Though I tried to speak mildly, I suppose my anger must have shown on my face for Constance’s lip began to tremble.
‘Oh dear! What an idiot I am! A silly blundering fool—’
‘No, no! Of course you’re not!’ I stripped off my rubber gloves as quickly as I could, never an easy process, and threw my arms round her. ‘I’m sorry I was cross. But I’m not cross with you at all. Honestly, Constance, we’re both upset because of what’s just happened and likely to get things out of proportion. I’m really sorry. Let’s have a glass of wine. We need to cheer ourselves up.’
Once the dreadful Riesling from Dicky Dooley’s had started to take effect and our equilibriums were on the way to being restored, I asked, ‘So who did Kit think I might be about to make an ass of myself with this time? Do tell, just for amusement’s sake. I promise I won’t be angry.’ I smiled in demonstration of this as I sandwiched chicken breasts between greaseproof paper in order to flatten them before bread-crumbing them and frying them in butter. ‘I know. Turlough McGurn. What does it matter that he hasn’t a hair on his head or a thought in it, other than how to flog rotting contraband vegetables?’
‘Actually he thought – you’ll never believe it, I laughed when he said it – he thought it might be … Finn.’ Constance looked at me nervously, but when she saw I was calm she continued. ‘I told him it was ridiculous. That you were more likely to quarrel than anything else. But Kit said that was often a sign there was a great attraction. Sexual tension, you see, having to be kept under a lid. I must say it sounded rather dramatic. It made me think of pressure cookers.’
‘He did, did he?’ I began wrathfully. ‘I mean’ – schooling my face to smiling tranquillity – ‘perhaps he thinks I’ve only to see a married man to fall passionately and uncontrollably in love with him?’ I took the rolling pin and gave the chicken breasts several savage whacks. ‘As you say, I’m sure he only wants to save me from myself.’ I was unable to prevent something of a hiss escaping in this last sentence and Constance looked at me again, more closely.
‘No. It’s more than that. I’m sure he’s in love with you himself. He started to confess as much but I stopped him. I’m no good at keeping secrets. Honestly, I’d rather not know. Besides, I didn’t feel comfortable talking about you behind your back, even though every word he said was in your praise. I did accept his card.’ Constance fumbled in the pocket of her trousers. ‘Here it is.’ She handed it to me.
I whistled. ‘Albany, Piccadilly. That’s a very smart address.’
‘Is it? I didn’t know.’
‘Oh yes. Why did he want you to have this?’
‘I suppose … he thought I might let him know if something was … brewing. Naturally I’d never do any such thing.’
‘Naturally not.’ I took a block of fresh butter from the fridge and put a chunk to melt in a frying pan. By the time it was starting to melt to a glorious liquid gold I could look Constance in the eye with an expression that was serene.
‘After all, it’s meant in kindness,’ said Constance pacifically.
‘Of course.’
I began to compose a short sharp speech to deliver to Kit as soon as I could contrive to be alone with him after lunch. But this satisfaction was denied me for, just as we were sitting down to eat, the boots boy from the Fitzgeorge Arms appeared, soaking wet and sporting a streak of mud from the seat of his trousers to the crown of his head from his long bicycle ride, with two letters, one for Constance and one for me.
‘Oh, what a shame!’ Constance had opened hers first as I was busy serving the chicken. ‘Kit’s had to go away! How we’re going to miss him! He says how sorry he is he had no time to say goodbye but his office has a flap on. He thanks us all for a wonderful visit. He wishes to be remembered to you, Maud, with deepest admiration and respect.’ Maud lifted her eyebrows and stared out of the window as though indifferent to praise. ‘And to you, Eugene, with thanks for many hours of pleasure and enlightenment.’ Eugene held up both hands in a gesture of confutation and pursed his small mouth with mock modesty. ‘Sissy,’ continued Constance, ‘his message to you is that he looks forward to further gymnastics at Christmas.’
‘If you write back you can tell him some exercises to do,’ said Sissy. ‘’Tis the building up of the shoulder muscles he must dwell on.’
‘I don’t think our relationship is of the kind that permits personal remarks about his physique,’ Constance said. ‘Liddy, he says he cherishes the memory of dancing with you at Lughnasa.’ Liddy turned as red as the radishes in the salad bowl.
‘Is there a message for me?’ asked Flavia.
‘He says will you carry on with the training of Osgar. And Flurry, he’s going to send you a colour chart of heat-resistant paint for the Flying Irishman.’
‘I hope there’s a dark red. Or green.’ Flurry wrapped his lower lip over his upper one while he pondered the question.
‘Never trust an Englishman when he is charming,’ said Maud. ‘An Irishman is charming because he wants you to like him. But an Englishman hopes to bedazzle your wits so he can bend you to his will.’
‘What rubbish, Maud!’ Constance sounded quite cross for her.
‘Read your letter, Bobbie,’ urged Flavia.
I shook my head and put it aside. It was not until six o’clock that day, after I had given Violet a supper of lettuce soup, mashed potato and apricot purée, that I opened my letter from Kit.
‘Listen, Violet.’ We were alone in her room. She had opened her eyes as she always did these days when being fed. I was sitting on the edge of her bed, so she could easily see and hear me. ‘Listen.’ Her eyes rested on my face, jerked away, then came back. Her right eyelid drooped but it was not unattractive. It gave her a quizzical expression, as though she were always just about to wink. ‘You remember Kit? I think you liked him.’ Violet licked her lips, probably in response to the lingering taste of apricots. ‘You seemed to enjoy listening to his voice anyway. He’s gone away. Back to England.’ I was holding Violet’s attention at least. ‘I’m going to read you his farewell letter. Dear Bobbie. That’s me, Violet, remember?’ I squeezed her hand. To my great delight I felt her fingers tighten around mine. ‘I’m more sorry than you can imagine to have to leave without saying goodbye. But something’s come up in London and I’m catching the overnight ferry.’ So he was already in England. I felt a depression of spirits that was disturbing. What a fool I had been to resent what had seemed to me to be oppressive interference. Now I would have given a great deal to see him walk in, with that air of his of finding life amusing.
It’s been a remarkable few weeks. Out of the world, out of time. I can see you love the place and it seems to suit you. But don’t lose your heart to it completely. That would mean cutting yourself off from many good things and remarkable experiences. Curraghcourt is perfect as somewhere to recuperate but you are too lively and intelligent to spend these crucial years when you ought to be making the most of your talents in a tumbledown castle in a dark forest by a black lake, like a fair maid under a spell of enchantment. I expect you will be annoyed with me for saying this. I know you don’t like to be told what to do. Particularly not by a man. So I’ll pipe down. Believe me, I only want to save you from the bad fairy. I’ll telephone soon,
Kit.
‘Well, Violet, what do you think? Not exactly a love letter, is it? No protestations of passion or assurances of undying devotion. I like it much better for that. I was angry with him a little while ago but now … Tell me, Violet’ – I felt her hand tremble in mine – ‘does this volatility denote Constance’s pressure cooker? Was I angry with Kit because I’m more than a little fond of him? I bet you know a thing or two about love, don’t you?’ Violet stared at me with wide eyes and faintly dilating pupils. ‘I wish you’d tell me about love. Because I realize I don’t know the first thing about it. I’m not even sure I believe there is such a thing.’
‘Bub,’ said Violet.
I was so startled that I dropped her hand
and sprang up from the bed. ‘What? What did you say?’
Violet pressed her lips together and one corner of her mouth quivered. ‘Bub,’ she said again.
‘I can hear you. I’m listening. But I don’t quite understand. What is “bub”?’
In my eagerness to grasp what she was saying I leaned over her. Violet screwed up her mouth as though gathering strength. ‘Bub …’ she said distinctly and then let out a deep sigh. ‘Bub-ba.’
‘Bobbie! Is that it? You’re saying my name? Bobbie?’
‘Bub-bee.’
My skin came out in gooseflesh. ‘Violet!’ I took both her hands in mine. ‘That’s wonderful! I can understand you very well. Now try and say your name. Say Violet.’
Violet put her lips together and blew out air. ‘Byle.’
‘Yes! Put a t on the end. Tongue behind your teeth. T-t-t.’
‘Byle-t.’
‘Well done!’ I was desperate to make the most of the moment. ‘Now say your mother’s name. Maud.’
‘M-m-m. M-mum-mum.’
Here was proof, if I needed any, that Violet was capable of thought as well as imitation.
‘Now say Finn.’
But the F proved too difficult. Knowing nothing about speech training I was unable to explain how to make the sound. Violet became frustrated and tearful. She closed her eyes, turned her head away and seemed to sink back into her own world. But I was elated. I went downstairs to find Constance who wept when I told her what had happened.
‘It’s been such a ghastly day and I’ve felt so depressed and now this marvellous thing’s happened,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s a rebuke for lack of faith. God forgive me.’
Why Constance should at once assume that Violet’s achievement was God-given, I did not know. But while milking Siobhan I gave it further thought and the conclusion I came to was that Constance’s faith was as instinctive as a preference for light, warmth and hope over darkness and gloom and despair. However many covering layers were stripped away by reason, her religion was as intrinsic as skin and bone.
THIRTY-SEVEN
In the middle of September, the day after Flavia’s ninth birthday, the children went back to school. This coincided with the arrival of autumn and the landscape becoming Fauvist with splashes of crimson, yellow and russet. Time gave the impression of gathering speed until the weeks were barely distinguishable one from another. When I look back to that period, I was, if not actually euphoric, at least no longer unhappy. I was too busy to think about myself during the hours I was awake and insomnia was a thing of the past. Now I slept from the moment I turned out the light until my alarm clock went off at six.
I continued to ring home each week but it was clear I was not needed there. These days it was Mrs Treadgold who answered the telephone. My mother was now well enough to bath herself and walk to the lavatory without help. Ruby gave my mother manicures, pedicures, massages, conditioning treatments for her hair and had made her a new nightdress and bed-jacket. According to Mrs Treadgold Ruby was a whiz with the sewing machine and a born nurse. My mother had put on weight. They all had. My father enjoyed five courses for dinner and afterwards played Scrabble with Ruby. These days he rarely went up to his club. Oliver had gone to live with Sherilee upstairs in the Red Lion. Mrs Treadgold’s digestion had improved but she had a troubling rash on the backs of her knees. I tried not to give way to a feeling of pique that they were managing so well without me. I had to admit that I could not match Ruby’s selflessness.
The beginning of the school year dictated changes to our routine. Constance, the children and I had an early informal breakfast in the kitchen. The children had to leave the house by eight to be driven by Constance to school in Williamsbridge. Eugene and Sissy had their more leisurely breakfasts later, in the dining room. Whenever I went in to replenish the toast or clear the plates, they would be sitting in silence, Eugene reading studiously while Sissy repaired her costumes. Having been sketchily made in the first place they were always coming apart and leaving beads or scraps of lace or wisps of marabou about the house. I pointed out to Constance that it would be more practical and economical, not least of time (our time, as Eugene and Sissy apparently had all the time in the world) if they took breakfast in the kitchen as well. Constance explained the peculiar delicacy of the situation according to Irish rules of hospitality. As they were guests she did not like to suggest a change that might imply they were in any way a burden on the household.
While Pegeen and Katty took trays to Maud and Violet I put the results of the morning’s milking through the separator, skimmed the cream pans and collected the eggs. By the time I had finished tidying the kitchen Constance would be back and usually we spent the morning doing whatever was needed to restore order and beauty to the rooms that were to be shown off. Then for two hours every afternoon Constance and I gardened. In England everyone retires indoors when it pours. In Ireland you could be immured for weeks with such a spiritless attitude. So I learned to ignore the rain. I bought industrial quantities of things like derris and Bordeaux mixture to combat blight, wilt, aphids, beetles and mites. We sowed spring cabbages, lettuces, broad beans and peas and hoed up the weeds that grew like Jack’s beanstalk.
We took a thermos with us and had our tea-break sitting in broken deckchairs beneath pieces of corrugated iron balanced across the glazing bars of one of the greenhouses. The rain had filled the dipping pond to the brim and there was always a gathering of birds on the rim, immersing themselves, shaking their feathers and preening. The greatest pleasure for me was to watch the red squirrels, with tufted ears and gleaming fur the colour of just peeled conkers, either frozen with clasped paws in attitudes of meditation or springing into the safety of a tree. A quarter of the walled garden had been reclaimed now and the more or less straight green rows running across the sticky black soil were a testament to our labours. When I took myself upstairs afterwards to change, my hair was stuck to my cheeks in ringlets, every stitch I had on was steeped in mud and drips hung from the tip of my nose and the lobes of my ears. I felt I was halfway to acculturation.
The most dramatic and radical of our horticultural improvements was the trimming of the two rows of yew trees that lined the avenue between the canals. Constance found boxes of old photographs of former masters, servants, children, horses and dogs with the garden as background. She remembered the huge stone urns filled with palms that had once marked the boundaries of the top terrace. They had been sold in the late fifties, as had the marble statues of Apollo and Aphrodite which had stood at the heads of the canals. The photographs showed an elaborate parterre on the west side of the house. Briefly I played with the idea of restoring it before common sense put an end to this fantasy. It would be much too labour-intensive. But the theatrical yews – in the photographs they looked like black cardboard cut-outs of giant acorns in cups – would need trimming only once a year.
It was much harder work than I had imagined. It took us several days to cut each straggling tree into a shape that resembled a ten-foot-tall steamed pudding. Each yew (there were twenty of them) had to be reduced to roughly half its size and some of the branches were as thick as my thigh. They would take several years to become dense and sharp in outline but it was possible to see, after only four were finished, the exciting contrast between the formality of the clipped yews and symmetrical canals with the wild woods and mountains beyond, just as the original landscaper must have intended.
At half past three either Constance or I went to fetch the children. Tea and then homework, the most disagreeable part of the day, took up all the time before dinner. Flavia adored writing essays but Liddy kicked her chair, groaned and grumbled through every sentence. Flurry was baffled by the requirement to imagine himself as a penny for a day or a monk in the Middle Ages. While we made suggestions and sketched out hypothetical incidents, he would stare at a blank page for hours, becoming mysteriously inkier without having written a word. Finally we resorted to dictation. Of course we knew this was thoroughly deceitf
ul and certainly not in Flurry’s best interests but it was essential to end everyone’s torment. Yet when the homework was maths he could run through columns of figures faster than seemed humanly possible. Liddy and Flavia were practically innumerate and Constance and I little better, so we were dependent on Flurry to lighten our darkness.
The two younger children had supper early in the kitchen so they could be in bed by nine o’clock. By the time Constance and I had cooked and served dinner for the adults and washed up afterwards I could hardly climb the stairs to bed. But I was cured of love. The conviction that this was so came gradually. I found I could think about the past without pain. I suppose I deliberately made Burgo out to be a limb of Satan, or someone much worse than he really was, in order to speed the healing process. Whatever the truth of it, when I thought of him that autumn it was with a mixture of feelings – regret, shame, affection – but also detachment. I was myself again.
A speech therapist came once a week to spend an hour with Violet. She gave us exercises to do with her and though at first I felt impatient because the goals we were instructed to aim at seemed so paltry – a whole week practising the letters b and p – after a few weeks it was evident that Violet was making progress. By the beginning of December, after much hard work on everyone’s part, she was able to communicate with half a dozen words or phrases, like ‘drink’ and ‘lie down’ and ‘want sky out’, which meant she wanted the curtains closed. Her right eyelid still drooped and her mouth was crooked but the speech therapist assured us there was every chance of improvement if not complete recovery of the paralysed muscles.
As Violet became increasingly conscious of her surroundings she often had fits of crying that were distressing to witness. Sometimes she was voluble but we could not understand what she was saying. Strings of syllables, meaningless to us, came tumbling out while she banged her clenched left hand furiously on the bedclothes. In such moods she would deliberately upset her food if she could and glare at us with hatred.
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