The Lady

by Anne McCaffrey

  When the sobs began to ease, she held Catriona away from her.

  “Now, wash your face, pet. And we’ll have no more ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys.’ There’s no time for them now. There are several very difficult days for you to get through. I’ll help you all I can, but a lot of it you have to do for yourself, mostly by recognizing that your mother has died and that there is nothing you can do to change that.”

  15

  WHAT Catriona remembered most about the next few days was the endlessness of it all and the headache she had from so much weeping. And so many people, few of whom she knew or remembered, coming in and out of the house. She heard Auntie Eithne remark constantly what a consolation it was that so many people called to pay their respects. Catriona only fretted, having to be available to receive the condolences, and the pitying glances, the deep sorrowful sighs. But she learned the responses expected, even that a sad “thank you” often sufficed all by itself. Either her Aunt Eithne or Selina were with her: Auntie Eithne in the house and Selina in the yard. And Selina had asked her to use her Christian name.

  She had some time with Conker and had to ride the Prince, for he had to be exercised each morning before he was taken into the RDS. Bridie had compressed her lips in a thin disapproving line when she saw Catriona dressed in riding clothes Monday morning, but a look from Michael had quelled comment.

  The horses were worked early in the morning before anyone was likely to call in with condolences. Buoyed by Selina Healey’s reassurances and her presence, Catriona had been able to ride without qualms. The exercise had done her good, to which even Bridie had sourly agreed, for there was color in Catriona’s face and more animation. She was also able to eat a full bowl of smooth porridge.

  On Monday afternoon when her mother’s body was brought home and the coffin installed in the drawing room, Catriona was accompanied by the entire family to pay her last respects. Seeing her mother laid out, her face smoothed by death, Catriona felt oddly relieved. She’d never seen a dead person before; she hadn’t been allowed to see her grandfather. Her mother looked so peaceful, hands clasped over her chest, the rosary twined in her fingers. Her mother looked asleep or deeply immersed in prayer.

  Prayer hadn’t done her mother much good, had it? The thought came unbidden to Catriona’s mind, and she burst into tears. Her father led her out of the drawing room and into the lounge, where he held her in his arms until her weeping stopped.

  “Here, pet,” he said, handing her one of his big white handkerchiefs to mop her face and blow her nose. “That’s over with now.”

  “You mean, I don’t have to—” she faltered, “to go in again?”

  “Only if you want to, Trina. Only if you want to.”

  Philip returned from the airport with his uncles and, despite the sorrowful occasion, the atmosphere in the house lightened. They were full of the tale of having to fly through London as the Aer Lingus flight direct to Dublin had been booked solid.

  Uncle Eamonn was indeed a blurred, slightly smaller, and definitely plumper copy of her father, thought Catriona. He had an odd habit of swinging one foot, twitching it almost constantly, and he smoked cigarette after cigarette.

  Uncle Patrick wasn’t as fat as Uncle Eamonn. He had the same Carradyne black curly hair, but his eyes were more gray than blue. He wore a continuous half smile as if everything amused him slightly. And the things he said! Catriona couldn’t believe her ears and didn’t know if she was supposed to laugh or not. Philip did, and so did Selina and Eithne, and occasionally her father smiled.

  She liked Uncle Patrick, but she didn’t feel as comfortable with him as she did with Uncle Eamonn. Catriona also urgently wanted to ask her uncle Eamonn something, but she didn’t because she was afraid of the answer she would get. Her cousin Patricia’s visit this summer seemed tremendously important to her now, and she didn’t know why.

  The next day, Tuesday, the fifth of May, was one of the worst days of Catriona’s life. What she remembered most about it was the mountains of flowers. She would always associate their almost sickening scent with her mother’s funeral.

  She and her father, Mick, Harry, and Philip had ridden out at six and set the yard to rights. “Before anyone could possibly be up and about,” Philip had said, trying to lighten the sadness that permeated the yard and house.

  Catriona walked beside her grandmother Marshall behind her mother’s coffin from the house to the church. Her father was on her other side. Her grandmother took her hand and held it in a grip that seemed to tighten with every step nearer the church. Catriona did not dare complain, especially after she saw her grandmother’s face. Tears streamed down an otherwise expressionless countenance and dripped unregarded onto the black silk front. Catriona looked down, at the tarmacadam road, at her feet, at the tight toes of her Easter shoes. They had already raised raw blisters. She let the pain of her feet overcome the pain of her clasped hand. It wasn’t a long way to walk.

  As they filed up the aisle behind the coffin borne on the shoulders of her brothers and uncles, her grandmother released her hand to cross herself. The next thing Catriona knew, Eithne was gently pushing her to follow Sybil into the front pew, and she was separated from her grandmother. Her brothers and her uncles filed into the pew behind her, and that was comforting. She knelt with everyone else but could not pray. She didn’t know what to pray. Nothing seemed suitable.

  She didn’t look around her, but she could feel the press of people and knew that the church was crowded. Obscurely this comforted her. Then the solemn Requiem Mass began. She followed the first part, but a terrible pounding started in her head, and the heavy scent of the flowers began to nauseate her. She had to concentrate very hard to keep from being sick. There was no way she’d be allowed to leave the church during her own mother’s Requiem Mass. She swallowed and swallowed and found a prayer: not to be sick here, now.

  Then it was time for Father John to give the eulogy, and although at no time did Catriona dare look at him, he didn’t sound as formidable as he had a week ago. As he praised the selflessness of Isabel Virginia Catriona Marshall Carradyne, her indefatigable energy, her charity, her contributions to the church and the community, tears began to trickle from Catriona’s eyes, and the headache eased a bit.

  Finally it was over, and Catriona stood squarely behind Auntie Eithne so that she didn’t have to watch them carry the coffin back down the aisle. Then Sybil, who was crying quietly, touched her shoulder, and she realized that Auntie Eithne was already in the aisle, following her grandmother, grandfather, and her father.

  She was in a sort of daze now, walking with her head down. She could hear subdued weeping around her and sighs, and the shuffling of feet. She looked up involuntarily when they emerged into the overcast day. She was astonished to see people standing about the old graveyard beside the church and people out in the road and in the parking lot. She had never seen so many people, not even for Easter or Christmas Day.

  They carried the coffin all the way to the new cemetery on the hill near Cornanagh. She watched the first time the bearers changed and was amazed that no one lost step, nor did the coffin, with its blanket of flowers, so much as tilt. It would have been simply awful if someone had dropped the coffin and her mother had spilled out. Catriona gasped and began to cry because these weren’t at all the sort of thoughts she should be having today. She felt someone’s arm about her shoulder, and a clean handkerchief was offered.

  And then they were right by the open grave with the coffin laid on the ropes that would lower it out of sight. There were masses of flowers, and despite the open air, the scent brought on her nausea again. She concentrated on her throbbing feet and made it recede.

  She wasn’t at first aware of Father John’s voice. It was only when her brothers and cousins stepped forward and began lowering the coffin into the ground that she realized she ought to have been listening. They were putting her mother in the ground, and that grave would not be opened again until Judgment Day. Not opened as she had
not opened her door!

  At that point all strength left her legs, and she sank to the ground, sobbing.

  Someone picked her up, and she was hurried through the crowd, which parted instantly. Then she was being handed into a car, and she heard her Auntie Eithne telling the driver to take them back to Cornanagh.

  “Selina!” her aunt cried when they came to a stop in the courtyard and Selina, who had decided not to attend the interment, appeared in the door.

  Together they carried Catriona into the lounge and laid her down on the red leather couch.

  “I don’t think she fainted, Selina, but it was just too much to ask of the child.”

  “Oh, my God!” Selina exclaimed, because she had removed Catriona’s shoes. “Will you just look at this?”

  Catriona opened her eyes.

  “You idiot! Why on earth didn’t you tell us those shoes were too small?” Selina glared down at her.

  “But those shoes are new,” Eithne said. “Isabel bought them just before Easter. Catriona, whyever didn’t you say something?”

  “I don’t know,” Catriona replied, rather surprised that her two supporters had become so angry at her.

  “Listen to me, Catriona Carradyne,” Auntie Eithne said, her lace stern as she pointed severely at the bloody toes. “If those blisters have anything to do with a self-imposed penance or something stupid like that, I’ll take you across my knee!”

  “Penance?” Selina asked.

  “There’s been enough of that in this house,” Eithne said, “and we’re having no more. Not while you’re in my care, young lady. Now, you just work off those socks while I get the plasters.”

  When her aunt had left the room, Catriona grinned.

  “And what’s so amusing?” Selina demanded.

  “Auntie Eithne can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “Well, I can. You lie back. This will hurt.” Then Selina added, with a ripple of laughter in her voice, “Regard it as a penance for your folly.”

  By the time people began to return to the house for the cold meal Selina and Bridie had laid out in the dining room, Catriona had soft socks and house slippers on, the afghan tucked around her and orders not to leave the couch. She was brought a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches. Her uncles and brothers came in to see how she was doing, and Andrew stayed with her. Mother hadn’t liked him much, either, because he’d insisted on joining the army instead of going into law. Catriona tucked her hand through his arm when people stopped in to talk to them.

  After four cups of tea, Catriona had to excuse herself. There was someone in the downstairs loo and, when she crept painfully up the stairs, someone occupying the bathroom. Her need to go was severe, and as there was no one in the hall, she managed to get out of the house undetected. She made a beeline for the yard and the first empty stable and relieved herself in the straw.

  In the yard she hesitated, not wanting to reenter the house, not while there were all those people trying to console her. She left the yard and slipped down to the Ride gate and out, avoiding the worst of the mud to keep her house slippers dry.

  The Tulip came charging up to the fence as she passed his paddock. He waggled his head from side to side, nickering, plainly asking why she had neglected him these past days. She pulled several handfuls of grass from the unmowed verge and presented them to him.

  Conker was waiting at the field gate, a burlap sack and plastic protecting the injured sole.

  “Did Tulip warn you I was coming?” she asked him, holding out her hand for him to blow into. Lovingly she straightened his forelock and finger-combed his mane to lie all on the one side.

  He blew into her hand again, not looking for food as much as saying that he had missed her.

  “Not as much as I have, Conker,” she said, and buried her face against his mane.

  He stood quietly then, though she could hear the flick of his tail.

  “You know something’s wrong, don’t you? Mother’s dead, Conker.”

  She cried once more, against the neck of her patient pony, clinging to him. Then suddenly she felt prickly hairs on her arm and the warmth of breath. Startled, she looked up and saw Tulip’s Son beside her.

  “Hello there,” she said softly, gulping back the last of her sobs and slowly extending her hand to the colt.

  He snuffled into it and then tried to bite her flat palm, his hairs tickling it.

  “Don’t be cheeky now,” she said reprovingly. Ears flattened against his head, he made to bite the air and, with a flick of his scut of a tail, wheeled and charged back to his mother.

  Catriona stayed with Conker, fussing with his mane until Mick came to check on the field horses.

  16

  FOR once the weather cooperated and the Wednesday of the Spring Show 1970 was blessed for the most part with sunny skies. The few showers did not dampen the general public and certainly had no effect on the competitors. Early that bright morning, Catriona went in to the Royal Dublin Society grounds with her father, her brother, and Mick. They’d been up since dawn, setting the yard to rights, which, as Philip had said gaily, was not a chore on such a gorgeous day.

  Artie and Mick had brought Teasle and the Prince in on time on Monday evening, and they had passed the veterinary with no problem. Artie was staying with the horses, a job Mick had happily resigned in his favor. As it happened, both the Prince’s and Teasle’s competitions were scheduled for the same hour, ten a.m. Her father muttered all the way in about which competition to attend until Philip reminded him that he was quite capable of showing Teasle well, so there was no real dilemma.

  “On the other hand,” Philip went on, grinning delightedly, “young Sean is scareder of you than he is of either the pony or his father. Maybe you’d better leave him to the tender mercies of Mick and Trina. The Dohertys will be none the wiser.”

  Catriona and Mick held their breath for the reply, but Michael Carradyne said he’d wait and see.

  Because of the early hour, Michael had no trouble finding a parking spot on Simmonscourt Road close to the turnstile entrance at Gate H. Just inside the gate there was a bustle of activity as grooms and handlers were emptying their wheelbarrows and muck sacks into the loader to be taken from the grounds before the general public arrived. To their left was Sandymount Hall, where three-year-olds and Connemara ponies were stabled. Ballymore Prince was in the Anglesea Stables, underneath the main stands overlooking the Jumping Enclosure.

  Following his son’s advice—”for the first time,” Philip added, with a grin—Michael Carradyne and Philip turned off at Simmonscourt Hall, where Teasle was, while Mick and Catriona continued on to the Prince.

  They passed the jumping exercise ring, where three horses were being schooled. Across the walkway was the timbered elegance of Pembroke Hall, loud with bawling cattle, the famous RDS clock on its northeast corner. To the left was Ring Number Three, smaller than One and Two, where the major showing classes were always held, and generally set aside for warming up the show class entries. Then came the Tudor-style Industries Hall.

  Catriona vowed that she’d visit there today, because for the first time she was considered old enough to go by herself. She touched the zip pocket of her birthday anorak and felt the comfortable bulge of her small hoard of shillings and pence. Then she and Mick turned into the Anglesea Stables.

  Artie’s smile was somewhat hesitant, but when he saw Catriona’s cheerful grin, he brightened.

  “They’re watered, fed, hayed, mucked out, and I lunged the Prince like the captain told me.”

  “How long didja lunge ’im?” Mick was not about to give out any compliments.

  “Thirty minutes, just like I was told.”

  “Have you had any breakfast yet, Artie?” Catriona asked, thinking that he sounded testy.

  “Too busy.”

  “Ya gobshite, go get something in your belly,” Mick said, thrusting a ten-shilling note at him. “Now, Cat, we’ll get this pony slicked up.”

  It was such a relief to
Catriona to be busy again after the enforced idleness of the last three days. She pushed away the sad thoughts that threatened to bring the ever-ready tears, picked up the body brush, and began to groom the Prince. By eight-thirty the pony was plaited, mane and tail, and his dark bay coat glowed silkily—by using elbow grease, not the furniture polish the lad across the aisle had sprayed on his pony. The Prince’s hooves were polished and the white of his fetlocks immaculate. So Mick sent Catriona down to look at the F course, which was still being built when she got to the main Jumping Enclosure.

  Between shows, she forgot just how immense the main arena of the Royal Dublin Showgrounds really was. Daunting, and beautiful. The variegated privet hedging was neatly trimmed, and there were displays of spring flowers around the edges. She smiled to herself as she walked out on the springy grass surface. Her grandfather had always had a chuckle about the RDS hedging since privet was poisonous to horses and not all the fools knew it.

  The various stands, the Anglesea to her right—newer than the Grand Stand Enclosure on her left, where the notables sat—and the members stand was beyond it. Across the end were the elevated private boxes, where the embassies would hold parties during the August Show, especially on the Friday of the Aga Khan Challenge Trophy. She felt a shiver for remembered excitements, then turned her attention to the course being laid out, every pole gleaming with fresh paint and the rustics set with evergreens.

  She could see that there’d be some racing to do between fences, for the course was spread out over the three-hundred-foot length and one-hundred-and-fifty-foot width of the enclosure. There was a treble halfway through the sixteen fences and a double. That was to be expected. However, she didn’t feel that the obstacles would be all that difficult, even if spaced out; certainly they were well within the Prince’s abilities, for he had a good deal of scope. That wretched stile gate was just like the one the Prince had refused last May, but they’d been schooling him over narrow obstacles, so he ought not to balk this year.