In the very same week as Lady Mary Deverill was being laid to her final rest in the family churchyard at Brougham, across the Atlantic Ocean, in the statue packed graveyard of the Church of St Peter and St Paul, Westfield, Boston, Massachusetts, the recently bereaved Patrick Milligan entertained a very different hope from the father of the little girl in England. For as he watched the cheap pine coffin being lowered into the frosty ground, Patrick Joseph Garrett Milligan vowed that the person responsible for the untimely death of his beautiful wife Kathleen should live to regret, forever and always, the moment of her wretched birth.
On the eve of her seventh birthday, Nanny told Artemis that she had been invited downstairs that very afternoon to take tea with her father. The thought of such a thing terrified the child. She had hardly seen her father in all the weeks since returning from Scotland, nearly five months after the ‘accident’ as it was known. Once the hunting season was over he had gone straight off to Ireland to fish, and then, on the outbreak of war, had promptly rejoined his regiment, and as their colonel-in-chief had made several sorties to France during the next three years. When he wasn’t abroad, he was at his house in London. He rarely seemed either to have the time or the inclination to return to Brougham.
Artemis saw her father twice during all this time. The first time she was playing marbles with Rosie in the saloon, when the double doors swung open and he appeared as if from nowhere, a tall and very upright figure, still in his colonel’s uniform. Rosie at once scrambled to her feet, the marbles she had in her lap dropping and clattering over the polished wood floors.
Artemis, down on her knees, just turned round and stared for a moment, before Rosie took her hand and pulled her to her feet.
‘Excuse us, your lordship,’ Rosie apologized. ‘But, like, no-one said you was home.’
‘Perfectly all right, girl,’ Lord Deverill replied, after a moment spent staring at Artemis. ‘That’s perfectly all right. Carry on.’ Then with a couple of brief nods at them both, he crossed the saloon and left through the other double doors.
Artemis and Rosie both stood in silent uncertainty for a moment before Rosie began to pick up the marbles and put them back in their small cloth sack. Artemis helped her and they both instinctively began to hurry, lest Artemis’s father should return and find them still there, even though he had given his permission. Then they ran out of the saloon and up the backstairs as quickly as they could, to resume their game in the safety of the nursery.
The other time Artemis saw him was one day when she and Nanny were returning from a walk by the lake. Her father was just leaving in a blue Rolls-Royce. The car didn’t stop as it passed them. It barely slowed down. Nanny held Artemis aside and told her to wave, which she did. Her father raised his hand once, hardly sparing a second glance. Artemis, on tiptoes, saw there was another person in the back of the car, a woman with bobbed blonde hair, wearing a pale fur coat, and smoking a cigarette. She too waved briefly at Artemis and smiled fleetingly, before the Rolls swept away and finally out of view.
And now Artemis was to go to tea downstairs with her father.
‘What shall I say?’ she asked Nanny.
‘You won’t have to say anything,’ Nanny reassured her, smoothing down her best dress. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to, but otherwise don’t say a word. Little children should just be seen, you know that. Seen but not heard.’
‘I feel sick, Nanny,’ Artemis complained.
‘Of course you do, child,’ Nanny replied. ‘But never mind, never mind. Just speak when spoken to, that’s all. Speak when spoken to and you’ll be fine.’
Tea had been laid in the blue drawing room, a vast room dominated by two huge chandeliers and an enormous portrait of Henry VIII after Holbein, which hung over the fireplace. Lord Deverill was standing down the far end of the room, staring out of a window across the estate.
The butler had opened the door to announce them, but even before he had finished, Artemis’s father cut him short.
‘Thank you!’ he called. ‘That will do, thank you!’
Nanny left once she had pushed Artemis into the room. There was no-one else there, just a maid, whom Artemis couldn’t remember ever seeing before, waiting to serve tea.
‘Good,’ her father called from his window. ‘Come to tea, right? Good. So give her a lemonade, will you? And a fancy or whatever.’
In response to his instructions, the maid pulled up a chair for the little girl, and Artemis carefully sat on the edge of it, her legs still too short to reach the floor. The maid then shook out a large linen table napkin which she placed across the lap of Artemis’s best frock. Still her father stared out of the window.
‘Treating you all right, I suppose?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Yes thank you, Papa,’ Artemis replied, not understanding at all what her father meant.
‘Jolly good,’ he said. ‘Well done.’
There was a long silence, during which the maid offered her a muffin from under a silver dish. Artemis took one and quickly started to eat it. They never had muffins in the nursery.
‘So there you are then,’ her father said, breaking the silence. ‘So it’s your sixth birthday tomorrow then. Jolly good.’
‘No it’s my seventh, Papa,’ Artemis said. ‘Tomorrow I shall be seven.’
‘Oh well,’ her father sighed, without looking round. ‘It’ll all be the same in a thousand years.’ He paused and reclasped his hands behind his back. ‘Expect you’d like to make a day of it, yes?’
Artemis frowned at her father, away up the room and then nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes please, Papa.’
‘Good. Point is, won’t be here for tea. Got to get back to London.’ Her father took a silver case from his pocket and withdrew a cigarette, which he tapped on a thumbnail before putting it in his mouth and lighting it. ‘No, got to get back to London, do you see. For dinner. So thought we’d go for a ride in the morning. Jenkins says you’re quite useful on that pony of yours. Yes?’
‘I don’t know, Papa,’ Artemis answered, brushing some cake crumbs off her dress.
‘What Jenkins says.’
‘I’d love to go riding though. Please.’
Her father tapped the ash off his cigarette into his cupped hand and then blew it into the air. ‘Good. That’s all fixed then. Good.’ He cleared his throat and continued to stare out of the window for a couple of moments longer. ‘Good,’ he said finally, then turned on his heel and left the room.
Since her father had not stipulated the exact time when they were to ride, Artemis was dressed and in the stables at first light lest she miss her treat by being late. Jenkins, just too old for combat, was the only groom left at Brougham, but he was already up and mucking out the boxes, for he still had six horses to do. The best half dozen hunters were still in, even though there was no hunting and no-one to ride them except Jenkins and a girl groom seconded from the village. The rest of the animals had been roughed off and turned away in a distant paddock. The young staff might have all gone to Flanders, but Lord Deverill’s horses had not yet been volunteered.
‘I in’t done Buttons yet, your ladyship,’ Jenkins apologized when he saw Artemis. ‘I just in’t ’ad the time.’
‘It’s all right,’ Artemis replied, ‘I’ll do him. I like doing him.’
They barely talked while Jenkins started to groom a tall strong chestnut for his master and Artemis groomed her dark bay pony. They had both animals ready and saddled up in half an hour, which was as well, because five minutes later, on the stroke of half past seven, Lord Deverill himself arrived, accompanied by four couples of hounds.
‘Thought we might have a bit of sport,’ he announced generally. ‘Hounds could do with a run.’
‘Don’t you go too bold now,’ Jenkins muttered to Artemis as he checked her girths. ‘Don’t you go trying to do anything beyond you.’
‘Let her ladyship do that, man!’ Lord Deverill called as he swung himself effortlessly into the saddle. ‘Otherwise if she kills he
rself it’ll be your doing!’
‘The catches be a bit tight on these little saddles, your lordship,’ Jenkins replied, continuing to check the buckles. ‘They’re that tight they needs strong fingers.’
‘Ready?’ Lord Deverill asked his daughter, as if Jenkins had not even spoken.
‘Yes, Papa,’ Artemis said, as Buttons put in a goodnatured buck.
‘Your hands are too high,’ her father said. ‘You’re riding. Not driving.’ Then he kicked his horse forward and led on out of the yard.
It was a beautiful November morning, cold but clear. The hounds’ and the horses’ breath lay on the air, while a light frost still crisped the grass. Artemis put her heels down, straightened her back and softened her rein, so that by the time she caught her father up, she had Buttons perfectly controlled. Her father glanced down at her, but said nothing. Instead he kicked his horse on into a canter behind the hounds. Artemis followed suit and they headed away from the house up a long pull which led to a covert known as the King’s Bushes.
As they rode, Artemis pushing Buttons on to keep pace with the free-striding chestnut, her father never spoke. Whenever she rode out with Jenkins, he always called to her what they were about to do, whether they were going to trot, or canter, jump or gallop. Her father said nothing. He just, on occasion, looked over to see how she was going, and then rode on. He didn’t even nominate their first jump, which was a three-foot post and rails. He simply put his horse at it, then rode on. Fortunately Artemis had often jumped this particular fence with Jenkins, and Buttons sailed over it, which was as well since there was no other way forward. Next they met a small brook which Artemis and Buttons had also jumped previously, and which they flew again, and finally, before reaching the King’s Bushes, they met a low but wide hedge. Buttons reached for it and it wasn’t until they were flying it that Artemis saw the four-foot drop the other side. Ahead, her father’s horse had pecked slightly on landing, throwing his rider up his neck. Buttons landed perfectly and came away from the jump so well that by the time her father had collected himself and his horse Artemis and Buttons were alongside them.
‘Good,’ Lord Deverill said as they drew up. ‘Yes, that’s the ticket.’
They waited a long time while the hounds drew the covert. Artemis’s father smoked a cigarette and said nothing. Early on Buttons fidgeted, earning a look of disapproval from Lord Deverill. Artemis sat back, heels down, and he quickly settled.
Then the absolute quiet of the early morning was broken by the sound of hounds suddenly giving tongue.
‘Right,’ Lord Deverill said. ‘Seems they’ve found.’
The hounds crashed out of the far side of the covert and swung away from Artemis and her father uphill. Ahead of them, Artemis got her first view of a fox in full flight, and found herself hesitating. Even from that distance, she could sense the feeling of panic as the animal flew across the open fields, its brush stuck out straight behind it. Then there was no time for further thought, as Buttons, excited by the baying of the hounds and the sound of Lord Deverill’s hunting horn on which he was blowing a thrilling series of quick notes, took hold of his bit and flew. Artemis battled for control, but it was a fight soon lost, and from then on she was a passenger as her pony galloped in hot pursuit of horse, hound and fox.
Ahead, her father was riding alongside the hounds, at full stretch. But he was taking a cautious line, mindful of the child behind him. Instead of flying the hedges he went for gateways or gaps and Artemis, seeing what he was doing, managed to steer her bolting pony on the same course. They ran through field after field, with the hounds all the time slowly gaining on the fox. And then suddenly, just as Artemis felt Buttons was beginning to tire and that she was regaining control, as they topped a hill and began the run down the opposite side, a hedge loomed up in front of her, divided by a solid looking five-bar gate which was firmly closed.
She was still some way behind her father’s horse, whom she saw her father checking as he realized there was no way through. The hounds, however, having wriggled under and through the gate, were still running, streaming away from them across the next field as the fox headed for the nearby covert. Artemis saw her father turn his horse towards her and raise a hand.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Pull up, girl! There’s no way through!’
Artemis sat back and pulled on her reins as hard as she could. But Buttons still had hold and if anything quickened as he galloped at the hedge. Artemis could hear her father still calling to her to turn her pony, but there was nothing she could do. The hedge was fast approaching, looking too big, far too big for Buttons to jump on his own. So instead of closing her eyes and praying, Artemis opened them wide and kicked on.
Buttons arched his back and leapt. Artemis threw the reins at his head so that nothing would check him. She didn’t even look down. She just looked through her pony’s ears at where she hoped he would land. Which he did, a good two feet clear of the gaping open ditch which lay on the blind side of the hedge.
Lord Deverill, having watched in silence, seeing his daughter was safe, popped his big horse over the gate and galloped on to the covert where hounds had checked, and so too finally had Buttons.
‘I think the fox has gone to ground, Papa,’ Artemis said breathlessly, pointing into the woods. ‘In that hole over there.’
‘Fair enough,’ her father replied. ‘We’ll give him best.’
Picking up his hounds, Lord Deverill turned his horse and started to walk away from the covert, followed by Artemis. They left the field by a different route, going out through a hunting gate on the far side, before swinging back alongside the woods at the top of the park.
‘Good pony you’ve got there, young lady,’ Artemis’s father said to her some time later, as they walked quietly on. ‘That was a quick thing, you know. That was a dashed quick thing.’
And that was all that was said on the way home. Artemis’s father broke the silence now and then by humming tunelessly to himself, but he never spoke another word, not even after they had ridden into the yard and handed their horses over to Jenkins.
And Artemis had never been happier in all her life.
It wasn’t until they had climbed the stone steps leading up to the house that she learned the truth of the matter.
‘That last hedge you jumped,’ her father said, breaking another seemingly endless silence as he stopped and stared up at the facade of the great house. ‘That was the hedge that accounted for your mother.’
Eleanor Mary Milligan, as she was hastily christened the same week her mother was buried, seemed to know from the moment she came into this world at number 1015 Westfield Avenue that in order to survive she must be good and quiet, and not be any trouble to her father or brothers. In fact she was such a quiet baby that sometimes when her father came home drunk on Friday nights he would fondly imagine she had joined her blessed mother in heaven.
‘God love us,’ he would mutter as he stumbled upstairs, ‘and now wouldn’t that be a thing? Wouldn’t it only be right that she should go, too?’
Some nights he would stand by Eleanor’s cot, convinced she had stopped breathing, and do nothing. He never tried to wake her, instead he would just stand and watch and pray that the angels had in fact gathered her and justice had been done. But then the baby would stir in its sleep and put up one tiny pink hand, perhaps seeking for something to hold on to. Patrick Milligan would sigh despairingly as if God had deserted him, before wandering drunkenly off to his own, now single, bed, where he lay cursing his miserable lot before falling into a deep and whisky sodden sleep.
Having lost her mother the moment she was born, the baby needed a nursemaid, so Patrick Milligan had hired the rat-faced Mrs MacDonagh who lived opposite. For the first month of her life Mrs MacDonagh had taken the baby into her own house, along with Eleanor’s eighteen-month-old brother Patrick, and she had bottle fed the baby and kept an eye on her brother amidst the debris of her own life and the squalor of her enormous family. Once the feeding r
outine had been established, the baby and her brother were returned home at nights, since Mr MacDonagh, who worked with Eleanor’s father as a building worker, had threatened to leave home if his wife got up once more in the middle of the night to feed a child which wasn’t their own. So it was agreed that while Mrs MacDonagh would go on looking after the two youngest Milligans during the day, Dermot, Fergal and Mike, the eldest brothers, would take over as soon as they were back from school.
Not surprisingly, neither of the older boys appreciated their extra duties. With their mother gone they already had more than their fair share of shopping and cooking. Inevitably they took out their frustrations on Ellie and ‘Patsy’, as they had nick-named their youngest brother, leaving it to him to remember his sister’s bottle when the others had left her crying, or to make endless attempts to keep her amused.
Mrs MacDonagh certainly had no love for children, even her own, and absolutely no time at all for young Ellie. And forced as she was by circumstances to bring her own dirty and vicious brood to work with her, she took a great pleasure in letting them loose on the two youngest Milligans, deliberately ignoring their torments and teases.
Patsy was a sickly child, growing very little in the first few years of his life. Weak and under-nourished, he barely survived a dose of diphtheria, which left him weaker than before, and an even softer target for the torments of his three hefty brothers.
The greatest laugh they enjoyed was pretending Patsy was a little girl. They would hide all his own clothes and, having forced him to wear his sister’s, they would lock him out in the street to be chased and bullied by the neighbourhood gangs. When they were feeling particularly spiteful, they would blindfold the ‘two sisters’ as they were known and, as darkness fell, leave them in some unknown part of the neighbourhood to find their own way home. Little wonder that Ellie learned from an early age to defend Patsy in any way she could. Certainly, no day of their early childhood ever ended without one or both of them being beaten up by someone.
In Sunshine Or In Shadow Page 2
