Tyringham Park

by Rosemary McLoughlin

  With that, he left.

  77

  Dublin 1943

  Edwina placed the music box on the low table beside her chair and hoped that Charlotte would choose to pay a duty call during the day. With things so strained between them she couldn’t make a specific request to see her.

  Around midday she heard the familiar footsteps and her heart quickened. Charlotte came in with her usual sour face, pulled along by Mary Anne, who was all set to explore the familiar things in the room. Her favourite item was the piano which Charlotte would not allow her to bang on, holding down the lid and saying, “Don’t annoy your grandmother” – a phrase she used constantly. Edwina always wanted to say ‘Leave her. I like to see her enjoying herself,’ but the words refused to form in her throat when she imagined the disbelieving scorn on Charlotte’s face if she said them.

  During a visit three days earlier, while Charlotte was distracted reading the paper, Mary Anne, all trust and affection, had climbed on to Edwina’s lap and begun to play with her necklace. Edwina found herself affected by the touch of the little fingers as they lifted the brightly coloured beads in turn. When Charlotte looked up and saw the interaction she gave a cry of dismay and ran to scoop up the child, saying, “Don’t annoy your grandmother,” before carrying her to the far side of the room.

  Edwina, feeling hurt, said, “My arms still function, you know. I wouldn’t let her fall,” wanting to add, ‘Let her stay. She’s no trouble. I like having her here,’ but was once again unable to say the words.

  Edwina admired Mary Anne’s slender limbs, pretty face and dark, soft curls – no trace of Waldron or Charlotte there – but most of all she admired her spirit: she was not afraid of an old woman, ugly and immobile.

  The maid had been sent out to buy something that would definitely appeal to a child approaching two years of age. Anything with moving parts that made a noise was irresistible, the shopkeeper had assured her. If this worked, Edwina would buy more and would even engage a toymaker to design novelty items that would tempt Mary Anne to visit more often and stay longer. A magnificent rocking horse had already been commissioned from a master carver to be ready for Christmas, and even though lap dogs were anathema to her, Edwina had ordered a Yorkshire terrier puppy as the ultimate enticement. In a year’s time she would buy a few acres outside Dublin and keep some ponies there so that Mary Anne could begin her training to ride better than a man, thereby compensating Edwina for not quite reaching that standard before her accident. Manus, for old time’s sake, could be inveigled up to oversee the initiation. How could he turn down a request from her after all they had shared in the past? To top all that, she would invite over Sir Dirk Armstrong, by now the most famous and most expensive artist in the British Isles, to paint Mary Anne’s portrait. Her letter to him would not be hectoring like Waldron’s had been, inviting rebuttal, but persuasive, recalling past intimacies that he was now too old to be threatened by, and she wouldn’t even hint at the possibility of a discount.

  Edwina reached down to open the lid of the music box. Mary Anne heard the tinkling of ‘Greensleeves’ and followed the sound to the table beside her grandmother. The child stood staring at the twirling figure in a white tutu, reflected in mirrors angled in a semicircle around it. When the music and figure slowed and finally halted, Mary Anne pointed at the box and looked up at Edwina.

  “How interested she is,” said Edwina. “What advanced concentration she has!”

  Charlotte hovered suspiciously. Edwina lifted up the box, rewound it, placed it back on the table, and opened the lid again to release the twirling figure. Mary Anne, laughing and jigging, could not restrain her excitement.

  “I’ve never seen that before,” said Charlotte. “Where did it come from?”

  “I bought it,” said Edwina.

  “You bought it?” Charlotte lifted up the box and examined it, noting the price written on the base.

  Mary Anne made gestures signalling she wanted to hear the music again. Charlotte put the box back on the table and sat down to watch the interaction. For five minutes Edwina continued to wind up the box, and Mary Anne didn’t tire of it. At one stage she put her finger gently on the figure of the ballerina, pulled back at the feel of it, and then repeated the move. Charlotte noted the pleasure on her mother’s face. She picked up Mary Anne, saying, “I’ll take her down to the garden before she gets bored and restless,” and left.

  That night Verity reiterated Charlotte’s faults, the main ones being her over-familiarity with servants, spending too much time with her sister-in-law drooling over babies, and worst of all, nursing – she couldn’t bring herself to use the more descriptive term – a practice abhorred by Queen Victoria who forbade her daughters-in-law to do it, and if the dear Queen didn’t know what was right and proper, who did?

  “I blame that one-armed, Communist, French-speaking artist Delaney for the way she turned out. If she’d had a refined female tutor instead of that mad Irishman, she wouldn’t have ended up spurning her class and its military traditions,” she concluded.

  Usually Edwina countered with, “I blame Waldron. He should have forced her to go to that school and there wouldn’t have been any need for any kind of a tutor,” but she had lost the heart for this conversation in its entirety and remained silent. She even had an urge to speak up in Charlotte’s defence, and not just to annoy Verity.

  For Edwina had fallen in love with her granddaughter. She couldn’t understand how it had happened, and with things the way they were between herself and Charlotte, couldn’t admit to it. One thing she did know was she would have to disarm the mother to get access to the daughter. How she would go about it would require a lot of clever planning and she didn’t want Verity clacking away in the background while she was trying to think.

  78

  Dublin

  1943

  Before travelling to County Cork, Elizabeth Dixon opened two accounts in two different names in two separate banks in Dublin and signed the forms to have both her accounts in Sydney transferred, marvelling at herself while she was doing it that she was able to do it. How far she had come! Influential and all as Jim Rossiter was, as his father had been before him, courted by all the bank managers in Sydney vying for his business, Dixon was convinced he wouldn’t find her money.

  But he did.

  Who would connect Elizabeth Dixon and her pin-money account in one bank with Beth Hall and her sizeable amount in another, when no one from the Waratah Hotel knew she was a customer at the second bank, and no one from the second bank knew her real name?

  He did.

  When she returned to the banks to see if her money had come through, the teller in each establishment had looked at her oddly and told her that her account in Sydney had been frozen.

  “Frozen?”

  Both of them?

  If she had any enquiries about the matter, she could make an appointment to see the manager, said both tellers.

  Dixon said that wouldn’t be necessary. She would sort it out herself.

  It wasn’t fair. All her legitimate savings as well as her stolen hoard had been hunted down by Jim Rossiter, leaving her penniless. There would be no sorting out. Where was her hope now of buying a house of her own and having enough money to support herself into her old age? Or, if the worst came to the worst, finding a respectable position?

  Who would want her at her age and who would employ her when she had no way of producing a recent reference?

  79

  Charlotte laid out what she considered to be her forty-two best oil paintings – completed before her marriage – ready for David Slane to assess. He had undertaken to oversee the framing and hanging of her first solo show, booked to take place in three months’ time. Cormac Delaney promised to travel from Paris to attend the opening night.

  On the last occasion David Slane had contacted her, he was so excited he had to slow down and repeat himself before Charlotte could make sense of what he was trying to say. Sir Dirk Armstrong, the most fa
mous artist in the United Kingdom, would be in Ireland at the time and, although he had at first declined to open the show, citing an overcrowded schedule, had changed his mind when he heard the artist’s name was Blackshaw.

  To prevent a repetition of Edwina’s earlier unwelcome antagonism, David suggested that Lady Blackshaw should not be told about the show until an hour before the opening.

  Later on the same day, Charlotte drew up her last will and testament with Mr Dunwoody, the family solicitor, in which she stated that her mother would never have any hand, act or part in Mary Anne’s rearing. The outward fondness the old woman was showing the child didn’t fool her and the amount of money she was spending to win the child’s favour was beginning to appear sinister and cynical.

  Lochlann was to be her main beneficiary. If he pre-deceased her, then his sister Iseult would become Mary Anne’s legal guardian, and a generous slice of Charlotte’s fortune would revert to her, the rest being held in trust for Mary Anne until she came of age. Mary Anne’s name was not to be changed legally from ‘Carmody’ to ‘Blackshaw’. A bequest of five thousand pounds each was to be left to Miss East (now Lily Cooper), Manus, Cormac and Queenie.

  Because she made a point of not looking directly at Waldron, Edwina hadn’t noticed that his skin was turning yellow. Verity did, and expressed concern as she took her place between the two of them at the dinner table. Edwina forced herself to raise her eyes. When had the yellow managed to displace the purplish-red tones that had predominated when she last looked at his face?

  He’s showing his age at last, Edwina thought. The military bearing and slim figure are gone, replaced by a stoop and a paunch. His voice lacks authority. And what does it signify that his hands are restless, constantly scratching at himself?

  Charlotte was five minutes late taking her place. “Sorry,” she said. “Mary Anne took a little longer than usual to settle tonight.” She didn’t say it was because the child kept trying to return to her grandmother’s room to play with the new toy monkey and his clashing cymbals.

  “This letter came for you in the afternoon post, Charlotte,” said Aunt Verity. “It’s postmarked ‘Ballybrian’ and it’s quite bulky. I don’t recognise the handwriting.”

  “Thank you. I’ll open it later,” said Charlotte, whose pulse quickened, thinking that Miss East or Manus must have something so important to tell her that one of them had decided to write to her at last.

  While the rack of lamb was being served Charlotte slit open the envelope with a knife and, under the table, flicked to the second page to reveal the signature, “(Nurse) Elizabeth Dixon”, written in a clear, well-formed hand.

  Both sisters registered the look of dismay on her face as she pushed back her chair and, without giving a word of explanation, ran from the room.

  “Is the doctor dead?” asked Waldron, looking up in time to see an envelope flutter to the ground and his daughter, clutching sheets of paper, making a dramatic exit.

  “It could be anything or nothing. Charlotte makes a habit of running from rooms,” said Edwina, who had seen her do it twice.

  Charlotte waited until Mary Anne was asleep before moving to the next room to read the letter so that the child wouldn’t be contaminated by anything that had any connection to Nurse Dixon. Aunt Verity dropped by to ask if everything was all right and left aggrieved when she didn’t get any information out of Charlotte.

  If only Lochlann were with me now, giving me courage, Charlotte thought as she positioned herself beside a lamp and forced herself to read:

  Ballybrian

  23 July1943

  Dear Charlotte, or should I now call you Mrs Carmody?

  I hope this letter finds you as well as it leaves me. There is something important I want to do before it is too late. The last time I saw you I put a curse on you and now I want to take it away. I have been staying in Ballybrian waiting for a sign. I have not visited the Park yet, but I met some of the maids who told me what happened to your mother and Mandrake, and more recently, your brother. That shows how powerful the curse is and that is why I am worried that something terrible will happen to you. I have just returned from Australia after many years to hear that you were there as well for a time. What a pity we didn’t meet then. At least we can make up for it now.

  Lily East or Mrs Sid Cooper whose husband died recently, supposedly of natural causes, doesn’t know I’m here. I want to keep it as a surprise, so I’m relying on you not to say anything. She has been told she has to vacate the cottage before the New Year even though she has nowhere to go. The maids say she is in a state about it.

  Curses are hard to control, so I have to be sure to do it right. My worry is that yours might transfer to your daughter.

  Unfortunately I wasn’t in time to help Dr Finn who died a slow and painful death five years ago – all his pills and potions didn’t help him. I would have liked to have saved him from that cruel end.

  You and I will have to meet in the old nursery. I’ve been given the sign. Your relatives will be away next week, which means we can go about our business without anybody noticing. There is still no one living in the gate lodge as it wasn’t rebuilt after it was burnt down, so we’ll be able to come and go as we please.

  I was sorry later that I had cursed you all, but at the time I didn’t know what else to do when Dr Finn and Lily East came to take you away from me when I wanted to keep you. They had no right. Everything I did as your nanny I did for your own good. I’m sure you can see that, now that you have a child of your own.

  I expect to see you in the nursery at 3 p.m. on the Tuesday of next week. I have checked that the train is due in at noon, and that there are plenty of jarveys there to meet it. I don’t know what the war restrictions are like in Dublin, but there is no petrol available here so all vehicles have been forced off the road. The noon train should allow you plenty of time, unless of course you travel down the previous day to make doubly sure you don’t miss our meeting. I worked as a businesswoman while I was abroad and am used to organising things. It will be a great relief to me to distance you from danger. It has played on my mind all these years.

  If you don’t turn up, I will travel to the address on this envelope and stay there until I see you.

  Yours sincerely,

  (Nurse) Elizabeth Dixon

  What kind of a fool does she take me for? was Charlotte’s initial response to what she read. Does she think I am still eight years old and credulous? If she really believes in the power of her curse why doesn’t she withdraw it straight away, rather than wait to set up a dramatic charade at the Park? Does that final sentence about calling to the townhouse contain a threat?

  I’ll have to travel to the Park to see her. I can’t risk having her anywhere near Mary Anne, putting her evil eye on her.

  She must have fallen on hard times. That’s why she wants me to travel down. All that mumbo-jumbo about a curse is a trick to make sure I turn up. One thing I can guarantee – she doesn’t intend to do me a good turn. She wants something. Why else would she contact me? Even she wouldn’t have the brass neck to be asking for a position at the Park, so it must be money. I can’t think what else it would be. I’ll leave Mary Anne with Iseult and go down and face her on my own. That would be the best thing to do. I’m not afraid of her any more. What harm can she do to me at my age?

  80

  Ballybrian

  1943

  Elizabeth Dixon dressed for the performance of her life. Her well-cut costume, silk stockings, handmade shoes, opal hatpin, kid gloves and crocodile handbag all proclaimed to the world her success and refined taste. Even with Jim Rossiter looming over her while she packed a single case, she had chosen well. It was a pity she couldn’t wear her jewellery. Now that she was back in Ballybrian, she feared it might be recognised.

  Turning the compact mirror to reflect light on her face, she had to admit she was still a fine-looking woman. The Australian sun’s damage to her skin was slight because she had stayed indoors most of the time. T
he two months enforced rest at sea had rejuvenated her, though it had taken until the final fortnight for her strength to return, such had been the shock to her system of being found out and deported.

  She applied red lipstick – the final touch. She didn’t know what would thrill her more – the shock Lily East and Charlotte must get when they saw the change success and education had made to her bearing, or their reaction to the fact that she and she alone had solved the longstanding mystery of Victoria’s disappearance, a solution so unexpected that apparently no one, including herself, had thought of it during all those years of conjecture. Or, after all that, the satisfaction she would experience at extracting a pile of money out of that rich Charlotte to replace what Jim had stolen from her.

  She had been staying under her alias, Beth Hall, in a room in a guest house in Ballybrian, visited by a trio from the Park staff who had been invited in by the young proprietor, Mrs O’Mahoney, to meet her. Fascinated by Dixon’s stories of the old days, they accepted her as one of their own and gave her uncensored versions of all the happenings since then, the most affecting being Lady Blackshaw’s accident, the most fortuitous, the death of Mandrake and the most hurtful, Manus’s marriage to a local girl. Sid’s death didn’t mean anything to her. She’d had little to do with him when she was at the Park and the only memory she had of him was that he never liked her. Who would that little tyrant Lily East get to fight her battles for her now that Dr Finn and Sid were both gone?

  Dixon swore the Park employees to secrecy about her presence there, not divulging her real name for added security, stressing how much she looked forward to surprising her former colleagues.

  She couldn’t help but notice that the calibre of servant had altered since her time. The new breed seemed to be either physically deformed or mentally deficient, or both. In her day the Big Houses were filled with bright talented people with unrealised potential, who could have done better things if they hadn’t been held back by history and lack of education, through no fault of their own. Mrs O’Mahoney from the boarding house explained to Dixon that since the Great War young people would no longer accept the low wages, long hours and isolation of the estates, preferring factory work in the city. Besides, the power and influence of the Big Houses had declined along with their numbers. The way of life the landlords had imposed on Ireland for centuries was fast dying out.