‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said. ‘It’s a question I’ve often asked myself.’
‘What the Church won’t allow is that love is involuntary. You can’t turn it on and off like a tap.’ Constance put her arm through mine. ‘You must be starving. Come and have some breakfast.’
‘Oh!’ I cried on entering the dining room. ‘Oh!’
The room was large and light, with four sash windows along one wall and a pair of French windows at the end. It was painted a hideous shade of brown and had ugly rep curtains of the same colour. Several paler rectangles marked the places where formerly paintings had protected the walls from turf smoke. The long table was cluttered with books, newspapers and dirty plates. But none of this was responsible for my gasp of astonishment. I turned on the spot, looking up. The ceiling was a glorious fantasy of flowers, leaves, scrolls and garlands. Above the magnificent marble chimneypiece were swags of plaster flowers and fruit. Roundels of birds and beasts decorated the walls, unfortunately covered with brown paint as was the frieze, a procession of griffins, centaurs, manticores and chimerae ridden and led by putti.
‘This is absolutely wonderful!’ I said. ‘It must be the work of a master craftsman.’
‘It is rather fine,’ said Constance, going to a side table on which were several covered silver dishes, blackened by tarnish. Her gumboots made a flapping noise as she walked. ‘Let me see if I can remember the name. Two brothers, Italian – or were they Swiss? La Franky-something. I’ve forgotten.’
‘Not La Franchini!’ I exclaimed.
‘That’s it.’ Constance stared at me. ‘How clever of you! How did you know?’
‘It was my job: furniture and interior decoration, generally. I worked for one of the London auction houses. This is marvellous!’ I walked round the room, my head back, my chin in the air. I stopped beneath a section of plaster which resembled the handiwork of a probationer nurse in Outpatients. ‘But what’s happened here? Is that an elephant? It’s got five legs.’
‘I think that’s a tail. We had a burst pipe and the water came through the ceiling. It looked so awful afterwards that Sissy had a go with Polyfilla.’
I repressed a cry of anguish as I saw that six square feet of a masterpiece had been forever lost. The rest of the existing decoration was veiled with cobwebs, and glazed with fine cracks.
‘We had a man from Hibernian Heritage here last year and he was quite angry when he saw that. He said we ought to have had it repaired by an expert. I didn’t like to say that we hadn’t any money. But we haven’t, you know. Finn always gets a migraine whenever he does the accounts. The trouble is, Hibernian Heritage won’t give us a grant unless we open Curraghcourt to the public. But how could we do that? Everywhere’s such a mess. I showed him round and he admitted it was impossible. Now come and choose what you’d like.’ Constance picked up a spoon and a plate. I joined her at the side table. ‘There’s scrambled egg. I don’t advise that. I can never understand why it always goes grey when I cook it. Hello, Flurry, love. This is Miss Norton, our new housekeeper.’
A boy, round-faced with spectacles and black hair cut so short that it stuck up like the bristles of a brush, had entered the dining room. Grey flannel shorts revealed chubby knees encrusted with scabs. He came over to stand between us, giving me a darting glance before concentrating his gaze on a dish of rather pink sausages. ‘You look much nicer than Mrs Heaney. But you won’t stay so if you don’t mind I shan’t bother to talk to you.’ He took the topmost plate from a large stack.
‘That’s very rude, Flurry,’ Constance protested. ‘Please shake hands with Miss Norton and say how pleased you are that she’s come to help us.’
With his attention still on the sausages Flurry put out his hand and said in a monotone as though repeating a lesson, ‘How do you do, Miss Norton? I’m Florence Finn Fitzgeorge Macchuin. How delightful to see you and I’m sorry you’re going so soon.’
I took the hand and shook it. It felt damp and hot. The day was warm and he was wearing a grey wool jersey as well as a navy blazer. ‘How do you do, Flurry?’ I said. ‘Please call me Bobbie. I hope to stay for a few weeks at least so it may be worth your while to exchange a few words now and then.’
‘I’m so glad to hear that,’ said Constance. ‘Oh dear, what’s this?’ She kicked a bloody bone under the side table. ‘Really, how disgusting!’
Flurry turned his eyes to my face and examined it carefully. I saw that one of his eyes was disfigured by an angry red stye. ‘Mrs Heaney said no one who wasn’t in league with the devil could stand living in a house with people who were all as mad as bullawawns and with an old woman with a tongue like a saw-mill. Perhaps you haven’t met Granny yet?’
‘I met Mrs Crawley last night.’ I decided to dig myself deeper into the pit of lies. ‘I liked her very much.’
‘You did?’ Flurry frowned and returned to the breakfast dishes. ‘Aunt Connie?’ He looked up at her. ‘Did you cook these sausages?’
‘I did, Flurry my boy. And I watched them like a mother her newborn baby. You won’t tell me these are burned, surely?’
‘No-o.’ He sat down at the table and began to eat with steady concentration.
‘What about some fried bread, Bobbie? It’s good and crisp.’ She demonstrated the truth of this by tapping with a spoon something I had identified as black pudding.
‘Thank you.’ I paused, embarrassed. ‘But shouldn’t I take my meals in the kitchen?’
‘Mrs Heaney ate in the kitchen.’ Flurry spoke with his mouth full and without taking his eyes from his plate. ‘But Miss Macnulty, our nurse when we were babies, used to eat with us. Her teeth clicked. I expect you’ve got your own. I don’t think you’ll like Katty or Pegeen much and they’re always in the kitchen. But then, if you liked Granny—’
‘Of course you’ll eat with us,’ interrupted Constance. ‘That’s if you can stand our terribly bad manners. I want you to think of yourself as one of the family.’ I noticed by the light of morning that Constance’s deep-set eyes were a beautiful dark grey.
‘That’s kind of you,’ I said. ‘Well, then …’ I inspected a dish that contained something dark and slimy, like squid cooked in ink. ‘This looks interesting.’
‘They’re mushrooms. Sissy picked them this morning. I had to cook them so as not to hurt her feelings but I’m never sure if it’s safe—’
‘Don’t eat them,’ said Flurry. ‘Not if you want to go on liking Granny. Or anyone.’
I settled for the fried bread and some shards of bacon, which splintered into fragments when I tried to cut it. To the left of my plate someone had written ‘Kilroy was here’ in the dust of the table. I tried to ignore a hairbrush, matted with hair, a few inches to my right. Opposite me Flurry sawed diligently at a sausage. The meat inside its shiny pink skin was raw. I hoped his immune system was well developed.
‘Good morning, Flavia darling,’ said Constance as a young girl came into the room, carrying an open book which she continued to read while walking to the table.
‘Hello, Aunt Connie.’ Flavia removed her eyes briefly from the page and offered a cheek to be kissed before sitting down. Propping her head on her hands, she continued to read.
‘Darling, will you take notice for a moment? Bobbie, this is my niece, Flavia. Flavia, this is Miss Norton, who’s come to help us.’
Flavia looked up with the unseeing eyes of someone whose imagination is busy far away. ‘Hello,’ she said vaguely before dropping them back on to her book. They were like her aunt’s, deep-set and intelligent above good cheekbones. Her nose was snub, her mouth plump but her face promised beauty later. Her hair was long and curling and a wonderful chestnut brown.
Constance raised her eyebrows at me. ‘I’m afraid the children’s behaviour isn’t always … I should do something about it but I’m rather hopeless at making people do things.’
I wondered why discipline should be the responsibility of an aunt. That Mr Macchuin was frequently absent I already knew, but pre
sumably Violet – Mrs Macchuin – was usually at home. Perhaps, I speculated uneasily, Mrs Macchuin was as mad as a bullawawn, whatever that was.
‘I can see specks of blood in this sausage, Aunt Connie,’ said Flurry. ‘Do you think it’s all right?’
‘Oh no, darling, how horrid. Don’t eat it. I am sorry. I’ll put them back in the pan.’
Constance took the dish of sausages from the side table and hurried out. Flurry continued to hold his knife and fork as though poised to eat and looked at the wall above my head. I offered him the rack of toast which was anaemic and leathery.
Flurry shook his head. ‘I never eat toast.’
‘Shall I cut you some bread?’
‘Or bread.’
‘Eggs?’
‘No.’
‘What do you eat?’
‘Sausages.’
‘You must eat something other than sausages.’
‘No. Not now.’
‘What, nothing else? What about at school?’
‘When I went to boarding school I had so many detentions for not eating the food the teachers complained to the headmaster because they had to give up their free time to supervise me. I didn’t like anything but the sausages. The school doctor said I was flabby and pale and it would be my own fault if I got ill. He said I ought to be beaten if I didn’t eat what was on my plate.’
Flurry looked quickly at me and then back to the wall.
‘That was rather unkind.’
‘Yes. I wrote to my father and he came to see me. He was angry.’
‘With you?’
Flurry shook his head. ‘He took me away. I go to the Williamsbridge school now as a day boy. But I can still only eat sausages. I take a lunchbox.’ I did not need to ask what the lunchbox contained. He looked at me consideringly. ‘Can you cook sausages?’
‘Yes. I think so. No one’s ever complained.’
Flurry’s expression became hopeful. ‘It would be good if you could. Aunt Connie usually burns them black. Today was different but they still weren’t right. Sometimes when we haven’t got a housekeeper Sissy does the cooking and that’s worse. Last time she cooked them with lavender.’ Flurry made a face. ‘E-ugh!’ Then he added, ‘I forgot. Aunt Connie says I’m not to say when I don’t like things.’
‘If it’s just a question of food I hope you’ll tell me.’ When he said nothing but continued to sit staring into space with his knife and fork pointing at the ceiling I said, ‘I’m looking forward to meeting Sissy.’
He gave me a blank look. ‘I expect she’s still doing her exercises.’ Flurry stood up and went to the French windows. ‘Yes. There she is.’
I abandoned the bacon and fried bread and joined him. Beyond a flagged terrace a large expanse of roughly mown grass was divided by two sheets of water bordered by stone kerbs. These ponds or, more accurately, canals ran at right angles from the house and stretched away into the distance. Between them were straggling, misshapen yews. A woman was cartwheeling expertly down the muddy path beneath the yews. Her long dark hair flopped up and down like a flag tugged by an intermittent breeze. She was naked.
‘Can you cartwheel?’ asked Flurry.
‘Not very well.’
‘I’m hopeless at games. Granny says I’m as fat as a flawn. Do you think I’m fat?’
‘Well … no. Perhaps well covered.’
‘You think I’m fat.’ Flurry spoke in a tone that brooked no argument. He folded his arms behind his back and stood legs apart, watching Sissy as she came cartwheeling along the outside of one of the canals towards us. His manner was a combination of naïve schoolboy and elder statesman. ‘What is a flawn?’
‘It’s an old-fashioned sort of pudding, like a custard.’
‘E-ugh!’ Flurry made a face. ‘I hate custard! Do all girls look like Sissy with no clothes on?’
She was quite close to us now and as she revolved, arms and legs in perfect conformation at ninety degrees, no detail of her anatomy was left to our imaginations.
‘Pretty much,’ I said.
‘E-ugh!’ said Flurry again.
I wondered whether I ought to say something about the beauty of the naked human form but decided I wasn’t up to it so early in the day. Sissy stood upright and stretched her hands above her head. Even through the filthy glass and across the twenty or so yards that separated us, I could see she was doing some deep breathing. Her rib cage expanded and contracted like bellows and her buttocks quivered with tension. Suddenly she sprang into the air. For a moment I thought she was going to dive headfirst into the turf but at the last moment she tucked herself into a ball and did a forward somersault, without touching the ground.
‘Gosh!’ I was deeply impressed. ‘I wish I could do that.’
‘Sissy used to be in a circus. She was a trapeze artist.’
‘Really? How fascinating!’
‘It is and it isn’t. I’ve got rather blazered about it now.’
‘Blasé?’ I suggested.
‘That’s it.’
‘Circuses are cruel,’ said a voice behind us.
I turned to look at Flavia but she continued to read with her back to us.
‘Flavia doesn’t like animals being made to do tricks,’ mouthed Flurry. ‘She’s bats about them.’
‘What are you bats about?’ I asked. ‘Apart from sausages.’
‘I’m not bats about them,’ explained Flurry with dignity, folding his arms and looking at me over the top of his spectacles. ‘I just happen to like them rather a lot. I happen also to like engines.’
‘You want to be an engine driver, do you mean?’
‘No.’ Flurry’s tone was contemptuous. ‘Not drive them. Make them. Also I like building bridges and things. Have you ever heard of a man called Isambard Kingdom Brunel?’
‘Yes, of course. Everyone’s heard of him.’
‘I don’t know why you say everyone. Sissy hadn’t.’
‘Oh.’
‘Or Katty. Or Pegeen.’
‘Ah … well,’ I temporized, ‘when I said everyone I really meant men. They’re more interested in engineering.’ I reminded myself of my commitment to feminism. ‘Though women can be excellent engineers, too, you know. There was, um … Caroline Herschel. She was an astronomer who constructed her own telescopes. And, er—’
‘I want to be like Brunel. I’m building a railway in the garden. Timsy’s helping me.’ Flurry made a face. ‘Only he’s always drunk.’ He looked hopeful again. ‘Can you saw wood?’
‘I never have but I don’t see why not. It can’t be difficult.’
‘It’s easy.’ Flurry looked important. ‘I’d do it myself but I haven’t the time. I need a lot of sleepers, you see. You could be my second-in-command.’
I was genuinely flattered. ‘I’d like that. But I’ll have to see to the housekeeping first, you know.’
Flurry looked round the room. ‘I can’t see there’s anything much to do.’
‘Tell me, Flurry. Why did you pour water over me last night? It was you, wasn’t it?’
Flurry looked away from me but a gleam of fun showed briefly on his face. I was reminded immediately of his grandmother. ‘We didn’t mean it for you. We thought you were Father Deglan. It was only a tooth-mugful. When the Jay Hoover Witnesses came we let them have a whole bucket. I’m sorry you caught it. Tell you what.’ He burrowed in his pocket and brought out a handful of fluff-coated treasures. ‘You can borrow my penknife for a day and then we’ll be quits.’
I was tempted to say that I would forgive him without such a sacrifice but I guessed that it was a question of honour. I took the knife. ‘Thank you.’
‘Pax?’
‘Pax.’
‘Here we are.’ Constance came in with a plate of sausages. ‘I let them sizzle over the hottest part of the stove. They’re bound to be cooked through now.’
Flurry looked at the blackened, shrivelled objects and sighed.
‘Hadn’t you better show me the kitchen?’ I said to Constance. �
�I’m beginning to feel I’m here under false pretences.’
The door opened and a man in a purple robe took a step into the room. I had time to register a pale face and brown shoulder-length hair before his eyes met mine with a look of surprise that changed to one of dismay. He turned swiftly round and went out again.
‘That’s Eugene,’ Constance explained. ‘I forgot to warn him you’d arrived. He’ll feel shy about meeting you for the first time in his dressing-gown. He’s so sensitive.’
I was reassured by this explanation. I had been afraid he had recognized me. Constance was clearly unaware of my notoriety but it could only be a matter of time before she came across a newspaper with my photograph in it. From what she had told me about her brother it seemed this was not an orthodox household. But double standards everywhere mean that an adulterous man is seen as a bit of a gay dog while an adulterous woman is a predatory slut. Besides, those monstrous lies had made me out to be a cross between Messalina and an expensive whore. A sound between a cry and a moan interrupted my thoughts.
‘What is it, darling?’ Constance bent to put her arms round Flavia’s shaking shoulders.
‘Otter’s dead!’ wailed Flavia, pressing her face to the pages of her book. ‘They’ve killed him! They’ve nailed his body to the gibbet with all the other poor animals. I loved Otter best of all!’ She broke into racking sobs.
‘It’s only a story, sweetheart.’ Constance stroked and soothed. ‘It isn’t real.’
‘It’s real to me!’ protested Flavia jerkily through bursts of tears. ‘I can see – his head lolling and his eyes – covered with dust and his – beautiful – coat streaked with blood!’
I picked up the book. It was B. B.’s Down the Bright Stream.
‘Never mind, darling,’ Constance continued. ‘I expect the poor little otter went straight to heaven and was much happier there with as many buckets of fish as he could eat and a really lovely warm, dry nest … It’s not a nest, is it? A warm, dry holt—’
Moonshine Page 25
