sending evil to tempt us. He must be awfully fed up by now with our sinning and bewailing and being petitioned all hours of the day and night for favours.’ I probably looked cagey as the English generally do when God is mentioned. Constance stopped smiling. ‘I haven’t offended you, I hope? Father Deglan often ticks me off for being irreverent. But then nobody could be devout enough to please him.’
‘I’m not offended at all,’ I said. ‘I don’t go to church very often and I probably don’t think about it as much as I should.’
‘I’m practically lapsed myself. I make the children go to Mass most Sundays to please Father Deglan but Finn detests religion and makes no bones about it. This is a shockingly ungodly household. Only Sissy, Katty and Pegeen go every Sunday through flood, storm, fire and earthquake.’ Constance laughed. ‘Maud’s a Protestant so of course she’s more wicked than any of us.’
I decided from this second reference to a shared childhood that Constance and Finn must be brother and sister. But who might Sissy, Katty and Pegeen be? Despite Constance’s friendliness I was unsure of my status as an employee. It might seem impertinent to question Constance about members of her family so instead I asked, ‘How old is the house?’
‘The middle of it – the hall and the kitchen and the bedrooms above – is fifteenth century. The rest of it was added later. It’s all built on the site of a much older castle. My ancestors came over from France in the twelfth century and managed to acquire twenty thousand acres of Connemara. Probably we stole it from someone else. Anyway, the land’s all gone now. We’ve the demesne of ninety acres left and another hundred and twenty that’s let to a farmer. And it’s more than enough, actually: we can’t look after what we’ve got. I’m ashamed of the garden. Occasionally I’m moved to pull up a weed but ten more always come up immediately. The flowerbeds are nothing more than hummocks in the grass now. Granny adored gardening. Of course she had men to help her, in those days. I remember her bringing in baskets of roses and those lovely blue things – not lupins but the same sort of shape. I can’t remember what they’re called.’
‘Delphiniums?’ For a moment I indulged a vision of gardening without Brough and his can of weed-killer before I remembered that I would probably be leaving Curraghcourt in the morning.
‘Yes. Delphiniums. Anyway,’ continued Constance, ‘I was telling you about Maud. I do want you to forgive her, or at least understand what makes her so waspish. For one thing she used to be a beauty and they have a much harder time than the rest of us when their looks go. As Father Deglan often says – with a sort of pointedness I don’t like at all – a woman’s beauty is a snare framed by the devil to lead men astray and gall and wormwood for herself when it fades. He means my reward’s to come: because I’m not a beauty I shan’t mind about wrinkles and grey hair. If you ask me, it’s small consolation for being a maiden aunt.’ She laughed. ‘My sympathy goes out to those generations of spinsters expected to fetch shawls and fans for their more fortunate married sisters and be grateful. At least I can be sure there’s more than enough here for me to do.’
Actually I thought Constance was pretty and certainly, with a decent haircut and more flattering clothes, perhaps a little dieting … I had no opportunity to contradict her disparagement of her own looks for she talked all the time, pausing only to draw breath.
‘I must show you a photograph of Maud when she was young. She did the Season in England, you know, and was the most beautiful debutante of her year. I don’t know why she married an Irishman. She was born and brought up in Cork but to listen to her talk you’d think she hated Ireland. Harry Crawley wasn’t the most eligible of her suitors either – she was proposed to by an earl but Maud said he was so old he was almost dead – I suppose she must have fallen in love with him. But one doesn’t think of Maud as being susceptible to the tender passions. Nor, by all accounts, was Harry a romantic figure. He lived for hunting. He fell on his head jumping a gate when Violet was eighteen and was brought back a lifeless corpse on a hurdle like Sir John Moore. Do you know the poem by Charles Wolfe?’
We had reached a dark corridor at the head of the stairs. Constance startled me by putting down my case, flinging up an arm and declaiming in a voice that throbbed with feeling:
‘We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light …
‘That’s so beautiful, so evocative, isn’t it?’
‘Wonderful,’ I enthused.
Constance dropped her arm. ‘You really like poetry?’
‘Yes. Well, not all poetry, of course. I like the Metaphysicals and Keats and Coleridge—’
‘Oh, that’s marvellous. I never dared to even hope … I put it into the advertisement but that was only to humour the children. Flavia said we must each make one condition so we could find someone we’d all like. Of course it was Finn who put in the bit about a philosophical temperament. I thought that might put people off but he said on past showing anyone who’d even consider the job would be either too stupid or too deranged to—Oh, of course I didn’t mean that you…’ Constance put her hand on my arm. ‘Bobbie, you will stay, won’t you? I have such a strong feeling that we’re going to be friends.’
It was difficult – impossible not to respond to such kindness. There was about Constance a beguiling candour that could not fail to attract. ‘Well … perhaps tomorrow things will seem … Thank you for making me feel so welcome.’
‘Welcome! And when I think of the soaking you had from the children and that dreadful trap and McCarthy’s and the rain … What’s funny?’
‘I don’t … know. So much has happened … It’s exhaustion, probably … I feel quite hysterical …’ I went off into another fit of laughter and this time Constance joined in.
‘Timsy was right. You are a good sport. Give me that other case. You’ll never manage it in that state.’ She took it before I could protest and walked with buckling knees a little ahead of me. The corridor seemed to go on for ever. It was impossible to get any idea of the architecture or decoration, partly because the light was not good but also because stacked against the walls were chairs, tables, bookcases, cabinets, paintings, drawings and weaponry in no discernible order. ‘What was I saying?’ she threw over her shoulder. ‘Oh, yes, Maud and Harry. Violet was just about to do the Season herself but when her father’s will was read they found he was terribly in debt so she couldn’t, after all.’
I was confused again. Violet was the daughter of Maud and Harry, then. But what relation were either to Constance?
‘It turned out that a nasty little man Harry had been sleeping with had threatened to tell, so Harry had paid him thousands of pounds not to and that’s why the Crawley estate was mortgaged down to the last paperclip. The minute Harry died the little beast squealed to the newspapers, so it was all for nothing.’ I understood that Mrs Crawley’s husband had been blackmailed because of his homosexuality. ‘There was quite a scandal – it’s still illegal in Ireland, of course – and Maud was deep
ly grateful to Finn for wanting to marry Violet.’ So Violet was Finn’s wife and Mrs Crawley was, therefore, his mother-in-law. ‘Now, let’s see.’
Constance threw open a door to our left and switched on the light. A four-poster bed was buried beneath boxes of books, a heap of clothes, a stag’s head and the top half of a pram.
‘I must get round to clearing this up. How these things do move around so. I swear they’re bewitched. Do you know that opera by Ravel: L’Enfant et les Sortilèges? When all the furniture comes alive and chases the horrid little boy who’s been ill-using them? This won’t do for you at all.’
She closed the door and opened the neighbouring room. It was jammed with teetering piles of canvas-and-steel stacking chairs.
‘What on earth? Oh, goodness! These must be the wretched chairs we had for the poetry festival. No one could find them afterwards and there was such a row. We had to pay for them in the end. Finn was awfully angry about it. Really, the price the company charged, you’d think they were Chinese Chippendale.’
‘Perhaps the hire company will take them back and reimburse you.’
‘I doubt it. It was rather a long time ago. Now.’ She opened a third door. ‘This looks better!’
I could not share her enthusiasm. It was true there was nothing on the bed except a mattress and a bag disgorging feathers that one might, in an optimistic mood, call a pillow. And the smell of damp that seemed to catch the back of my throat might be dispersed by lighting a fire in the grate of the undeniably fine marble fireplace. There was a beautiful serpentine-fronted mahogany chest of drawers that with some polishing would not have looked out of place in a Bond Street show room. But I was reluctant to spend the night with the stuffed racehorse. I could have slept in a stable with a live one if absolutely required to do so, but this dead one, its head hanging over the bed at an awkward angle due to the discharge of stuffing at its neck, with both eyes missing and cobwebs festooning its poor crumpled flanks, was an object of absolute repulsion.
I pointed to the ceiling. ‘Do you think it might be dangerous …?’
‘Oh dear, yes. Thank goodness you noticed!’ The exquisite chandelier hung from plaster that bulged like a boil about to burst. ‘There must be a leak. I’ll get Timsy – he’s really quite a good handyman when he’s sober – to look at it in the morning.’
It did not look to me as though Timsy’s skills had been much exercised. We returned to the landing.
‘I’m afraid it’ll have to be the west tower after all. Never mind. If we can only persuade you to stay, we’ll soon fix you up with something better.’ I followed Constance to the end of the corridor and up a spiral stone staircase. ‘Be careful, some of the steps are worn. I’m sure you know that most spiral stairs wind clockwise so that the swordarm is free coming down – to defend yourself against invaders, that is. But at Curraghcourt they all wind anti-clockwise. That’s because most of the Macchuins are left-handed.’ She paused and beamed down at me. ‘Just a little local colour in case you’re interested. I’m not actually – left-handed, I mean – but Finn is and Flurry and Flavia are too.’
‘Flurry and Flavia?’ I addressed Constance’s ascending bottom interrogatively.
‘My nephew and niece. Such darlings they are. Oh, I forgot, you’ll be thinking them very bad. But most of the time they’re quite good. Flurry’s short for Florence. It’s Finn’s second name, too. He was teased about it at school for the English think it’s a girl’s name, and he wanted to call Flurry something safe like Henry or John but Violet insisted it was good for a boy to have to fight for respect.’
So Finn, who seemed to be the supreme authority at Curraghcourt, was the father of two children called Flavia and Florence, known as Flurry. I was beginning to get the hang of the family tree but there were still Sissy, Katty and Pegeen to be accounted for … and hadn’t there been mention on the telephone of a third child? Suddenly I was so tired that I had a violent need to lay my head on something horizontal and give myself up to sleep.
Constance was panting with the effort of hauling up two suitcases. ‘Why don’t we take them up one at a time?’ I suggested. Together, with her pulling and me pushing, we got the troublesome cases on to a small landing about the size of a telephone box.
‘Here we are.’ Constance fumbled with the handle. It turned without effect. ‘Damn! I remember now. One of the screws is loose. Just a minute.’ She dropped to her knees and felt around in the gloom. ‘We’re in luck! Here it is. I’ll get Timsy to look at it in the morning.’
Once the screw had been inserted, the door opened easily enough. The room was, as one might expect in a round tower, perfectly circular. The small stone chimneypiece was curved but the straight backs of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers and the writing table stood at awkward angles to the walls. The bed, a narrow, crooked half-tester hung with brown curtains, occupied the centre of the room. Four curtainless lancet windows revealed the blackness of night. I detected an acrid smell that I could not immediately identify.
‘What do you think?’ Constance’s eyes were fixed anxiously on my face.
‘It will do beautifully, thank you.’
‘I hope the bed’s been properly aired.’ Constance lifted the covers and put in a hand. ‘Ah, yes, Katty’s remembered the brick. Be careful when you get in. I’ve so often cracked a toe. There’s your candle.’ She pointed to the bedside table on which was a box of matches and a candlestick. ‘The generator runs out of petrol sometimes. Quite often, actually. Towels.’ She pointed to a towel horse that stood near the fire. ‘I wonder, have I forgotten anything?’ Frowning, she looked round the room. ‘Oh yes, I must warn you. Don’t, whatever you do, pull that.’ She pointed to a rope that came down through a hole in the ceiling and disappeared through a corresponding hole in the floor. ‘It rings the bell right at the top of the tower. In the old days the Macchuins rang it to raise the alarm when they saw the O’Flahertys coming over the hill armed to the teeth and lusting for blood. The peasants working in the fields ran like mad when they heard it to get inside before the drawbridge was raised. The bell’s called Scornach Mór. It means “Big Throat”.’
‘Did the O’Flahertys ever manage to storm the castle?’
‘Never! We’re proud of that. There are some famous verses about the battles between the Macchuins and the O’Flahertys—’
‘Oh, good,’ I said quickly. ‘So presumably the bell hasn’t been rung for a very long time.’
‘Actually, as recently as last year. I told you about the poetry festival – it wasn’t altogether a success. The man who slept in this room thought it was a bell for the servants. Apparently he was expecting to be brought breakfast in bed.’ She laughed. ‘It seems funny now but at the time everyone was thrown into a panic, thinking we were being attacked by the IRA. The Garda and the entire fire brigade from Kilmuree rolled up within half an hour: it was a record turnout. Finn had to give them a hefty tip to make them go away. The poor poet left in a huff after Finn called him a drone and a parasite. You’d think Finn had never been young and foolish himself but I can remember lots of times …’ Constance frowned. ‘In Ireland poetry has done marvellous things. I really believe it’s helped to fuse Gaelic and Anglo-Irish into a single tradition … You’re yawning!’
I had pinched my nostrils till my eyes watered but I could not disguise the fact that weariness was stealing over my limbs and befogging my brain so that I was unable to understand what she was talking about.
‘You poor thing! You must be so tired after your journey. You look quite white!’
‘It’s nothing. A long day … not much sleep last night on the boat …’
‘I’ve been selfish. Talking far too much.’ Constance looked contrite. ‘You must go straight to bed and I’ll bring up your supper on a tray.’
‘Oh, no, really, that would be giving you too much trou-u—’ I yawned again. ‘—ble.’
‘Not at all. I’ll just show you the bathroom and then I’ll fetch you some nice hot soup.
Well, I don’t suppose it will be very nice because I made it and I’m Ireland’s worst cook but I’ll make sure it’s hot. As the wind’s in the south-west the stove’s behaving itself at the moment.’
The bathroom was at the foot of the tower stairs. Bathrooms at Cutham Hall were not luxurious so I did not mind too much the acreage of chipped and cracked white tiles, the brown stains at the tap end of the bath, or even the fact that part of the lavatory seat was missing.
Constance saw me looking around for a bath plug. ‘Here you are.’ She handed me a round pebble. ‘You have to stuff your flannel in the hole and then weigh it down with this. It keeps the water in just about long enough to wash.’ I thought I had kept my expression politely neutral, but she said at once, ‘I know what you’re thinking. It is bloody hopeless, isn’t it? I do try but I’m just not good at domestic things. Maud was so rude to the last housekeeper she gave in her notice. She said she preferred to starve than be insulted worse than a Turkoman. I don’t know why Turkomans should be the recipients of rudeness but anyway … Naturally, we gave her a month’s wages and she was extremely fat so I’m sure she didn’t starve.’
‘What was the quarrel about?’
‘Maud accused Mrs Heaney – that was the housekeeper’s name – of trying to poison us. We’d all had upset stomachs after a horrible supper of rabbit and turnips. Also she said Mrs Heaney was a sot and had been at the Château Margaux. I don’t see how she could have for Finn keeps the key of the cellar and no one else is allowed to go down there on pain of having their throat cut ear to ear and their giblets pickled and hung from the battlements. I’d say it was the local poteen she was drinking. The final straw was when Maud said no wonder there were colonies of flies in the house because Mrs Heaney smelt like a tub of bad butter. She did have a peculiarly rancid smell, but of course Maud shouldn’t have told her. Mrs Heaney made her exit at that point with the line about the Turkoman. Perhaps she took the bath plug in revenge.’
‘How inventive of her. In the circumstances, I’d better have a quick bath before Mrs Crawley draws invidious comparisons in Mrs Heaney’s favour.’
Moonshine Page 22
