Jenny Rose

by Mary Anne Kelly

  “Mind how you carry them.” She prodded my arm with her stick. And she wouldn’t put you at your ease by chatting. You’d think her ermine robes wouldn’t touch the mud, the way she sailed along, impressing the road with each step, a wall of Lombardy poplars to our right. Then the path opened and you got a glimpse of the house with the sun just going down. This was the English in Ireland, all right. The impressive approach, the one elderly oak in the center of a tended lawn, the curved, white-pebbled drive, the barn with dark hewn beams, then the main house, formal as a reproach. “Thank you.” She smiled a relieved, false smile. “You are too kind. I was sure Liam would be on the bus. I can’t imagine what happened.”

  I stood back and gazed up at the house. “I’ll bet every time you look at it like this, in the sunset, you’re impressed again with its beauty.”

  She turned a blank face to me. “It’s drafty and chill. The heater is coal and it’s two hundred years old. I loathe the house.”

  I felt such pity for the poor old house. No woman to love its rooms? No one but a lady who sneered, looked down, and never sighed.

  “I do, however, love my garden, you see.” She said this haughtily and quickly, as if I’d dare not think what I was thinking. And I’d better not picture Jenny Rose loving it, either.

  “Oh? Are you the one responsible for those glamorous roses at Bally Cashin?”

  I had her now. She took me firmly by the arm and led me easily around the other side of the house. The fish were tossed in a heap on the grassy bricks at the door. The funny thing was, I could just see Jenny Rose here. I seemed to see her little head at the windows. I could see the barn as her atelier. Even imagined the house full of children … hers and his …

  “Where is that Liam?” she complained, stabbing a leaf with her stick. “He is so unreliable!”

  “I know.” I clicked my tongue.

  “He promised he would be here … He knows I have a spur!” Her brow wrinkled up in self-pity. “He never used to be so uncaring.”

  “He’s not really,” I defended him. “He just drinks.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think he means to be bad.”

  “He was always bad.” She scowled. “Oh, he was such a wicked little boy. Always in trouble. Forever playing guns and war games. You know the way boys are. Then he thought he had a vocation! Him of all people!” She gave an unladylike snort. “And of course, there was that bit of trouble when someone blew up the footbridge on the headmaster’s meditation walk. I don’t know. Something about some visiting dignitary from the queen. Liam was arrested straightaway.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Nothing was proven. But they did find residuals of gunpowder in Liam’s digs. That’s why he had to leave the seminary. Didn’t you know?”

  “No.”

  “For a while there was talk he was smuggling guns. But then a gun backfired or something and one of the seminarians was killed. That scared them all, I think. They all went back to drinking.” We turned the corner and found ourselves in the most formal garden. Perhaps it was a combination of the sun setting so gently on those fragrant roses, the time of year, but I thought, This is great, this is it.

  On and on we turned around the grounds. Mrs. Audrey Whitetree-Murphy started to sing. It was a thin voice, not good, but she sang as we walked along, everything in lovely Gaelic. Before she got very far, she started to wheeze and then to cough.

  “How did you learn that?” I said, to distract her. “I thought you were British.”

  “My old nurse, Maura, was born here,” she said.

  We’d come to the barn. “Ah,” I said, when she opened the door. “Morocco. We meet again.”

  Mrs. Whitetree-Murphy spit into a creamy linen handkerchief and rolled it up and put it into her purse. Morocco had the most velvety, tender, understanding eyes. I took his picture before she had a chance to stop me.

  “Ned must have brought him back,” she said and shut the door.

  I turned around and leaned against the door. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “But is he happy?”

  “You care if animals are kept happy then, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  We went to the kitchen. This had a fireplace with a floor space bigger than many New York kitchens. She sailed through, very spry for her age and the height of her heels. And then again the fact that she was dying. There was an old woman in there. She had no teeth. She got up and started the kettle. Mrs. Whitetree-Murphy said, “Let’s go to the sitting room.” We from Queens go willingly to any sitting room, if nothing else just to get a look at it. I followed her in. It was blue. Silvery blue. We sat on gray chairs with nail-head rims and looked out the French doors at the tree on the front lawn. The worst of it was she knew she was giving me a thrill.

  “Mrs. Whitetree-Murphy, what is that smell? That strange smell. It’s there the minute you get off the plane in Cork. I can’t identify it.”

  “It’s manure.”

  “It is?”

  There was a stately quiet great old houses have. We sat like that, not talking. “Have you heard what the children are up to?” I ventured.

  “The children?”

  “Willy and Jenny Rose.”

  “William is hardly a child—”

  “I’m sorry. Of course he isn’t.” I told her about the fishing meet, expecting her to be pleased. Or proud.

  “I’m sure William will not still be here by Sunday.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know he was leaving.”

  “He’ll be at university.”

  “In summer?”

  “William will need a tutor if he’s to read at Oxford.”

  “Oh. It all sounds really first-world. Is that what he wants to do?”

  “Do you have a son, Claire?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then perhaps you can understand my not wanting to see him saddled with a nitwit his lifelong.”

  For a moment I thought she meant Jenny Rose. Then I realized. “You mean Seamus.”

  “Mrs. Wooly is not doing well.”

  “So, what? Why bother fixing the roof when she won’t be long under it?”

  “Not at all. Someone will live there. Roofs need fixing. It will save the next owner the cost. That’s not what I meant. Perhaps I’m being too subtle.”

  “I don’t find you subtle at all, Mrs. Whitetree-Murphy.”

  “Please call me Audrey.”

  “Audrey.”

  “Seamus is a strong lad. He’s healthier than most, living as he does with the good sea air we have here. There’s no reason for him not to have a long life. I don’t see why my son need be part of it.”

  I wanted to be understanding. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Eventually, he will have to be institutionalized.”

  “Seamus?”

  “Certainly. He’s much too strong to be left to himself. He almost killed poor Molly once. Tried to stop her from taking Morocco when Morocco was in need of medical attention.” Her face became pinched. “All of it was Jenny Rose’s fault. You find me cold but I tell you she’s the cold one.” She shook her head. “Anyone who could leave an animal in distress…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had to go up to Cork when Maura was in hospital for her gallbladder. Jenny Rose was to look after Morocco. She left him tied up, by the hoof, for three days. By the hoof. On a tight rein. He was raw on the ankle for weeks after that. When Molly found him, she had to call Dr. Carpenter before she could walk him back. Seamus must have seen them coming. He protested. Jenny Rose was in charge, he said. Molly would have none of it. She wasn’t taking his guff when a poor dumb creature was suffering. Seamus went for Molly, right in front of Dr. Carpenter. If Dr. Carpenter hadn’t been there, Lord knows what would have become of Molly O’Neill. Dr. Carpenter wanted Seamus to go for evaluation straightaway.” She rubbed her arm thoughtfully. “But you know Molly. She would worry about Mrs. Wooly and
wouldn’t pursue it.”

  I was shocked, but I can’t honestly say I was surprised. “Where was Jenny Rose?”

  She leaned over and thumbed through her mail. “Where she always is. Up in that drafty place painting God knows what sort of indecent pictures.”

  I looked down sadly. My daughter, Dharma, had once taken a job as dogwalker for some neighbors on vacation and then forgotten about it. I’d had to go over and clean up the mess. I sighed. “I suppose that’s why they call them teenagers.” I tried to make light of what I knew very well wasn’t.

  The old woman came in. Audrey indicated in Gaelic where she should put the tray.

  The old thing put it down, it was heavy too, answered her in Gaelic and went out.

  Thank you, Maura, I’d deciphered. “You called her Maura,” I said. “Not your nurse, surely. She couldn’t be.”

  “Yes, she is, actually. India or China?”

  “India, please. It’s hard to believe.”

  Maura had left us with scones, clotted cream and blackberry jam. I was sorry I was so full of lobster. The tea was welcome, though, thirst-quenching and delicate. “Assam?” I inquired.

  “Certainly.” She poured more into my delicate Aynsley cup. “Now that there’s no tuberculosis or plague,” she went on, “the local people are quite hardy.”

  “It’s a marvelous place to live, I think,” I agreed. “Especially for children.”

  “Well. Yes and no. One puts up with the ignorance. It’s getting better. It was difficult at times. You should ask Molly. You know, she grew up around here. She’s quite active against blatant cruelty to animals. You know the common folk can be quite horrid in their ignorance. Her stepfather, for instance, would scald squirrels to get rid of them nibbling his tomatoes. That’s the sort of thing you’re up against.”

  “Yikes.”

  “So. She’ll have none of it. Vigilant, she is.”

  “It’s a wonder she still wants to live here.”

  “Oh, all that’s quite common. Well, I suppose her mother was more spiritual.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s her home. Nil aon tintean mar do thintean.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No hearth like your own hearth, more or less.”

  “Oh. Dierdre speaks Gaelic,” I said, remembering.

  “Everyone around here speaks Gaelic. So did Peg.”

  “Poor Peg. Did you know her?”

  “I knew her well. She handled my banking. Gave me some excellent advice. Actually, I owe her quite a bit. I wouldn’t be on such firm footing had it not been for her.” She stirred her tea around and around. “Yes. Poor Peg.” The great clock chimed the hour. Four. Five. Six. “And who do you think it was murdered her?”

  I put my cup down. “Nobody murdered anyone. That was an accident.”

  “Oh, that was no accident.” She looked out across the sunny lawn. A shroud of mist lingered along the wall of poplars. “Peg had been coming to that house for years. She knew where everything was. You don’t make a mistake like that.”

  “There was a storm.”

  “Someone murdered her.”

  “Who?”

  She sipped her tea. “I prefer China. They say it’s better for you. If William is about, he insists I drink that awful-tasting Essiac tea.” She gave a fond smile. “William still thinks life is the all-important issue.”

  “Who do you think it was?” I persisted.

  “I wouldn’t like to say who I think it was. That’s a matter for the police.”

  “The police have closed the case.”

  “Perhaps they have only pretended to.”

  “Maybe. On the other hand, if it was a murder and it wasn’t solved within twenty-four hours, the chances of it ever being solved are slim.”

  “Most murders are committed by a member of the victim’s family,” she remarked, smoothing the veins on the back of her withered hand. “Isn’t that the finding? I believe Peg had no more blood relations. She’s to be cremated, I heard. She left instructions with Mr. Truelove.”

  “And he, in turn, reported straight to you?”

  She looked me in the eye. “Never got on well with the church, Peg.”

  “So what are you saying, you suspect Jenny Rose?”

  “I am only saying”—she smiled very sweetly—“that if anyone were planning a marriage between those two, I rather think they’d better give up the idea.”

  “Why shouldn’t they marry? I mean if they both wanted to.”

  “You force me to be blunt. I’ll tell you why. I won’t have my son married to a sick mind.”

  “Sick mind? Young people are famous for neglecting their duties. That doesn’t make them criminal. I’ve never known anyone less sick than Jenny Rose.” The painting of the many-rooted naked man in the studio sprang to mind. That was sensual, though, not sick. “I’d bet my life on it,” I said firmly.

  “I do hope you won’t have to.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I believe Jenny Rose is a vindictive, dangerous person. It’s very sad, but there you are.” Then, more gently, she announced, “I won’t have my son married to her.”

  I felt like saying, “How dare you!” I’ve learned, however, that such phrases get you nowhere. Instead, I said what I hoped would be more to the point. “If more people were married to the persons they loved, life would actually be the all-important issue.” I thought that might hit her squarely below the belt.

  “Jenny Rose ought to be in therapy, not gadding freely about the countryside, drawing pictures of naked men.”

  “You want to institutionalize Seamus, put Jenny Rose in therapy…” I burst out hysterically. “I think you’re the one who’s nuts!”

  Mrs. Audrey Whitetree-Murphy placed her saucer smoothly on the table. She smiled sadly. “I’m many things, my dear. Insane is not one of them.”

  I rose stiffly. “I’m afraid I have to go, now. Thank you for the tea.”

  “Maura will see you out.”

  “I’ll find my way. I’m sure Maura has enough to do.” I had the stifling satisfaction of hearing her wheeze deeply as I strode past the carved legs of her gray chair. This time I would use the front door. I marched over to it, threw my head back and turned the knob. This, however, would not turn for the likes of me. I swaggered to the back door and left, the way I’d come in.

  I still had that long walk in front of me to get to the road. I turned once, to look back at the house. Maura stood in the front, her black wagon full of fish. She raised one arm and waved me slowly away.

  I took off my clogs as soon as I was out of sight of the house. The center of the road where cart wheels can’t touch wasn’t worn away so I walked there, on the rubbery green. For a moment I thought there was a fire somewhere, wisps of smoke oozed around the corners of high bush. But it wasn’t smoke, it was mist.

  I stubbed my foot on a stone. Bending down, I sensed something and looked up to see the mist move off and three foxes stopped in the road. Little red foxes! A family. Their tails were rich and slung down low. They looked at me and I at them. Then they scooted away. But I had looked into the eyes of the middle one. One paw was up and its tongue was out.

  All the way back, I was covered in mist. Good thing I have a good sense of direction, I told myself over and over, for I was frightened. I reached the crossroads and only knew it from Jenny Rose’s cigarette wrapper, tossed away at the bus stop. The whole way home I felt myself being watched. It was the damndest feeling. I ran the last bit when I knew I was near to Bally Cashin.

  Chapter Ten

  Like Odysseus off to see good queen Arete, she came,” Liam was telling them. “Covered in mist.”

  Food and glasses filled the table.

  “May I use the telephone, Aunt Bridey?” I said.

  She looked worried, so I said, “It’s just a local call.”

  It was late. The evening had turned sultry and all the windows were thrown open. I’m not used to drinking
in the middle of the day like that. And now this. The thought of heading back up the road and making my way into Baltimore seemed more than I could manage. I yawned with fatigue. Illicit sex, I thought, would surely be more rewarding after a good night’s sleep. There was a local directory inside on the telephone table and it only took me a few moments to get through to the Hotel Algiers. The same spot I’d stood when I’d called him the first time, I remembered. It seemed a long while ago. I’m just going to tell him I can’t come, I rehearsed as I was dialing.

  “He’s not here, I’m afraid,” came the voice, “he’s gone out.”

  “Gone out? Are you sure?”

  “I am.”

  Well! I thought. Of all the nerve! The fact that I was calling to postpone until tomorrow didn’t enter into it.

  I went back to the table inside and sat down. Liam, showered and cowed, pulled out my chair. “You haven’t eaten a thing.”

  I looked down at myself. “I’m trying to lose a few pounds.”

  “One or two wouldn’t hurt, at that,” Liam agreed.

  “Now’s not the time to slim down,” Dierdre said, rattling her charm bracelets, “just when Bridey’s gone and made her silky pudding.” She got up and stood profile in the mirror, drawing her skirt tight across her round belly. Her head popped up. “We could put the wireless on,” she said hopefully.

  A car crunched up the drive and the headlights shone in the windows.

  The door was thrown open. There were Bernadette and Temple Fortune. “Look who’s given me a lift!” she cried, loaded down. She ran to the cupboard and stuck a shopping bag in there.

  “I pinched a car from my gaffer.” Temple grinned.

  “Delighted, delighted!” Dierdre said. “Come sit right to the head, there’s a good film director,” she said, embarrassing us all.

  “Get the man a glass,” Liam said.

  Temple rubbed his hands together happily. He hadn’t brought a thing with him.

  Bridey looked worriedly from one to the other. “I’ve just put the kettle on,” she said. “A fine cup of tea is what we’ll have.” She’d just got Liam on the glimpse of sober and didn’t want him starting up again.