Chapter Two
I
HE WAS TWELVE YEARS old, and of all Sarah’s children he was the one she mentioned most. She was too good a mother to have favorites, but if she had had a favorite it would have been Ned.
“I love all my children,” she said to me over and over again. “They all mean something special to me.” And this was amazing, not only because it was true but because a lesser woman might have felt differently in the circumstances. For instance, the second son, John, was simple-minded, and there are plenty of parents who reckon it an insult to themselves to produce a simpleton, but I never heard Sarah say a word against him. She was full of how sweet-natured he was and never once mentioned that he couldn’t read or write. But I knew that because Eileen had heard it from Miss Madeleine de Salis at the dispensary, and to be sure Miss de Salis never told a lie in her life. Then there was the younger daughter, Jane, conceived in a way that would have revolted the devil himself and a plain, uppity little thing, if Miss de Salis was to be believed. “But Jane has such a dear little face and she’ll be attractive when she grows up—even more attractive than Eleanor, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Sarah with such sincerity that I began to wonder if Miss de Salis was a liar after all. “Of course she’s a little naughty, but all children go through naughty stages.”
In fact I heard more about Jane than I heard about John and Eleanor, but I still heard more about Ned than I heard about Jane.
I went with Sarah to the docks to meet his ship, although Charles Marriott didn’t want me to go and told Sarah he refused to be there unless I agreed to stay away. When Sarah wouldn’t hear of that they quarreled, and he stayed behind in a fine huff at his house while Sarah and I took the Marriott carriage to the docks.
Sarah was so nervous that I thought she’d faint. As the passengers began to disembark she kept talking steadily—and all about nothing in particular—and she clung to my arm as if she was afraid of toppling over in her excitement, and all the while she was straining her eyes for a glimpse of her darling boy.
The odd part was that despite her eagerness I saw him before she did. He was leaning over the rail on deck and scanning the crowd below. I’d seen him once or twice out riding with his father, and I recognized the gold gleam of his hair.
Sarah began to cry, but that was only because she was in an ecstasy of happiness. She kept saying she couldn’t believe he was truly there, and when I looked down at her radiant face all I could think was: So be it. I’d had enough time to get used to the idea of Ned joining us, and although I didn’t welcome the idea of sharing Sarah with anyone I knew how much his presence would mean to her. Also I’d spent some painful moments missing my own children in months past, and although I’d now accepted it would be a long while before I saw any of them again I knew what it was to long for a glimpse of one’s son. By the time I met Ned I had even convinced myself I would enjoy having a boy to look after again. To be sure I realized it would be difficult for him at first to think of me as a stepfather, but I was prepared from the beginning to treat him as a son. After all, as I told myself over and over again, the poor little bastard’s got the feeblest father any boy could wish for, so at least I should be able to set him the kind of example he’s always been lacking.
He came down the gangway.
He was a fine-looking lad indeed, tall for his age and quite the young gentleman in the way he held his head up high. He looked a great deal like his father, but I made up my mind not to hold that against him. He moved slowly at first, almost sauntering, as if he wanted the world to know how grown-up he was, but when he saw the expression on Sarah’s face he ran down into her arms.
“You’ve grown!” was all she could say, weeping for joy again. “How you’ve grown!”
He laughed. When I saw him try to disentangle himself I smiled in sympathy, for I knew no boy of twelve likes his mother kissing him too long. But when he found disentanglement difficult he yielded gracefully and gave her a warm bear hug that made her gasp in delight.
“But are you by yourself?” she said at last when she’d got her breath back. “Your father promised he’d send your tutor with you. You’re much too young to travel alone.”
“My tutor gave notice, and Mr. MacGowan said it would save money not to pay an extra fare, and of course I’m not too young, Mama!”
“Of course!” I agreed, still smiling. “You’re as good as grown up.”
He spun around. When he saw me his back stiffened so abruptly that Sarah let him go.
“Maxwell, I must introduce you,” she said quickly to me. “May I present Ned. Ned, this is Mr. Maxwell Drummond. I expect you remember his name.”
He stood stock-still.
“Hullo, Ned—how are you?” I said, and held out my hand.
He ignored it “I’m Master de Salis to you if you please,” he said icily, and, swinging around on his mother, he demanded as rudely as any tinker’s brat, “When the devil are you coming home?”
II
Jesus, it was an awkward moment and no mistake, but fortunately Sarah was in such a state of elation that it was impossible for her to be upset. She said gently, “Darling, please don’t be so discourteous to Mr. Drummond. He’s been such a help to me since I arrived in New York.”
I decided not to wait for Ned to comment on this—or indeed on anything else. “I’ll wait for the baggage, Sarah,” I said. “You go ahead to the carriage.”
“Very well. Ned, how many bags do you have?”
“One trunk and one box,” he said and turned his mouth down at the corners.
The sulky little bastard! If either of my boys had behaved like that I’d have reached for my best leather belt without a second thought.
It took a while to recover the baggage, but eventually I had a man carrying it to the Marriott carriage and was opening the door to say goodbye to Sarah.
“I’ll be calling tomorrow morning as usual,” I said, for I began my working day at five in the evening and my mornings were usually free. “Perhaps we can all have lunch together at Delmonico’s.”
If the boy saw I could take his mother to a place like Delmonico’s, he’d think twice about looking down his aristocratic little nose at me.
“That would be lovely.” She smiled, and her face was radiant again. I wondered if she would have the nerve to kiss me in front of her son, but she did. She had great courage and great honesty, and I never loved her more than I did then.
As I watched the carriage rumbling away over the dirty cobbles I remembered my own boys, Max and Denis, far away in Dublin, and by the time I reached my apartment I was knee-deep in the blues, as the Americans say. I drank some whisky, but all the whisky in the world couldn’t have chased those blues away, and when I tried to write to my sons I lost heart because I knew they wouldn’t answer. But one day I knew they’d understand why I had to fight MacGowan and risk losing all I had. One day they’d understand it was MacGowan, not I, who was to blame for their homelessness, MacGowan and all those centuries of Saxon misrule and persecution.
And I went on thinking to myself in that vein until in the end I had stopped thinking of my boys and was thinking only of the revenge I would take once I got home to Ireland. That banished the blues quickly enough, and after I’d slept off the whisky I put on my gun and my best fancy suit and went off to work.
The next morning I called on Sarah.
She received me in the poky little sitting room where Mrs. Charles Marriott had insisted that I be hidden whenever I put my nose across the Marriott threshold, and I saw quick as a flash that yesterday’s joyous reunion had become today’s prize problem.
“I’ve talked and talked to him,” she said, agitated after we’d kissed, “but I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. Charles says he’s too young to know, but unless Ned knows how is he to understand that I’m justified in refusing to return to Patrick?”
“Wait.” I tightened my arms around her and held her until she’d stopped trembling. “Let’s sit down and
talk this over calmly.”
So we sat down on an overstuffed seat, and opposite us on the dark-red wall was a huge picture of the Hudson Valley and a stuffed fish in a glass box. The fish always seemed to be watching us, and whenever I noticed him I wondered about the bright soul who had stuffed him instead of eating him as he deserved.
“First of all,” says I, holding her hand and speaking clear and sensible, “it’s plain Ned must know what’s going on at that house. He’s twelve years old, and boys of twelve always know everything there is to know.”
“No, they don’t! He’s never been away to school. Nobody would have talked to him about it. I’m sure he’s quite innocent.”
“Bull,” I said. “It’s not possible.”
“Maxwell, you don’t understand. A boy of his class …” She bit her lip. “Well, you may be right,” she said after a moment, “but from my conversations with him since he arrived I feel certain that he has no idea what’s going on. Yet I daren’t ask him directly in case … Maxwell, I’m frightened of telling him and yet I want him to know. If only he knew I’m sure he would forgive me for everything.”
“You’ve told him, of course, that you’ll not be going back.”
“Yes, but he wouldn’t listen. He says I’ve got to change my mind. That’s why I’m sure he can’t understand.”
“Well, it’s time he did,” I said. “I’ll talk to him.”
“But Charles says—” .
“Never mind Charles. I’m not standing by with my mouth shut while some fool of a boy tells you to go back and live with a drunken pervert.”
“But, Maxwell …” She stopped.
“Yes?”
“Perhaps it would be better if Charles talked to him. I mean—”
“Why?”
“Well …” But she could think of nothing to say.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course! But it might be easier if he heard the truth from Charles, his uncle.”
“Listen,” I said, “whoever breaks the news it’s not going to be easy for Ned. Now, your brother has no sons and I have two and I know what to say to boys that age. Besides, your brother looks as if he’d have a hard time talking about fornication to his wife, let alone sodomy to his nephew. I’ll do it, Sarah, and you needn’t worry that I won’t do it as it should be done.”
“You will be kind to him, won’t you?” she said, trying not to cry. “You will be gentle.”
“He’s your son,” I said, “and I’d like to care for him as if he were mine.” If he’ll let me, I added to myself, but I didn’t tell her I was beginning to have second thoughts about this high-flying little snob she’d dragged to America. Soon I was even beginning to wish I hadn’t been so eager to justify his mother’s behavior to him, for as soon as I parted company from Sarah I saw clearly that it was going to be the very devil of an interview.
III
I decided to keep out of his sight for a week to give him a chance to simmer down, and sure enough Sarah told me that matters had improved. Charles was taking an interest in his nephew and had spoken up in her favor. Ned had recovered from his sulks and had decided to put aside all thought of home while he enjoyed his visit to New York. Sarah spent her afternoons taking him to the zoo and Central Park and the theater, and Charles arranged for him to go riding with his friends’ children, so it wasn’t until Sarah told me that Ned had introduced the subject of Cashelmara again that I decided I must make my move.
“I’ll take him out to dinner,” I said. I reckoned he was less likely to quarrel with me if I were his host in a public place, and I knew a fine restaurant between Gramercy Park and Broadway where I could get a discount on the bill. “Let me see him tomorrow when I call, and I’ll issue my invitation.”
I only hoped he would agree to see me, but I knew I could trust Sarah to win him around, and lo and behold, when I arrived he came with her to the little sitting room and stood stiffly beneath the stuffed fish. This time I didn’t make the mistake of offering him my hand. I just smiled and asked him how he was enjoying New York.
“Well, it’s educational, I suppose,” he said loftily, “but I can’t say I care for cities.”
“Then we have one thing at least in common,” I said, “for I can’t stand ’em either. Maybe you could do me the honor of dining with me one night and we can talk for an hour or two about Ireland.”
He glanced at his mother. She gave him a melting look that would have made any man’s head spin, and he turned down his mouth at the corners again.
“Very well,” he said shortly. There was no “thank you,” no “sir,” not even a “Mr. Drummond.” He was as insolent as a tinker’s mule.
“Would tomorrow suit you?” I said, and when he nodded sulkily I said, “I’ll call for you at seven” and turned to Sarah to extricate us from the interview.
“I’m going for my morning drive now with Mr. Drummond,” she said to him. “Would you like to come too, darling?”
Darling said he wouldn’t, thank you very much, and I was able to escape with Sarah to my apartment for our usual morning pastime. I was never more relieved to get out of that house, but in no time at all I was back again, waiting for Ned to come downstairs. He kept me waiting ten minutes, and when he finally strolled into the sitting room he offered me not one word of apology.
We set off on foot for Gramercy Park.
The restaurant I had chosen was Ryan’s, off Irving Place. Jim O’Malley had just bought it from Ryan, and his manager there, Liam Gallagher, was an old friend of mine. It was a high-class place, more so than Jim’s other restaurants. The dining room was lighted by lamps with huge colored shades—Tiffany lamps, they were called, except that real Tiffany lamps were proper stained glass and so grand that only the very rich could afford them, and these were just painted glass imitations—and there was paneling on the walls and snow-white Irish linen on all the tables. As for the food, it was delicious, none of that French stuff drenched in sauce and reeking of garlic but straight, plain, honest fare that would make any Irishman lick his lips. There were huge steaks and thick meaty chops as well as the traditional bacon dishes, and the baked potatoes were the most luscious I’d ever tasted, so magnificent in flavor that they didn’t need butter to dress them up for the palate. The greatest eating treat in New York for me was a potato at Ryan’s, and my friend Liam Gallagher always saw that I was given two potatoes, not just one. The Americans are stingy with their potatoes for all they’re so fine, and in fact some races in New York don’t eat potatoes at all but nasty white stringy stuff they call by all manner of heathen names.
I had already warned Liam I’d be coming with a friend, and he had a corner table by the window saved for me.
“Who’s your young friend, Max?” says Liam when we arrived, and I answered smoothly, “This is the Honorable Patrick Edward de Salis, son and heir of Lord de Salis of Cashelmara. Master de Salis, may I present Mr. Liam Gallagher?”
Liam looked astounded, as well he might, but recovered himself enough to bid Ned welcome and ask him what he wanted to eat.
“Is there a menu?” said Ned, lofty as ever.
Liam produced a menu and winked at me. “Steak as usual, Max?”
“No, give me the mutton chops tonight, if you please, and don’t forget my potatoes.”
“To be sure I wouldn’t dare! A pint of stout?”
“Fine. Ned will you take some stout with your meal?”
He shook his head. Liam helpfully offered him cider, but he shook his head at that too. Presently Joe the waiter brought my drink and a basket of freshly baked soda bread still warm from the oven and a dish of butter so creamy it might have come from my own churn.
“Have some,” I offered Ned.
He shook his head a third time.
My patience snapped. Right, I thought, if that’s the way he wants it, so be it. So I shut my mouth. The silence lengthened. I drank some stout, ate some bread, and when our chops arrived I picked up my knife and fork without
a word. By this time Ned was beginning to look uncomfortable. He was shifting uneasily in his seat, and although he tried to eat his chop he left it half finished. In the end I took pity on him. He was only a lad after all and perhaps not so bold as he wanted me to think he was.
“Pudding?” I asked briefly.
“No, thank you,” he said, staring down at his platter, and I knew he had become more approachable.
I ordered cheesecake and tea. They made tea properly at Ryan’s, unlike other American establishments I could name, and I always had a large pot after I’d dined there. Then as soon as Joe had brought me the order I leaned forward, moving so quickly that Ned jumped, and said to him in my quietest voice, “Your mother’s asked me to speak to you about certain matters. Are you going to listen civilly or do I have to tell her you were too rude for us to have any conversation?”
He swallowed and answered with difficulty, “By all means say what you have to say.”
“You call me sir when you speak to me,” I said. “You’re twelve and I’m past forty and by age alone I’m entitled to some respect from you.”
He stared at the tablecloth. No statue could have been more still.
“Why is it so difficult for you to be civil to me?” I said. “It can’t be just because your mother’s my mistress, for when we first met you didn’t know she and I had ever shared a bed.”
He looked up as sharply as if he had been stung, and I saw the stricken expression in his eyes.
“So you know what that means,” I said, watching him. “I thought you would.”
Speech was beyond him. He was blushing, his mouth clamped tight shut, and I suddenly realized he was on the verge of tears. He was very young.
“Look,” I said, softening my voice and doing my best to be gentle. “I bear you no ill will. I love your mother and I’m going to look after her, and as far as you’re concerned I’m more than willing to be friends. Now I’ve been honest with you, so why don’t you be honest with me and tell me why you’ve always treated me like dirt?”
Cashelmara Page 57
