by A. O'Connor
A minute later the glass of whiskey was slammed loudly on her table, causing her to look up with a start.
“Hello, there. You must be Pierce’s wife?”
“That’s right.”
“Hmmm, I think I met you at the garden party up at your house, but to be honest I can’t remember.”
“You were in a fairly inebriated condition as I recall.”
“Oh dear!” He pulled up a chair and sat in front of her. “Did I disgrace myself?”
“Not overly.”
“It was all Dors’ fault. My companion?”
“I remember her.”
“Dors is a kind of cocktails-at-dawn kind of gal. She’s a terrible bad influence on me, you see.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And I’m so easily led.”
“I’m sure.”
He causally lit up a cigarette. “Smoke?” He offered his packet.
She was horrified. “No – no, thank you.”
He sat and looked at her. “I think I should let you now from the start, I don’t believe in titles. So do you want to be called Clara or Mrs Armstrong?”
She looked at him, surprised. “Em – Clara will do, I suppose.”
“Good, I hoped you’d say that,” he looked her up and down. “I have to say – you look like awfully good fun.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. Pierce has done very well for himself. I always thought he was a bit of a stick in the mud, to be honest. Does he know you’re frequenting the local public houses on your own?”
“I haven’t hidden the fact from him.”
“Or advertised it to him either, I imagine. You’ll get yourself a reputation if you’re not careful. And once you get a reputation around here it’s very hard to lose it. I should know . . . I’m returning to Dublin for a while.”
“So I overheard.”
“I’m showing in an exhibition.”
She longed to ask him about his art and the world he occupied, but didn’t want to come across as that interested.
“But you must call on me next time I’m down,” he said. “We’re neighbours – Seymour Hall is just across the lake. At night I can see the lights on in your house, I’m sure you can see mine too.”
“I haven’t looked.”
“I’m sure with a pair of binoculars I could see right into your room.”
“Doubtful, but I’d better keep my curtains drawn then, hadn’t I?”
“Well – do call in to me.”
“I’m sure my husband and I would be enchanted to call on you.”
He smiled knowingly at her. “Indeed.”
A train’s whistle suddenly blew.
“Oh, there’s my train! Better rush! I hate travelling by train, you can get lumbered with the most tedious company and there’s no escape! Till next time!” He suddenly got up, grabbed his case, threw some coins on the bar top and rushed out the door.
Cassidy looked after him, smiling. “Ah, sure he’s great crack, Mr Johnny. Always was since he was a boy, not a bit like the rest of the gentry.” He suddenly looked over at Clara, embarrassed. “If you’ll pardon me saying, Lady Armstrong.”
“The Dasdales have arrived to Hunter’s Farm from Paris,” Prudence informed them over breakfast.
“The Dasdales?” enquired Clara.
“This couple who rent Hunter’s Farm for a month or so every year,” said Pierce.
“He comes for the fishing, an accomplished angler,” said Prudence, “and she’s – well, she’s half mad in my opinion.”
“They say she reads fortunes, can see the future,” said Pierce.
“You stay away from them, Clara,” said Prudence. “Bad enough you mixing with the locals – you don’t need the tourists as well.”
Clara actively sought out the Dasdales and came across them fishing along the lake shore.
“Hello, I’m Clara, Lady Armstrong. I do hope you’re enjoying your stay?”
“Very much,” said the woman.
They were a couple in their fifties. They introduced themselves without ceremony as Velma and Thierry. It wasn’t long before they had invited her to accompany them back to Hunter’s Farm for tea.
“We get great peace here,” said Velma as they sat in the drawing room over tea. “Paris is so rushed and here we can just relax.”
“Yes, it’s very relaxing all right,” agreed Clara. “You must come to dinner in the house some evening,”
“Perhaps we will.” Velma was studying her intently.
Clara took to dropping into the Dasdales regularly. She liked their easy welcoming ways.
“Is it true what they say – that you can read the future?” Clara asked one day.
“Yes – she’s psychic,” confirmed Thierry.
“Only sometimes,” said Velma, sitting back in a dismissive fashion.
“Oh please, read my future. I need to know – me and Pierce – will we be all right?”
Velma sat forward and took her hands and held them.
“You are easy to read, you speak as you find it. You don’t hide things well – perhaps this is not so good sometimes. Pierce, your husband, I’ve met him several times.”
“What will happen to him in the future?”
She shook her head. “Your husband is impossible to read. I can’t get anything from him. He’s – blocked – a wall around him. All I can see is that someday you will save the House of Armstrong.”
“I? But how could I save anything?” Clara smiled, puzzled.
Velma folded Clara’s fingers against her palms and drew away smiling.
“That’s all I know.”
53
July was a frantic period of diplomacy, failed diplomacy and rapid mobilisation as Europe prepared for war. The summer in Ireland continued to pass in a lazy haze of garden parties, cocktail parties, tennis and regattas, as Clara continued to struggle to fit in. It was the Armstrongs’ turn to have a cocktail party at the house the night the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland declared war.
“We’ll have to postpone the grouse-shooting season,” moaned Prudence.
The war had taken Clara by surprise, but it seemed so far from them in the house that it was hard to see how it could involve them until Pierce arrived home and announced he had enlisted in the army.
“Enlisted!” Clara was horrified. “But you have no military experience or background. What use will you be?”
“What use will any of them be?” said Prudence. “Joe the chauffeur and the stable lads have enlisted as well.”
They were in the drawing room and they were waiting for the guests to arrive.
“Why so soon, Pierce? War was declared only today.” Clara felt panicked at the thought of him going.
“I knew the war was coming so I enlisted last month.”
“But why didn’t you discuss it with me?” demanded Clara. “Tell me what you were planning.”
“For what purpose?” Pierce, dressed in a tuxedo, stood at the array of drink decanters laid out on the side table and poured whiskey into a crystal glass.
“For what purpose? Because I’m your wife!”
Fennell walked in, announcing, “Mr and Mrs Foxe.”
“It’s a pity we can’t pack Fennell off to Flanders with you,” said Prudence under her breath to Pierce.
“You’re slipping into being cruel after being good all day,” observed Pierce to his sister.
“Well, I must have just past my watershed of being good.”
The Foxes arrived with their son Felix who was dressed in his new officer’s uniform.
“Look at you!” exclaimed Prudence. “It makes a change to see you out of tweed.”
“I-I-I-I got it this a-a-a-afternoon,” said Felix who had a bad stutter, and whose rosy cheeks made him look far too young for the rank he had been given. As in the case of Pierce, he was automatically allowed entry into the officer rank due to his class.
“You look very handsome,” said Clara, giving him a kiss on
the cheek, disguising her stress at the whole situation.
“T-t-t-hank you, Clara. I-I-I t-t-t-t . . .” stammered Felix.
“Oh for goodness sake, Felix!” snapped Prudence. “Stop! Take a deep breath and try again!”
Felix went bright red.
Clara walked over to Prudence and whispered to her, “There was no need for that. You’re drawing everyone’s attention to his stutter.”
“Drawing attention to it! But sure everyone knows about it – he can go on forever!”
The other guests arrived, most of the younger men already proudly wearing officer uniforms.
Clara circulated amongst them, ensuring their cocktail glasses were at all times full. Clara felt there was a heady sense of excitement rushing around the room as the war talk took over. The warm evening seemed to mix with the excitement and Clara instructed that the French windows that led to the terrace at the side of the room be opened to allow air to circulate.
“Who invited them?” asked Prudence.
Clara looked across towards the door and saw that Velma and Thierry Dasdale had entered the room.
“I did actually,” she responded.
“Why?” Prudence looked perplexed.
“Because they have been good tenants over the past month and I happen to like them.”
Clara went over to them, greeted them warmly and asked Fennell to get them a drink.
“How good of you to come,” she said.
“Well, it is a distraction after all this bad news about the war,” said Velma.
“Will you delay your return to Paris until the war is over?” asked Clara.
“I’m afraid we can’t. Who knows how long it will last?” said Thierry.
Clara spotted Pierce strolling through the French windows and out onto the terrace. She excused herself and followed him. She found him resting against the balustrade, gazing out across the lake while he smoked a cigarette.
The sun was beginning to set and the sky had turned a red glowing hue that reflected in the still lake.
Clara walked over to him and stood beside him.
“When are you leaving?”
“Next week.”
“Next week!” She turned and stared at him in shock. “So soon?”
“Yes – unless I ring up the Kaiser and ask him to halt their advance until my wife feels the time is right for me to go.” He took a drag from his cigarette.
“You don’t have to be so – so bloody sarcastic all the time.”
“Don’t I?”
“No! Or so – cold. You’re heading off to war. I need to hear reassurance from you, that everything will be all right. That you’ll be back quickly and we can get back to our normal life.”
“Our normal life? And what exactly is our normal life? You doing whatever you do – I doing whatever I do. Passing each other with a few inconsequential words.”
“I want more than that. You know I do. I want to spend every moment with you and for us to be inseparable. I just accept it’s not easy for you. But in time . . .”
“In time . . . what exactly? You want me to reassure you. I can’t. I can’t reassure you about anything. Not now. Not ever. Not with this war. Everything is going to change. And do you know something? I can’t wait for it to. I want everything to change. I want everything to be turned upside down, so we feel, I don’t know – alive, I guess.”
She stared at him, trying to understand him, but she couldn’t.
She turned and walked back inside.
To her dismay, she noticed that Velma was in an agitated state, and shaking.
“Velma, what’s wrong?” asked Clara.
“I’m sorry, I need to leave.” Looking down at the floor, she rushed from the room followed by Thierry and Clara. They waited in the hall outside as Fennell went to get their coats.
“What was it?” asked Clara.
Velma was shivering despite the night’s warmth. “I just saw so much tragedy ready to unfold with the people in that room. It terrified me. They don’t know what is ahead of them.”
“The men going to war?”
“Yes, and more.”
“Pierce? Did you see anything for Pierce?” Clara was nearly terrified to ask.
“He’s impossible to read, I’m sorry. As I said before, he’s blocked.”
“But you didn’t see him being injured?” Clara was shivering as well.
“I can’t read him. I’m sorry.”
Thierry and Velma left the house.
Clara returned to the drawing room where the cocktail party had returned to full swing.
“What a remarkable woman, that Velma!” commented Emily Foxe.
“That’s one word for her,” said Prudence.
54
Prudence drove the car to the station with Pierce and Clara in the back.
“I suppose we’d better get used to driving ourselves now Joe has headed off to the front,” said Prudence as she pulled up in front of the station.
Pierce and Clara got out of the car.
“There’s no need to come any further,” said Pierce. “I don’t like goodbyes.”
“But Pierce, I want to,” pleaded Clara who was desperately trying to hold back the tears.
“If you insist,” sighed Pierce, then turned to Prudence and said, “I’ll write.”
Prudence nodded. “Do that.”
Clara slipped her arm through his and they walked through onto the platform and the first-class carriage. The last of the men were boarding and the platform was crowded with their families saying goodbye.
“I’ll write to you every day. Every single day,” promised Clara.
“There will probably be delays with the post.”
“I don’t care. I’ll write anyway.”
“If you must.” He reached the door of the carriage and turned to her.
“Please be careful,” Clara pleaded, refusing to cry because she knew it would annoy him.
“I will.” He reached forward awkwardly and kissed her cheek before stepping into the carriage and closing the door.
She watched him take his seat. He didn’t look at her again.
At last the whistle blew and the train began to move.
Clara waved but he continued to look straight ahead as the train pulled away. She walked through the crowd and out to the car and sat into the front beside Prudence. It was only when she was there that she allowed the tears to flow freely. She took out her handkerchief and clutched it to her face to stifle the sobs.
Prudence started up the engine and raised her eyes to heaven as she said, “Not in front of the peasantry, Clara. Can you not wait until you’re back at the house before you start squawking?”
And so, suddenly he was gone without Clara having the time to prepare or even think about it. Leaving her alone in the house with just Prudence and the servants. The war had seemed to come from nowhere and whisk Pierce and all the other men away. Everyone said they would be back shortly, back by Christmas, but that was no consolation to Clara for being parted from Pierce and left at the mercy of Prudence.
At dinner that evening, Clara sat at one end of the table and Prudence at the other, only breaking the silence to talk about something mundane or comment on the food.
“I wonder if you’re using the motor car tomorrow?” asked Clara.
“No. I imagine I’ll be far too busy running this place to go on any jaunts.”
“In that case, I might drive myself into Castlewest to do a spot of shopping.”
Prudence looked at her displeased. “Well do try not to cavort with the locals, will you?”
“I don’t cavort with them,” defended Clara. “I stop to chat to them. I find them all very friendly and welcoming.”
“You would! But you should never forget that you are not one of them. We used to be the owners of thousands of acres around here and we should maintain our position.”
“Johnny Seymour’s family was very important too, and he is very friendly with all the locals f
rom what I hear.”
“Johnny Seymour! Hardly an example of how to live your life!”
Clara was on the telephone to her grandmother in London.
“Well, it’s like the entire city has been mobilised. Everyone who is anyone has gone off to the front.” Her grandmother started listing friend after friend of Clara’s.
“I hope they’ll be safe. I worry about Pierce. I haven’t heard a thing from him. And I’ve written to him every day.”
“Perhaps he’s not a big letter-writer. I can’t imagine he is.”
“A simple ‘I’m fine’ would suffice. I’m so anxious and I’ve nothing to do all day but let my imagination run away with me.”
“Well, your whole life isn’t Pierce Armstrong. You have many friends at the front whom you should be writing to and keeping their morale up. A letter would make all the difference to them. I bumped into poor Cosmo Wellesley’s mother the other day and he’s off to the front, and his brothers.”
