A Letter From America

by Geraldine O'Neill

  A day or two later Angela paid a visit to her specialist shoemaker in Dublin and ordered two pairs of the Mary Jane shoes she liked in cream and blue to match her new jumpsuit. She had also packed her black patent shoes, so she reckoned the three pairs would match more or less everything. The calliper she would wear for the journey over and use when she felt it necessary.

  As she closed her suitcase for the final time, she decided that anything that she had missed she would buy over in England. She thought she’d probably treat herself to a few new items over there anyway, as she might find herself at a loose end if the major was busy with visiting relatives or meeting friends. The shops, she knew, would be much bigger with more choice, so she thought she might find something different or more fashionable that was not available in Dublin. She was not short of money, as she had no rent or food expenses living in Moorhill House, and she still had her savings account.

  It was a breezy morning as they set off from the house in a taxi to the port in Dublin for the ten o’clock ferry which would arrive in Holyhead that evening. Mrs Girvin and Eileen came to see them off at the front door, and the housekeeper had given Angela a small box with cake and biscuits she had baked for the journey over.

  “Very kind,” the major had said as they pulled off, “but unnecessary as we will have all our meals on the boat.”

  When they reached the port they went into a waiting room and then they were met by staff who carried their cases for the journey upstairs into one of the lounges.

  Angela had to climb up stairs behind the staff, which the major apologised for, but she took them slowly and managed okay without too much difficulty. She was surprised at the luxury of the lounge – deep carpets, low music playing, lots of uniformed waiters – and how spacious it was. She had also expected the lounges to be much busier, as she had seen all the cars and coaches that were queued at the docks, waiting to board the ship.

  From what she had heard from friends who had travelled by boat to England – and from listening to her aunt and Joseph – the boats were fairly basic and usually overcrowded. Maureen had warned her to find seats straight away and never leave them, as someone else would take their place and they might be left standing for the rest of the journey.

  Angela thought maybe they had all been on a different boat from the one she was on, or that they had travelled to Liverpool instead of Holyhead, and with a different company with lower standards. It was only when she went to look for the ladies’ toilets that she discovered she was in fact on the first-class deck, and she concluded that everyone else she knew had travelled second-class on the deck below.

  They had croissants and scones served with coffee around eleven o’clock, and then Angela read her book while the major read the complimentary newspapers and then sat back in his chair and dozed. Every so often she lifted her eyes to glance at him, and smiled to herself. He was such an odd, very individual man, she thought. Very much ‘himself’ as they would say back in Tullamore, meaning that he went about things in his own way, without feeling he had to subscribe to what others might deem the more normal way.

  He seemed without any self-consciousness, which she had found odd at the beginning. The way he would suddenly start reminiscing about a drunken uncle who had died in a fire in a rundown mansion in Edinburgh. The result of falling asleep whilst smoking in bed, he informed her. How he would describe the countries where the fresh fruit they were eating had travelled from, and wonder about the lives of the people who had picked them. How he would suddenly start talking about a character in a book he had read, describing them in such great and interesting detail that Angela almost felt she had read the book herself.

  How he would strike up a conversation with the man who was sorting out the luggage room on the boat for the foot passengers, and ask him how he came to be working there.

  Waiters, she had already discovered, gave him great mileage for conversation, and he had already engaged a few on board, asking them about their daily routine and where they originally hailed from. She noticed that he treated all of them with great courtesy, unlike some of the other first-class passengers who clicked their fingers to get their attention, and spoke to them in a condescending and dismissive manner.

  Some of his ways of thinking were actually beginning to rub off on her. Especially with regards to his attitude to her damaged leg, which he referred to in the most matter-of-fact way. This, in turn, had begun to make her feel less concerned about what other people thought. She no longer felt she had to hurry when there were people behind her as she was walking to the shops, in case she held them up and they noticed she was lame. If she was walking upstairs, she took her time and let people pass her by.

  When they were having a tea break in the morning in her office, she found herself chatting about things more randomly, as she would with her friends or family. She no longer felt she had to guard every word she said to the major, or be conscious of making a good impression, as she had with her previous employers. Occasionally she even found herself telling him stories about her father and the characters who came into the pub in Tullamore, and they would laugh over the things she recounted.

  When she recounted the conversations in her mind later in the day – checking she hadn’t been too forwards or presumptuous – she usually realised that Major Harrington had started off the light-hearted conversation in the first place.

  They had lunch in the restaurant at half past one – soup and then chicken with dauphinoise potatoes and broccoli, and then they had lemon meringue pie to follow. The major had ordered a bottle of white wine to go with it. After the meal and the wine, Angela felt very relaxed when they went back to the lounge, and when the major went off to talk to a man he recognised from Dublin, she closed her eyes and slept for almost an hour. When she woke, she found him sitting at the table quietly doing the crossword in the Irish Times.

  She sat up and straightened her suit jacket, and checked that her hair was still tidy.

  A waiter came around with tea and coffee and slices of fruit cake and, as they ate, the major presented the unfinished crossword to her, seeking her help in finding the missing words.

  Afterwards, when they had finally completed it, he clapped his hands together in delight.

  “Now,” he said, looking at her, “would you like to take a walk around the deck? I had a look outside while you were asleep, and the weather is reasonable. The sea breeze might just help to blow all the cobwebs away.”

  “I think that would be a great idea,” she said, smiling at him.

  As they stood together, leaning on the rail, a couple – who Angela guessed to be a bit older than the major – came past with two little boys aged around two and four. The man commented on the weather and how calm the sea was, which then led into a short conversation about the couple going over to England for their youngest son’s wedding. They were travelling, they explained, with their daughter and husband, and their two grandsons.

  “Lovely family,” the major said, when they had gone. “Lucky man. He won’t be lonely in his old age with those lively little fellows.”

  Then, as they turned back to look out over the Irish Sea, Angela suddenly heard herself ask, “Do you ever regret not marrying, Major?”

  He looked thoughtful. “I think we really only regret the things we made the wrong choice over. I never really had that choice. I never came close to marrying anyone, unfortunately. None of the women I had any acquaintance with were the right type for me.” He laughed and gave a little shrug. “And probably more correctly – nor was I the right type for them.” He turned to look at her now. “Occasionally, when I see nice families – like the one we just met – I think how different my life would have been if I had met the right person and got married and had a family. I think it would have been nice to even have had nephews or nieces, but of course you know my only brother died young...”

  Angela saw a sadness come into his eyes that she had never seen before, and she wished she had not brought the subject u
p. It was such a pity, she thought, that such a kind, nice man had not met anyone over all the years. She thought of her parents, and how they had met in their twenties, around the age most people meet their husbands and wives. Their life, she knew, had been happy in the main. Her mother wasn’t an easy woman, but married life had suited her and kept her as happy as she could ever be. She was a totally different woman now without their father. Her life had just fallen apart.

  The major, she thought, was in a very different situation. He had more or less always been on his own, but he’d had his army career and all the other things he did. He wasn’t an unhappy person, she thought, but she did think at times that he was lonely.

  As they made their way back to the lounge, she wondered whether she herself would meet someone. So far, none of the boys she had gone out with had been the type she would have married. She presumed that at some stage she would meet someone and they would just click together – that she would somehow know that it was the right person. What, she wondered, if that never happened? How would her life turn out? Would she end up lonely and on her own like him?

  They found their seats again and, as he helped her take her coat off, it suddenly occurred to her that, in spite of the fact he was probably more than double her age, she felt more comfortable and relaxed with him than she had ever felt with any other male. She found him interesting and entertaining, and all the things she would have written in a list, had she been asked to describe the sort of man she thought she could spend her life with. But, unfortunately, all his good qualities came in the wrong package – along with three unsurmountable obstacles.

  The first was the biggest one – his age. Then, of course there was the difference in social class and financial backgrounds. The third obstacle – she was nearly ashamed to admit to herself – was the major’s looks. There was no nice way around it, she thought, he was just not the handsomest of men. Even in his younger days, at his best, she probably would not have looked twice at him. Then, she suddenly caught herself. Who was she to think such things of anyone else? She who had felt judged about her appearance all her life?

  She glanced over at him now, watched him as he searched for his gold pocket watch to check the time. The heavy brows, the nose that was just too large for his face, the thinning hairline, the wrinkles around his eyes. But, she thought, his eyes were kind. And when he laughed, his face became more alive and somehow younger.

  He wasn’t that bad, she thought, and of course he had money which provided security. Surely there were some nice, older women in Dublin, who would appreciate a man like that?

  She looked at him now and wondered.

  Chapter 37

  A hired car had been arranged, and was waiting for them when they disembarked from the boat. Angela had been in the car with him back in Dublin on several occasions, so she knew that he was a confident and capable driver. As they drove out of Holyhead and made the long journey through Wales, she discovered during one of their chats that in his younger days he had actually been involved in racing driving.

  “It was only a hobby really,” he told her. “A bit of fun. I wasn’t talented enough to do it professionally, but I enjoyed it very much. I gave it up years ago.” He laughed. “The old knee again, but I still go to the Grand Prix and that sort of thing, when I’m over in England.”

  “You have a busy life,” Angela said. “You do a lot of interesting things.”

  “And I intend to keep it that way. It’s all too easy to get into a rut, go into yourself. Better to keep an active mind with travelling and meeting people.” He smiled. “And that’s good advice at any age, Angela, but more important as you get older.”

  They stopped en route at a hotel the major knew.

  “Something quick,” he told Angela, “that will keep us going until we arrive at Thornley Manor. Mrs Young will have something waiting for us there.”

  The young waitress at the restaurant door told them that it was a full dinner menu, so the major asked her if he could possibly have a quick word with the manager.

  When the manager arrived, the major explained their situation – that they only wanted a quick sandwich or bowl of soup, and wondered if the chef would be good enough to oblige, and to mention that it was Major Harrington from Dublin.

  Angela stood quietly behind him, and was not a bit surprised when they were shown to a quiet corner table and served soup and fresh crusty rolls.

  “They’re very decent here,” he told her. “I’ve stopped off here on a number of occasions, and I recently discovered that the chef was from Leitrim. We had a great chat when I had dinner here last time, and I explained that I’m usually anxious to get to Cheshire and don’t have time to stop off. He said any time I was rushing he could sort something quickly for me. I don’t like to take advantage, so we’ll make time on the way back to have the full dinner.”

  Later that night they drove through Thornley Village, just as it was starting to get dark. At the edge of the village they took a laneway which went uphill for about half a mile, and then they went through tall gates which took them down a driveway to the house.

  Angela had seen photographs and drawings of Thornley Manor, which was much bigger than the house back in Dublin, so she wasn’t surprised by the imposing old building, although she was rather taken aback that the grounds were neglected, with dilapidated stables and outhouses. She also noticed that one of the gable ends was particularly rundown looking with cracks in several of the leaded windows where ivy was creeping through into the house.

  The major had explained as they drove along that he wasn’t the sole owner of the house.

  “An uncle left it jointly to me and two cousins, Philip and Jeremy, when he died five years ago, as he thought it stood a better chance of being kept in the family if we shared the running costs. It has worked out fairly well so far, although it’s a money pit. Always something needing done, and trying to heat it in the winter is nigh impossible. We don’t have any regular full-time staff, to keep the costs down. Whoever is using it contacts a local man, Gerry, who does basic maintenance on the house, and he organises someone to come in to cook or clean or whatever is necessary. My cousin Jeremy spends quite a lot of his time here – his brother Philip is based in Edinburgh with his family.”

  “Will Jeremy be at the house when we arrive?” She hadn’t imagined that there would be other people there.

  “No, I expect to see him at some point later in the week, although that could easily change. He’s not the sort that’s given to planning too far ahead. He’s up in Scotland at the moment, I believe. He fancies himself as an artist – does a bit of painting and sculpting and he uses some of the upstairs rooms as studios. Bit of a shambolic affair in my opinion.” He laughed. “Not that my opinion counts for much where Jeremy is concerned. He organises painting weekends and so forth at the house, but I tend to avoid them at all costs. You never know who could appear without notice and it can be rather disconcerting to have people wandering in and out, when you have planned a quiet week.”

  “I can imagine,” Angela said.

  He looked at her and smiled. “I checked with him about this weekend well in advance, so our research shouldn’t be disrupted by any roving artists. I’m rather depending on him coming down this week, as he said he would organise to have the deeds and documents for Thornley Manor available for us to work on.”

  As soon as they pulled up, a young man with fair hair and wearing a casual sweater came out of the house to greet them and bring their bags in.

  “This is Gerry,” he said to Angela. “The chap who tries to keep everything in order here. Gerry, this is Angela Tracey, my personal secretary and research assistant.”

  “Tries being the operative word,” Gerry said, grinning at her. “It’s not a place that’s kept easily in order.”

  Angela tried not to smile at her convoluted title as they shook hands, and was grateful that the major had introduced her by her name and not ‘Miss Tracey’ which had made her feel old a
nd spinsterish.

  In the large hallway, she looked around her at the old stone-flagged floors, the worn Turkish carpets, the hallstand overflowing with waxed jackets, raincoats and tweed caps. Beside it stood a rack with wellingtons and muddy hiking boots, which Angela imagined should have been in the kitchen area or back entrance, and an umbrella-stand filled with golf clubs and cricket bats.

  The house had an air about it, she thought, which was distinctly male. There were few of the feminine touches that Mrs Girvin had lent to Moorhill House, bar a tall vase on the table in the middle of the hall filled with flowering branches cut from one of the bushes outside.

  Gerry carried their cases in and the major told him to put Angela’s in the first bedroom at the top of the first flight of stairs.

  “I’m sorry we don’t have any suitable rooms downstairs for sleeping as we do back in Dublin,” Major Harrington said, looking faintly anxious. “And it would have been difficult to have a bed brought downstairs – the beds are rather ancient and not suitable for moving around...”

  “It’s perfectly fine,” she said. She wouldn’t like to have to tackle the stairs every day, but it was only for the short while she was here. “We have stairs to the bedrooms back in Tullamore. I can manage them as long as I take my time, and I do need to have some exercise.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “We will use one of the rooms downstairs for an office, and the library is down here as well, so we should be fairly comfortable for working.” He rolled his eyes. “That’s presuming that Jeremy hasn’t commandeered them for some crazy art project since my last visit.”

  Angela laughed. “He sounds a bit of a character.”

  “Oh, he is. He’s certainly that.”

  When Angela woke the next morning, it was only eight o’clock and too early for breakfast. She hung her clothes up in the big Victorian wardrobe, and placed folded items like her underwear and pyjamas on the shelves.