‘The electric makes a reeling in my head like a fodheen mara. ’Tis brushes we use,’ Pegeen said sibilantly. She held up a broom head with a handful of broken bristles like the stubble on an old man’s chin.
‘Nonsense!’ I said. ‘If the electricity was travelling up to your heads you’d be dead.’
‘We buried Mary O’Donovan two weeks ago,’ Pegeen said with the triumph of one clinching an argument. ‘’Twas one of them vacuum cleaners she was using when she fell to the floor, white as a mushroom, and spoke not another word.’
Katty’s face darkened. ‘Mary O’Donovan promised me her best dress years gone by and didn’t her sister wear it on Sunday, bold as a paycock drawing the eyes of all with its tail? ’Tis a tail all the men in Kilmuree are very familiar with, that’s certain.’ She and Pegeen held their sides and cackled at the wittiness of this slur on Mary O’Donovan’s sister’s reputation.
‘What’s funny?’ Constance appeared with two trays stacked precariously. ‘I should enjoy a joke. Maud’s not in the best of humours. As for Violet …’ She sighed and left the sentence unfinished.
‘I hope we aren’t disturbing them?’ I raised my voice above the din while Katty and Pegeen made a pantomime of gasping for breath between fresh peals of laughter.
‘Maud’s in the bath and Violet, poor darling, nothing disturbs.’
I made a few passes with the machine up and down the landing. The runner rose in response to the terrific suction and fell away behind, miraculously clean.
I felt I had given an adequate demonstration of its innocuous nature. ‘Come along, Pegeen.’
Pegeen approached it with a sidling motion. ‘God save us, the perspiration is on me like the dew.’
I took a tray from Constance. ‘We’ll go down and start lunch. I think they’ll get on better without an audience,’ I said as soon as we were out of earshot. ‘It’s like a play by Beckett. That feeling of wild inconsequence. It’s a sort of game, isn’t it? I must say I enjoy it.’
‘You do?’ Constance paused at the bend in the stairs and looked at me, amazed.
‘Honestly. It’s so different from what I’ve been used to. I’ve been looking after my mother at home. There isn’t a great deal of laughter. And there’s a lot of tiresome respectability: the keeping up of appearances.’
‘That would most assuredly be beyond us. Who’s looking after your mother now?’
‘I don’t actually know. That reminds me, if you don’t mind I’d like to ring home. I left rather suddenly.’
‘Go ahead.’ We had reached the hall by this time. ‘The telephone’s in here.’ Constance opened the door of the sedan chair. ‘This was Maud’s idea and I must say it was one of her better ones. It means you’re relatively private. I’ll be in the kitchen. Take your time.’
I stepped into the chair and closed the door. There was a surprising amount of room, presumably to accommodate hooped skirts. The inside was quilted in yellow silk, sadly rotting. It smelt strongly of cigarettes and … I sniffed … Ô de Lancôme. I recognized the scent because I sometimes used it myself. I wondered who sat in this original call-box heavily perfumed and – I counted eleven cigarette ends in the ashtray – chain-smoking? Not Constance, surely. With her un-made-up gleaming skin and shining hair she was an advertisement for the benefits of fresh air and pink lungs. Nor, I thought, Sissy, who might smoke but was more likely to use something like patchouli. It seemed too young a scent for Maud. Perhaps the mysterious, reclusive Violet, whom nothing could disturb?
I rang the operator and asked for a person-to-person call to Cutham Hall. I had instructed Oliver to plug the telephone back in an hour or so after my departure for Ireland, in case I needed to ring home urgently.
‘Oliver? It’s me.’
‘Oh, hello, Bobs. Where are you?’
‘Discretion, remember? I told you where I was going and I’m there now.’
‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. Somewhere in Ire—’
‘Shush, you clot! I explained to you about phone-tapping.’
‘Yes. Sorry.’ Oliver dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve only just got up.’
‘Whispering won’t make any difference to anyone listening in. It just means I can’t hear you.’
‘You needn’t get waxy.’
‘I’m perfectly calm. How is everything? Are the reporters still there?’
‘They left the same day you did. Everyone knows you’ve gone away, I don’t know how.’
‘I may have been spotted at the railway station. It doesn’t matter. No one knows I’m here.’
‘There wasn’t anything about you in today’s paper. I think you’ve gone the way of the dodo.’ He laughed. ‘A quaint old bird of distant memory.’
Aware that my sense of humour had not been exercised much recently, I forced myself to laugh too. ‘I’m glad you’re no longer being hounded because of me. I hope you’re not too depressed.’
‘Not a bit!’
‘Oh! Good. How’s Mother? Has Father found a nurse?’
‘Yes. Her name’s Ruby and she’s a terrific cook. Last night for supper we had a chocolate meringue thing with marshmallows and jam.’
‘Just a minute. Did you say Ruby?’
‘Yes. Nothing to look at, but a nice motherly creature. Father seems to have taken to her amazingly. I actually heard him call her “dear” and, as I say, she cooks a treat. For lunch we had gammon and pineapple followed by chocolate chip ice cream with toffee sauce—’
‘Oliver! Do you realize Father’s brought in his’ – I dropped my voice automatically – ‘mistress to look after Mother!’
‘Now who’s whispering? What did you say? You needn’t worry about Mother. She and Ruby like just the same kind of books and they’re getting through sacks of sweets together.’
‘What’s Father doing?’
‘He’s in the library as usual. But you wouldn’t believe what a good mood he’s in. Yesterday he gave me a fiver to go down to the pub after dinner. He said not to hurry back.’
‘So you aren’t lonely?’
‘Well, no. Ruby’s got this niece. She’s already popped in twice to see her aunt. Her name’s Sherilee. She’s the spit of Marilyn Monroe only with smaller tits and a tighter arse.’
‘Oliver! For God’s sake.’
‘What? What’s the matter?’
‘Don’t talk about women like that. It makes you sound inadequate.’
‘I’m only repeating Sherilee’s description of herself.’
‘I see. Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.’
‘Oh yes. You needn’t worry about me.’
‘Anybody ring for me?’
I heard a rustle of paper. ‘Yes. Jasmine. And Sarah. She says to ring her urgently. And someone called Fleur. She sounded rather sexy.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No, hang on.’ More rustling. ‘A bloke called David. Isn’t he the chap with the flat in Pimlico?’
‘Yes. No one else?’
‘Not that I know of.’
My heart gave a lurch of disappointment, which was ridiculous. Had I not expressly forbidden Burgo to try to find me?
‘Fine. Are you keeping up with the writing regime?’ Before I left Oliver and I had worked out a timetable which meant he could fit in at least four hours a day of concentrated work. ‘I’ve had an extraordinary piece of luck. I’ve met a literary agent who’s prepared to look at your novel and give you an in-depth critique.’
‘Oh, terrific. Look, I’d better go and get dressed. Sherilee’s popping in for lunch and Ruby’s making honey-roasted pork chops, followed by banana splits.’
‘I hope you’re remembering to clean your teeth. Has Ruby got shares in Tate and Lyle?’
‘I haven’t any idea.’ Oliver sounded puzzled. ‘I only met her the day before yesterday.’
‘Never mind. It was just a feeble joke.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘I’ll ring again soon.
Don’t neglect the novel. Give Mother my love and look after her and be nice to Mrs Treadgold. And if anyone asks about me—’
‘What? There’s the doorbell. It’ll be Sherilee. Grrrr! Bye.’
I sat in the sedan chair, waiting for the operator to ring back with the cost of the call, more out of charity with my brother than I would have believed possible ten minutes before. But much more disturbing than any dissatisfaction I might feel with Oliver was the news that my father had imported his paramour to look after my mother. I checked this thought immediately. Considering my own behaviour with Burgo it was hypocritical to call Ruby names. But I was surprisingly upset by the discovery. It seemed to discount my mother so thoroughly and so callously. Apparently ménages à trois were all the rage.
‘Oh, damn!’ I said aloud. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’
A face half hidden by enormous sunglasses peered in at the side window, giving me a fright. I opened the door and was overwhelmed by fresh waves of Ô. The face was surrounded by brown curly hair, inexpertly streaked with blonde. The mouth, painted crimson, was sulky.
‘If you’re going to hog the phone all the time we’ll have to come to an arrangement.’
She was unnaturally thin. Her limbs, visible beyond a tiny orange dress of some shiny synthetic stuff, were little more than skin and bones. Her teeth seemed too large for her face and her chin, beneath a layer of white pancake make-up, was spotty.
I stepped out of the chair. ‘Hello. I’m Bobbie.’
The blank stare of the spectacles was trained on my face then lowered to my jersey. ‘Is that from Next?’
‘No. Actually it’s Peruvian, from a shop called Inca.’
‘In London?’
‘Yes. The bottom end of Sloane Street.’
‘It’s fabulous.’ Her lenses moved to my earrings. ‘Those are amazing! Where did you get them?’
‘A little shop in Beauchamp Place. I can’t remember the name. They aren’t real …’
‘Where’s Beauchamp Place?’
‘Just down the road from Harrods …’
‘Harrods! I’ve never ever been to London!’ It was a cry of anguish. ‘I’ve only been to Dublin twice!’
‘Ah, well. London’s a wonderful place but like any big city it only glitters at the centre. There are some extremely scruffy parts.’
‘I wouldn’t care about that. Anything would be better than living in this place where everyone looks like refugees and the most interesting conversations happen between sheep.’
‘But it’s so beautiful! Mountains and trees and lakes. And this marvellous house!’
‘We’re so poor!’ The girl sighed and fiddled with a plastic bracelet on her wrist, which was hardly thicker than a stick of rhubarb. ‘It’s so dull! I’m so bored!’
My pity was stirred. The mask of white, the dark spectacles and lipstick concealed the face of a child.
‘I think I know how you feel.’
She removed the sunglasses and fastened extraordinary eyes, inherited from Maud, on mine. ‘How could you? You’ve never had to live in a peat bog.’
‘Before I went to live in London—’
‘You actually lived there? How old were you?’
‘Eighteen. I went to university in London. But before then I was either at home in the most unimaginably gloomy place or I was stuck at boarding school in a forest of purple rhododendrons, which was even worse. Our uniform was purple and grey and so were our hands and faces and knees because it was always so cold.’
‘Life’s so foul when you’re a kid. Not that I am any more, of course,’ she added.
‘You look very grown up to me.’ I was becoming adept at the fib juste.
‘I’m eighteen.’
I did not believe her. ‘I suppose you’re Flurry and Flavia’s big sister.’
‘Yes. I’m Liddy.’ She shivered and fidgeted again with the bracelet, then twirled a lock of hair. Her elbow was a sharp point of bone.
‘I’m the new housekeeper.’
‘I thought you must be. But you don’t look like one.’
‘What do housekeepers look like?’
‘Mrs Heaney had a beard. Long enough to curl. And there were often hairs in the food. It was very off-putting.’ She shivered again.
‘It’s cold here, isn’t it? The damp I expect. Have you had any breakfast?’
‘I never eat breakfast. I’m planning to become a model.’
‘Really? I think you’ll find the interesting conversations remain with the sheep.’
Liddy smiled again. ‘Yes, but it’s the only thing I can think of doing to get away from here.’
‘I can think of plenty of other things.’
‘What?’ She looked at me eagerly, her smudged lips parted.
‘Let’s talk about it later. I must go and help Constance with lunch.’
Liddy followed me to the kitchen. ‘It’ll be stew again. I hate stew! Aunt Connie’s the most terrible cook. But that’s good because I’m not tempted to eat much.’
‘Morning, Liddy.’ Constance was struggling to undo the string of a large newspaper parcel. ‘I think the butcher’s boy is a frustrated boy scout. He must be the knot champion of Ireland.’ Liddy picked up a knife from the floor and silently handed it to her. ‘Oh, thanks, sweetheart. That’s better.’ She unwrapped the meat. ‘Blast the man! Why does he always send me so much fat and sinew?’
‘Because he knows you won’t complain, I suppose.’ Liddy hurled herself into Timsy’s chair and stretched out her hands and feet to warm them. ‘Where’s everybody gone? I don’t usually get a sight of the fire.’
Constance smiled at me. ‘Bobbie electrified them into activity.’
‘Not literally, I hope.’ I looked at the contents of the newspaper. ‘Do you think that meat’s quite fresh?’
Constance bent to sniff it. ‘It has got a bit of a kick to it. But that’ll go when it’s been cooked. I could put in some curry powder.’
Liddy groaned.
I prodded the meat with the point of the knife. ‘By the time you’ve trimmed the gristle there won’t be much left.’
‘Ought I to cut those tubey bits out? I usually just put the whole lot straight in with the potatoes. Luckily there are plenty of cabbages to make up for the shortfall.’
I decided to risk being considered intolerably interfering. ‘Why don’t you let me make lunch?’
Constance clutched my arm. ‘Would you? I’d be so grateful!’
‘It’s what I’m here for, after all.’
‘Yippee!’ said Liddy. ‘I mean,’ she drawled, ‘thank God!’
Lunch was, surprisingly, a success. But cooking it had been a baptism of fire. In the fridge I found a packet of sausages, a pound of butter, five eggs, a plastic lemon, a box of processed cheese triangles, a bag of oranges going soft and half a bottle of Liebfraumilch. The larder was stacked with tins. I gathered together tinned tomatoes, tinned spinach, a tin of consommé and a bottle of mushroom ketchup with which to make soup.
The stove was a cast-iron, soot-caked range with two large circular plates on top. To get food hotter than a slow simmer you had to lift off one of the plates with a hook. Fire leaped through the hole and brought the contents of the pan to a violent boil in seconds. A glass of wine which I threw into the soup to cheer up the tinned taste set the whole thing alight with flames that rolled across the surface of the liquid like Milton’s description of hell and which nearly took off my eyebrows. There seemed no way of cooking between these two extremes.
‘You must teach me how to make this marvellous soup,’ Constance had said, looking down the dining table to where I sat at the foot. ‘Isn’t it absolutely delicious, Maud?’
Maud had come downstairs in response to the gong. She looked haggard as though she had not slept well. I noticed that her hands were misshapen and she held her spoon with difficulty. The moment she had finished her soup she lit a cigarette.
‘It hardly merits such enthusiasm.’ She turned her great amethyst-colou
red eyes to me. ‘But I have eaten much worse in this house.’
‘I think it’s lovely.’ Flavia, who was sitting next to me, looked up from the book, now spotted with soup, that was hidden on her knee. ‘I was dreading the stew.’
Maud looked across the table at Flavia. ‘I hope the subject matter is something improving. That will go a little way to make up for the extreme discourtesy of reading at the table. Also the deceit. It is good manners to make intelligent and amusing conversation.’
A silence fell immediately. I searched about for a topic. I was about to volunteer a remark about the glorious plasterwork but remembered in time that Maud’s generation regarded comments on one’s house and possessions as an impertinence. Perhaps I might say something about the current situation in Iran? But I really knew nothing about Ayatollah Khomeini except that he seemed to be thoroughly unpleasant. This view, though probably shared by everyone in the world who did not happen to be Muslim, hardly amounted to intelligent conversation. Then I wondered if it became me to speak before I had been spoken to. I felt, not for the first time, the awkwardness of my situation. The constraints of being a stranger were compounded by being also a paid servant while Constance treated me as a welcome guest. I felt like one of those tropical fish that swim on the surface and have half an eye adapted for seeing in air and half for seeing under water.
‘I. wonder how the preparations for the Pope’s visit—’ began Constance, but she was interrupted by the entrance of the pale longhaired man I had seen briefly at breakfast.
This time he advanced into the room, inclined his head gracefully in the direction of Maud and Constance and came round the table to where I was sitting. I was aware at once of a smell of mustiness with overtones of stale sweat.
‘How do you do? I am Eugene Devlin.’
‘I’m Bobbie Norton.’
Mr Devlin touched the back of my hand with his small red mouth. ‘Enchanté.’
He was a tall man, beginning to run to fat. He wore a green frock-coat and an embroidered waistcoat, which were much too tight. His legs, by contrast, encased in stockings and satin breeches, were slender to the point of skinniness. His face was large and pale and his eyes bulged, creating dark shadows beneath them. His hair was fastened back with a black bow. I was reminded of Prince Florizel, a little further into the fairy story when the romance was beginning to wear off.
Moonshine Page 28
