It was now May. More than a year since I had left Curraghcourt. I had not heard from Constance for two months. I had put the past behind me. As Sarah said, if women wished to be accepted as equals they must behave in all ways as superior beings and not like mawkish, maundering slops. I saw the truth of this. When at breakfast one Saturday morning I received a letter from Lord Bountiful, now in Jaipur, I opened it with feelings almost of eagerness.
Dear Roberta [said the letter],
I’m going next to New York. I’ve decided to set up a base there. Will you join me? And run the place for me in your own inimitable style? For six months at least. Longer if you like it. I’m getting a divorce, by the way. I would appreciate it if you would help me over this hurdle. All expenses paid, of course. If the answer is yes, you might like to order some travelling thing: clothes, suitcases and whatnot. Stick them on the account.
All my love, M
‘Bloody hell!’ said Sarah to the jolly barrister. ‘New York! New clothes! New luggage! All expenses paid! All you ever give me is books and theatre tickets.’
‘You said that was what you liked!’ Bryn protested. ‘You said you didn’t want to be bought with female flimflams.’
‘What a fool you are to have believed me.’ Sarah was scornful. ‘Well, Bobbie? I hope you’re going to say yes?’
New York. I had never been there but I had seen it in films. It looked good. What was the word people always used about it? Buzzing. Americans were enthusiastic. They adored antiques. Much of the best stuff was already over there. I might be able to buy some of it back. It would be a new beginning. I would be an idiot not to go.
‘If you don’t go I’ll think you’re a complete—’ Sarah began.
‘I know, I know,’ I said. I was silent a moment longer. ‘I think … perhaps I will.’
Sarah let out a profound sigh. ‘Phew! Bryn, you can go and bed down in Jazzy’s old room tonight. I’m going to sleep the sleep of the just and I don’t want to be disturbed. After thirteen months of walking on eggs, measuring every word I’ve said, tiptoeing round anything that might be a delicate subject: welcome back to the land of the living, Bobbie!’
‘I’m so sorry to have been such a nuisance,’ I said humbly.
I rang Myles in India and told him I would come to New York. He sounded pleased. He said he had rented a nice old house in Turtle Bay, a quiet part of Manhattan. I could have the ground-floor flat. Katharine Hepburn, who lived next door, was reputed to be something of a recluse and would therefore be an ideal neighbour.
For several days I went about my work in something of a dream, trying to imagine what my new life in America would be like. I failed completely. I would have to live it and see. I rang Cutham and told Ruby. She was excited for me.
‘Your mother’ll miss you, dear, no end, but I expect it’s for the best. Sometimes I think you haven’t been a happy girl. And I can’t think why. With a lovely face and figure and so clever as you are, the world ought to be at your feet. If I’ve said that once to Oliver and Sherilee I’ve said it a thousand times.’
I could imagine how well that would have gone down with Sherilee, who had made it clear from the moment we met that she considered me a stuck-up bitch.
‘Ah, well. Thank you for that. I’ll come down tomorrow to say goodbye.’
‘New York!’ My mother looked up from her book. She was lying in a deckchair on the terrace at Cutham, her feet on a stool, a rug over her knees. ‘I hear the crime rate is very high there. They have a lot of negroes and Puerto Ricans, of course, which would account for it. I only hope you know what you’re doing, Roberta. I suppose there’s a man involved. No, spare me the details.’ She lifted a hand in protest as I opened my mouth to tell her about Myles. ‘Just try to avoid getting into the newspapers if you can.’ She rang the little brass bell that stood next to a plate of homemade Turkish Delight on the table beside her to tell Ruby that it was time for tea.
I went to see Oliver and Sherilee at the Red Lion. Sherilee was nursing a pink scrap. ‘Poor Auntie Bobs,’ said Sherilee as I held my nephew in my arms and kissed his dear little screwed-up face. ‘It’s a shame, it really is. Seeing other people’s babies when you’re not likely to have one of your own. I’m ever so sorry for you. I hear New York’s a nasty dirty place. I hope you won’t be lonely.’
Oliver walked out with me to the car. ‘If business picks up I might come out and see you later on.’
‘That would be lovely. Will you bring Sherilee and Marlon?’ This was my nephew.
‘Probably not. She’s still off sex, you know.’
‘Give her a chance. It’s only six weeks since the baby was born. You must be kind to her and try to be patient. Now you’re a father you’ve got to think about other things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well … making a good home for him. Perhaps saving up for his education. Um … developing interests he might be able to share with you.’
‘Mm.’ Oliver kicked a bit of gravel about with his toe and looked gloomy. ‘Perhaps. I don’t remember our father ever sharing any interests with me.’ He brightened. ‘At least I’m not married to her. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure if Sherilee and I’ve got that much in common.’ He put on his wise face. ‘It’ll be better if I don’t get too involved.’
The word went round of my imminent departure for America. Jazzy, now living in a flat with Kit in Holland Park, came over at once to cry on my shoulder. ‘I can’t bear it that you’re going! I’ve relied on you always to be there. And you keep running off.’ She looked at me reproachfully through smudged eyes.
‘But, Jazz darling, you don’t need me now. You’ve got Kit.’
‘Yes. Well, of course, he’s marvellous and I couldn’t be happier. But recently he’s had so much work on. He’s been out nearly every night this week, entertaining authors, and he says I’d be bored and in the way while they talk business. Last night he didn’t come home until two. It can be very lonely. I don’t know a soul in Holland Park.’
I felt despondent when I heard this. Luckily Jasmine adored New York.
Harriet also was sad. ‘I’m going to miss you like mad!’
‘No, you won’t,’ said Rupert. ‘I’m going to be flying over all the time, doing a season at the Met. You can come too.’
I was immeasurably cheered to hear this. Though I knew it was exactly what I needed I could not rid myself of a fear of being uprooted. It had cost so much in time and effort to re-establish myself in London.
‘Stop worrying, you lily-liver!’ cried Sarah. ‘You’ll adore it. And you’ll adore him. I pretty much adore him myself on your behalf. What generosity! I like that in a man!’
Poor Bryn looked rather blue and that evening brought home an expensively beribboned box, containing a pair of Janet Reger knickers.
‘You ass!’ said Sarah. But I saw her kiss him in the kitchen later, quite tenderly for her.
An airline ticket, one way, arrived the following Saturday morning. The flight left the next day.
‘Concorde, no less!’ Sarah screamed. ‘All I’ve ever had is a second-class ticket to New Street, Birmingham. I should have played harder to get. My goodness, Lord Bountiful’s impatient! But wise, I think. He knows what a ditherer you are. Now you’ve got to get moving.’ She looked at her wristwatch. ‘In just over twenty-six hours you’ll be airborne and winging your way to a new life!’
‘But what about all my things?’ I felt anguished. ‘My furniture. The silver. The creamware dessert service I’ve just bought.’
‘Goodness, but you’re materialistic!’ Sarah looked shocked. ‘You can leave them here. I’ll be delighted to look after them for you. Then, if you decide to stay for good you can have them shipped out.’
Bryn was sitting at the breakfast table in a towelling robe and socks, so brotherly was our intimacy at this stage. ‘This is just like a rags-to-riches musical. Any minute men wearing white tie and twirling ivory-topped canes are going to shimmy in through the front doo
r, singing about heaven. Can life offer more?’
‘The girl’s going to be lapped in luxury and she fusses about a few old bits of wood and metal.’ Sarah spread butter lavishly on her toast. ‘I feel like an ugly sister.’
‘Now who’s being materialistic?’ I said.
I picked up a letter which had arrived in the same post as the airline ticket. It had an Irish stamp but the writing was crooked and wandering, not Constance’s elegant hand. I opened it and looked at the signature. It was from Maud.
I got up from the table and went over to the window to read it.
Dear Bobbie,
You’ll be surprised to hear from me. I hate letter-writing so I shan’t bother with the usual courtesies. I don’t know when you last heard from Constance. The girl is in a dream of love with that fool so perhaps she has not written to tell that my idiot daughter has left Curraghcourt and gone off to Dublin with Anthony Molesworth. There is no reasoning with fools. I cannot tell why I should have been saddled with a halfwit for a daughter. God knows I’ve tried to keep her straight. Anyway, she and Anthony have gone. Basil Molesworth, a fool of a different kind, is selling Annagh Park so he can buy a house in Dublin where we can all live in a no doubt uncomfortable ménage à quatre. He has the idea that the drier climate will help my bones. And that Violet may need us. As to that, I cannot say. Anyway, I do not feel I can stay on at Curraghcourt in the circumstances.
Of course I saw how it was going to be. After Violet left I asked Finn why he had been what we used to call a complaisant husband. He said he knew the marriage was going from bad to worse but his heart had not been in it. He was talking about sex naturally. If we women took that attitude the human race would cease to reproduce itself. Still, I dare say you disagree with me. The modern girl is a different sort of creature.
I suggested in that case he might as well go where his heart was. Or better still get you back here. I suppose you thought you had been discreet but for anyone with eyes to see it was obvious. I cannot altogether blame you. Finn is less of a fool than any man I know. His reply was that you had a new life now and he had nothing to offer you but financial difficulties, troublesome children, a life in a wilderness far from all the things a reasonable human being has the right to expect. This may be your view also. I don’t know. But because you were good to us, I have thought it right to let you know. Apparently after his term as senator ends, which it will do next year, he plans to write a book about Charles Parnell. Who wants to read about a fool like Parnell? Being English you may not know that he was a nineteenth-century Irish politician who destroyed his career by having an adulterous affair with a minx called Kitty O’Shea. I leave for Dublin tonight. You can do as you like, of course.
I remain, yours sincerely,
Maud Crawley (No reply expected.)
‘That’s a pretty stamp.’ Sarah picked up Maud’s envelope and examined it. ‘The Republic of Ireland. That reminds me. Someone telephoned yesterday while you were out. A man. A good voice, deep, educated, not quite English. It might have been Irish. Or Scottish. I’m no good at accents.’
‘When we met you thought I was Australian,’ Bryn reminded her.
I looked up from the letter. ‘What did he say?’
‘I explained that you were tidying up loose ends at work. He said he might ring back and I told him he’d better make it snappy as you were leaving for New York soon. He asked if you’d be away for long. I said, at least six months, possibly for good. He said … what was it?’ Sarah snatched the marmalade spoon from Bryn before he could put it in the jam. ‘In that case he wouldn’t trouble you when you were obviously busy and to wish you good fortune. Or was it every happiness? But before I could ask his name he rang off.’
‘Bobbie! You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.’ Bryn was accusing. A minute had gone by during which I had folded the letter, put it back in its envelope and gone to the desk to find my address book. ‘What I want to know is when we’re going to be allowed to come over and see you? Steerage, naturally. But I’ve always want to go to New York. What do you say, old girl?’ He winked at Sarah. ‘Shall we have our honeymoon there? Provided we aren’t de trop, of course.’
Sarah was looking at me hard, with an expression that was severe. ‘I hope I haven’t done the wrong thing, telling you about the phone call. I assume he was someone from the episode that’s history now. You’re over all that. Think of the future, my girl. Now is not the time to be dreaming about the past.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Yes, of course. I’m afraid I wasn’t listening properly. The future.’ I stood still for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts. ‘Yes. Where’s that address book? I’m going to ring the removers and tell them they must come and crate my things. Then I’m going to pack.’
‘At last!’ Sarah clapped her hands. ‘I detect genuine enthusiasm. I see the martial gleam in her eye. I’m going to open a bottle of Lord Bountiful’s champagne.’
‘But it’s nine o’clock in the morning!’ Bryn objected.
‘Don’t be so puritanical,’ Sarah reproved him. ‘This isn’t a chapel and we aren’t miners whose only legitimate pleasure is a weekly bath and lot of sloppy singing.’ She popped the cork, poured out three glasses and handed me one. ‘Now drink deep, everyone. To the future!’
‘To the future!’ Bryn and I echoed dutifully.
FIFTY-FOUR
The windows of the departure lounge at Heathrow were clouded with circles of condensed breath from the open-mouthed spectators as Concorde was towed to her loading bay. The plane had the allure of a famous film star. However indifferent you might consider yourself to such things, you could not take your eyes off her. Inevitably the dipped beak, the lean body, the swept-back wings prompted comparisons with birds of prey: beautiful, noble, outlandish. Mounting the steps to the cabin, the drabbest of her passengers seemed to take on something of Concorde’s self-conscious glamour. As she skimmed down the runway with formidable grace and a roar that made one’s blood sing, even a woman as unmoved by machinery as I could not but be impressed by her elegance and the originality of her design. She positively screamed of the future. I saw her take off without the slightest regret.
The plane to Galway was, by contrast, a cigar-case with wings. I quite expected them to flap as we lumbered into the air. The neat fields and tidy villages of the English Midlands dropped away beneath us. As we reached cruising height the nun sitting next to me continued to count the beads of her rosary but with diminished fervour. In order to rid myself of the conviction that the plane was kept in the air by the rigidity of my stomach muscles I bought a minuscule bottle of champagne. It was too sweet and too warm but a glass and a half was enough to relax the tension which over the last twenty-four hours had been screwed to a pitch that made operating telephones, writing letters of apology and explanation, wrapping treasures and zipping suitcases more than usually difficult.
As we flew above the Irish Sea I saw what I was almost certain was the ferry, though it was no larger than a grain of wheat, ploughing the smooth waters on its way to Dún Laoghaire. I wondered if the motherly waitress was aboard, tending some sickly, miserable passenger. The coast of Ireland, outlined by a white frill of breaking waves, slid beneath us. Dublin, a condensed town plan of roads and squares neatly divided by the Liffey, petered out into the green crinkled plains of Kildare and Offaly. I must have dozed for a while. During my last night in England my sleep had been continually disturbed by the resurgence of emotions, floating up like bubbles to break on the surface of my mind, an uncomfortable mixture of hope, doubt, anticipation and fear. When I opened my eyes and looked again we were crossing a strand of pewter that must be the River Shannon into Galway. Now the colours became more varied. Every shade of brown and grey mingled with the green that was divided by the fingers of great lakes. We descended into Galway airport with breathtaking suddenness.
After Heathrow it seemed small and friendly. All around me people were speaking with the soft consonants and extravagant inflec
tions which had given rise to a painful nostalgia whenever I heard them in England. I collected my luggage, found a porter and was taken to the bus station. I changed buses at Oughterard. The green and cream vehicle, twenty years old and in need of a coat of paint, set off twenty-five minutes late, for no good reason that I could discover except that the driver was enjoying a conversation with the conductor.
When the ground became hilly, my heart, already agitated, began to pound against my ribs. Behind the hills rose the mountains. Their beauty inspired such joy and terror that I was forced to eat the barley sugar the stewardess had given me on the plane to keep myself calm.
The woman sitting beside me wanted to talk. She was from Limerick, visiting her childhood home after several years’ absence. She hated the harshness of the Connemara landscape, the brown bogs thick with cotton grass, the wind that blew summer and winter, the lack of human imprint.
‘I love it,’ I said. ‘I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.’
The woman gave me a doubtful look.
As the bus descended the steep road into Kilmuree I had to pinch my arm to convince myself I was awake. I listened to the woman grumbling about the lack of an ensuite bathroom at her old home, the terrible television reception, the way her sister’s husband went to bed at nine o’clock and expected the house to be silent thereafter.
I sympathized as well as I could but I heard scarcely one word in ten. Through the smeary window the woman’s eyes grew round as she saw my luggage being taken off the bus. I suppose four large suitcases did look opulent. I thought of Jazzy and smiled to myself.
‘Taxi, miss? Well, shite and onions! If it isn’t Miss Bobbie!’
‘If it isn’t Sam O’Kelly!’
I kissed his cheek. He looked surprised but pleased.
‘Bless me sainted mother but I never thought to see you here again. You’re looking a picture. What brings you to the back of beyond on this fine day?’ Before I could reply he picked up two of my cases. ‘Sure ’tis the castle you’ll be wanting. ’Twill be a pleasure to take you.’
Moonshine Page 80
