Across the River

by Alice Taylor

  “Well, I suppose the one good thing about Jackson’s visit is that it made me look at this room with fresh eyes,” Martha admitted, “though I still cannot understand why Mark decided to invite him.”

  “I have no idea,” Agnes told her.

  The following day Martha washed and polished the parlour floor. Old Edward had put down this floor and it was the devil to keep it looking well, but when it was polished, the rich glow was a compensation for the hard work. She polished the long sideboard and dining table and chairs. When the furniture was glowing, she stood and viewed the room. It looked good, but she needed something over the sideboard to balance the picture of Edward Phelan on the end wall. Many years ago when she came to Mossgrove, there had been a large gilt-framed portrait of Nellie Phelan hanging over the sideboard.

  Americans are very interested in family history, she thought. I might as well give this American a view of the Phelan ancestral tree.

  She went upstairs and found the picture at the back of an old cupboard. There was Nellie’s wedding photograph, and Kate and Ned as children with their parents, and smaller pictures of other Phelans. Carefully, she lifted out the heavy-framed pictures and unwrapped them. When she had put them away years previously, she had been very careful because the heavy gilt frames were so beautiful, but over the years the newspapers had yellowed and some had been torn away.

  She brought them down to the kitchen and cleaned them carefully and then carried them up into the parlour. Slowly she hung them on the walls and smiled. The old nails were still there because to pull them out would have meant a shower of mortar accompanying them. It amused her that she was using the Phelans’ portraits to impress Rodney Jackson. However, they certainly made the room more interesting.

  The brass knob rattled and Peter put his head around the door, and when he saw the pictures he whistled in delighted surprise and then came fully into the room. “I’m glad they’re back,” he said appreciatively. “I often opened that cupboard upstairs and felt that they were part of our family relegated to the attic.”

  “You never said.”

  “No, they were better off above if they were not welcome down here,” he told her.

  She knew by Peter’s tone of voice that he was not trying to annoy her. Despite all their clashes, there was between the two of them a strong bond, as if they were hewn off the same rock. He was direct and strong and deserved nothing but the truth. Maybe the time for truth had come. She walked over to the photograph of Nellie Phelan and, looking up at her, said thoughtfully, “I think that I may have wronged that woman.”

  He came across the room and put his arm around her shoulder. “It takes honesty and courage to admit it,” he told her.

  “Courage must be in the air around here these days,” she said ruefully.

  The special tea was to be on Sunday and Martha spent Saturday getting ready. She had killed and plucked two large cockerels, and as they were having the supper on Saturday night, the smell of herbs and stuffing filled the kitchen.

  The following day when Martha had all in readiness, she stood back to admire the parlour. Agnes’s beautiful curtains billowed to the floor in a foam of creamy waves. She had really surpassed herself in her imaginative creation, with matching cushions on the low window seat and the old shutters painted the same shade as the curtains. The whole window area poured brightness into the parlour, which was continued in Martha’s rich cream wallpaper. For the first time ever, she thought that the old oak furniture was enriched and shown to advantage. Agnes had really brought a new dimension to the room, and with the leftover material she had made matching cushion covers for the dining room chairs. Martha had often been tempted to throw out Nellie Phelan’s down cushions, and now she was glad that she had held on to them because, with the new cream covers, they draped over the black leather seats of the oak chairs and softened their appearance. The long sideboard and the black marble fireplace were laden with vases of Nellie Phelan’s Gallic roses that filled the air with their rich musky essence, and arching ferns stretched themselves out of the deep fire grate and contrasted vividly with the black marble. The entire effect was a room full of light and elegance. Martha was glad that she had hung the old pictures because the deep gilt frames were rich against the pale paper, but apart from the fact that they enhanced the room, the effect on Peter was surprising. Over the years it had not occured to her that he had resented the fact that the pictures were upstairs. Sometimes though living in the same house, she thought, we do not always know what is going on in each other’s heads.

  Jack was first to arrive and stood gazing at the room in silence as Martha watched and wondered what he was thinking. He walked over to the picture of Nellie and looked up at it, and suddenly it came to her with blinding clarity that Jack had loved this woman. What a lifetime of dedication to a woman and a place. She went across the room and put her hand on his shoulder, and when he turned towards her his eyes were full of tears.

  “We’ve come a long way, Jack,” she said quietly.

  “We have indeed, Martha,” he smiled through his tears, “and some of that journey took a lot of guts.”

  She knew then that he knew the story of Yalla Hole and she was glad. The knowledge that Jack knew and was standing with her was a comfort.

  Kate arrived soon after and stopped short at the door of the parlour.

  “Oh,” she gasped, “the pictures are back and the whole room is quite beautiful.”

  “Nana Agnes did the curtains,” Nora told her.

  “They’re exquisite,” Kate said, fingering the heavy material and tracing the embossed satin designs with her fingers.

  “They came out of the Miss Jackson’s old house,” Martha told her.

  “How extraordinary that they will be hanging here now for their nephew’s first visit to Mossgrove. Well, you’ve really transformed the place,” Kate declared warmly, “and it’s good to see the pictures back.”

  “They belong here,” Peter said, “and now we are going to get Uncle Mark to paint Mom’s and Dad’s wedding picture, and we’ll put it up as well.”

  “I never thought of that,” Martha said in surprise. It was good to hear it coming from Peter.

  “Rodney is gone back to collect Mark and Agnes,” Kate told them.

  “I can’t understand why Mark invited him here,” Martha declared.

  “But it’s lovely, isn’t it?” Nora said.

  “A bit of a family get-together is always nice,” Kate agreed.

  “Well he’s not exactly family,” Martha objected.

  “I suppose he is in a way, because his aunts, the Miss Jacksons, were distantly related to your family,” Kate told her.

  “I’m not exactly family either,” Jack smiled.

  “You’re more than that, Jack,” Kate told him. “You’re the heart of the whole place.”

  “Davy would have been here as well,” Peter told him, “but you know that his mother has an old aunt home on holiday and she insisted that Davy be there for the dinner.”

  A few minutes later they heard a car in the yard and Peter announced, “The Yank is here.”

  “Don’t call him that,” Nora objected.

  “Well, they all call him that in the village,” Peter told her.

  “Well, we’re not the village,” Nora asserted with some of her old spirit.

  Just then there was a knock on the door and they all stared at each other in surprise.

  “God,” Peter declared, voicing all their thoughts, “we’re getting very formal around here.”

  Hurrying into the porch, Martha opened the front door and had a huge bunch of flowers thrust into her arms.

  “For the lady of the house,” Rodney Jackson announced. Martha was completely taken aback. It was the first time that she had ever been presented with a formal bouquet of flowers and she was rendered momentarily speechless, but Nora had no such problem.

  “Oh, aren’t they simply gorgeous?” she exclaimed, burying her nose in them and taking the
m from her mother. “What a lovely surprise.”

  “Come in, come in,” Martha told them, regaining her composure, and Agnes and Mark followed Rodney Jackson into the parlour. He looked around in delight.

  “What a room!” he enthused.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Nora told him. “We did it up specially for you.”

  “How wonderful, and excuse me for saying so, but this is one superb set-up. Look at those drapes.”

  “They actually came out of your aunts’ old home,” Agnes told him, and his face lit up with pleasure.

  “How extraordinary,” he said.

  “They gave them to me years ago,” Agnes told him, “and it looks as if they were designed for this room.”

  “It’s almost as if the aunts are here to welcome me,” he said thoughtfully. He wandered around the room looking at the photographs, but suddenly turned around to apologise.

  “I’m being very rude staring at your family portraits, but they are just great.”

  Well, at least I got that right, Martha thought ironically as she retrieved the flowers from Nora and took them to the kitchen to stand in water until she could arrange them later. They were a spectacular collection and she wondered, Where on earth did he buy them? Must have cost him a pretty penny, but it was a nice feeling to be at the receiving end of such a bouquet. She gave herself time in the kitchen to recover her composure.

  When she returned to the parlour, Rodney Jackson was standing in front of Nellie Phelan’s portrait and commenting, “Nora, you are so like her.”

  “But she is lovely,” Nora protested.

  “But so are you, my dear,” he drawled and she blushed with pleasure.

  There was no doubt but that he was good for Nora.

  As they stood around the room chatting, Martha realised that Rodney Jackson had everyone totally at ease in his company. He was a very charming man. Nora obviously thought that he was perfect and Agnes seemed to regard him as a second son, while to Mark and Kate he was a trusted friend. Peter alone was sizing him up with a quizzical look on his face. I’m a bit like Peter, Martha decided, not so sure if this fellow is as perfect as he is painted. He certainly looked good with his close-cropped dark hair and sallow complexion. She liked his lean look and decided that you could compare him to one of Davy Shine’s greyhounds, not carrying a spare pound but yet conveying a determined strength. He looked far younger than his age, which she had calculated must be at the wrong side of forty.

  “Let’s all be seated,” Martha announced, drawing back the chairs, “and, Kate, as the original Phelan in the room, we’ll give you the head of the table.” She was amused to witness Kate’s expression and to see Peter cast a startled glance in her own direction.

  “Peter, you take the other end,” she told him, “and, Rodney, you sit here inside the table from where you can look down over the fields. Nora and Jack, you take these chairs beside him. Mark, Agnes and I will sit opposite.”

  When they were all seated, Rodney Jackson looked around appreciatively.

  “That’s what I’d call a good seating arrangement,” he said, smiling at Martha, and she got the feeling that beneath this extremely pleasant exterior was a sharp brain that missed very little. She liked that. There was nothing more boring than fools.

  Nora had decided to act as hostess and passed around plates of roast chicken salad that her mother had ready. Martha was glad that she had taken so much trouble in the preparation of everything. It had brought Nora into the spirit of things. Nothing was more important than that just now.

  “Mark, you’re a lucky skunk heading off to America,” Peter announced from the end of the table. “When exactly are you leaving?”

  “As soon as things are organised,” said Rodney.

  “You had better mind him in America,” Peter told Rodney good humouredly. “He could get lost, wander off after strange women or something.”

  “More likely strange butterflies,” Martha put in.

  “Wouldn’t I love to be going?” Nora said wistfully.

  “Why not?” Rodney Jackson asked her.

  “What?” Nora gasped in disbelief.

  “Well, now that it has come up, it seems like a good time to tell you that that is why I’m here, to invite you and your mother to accompany us and see Mark’s exhibition for yourselves.”

  There was a stunned silence at the table. Then everybody started talking together, and Nora was on her feet hugging Rodney and Mark and running around the table to Agnes, Kate and Jack. Amazement followed by understanding flooded though Martha. So this is what the invitation to Mossgrove was all about. She turned and looked at Mark beside her.

  “You knew all along,” she said.

  “Yes. The change will be great for Nora, just what she needs, and it will do you good to get away as well.”

  His tone of voice was such that for one second she wondered if he knew about that night at the river. Mark wandered around at the oddest hours. It was not outside the limits of possibility that he had been out that night. On impulse she took his hand and squeezed it.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  “This is a big surprise,” she told Rodney. “Do we have to decide straightaway?”

  “You can think about it,” he told her.

  “Think about it!” Nora shrieked. “There is no thinking to be done. We’re going and that’s it.”

  The effect on Nora was amazing. She was vibrating with excitement and delight.

  “Well, there seems to be no decision to be made,” Martha smiled, “but of course there will be certain arrangements to be made.”

  “I’m looking after Mossgrove and Ellen Shine will help,” Agnes told her.

  “So you knew too?” Martha asked.

  “Only because they had to tell me on account of covering Mossgrove while you’re away. It was all very hush-hush.”

  “Once I get over the initial shock, I’m sure that I will be as delighted as Nora,” Martha said.

  “You couldn’t be, Mam,” Nora declared, dancing around the room. “I’m on air.”

  The rest of the meal was given over to making plans and arrangements, with Nora giving Agnes instructions about clothes that would have to be made for her. Agnes was in for a busy time, but it was so good to see the transformation in Nora. Martha would always be grateful to Mark for this.

  Now that Rodney Jackson had made his announcement, he appeared to be happy to sit back and let the conversation flow around him. It would be interesting to know how he really felt about Nora and herself accompanying Mark. Was he doing it just to humour Mark, whom he thought, for some strange reason, should have his every wish answered? Was it his idea or was it Mark’s? It would be nice to know, but she doubted that she was going to find out in the immediate future.

  They all enjoyed the meal and were loud in their praise of Martha’s cooking. Sometimes when she looked across the table, she found Rodney Jackson’s eyes on her. It was a bit disconcerting. She wondered how they would get on during the long trip ahead. There was a lot more to this man than met the eye.

  Later that evening she stood alone inside the parlour window and looked across at Conways’. They were no longer a threat to Mossgrove. Looking down over the fields, she thought of all the generations of Phelans who had worked this farm. Now they were gone, but Mossgrove remained. Maybe Jack was right and none of them owned this land.

  She walked over and looked up at the picture of old Edward Phelan. For the first time in twenty-two years, she felt a complete affinity with a Phelan.

  “The score is settled,” she told him.

  About the Author

  Alice Taylor lives in the village of Innishannon in County Cork, in a house attached to the local supermarket and post office.

  Her classic account of growing up in the Irish countryside, To School Through the Fields, was published in May 1988. It was an immediate success, launching Alice on a series of signing sessions, talks, media appearances readings the length and breadt
h of Ireland. It quickly became the biggest selling book ever published in Ireland, and her sequels, Quench the Lamp, The Village, Country Days and The Night Before Christmas, were also outstandingly successful. Since their initial publication, these books of memoirs have also been translated and sold internationally.

  In 1997 Alice’s first novel, The Woman of the House, was an immediate bestseller in Ireland, topping the paperback fiction lists for many weeks. A moving story of land, love and family, it was followed by a sequel, Across the River in 2000, which was also a bestseller. One of Ireland’s most popular authors, Alice has continued writing fiction, non-fiction and poetry since.

  “Ireland’s Laurie Lee: a chronicler of fading village life who sells and sells.” Observer

  “She has become the most popular and universally loved author in memory.” Mail on Sunday

  Also by Alice Taylor

  Memoirs

  To School Through the Fields

  Quench the Lamp

  The Village

  The Parish

  Country Days

  The Night Before Christmas

  The Gift of a Garden

  And Time Stood Still

  Do You Remember?

  Poetry

  The Way We Are

  Close to the Earth

  Going to the Well

  The Journey

  Fiction

  The Woman of the House

  Across the River

  House of Memories

  Copyright

  This eBook edition first published 2014 by Brandon,

  an imprint of The O’Brien Press Ltd,

  12 Terenure Road East, Rathgar, Dublin 6, Ireland

  Tel: +353 1 4923333; Fax: +353 1 4922777

  E-mail: books@obrien.ie