Constance raised her eyebrows at me and lifted her shoulders and hands in despair.
‘Listen, Flavia.’ She tried to pull away from me but I held her firmly. ‘Listen! Nobody’s going to do anything unkind to the hens. Aunt Constance and I solemnly give you our word on that. Don’t we?’ I looked at Constance.
‘All right. Certainly,’ she said.
Flavia continued to cry but more quietly.
‘The ground in this run is sour,’ I said. ‘We’ll get Timsy to build a new run and then we’ll get some new, young hens to come and live with these and they’ll all lay better eggs because they’ll be on fresh ground. If you want deep yellow yolks the hens have to be able to eat grass.’
‘Really?’ said Constance. ‘I never knew that.’
‘You promise?’ Flavia looked up at me with pink-rimmed eyes.
‘I promise.’
‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’
I made the appropriate gesture.
‘Stick your finger in your eye?’
‘My finger’s rather muddy. Let’s go and find Timsy now and ask him to do it.’
We discovered Timsy coming out of the apple store. When he saw us he hastily turned the key of a shining new padlock that fastened the door. My padlock.
‘There aren’t any posts,’ he said when I told him the plan.
‘You can use the old ones.’
‘The fox’ll be after them if the run’s outside the yard.’
‘We’ll put wire over the top so he can’t.’
‘Then we’ll be short of wire.’
‘I’ll buy some on Monday. I’m going to Kilmuree first thing in the morning to speak to the butcher. And the greengrocer.’
Timsy had run out of arguments. We went to mark out the new site in the field. I left Flavia and Timsy putting in canes and string and returned to help Constance.
The barrow was filled with ordure, apple cores and orange peel. The hen-house was evidently one of Flavia’s regular reading haunts. ‘What do you do with this?’ I asked.
‘Usually I dump it in the moat. That’s where we chuck everything. One day I suppose it’ll be filled to the brim with rubbish but not before I’m dead.’
‘Why don’t we make a proper compost heap? I saw just the place a minute ago near where the new hen-run’s going to be. We can put all the kitchen and garden waste there too.’
‘What garden? There isn’t one, I’m afraid.’
‘Well … never mind. We’ll have two heaps and Timsy can turn them and water them regularly.’
Constance laughed. ‘When you’re planning things you get a particular look in your eyes. Such as I imagine Napoleon had as he disposed his troops about the battlefield. Sort of reflective but intensely focused at the same time.’
‘It’ll be well for me to remember that he overreached himself and came to a bad end.’
‘Perhaps you’re more like Constance Markievicz.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘A famous Sinn Feinian, who was sentenced to death for her part in the Easter Rising. They let her off, I’m glad to say. I was named after her but I’m afraid I haven’t the courage to be a revolutionary. There are several beautiful verses written about her. “Wild child of Lissadell, Not for thee the cool nights of virgin dreams, but contumely and fire, nights of hell …”’
I shifted from one leg to the other, sinking a little in the fetid mud while Constance recited what seemed a long poem. Little puffs of cloud raced across the heavens and cawing rooks came spiralling down and flopped on to the battlements. Sissy, still dressed as an Elizabethan courtesan, wandered through the archway of the coach house, her arms full of vegetation, and disappeared through the back door. Flavia and Timsy appeared next, arguing passionately. I began to worry about the carrot cake I had put in the oven for the children’s tea.
‘Miss Bobbie!’ Pegeen’s voice issuing from the larder window interrupted Constance’s ballad. ‘The meat’s just here. Will I be putting it on to boil?’
Later, when all the meat – or one might more truthfully say all the fat and gristle – had been unpacked and examined and exclaimed at, in a rage, by me, and I had begun the task of scrubbing the sprouting roots from the potatoes, there was a tremendous row at the front door. Osgar, who had benefited from the butcher’s inadequacies in the form of a dish mounted high with off-cuts, was baying hideously. Katty went to find out the cause of the disturbance and returned a moment later with a large bouquet of red roses, intertwined with honeysuckle and wrapped in newspaper.
‘’Twas left on the doorstep,’ said Katty, a smirk wrinkling her hooked nose and grimy cheeks. ‘’Tis for Miss Bobbie.’
‘What a lovely surprise!’ I said, thinking at once of Kit. I took the note she held out to me.
‘Who’s it from?’ asked Constance, Flavia and Liddy in unison. The last two had gathered in the kitchen in response to the smell of the cake that was cooling on a rack before it was iced.
Dear Miss Norton [said the letter],
Hoping this finds you as it leaves me, in good health. I trust some flowers from the garden will be acceptable. I am not much of a hand at letters but I would like to put it in writing that I consider you a handsome woman.
Yours sincerely, M. McOstrich
P.S. The ass has come home of her own free will.
‘Silly ass,’ I said aloud.
‘Who?’ asked the others.
‘The flowers are from Michael McOstrich.’
‘No!’ said Constance. ‘Why, he’s never so much as smiled at a woman before though there are plenty of girls round here who’d like to get his attention. And a letter! That’s tantamount to a proposal of marriage!’
‘You won’t marry him?’ Flavia put her hand on my sleeve, looking worried.
‘Of course she won’t, you little idiot,’ said Liddy, who was looking charming in the Peruvian jersey I had lent her. ‘Why would Bobbie want to marry a clod-hopping farmer who goes to Mass every Sunday in a suit his mother made him twenty years ago? And often his clothes are splashed with blood because he does his own slaughtering. In the kitchen. So beastly! His sister Máire has to hold the pigs and chickens while he cuts their throats. She hates it but Michael’s got such a temper she has to do whatever he says.’
‘Oh, promise!’ urged Flavia, holding my arm tight. ‘You wouldn’t like it, really! It would be better to be a nun.’
‘I certainly wouldn’t like it. I’ll promise not to marry him even if I never have another proposal. But we’re forgetting he hasn’t actually asked me.’
‘Who is it you aren’t going to marry?’ Sissy had come in. She sprang up on to the table and perched on its top, sticking her legs out straight in front of her and, seizing a knife, cut a large slice from the cake, cramming it whole into her mouth like a child.
‘Michael McOstrich,’ said Flavia. ‘That cake isn’t finished yet.’
‘Michael?’ Sissy spoke with her mouth full. ‘He asked you? I don’t believe it!’ She looked thunderous.
‘No.’ I removed the cake. ‘He wanted to tell me the donkey’s come home, that’s all. And he sent me some flowers.’
‘Michael gave you those?’ Sissy stared at the pretty nosegay of crumpled rose petals and trembling heads of honeysuckle as I unwrapped them. Before I had any idea of her intention she had jumped from the table, snatched them from my hands and thrown them into the fire.
‘Oh, Sissy! That’s too bad of you!’ I seized the poker and rescued the flowers but most of them were spoiled. ‘What a mean thing to do! Why did you?’
She was grinning fiendishly now and rolling her black eyes. Both hands were on the farthingale of her skirt so that her elbows stuck out defiantly. ‘So what’ll you say now when your boyfriend comes a’courting? Will you tell him Sissy McGinty sent them to perdition, you bold Sasanach?’
‘That was a mean thing to do, Sissy,’ said Constance. ‘I think you should apologize to Bobbie.’
‘I’d sooner the devil tore
out me tongue!’ shrieked Sissy, running out of the kitchen.
‘Take no notice of her,’ said Constance. ‘She has a jealous nature and any attention paid to anyone else upsets her. She’ll be over it in a flash.’
‘I don’t mind her being angry,’ I said, ‘but the flowers were so beautiful. It’s a shame.’
‘Are you going to ice the cake?’ asked Liddy.
‘In a minute,’ I said absently. My attention had been caught by the newspaper the flowers had been wrapped in. Near the bottom of the front page was the headline: Disgraced Tory Politician Pleads for Privacy. Underneath was a photograph of Burgo and Lady Anna Latimer, arm in arm, smiling at each another. I looked at the date. It was this morning’s edition of the Daily Recorder. I smoothed out the paper and carried it to where a shaft of light came down from one of the windows. ‘My wife has forgiven me,’ said the article in quotes, ‘and I consider myself a lucky man. My lapse of judgement has hurt her very much and it has also damaged the party to which I owe my loyalty. To them I apologize. I am enormously grateful to my wife for retaining her faith in me despite the recent episode of which I am now deeply ashamed. We would appreciate being left alone by the media during this difficult time.’
When I went to bed that night after an evening that seemed interminable and during which the effort made to appear carefree had nearly broken down a hundred times, I was a little comforted to find in a tooth-mug beside my bed a bunch of wild flowers and a note which read: From Flavia. To make up for the ones that were burned.
TWENTY-SIX
‘What are you doing?’
Sissy’s voice behind me made me jump. I had been exercising great caution, stretching out my hand towards the ring to which Osgar’s chain was fastened while keeping my eyes on his jaws that were beginning to slaver as he looked fixedly at my ankles.
‘You startled me! I was trying to undo the chain to take him for a walk.’
‘Were you now! And whatever for?’
‘It’s cruel to keep an animal chained up all the time.’
‘It is?’ Sissy gave me an oblique measuring look as though she suspected me of derangement. Certainly one of us was more than a little strange. But I was glad she seemed to have recovered her temper after her outburst over Michael McOstrich’s flowers.
‘I think so,’ I said trenchantly, ready to argue my case.
‘Likely you’re right.’ Sissy’s concurrence was unexpected. ‘I shouldn’t like it meself. And he’s a fine animal.’
We looked at Osgar, who sat up blinking, as though disconcerted to find himself suddenly an object of interest after years of being stepped over and ignored.
‘I’m pretty sure Timsy hasn’t taken him for a walk since I’ve been here.’
Sissy laughed, a shrill sound that made Osgar shrink back. ‘He hasn’t since I’ve been here and that’s a year come Lughnasa. He’s terrified of the poor beast.’
‘That accounts for the state of the doorstep,’ I said in disgust. ‘Well, something must be done about it.’ I reached across to the ring once more. ‘Since I’ve been here I’ve been feeding him up to get him to trust me and I think it’s working—’ I snatched back my hand as Osgar growled. ‘Damn! The trouble is I’m terrified of him myself. He’s such a big dog.’
As if in agreement Osgar showed us two rows of perfectly enormous teeth that were shining with saliva as though anticipating a good meal from my arm.
’Tish!’ said Sissy. ‘Sure he’ll bite you if you’re timid with him. He thinks you’re going to hurt him.’
‘How am I to pretend I’m not frightened of him?’
‘A diabhal! Stand away, woman. I’ll show you.’
Sissy began to make a peculiar noise, half-whistle, half-purr. It ran up and down between three notes and was, I must say, quite disturbing. It was an uncanny sound and made one think of remote forests, under-sea caverns, anywhere miles from the haunts of man. Her black monkey eyes took on an unearthly brilliance. Osgar’s ears, usually flat to his head, pricked up and he stopped growling. Slowly he bowed his head and sank on to his forequarters. Calmly Sissy put her little hand to his collar and undid the clasp. Osgar continued to crouch, mesmerized, unaware that he was free.
‘Come, boy.’ Sissy backed away, patting her knee.
Osgar tottered to what would have been the length of his chain and stood there, his eyes fixed on Sissy. He refused to go a step further.
‘Oh, come, you great óinseach!’ Sissy walked up to him and took hold of his collar. She pulled the reluctant Osgar away from the porch towards the middle of the courtyard. Now I could see that his hindquarters were small by comparison with his head because of muscle wastage. ‘There you are!’ Sissy let go of him and immediately he dropped down on to his haunches, whining pitifully.
‘Poor thing!’ I approached cautiously. ‘He’s probably agoraphobic. Good boy! Here, boy!’ I offered my hand, pretending to myself I was not frightened, but the minute Osgar growled the stratagem failed. ‘Anyway it doesn’t look as though he’s going to run off.’
Sissy was laughing at me. I had been too preoccupied to notice before that she was wearing a matador’s costume, complete with shoulder cloak. ‘Sure he won’t. You make a fine pair, feared to death of each other.’
‘How did you do that? Make that noise, I mean?’
‘’Tis an old circus trick. Before I took to the trapeze I helped the lion-tamer. Five nights a week I put my head into the lion’s mouth without even a puncture of my skin.’
I was impressed by this courageous, if pointless, accomplishment. ‘What shall we do with him now?’ I wondered.
Sissy shrugged. ‘’Twas you wanted to free him.’
My intention had been to take a delighted Osgar for a brisk run before chaining him up again but I realized now it was not going to be so easy. ‘You wouldn’t like to take him for a walk?’
‘I would not. I’m going to check me snares.’
‘Snares?’ I could not keep disapproval from my voice.
Sissy lowered her voice. ‘I’m after the sidh.’
‘You mean … fairies?’
‘Whisht! They don’t like to be spoken of.’ She lowered her voice to a hiss. ‘I’m after a fir darrig. They’re better tempered than the cluricaunes or the pookas. Not so likely to cross me eyes for catching them.’
‘How will you know what sort you’ve caught?’ I whispered back.
‘The fir darrig wear red, of course.’
I had to admit that Sissy was refreshingly different. After only a little time in her company I was able temporarily to forget the coldburning barb in the pit of my stomach.
‘I feel such a fool,’ I confessed to Constance when we were alone in the kitchen washing up after lunch.
Though I had read the newspaper article only once before screwing it up and throwing it on the kitchen fire I found I was able to recite the disagreeable paragraph almost word for word. Constance, her beautiful grey eyes suffused with tenderness, put down her drying-up cloth without speaking and kissed me gently on the cheek. Her quiet compassion, without exclamations of anger or disbelief or any of the indignant responses I might have felt the circumstances required, was exactly what I needed. It allowed me to unburden myself freely.
‘I believed that our love was different from other loves. Well, I’ve got what I asked for.’ My voice sounded strained and artificial even to my own ears. ‘I stand convicted of conceit and stupidity before all the world.’
Constance shook her head. ‘You’re too hard on yourself. Love comes to us unbidden. We can only submit to its dictates.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I could have resisted Burgo at the beginning. I didn’t love him then, when we hardly knew each other. How could I have? I liked the way he looked. I was attracted by his voice and the way he talked about things. I was grateful for his attention. If I’d met him in London when I was happy would I have fallen in love with him?’ I stopped polishing the battered lid of a copper pan to reflect.
‘I honestly think I’d have been put off by the negatives: the fact that he was married and a politician – Tory, at that. I wonder if love isn’t in some ways a negative process. We’re conscious of an emotional void, therefore we seek love. I was lonely and unhappy and it affected my judgement. Well!’ I tried to laugh. ‘I’ll never trust it again.’
‘Bobbie, I hate to hear you sound so bitter. You’re hurt and rightly so,’ said Constance. ‘He ought to be ashamed of himself. If he loved his wife what was he doing with you? And if he doesn’t, why is he going back to her?’
‘The thing is, Constance, he wanted both of us. I offered the excitement of something new and forbidden. She was the career move. But he didn’t care enough about either of us to give up the other until he really had to. Then he chose her.’
‘You did run away. He must have thought you’d given him up.’
‘He knew I’d read about it in the newspapers. If he’d really loved me he couldn’t have done this. At least he might have played for time. Four days: that was all it took him to decide. A lapse of judgement! An episode he’s now ashamed of! How trite! How … sordid!’
‘You’re taking too black a view. He probably didn’t say anything like that. And if he did, who knows what pressure his colleagues and his wife put on the poor man?’
‘Oh, Constance, don’t speak kindly of him.’ I put down the lid, by now burnished to a high sheen, and covered my face with my hands. ‘Don’t you see? I can only get through this if I can teach myself not to love him.’
Luckily, during the days that followed either the quantity of the tasks requiring my attention or the distracting presence of other people prevented me from feeling the full measure of my sorrow except as an ever-present, smarting wound. The nights were different. It was then, as I shifted restlessly on the lumpy mattress and tried to beat substance into my pillow, that I applied myself to the hard lesson I was determined to learn.
Moonshine Page 37
