Tyringham Park

by Rosemary McLoughlin

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2012

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  E-mail: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  www.poolbeg.com

  © Rosemary McLoughlin 2012

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-78199-002-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Typeset by Patricia Hope in Sabon 10.75/14.75

  Printed by CPI, Mackays, UK

  www.poolbeg.com

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rosemary McLoughlin, born and reared as Rosie Fahey in Australia, has lived in Ireland for forty years and isn’t sick of it yet. She lives in Rathmines in Dublin with her husband Kevin, and has two adult children, Cian and Orla.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Grateful thanks go to my original family: Eric Fahey and Marie Dawson (peerless parents), John Fahey, Marie Blowes, Patricia Eastick, Barry Fahey, Brian Fahey, Kevin Fahey, Anne Herden, Jo Doyle, Jim Fahey, Bill Fahey and Mick Fahey; and to their spouses and partners, past and present: Barbara, Doug, Robert, Val, Beth, Di, Gail, Adrian, Gary, Judy, Ita and Judy.

  To those who have helped me in various ways: Clive (‘Bricky’) Barnes, Frances Berry, Gabrielle Bowe, Marie Bowe, Catherine Brophy, Linda Byrne, Andrew Clancy, Treasa Cody, Ronan Colgan, Audrey Cremin, Ben Fahey, Simon Fahey, Peggy Farrell, Bryde Glynn, Helen Halley, Jennifer Kingston, Davy Lamb, Geraldine Gardiner, Eavan Meagher, John Meagher, Sheila Morris, Dr Donal O’Brien, Bid O’Connor, Dr Mary O’Connor, Daire O’Flaherty, Síne Quinn, Rocke Ritchie, Gayle Roberts, Lorraine Smith.

  To the teachers and pupils of Glenferneigh Public School, St Mary’s College, Grafton, and Wyong, Gilgandra and Young High Schools, NSW.

  To everyone at Poolbeg, especially Paula Campbell and Gaye Shortland, who have been such a delight to work with.

  Most importantly, to my present family: Kevin, Cian and Orla McLoughlin, my heroes.

  To Kevin, Cian, Eavan,

  Orla and Daire

  CONTENTS

  Part 1

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Part 2

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  Part 3

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  Part 4

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  Part 5

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  Part 1

  THE COUNTRY

  1

  Tyringham Park

  1917

  The mother wasn’t seen to lose her composure and the father didn’t return from London when Victoria Blackshaw, the pretty one, went missing at the age of twenty-two months.

  The first person to notice that the baby carriage was empty was the mother, Edwina Blackshaw, and the second was Manus, the horse-trainer.

  Edwina, disbelieving, snatched up the tartan quilt and the feather mattress, shook them, and let them drop from her hand to the ground. She felt around the dark interior of the carriage for Victoria’s red-headed doll or anything that might provide a clue to the child’s absence, but the only things her hands touched were a crumbling biscuit and a teething ring.

  Manus noted with relief that all the stalls and the gate leading into the paddock were closed, but was sickened to see that one of the double doors of the stables entrance was unsecured and standing slightly open. He wrenched the door fully open and raced to check the avenue in front of the stables, and the banks of the flooded river behind it, then the weir and the bridge with its view downstream, before running around the perimeters of the outbuildings, expecting to see a little figure in white every time he turned a corner.

  Edwina tested the latches of the seven occupied stalls first, rattling the lower half-doors to see if they were fastened and not merely closed over. The instinct of a horse, no matter how docile, to lash out if grabbed by the back leg without warning was what she feared; a little body smashed up against a wall was what she dreaded to find.

  In a state of heightened expectation Manus ran back into the courtyard in the hope that Edwina had found Victoria in his absence, a hope so strong he thought for one second he saw the child’s outline, but the image quickly dissolved. With uncharacteristic roughness he pulled Mandrake out from his stall and, despite the gelding’s sidestepping in reaction to the panic in the atmosphere, had him bridled and saddled in a minute.

  “I’ll follow the river in case she went in,” he said, mounting.

  “Get help first in the hope that she didn’t.” Edwina was standing in the middle of the yard, swaying slightly. “We need to widen the search immediately.”

  By now he presumed the child had fallen into the river and been carried away but he didn’t want to take away her hope by disobeying her order. Silently cursing the minutes he would lose by riding up to the house, he did as she commanded.

  Edwina found herself turning in circles as one indecision followed another. She knew so little about her daughter. Was she two yet? Having falsified the date of birth on official records, she could never remember which was Victoria’s real birth date and which was her registered one. Surely the child must be two by now? Were two-year-olds capable of clambering out of carriages unaided, or would someone have to lift them? Could Victoria climb? Walk a distance? Make her way back to the house?

  If Edwina knew the answers to these questions and if she had any idea how long the child had been m
issing she might have had some inkling of what to do next.

  Later she explained to the policemen that she had positioned the baby carriage on the shady side of the courtyard, confident that Victoria would sleep for an hour (information supplied by the nanny, though she didn’t mention that to them) while she helped Manus change the dressings on the shin of a nervous filly. The wound exposed the bone and a flap of skin and flesh was dangling, she elaborated to add realism to her account. Manus couldn’t have managed on his own without causing distress to the animal. Of course he could have waited until the stable lads returned but, seeing she was there, it would have been foolish not to make use of her expertise. So Victoria was unattended for about twenty minutes (it was actually forty but Edwina affected vagueness so she wouldn’t have to admit to that) and the child could have disappeared any time during that period.

  When they asked her if she had felt the mattress before lifting it out, to see if it was still warm, she had to admit that in her distracted state she hadn’t thought of it, and when they asked if the double doors had been open or closed at the time she went to attend to the filly, she said that they certainly were closed – she would have shut them behind her out of habit after she’d wheeled Victoria into the courtyard.

  And what was Victoria’s date of birth? The inspector turned the page of his notebook and, pen poised, waited for the answer.

  Edwina’s mind went blank.

  “Excuse me a moment,” she said, rising from her chair and leaving the room, feeling no obligation to give any reason for her departure to the two policemen.

  The housekeeper Miss East never forgot how Manus appeared on horseback like a messenger from the Apocalypse to bring the bad news up the hill to the house.

  His shouting brought her flying out through the front door.

  “Victoria has gone missing. Round up everyone!” he called across to her, making no attempt to prevent the swerving, stamping Mandrake from damaging the lawn with deep gouges and hoofprints.

  Despite her fear of horseflesh Miss East ran onto the grass right in front of the animal to find out more details. Mandrake high-stepped backwards at her approach and Manus didn’t check him.

  “I’m searching the river. I fear she’s drowned,” were his only responses to her outpouring of questions. He turned with a snap of the reins and Mandrake, reacting, accelerated with such speed that Manus barely had time to shout over his shoulder, “The stables!” before he was gone, leaving Miss East’s person splattered with clods of earth.

  Fired by an awful dread, she rushed around the house to the walled garden adjoining the kitchens. With relief she saw quite a number of the servants in the enclosure, all making the most of the sun: some sleeping, some talking or playing cards and one poking at a line of ants with a stick.

  “Listen! Everyone listen!” she thought she shouted, and then clapped her hands when no one moved. She called out in a stronger voice. “Victoria is missing! Come quickly!” This time they heard and stumbled upright, dazed and sluggish from the sun, exclaiming and cursing. “Stables,” she pointed, then flapped her hands as if herding geese. “Immediately. Go quickly. Run!”

  They were already moving off.

  She followed them through the garden gate, and called to the youngest boy, “Ned! Your legs are younger than mine,” and had to pause to catch her breath before adding, “Run as fast as you can. Tell Sid and then the steward. Tell them to go to the stables. There’s a good lad.”

  The boy looked pleased to be singled out. He promptly changed direction and headed for the coachman’s little cottage behind the rowan trees, some distance from the house.

  Miss East felt her agitation quieten a little. The servants would be able to cover a lot of ground in a short time, and the steward and Sid would take charge and know what to do.

  I wouldn’t want to be in Nurse Dixon’s shoes, she thought to herself, not for all the tea in China. With all her faults, and God knows she has plenty of them, she’s never managed to lose a child before now.

  As she ran after the others, two maids, mindful of the limitations of middle age, turned back to check that she was all right but she waved them on, saying she was fine, she would only hold them back, and to keep going. When they rounded the corner of the house her legs weakened and she sank to the ground on her knees. Dear God, she prayed, let the precious little one already be found. Please, Lord, have pity and don’t let her come to any harm.

  2

  With her back to the window and a hand mirror held to reflect light on her face, Nurse Dixon searched for laughter lines around her eyes and was relieved to see there weren’t any. Look at her friend Teresa Kelly, run out of options, gone with her wrinkly old face to the other side of the earth at the age of forty to marry a sixty-year-old stranger because she was desperate to have a child and a home of her own before it was too late.

  There’s no way I’d let that happen to me, Nurse Dixon told herself with feeling. Not that it ever could, not with my youth and looks, and the divine Manus about to propose at any moment.

  Tilting the cheval mirror, she noted her waist and ankles were still slender, and, angling the hand mirror, checked her back and side views – good posture, good tilt of the head. She must remember that pose – it was particularly flattering. She would try it out next time she saw Manus.

  The clock on the nursery wall chimed three. Teresa Kelly would be leaving Ballybrian about now, Lady Blackshaw would be bringing Victoria back soon, and then the long dreary evening would begin.

  With the once-placid Victoria, the pretty one, beginning to show signs of alarming wilfulness, Dixon was glad that someone else would be wasting years of effort trying to straighten her out, only in the end to find her turning out like Charlotte, the plain one. How wonderful to leave the Park and marry Manus at last, escaping the bone-aching tedium of rearing two rich brats! Her own children when she had them would be hard-working and sensible and a credit to her. And, of course, bonny. How could they escape being bonny with herself and Manus as parents?

  She sat down to rub lemon juice into her hands, and let her mind turn, as it often did, to the injustices in life. If fate had been more kind to her and less kind to Lady Blackshaw, they could be sisters: both light-brown-haired and attractive, both tall and strong, both young. She wouldn’t mind the gulf between them so much if Her Ladyship made the most of her position by indulging in a life of luxury and fashion, but she went around all day with her untidy hair piled on the top of her head with a single comb that couldn’t cope with the straggly bits, and worse, wore men’s riding breeches stained with saddle oil and horse sweat and didn’t even dress for dinner while the master was away, which was most of the time. Dixon remembered the day she saw Lady Blackshaw in the full riding habit – top hat, veil, fitted jacket, silk stock, tailored skirt and fine leather gloves and boots – and how she had almost swooned at the elegance of it, and how she couldn’t believe it when she heard it was the last time her mistress would dress like that as she intended to switch from the side-saddle to riding astride, as she had done as a girl, so that she could fulfil her ambition of riding like a man. “If it was good enough for Joan of Arc and Marie Antoinette to ride like that, it’s good enough for me,” she was reported to have told a conservative old neighbour who admonished her for adopting such an immodest and unladylike style. “And look what happened to them,” the old woman responded with relish. “And served them right.”

  As the wait for the servants to arrive lengthened, Edwina, after retracing the route around the stables that Manus had already followed, took the steps up to check the first-storey quarters where the stable lads lived. If Victoria could climb, the steps up to it might have caught her eye. Only one door was open – it revealed a small kitchen – and it took only a moment to see that there was no one in it. The three men had gone to a shebeen in the village as they did every Friday afternoon. She already knew of their routine and hadn’t expected to find anyone in their quarters.

  Standing
on the balcony, looking down on the enclosed courtyard, she sensed that the baby carriage and tartan quilt were accusing her from the opposite wall.

  She would not allow herself to think of the child and the river and the open door in a single image.

  What Manus had told her earlier came back to puzzle her like a half-forgotten refrain. Teresa Kelly, he’d said, was so devoted to Victoria he couldn’t believe she would let herself be parted from her, and right up to the last minute he had thought she would change her mind and, for the sake of the child, not leave the Park. But he’d been mistaken. She had left. She was already gone.

  It was the word ‘gone’ that resonated with Edwina and the fact that Manus, a man not given to idle conversation, had thought the woman’s leaving worth mentioning in the first place.

  Twenty minutes after he’d told her about Teresa Kelly, Victoria was gone as well.

  She wished he hadn’t ridden off so abruptly before she’d had time to question him further. It was a seven-mile stretch of river from the Park to the sea. If he had to ride the full distance it would be hours before she saw him again.

  It was only when the gravel dug into the soles of her feet that Miss East realised she was wearing her indoor shoes, now wet and looking two sizes larger with all the mud clinging to them. Under ordinary circumstances Lady Blackshaw would be cross if she saw her housekeeper inappropriately shod, with soil stuck to her usually spotless clothing, but at a time like this she would surely hardly notice such things. Was that Sid driving off in a pony and trap along the avenue towards the gate lodge? How had he harnessed up so quickly? Had she miscalculated the time she’d spent in that blackout of anguish after the servants had left her?

  Ignoring her tears and her status, she ran the rest of the way to the stables.

  3

  Edwina’s absent husband, Lord Waldron Blackshaw, at present working in the War Office in London, was one of the most hated men in Ireland, though he wasn’t aware of it. Nor were most of the inhabitants of Tyringham Park, cocooned as they were in a self-contained kingdom, physically distanced from the local community by the estate’s vast stretches of farms, tillage, parkland, gardens and woodlands, and socialising only with their peers in similar Big Houses across the country.