The man in the portrait had the same straight nose, high cheekbones, strong chin and firm mouth, above which was a clipped military moustache. This luckily Mr Macchuin did not have. Nor were the eyes the same. Those of the ancestor were satisfied, autocratic. Mr Macchuin’s were – for the time being – conciliatory.
He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sure you meant well’ – he must have seen me stiffen for he added quickly – ‘and I admit the possibility that your course of action may be the right one.’ He walked away from me over to his desk and picked up a glass paperweight, which he passed from hand to hand as though relishing its coldness. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about preferring death to a life of such … privation. Though Ireland is struggling to bring its ideology into line with the rest of Europe, ours is still a deeply religious culture and such a view, as you can imagine, is unorthodox. I may not be a practising Catholic but we are all, I suppose, influenced by the ideas that surround us from our birth. Our instinctive responses are the product of our early teaching however much we may strive to override them by rational thought.’ He began to throw the paperweight from hand to hand as though weighing his words. ‘When I asked myself if I would choose to live as Violet has lived for the last four years, I knew the honest answer was that I’d prefer to die.’
I was so surprised by this handsome admission that I nearly blurted out the news about Violet opening her eyes. But I thought better of it immediately.
‘Yes,’ he continued without looking at me, ‘and in acknowledging that, I then had to ask myself what I might have done to alleviate a life that was worse than death.’ He would have made a jolly good headmaster, I thought, able to deliver off-the-cuff lectures in well-constructed sentences. ‘I ought to have appointed more suitable custodians for her care. Katty and Pegeen, though unquestionably loyal, were not fit companions. I ought to have done more. I make no excuses.’ He screwed up his eyes for a moment as though even thinking of those extenuating circumstances – lack of funds, I supposed, and a typically male reluctance to face up to painful predicaments – grated on his nerves. He shook his head suddenly as though trying to throw off thoughts that tormented him and put down the paperweight. He leaned back against the desk, both hands gripping the edge. ‘Everything that you can do for Violet, Miss Norton, I shall welcome. I accept full responsibility for the outcome. I wish you’d let me know if there are any additional expenses to be met.’ He smiled again, rather sadly. ‘I suppose Elizabeth Taylor’s Twenty-Four-Hour Miracle Lotion doesn’t grow on trees.’
‘No.’ I smiled back, forgetting hostilities for a moment. ‘But Pond’s Cold Cream will do just as well. What we do need, though, is an automatic washing machine.’
‘An automatic … Don’t we have a washing machine?’
‘Yes, but it’s ancient and hopeless and wastes hours of Katty and Pegeen’s time. Violet’s sheets need to be changed every day. Sometimes more than once. There are good ones on the market these days that will soak, wash, rinse and spin in the same drum at the push of a button in a tenth of the time.’
‘The same drum? Really?’ he repeated. I could tell he had no idea what I was talking about. ‘How much might such a piece of engineering wizardry cost?’
‘About a hundred pounds.’
His mouth twitched in what was nearly a wince. He ran his hand over his face to hide it. I supposed he was thinking how many dinners and bottles of claret he could buy with such a sum. But to give him his due, he walked immediately round to the other side of his desk, took a cheque book from a drawer and put his signature on the line.
‘I’ll leave it blank.’ He handed it to me and smiled again, almost grinning. I thought he was rather overdoing the entente cordiale. He saw me courteously to the door, then closed it behind me. It was not until I reached the hall and I caught sight of myself in the looking glass that I discovered a long strand of goose-grass in my hair and another clinging to the sleeve of my shirt.
Mr Macchuin did not attend the ceremony of drinks before dinner. I guessed this was because he wished to be spared Eugene’s recital. On this particular evening he was the loser. While we sat on the terrace enjoying the delicious refreshment of a light breeze as it ruffled the surfaces of the canals, Eugene recited poems by three young men who had been executed for their part in the 1916 Easter Rising. Sissy, dressed in Lincoln green complete with a quiver of arrows and a hat with a broken feather, sat cross-legged on a wicker chair and at the end of each poem waved her fists and muttered in Gaelic what sounded like maledictions. Constance was unusually withdrawn, not watching Eugene’s face with her customary rapt look but staring at her own knees. Maud drank three glasses of sherry, chain-smoked and read the copy of Vogue, which had reappeared in the drawing room.
For me it was a further part of my education. I found it astonishing that I had lived for twenty-seven years just over the sea from Ireland without comprehending the nature of the bitter and bloody conflict waged between us. When Eugene read the beautiful, inspiring verses of Joseph Plunkett, who had been only twenty-nine when he was shot by a British firing squad – Constance was right, Eugene did have a beautiful voice – the wickedness of war and the wanton slaughter of intelligent, idealistic, passionate young men pressed sharply on my mind.
I felt ashamed of my preoccupations with washing machines and soup. I had too much cold, practical English blood in my veins. My ancestors, on my father’s side at least, when not oppressing the Irish through every century since the Vikings had left off, had been busy oppressing almost every other nation they had had anything to do with. We were a bossy, ritual-loving race. Give us scarlet coats and a brass band and we asked nothing more than a hostile climate, horrible food and a bout of dysentery to be perfectly happy. Where was our national fervour, our spontaneity, our love of life? I gazed into the distance where the mountains rose above the derelict garden and wondered why I had not asked myself these questions before.
All too soon I had to go in and grope my way, blinded by sunlight, into the bowels of the earth to get vegetables into tureens and plates into the oven to heat. We had only just taken our seats in the dining room when Pegeen flung open the door in the inimitable way she had, banging it against the wall to produce a shower of plaster flakes. ‘Ladies and gents, and Sissy McGinty, ’tis Michael McOstrich,’ she screeched. ‘Will he have a place at table or shall I be putting him in the hall?’
Of course Constance had to ask Michael to stay to dinner. His copper-coloured eyes roamed the room until they found me, after which they remained fixed as though he were a hungry dog and my face a plate of mutton chops.
‘Good God!’ Maud gave Michael a look of cold contempt. ‘You again. I wonder you don’t think of moving in.’
‘’Tis like the gombeen man,’ scowled Sissy. ‘You can’t rid yourself of him.’
If Mr Macchuin was surprised, on entering the dining room a minute later, to see Michael once more enjoying his hospitality, he hid it admirably. He asked tenderly after the cows and the barley, apparently having forgotten that only the day before he had asked exactly the same questions. Michael answered fully, undisturbed by this patent insincerity.
‘What’s a gombeen man?’ I asked Liddy an hour later, as we were finishing the lemon mousse, which was quite good, though I say it myself.
‘Haven’t the faintest. I wish they’d pack in arguing.’
The crossfire of talk had, as so often, become a heated row by the main course. This time the quarrel was about whether Lady Lavery, wife of the famous painter, Sir John Lavery, had been the mistress of Michael Collins. Michael McOstrich gave it as his opinion that Collins had been a traitor to Ireland by treating with the British on any terms. At this point Sissy tried to stab Michael with her fork and had to be restrained by Eugene, but as Michael was looking at me he was oblivious to the danger. In a well-meant endeavour to promote peace Eugene volunteered to read a poem he had written some years ago called ‘Beal na mBlath’ which, for my benefit, he translated as ‘Pass of the Flowe
rs’, the place where Michael Collins was killed – not by the British, I was thankful to learn, but by his own countrymen. Even Constance was too agitated to express enthusiasm for this idea and Eugene sat through the rest of dinner silent and offended. Mr Macchuin, who sat with his fingers interlocked, tracing the line of his jaw with his thumbs, seemed to be thinking of something else.
‘Do you think I ought to dye my hair blonde?’ Liddy asked me.
‘I shouldn’t. It’s a very pretty colour already.’
‘Do you think it’s true that blondes have more fun than brunettes?’
‘Not for a moment. Often people think you can’t be very bright if you have fair hair.’
‘I don’t want men to think I’m clever. I want to make them weak at the knees with lust.’
‘That sounds highly inconvenient. And quite boring.’
‘Oh, Bobbie, you fibber! Of course it’s boring if it’s men like …’ She rolled her eyes in poor Michael’s direction. ‘But what about if it was someone who made you want to give up everything in the world for them? Whose every touch thrilled you to screaming point?’
‘I think you may be expecting too much. It might be like that for a short time but it could never last. A lot of the initial thrill is your imagination playing tricks. You get used to someone and the excitement wears off. Then, if you’re lucky, you start to really love them. Much better than ungovernable lust are things like respect and having things in common—’
‘Hark at her!’ I had not realized that Sissy was listening to our conversation. ‘’Tis a nun you’d take her for. Butter wouldn’t care to melt in her gob! When we all know she’s been throwing out lures to every man that comes her way.’ It was unfortunate that the others had quarrelled themselves to a furious standstill, each too angry to speak, so that Sissy’s taunts were clearly audible.
‘That’ll do, Sissy,’ said Constance.
‘Is it doing now?’ Sissy flashed back. ‘And who are you to tell me what I’m to say and what I’m not to say? Just because you were born in a big house and you can tell the names of your grandparents and their parents before them makes you not a whit better than me!’ Sissy spoke rapidly and angrily. She had had several sherries before dinner and quite a few glasses of wine during.
Constance looked dismayed. ‘Of course not, Sissy. No one thinks that for a minute. But you mustn’t be unkind to Bobbie who’s done you no harm at all.’
‘Maybe she has! Maybe she’s put a spell on all the men here!’ Sissy turned to point a grimy finger towards the head of the table where Mr Macchuin sat. His attention was caught by the gesture. He frowned. ‘Maybe she’d like to get bigger fish than Michael McOstrich.’ She was breathing hard now and leaning forward to glare at everyone in turn so that the hunting horn she wore round her neck dangled in the remains of her mousse.
‘Sissy McGinty,’ said Michael reprovingly, ‘I believe you’re drunk.’
‘Drunk, coarse, illiterate …’ said Maud.
‘I take exception to you insulting this young lady.’ Michael was talking to Sissy.
‘We all know what you’ve got in mind for the young lady,’ Sissy flung back. She put scornful emphasis on the last two words. ‘And you’re welcome to her, for my part. But when it comes to poaching on my ground, I beg to differ with her!’
‘I don’t know why you’re so cross with Bobbie,’ said Flurry. ‘She’s the only girl round here who can saw.’
‘I wish people would stop shouting,’ cried Flavia from beneath the table where she had withdrawn with her book. ‘I can’t concentrate.’
‘Why don’t we talk about something else?’ said Constance. ‘Eugene, do tell us about Maeve—’
‘If you don’t look out, Constance Macchuin,’ snapped Sissy, ‘that witch’ll have him off you and all. Not that I think he’s much of a catch but it’s no secret that you’re awfully stuck on him—’
‘Sissy,’ said Mr Macchuin quietly, ‘you’re making a fool of yourself.’
‘Yes, but isn’t it entertaining?’ said Maud.
‘Har-h-h! You take an Englishwoman’s part against me!’ Sissy sprang up from her place, her pretty face flaming. Osgar and Maria began to run round the table, exciting each other to a frenzy of barking. ‘It’s clear now what’s been going on! I’m only good for walking the dog—’
She was interrupted by the whistling tones of Pegeen as she threw open the door. ‘Ladies and gents, and Sissy McGinty. A Mr Randy’s come to see you. He says he’s a friend of Miss Bobbie’s.’
‘She had better start charging for her services,’ said Maud.
Sissy pointed the index and little finger of her right hand at me, which I took to be some sort of ill-wishing. ‘May the devil stick in your throat!’
‘Good evening.’ Kit Random, looking extraordinarily clean and smart by comparison with the rest of us, though he was informally dressed in an open-necked shirt and jeans, surveyed the faces round the dining table with an expression of friendly interest. ‘I’m sorry to barge in in the middle of dinner. I’d have waited outside but this young lady’ – he smiled at the simpering Pegeen – ‘insisted on announcing me. Hello, Bobbie. How are you?’
THIRTY-ONE
‘It seems to me you’ve gone native,’ said Kit as I walked with him to where the Alfa Spider was parked on the other side of the drawbridge beyond the gatehouse. The little red car looked new and dashing beside the rutted track and the moat, empty of water but half filled with rubbish. ‘That’s not a criticism,’ he added as I made noises of protest. ‘I’m fond of the Irish myself and I’m delighted to find you so at home. That means you must be happy. When I read about that man going back to his wife, I was worried. But it’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It’s all right.’ And I was relieved to find that this was true. It still hurt to think about Burgo so I avoided doing so most of the time. I was easily moved to self-loathing. But I was no longer wretched to be without him. I felt as though I had moved an immense distance away, much further than the geographical span that separated us. It was … all right.
‘I thought of telephoning but it seemed better to wait until I’d finished visiting my authors so I could come and see for myself.’ He crossed his arms, leaned against the bonnet and looked me up and down. ‘And I like what I see.’
Kit had a charming smile. Apart from the colour of his eyes, he was without any of the attributes of conventional masculine beauty, yet I liked looking at him. His brown hair was nearly as curly as Maria’s and his nose had a bump halfway down but his eyes were keen with intelligent curiosity; his mouth was too large but it was good-humoured. I remembered the way his ears stuck out, giving him the look of a bright undergraduate. He had told me he was thirty-five but at first glance you would have guessed twenty-something.
‘Thanks. What a fool I’ve been, though.’ I shook my head as I remembered my idiotic misconceptions. ‘If only Constance had told me!’
‘Told you what?’
‘That my boss is a fully paid-up member of the working classes.’
‘That Finn Macchuin’s a senator, you mean? You really had no idea?’
When I had introduced Kit to the others he had shaken Mr Macchuin’s hand and said, ‘I’ve been following the progress of that bill for agricultural reform in the Irish Times. I hope you get it through. It’s obviously going to benefit outlying districts like these.’
The annoyance caused by Sissy’s behaviour had been instantly banished from Mr Macchuin’s face and he had replied to Kit’s questions at some length. I had not understood any of it.
‘What are they talking about?’ I had asked Liddy in an undertone.
‘I don’t know,’ Liddy had shrugged. ‘It’s too dull for words. Ever since Dad became a senator he’s been away nearly all the time. I wish the IRA would blow the Senate up but it’s far too boring for them to bother with.’
I had spent much of the time in the drawing room afterwards turning over this astonishing piece of information i
n my mind, wondering quite why it had never occurred to me that my employer might be absent from home on legitimate business.
‘I thought he was an irresponsible libertine, whiling away the hours among the fleshpots of Dublin while the rest of his family went to perdition,’ I explained to Kit. ‘I practically accused him of idle profligacy to his face!’
Kit laughed. ‘That’ll teach you judge us poor men so harshly.’
‘You needn’t make capital out of it. I’m afraid one lost sheep being returned to the fold isn’t enough. Being a senator’s pretty much like being in the House of Lords, isn’t it?’
‘Similar, yes, but they don’t inherit the appointment. Senators are either elected or appointed by the government and serve for a limited term. It would be fair to say that it’s a more intellectual, less conservative body, with fewer vested interests.’
‘A politician. Think of that!’
‘It is ironic. But not, I imagine, the same kind of man.’
‘No, probably not. I don’t know, really.’
‘Was that funny little dark thing his girlfriend, though? I mean, oddly engaging, but not the sort one would have imagined such a reputable man – he teaches mediaeval history at Trinity College, Dublin, as well as being a senator, you know – to go for.’
‘Does he, really? How amazing! I had no idea. Constance is a darling but extremely vague. I wish she’d put me properly in the picture. I suppose it was Sissy’s existence that set me off on the wrong path in the first place. How did you guess they were lovers?’
‘She seemed to be behaving in a proprietorial way after dinner. I saw her kiss his ear when she took him milk for his coffee. He looked awfully stern after that. And why the Robin Hood get-up? I can see it would be arousing to some men. That plus the little girl appeal and the athleticism. She certainly oozes a weird sexual magnetism. But the senator looked as black as Acheron when she did a back-flip in the hall.’
‘She used to be in a circus. And after that she joined a company of travelling players. When they disbanded there was no money for wages so they divided the costumes between them. She told me she hasn’t bought any clothes for five years.’
Moonshine Page 45
