‘So she does talk to you sometimes? It struck me you weren’t exactly her cup of cocoa.’
‘You seem to have learned more about the household in two hours than I did in two weeks. She was quite friendly at first but not any more. It’s because Michael McOstrich is paying me attention. Sissy’s terribly jealous of anyone being preferred to her, even by someone she affects to despise.’
Kit smiled. ‘Poor fellow! He wants to carry you off to his potato patch.’
‘He happens to be related by marriage to the Macchuins and an important local landowner in his own right. But even if he were King of Connemara it wouldn’t be enough. Besides being bad-tempered and domineering, he’s really only interested in cows.’
‘Tell me about Constance. Has she something wrong with her feet?’
‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘Is it usual to wear gumboots at dinner?’
‘I’ve got so used to it I didn’t notice. Probably the gumboots are to save thinking-time. She’s a prime example of an intelligent woman swamped by domestic tasks whose mind is longing to be elsewhere.’
‘Like you?’
‘No. I’m more practical. There’s a part of me that really enjoys doing simple everyday things. Particularly when I can see results.’
‘Clearly the poet with the smell like a troop train isn’t burdened by domesticity. I saw Constance stir the sugar into his coffee and actually break into a run to fetch him his spectacles.’
I told Kit about the relationship between Constance and Eugene and the story of Larkie Lynch.
‘Good lord! And Constance really likes him? With those bulging eyes he reminds me of a chameleon. When he sat down I quite expected his face to turn green to match the chair.’
‘Constance is too high-minded to be swayed by appearances.’
‘Everyone’s influenced by what people look like. The truth is, she likes chameleons. So the household is pullulating with thwarted passion. Everyone in love with someone else. It seemed to me the senator would like to give the little circus tumbler the brush-off. Has he someone else in mind to be Mrs Macchuin?’
Though he asked the question lightly and continued to smile I sensed a sudden sharpening of interest.
‘The post happens to be filled.’ I told him about Violet.
Kit whistled. ‘Poor woman! The sleeping beauty. I hope she is beautiful.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And you’ve come along like a good fairy to wake her up. Well, well. It’s intriguing. I’m glad I’ve taken a couple of weeks’ holiday just now. You won’t mind if I stick around for a bit?’
Constance, with true Irish hospitality, had urged Kit to send for his bags from the Fitzgeorge Arms in Kilmuree but he had explained that a number of clients were expecting to contact him there.
‘I’ll be very pleased,’ I said, meaning it. ‘I could do with some help.’
Kit laughed. ‘Practical indeed. You’re not going to cozen me by pretending you’d like me to stay for my blue eyes alone.’
‘What a conceited creature you are! They are a wonderful colour, I admit.’
‘I’m delighted you’ve noticed.’
Kit soon fell as comfortably into the pattern of our daily lives as though he were a lifelong friend of the family. He worked all morning in his room, lunched at the Fitzgeorge Arms, then came every afternoon to Curraghcourt and stayed for dinner. He was the perfect guest and applied himself assiduously to getting on good terms with everyone. His considerable charm with women operated by identifying various idiosyncrasies of the one to be charmed and teasing them in a way that flattered because it implied a fascinating singularity. With men Kit dropped the teasing in favour of affability. He could converse on any topic, even on the subject of cows with Michael McOstrich, with what appeared to be enthusiasm.
Kit insisted on being allowed into the kitchen and was an excellent aide-de-camp, willing to turn his hand to peeling potatoes, chopping onions, stirring sauces and washing up afterwards. Katty and Pegeen, excited to find a man other than Timsy in their kitchen, were coquettish in Kit’s presence and inclined to shriek. He soon acquired the bruised forehead that seemed to be a mark of initiation.
He stoked fires, repaired bicycle punctures and Liddy’s hairdryer and changed the oil in the Land-Rover. He took over my sawing stints for Flurry’s railway and managed to double the daily production of sleepers. Having trained several gun dogs in his youth, it was a simple matter for him to teach Osgar civilized behaviour. He was strict and consistent and Osgar, who had been filled with misgivings by our attempts to pet him, understood and respected the voice of command. In no time at all Osgar had learned to sit, stay, walk to heel and, best of all, stop barking when instructed to do so. Kit also proved invaluable at persuading uncooperative cats into baskets to travel in convoys to the veterinary surgery in Kilmuree.
Sissy’s was the hardest heart to conquer because she suspected Kit of being fond of me. But a few days after his arrival in Connemara Constance and I were in the drawing room, discussing how best to rearrange furniture, when our attention was caught by unusual activity in the garden. We rushed to the window and were astonished to see Kit launch himself athletically from a tea chest to land on the end of a plank which was laid across a log. Sissy, who had been standing on the other end, shot into the sky spinning like a diabolo, chucked Kit under the chin with her flying feet and knocked him to the ground.
Bravely he picked himself up and they tried the trick again. And again. Each time it resulted in Kit being spread-eagled on his back on the grass with Sissy on top of him. Once she actually succeeded in landing on his shoulders. For a few seconds they swayed back and forth before slowly toppling like a dynamited chimney stack.
‘I do like him so much,’ said Constance. ‘Don’t you, Bobbie?’
Kit and Constance shared a passion for the poetry of James Clarence Mangan (or at least so he claimed) and during one of their conversations he had teased from her the information that she too wrote poetry. Only the day before he had persuaded her to show it to him. I had yet to learn his verdict.
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Who could fail to like someone so remarkably agreeable?’
‘I can tell he likes you.’
I looked at Constance. She put on an appearance of innocence but there was no one in the world less able to conceal their thoughts. ‘I know.’ I smiled. ‘You want me to fall in love with him and live happily ever after.’
‘Well … that does sound rather appealing, doesn’t it, after all?’
‘Is there no limit to your talents?’ I asked Kit after lunch the next day as we hoed and irrigated the ground in the walled garden. ‘Oh, look! Surely that’s a shoot!’ I dropped on to my knees to examine a speck of something green thrusting up through the bare soil. ‘A radish, I think. How exciting! Thanks be to St Fiacre.’
Eugene, when told of our discovery of the statue in the niche, had done some research and unearthed the information that St Fiacre was the patron saint of gardeners. Now we never left the garden without replenishing the offerings of wild flowers at the saint’s feet.
Kit came and looked. ‘A dandelion. Still, if that’s what turns you on.’
‘Nonsense! But, really, I’m awfully impressed by your ability to be all things to all men. You can discuss politics with the grand vizier, race meetings with Maud, steam engines with Flurry and hemlines with Liddy. To say nothing of your skills as an acrobat.’
‘You mean to accuse me of falseness, I know, but are you never guilty of trying to please? I’m a gregarious animal and I like harmony.’
‘Of course I try when the occasion demands but I’m just not so good at it.’
‘Besides, to call me an acrobat is gross flattery. The number of bruises decorating my chin and chest testify to my lack of skill as a humble catcher. Are you planning to provision an army?’
I had finished sowing a third row of spring cabbage. ‘I had thought of selling surplus produce on a roadside stall. Bu
t then I remembered that we’d be lucky to get twenty cars driving past the entire day. And not all of those will want vegetables.’
‘Possibly none of them. They’ll have freezers stocked with things already peeled and chopped into fork-sized pieces. Depressing, isn’t it?’
‘Very. And we do need money so much.’
‘You’re really taking it all to heart, aren’t you? Trying single-handedly to put Curraghcourt back on its legs? I hope it’s not Finn’s manly jaw or his romantic melancholy that’s inspired you to try to save him a few bob. Why do you always call him “Mr Macchuin”, by the way?’
‘He’s never asked me to call him anything else. He always calls me Miss Norton.’
‘Probably he thinks you ought to say first.’
‘He’s the boss, after all.’
‘But you aren’t the usual sort of housekeeper. I’ve noticed you avoid talking to each other.’
‘Not particularly. We’re both preoccupied. He’s always shut up in his library with important paperwork and I’m busy with furniture polish and vegetables.’
‘Hm.’ Kit looked at me speculatively.
‘It’s better that way. We’ve a tendency to quarrel.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘We rub each other up the wrong way. He’s cross-grained, huffy and dictatorial. I like my own way, too.’
‘Of course you do. And a very good way it is.’ Kit put his thumb over the end of the hose to water with a fine spray the row I had just planted. ‘But I’ve seen him watching you. And you’re very aware of him, aren’t you?’
‘Honestly, Kit, you’re like a spy at the Elizabethan court! I suppose you’re taking notes and sending them off to your Spanish masters.’
Kit laughed. ‘I told you. I find people’s behaviour fascinating to observe. When you have to skim through several manuscripts a day and immerse yourself in other people’s impassioned fantasies, you begin to see a plot in a dropped handkerchief and love under every thorn-bush. Also’– he put his hand lightly on my arm – ‘if I can be strictly truthful for a moment, I’m inclined to be jealous. From the beginning I’ve entertained feelings for you that aren’t brotherly. I know you aren’t over that other business. I don’t want to pester you and for the time being I’m not hoping for anything other than the purest friendship. But I shouldn’t like to find that I’ve been standing off politely only to find that a bolder man had rushed in where this particular fool had feared to tread.’
I looked away to the mountains, iron-grey against a sky suffused with pink as the sun began its descent. An arrow-head of geese flapped through the air above us beneath clouds of gold. The vast, unspoiled beauty of my surroundings corresponded with growing feelings of relief at being free from the complications of a love affair. I looked down, seeking inspiration for my answer from the soil.
‘You’re standing on the infant radish!’ Kit pointed to my foot. ‘You murderer!’
I jumped back and bent to brush the compacted earth from the dot of leaf. The seriousness that had threatened was deflected.
‘Do you know,’ Kit said, ‘talking of stories, it occurred to me after I’d left you at the bus station in Kilmuree that you hadn’t told me how the press got to hear of your romantic association with the minister. I’ve been wondering ever since. Would you be kind enough to put in the missing piece of the plot?’
‘I’m afraid it was Mrs Slattery who ratted on us. If you remember, she was the wife of the inn-keeper at the Fisherman’s Reel where we always stayed. Perhaps we ought to have spread ourselves more thinly but the fact was that I felt sure she wouldn’t give us away even if she found out who Burgo was because she was more than a little in love with him. She used to stare at him in a sort of rapture while she was polishing glasses. Mr Slattery was short and bald, not really the stuff of dreams. But she must have seen Burgo’s face on the television or in a newspaper and decided that money mattered more than love. The first time we went to the Fisherman’s Reel after the Conservatives had got into power, she was different. Not so friendly, almost snappy. I didn’t think about it much. I assumed she’d had a row with her husband but obviously she had a guilty conscience. Anyway, we had supper and went to bed as usual. In the morning Burgo drew back the curtains. Because of the sloping roof the window was at ground level. He bent to look out, yelled and fell back on to the bed. The orchard was packed with journalists waiting for their photographic opportunity. As Burgo was naked they all had more explicit pictures of the Minister for Culture than they’d bargained for.’
‘I’m glad you can laugh about it.’
‘I didn’t laugh at the time, naturally. We left separately. Burgo went downstairs first, ordered a taxi and went straight back to London. I let an hour go by before I came down but of course they knew I was there and they were waiting for me. I had to push through the hordes in the bar with flashes going off in my face and people shouting questions in my ear. I ran out to my car. One man put his hand on my arm to stop me getting in so I kicked him hard on the shin. It was a miracle I didn’t injure anyone. I simply had to put my foot on the accelerator and hope they’d get out of the way. They all piled into their cars and followed me. We did a lengthy tour of Sussex until I thought I’d lost them, then I went home. But someone must have been on my tail for they were all at the gates by evening. No one printed the nude studies of Burgo. I suppose it would have contravened some law of decency.’
‘A sad end to a tempestuous love affair.’
‘I didn’t realize when we kissed each other before he rushed downstairs that I’d never see him again. Now I’m glad I didn’t. It must be terrible to know you’re saying goodbye for the last time to someone you love very much. Think of all those poor Irish mothers who had to watch their children sail away to America.’
‘Yes, but remember, emigration was a fact of life for all European countries during the nineteenth century. If you’re going to take the sorrows of Ireland on your shoulders you’ll be beaten flat.’
A battered van rumbled into the walled garden.
‘Aha!’ said Kit. ‘I’ve been expecting this. Only an hour late!’ He went to speak to the driver. I heard him say something about following us up to the house. ‘Hop on your bike,’ he said to me, ‘and you can see my surprise. It’s a present to Curraghcourt as a thank you for hospitality received – and for hospitality to come, I hope.’
‘How lovely! What is it?’
‘Lovely doesn’t quite describe it but I hope you’ll be pleased. Wait and see.’
In the stable courtyard the driver opened the doors of the van and I looked inside.
‘Kit! You genius!’ Had it not been for that earlier moment of seriousness I would have kissed him. ‘The perfect present! A circular saw!’
Timsy was summoned and the three men unloaded it.
‘Was it very expensive?’ I asked Kit as soon as the van had gone away.
‘I saw it advertised in the newsagent’s in Kilmuree. The farmer’s bought himself a nice new chainsaw. He was glad to get rid of it.’
Kit jerked a handle on a length of wire and started the engine which was attached to the saw by a rubber belt. The tremendous racket brought Flurry from his shed where he had been closeted with the Flying Irishman. We watched with awe as Timsy and Kit guided a sleeper towards the spinning blade. It sliced into it like a penknife through balsa wood. Kit moved the sleeper along to the second chalk mark and in ten seconds it lay on the ground in three equal pieces.
‘Voilà!’ said Kit. He had to shout to make himself heard. ‘Accomplished in a fraction of the time without raising a blister and no more than a comely glow on the brow of the operator.’
Timsy took off his cap in tribute. ‘’Tis better than anything in a film.’
‘Let’s do some more!’ cried Flurry, approaching the saw.
Kit caught him by the shoulder. ‘Repeat after me: “I, Florence Macchuin, swear on the soul of Isambard Kingdom Brunel that I shall not lay so much as a finger on this highly dange
rous piece of equipment. For fear of losing it.”’
Flurry looked disappointed. ‘OK,’ he muttered.
But Kit made him stand still, raise his right hand and solemnly pledge his word.
‘Luckily Flurry isn’t strong enough to start it up by himself,’ said Kit later as we walked towards the back door, leaving Timsy sawing up sleepers and grinning with enjoyment. ‘But I wouldn’t put it past Timsy to leave it running unattended.’
‘Talking of Timsy, he’s left the apple-store door open. Let’s see what keeps him so busy.’
The contraption that filled the back part of the little building behind a mound of rotting apples was unfamiliar to me. A large plastic barrel filled with a golden liquid lay upon a trestle with a corkscrew pipe winding down from it. Around it stood bottles and jars, most of them filled with the same yellow liquid.
‘Is it a cider-press?’
‘Not cider.’ Kit unscrewed the cap of one of the bottles and sniffed it. ‘This is poteen!’
‘This is a whiskey still?’ I stared at it, amazed. ‘Well, I’m blowed! No wonder Timsy’s been so amenable to my rationing of the black bottle! I can hardly believe it! Who’d have thought he’d have the energy and initiative?’ I peered into boxes of sprouting potatoes and a bin of mudlike liquid, to the surface of which rose slow thick bubbles. ‘You have to admit it shows enterprise. I suppose that explains those men who’ve been creeping about the place. He’s been generating himself a nice little income.’
Kit pointed to a cable that led from the generator. ‘He’s been quite ingenious too, using the element from a kettle to boil up the water. I wonder how the senator will like his house being turned into a shebeen?’
I was silent for a while as I thought. Then I said decisively, ‘He must never know.’
‘You surprise me. I’d no idea you were so fond of Timsy.’
Moonshine Page 46
