Julia in Ireland

by Ann Bridge

  “I’m glad you did. We’ve got to get the facts to Sally somehow.” He looked questioningly at Julia. “Perhaps the lady might help?”

  Julia was beginning to realise that she was going to be driven into precisely that position, inexorably; she looked doubtful, and was silent.

  “I shouldn’t stand much chance with Sally if I just walked up to the house and said—‘I’m a good boy now; I want to come back’—would I?” he said, with a very beguiling grin.

  Julia couldn’t help smiling.

  “Well no—I’ll grant you that” she replied. Just then the sponge cake was brought in—it was indeed a noble sight, rising in a golden fluff above its smooth beige sides; and when Father O’Donnell had cut some slices, under Mrs. Bassett’s watchful eye, it proved to be absolutely delicious.

  “Take a slice out with you, Mrs. Bassett”—he said, cutting off another large piece. After this interruption they returned to the question of the best means of conveying the news of her husband’s reform and return to Sally Martin. In the end, it was decided that the priest should write out a full account of what he had been told, accompanied by a note offering to come and see Mrs. Martin if she so wished, and that Julia should take this, together with the two cables, over to Achill. “Anyhow, now you can say you’ve seen me yourself” Paddy said to Julia, again with his grin—during all this discussion his manner of expressing himself, and his concern for Sally’s feelings, made a very favourable impression on her. He was a nice person now; she was sure of it.

  When she got back to Rostrunk the afternoon post was in, and there was another letter from Edina, giving more details about the formalities necessary for a Catholic wedding in Scotland: banns had to be posted for three weeks in the Church of Scotland Parish Church, “so that all may know of it,” and also a notice of intent to marry in the local Registrar’s office—“to inform the godless, one imagines” Edina wrote. “I can see to all that, if you both give me written authority to do so. But one of you must ‘reside in the district’ for fifteen clear days before you can even apply for the banns!—of course we hope you’ll come to us for that, Julia. It looks as though we didn’t exactly welcome non-Scots weddings up here! But not to worry—the Sheriff can grant a licence to marry in case of emergency—you just have to be interviewed by him and satisfy him that there is no impediment, and so on. Our Sheriff is a pet; I saw him at the Men-teiths’ cocktail-party last night and put your case to him, and he says of course he will help—it is an emergency for Gerald, he couldn’t possibly leave his practice for weeks and weeks, and of course he’ll want some honeymoon.”

  Julia rang Gerald up—luckily he was able to come in to Martinstown for lunch next day, when she passed all this information on to him, and also what she had learned from Father O’Donnell about the steps that he, Gerald, would have to get his own Parish Priest to take with the Priest at Glentoran. Then, more tentatively, she put to him her idea of being instructed and received into the Church before their marriage. “Obviously, there has got to be a lot of delay anyhow, with all these Scottish fusses” she said. “I thought perhaps Father O’Donnell could instruct me—I think I should like to be instructed by him.”

  “Did you mention that to him?”

  “Oh yes—and he said to talk to you about it, and that he would think it over meantime.”

  But Gerald had another idea. “If you’ve got to spend so long at Glentoran for the civil business, perhaps there is some high-powered priest up there, or an Abbey or something not too far away, where you could get instruction while you are doing this residence in the district. I’d rather it would have been Farm Street, though. Would your cousin know?”

  “Edina? I don’t suppose so, but she could find out. I’ll ring her up tonight and ask.”

  “I should ask Father O’Donnell first—he might have some sort of Catholic directory that lists such places. Cost less, too. I see I shall have a wife with a tendency to extravagance!”

  Father O’Donnell proved to have exactly that thing, and promised to ring Julia back after he had consulted it. Then— “Did you get to Achill yet?” he asked her.

  “No, Father—I’m ashamed to say I didn’t. I found this letter when I got back to Rostrunk, and I’m afraid I concentrated on my own affairs. I’ll go tomorrow morning first thing. I’m very sorry,” Julia said penitently.

  The priest telephoned in about half an hour to say that there was a Benedictine Abbey within about twenty-five miles of Glentoran—“They run a school, so I am confident that you could get instruction there, if you could have the use of a car. Would you care for me to write to the Abbot?”

  “Oh yes, please, Father. How good you are.”

  This time Julia did telephone to Sally Martin before setting out; she didn’t want to risk running into O’Rahilly, in view of her errand. “I want to talk to you about something rather important,” she said—she ventured on this in the hope of putting her friend in an enquiring state of mind.

  “Oh, what?”

  “Tell you when I see you—I’ll be with you in an hour and a half.”

  Sally had got coffee ready when she arrived, and when they were sitting by the fire—“Now, what is this important thing you want to talk about?” she asked at once.

  Julia pulled Father O’Donnell’s account of his talk with Paddy Martin out of her bag. “I think you’d better read this first” she said, handing it over—no paving of the way would be of any use on this occasion, she felt. “It’s from the priest at Lettersall.”

  “Who’s he? And why does he write to me?” Sally looked a little frightened.

  “Read it, darling—it’s really good news” Julia said gently.

  Sally Martin read for a moment or two—then she put the paper down, with a startled expression.

  “But—he says he’s seen Paddy!” she exclaimed. “He must be over here. This is awful!”

  “Go on reading” Julia said. “Read it to the end.”

  Looking reluctant, Mrs. Martin read on. At last she put the Father’s long letter down.

  “I don’t know this priest” she said. “I don’t know whether I should believe what he says.”

  “Your husband thought of that, so he made Father O’Donnell send a cable to a priest who knows him—knows your Paddy, that is—asking for the facts. Here it is, and here is the reply he got” Julia said, pulling two more papers out of her bag. “Mr. Martin paid for the cables, of course. Read those now.”

  Sally Martin put her hands over her face. “I don’t want to” she said, in a helpless tone.

  “Sally dear, you must. It would be wicked not to. You can’t want not to know that your husband has stopped being bad and become good” Julia said firmly.

  “It’s all so strange,” Sally said. “I—I don’t seem to be able to take it in.”

  Julia felt that she could understand that, and said so. “After living all these years with one idea of a person, to be told suddenly that he’s turned into something quite different must be very puzzling and difficult to accept.”

  “That’s it, exactly!” Sally said, with eager gratitude.

  “But in honesty, and in fairness to yourself, as well as to him, you really ought to read these cables, now” Julia said, holding them out again.

  This time Sally gave in, and did read them; she read both twice, slowly and carefully.

  “It’s fantastic” she said at last. “This one from that priest in Philadelphia makes Paddy—Paddy!—sound like some sort of holy person, doing all this work among boys and sick people.”

  “He’s certainly turned into a very nice person” Julia said, smiling—“really a charmer.”

  “How do you know that? You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  “Yes, for a few minutes. He came in to Father O’Donnell’s while I was there, to ask if the reply to the cable had come—and when the Father told him that I knew you, he wanted to know how you were, and when I had last seen you, and so on. He put a whole stream of questions, as eager
ly as a boy,” Julia said smiling. “You’ll have to see him, Sally.”

  “Yes, I s’pose.” A pause. “Would he want to go back to the States?” Sally asked.

  At that question Julia knew that the battle was won.

  “I don’t know. He’s bought a house here. You and he will have to settle all that” she said, getting up. She hurried out, and on the way back to Rostrunk rang up the Father, as usual, from the hotel at Mulranny.

  “Yes, send him over. It will be all right” she said, confidently. As she was going out she ran into O’Rahilly. “Oh, hullo” she said.

  “Been to see Sally?” he asked.

  “Yes—to take her a splendid piece of news. Her husband has come back.” It occurred to her that this was an excellent opportunity to simplify matters for Sally Martin in one direction, anyhow.

  “Is it such good news, for her?” Billy asked doubtfully.

  “Oh yes! Didn’t you know? He’s a completely reformed character—a teetotaller of years’ standing, as well as being a most frightfully nice person” Julia said warmly.

  “D’you mean to say you’ve met him?” Billy asked, startled.

  “Oh yes—I liked him awfully” Julia said. “I must fly.” She hastened out—how she knew of Paddy Martin’s bona fides was no concern of Billy’s; nor where she had met him, she felt.

  Julia had another of her lunch-time meetings in Martinstown with Gerald, and first told him that Sally had been persuaded to accept the idea of Paddy’s reformation and return. “Did she see him yet?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know. I telephoned to the priest and told him he could send him over, but that was only day before yesterday.”

  “ ‘Twould be nice to know that they are fixed up” Gerald said.

  “Well, if she doesn’t ring me, I’ll ring her.” Then she told him of the Benedictine Abbey within reach of Glentoran. “So that will be easy. I shall buy a car.”

  “Why not hire?”

  “Well, I shall want my own car when I’m living here, so I might just as well buy it now. Then I shall be free to run over whenever it suits the Fathers, and not have to haggle with Edina over the car.”

  “Nor haggle with me over the car when you are at Ross-beg!” Gerald said laughing. “Well, I daresay it will make for harmony, and you can afford it. Shall you be received up there? I should like to be on hand when you are.”

  “Well, you’ll be coming over for the wedding, won’t you?” Julia said, laughing too. “Couldn’t I be received just a few days before it? I shall have to spend at least five weeks at Glentoran over this residence’ business, perhaps more; and I suppose the Fathers could instruct me in that time, as with my own car I can go over as often as they want me to. Oh, kind Father O’Donnell has written to the Abbot about me—he is a dear man.”

  “He certainly is. When do you go?”

  “Next week, I hope. I’m just waiting to hear from Edina about when she has been able to fix the actual date for the wedding with the Macdonalds; as we’re borrowing their chapel, they must have some say.”

  “Isn’t there a Parish Church?” Gerald asked.

  “Yes, but nearly ten miles away! Think of the business of getting everyone to and fro by car! Whereas the Macdonalds’ is just next door. That’s why it’s practically used as a parish Church, and Father Kennedy says Mass there on alternate Sundays. By the way, have you done all your business about getting Father Murphy to write and ‘delegate authority’ to Father Kennedy to marry one of his parishioners?”

  “I’ll check. I told him to, and I talked to the Bishop about it myself, so that ought to be all square.”

  That evening Julia had an ecstatic telephone call from Sally Martin—Paddy was at Achill, and they had decided to resume their marriage. “The children are thrilled to pieces to have a Daddy again—they love him already.” They were going to stay in Ireland, but at Achill, because the school was so much handier there than at Ponticum Cottage, when they were not in Dublin. “Oh no”—in reply to a question from Julia—“we shan’t sell the cottage; Paddy will keep it for the fishing. There’s no fishing with this house.” Julia gave affectionate congratulations at this happy outcome, and told Gerald.

  Some weeks later Edina Reeder and Mrs. Hathaway were sitting in the library at Glentoran. The far end of the room looked like a rather high-class bazaar, being for the moment devoted to Julia’s wedding-presents—Gerald’s were, naturally, at Rossbeg. “They can go over in the lift-vans, so long as you don’t mind housing them till the Philipino goes,” Julia had said easily when they began to arrive. Julia had just gone off in her car on one of her almost daily visits to the Benedictine Fathers to receive her instruction, and her two friends were talking about her.

  “She looks so happy now” Mrs. Hathaway said, with a half-wistful little sigh.

  “Well, why wouldn’t she, when she’s on the point of getting married to one of the nicest men imaginable?” Edina said crisply. “But I wish she wasn’t changing her religion—I don’t see the point, at her age.”

  “Oh don’t you, Edina? It seems to me so wise, as her husband is a Catholic. I always think it’s better, and easier, if husband and wife belong to the same religion. And she’s going to live in a Catholic country.”

  “I don’t see what that has got to do with it” Edina said.

  “Oh yes, surely. She’ll be able to be of so much more help to the people round her, if they don’t feel that she’s alien in faith” Mrs. Hathaway said.

  “Will they need much help? I thought Ireland was so rich and prosperous now.”

  “So it may be; but the less well-educated and less privileged are always the better of advice from the local gentry. Look what a lot of time your own Philip spends on that sort of thing!” Mrs. Hathaway stated firmly.

  Philip Reeder came in at that moment and caught her last sentence.

  “What do I spend a lot of time on, Mrs. H.?” he asked.

  “Going about and talking to your tenants; and they come to you and ask for advice—I’ve heard them” the old lady said. “But I don’t believe they would do that nearly so readily if you were a Roman Catholic.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they would. But I’m not, nor likely to become one! What can you two be talking about?”

  “Julia becoming an R.C.” Edina said. “Mrs. H. thinks it is a good idea, because she’s going to live in a Catholic countryside.”

  “So do I. And isn’t her husband one? I should have thought there was everything to be said for it” Philip Reeder stated roundly.

  “Oh well, obviously you win, Mrs. H.” Edina said cheerfully. She got up. “I must go and lift the broodies” she said, and went out to the poultry-yard.

  “I’m going up the Glen in the little car—I came to ask if you’d care to come too, for the spin, Mrs. H.” Philip said. “I want to see how they’re getting on with the new footbridge.”

  “Oh, I’d love to. My cloak’s in the hall.”

  “There’s nothing much to see just now; the azaleas are over.”

  “The Glen is always lovely. And the honeysuckle up on the high burn will still be nearly at its best” the old lady said, as she got up.

  “How well you know this place!—every detail” he said, giving her his arm out to the hall.

  “I’ve known it a long time, Philip,” she said, putting on her cloak.

  “And always loved it!” the man said.

  What Philip called “the little car” was really hardly a car at all; it was more like a sort of motor bath-chair, small enough to go along quite narrow paths and tracks, into which a second person could just be squeezed if they were small enough. Mrs. Hathaway was not large and tucked in beside Philip Reeder very contentedly. The trees in the lower part of the Glen, nearest the house, were mostly sycamores, un-derplanted at wide intervals with species rhododendrons—Philip, looking about him, grunted discontentedly—“Those damned seedlings!” Indeed a dense growth of sycamore seedlings was springing up everywhere, threatening
to smother the rhodos.

  “Yes, they are a pest” Mrs. Hathaway agreed. “Years ago, I used to spend hours pulling them out, before they got quite as big as this. It was very sore on the hands.”

  “I bet it was. I must send the men up, to lift them before they get any bigger.”

  “Could you bear to pull up a moment here, Philip?”

  “Yes, of course. What is it?”

  “I do so love looking back at the Castle just from here, before the bend,” the old lady said, twisting nimbly round in her seat as the small vehicle came to a halt. Philip turned round too, and looked back at his home. The sort of green tunnel formed by the trees over the road up the Glen did indeed frame a charming picture—the graceful grey stone structure with the tower at one end, the stretch of lawn beyond and flanking the building two large and beautiful trees, a lime on one side, a horse-chestnut on the other, the tone and texture of their foliage exquisitely contrasting. “It was really inspired to plan those particular trees just there” Mrs. Hathaway said.

  “Who did plant them? Do you know?” Reeder asked.

  “Oh yes—Edina’s grandfather, old General Monro. He was always mad on planting trees. He inherited this place when he was only nine or ten, and he began planting at once—he had those two put in before he was eleven! And most of the ones down the drive and quite a lot of the Upper Glen was his doing. And he had a principle; of course one must cut down trees sometimes, but he never cut one down without planting two, somewhere, as a replacement.”

  “He must have been a remarkable chap. Did you ever know him?”

  “Yes, when I was quite small. He was very splendid to look at, with a huge white beard, which I hated!” the old lady said with energy. “He was always kissing me, and it smelt awful of stale tobacco, as well as being bristly. I managed to put a stop to that” Mrs. Hathaway said, a look of self-satisfaction coming over her worn old face.