by Sara Seale
“Not just yet, Aunt Bea,” Clancy replied. “The light is so lovely.”
“Well, fetch a coat, then. You have to be a little careful of chills once you’ve had pneumonia.”
Mark went into the house and fetched a coat from the hall cupboard. It was the same one he had snatched up on the night of her birthday, and, as on that occasion, he put it over her shoulders and felt her shiver.
“You’re not really cold, are you?” he asked, feeling her hands.
“No,” she said, without turning to look at him, “a goose walked over my grave.”
He sat down beside her on the chair her aunt had occupied, and lit a cigarette.
“Do you really want to go and stay with Conn and Clodagh?” he asked.
“I think so. I might stay on for Horse Show week. It’s ages since I’ve been.”
August ... At the end of August he would be gone ... “Let’s go off on our own tomorrow afternoon,” he said suddenly, “to Kinross Sands, or Grania’s Cave—anywhere you like. I’ll have to quote your own words and say I never see you now.”
It was, perhaps, an unfortunate reminder of their last visit to Grania’s Cave. She said sedately:
“I couldn’t do that. I promised Brian to go with him to the home farm and learn butter-making.”
“Oh, blast Brian!” Mark exclaimed with unprofessional fervour. “Let him learn butter-making without you for once.” She said nothing, and he caught her by the shoulder. “What’s the matter with you these days, Clancy? I can’t get anywhere near you. If anything I’ve said at any time has upset you, for heaven’s sake tell me and I’ll try to put it right.”
“You haven’t said anything to upset me,” she replied, but a faint colour stained her cheeks.
“Then why have you been avoiding me all this time?”
“I haven’t.”
“Oh yes, you have, and you know it, young woman. Well, let’s have it.”
“I wish you’d go away and leave me alone,” she said, with a nearer approach to her old truculence than he had seen in her for weeks.
“I’ll leave you alone when I find out what’s the matter with you, and not before.”
“Nothing’s the matter,” she said. “I haven’t anything to tell you. I’m going in now.”
His hand restrained her.
“Have I hurt you in some way?” he asked more gently. “Was it anything I said, or didn’t say, that day in Grania’s Cave?”
She did not answer but watched a fish rise in the loch leaving an ever-widening circle of ripples.
“I’ve been clumsy,” he said, “but you’re so young, Clancy, you make things very difficult for me at times.”
All at once she rounded on him.
“Why do you always want to spoil everything?” she demanded passionately.
He looked taken aback.
“I didn’t know I did,” he said mildly.
“Well, you do. I only want to be let alone and you have to come barging in, poking and prying. What have my own thoughts and opinions got to do with you? You said yourself I’m just a pupil. Out of working hours my private life is my own affair.”
She had sprung to her feet and he rose now and took her gently by the arms.
“What a wild outburst!” he said half-teasingly. “What have I done to deserve all this, you foolish child?”
“I’m not a child!” she cried, trying to wriggle free. “You used to treat me like an adult person, Mark, when everyone else thought I was just a little girl, and you gave me great confidence. But now—you think I’m a child like all the rest.”
He looked down at her with tender amusement.
“But, Clancy dear, part of you will always be a child for me,” he told her, “a naughty, stubborn child who will make me want to laugh. If you lost the child in you, you wouldn’t be you. Can’t you understand?”
“I don’t understand anything, least of all you,” she said, the black hair flung back from her forehead in wild confusion, “I only know that I wish you’d never come here. I wish you’d never come, with your English ideas, upsetting everything and making me miserable. I wish you were dead...”
She broke away from him then and fled towards the house.
“Come back, you little idiot, I want to talk to you!” he called after her, but she would not stop, but ran on into the house, and he followed her in time only to hear her flying footsteps on the stairs and the slam of her bedroom door.
He had no opportunity of speaking to her alone the next morning and, immediately after lunch, Kevin asked him to drive with him to Duneen to fetch back some fertilizer which the carrier had failed to deliver.
Brian and Clancy spent the afternoon at the home farm. There was so much to fill their idle hours that the time slipped away quickly. After the butter-making, there was a new litter of pigs to inspect, and a large tea to be eaten in Mrs. Doyle’s cool kitchen; there was the milking, and the sound of the rich streams of milk pouring rhythmically into a pail always fascinated Clancy. She felt better after her outburst of the night before, but the hard, hurt feeling round her heart still persisted, and she leant against the half-door, shutting her eyes, and listening to the sounds of milking, the steady munching of the cows, and sniffed the rich, sweet smell of hay and byre.
It was nearly eight o’clock when they walked through the south pasture on their way home, and saw Micky-the-post’s auto-cycle chuffing up the drive.
“It must be a telegram,” said Clancy, and, waving violently, started to run. Telegrams were always a source of interest at Kilmallin, and Micky would impart their contents before they were opened.
But it was no telegram this time. The little man’s pink face was puckered with distress, and he propped his machine against the railings and seized both brother and sister by the hand.
“Ah, me poor children!” he cried, and could do nothing else but repeat himself for some time.
“What is it, Micky?” said Clancy impatiently. “What’s happened?”
“Ah, sure, it’s the cyar,” he said at last, “an’ Kilmallin the drink taken, and it market day an’ all. Och, how shall I tell Miss Bea, and her tellin’ the schoolmaster to drive home if himself had the drink taken.”
Clancy’s hands were suddenly icy.
“Has there been an accident?” she said, “—a car accident?”
“Sure, I said it was the cyar, didn’t I? Away out on the moor road it was and himself to take no notice of the schoolmaster, and he such a fine young felly. Wirra, wirra! They’re bringing him back, Miss Clancy, me poor darlin’. Do you be going up to the house and alarm your anty and I’ll pop back to help with the cyar.”
He jumped on his auto-cycle and was away down the drive, thankful to have avoided Aunt Bea, before Clancy could question him further.
She stood in the middle of the drive, watching him out of sight and a terrible stillness kept her motionless and frozen. It was Brian’s frightened voice asking if something had happened to their father which sent the blood coursing normally again and she answered with bitterness;
“Kilmallin! Kilmallin never comes to any harm when he’s drunk! It’s Mark he’s killed with his wild driving—Mark! And last night I told him I wished he was dead.”
“Micky didn’t say he was dead,” said Brian. “He won’t be dead, Clancy, he couldn’t be dead. Micky only said they were bringing him home. He’ll just have broken a leg—Clancy, he’ll just have broken a leg. What’ll we do?”
“Go up to the house and stay with Aunt Bea. Tell Agnes to have things ready, in case—in case—” She began to run on swift, panic-stricken feet down the drive.
She was nearly at the crossroads when she saw a tradesman’s van stop, and deposit a passenger and turn back the way it had come, but she scarcely noticed, and ran on, her hair streaming back from a face blind with, tears, and straight into Mark’s arms.
“Clancy, my child, have you heard already?” he exclaimed. “I was coming back to tell you.”
She l
ooked up at him, dazed for the moment, then she flung both arms round him and was sobbing and laughing by turns.
“It wasn’t true!” she cried, “I might have known Micky was exaggerating, he always does. Oh, Mark, I thought you were dead, and last night I said I wished you were and I thought it was a judgment—oh, Mark, I would have died, too.”
He held her closely, remembering that blind, stricken face which he had thought was for her father, and his voice held a great compassion as he said gently,
“Don’t cry, darling, I’m quite safe, but I’m afraid I have bad news.”
She looked up and read the truth in his rather drawn face.
“Kilmallin?” she whispered, and he nodded.
“He insisted on driving, and I couldn’t stop him,” he said. “He ran the car off the road, and the shock has been a serious one, I’m afraid.”
“Is he dead?” she asked quite calmly.
“No, he’s not even badly hurt, but it brought on a severe heart attack. You’d better know, my dear—it may prove fatal.”
“He might,” she said clearly, “have killed you.”
He looked at her curiously.
“Would that have been worse?” he asked with gentleness.
“Yes,” she said, on a queer little note of surprise, “yes, it would. Kilmallin’s never cared for me.”
He took the two hands resting against his breast, and turned them palm upwards and gently kissed them.
“Come home now,” he said, putting an arm round her shoulders and turning her towards Kilmallin. “Doctor Boyle is bringing him back.”
Kevin lasted through the night. He lay in his big carved bed, unresisting, asking nothing. Doctor Boyle, after a time, gave instructions to Agnes and went away, saying there was nothing he could do. You could not fight the long undermining influence of drink, he said. Kevin might recover sufficiently to eke out the life of an invalid for a little while longer, but personally he did not think it likely.
“The fight’s gone out of him,” he told Mark. “He knows he’s finished and he’d not want to live the life of a heart patient. Mrs. Callaghan’s expecting her seventh, so I’ll be back in the morning.”
Just before midnight, Kevin asked for Mark.
The bed was in shadow, and the window, uncurtained, was open to the warm June night. Moths fluttered round the oil lamp where Agnes sat, doing some mending. She looked up and nodded as Mark came into the room, then went on with her sewing, her old face puckered, like a child about to cry. Mark sat beside the bed, listening to Kevin’s difficult breathing and noting the blue shadows round his mouth and nostrils.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have listened to you. I might have killed you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Kilmallin,” Mark said gently. “I haven’t even a scratch. You’ll be feeling different yourself in the morning.”
Kevin smiled faintly.
“No,” he said without regret, “I’m finished. Boyle knows it, you know it. I should like to have seen my son grow up, but perhaps it’s justice that I shouldn’t. I’ve set too much store by him.”
He stopped speaking, swallowing with difficulty, and Mark slipped an arm under the pillows, supporting him while he held a glass of water to his blue lips.
“I wanted to tell you—to ask you to look after Clancy for me,” he began again. “I’ve been a bad father—you often let me see it, didn’t you, Mark? I wanted a son—a son like Clancy—and I forgot I had a daughter.”
“Yes, Kilmallin, you did. Your daughter’s worth ten of your son, as Michael John would tell you.”
“Och, the garden boy! Perhaps you’re right—you know them both better than their own father does, and true, Clancy always had the guts.”
“Would you like to see her?”
Kevin moved his head wearily.
“Not now, not now. I’ll see Brian later. I’ll see my son ... You’ll look after Clancy, Mark?”
“I’ll look after her, I promise you.”
“Rest aisy, now, Kilmallin,” said Agnes, rising and bending over the bed. “You’ll be talkin’ the breath from your body.”
Aunt Bea and Mark sat up in the library, but Mark sent Clancy to bed.
Mark sat, smoking, and replenishing the small fire with turf while he listened to the scratching of Aunt Bea’s pen as it travelled across many pages, and thought of his promise to Kevin. The house was very still and, outside, no sound disturbed the dawn hours. A thin grey line already showed between a gap in the curtains, and just at daybreak Kevin asked for Clancy. Mark went to fetch her himself. He stood with a candle while she put on a dressing-gown and slippers, and when she asked if he thought it was the end, he told her the truth.
“Did he ask for me?” she said, tying the end of her dressing-gown in a clumsy knot.
“Yes, he asked specially for you, Clancy.”
“Not Brian?”
“No. He only wanted you.”
“Oh!...” Her eyes filled with tears, but she smiled at him and went with him along the silent corridor to her father’s room.
Agnes met them at the door, tight-lipped and disapproving.
“I should fetch Brian,” she whispered, “Kilmallin will be wanting his son.”
“I should leave him if his father hasn’t asked for him,” Mark said quietly. “There’s no point in disturbing the boy’s sleep and upsetting him. How is Kilmallin?”
“Very low. They should all be here, Miss Bea and Miss Kate and the children and the servants, too, for the blessin’ of a dyin’ man.” Agnes had rigid ideas on the etiquette of dying, and Mark, glancing at Clancy’s face, gave her a warning look.
“There’s time enough, Agnes. Don’t fret him with a crowd of people,” he said, and gently pushed Clancy into the room.
Kevin lay back on the pillows, very quiet except for his difficult breathing. In the pale dawn light his face looked pinched and shrunken and old.
“Clancy...” he said, and his fingers moved weakly in invitation.
She went to the bed and took his hand in hers.
“I’m here, Kilmallin,” she said steadily. “Rest easy.”
“You’ve been a good son to me, Clancy,” he whispered, “—a good son ... you and Brian should have changed places ... you should have been the next Kilmallin...”
“Brian will carry on for you,” she said.
His hand stirred restlessly in hers, and his lips moved but she could not catch what he said. Mark watched them both from the doorway: Kevin, quiet and unfamiliar against the pillows, his eyes closed now, and Clancy in her long blue dressing-gown standing so motionlessly beside him. He glanced at Agnes inquiringly, but she shook her head and knelt stiffly to replenish the fire.
Kevin’s eyes opened and his voice was suddenly strong.
“Kitty!” he said, “you’ll catch cold, love, in your dressing-gown...”
“It’s Clancy, Kilmallin, and I’ll not catch cold,” she said.
He moved impatiently.
“Ah, Kitty ... kiss me, sweet,” he said, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she bent and kissed him on the forehead.
“You always were careless of yourself,” he said. “You must mind yourself, my love, for our son’s sake ... you’ll give me sons, won’t you, Kitty?”
“Yes,” said Clancy, and her lips were white.
“Kitty ...” Kevin whispered, and a sharp spasm contorted his face and his head rolled a little to one side.
Mark moved quickly forward and felt for his pulse, then he put his hands gently on Clancy’s shoulders and drew her away from the bed.
“Come,” he said. “We will leave him to Agnes.”
She looked up at him and the pupils of her eyes had dilated so that they looked nearly black.
“Has he ... is he ...?” she asked, and he nodded.
“Yes, he’s gone. Come away, now.”
He took her down to the library, where Aunt Bea was still writing her letter to her sister Kate. She looked up as they cam
e in and her pale eyes focused on them with difficulty.
“He’s dead?” she said then, without surprise, and shut the blotter with a long sigh, and got up. “I’ll go and make some tea,” she said, and quietly left the room.
Clancy drew back the curtains and stood looking out on the new day.
“It wasn’t me he wanted in the end,” she said. “It never has been me.”
Mark came and stood behind her with compassionate hands on her shoulders.
“He mistook you for your mother at the end,” he said gently. “That often happens with older people. They go back into the past.”
“Yes ... he was still thinking of the sons she was to bear him ... poor Kilmallin, all his life he never really had what he wanted...”
She leant her head against his breast wearily, but with relaxation.
“Did you know it’s a year to the day since you came here?” she said. “Do you remember the goat and Kilmallin enjoying the joke that your name was Cromwell, and you saying you wouldn’t teach me, and Kilmallin saying you could wallop me if you liked?”
“Yes, Clancy, I remember.”
“And Kilmallin brought out the good whisky as a sign that he liked you. Everyone liked you except me and Agnes, and, perhaps, Conn a little, only he was jealous of Clodagh. Did you like us?”
“Very much.”
“Even me?”
“You, perhaps, most of all.”
“In spite of being so rude to you?”
“In spite of being so rude to me. Perhaps it would amuse you to know that I stayed on your account and not Brian’s.”
“Did you? How queer. Why, I wonder?”
“You interested me, and I think I was sorry for you—you were such a lonely creature.”
“Yes,” she said, and she thought that long ago she had always feared Mark a little because he alone had penetrated to her real self.
She turned and faced him, dry-eyed and composed and infinitely forlorn.
“What will I do when you leave us?” she asked. “What will become of me now?”
He looked down at her with great tenderness.
“Would you transplant, I wonder, you strange, wild Irish girl?” he said.
“Transplant?” She was too tired to understand his meaning. “Leave Kilmallin too, is that what you mean?”
