‘What are we going to do?’
I was touched by his assumption that we were in the railway business together but I had no answer to the problem. I was anxious to find money for other things besides. An automatic washing machine was top of the list. Katty and Pegeen washed every Monday. This required laborious loading and unloading of the old twin tub, which squealed like a pig being slaughtered as it flooded the floor of the laundry room with soapsuds. Eventually the lake ran out into the corridor and, with the addition of mud from the yard, was trodden over the kitchen floor. Almost the worst thing about the operation was the prostration afterwards of Katty and Pegeen. With reddened arms, wrinkled fingers and ringing ears they could hardly find strength to crawl to their chairs and were fit for nothing for the rest of the day, despite my gradual reduction of rations from the black bottle. But during the rest of the week they were more wakeful and achieved much more. After I had poured their taggeens there was always grumbling about stinginess. But these days they showed me little outright hostility. I suppose my behaviour was in accordance with their presumption about English ways. We had been bossing and bullying for eight hundred years and by now they knew what to expect.
‘We’ll find the money from somewhere,’ I said to Flurry.
In the kitchen I cut up onions to roast beneath a leg of lamb. No rosemary, of course. When I had asked for herbs the greengrocer, Turlough McGurn, had patted my hand sympathetically. After several stand-up rows in which I had done all the rowing and he had beamed and chuckled, he treated me as though we were old chums.
‘Is it for decorating the food you’re wanting them, Miss Norton? The stomachs of the Irish’ll not take to that kind of fancifulness, you’ll find.’
This was the formula he fell back on with every request I made for almost anything but cabbages, carrots and potatoes. I could grow herbs in the walled garden. But a time and motion expert would disapprove of cycling a mile in the pouring rain for a sprig of thyme. The answer came to me as I was putting the meat into the oven. The front courtyard was paved with cobbles that swooped up and down in waves like a stormy sea. Against the walls on three sides were borders edged with bricks. They were sparsely and unattractively planted with Hypericum and clumps of mustard-coloured golden rod. I had several times thought the borders would be better done away with. Now I saw how beautifully they would lend themselves to a herb garden.
In each corner I envisaged a neatly clipped yew buttress. Balls of box would give the scheme definition and look good all the year round. Then in between them at the shadier ends I could plant parsley, mint, lovage and fennel. And along the sunny wall rosemary, thyme, sage, tarragon and dill … I was so fired by the beauty of this scheme that I was compelled to go at once to the courtyard to visualize my plan in situ. A howling met my ears as I crossed the hall. Osgar was back on his chain by the front door. But whereas before he had endured captivity with the silent passivity of hopelessness, now that he had tasted freedom and more particularly Maria he was no longer disposed to take things lying down. He strained at the end of his chain and gave vent to his feelings. Mr Macchuin was standing just out of Osgar’s reach, regarding him with blackened brow.
‘Who let this damned dog off his chain, I’d like to know?’ he demanded.
I was sorry to have to quarrel with my employer twice on the same day. But on this occasion I was confident that I was in the right. I squared up to fight.
‘I did. It’s cruel to keep a dog chained up.’
‘He’s supposed to be a watch-dog, not a cavaliere servente. If Maria isn’t pregnant it’s no thanks to Osgar.’
‘That would be unfortunate,’ I said coolly. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that it’s indefensible to keep a big dog like Osgar without allowing him any exercise. If you don’t want Maria to have puppies you should have her spayed.’
His face grew darker. ‘How I treat my dogs is none of your business, Miss Norton, but in fact Timsy walks Osgar several times a day.’
I felt myself growing hot, on my own behalf as well as Osgar’s. ‘Timsy hasn’t walked him for months. He’s afraid of him.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘It’s true!’
‘He’s savage and unfriendly. He’s not a lap dog.’
‘That’s because he’s had such a horrible life.’
We glared at each other. Mr Macchuin’s eyes were cold, his lower lip jutted, his nostrils were white. He stretched his mouth in a grimace, trying to keep his temper and match my froideur.
‘No doubt, Miss Norton, other people’s customs and traditions mean nothing to you.’ He took a deep breath and I read in this pause his struggle to keep England and the English out of it. ‘It may interest you to know, however,’ he continued, ‘that there’s been a black dog tied up at this door since the twelfth century!’
The pathetic fallacy of this argument inflamed me to the point of nearly losing control. ‘If you believe that tradition justifies barbarous behaviour perhaps you think we ought still to be burning people for heresy and sending children to Australia for stealing loaves of bread?’ I smiled annoyingly. At least that was my intention.
‘You equate chaining up a dog with capital punishment?’ He spoke equally coldly, though his jaw was quivering with anger. ‘I suggest, Miss Norton, that you’re confusing ethics with sentiment.’
‘Oh, so you think cruelty is a matter of degree? Pulling the wings off flies is harmless fun but you jib at cutting off a man’s head?’
‘I think it’s a matter of intention. I don’t accuse you of cruelty when you step on a beetle.’ He bared his teeth and I saw that he would have liked to accuse me of anything and everything.
‘Thank you. And what is your intention when you subject this dog’ – I pointed to Osgar which made him bark more fiercely than ever – ‘to a life of misery?’
‘Sophistry, Miss Norton! I deny his life is miserable!’
‘Look at his back legs! The muscles are wasted. Besides having no exercise he’s been starved of affection, companionship, proper food, warmth, all the things any living creature has a right to have. Everything, in fact, but that disgusting fish-meal. You think that can be right?’ I heard my voice tremble and felt tears rise. My recitation of Osgar’s wrongs had brought me to breaking point. I could be cool no longer. ‘In England you’d be prosecuted for cruelty to animals!’
‘Ah yes, in England!’ His eyes flashed. ‘You’re well known to be a nation of animal-lovers and sentimentalists though it’s never stopped you marching into other people’s countries, plundering them for your own gain and subjecting the indigenous population to vassalage and poverty!’
I began to shout. ‘I refuse to accept personal responsibility for the British Empire.’
‘What’s happening?’ Constance came rushing out. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Mr Macchuin stabbed the air with his forefinger and shouted back. ‘That’s English all right! That’s English to the core, isn’t it? Lloyd George took exactly that attitude when he drew up the iniquitous treaty that brought civil war to the whole of Ireland and has caused nothing but trouble ever since! He threatened war if we didn’t agree to remain part of the damned British Empire, then he just sat back and let us get on with it!’
‘You can’t blame the English because you chose to fight among yourselves!’ My ability to reason had been defeated by a rush of emotion. ‘Anyway Lloyd George was Welsh!’
‘Do stop, both of you.’ Constance stood between us with her hands over her ears. ‘What with Osgar barking and you two shouting, I feel as though I’m in Bedlam! Finn, how could you shout at Bobbie like that! When she’s done so much for us! She can’t help being English. You must apologize at once.’
Mr Macchuin jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and pressed his mouth into a hard line. ‘If it comes to that she lost her temper first.’
‘I did not!’
‘No, please, dear Bobbie.’ Constance laid her hand on my arm. ‘Don’t let’s hav
e any more arguing. It upsets the children.’
I felt immediately ashamed. But damn it! They were his children.
‘There’s no need for an apology.’ I put up my chin. ‘I shall go and pack my things.’ I turned on my heel and went into the house.
‘Bobbie, please!’ Constance ran in after me. ‘Don’t leave. I’ll do anything. Take a day off, take a week off. I’ll bring you all your meals on a tray, the children will be your slaves, Eugene will read poetry to you all day long …’
When I heard the anguish in her voice and saw the tears standing in her eyes my anger evaporated immediately. ‘It’s all right, Constance. I won’t go if you don’t want me to – unless your brother insists.’
She put her arm round my neck. I could feel her shaking. ‘Of course he won’t. I tell you it doesn’t mean anything when he gets angry. Really, it’s over in a moment.’
I kissed her. ‘I’m sorry I lost my temper. Don’t be upset.’ I took several deep breaths to calm myself and looked at my watch. ‘Let’s try and pretend it didn’t happen. I’ll go and peel the potatoes.’
‘I’ll come and help with the vegetables. And we’ll have a drink. I made Finn bring up some bottles of something decent.’
We scrubbed and peeled and chopped and soon we were talking and laughing about other things and it was as though the quarrel had never been. But I was aware that I would not be able to forget it. And that each time I saw Osgar chained I would be angry and it would get worse, not better.
It was a beautiful evening of cloudless skies and balmy breezes. Drinks were on the terrace. I supervised the taking out of chairs and tables but remained indoors myself, using as my excuse the construction of a dish of poires belle Hélène with tinned pears and melted bars of fruit and nut mixed with condensed milk for the chocolate sauce. The ice cream I made with powdered milk as Siobhan’s yield was down again. It would have been difficult to invent a more nauseating concoction.
In the dining room I treated the corporeal presence of Mr Macchuin as so much empty air but was more than ordinarily talkative with everyone else so that I should not seem to be sulking. Also I had taken a little extra trouble with my appearance in order to boost any flagging of morale, should there be cold looks or bitter words. This turned out to be a mistake. Our world at Curraghcourt was sufficiently restricted to make the least alteration of behaviour or appearance a matter of universal fascination.
‘You’re looking surpassingly well this evening, Bobbie.’ Eugene sent an approving glance down to my end of the table as soon as there was a lull in the conversation. ‘I wish I could think it might be for my benefit but alas! To paraphrase dear Byron: When the sun set where was she? He was a Celt on his mother’s side, you know.’
‘I was so sorry to miss the reading,’ I said. ‘I was busy in the kitchen.’
‘And you were in the bathroom for absolutely ages,’ said Flurry. ‘I wanted to show you my drawing of the funnel.’
‘I haven’t seen that dress before,’ said Liddy. ‘It looks very expensive.’
‘It’s just an old thing I’ve had for years,’ I said. ‘How’s the holiday project going?’
‘It’s staggeringly boring. I like that new way of doing your hair.’
‘You don’t usually wear that goldy-brown stuff on your eyelids,’ said Flavia. ‘Are you going to a party?’
‘Has no one in this family been told that it’s rude to make personal remarks?’ said Constance.
‘She’ll be hoping Michael McOstrich will call.’ Sissy was wearing a sort of Heidi costume of peasant blouse, black-laced bodice embroidered with edelweiss and red dirndl skirt. She had a circle of rouge on each cheek and her hair was plaited into clumsy braids with loops and strands sticking out, as though the long winter evenings in a hut up on the high pastures with only a grumpy old Aim-uncle to talk to had driven Heidi to drink.
‘Michael McOstrich?’ I heard Mr Macchuin say. ‘What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘Michael McOstrich makes me think of a fox,’ said Flavia. ‘I like the tufts of red hair that stick out of his ears and nose.’
‘Sure he and Bobbie are sweet on each other.’ Sissy pulled savagely at a lock of hair that hung over her eyes. ’Tis bokays and love letters he sends. He wouldn’t do for me.’ She assumed a superior air. ‘He’s a loud, roaring kind of man. He’s quite likely to smash you wit’ his fists if you don’t do his bidding. She’s welcome to him for my part.’
I was unable to keep silent any longer. ‘Mr McOstrich and I are barely acquainted. I’m sure he’s a paragon among men but he’s certainly nothing to me.’
‘Of course she doesn’t care tuppence about that ignorant turfcutter,’ said Maud. ‘The finery’s not for his benefit. It’s aimed at someone else altogether.’ All eyes were immediately fastened on Maud with expressions of intense interest. She paused to light a cigarette, evidently delighted to have created a stir. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t hear the two of them fighting like Kilkenny cats before dinner?’
‘What a wonderful sky!’ exclaimed Constance. ‘The most stunning vermilion light, like a cooked lobster.’
No one even pretended to look.
‘What are you talking about, Granny?’ asked Liddy.
‘It’s plain if you take the trouble to observe, my child.’ Maud smiled. ‘Bobbie wants your father to know she doesn’t care a stuff for his good opinion. She means to use every weapon at her disposal to make him sorry and acknowledge her power. She’s banking on the fact that he, no less than other men, will be a fool when it comes to a good-looking woman.’
‘’Tis strange to me what all the fuss is about.’ The breadth of Sissy’s nose and the roundness of her nostrils was more pronounced in the middle of a great black frown. ‘’Tis a dull sort of dress, I’m thinking.’
‘It’s a wonderful dress,’ sparked Liddy. ‘Not everyone wants to look as though they’ve got a bit part in a play about Swiss prostitutes!’
‘Girls, girls!’ protested Eugene. ‘Let us break bread together in a spirit of amity. Gross words ill become the lips of the gentler sex: “like blushing buds, like curls of rose, issuing their charge of honey …”’
‘What the feck’s he on about?’ demanded Sissy.
‘If everyone’s got their particular fixation off their chests,’ said Mr Macchuin, ‘perhaps we might have a sensible conversation?’
The door opened and Pegeen announced in her screeching, whistling voice, ‘Ladies and gents and Sissy McGinty, Michael McOstrich is come.’
TWENTY-NINE
‘Just give each row a few minutes with the hose, would you,’ I instructed Constance, ‘while I shovel on the muck? I must say, Ireland’s reputation for non-stop belting rain seems quite undeserved. Apart from the night I arrived it’s been positively balmy.’
The sky was veiled with high, thin clouds; the air was fresh. I had pruned two more apple trees and discovered translucent red and black globes on the overgrown currant bushes. Already there was in the walled garden a satisfying suggestion of things being reclaimed, regenerated, a promise of fruition.
‘I hate to destroy a happy illusion but I’m afraid this is something of a record. May was a deluge and June wasn’t brilliant. Anyway, we’ll enjoy the fine weather while it’s here.’
Constance and I had cycled down to the walled garden to superintend the arrival of fifteen tons of manure, delivered by a farmhand who worked for Michael McOstrich. It had been the one good thing to come out of the previous evening as far as I was concerned, entertaining though it must have been for everyone else.
I had been conscious that everyone would assume Michael had come because of me. He looked quite different from the last time I had seen him. For one thing he was wearing a suit. It was made from thick brown tweed, speckled like a thrush’s breast. His giant boots had been polished and his ginger beard trimmed. His aureole of flaming hair had been slicked flat, giving him the appearance of an exuberant red setter after a swim. As the evening advance
d, I found it peculiarly fascinating to see first one clump of hair and then another break free of whatever unguent had restrained it and spring back into unruliness.
He had entered the dining room with a comparatively subdued, almost bashful air.
‘How are you, Finn?’ He had approached Mr Macchuin who had risen at his entrance. The two men shook hands. ‘You’re looking pale.’ Michael McOstrich clapped his host on the back, making him cough involuntarily. ‘Too much chasing the pen indoors, I expect.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Michael. How’s the prize herd?’
‘You never saw a better sort of dairy cow than my Kerries. Some people say you can’t beat Friesians but I say that’s rubbish.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. How’s the barley experiment going?’
‘It’d make the hangman weep, the trouble we’ve had with it. The thin soil’s the problem. But I’m not going to be beaten. It’s not in my nature to buckle under. We’ll be putting on a quantity of manure, rotted turf and seaweed in the autumn and we’ll try the barley again. How are you, Maud?’ He went round the table greeting each of us in turn. When he came to me he took my hand in his hot red paw and squeezed it until my bones crunched.
‘Thank you so much for the flowers, Mr McOstrich.’ I smiled at him through a mist of pain. ‘Such beautiful roses.’
‘You’d have to go a long way to find better roses than we grow at Ballyboggin.’
He stared at me with solemn bloodshot eyes until I was obliged to look away.
‘Sit down, Michael,’ said Mr Macchuin, drawing up a chair and placing it next to mine. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’ It might have been my imagination but I thought I saw a sardonic light in my employer’s eye.
Michael’s great fist folded round the glass of whiskey Finn brought him as though it were a thimble, and while the others talked he sipped it without moving his eyes from my face.
Constance saw that I was discomforted by this unwavering examination. ‘Bobbie, has Eugene told you about his new work? So exciting! He’s thinking of writing a modern verse drama about Maeve. She was the queen of Connaught two thousand years ago. There are lots of poems about her, the most famous in the great Ulster Cycle, Táin Bó Cuailinge, written in the eleventh century.’
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