Edge of Glass

by Catherine Gaskin

  Nothing Brendan or Connor or Praeger had said prepared me well enough for the sight of the glassblowers at work. We moved across the yard and into a long stone building, the walls mottled with smoke and age, ventilated by great hopper-like chimneys. It was as though we moved into a scene from a dark, medieval world. It was dim within the building ‒ the only light seemed to come from the glow of the furnaces; their red hot mouths riveted and burned the eyes, their roar filled the air ‒ that and the sound of breaking glass. In the dimness the figures of the workers appeared to move about in a confused, directless way; for a long time I could conceive no pattern or rhythm to it. I wanted to call to them to stop so that I could sort it out, try to remember what I had been told, try to listen coherently to the explanations that Connor poured into my ear, but the most unexpected thing of this whole strange scene was the speed of the movement. I began to understand that they all must work at a pace that held at bay the inexorable laws of gravity which will cause the gather on the end of the blowing iron or pontil to droop, must work against the speed with which molten glass will cool and so defy shaping by blowing and centrifugal force.

  I felt myself shrinking against the solid forms of Praeger and Connor as the glowing hot gather came from the furnace. I did not want to move nearer the gaffer to watch him at work on his chair, revolving, trimming, clipping, measuring. Several teams of workers used the same glory-hole, reheating time and again as long as the piece remained unfinished; these demonic glowing balloons on the end of the irons swung through the air on each side of me, and I tried not to flinch at the heat and swiftness of their passage, tried not to close my eyes in panic. It was a precise, expert, and complex ballet performed with intricate rhythm and timing; the outsider’s eye could not see it all at once, only watch the miracle of the product that came from this interplay, this dance of dexterity and expertise ‒ the transfer, as if they played with a ball of fire, between master and servitor, the passing of the gather from blowing iron to pontil, the precision of the sharp blow that freed the vase or bowl finally from its umbilical tool ‒ a dance in medieval darkness, fearful, swift, wonderful.

  One by one, as the pieces they were working on were completed, Connor called the gaffers and introduced them to me. There was a confusion of names, Irish faces with seared skins and eyes strained and faded from the years at the glory-holes; they were reluctant to proffer dirty hands, but still not willing to forego the handshake. I could see their glances go from me to Connor to Praeger, and the instant speculation born, the hope springing, that there was still to be a new day for Sheridan Glass. Praeger represented money, and I ‒ I suppose I was like a return of something they thought was dead. I was a Sheridan ‒ the grandchild of the man who had apprenticed some of them, the bearer of the tradition; I think I was also Lotti, the strange young woman suddenly in their midst, the link between Connor and Praeger, the catalyst of a new era. Many of them must have remembered Lotti standing there between these same two men, but how much better that this young woman was of the house and line, not a foreigner, but one of their own. I thought of the talk that would run through the group while they ate their lunch, the talk at home that night, and how quickly it would all be over when they heard in a day or so that I had gone again.

  The lunch whistle ended it. ‘You’ll see the cutting and polishing some other time,’ Connor said. ‘I’ll have to tell the men you’ll be back.’

  Thankfully I walked into the cool release of the yard.

  III

  O’Keefe stood with the car door open, and Praeger’s hand was on my arm. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘you will join me at Castle Tyrell for lunch?’ It was hardly a question, as if there were no possibility of another choice. I felt reluctance, this time, to obey.

  Connor broke in before I could frame an answer. ‘I think it’s time, don’t you, Mr. Praeger, that Maura saw something of the town ‒ or the town saw something of her.’ Turning to me, ‘Wouldn’t you like to have a bite at the local pub ‒ not a gourmet’s delight, but Guinness on draught is about the only thing Castle Tyrell doesn’t have.’

  They disliked and respected each other, and perhaps it had pleased Lotti to be an object to be fought over; but I was weary of being Lotti for Praeger’s benefit. I could not let myself be swallowed whole by him. I knew it would disappoint him, but I accepted Connor’s invitation.

  ‘As you wish,’ Praeger said stiffly. He held out his hand to me. ‘We will say good-bye then. On Sunday I go to New York.’

  ‘This is Thursday. May I come to Castle Tyrell again?’

  ‘As you wish,’ he repeated. He didn’t look at me again as he drove off, the heavy-jowled face mournful and unforgiving. But for me it felt good to join the stream of men crossing the yard towards the gate, to listen to their talk, to hear the quips tossed from one to the other, some of it, I thought, for my benefit. It was a strange sense of belonging to be here among them as if I had been accepted as always having been a part of Sheridan Glass.

  Suddenly, at the gate, with a jolt of pleasure, I recognised the tall figure ahead of us. ‘Brendan!’ The cry was out before I remembered Connor’s presence at my side. The other man turned back, the slow, mischievous smile spreading, and I knew he had known we were there, and had waited to see if I would call, almost daring me to risk Connor’s disapproval.

  ‘It’s herself, indeed,’ he said. ‘And hadn’t I heard, of course, that you were at the works. Sure, you could hear the buzz of talk about it half-way across Cloncath. And how are you? And how is Lady Maude?’

  ‘I’m well ‒ she’s improving.’

  He nodded. He was tall enough to look over my head at Connor; to him he said, ‘I was just picking up a few odds and ends I’d left behind in my desk. Saying a final farewell to a few of the men. Of course, it’s the second time I’ve said good-bye, so they’re beginning to make remarks about a prima donna’s farewell.’

  ‘You’re going?’ Did I sound too forlorn?

  ‘I am ‒ again. Tomorrow. I’ve just made arrangements with some movers to get my things out of the lodge as soon as I’ve a place of my own in Bristol. Of course, the lease still has some time to run, but I doubt I’ll be needing it.’ The information was more for Connor than myself; it seemed as if the two could communicate only through another person. Connor still was silent; no word of farewell, no wish for good luck. But then, I thought, why should he wish Brendan Carroll luck? ‒ there could have been no word of goodwill between them since the night Lotti had died, no word at all that was not for the sake of appearances.

  I felt a kind of desperation rise in me. He was going, and possibly I would never see him again. I clutched at the only thing I could to delay him a little longer, to keep a link between us. ‘Your cheque,’ I said. ‘I have to return your cheque.’

  ‘That was part payment for the Culloden Cup.’

  ‘But I’m keeping it. I’m not leaving …’ For the first time I felt sure about that.

  He shrugged. ‘What you do with it is your choice. Perhaps you’ll change your mind and decide to leave it. In either case, let’s say I bought it and made a present of it to you.’

  ‘It’s well to be those who can afford such gestures.’ Connor’s tone mocked him.

  ‘I thought you knew,’ Brendan drawled, ‘that those who can least afford extravagant gestures are most often given to making them. Allow me at least my own folly, man.’ Quickly, as if he had said more than he had intended, he held out his hand to me, and added, ‘I’ll be saying good-bye then, and a safe journey back ‒ that is, if you go back.’ He turned, and without a word to Connor, he crossed the road and headed for the square. We watched him until he rounded the corner near the courthouse.

  ‘Well, there he goes, and I hope I never see him again.’

  As he said it, Connor took my arm, something he had not done before in this way. We followed in the direction Brendan had taken. I felt an aching sense of loss, as if a prop had gone from my world; my feet seemed weighted, and the end of Glasshouse
Lane a mile away. I was strangely glad of the comfort of Connor’s hold.

  IV

  The Four Kingdoms was the only hotel in Cloncath ‒ ‘the only place you can eat,’ Connor said as we crossed the square towards it. ‘It was once called The Tyrell Arms ‒ but after our glorious rebellion, it was changed in a hurry, they say.’

  ‘You sound as if you didn’t believe in the glorious rebellion.’

  ‘I believe in whatever’s most expedient ‒ the pragmatic solution.’ He swung open the door of the bar. We were greeted by warmth and noise, and the gaze of many eyes. It was almost exclusively male ‒ the town’s professional men, a scattering of well-to-do farmers, a few who did nothing but go to the races, if their conversation was to be believed. Connor knew them all, and introduced me to most of them. ‘My cousin, Maura D’Arcy.’ He made the relationship seem much closer than it was, drew me into the fold as he had done at the glassworks, assumed a proprietary air over me. Among the older men I could almost read their thoughts as Connor pronounced my name ‒ the story of Blanche Sheridan who had made the best match in the country, and the unknown man for whom she had ended it. Among those of Connor’s age the story was something once heard and long forgotten, a story to this generation no longer either very shocking or scandalous. With them the first look was as it is with all young men, a frank appraisal of face and figure, and then the questions to see how well I could fit in. ‘I hope you’ll be staying with us a good long time now that you’ve come,’ and ‘Will you be taking her to the Briggan races then, Connor?’ No enquiries from this group about Lady Maude. To them she was already dead, if she had ever existed; they were the new Ireland, putting rebellion and the civil war behind them, wanting Ireland to move on, forget the past, grow prosperous. They plied me with questions and offered me drinks, and flirted in a way that was meant to be as much a compliment to Connor as to myself. Then came the moment when a hand fell too heavily on Connor’s shoulder, and the voice slurred by whiskey said, ‘Well, I have to hand it to you, Connor. You got two beauties, only this one looks Irish.’

  Without replying, or even looking at the speaker, Connor shrugged off the hand, put his drink on the bar, and took mine from me.

  ‘We’ll see if we can get some lunch.’ His hand was on my arm again, and he was leading me from the bar to the dining-room. As he held the door for me, I looked into the corner near it. Brendan Carroll sat there, with two other men. I checked for a moment at the sight of him, and gravely he lifted his glass to me in a little salute. But his eyes and his mouth were laughing; he had witnessed the scene at the bar and all that had gone before it. For a second I saw it with his eyes, this ready inclusion in a small society, the recognition that a known name will bring, the instant sense of acceptance; he suspected that I had been beguiled by it, relaxed, charmed, warmed by it, and he was partly right. I heard again his words ‘if you do go back’ and I knew now what he had been saying.

  Brendan did not come into the dining-room; I watched the door each time it opened. During lunch Connor and I hardly spoke to each other directly; there were many interruptions from other people who came to the table or who called across the room. I thought he welcomed them; Connor, with a predominating subject on his mind, had no small talk. A lot had happened since we had faced each other at the foot of Lady Maude’s bed that morning but the memory and the traces remained. We couldn’t, I thought, settle with each other. There in Lady Maude’s room he had attempted to keep me on the outside, and had failed, throwing Lady Maude and myself into an unlikely alliance. But Praeger had injected himself, and since then Connor had done everything he could to make me feel that I belonged. I was wearied and bewildered by it, and in my own way I was grateful for those who interrupted, because I had not, just now, the strength to take on Connor.

  When we had finished he led me through into the small lobby of the hotel. ‘If you want to wait here ‒ or go and powder your nose ‒ I’ll get the car from the works. I’ll drive you home.’

  In the way I had watched Brendan I also watched Connor walk across the square, wondering if he had made a slip, or if he had meant to say ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  V

  The careful, almost sedate pace of Connor’s driving surprised me; I had expected something that matched the troubled rhythm of his moods, but this was smooth and effortless. Or had I been thinking of what Brendan had said about Lotti ‒ ‘She always drove too fast’? Cloncath slipped behind us, and I scarcely noticed; we were among the stone walls of the countryside, and the leafing trees, and I let myself relax into the ease of our movement and the effect Connor’s silence conveyed of his having all the time in the world to spend. The drink before lunch had made itself felt; I was drowsy, and I thought drowsily of Brendan, not believing, quite, that that had been the last I would see of him, and yet not knowing how it would be otherwise; but the drink had also given me a heightened sense of confidence. I would find whatever it was I had come searching for in Ireland, and I would handle whatever came my way.

  I was jolted from my preoccupation when Connor turned the car in smoothly at the South Lodge of Castle Tyrell. ‘We’re going to see Mr. Praeger?’

  ‘I hope not,’ he replied casually. As he went by the lodge he waved to the woman who had come to the open doorway to check his arrival; I saw the kind of smile she returned to the wave, and knew that Connor, whatever his differences with Praeger himself, was quite sure of his authority and his welcome on Praeger’s property.

  ‘Then what?’ I asked.

  ‘Patience,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘You’re not notably possessed of patience yourself.’ I wished I didn’t always so quickly respond to him when he was soft and gentle this way. I began to see how even someone like Lotti Praeger, experienced, discerning of the charm and masculine appeal of the men she had known, and perhaps a little bored with it, might have supposed herself enough taken with Connor to marry him, might even have believed that the marriage would last. It was possible that Connor knew all this himself, and used the knowledge well and skilfully. He kept me off my balance; he played the game of the sexes very well.

  Before we reached the lake, he turned the car off at an unpaved road that eventually came to skirt the water itself on the shore opposite the Castle. Today the sun was not there to throw into violent colour the banks of azaleas beneath the windows of the rooms where Otto Praeger’s pictures hung; I wondered if today he would turn his face to the pictures rather than the lake while he ate his solitary tea.

  Connor parked the car where the road ended at the ruin of a little temple-like pavilion which sat looking towards the Castle. Its roof had collapsed and the columns which had supported it were lost under a rank growth of ivy. ‘The story has it,’ Connor said as he opened the car, ‘that some of the servants at the Castle had stored arms and ammunition here during the Troubles, and Lady Maude’s brother discovered and reported it. That night the local boys turned out and burned the place. I’ve never cared, though, to ask Lady Maude if that was the truth.’ He added, pointing to a footpath that wound beneath the trees, ‘We’ll go this way. I think we’ll not be seen unless Otto Praeger has his binoculars on us already. And if we are, the worst that can happen is an invitation to tea. I don’t think he’d deny your right to be here ‒ or mine, for that fact.’

  ‘I don’t think so either ‒ but then he’s never tried, has he?’

  He didn’t reply, but I sensed from his silence that my small defence of Praeger hadn’t much pleased him. I left him to his silence, not asking where we were going; I listened to the muffled sounds of our footsteps on the damp leaves of last autumn, the lap of the tiny waves at the rim of the lake. The path, almost lost at times in leaves and undergrowth, followed the curve of the lake, and I could see that it would end where the line of trees finished at the edge of the mown green slope fronting the Castle. A serene group of mallards kept pace with us as we walked, the vivid plumage of the male the single note of colour on the grey-tinged water. We r
ounded the narrow end of the lake and the trees began to thin. This brought us nearly directly in front of O’Ruairc’s Tower, close enough to the line of the long buildings so that we could not be seen except by someone leaning from one of the windows. There was no one there, and Connor led the way unhurriedly across the smooth turf to a low door at the base of the Tower. Over the centuries the structure had sunk and the turf had been built up, so that we had to step down to the doorway; Connor selected the key for the modern lock from the several he had on his ring.

  ‘Do you have all the keys to Tyrell?’ I asked. ‘Or do you only trespass in this part?’

  He swung open the door and reached for the light switch, glancing back and smiling at my tone. ‘No trespass,’ he said. ‘I have a key, and then, in a way, I belong to the family, don’t I? ‒ Praeger’s family? But you ‒ you’re a Tyrell. You have precedence here.’

  ‘Don’t!’ I said. ‘Don’t try to wish Lady Maude’s mania on me. Tyrell doesn’t really exist any more ‒ only in her mind.’

  ‘It exists,’ he said. ‘It exists more than you think ‒ the whole mythology of the Tyrells and their kind in Ireland. Even after fifty years the overtones are still here. And it will be a pity when they fade out of memory. Ireland won a war of moral independence long before independence was a fashionable word. It would be a pity if that were ever forgotten.’

  ‘I thought you regarded the rebellion as an expediency?’