A Letter From America

by Geraldine O'Neill

  The room assigned to her was one of the biggest bedrooms she had ever seen, and when she’d first laid eyes on the old four-poster bed in it, she immediately knew what the major had meant when he said the beds were not suitable for moving around. It was, she reckoned, around a hundred years old, and she wondered about all the people who might have slept in it before her. She walked around it now, looking at the mahogany furniture – the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the ornate dressing-table with three circular mirrors and numerous tiny, velvet-lined drawers. Some of the pieces were not unlike the furniture they had back in the house in Tullamore – but the ones in this room were duller from lack of regular polish and use.

  There was a door leading off her room which she discovered led to a smaller bedroom. This, she deduced, must have been a room used for nursing a child or something along those lines. The major’s room was across the corridor, and she reckoned that there were two or three other bedrooms on that floor.

  She went down the corridor to the nearest bathroom – a big room with tall windows, a black-and-white tiled floor, and an old roll-top bath standing in the centre – and had a quick, shallow bath in the lukewarm water. Back in her room, she quickly dressed. The house, she felt, was generally chilly, so she had decided that one of her new long jumpers, in blue, and a pair of navy slacks would probably be warm and casually smart for work.

  Downstairs, she found Gerry had arrived in to stoke the Aga in the huge old kitchen and light fires in all the rooms they were using. The major then appeared and explained they would spend most of their time in the kitchen when not working, as it was the warmest room in the house thanks to the old Aga.

  Lynn Dolan, the lady who looked after the domestic side of things, had left them all the basics like fresh bread and milk and eggs, and the pantry was well stocked with boxes of porridge oats and tins of soup, sardines and custard. She had left a large homemade shepherd’s pie and cooked chicken with salad which would get them through the first couple of days.

  “I’m afraid we have to cook for ourselves,” the major said. “It’s actually one of the things I enjoy about being here. I tend not to look at the clock, and just eat whatever is available when I’m hungry.”

  “I don’t mind doing the cooking,” Angela said. “I was used to doing it every evening at the house in Leeson Street, so it’s no trouble.”

  “Ah, but that would be taking advantage – your remit is secretarial rather than domestic.” He paused. “We’ll work it together. I’m quite accomplished with the frying pan when necessary.”

  He was in fact, as she had expected, fairly ham-fisted, but she managed to work around him and enjoyed the informality of their working together on something practical for a change.

  Used to seeing him in suits and semi-formal wear, Angela was taken by surprise when he arrived in the kitchen on the second morning, wearing a nice black cashmere sweater with a subtle diamond pattern in grey, black corduroy trousers and grey suede boots. The outfit made him look a little younger and more up to date, but she made no comment about it in case it seemed forward or too personal. He said nothing about his change of clothing either, but she felt both of them looked more relaxed and casual which befitted their country surroundings.

  The days began with a light breakfast, usually eggs, then work until mid-morning, another little break, more work, then an hour for a sandwich lunch. Afterwards, Angela would take a walk around the grounds and the buildings outside. It gave her a little exercise and it helped with her research about Thornley House, as she could physically see the remains of the buildings and stable blocks that were in old photographs.

  In one of the better-preserved sheds she found a broken-down Victorian carriage that would have been pulled by horses, and the shell of an old car from the 1920’s. There were also boxes and metal containers on a shelf, filled with old car number plates and badges and an old pair of binoculars in a tattered leather case that had a military crest on it from the First World War. When she told the major what she had found, he came down straight away and started sorting through the containers, delighted with the memorabilia.

  He told her to feel free to explore inside the house, to look around the library and any of the empty rooms on all three floors.

  “It’s a beautiful place,” Angela said.

  “Not as formal or as smart as Moorhill House, but of course it’s a country house after all.”

  “Yes, but it has old grandeur and great character,” she said. “It’s a place you can really relax in.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” he said. “Because I’m aware we’re of different generations, that you’re such a young woman...I thought you might find it rather boring or old-fashioned.”

  “But it’s nice old-fashioned,” she said. “Interesting old-fashioned.”

  He looked at her, smiling. “I’m grateful to Stephen Hall, you know, for recommending you. He was spot on. He knew about the work involved in the research – what I hoped to achieve with the book. I told him it was going to be a challenge to find someone who would tick all the right boxes, so to speak – have all the office skills necessary and the social skills. He said you would be ideal – ‘a clever, skilled, independent young lady’ is how he described you.”

  Angela felt a glow rising from her chest to her face. “Well, I’m grateful to him as well. This is the most interesting job I’ve ever had, and one I never even imagined existed.”

  He started to laugh. “It’s nice to be two very grateful people!”

  When she went upstairs to have a look around, the major warned her. “The top floor,” he said, “is not in great condition, and neither is the west wing of the house. Jeremy was supposed to take charge of the repairs, but he has only done them to a standard suitable for working in – his never-ending experimental art projects – as opposed to a decent standard for living in. He sorted the windows and the roof to make the rooms watertight, and has made repairs to the floors and had some sort of damp-proofing done with the walls, but that’s it. He has bright murals everywhere, and God knows what hanging from the walls, but I suppose he does own the house, and is entitled to use part of it as he pleases. He’s always promising that he’ll find a studio elsewhere, so we can finish the renovations, but he doesn’t seem in any rush.” He shrugged and smiled. “I shouldn’t complain, he’s a nice enough chap in his own individual way...and I’m not over here often enough to help with the work.”

  Angela thought that being individual must run in the major’s family and this cousin must be fairly unusual for the major to comment. She was suddenly curious about Jeremy, trying to build up a picture of him in her mind before he arrived. “Do you mind me asking if he is older or younger than you?”

  “A few years younger.” He actually chuckled. “That’s speaking chronologically, of course. With regards to our personalities and lifestyles – I’d say we are probably decades apart.”

  The top floor was worse than the major had described. When Angela walked into the first studio she could hardly believe her eyes. Huge rooms with ornate ceilings and coving – rooms which had once been beautiful – were now covered in gaudy orange and purple paint, and the weirdest art work hanging from them that she had ever seen. The first thing that caught her eye on one of the walls was a fish made from flattened out salmon and sardine tins. Then there was a sculpture of a man’s head made out of squashed spectacle frames. Another wall had a blue sky with clouds painted on it, and bird cages suspended from the ceiling in front of it with stuffed parrots inside. There were dozens of paintings – many of which made no sense to her, just squiggles and blotches of colour – the sort of thing she imagined a child would do.

  The second studio was similar, but the main exhibit which caught her eye was a group of a dozen or so tailor’s dummies which were dressed in a variety of material such as old torn-up books, music manuscripts and feather dusters. Above her head was a massive bird made from papier-mâché and several kites, pieces of driftwood with anti-war s
ymbols burned into them and a suit of armour made from egg boxes. A row of four rifles – made from books in varying sizes – pointed towards the tall high windows.

  Angela spent half an hour slowly walking around the rooms, stopping every now and again to look at certain things in detail. By the time she had finished, she thought, in fairness, some of the work was actually very good and she was impressed by the imagination of some of the artists. She particularly liked a collage of poppies which was constructed with painted metal and a sculpture of a naked lady made from broken pieces of jewellery.

  On her way back downstairs, she looked into another room and found it filled with old bunk-beds that looked as though they had come from a boarding-school dormitory and a pile of crumpled sleeping bags and pillows.

  Later, when she mentioned the room to the major, he told her that when any artists came to work, they slept in that room, and often dragged mattresses into the studio.

  “Bohemian is the only word to describe them,” he said, “or perhaps mad!”

  Angela shrugged and laughed, saying, “Well, I suppose the world would be boring if we were all the same.”

  Each day, after her walks around the grounds, she went back to work long into the afternoon. Most of the time she worked alone in the dining-room, while Major Harrington worked in the library. He spent his time reading through boxes and files of family letters and documents, searching for stories and anecdotes of his more errant forebears to add levity and humour to his work. More occupied with his project than before, he was drinking less alcohol than he did back in Dublin, Angela noticed. He didn’t drink wine with his lunch every day now, nor did he disappear off for afternoons and come back smelling of whisky. His high colouring – which she reckoned was from drinking too much – had toned down, and he was somehow quieter too, and less needy of other people’s chat and company.

  There was no official finishing time for work as Angela carried on reading or typing, taking notes and carefully filing things away, until it was time for the evening meal. They spent most of the evening over dinner and a glass of wine, talking about the information both of them had come up with, and how it might best be used.

  On the third evening Angela noticed the major looked concerned. “I hope you don’t feel you’re working too hard,” he said. “If you were in a conventional office, the lights would be off and the door locked and everyone would have gone home long ago.”

  “The research doesn’t feel like work,” she replied. “I find it fascinating. I’m really enjoying finding things out about the building, which parts were built during which period, and any renovations that were carried out later, and I particularly enjoy reading about the families who lived in the house over the last few hundreds of years, and trying to work out where they all went, and who married who etcetera.”

  “Your enthusiasm is making a huge project much easier,” he said. “I thought I would have to explain things more, but you’re off working on maps and family trees on your own as if you’ve done it for years.”

  In the middle of the week, Lynn Dolan arrived again, bearing a piece of beef and some fish and fresh vegetables, and washed around the kitchen and mopped floors, and gave the rooms they were using a good brush out and polish. She was pleasant, but unobtrusive, and was in and out of the rooms before they even noticed. Angela was relieved to find there was someone taking care of the domestic things so she could concentrate on her work.

  On the Friday afternoon she was busy typing when she heard a car engine. She glanced out of the window and saw a red-and-black Volkswagen campervan rolling up the driveway of Thornley Mansion. It parked close to the door, and she watched from the edge of the heavy curtain as a girl around her own age, with a short Twiggy-type hairstyle, got out of the passenger side. She was wearing a pink trouser suit and a purple hat with a flowery scarf tied around it, and a pair of multi-coloured sunglasses. A few moments later, a man with a handsome face emerged – probably late thirties, she thought. His dark hair was cut into a short pageboy style, and he was wearing a blue velvet jacket piped with a flowery edging, jeans and a flowery cravat.

  Angela smiled to herself when she saw them, as she had never seen anyone wearing such extreme clothes. She had seen people like the Beatles or other pop bands wearing them on television, but she had never seen real people dressed like this. She wondered with amusement whether Maureen would approve of their outfits for being modern and daring or whether she would describe them as outlandish and ridiculous. As she watched them laughing and chatting together outside, she couldn’t decide exactly what she thought of them herself.

  She wondered who the couple were and what they wanted at the house. As they came towards the main door, she suddenly thought that if the major wasn’t around – she hadn’t seen him for several hours – she might have to answer the door to them. She listened for a few moments, waiting on the bell to ring, and then she heard footsteps and loud voices in the hallway, and she realised that they had let themselves in.

  She went over to the door, unsure now whether to go out or what to do. Just as she had her hand on the doorknob, she heard her employer’s voice coming from upstairs and then there was loud laughter. The couple were obviously people he knew. And then it dawned on her that the man might be Jeremy, the cousin he had mentioned who was one of the owners of the house.

  Before she could speculate any further, the voices started moving in the direction of the dining-room. As quickly as she could, she moved back towards the top of the room, to the end of the table where her typewriter and her chair was. She did not want her limp to be the first thing this glamorous, confident couple noticed about her.

  She sat down to compose herself, and when the knock came on her door and then it opened, she took a deep breath.

  “I hope you don’t mind me disturbing you, Angela,” the major said, coming in, “but I’d like to introduce you to my cousin, Jeremy, and his friend Marjola. They’ve just travelled down from Scotland today, and they’ve dropped in for a flying visit.”

  They came in behind him, Marjola openly gazing around the room. “It’s fab, Jeremy! Absolutely fab!”

  Angela stood up, feigning a vague, preoccupied manner, as though she had been deeply engrossed in her work, as she didn’t want them to know she had seen them.

  Jeremy came towards her, an amazed grin on his face. “Wow, Edward – you old dark horse. This secretary is not what I was expecting at all!” His eyes opened wider. “Not at all...”

  Angela felt herself shrinking back, and just caught herself in time as he took her hand and shook it briskly. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said.

  “When Edward told me he had a personal secretary working with him,” Jeremy said, “I thought I would be meeting some old spinsterish battle-axe...never did I imagine I would meet such a goddess of beauty!”

  Angela felt herself squirming now. He was so over the top, she thought, one could not take anything he said seriously. He was like someone in a play – and a particularly bad actor. How on earth, she thought, could he be related to the major?

  “Jeremy, Jeremy!” the major said. “Enough! You’re embarrassing the poor girl!”

  It also crossed Angela’s mind that, on closer inspection, Jeremy looked older than she had earlier presumed – probably in his forties. The girl, she thought, looked not much older than her, probably mid-twenties at most.

  “A compliment is like a flower, Edward,” Jeremy said. “And this angel of yours deserves a bouquet. I’m so glad we called in, otherwise I would never have guessed you were hiding such a young beauty here in Thornley Mansion.”

  It was all so ridiculous that Angela found herself wanting to laugh, but she realised that it might well offend the cousin or the major. Instead she turned her attention to Marjola, who was standing silently, leaning against one of the dining chairs. “It’s very nice to meet you, Marjola,” she said and the girl came over to shake her hand. Angela noticed she did not smile or say anything, but she thought it was
more to do with Jeremy and his over-effusive compliments than anything to do with her.

  “We’ll leave you to your work now, Angela,” the major said, taking his cousin by the elbow to guide him towards the door. “I want my dear cousin to show me the deeds to this house before he disappears on his travels again.”

  “Do not let this old devil work you too hard,” Jeremy called as they went.

  They went off down to the library and Angela went back to her work. An hour or so later she was standing at the table checking a map when a knock came on the door again and it opened and in came Jeremy.

  He put his finger to his lips as though asking her not to speak and then he closed the door.

  “Did you want something?” Angela said then, not quite sure what he was going to do. She started walking back to her chair.

  “Have you hurt your leg?” he said, noticing her limp.

  She sat down in the chair. “No,” she said, looking straight at him. “I haven’t. It was affected by polio.” She was surprised that she did not feel embarrassed or awkward telling him this. In a way, she thought, by introducing this more serious note she could cut through all the silly nonsense from earlier on.

  His mouth formed an O of surprise. “Polio?” he repeated. His face became serious. “Oh, God – sorry for asking you such a crass question...what bad luck...”

  Angela shrugged and smiled. “Don’t worry about it, I’m used to it.”

  “Tony Armstrong Jones – Lord Snowdon, you know, Princess Margaret’s husband? The British royal family? I know the Irish aren’t quite as familiar with them as the English.”

  “Of course I know about Princess Margaret,” she said. “She’s the Queen’s younger sister.” She had often read about her in newspapers and magazines.

  “He has the very same trouble with his leg. Apparently he caught polio as a boy.”

  Angela nodded. She had actually read something about it a few years back. “Do you mind me asking what you wanted?”