Tyringham Park

by Rosemary McLoughlin

  “What happened to your hand?” she asked later. “Did it get hurt in battle?”

  His index, middle and ring fingers were missing as far as his knuckles, his thumb and little finger as far as his wrist. The rest of his hand and forearm were corrugated with deep scars.

  “You could say that.” Cormac gave her a sanitised version of the incident that had caused his injuries and she wanted to hear more about the war. The more he told her the more she wanted to know. As with Cúchulainn’s story, she was more interested in the animals than the soldiers. He was careful not to include the sufferings of the horses in battle, especially one he couldn’t forget who thrashed and roared for what seemed like an age before anyone could get near enough to finish it off.

  33

  Those who say family life is a crashing bore (most of his regiment) must be going about it the wrong way, Waldron commented to Verity who was following him around to ask him something. After he sorted out each person under his authority, he wrote a short list of directives to leave with his will. If anything happened to him on this trip he wanted it to be known publicly that he took his familial responsibilities as seriously as his military duties.

  Blackshaw Townhouse

  Dublin. 27th February 1919

  1. Edwina Blackshaw (wife). Ramps to be fitted on ground floor for her convenience, three rooms to be made ready. Two live-in nurses to be employed. Verity can fill in for half days and shift changes to save employing a third nurse.

  2. Verity Blackshaw (sister-in-law). Chatelaine until Edwina leaves hospital, and after that her companion. To give elocution lessons to Charlotte on a weekly basis to rid her of Huddersfield/Dublin influences. No authority over the tutor who takes orders only from me. To look on the townhouse as her home for the term of her natural life.

  3. Charlotte (daughter). To be privately tutored until her sixteenth birthday, then to attend a finishing school in Paris for a year.

  4. Harcourt (son). To attend my old school after his seventh birthday.

  5. Holly Stoddard (Harcourt’s nanny). As one of the million young women with doubtless no prospects of marriage because of the war, she is to remain on in the house for the rest of her natural life. To become Lady Blackshaw’s companion after Harcourt quits her care. This is my contribution to the War Widow’s Fund, even though Holly is in fact a spinster, not a widow.

  6. Cormac Delaney. An account has been set up in Wilkinsons to supply Cormac Delaney with canvases, brushes and paints as and when he needs them. There is to be no limit imposed. I have long wished to be a patron of the arts and this is my chosen way of becoming one. Such is my confidence in him, he has my permission to tutor in any way he sees fit.

  Waldron read over what he had written, felt satisfied with it, and signed it. Not for the first time he felt gratitude to his forebears who had made a fortune from the slave trade to the West Indies and had the wisdom to invest it in London property, the proceeds of which enabled him to live the life of a king in India. Tyringham Park could not on its own support such extravagance along with the upkeep of the separate households in Dublin and Cork.

  “What do you want, Verity?” he asked, his usual tone of exasperation giving way to amusement, knowing he had curtailed her authority and he would soon be leaving to take his rightful place near the top of the Empire’s hierarchy. The way she fussed, one would think she was approaching old age, not her prime, if religious women could be said to have a prime, so circumscribed were their lives.

  “It’s about the tutor.” Standing beside his desk, she appeared intimidated, but driven to do her duty nonetheless. He didn’t ask her to sit for fear she would settle in for a long conversation. “Have you known him long?”

  “Long enough. Why do you ask?”

  “He seems a bit . . .” she faltered, wanting to say ‘deranged’ but unwilling to admit peeping into the classroom and witnessing Cormac’s antics, “a bit common. He could fill Charlotte’s mind with all sorts of unacceptable ideas and we would be none the wiser.” She didn’t mention Cormac’s manhandling her arm for fear Waldron would make light of the incident rather than give it the serious consideration it merited.

  “‘Common’ is one thing that he is not, dear sister-in-law, and ‘none the wiser’ is what Charlotte will always be if she doesn’t receive some tuition soon. Ten years of age and still illiterate. Need I say more, dear cousin? She is obviously in the right hands – hand – and I expressly forbid you to interfere. Do I make myself clear?”

  A flash of hatred flicked across Verity’s face before she had time to mask it but Waldron didn’t notice. He was rereading his directions and was struck by how his generosity showed through and how smart he was to put it all down in writing.

  “Do I?” he repeated.

  “Yes, Waldron,” said Verity, turning to leave.

  “I didn’t attain the position of Major General in the army without becoming a good judge of character along the way,” he proclaimed to her retreating back.

  Waldron travelled to Tyringham Park for a weekend with his brother Charles and his wife Harriet, their four children with their spouses and three grandchildren. Two things struck him. The Park was as full of energy and gaiety as it had been in his father’s time, and Manus, rather than being demoted by Charles as he expected, was still head man at the stables and was held in the highest regard.

  So, after a four-and-a-half year absence, Waldron set off back to India with a clear conscience.

  Verity, on the other hand, full of disquiet about the new tutor, determined to keep a close eye on him, as well as putting her worries in the hands of the Lord. It was confusing at times, Waldron and Jesus sharing the same title.

  To break the monotony of the classroom routine and to rid Charlotte of her superfluous bulk without drawing attention to it, Cormac planned excursions to take them all over the city. While they walked, he continued to tell stories, recite poems and speak in French. They visited the house in Stephen’s Green where the seven dwarfs used to live; Kilmainham where Rapunzel had been imprisoned; Herbert Park, which had been cleared of briars since Sleeping Beauty’s time; the bridge over the Dodder where the troll lurked before the large Billy Goat Gruff dealt with him; the port where Ali Baba docked, and the Iveagh Gardens where the Selfish Giant once presided.

  Each day Aunt Verity waited at an upstairs window for their return, noting how the two of them walked close together, with Charlotte looking up at her tutor with admiration and Mr Delaney reflecting the same regard back to her. The sight of such friendliness between teacher and pupil made her feel quite unwell.

  By the time Cormac had depleted his horde of fairy stories and was ready to move on to more mature tales, Charlotte, becoming slimmer by the day, was always the first one ready in the morning and could walk for miles without effort.

  Even after she graduated to reading for herself, she would continue to ask Cormac to tell her again about wicked stepmothers, spells and curses, and how the spells were broken and the curses thwarted.

  34

  “Can I do that?”

  Cormac was unaware Charlotte had spoken. He had propped up a work in progress to examine and analyse while she was reading Little Women aloud. In less than a year her reading had become so fluent (though she still trailed her finger across the page to keep her place) she didn’t need prompting. Cormac’s mind wandered from the story, which was just as well as he didn’t want to spoil Charlotte’s enjoyment by snorting or making cynical comments.

  He couldn’t help himself. In the middle of a sentence he ran next door to his studio and returned with a brush laden with paint, which he placed on the highlighted left shoulder of the seated blue female nude. He walked backwards while not taking his eyes off the shoulder, then ran forwards, manipulated the fresh paint, ran backwards and stood staring at it for a long period. This he repeated until he was satisfied with the effect.

  Charlotte had stopped reading and was watching him.

  “Can I do that?” she repeat
ed.

  At that moment, both she and Cormac became aware of Aunt Verity’s presence in the room.

  “Sorry, wrong door,” said Aunt Verity, staring at the blue nude.

  Charlotte’s legs had red squares on them and her face was flushed from sitting too close to the coal fire. The door, often left open, had been closed to keep in the heat. Outside it was a typical January day – cold, dark and raining.

  Cormac cursed inwardly. Of course Verity hadn’t mistaken the door. In the normal course of events she wouldn’t be anywhere near this part of the house, but he guessed she was still keeping an eye on him – he had often been aware of a passing figure during lessons, but now she had caught him doing his own work during class time and he had no excuse to give except his dislike of Little Women. Bloody hell.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Blackshaw?” he asked. He wouldn’t make excuses.

  Aunt Verity, still staring at the nude, began to back out of the room.

  “No, thank you,” was all she said. She never addressed him by name and during the rare times she did look at him, it was his deformed hand rather than his face that held her gaze.

  “Yes, Charlotte,” said Cormac, after he gauged Verity was out of hearing range. “You may do this. Whether you can or not remains to be seen, so it does. I’m nothing if not pedantic. One stipulation, though. We’ll paint in French. Agreed?”

  It didn’t quite work out like that. Soon, Cormac and his ‘apprentice’, as he now called her, were painting daily side by side for hours, and for long periods didn’t speak in any language.

  35

  Dublin

  1921

  Beatrice wrote to Edwina telling her how her second son had been recognised by chance by one of his regiment in an English lunatic asylum and how she and Bertie had travelled there to bring him home. They found him in a poor physical state with no memory, parts of his reasoning functions missing, and prone to outbursts of rage, but they were glad to have him back under any circumstances and hoped he would soon be restored to his former health now that he was in familiar surroundings.

  Her next-door neighbour on the other side had been burnt out during the year by rebels who claimed he was sheltering British troops there after their barracks were destroyed, she continued.

  Our estate and Tyringham Park are still intact (except for your gate lodge which was uninhabited as usual, making the burning look like a token gesture), no doubt due to the influence of someone we both know high up in the organisation, not mentioning any names. One can’t be too careful these days.

  Letting on she had inside information about the nationalists, as usual. Unlike Tyringham Park which had a policy of not taking on local people as servants, Beatrice and Bertie employed them exclusively on their 12,000 acres, and were supporters of Home Rule. Beatrice, particularly, was vociferous in her wish to rid Ireland of British colonial rule. Waldron called her a traitor to her class.

  We seem to be at Tyringham Park a lot these days. Bertie was friendly with your brother-in-law when they were younger and their friendship has been renewed to mutual benefit – they have so much in common. Charles’s wife Harriet and I took to each other straight away. The place is so lively with three generations happily living there you’d hardly recognise it.

  Was Beatrice deliberately rubbing salt into her wounds? Edwina was more annoyed than saddened to think that that might be the case.

  As it so happens, last time I was there I ran into both Miss East (can never think of her married name) and Manus, who has just had his first child, a son. I think I told you in my last letter that he married a girl from the locality. Marriage must have loosened his tongue. You know how shy and unassuming he was.

  Oh, God, how can I bear it? Beatrice setting herself up as an expert on Manus when she obviously knows so little about him – talking about his first child. His first? How little she knows! And Manus, when he sees the emptiness of his attachment to his local bride, must mourn the loss of what he had with me – a relationship closer than a marriage. Each day of those years, already full of interest, coloured by our rivalry, our opposing philosophies on training fought over with exhilarating intensity. How could Beatrice know anything of that, when she and Bertie saw only his superficial skills each time they dropped by to pick his brains?

  Both of them asked after Charlotte. Miss East said she thinks of her every day and even little Catherine (her stepdaughter in case you’ve forgotten) can’t touch the part of her heart reserved for her. Didn’t she word that very nicely? Manus is training the colt Bryony who has the same breeding as Mandrake, and would love Charlotte to see him and perhaps take him over. They both hope she will visit her cousins and come to see them while she’s here. One can see how both of them are genuinely attached to her. I promised I would pass on their messages so that you can relay them to Charlotte.

  Charlotte. Charlotte. Always Charlotte.

  Beatrice ended the letter with effusive wishes for Edwina’s good health and happiness.

  No mention of calling in if she ever found herself in Dublin. Four years and four Horse Shows since they’d seen each other face to face. Did Beatrice not realise she was hungry for news, especially now that women were eligible to compete in the Show? The Irish Times printed the results, but she wanted to know the inside story behind each event.

  Edwina saw Charlotte approaching with her usual nervousness.

  “Tell me, Charlotte, did you ever hear from Miss East since you left?”

  “No, Mother.”

  “Or Manus?”

  “No, Mother.”

  “That’s a little disappointing, don’t you think?”

  Charlotte squirmed and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Well, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Charlotte was now fourteen and already tall. She moved the folder of paintings she had brought to show her mother from under her left arm to her right and looked unsure of what to do next.

  “Have you brought something for me to look at?”

  Charlotte nodded, and a flicker of pride showed on her face.

  “Put it on the table over there and I’ll cast my eye over it later when I have time.”

  “Well, what did your mother say?” asked Cormac.

  “She didn’t say anything about them because she didn’t look at them. She said she’d look at them later.”

  “Never mind.” Cormac could feel Charlotte’s disappointment. He realigned his easel with two sharp kicks to the base. “Perhaps she was busy.”

  “Doing what? She never does anything except play bridge, and she can’t do that all day long.”

  Lady Blackshaw hadn’t shown the slightest interest in Charlotte’s education all the time Cormac had been at the townhouse so it was difficult to keep a judgmental tone out of his voice.

  “Perhaps she wanted to look at them when she was on her own. In fact, she’s probably looking at them right now.”

  “Very likely,” said Charlotte with heavy sarcasm. She picked up her brush and made some strong slashing strokes across the canvas.

  “That’s the girl!” Cormac cheered. “Don’t hold back.”

  Five days afterwards, he saw Charlotte carrying the folder that enclosed her paintings.

  “Well, what did your mother say?” he asked, holding his breath.

  “She didn’t even look at them. They were in the exact same place . . .” Charlotte couldn’t finish the sentence. She dropped the folder, kicked it, and ran out of the room.

  Cormac bent down, picked it up and opened it. “So help me God, I could swing for that woman,” he said as he spread out the work he so admired.

  36

  Dublin

  1925

  Harcourt went off to school at the age of seven. Holly, turning down Waldron’s offer to stay on as a companion for Edwina, travelled to County Down to take up another post, leaving Charlotte doubly bereft. She had grown attached to Holly, and her departure brought
back memories of her rupture with Miss East. When Harcourt was escorted from the house by a tutor who accompanied the new boys to England, she went to her room to weep secretly both for Holly and Harcourt, and the memory of little Victoria.

  Two years earlier Aunt Verity, either through weariness or fear of Waldron, told Charlotte she was now old enough to stay unsupervised after Cormac left at two.

  So while Cormac was working in secret, Charlotte did the same in the empty classroom, hiding her work at the end of each day in one of the many empty cupboards. Dublin was forgotten, and life at Tyringham Park became her subject matter. She ignored Cormac’s view of narrative as an outdated and usually moralistic device and painted the story of her early life. He would never see them so she wouldn’t have to justify herself to him. Besides, she called them frozen moments rather than narratives. Whether she would keep them hidden or destroy them at a later time was of no immediate concern to her.

  She continued experimenting with different painting techniques and, after two years, arrived at a method that yielded the end result she wanted. She would wait three weeks for the basic layout of a painting to dry, so that if the final fluent, single brushstrokes were not to her liking, she could scrape them off and do them again without disturbing the underlying layers of paint. Sometimes she redid them as many as ten times until she arrived at the exact effect of immediacy and spontaneity she sought.

  “You call those highlights?” Cormac often teased her.

  The subdued pigments she favoured – black, white and grey as the dominant ones, with bare hints of siennas, ochres and muddy blue-greens – were in direct contrast to his approach of pure colours applied straight from their tubes.

  “You’d be blinded looking at yours if you didn’t half close your eyes,” she would counter with affected scorn.