by Tyler, Anne
“Yes, well I’ll give it a go,” she said ungraciously.
“Kitty.”
“Yes, Mrs. Ryan?”
“Do you want a hint?”
“All right.”
“If I were you, I’d tell Mrs. Walsh how much you admire her own hair, and the way she cuts other people’s, and you were wondering if you could make her a proposition. I’d be over-polite if I were you, because Mrs. Walsh is a very busy person with a lot on her mind, and she’d be quick to dismiss an idea unless it was put to her nicely.” Kate Ryan saw the defensive look on Kitty’s face, and hastened to say, “I mean, Kitty, I couldn’t care less if you shaved your head bald and painted the Irish flag on it. I think your hair is fine as it is, but I know what you mean about a good cut giving it a better shape. So you can take my hint if you like, or ignore it if you like. Now I must get along with my work.”
Kitty thanked her, less grumpily than she had been going to. And in fact it was a good idea. She would ask Mrs. Walsh straight away. Imagine Mrs. Walsh going to bed with men for money. It was unbelievable, but that is what she did. Everyone knew, but no one talked about it much. Imagine men paying to go to bed with anyone as old as Mrs. Walsh.
Kerry O’Neill had no great hopes about his new school. He had gone there with his father for an unsatisfactory visit, and Father Minehan had marked out a certain amount of work that would have to be done. He had agreed that since Kerry was fifteen it would not be practical for him to learn the Irish language at this stage, but he would be expected to master enough of it to get the general sense of things Irish.
He was a forbidding-looking man, white, ascetic, with a nervous smile. He had managed to suggest more than once to Kerry’s father that the school, which was a very illustrious one, had fallen on hard times due to a massive and expensive rebuilding program. There was a building fund that would cripple the community eventually; they couldn’t raise the fees yet again this year, so they often had to rely on the generosity of those parents who were lucky enough to be financially secure to help in some of the extreme times of need.
Kerry had been quiet and respectful through most of the interview. At an early stage in the proceedings he realized that Father Minehan didn’t respond to charm. He walked admiringly around the old buildings and asked bright questions about the original building and the time that the order had first set it up.
“It’s only been here a hundred years. It’s not one of our older foundations,” Father Minehan had said a little testily.
“Don’t forget, I’m from the United States. That seems very old to me,” Kerry said with a smile.
Father Minehan softened then. Kerry had said the right thing.
Coming home in the car his father looked at Kerry.
“You handled that one well, son. Our sort of cleric, wasn’t he?”
Kerry didn’t join in what he considered his father’s all-men-together mode. “I think he was all right, he has a job to do.”
Patrick was annoyed. “What do you mean, he has a job to do?”
“Well, just that. He has to keep me in my place, arrogant young American know-it-all, trample me down a bit. He has to try to fleece you for his building fund. Irish-American: more money than sense, get him to sign a check.”
Patrick gave a genuine shout of laughter.
“It didn’t take you long to sum him up. Still, it’s got a great reputation. It’s one of the finest schools in Ireland.”
Kerry turned away to look out of the window; he knew what his father would say next, and he knew the tone he would say it in. Patrick was about to say that he got the poorest of educations in grade school and had to go back when he was twenty to learn more than reading and writing. He often said this. But he never got the response he was hoping for. Kerry O’Neill never once said that it certainly hadn’t made any difference, as Father had done so well. He never said anything at all.
Grace, on the other hand, was looking forward to starting school. It was different for her, she told Kerry, she knew all her friends already, she would be in the same class as Dara and Maggie and Jacinta. They had told her all about the worst things, and how to get around Sister Laura. Grace was going to have to learn Irish, and Sister Laura had suggested she become familiar with the alphabet and a small amount of vocabulary before term began.
The others had been very helpful, although the boys had taught her a really rude phrase which she might easily have said unless Dara had told her what it meant. She had gotten her navy uniform in the big town, and even the plain skirt and jumper and the pale blue shirt which looked so dull and drained the color out of the other girls, could not take from Grace O’Neill’s healthy good looks. She bought a navy hair ribbon and tied up her golden curls.
She paraded with her school bag for her brother.
“How do I look?”
“Great.” His mind was elsewhere.
“Thanks a lot.”
“No, seriously, you do look great. You look older than you are.”
“Older in this?” Grace was disbelieving.
“Yes, you look much more grown up than all the other puddings here. Don’t let these fellows make any more rude remarks. You hear?”
“Oh Kerry, it wasn’t fellows telling rude remarks. It was Tommy and Liam and …”
“Just not anymore.”
Grace wished now she hadn’t told him. He didn’t understand how funny it had been.
“Sure, sure,” she said to placate him.
“You’ve no mother, Grace, and Father lives in his own world. Somebody has to look after you. That’s why I sound like an old bear, an old hen … whichever it is that does the clucking and fussing.”
“I think it’s a hen,” she laughed, and ran toward him to give him a hug. “It’s hens that fuss. It’s the bears that hug. You’re very good to me, Kerry.”
The door opened and Patrick came in.
“Is that your new uniform? You look fantastic; a real scholar,” he said admiringly.
Grace still had her arms around her brother’s waist.
“Kerry’s been setting me right, and giving me all kinds of good advice about going to school.”
Patrick looked pleased. He often wondered what the children talked about when they were on their own. They seemed quite content.
“I just thought someone should mark her card,” Kerry said with a note of insolence that Grace noticed too. She looked up at him anxiously, and let her arms drop.
“Good.” Patrick was easy and relaxed. “I’m glad you’re doing it. I’m afraid that I have too much faith in you pair; I think you were born knowing everything, being able to do everything. I don’t mark your cards enough, I suppose.”
“That’s a good complaint to have, Father.” Grace was hasty in her attempts to avert this scene, whatever it was.
She spoke quickly. “I hear so many people complaining about their parents who tell them this and order them to do that. You just stay as you are. Tommy Leonard says his father is at him night and day.”
“Not enough to get him to keep a clean tongue in his head,” Kerry said.
Suddenly Grace felt weary. “Look, fight if you want to, I’m not going to keep chatting. I think I’ll go to bed.”
The light had gone from her face. Both her father and brother looked stricken.
“I wasn’t fighting, Gracie, really,” Kerry said.
“Listen to me, honey, I couldn’t fight with anyone, not tonight, now that I see you all dressed up to go to your Irish convent school. My heart is so full, Grace. I wish, I wish so much …”
They knew what he wished. They knew that Father wished their mother were alive. But he didn’t say it. He just said that he wished things were different.
Grace had met most of the girls who would be in her class and who lived in Mountfern. But there were quite a few from out in the country. When they saw the newcomer they were dazzled. At first they giggled a bit at the beautiful girl with the golden curls tumbling down from a topknot tied with
a shiny navy ribbon. And they nudged each other at her American accent.
Sister Laura made a small speech of welcome at assembly and said that she knew the girls of Mountfern convent would be, as they always were, welcoming to a stranger in their midst and help her to feel at home. Dara whispered to Grace that this was all nonsense. There never had been a stranger in their midst before. Grace was the first one. Maggie saw Grace and Dara laughing together at assembly, and tried to stop this feeling that she was being left out of things.
Sister Laura was speaking about the school year that lay ahead. She had every hope that 1962-1963 would be a year that they would all remember for the amount of hard work they put into their studies. Even those who had no formal examinations this year would, it was hoped, show a diligence that would long be remembered in the establishing of the convent in Mountfern as a legend in the houses of the order. Sister Laura said that sister houses had been achieving a reputation for scholarship which had so far evaded Mountfern. Let 1962-1963 be the year that all changed, the year they emptied their minds of silliness and let the sun of learning shine in.
They stood there in the navy uniforms. Kitty Daly splendid with the new hairstyle which had caused Kerry O’Neill to say “You look nice. Did you change something about yourself?” and sang the hymn to Our Lady to mark the beginning of the new term. Kitty had put all silliness out of her mind and was concentrating heavily on the information that Kerry did not go to his boarding school for another week. Grace would be out of the way at school. If Kitty were to feign a terrible sickness and go home, they would never suspect her of malingering, not on the very first day of term. Then she could walk up as far as the Grange, and if that old bag Miss Hayes didn’t get suspicious, she should surely find a chance to run into Kerry. Sister Laura was right, start the year as you mean to go on.
Dara sang lustily as well. It had been a great summer holiday after all, in spite of all the changes at Fernscourt. She and Michael had said last night, as they sat on the window seat, that they wished they had somewhere to go, some special place still like that room they had in Fernscourt that was theirs. But wasn’t it funny that none of them ever wanted to go back and play in the ruins now? They had only been once with Grace and it was like going back somewhere that belonged to another part of their life. Mr. O’Neill had urged them to continue playing there, but things had changed, there were bicycles for one thing, and the fishing for another. And it was great to have someone as lively as Grace around. Maggie was a great friend, but she was very mousy, and always afraid of what would happen, and of someone objecting or getting annoyed. Grace hadn’t a fear in the world. She was magnificent.
Sister Laura sang to Our Lady, Queen of the Angels and Star of the Sea, and wondered why she felt Grace O’Neill was unsuitably dressed for school. The child wore her navy school uniform; she had no hint of make-up. She did not have pierced ears and great loops of earrings. She had no bosom apparent beneath her navy jumper. She was singing the hymn as assiduously as the others. What was it about her that made her seem not a twelve-year-old, but something much more precocious? Sister Laura liked to consider herself a fair woman. She hoped that she was not taking an unreasonable dislike to the child just because she had a beautiful face, tanned skin and golden hair.
Jacinta White nudged Maggie Daly to ask her why she wasn’t singing.
“Sorry,” whispered Maggie, and joined in the hymn.
Jacinta was relieved. She thought Maggie’s face looked very worried, as if she had something that was upsetting her. But of course Maggie often looked like that.
Fergus Slattery called to the Grange to see old Mr. Johnson about a sale. It appeared that Patrick O’Neill had made an offer, a most generous offer for a small paddock owned by the Johnsons, and the right of way to bring horses to and fro from this field from the main road across the Johnsons’ land.
“I can’t see a thing wrong with it myself, but the American said to be sure, and do it through a solicitor, so here we are, Fergus. I’m sorry for bringing you all the way up here, I thought maybe your father might come, and we’d have a bit of a chat.”
“He has a cold on his chest, and Miss Purcell won’t let him out of the house. He says he’s going to look for a writ of habeas corpus if she keeps him there much longer.” Fergus spoke absent-mindedly. He was looking at the papers. “What does this fellow want the land for up here?”
“I can’t tell you, that’s for certain. Marian says he’s doing it out of the generosity of his heart, because he knows we’re a bit strapped for cash. We wanted to get a bit of a paint job done but it costs the earth these days.”
“Is that field useful to you?”
“Not at all, it’s only a nuisance to us. The hedges and walls are all broken, anyway, but it says somewhere there, doesn’t it, that he’s going to build them up?”
Fergus had been reading this. “Yes, he can build walls and low constructions for the maintenance of cattle, livestock or horses. I suppose that’s what he wants, to set up a rival stables, take the one bit of business you have left.”
“I don’t think so.” Mr. Johnson was mild. “He’s signed an agreement with us about using our horses, paying a retainer even, in case he doesn’t have sufficient guests for them. He’s going to be the making of us, Fergus. Paying a great big rent for that falling-down Gate Lodge, too, and a year in advance because we had to do a bit of smartening it up.”
“Smartening it up! From what I hear, you practically built a new house,” Fergus snapped.
“What have you against him, boy?”
“It’s a good question, Mr. Johnson, and a timely one. I’ll look at this document now, and stop all this sounding off.”
Fergus read the totally straightforward deed of sale drafted by a perfectly honest solicitor. Reluctantly he agreed that if Mr. Johnson wanted to sell, then there was nothing here that was out of the way, and that the price offered was well higher than the normal rate per acre hereabouts.
As a last, and almost petty gesture, Fergus asked whether Mr. Johnson could see any reason, apart from the goodness of Patrick O’Neill’s heart and his wish to give them decorating money, why a businessman should suddenly make an offer for that particular field.
Mr. Johnson’s mild old eyes looked surprised.
“Well of course there’s a reason, Fergus. He needs a place where he can keep horses himself. And suppose he and Marian fall out, suppose Marian sets her cap at him too obviously and he isn’t willing, well he’d need to have a fall-back position if he’s offering his guests riding lessons, pony trekking, hunting and all. It’s to cover himself.”
Fergus was astonished at such clarity of vision.
“And does Marian see it like this?” he gasped.
“Now, now, now Fergus, do women ever see things the way they are? Have you known a woman who could see further than romance and yards of veil and wedding days? Let them go on like that, it doesn’t do anyone any harm.”
Fergus felt a chill. It was like playing God with people’s future, he thought, as he arranged the signature of the deed of sale.
Olive Hayes wrote a long letter to her sister in New Zealand every month. She kept a carbon copy of it, and knew her sister probably did the same. They could refer back easily to small incidents that each had described over the years and they never forgot anything, no matter how trivial. Miss Hayes knew of the health of the elderly Reverend Mother who was always expected to die and then rallied, just when a successor had been more or less agreed for the community. Over on the other side of the earth in a convent on a cliff in South Island, Sister Bernadette knew about the O’Neill family, and how little Grace continued sunnily her life in Mountfern. Grace had even asked Miss Hayes if she would like to come to the sale of work up at the convent which was usually for the children’s parents.
“You helped me make all the jam and cakes. You’re more entitled than anyone,” Grace had said.
Miss Hayes had been very pleased, but she wondered was she steppi
ng out of place.
“Perhaps Miss Johnson?” she had said tentatively.
“Ugh, ugh, no thank you very much,” Grace had giggled. “We don’t want to be giving her ideas, Miss Hayes.”
Olive had found that very endearing. She told her sister that Patrick O’Neill had gone to the States again. He traveled the whole way there as easily as some people took a train from the big town to Dublin. Miss Hayes felt that he had waited until Kerry was safely installed at his boarding school before he went. It was no trouble to look after Grace, but Kerry might have been a handful.
Miss Hayes looked back at the carbons of her previous letters and noticed with satisfaction that she had made this very same pronouncement in July when the O’Neills had arrived. Now, five letters later, she was interested to know that she had been right.
Kate Ryan decorated the Slatterys’ office with holly at Christmas time. She thought how strangely unfestive it all was compared to everywhere else in Mountfern. The church had its huge crib and in the window of the presbytery there was a Christmas candle and another smaller crib, lovingly tended by Miss Barry who hadn’t touched a drop since the summer.
Leonard’s stationery and paper shop was all done up with the paper chains and streamers it sold. Mrs. Meagher was still in mourning for her husband, but she had sprigs of tinsel and glitter around the Christmas-wrapped brooches and earrings in the window of the shop. The cinema had two large Christmas trees with lights that flashed on and off. Declan Morrissey said it gave him a headache to look at them, and every single year he managed to fuse the lights in the cinema when he was putting up these ridiculous Christmas decorations. Daly’s Dairy had very smart plaited rings of ivy and holly twisted around each other and tied with a red ribbon. They had been made by Kitty apparently, who was a changed girl according to all accounts, and had seen how to do this home-made decoration in one of those American magazines she was always reading.
