‘Violet.’ I took her hand in mine. ‘Try to open your eyes so I’ll know you can hear me. A blink’ll do. Please try.’ I stared intently at her face. Her mouth and nose twitched but the movement might have been involuntary. ‘You’re unhappy, aren’t you?’ I continued. ‘I don’t blame you. Anyone’d be depressed living up here in this gloomy room, away from everything and everyone. But the world is still as beautiful as when you last saw it. If only you’d open your eyes, you’d see the light pouring in. Perhaps even a bird flying by.’
No response. Slowly her head rolled away from me. I moved her so she was lying down. Her nightdress was wet over her thighs. Between her legs was a strip of sodden towelling. A smell of urine penetrated the disinfectant. I looked around. There was a washbasin in the corner of the room but no flannel or sponge. I would have to leave that to Pegeen. I relit the fire, putting on plenty of turves in case the open curtains made the room cooler.
‘Goodbye, Violet.’ I paused at the door. ‘I’ll come and see you this evening.’
Her head remained turned away from me.
‘Just look at these!’ I said a few hours later, holding up a carrot. ‘I swear it’s the one I bent in half in the shop. You could tie a knot in it, it’s so old.’
I chucked it on the kitchen table and burrowed deeper into the box the greengrocer had just delivered. When I had complained that it was nearly twenty-four hours late he affected surprise and assured me he had rushed the fruit and vegetables to Curraghcourt the first minute he could, regardless of the inconvenience to other customers who were now rioting in his shop, clamouring for the premium articles he had gathered for my delectation.
‘The whole box contains nothing but carrots!’ I cried. ‘There must be ten pounds of them. Wait a minute, what’s this?’ I extracted a brown paper bag from beneath them. ‘Tomatoes, so squashed they’re oozing seeds. What’s more they smell of nothing except the bag they came in. Imported from Holland, I bet, when home-grown English tomatoes are ten a penny at this time of the year. Irish, I mean: it comes to the same thing.’
‘Bejasus, but it does not!’ flashed Sissy who was sitting at the table, sipping Horlicks. Having discovered the remainder of the Horlicks I had made the night before for Constance, Sissy had conceived a passion for it and was already on her third jugful. Her small face was prettily set off by a shiny yellow sugarloaf hat trimmed with a limp blue feather. ‘An Irish tomato can’t be bettered in all the world! It’s the water that’s black as treacle with the peat which makes them sweet. An English tomato is a poor anaymic little wizeny thing.’
‘All right. If you say so. But how dare Mr McGurn make such extravagant promises and then send these withered objects! And a day late. There’s no sign of the celeriac or the chicory. And where are the courgettes he described as still bathed with the morning dew?’
Constance laughed. ‘I doubt if he even knows what they are! Certainly I’ve never seen such things in Kilmuree.’ Seeing my face, which must have expressed rage and amazement, she looked contrite. ‘I told you. It’s the famous Irish charm. It’s all about making you feel happy then and there and be damned to the consequences! Maddening, I realize.’
‘It is charming, most of the time. Don’t take any notice of my temper. I’m disappointed that I still haven’t got anything decent to cook with. I’ll just have to pick out the best carrots and make soup with the rest. And the meat hasn’t arrived yet. I suppose the butcher’s standing guard over my order of prime cuts from a pedigree prizewinning herd, defending it against all comers,’ I added sarcastically.
‘More likely he’s forgotten,’ suggested Sissy. ‘But speaking for myself I like sardines and you’ve a way with them, there’s no doubt of that.’
She smiled, screwing up her flat little monkey nose, and the bright red and green glass jewels on her bodice trembled in the sunlight falling on us from the high windows. A farthingale skirt of the same yellow as her hat trailed in the crumbs of mud which had fallen from the sack of potatoes that had been sent with the carrots. Though gaudy, the dress suited both her looks and her mercurial temperament. She had been angry a moment before. Now she was cheerful again.
‘Thank you. If I never see another sardine I shall be well pleased.’ I picked up the bill to check that I had not been charged for the missing celeriac, chicory and courgettes. ‘I’d be perfectly happy to make vegetarian food if only we had decent—I don’t believe it! He’s asking more than Harrods Food Halls!’
‘They’re apt to be pricey things, vegetables, in this part of the world,’ Constance explained. ‘They have to come a long way. Most of the land’s too wet and stony for anything but grazing sheep.’
I opened the sack of potatoes. The first one I picked out had been tunnelled by slugs. I threw it down in disgust. ‘What about the walled garden? That must have had fruit and vegetables in it once.’
‘We gave it up years ago. It’s too far from the house. A ten-minute brisk walk. I can remember picking raspberries there as a child when we still had two gardeners. And there were peaches in the greenhouse. But the money Grandpa got for selling off the rest of the estate wasn’t well invested. A speculation in South America that went bust. He had to sell the house in Dublin to pay for Finn to go to school in England. A pity, really, considering how much he hated it.’
‘What a shame – about the estate, I mean. If it’s any consolation my own family seems to be going to the dogs financially too. Neither Oliver nor I could possibly afford to keep up Cutham Hall even if we wanted to. But we’ve only been there four generations: just a hundred years. It’s not at all the same thing.’
‘Well, it is sad but it can’t be helped. So many of the Big Houses have fallen on hard times. We’re lucky not to have been burned down. The IRA tried to torch Curraghcourt during the Civil War. They gave Granny and Grandpa an hour to get all their things out and even helped them to do it. Some of them were local boys so they were quite respectful. Then they threw petrol everywhere but fortunately they’d forgotten to bring any matches. Apparently Grandpa seized the moment to give them a wigging about how he was as good a Republican as they only he knew better than to resort to violence which would simply alienate other people from their cause. While they stood politely and listened Granny and my father, who was just a little boy then, rang Scornach Mór. The soldiers came but not before the IRA boys had run away. Granny said it took a year to get the smell of petrol out of the rooms.’ Constance sighed. ‘Poor house. It’s sheltered so many of us and withstood so much … but it does no good repining. I’d better get on with the ironing. There’s a pile like one of the Twelve Bens.’
‘I’ll start lunch,’ I said. ‘But first I’ll see how Katty and Pegeen are getting on with the hall.’
They were squatting inside the great fireplace playing noughts and crosses in the ashes. I promised them the black bottle half an hour earlier if they would only scrub the floorboards until they shone. They set to, fairly willingly. I was learning the art of compromise.
Lunch was a version of pipérade, with carrots substituted for peppers. Actually it was surprisingly edible. The freshness of the eggs helped, though their yolks were as pale as primroses. Everyone had second helpings except for Flurry who managed a spoonful with chattering teeth like a chimpanzee. Even while we ate the pudding – tinned mandarin segments and condensed milk; not a good combination – I was racking my brains for something to cook for dinner. It must have carrots in it but not sardines.
Here Fate was kind. After lunch I went into the library. I had decided that no fear of reprisals should prevent me from tackling a shelf a day in my war on dust and damp. I noticed that a cracked window pane was funnelling rain directly on to the spines of a set of Thackeray bound in crimson morocco. I already had a list of fifteen broken panes elsewhere that let in water and needed to be replaced. Running my hand downwards to detect the extent of the damage I came to a fat, flamboyantly pink book on the lowest shelf. I stopped to read the gold letters on the spine. The Constance Spry Cooker
y Book. Eagerly I took it out. Here was inspiration! One thousand two hundred pages of it. I looked up carrots. Carottes Vichy, carottes à la poulette, carottes glacées, carrots with a piquant sauce, braised, veloutées, hongroises, galette. I took Constance Spry back to the kitchen, feeling only a little guilty, and started to weigh out the flour for a carrot cake for the children’s tea. I listened to Pegeen and Katty, who had made a good job of the hall floor, groaning out sentimental songs as they sipped, until they were nodding and snuffling with sleepiness.
‘By the way,’ I said, ‘has anyone seen my new padlock?’
They had not.
I went up to Violet’s room. It was again in darkness. New candles burned at the shrine and the atmosphere was thick with invalid smells. Impatiently I drew back the curtains and undid the window latch. ‘Listen, Violet.’ I leaned over the inert body. ‘Listen to the wind and the birds.’
I had brought with me a cup of Horlicks made with creamy milk. I put a spoonful between Violet’s lips. The tip of her tongue came out immediately and I gave her a second spoonful. Quickly she drank what was left, making little grunts between sips. ‘Did you enjoy that? Shall I bring you some more tomorrow?’ The smooth face was disappointingly unresponsive. Her chest rose and fell but there was no other sign of life. ‘I’ll go now. I’m going to make a telephone call and then help Constance clean out the hens. Goodbye.’
I had my hand on the doorknob when I heard a faint groan. Her head, eyes shut, had rolled towards me. It was not much, but it was something.
‘Fleur? It’s Bobbie.’
‘Bobbie! Where are you? We’ve all been going out of our minds not knowing what had happened to you.’ Fleur sounded half pleased, half angry to hear my voice. ‘What an idiotic thing to do. When are you coming back?’
‘Not for a while. I’m so sorry to have worried you. You can understand it’s been difficult.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I can, but you shouldn’t have gone away! Why did you? Burgo’s been so furious. I’ve never seen him in such a temper.’
It was bliss to be able to talk about Burgo with someone who had seen him recently. ‘Has he been down to Ladyfield?’
‘He was here on Wednesday. He wanted to make sure Dickie and I weren’t hiding you from him. As if I would!’
I knew perfectly well that though Fleur seemed to be fond of me there was only one person whose wishes, feelings and opinions mattered to her.
‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
‘He’s gone back to London. And that stupid Anna’s there, too. Nasty superior thing! So stuck up. But she’s terrified of horses. Refuses to go near them. And the last time she came to Ladyfield, when King Henry ran up to say hello she yelled to Burgo to take him away. She actually called him a brute.’
‘Burgo?’
‘No, you clot, King Henry. And I saw her lift her foot to kick him.’
I knew that Fleur was as impulsive and generous with her hates as with her loves so I could not assume from this dispraise that Anna was either arrogant or vicious, though I badly wanted to. ‘I suppose not everyone likes dogs.’
‘Only really awful people don’t. Anyway, Burgo went to meet Anna at the airport on Thursday. Bobbie, what are you playing at, throwing him into the arms of that beastly woman!’
‘Hardly that.’ I felt sick, imagining them together, though the meeting could not have been pleasant for either of them. ‘As a married couple aren’t they already in each other’s—?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘She hasn’t actually done anything wrong, has she?’ I pretended to be reasonable, false, jealous creature that I was. ‘I’m afraid Burgo and I have hurt her—’
‘Oh, you needn’t bother about her! She’s incapable of suffering – hard and selfish – you’re the one he really loves. And now you’ve left him! Why’ve you been so stupid, Bobbie! You’ve made him so unhappy!’ I could hear she was getting angrier. We had rarely discussed her brother. Of course she knew that we were lovers and because she saw that Burgo was happy she approved of it. Dickie pretended ignorance of our relationship because he was a man and it was easier. When Burgo and I were with them we were discreet. We did not kiss or hold hands but then we didn’t need to. Just being in the same room had been enough. ‘It was stupid to run away!’ Fleur continued to scold me. ‘But it’s not too late. Come back, Bobbie. Just say you will and I’ll ring him straight away to say you’re coming. Please, please, let me make him happy!’
‘I can’t do it, Fleur. This isn’t a tussle between Anna and me for Burgo’s affections. It’s much more important than that. It’s about what he wants to do with his life. We all need time to think, to make up our minds calmly and rationally. It would be a great mistake to rush into any kind of decision.’ I heard Fleur groan with impatience. ‘When did you last speak to him?’ I asked.
‘He rang last night. He sounded so depressed.’ Fleur’s voice changed. She was crying. ‘Oh, Bobbie,’ she sobbed, ‘I can’t believe you really love him – you couldn’t hurt him like this if you did – wicked and cruel – I hope you’re satisfied – thrown away all his love – and mine as well – forgive you for making him so unhappy – ever…’
‘Fleur! Don’t let’s quarrel. Try to understand—’
But she had slammed down the receiver.
I grieved to have made Fleur miserable, to have made Burgo miserable, Anna miserable. I felt myself to be everything Fleur had accused me of and worse. I considered ringing her back, rushing upstairs to pack, returning at once to London. Part of me longed to do that. But Burgo was with Anna now. Ten years of marriage had to be examined, explained, repaired or … ended. If I ever wanted to like myself again I must not interfere with that.
‘Where’s Timsy?’ I asked as Constance and I stood in the hen-run.
This was in the stable courtyard. One wall was the east front of the castle. Opposite and parallel was the coach house, a handsome two-storey building with a clock tower where Timsy and the girls slept. At right angles to that were twenty looseboxes, all empty at the moment as the Cockatoo and the two donkeys that these days comprised the stable at Curraghcourt were out in the paddock. The barn, the granary and the cow-shed made the fourth wall of the courtyard. The apple store, a small, free-standing structure with a gabled roof, was close to the door that led to the kitchen quarters. It was raised on stone pillars to discourage rats but these days instead of apples it housed the generator. In the centre of the courtyard was a strange construction consisting of two sections of wall perhaps four feet tall and twelve feet apart with a drain running between them. Constance explained that this was a carriage wash. The wide walls had been for the grooms to stand on so they could clean every part of the vehicle including the roof, important because it was the first thing to be seen by expectant hosts standing at the head of flights of steps as the visitors drew up.
The floor of the hen-run was cobbled like the rest of the yard but years of throwing down cabbage leaves and potato peelings combined with droppings had created several inches of noisome slurry. This was patterned with arrows from the feet of the chickens that were now clustering together as far away as possible from Maria who was prowling up and down outside the wire, licking her chops. They seemed to be in moult. I knew something about chickens as at one point in my childhood we had kept them at Cutham Hall. I had liked training them to eat corn from my hand and watching them establish a pecking order. It had been a great sorrow when one night a fox had squeezed beneath the hen-house door and dispatched every one of them to that bourn where all hens are equal.
‘I last saw him coming out of the apple store,’ said Constance.
‘What’s the big attraction in there? Every time I see him, he’s going in or out of it. And he hasn’t swept the front courtyard though I’ve asked him three times to do it.’
‘He’s hopeless, I know.’ ‘Hopeless’ was the adjective most frequently on Constance’s lips. ‘The only thing is, he’s absolutely loyal and that’s worth
a lot, isn’t it?’
Though in general I heartily approved the easy, familiar relationship between employer and employee enjoyed by the Irish – particularly when contrasted with the chilly English equivalent – I was not convinced that in Timsy’s case his loyalty absolutely compensated for his shortcomings.
‘He needs taking in hand,’ I said. ‘Does he do what Mr Macchuin tells him?’
‘I wish you’d call him Finn. It sounds so unfriendly and disapproving, calling him Mister.’
Actually I did disapprove of Mr Finn Macchuin, almost more than anyone I had ever met. Or, in this case, not met. How could he reconcile it with his conscience to enjoy himself in Dublin while his wife, mistress, sister and three children were struggling in poverty and discomfort at home? I forgave him his neglect of his mother-in-law. Though I enjoyed Maud’s acerbic shots, I could see that as mothers-in-law went, she was not ideal.
‘Only one egg again.’ Constance had been searching the nesting boxes. ‘These birds aren’t worth their keep.’
‘They don’t look exactly in peak condition.’
‘They’re in their dotage, that’s the trouble. Too old to lay and too stringy to eat. Perhaps I’d better ask Timsy to wring—’
‘No!’ Flavia burst from the hen-house. ‘You can’t! They’re my friends! You can’t wring their necks! I’ll run away and I’ll take them … all … with me …’ She became inarticulate with grief.
‘Darling!’ Constance tried to put her arms round Flavia but she tore herself away.
‘I won’t let you kill them.’ Flavia was standing in front of the hens, her arms outstretched, screaming, while Maria barked herself almost insensible. ‘I’ve known them practically all my life. It would be murder!’
‘Darling, be reasonable,’ pleaded Constance. ‘Hens aren’t pets.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything? Think what it would be like to have your neck wrung … twisted round so you … can’t breathe …’ Her sobbing drowned the rest of the sentence except for the words ‘horrible’, ‘mean’ and ‘hate’.
Moonshine Page 36
