The religion she was born into and the one she adopted both made her used to feeling an outsider in Ireland. The godlessness of Marxism merely reinforced her sense of difference. She could cope with these badges of isolation, but what she could not bear was having to compete against the fragile beauty of the sole remaining neighbour with whom she shared anything in common. Now in the past week even that neighbour had abandoned Donegal.
Not that anything untoward ever occurred between her husband and Mrs Goold Verschoyle, who was ill at ease with Mr Ffrench’s unspoken infatuation. But the entire district knew of his puppy eyes since the day when Mr Goold Verschoyle, in a rare lapse of manners, dressed down her husband before a police sergeant on the mountainside. Mrs Ffrench should have been glad to see the back of this woman who had always possessed some indefinable ailment, yet still managed to hold the admiration of every man in the district. But all week she had mourned her departure like a sister with the Manor House now empty and the Goold Verschoyles gone to Oxford.
There had been a sale of wine and old port from their cellars with local farmers gawping mistrustfully at the dusty bottles as if they contained a dubious fairground elixir. Her husband, along with the few other remaining Protestants, had purchased the wine. Catholic interest only arose when the sale of spirits came up. Watching this auction had saddened her, with most onlookers present to merely gawk at the possessions of the departing gentry, and Mr and Mrs Goold Verschoyle mutely observing proceedings from an upstairs window. They had not emptied their cellar for financial reasons, which was just as well because the auction raised precious little, but Mr Goold Verschoyle considered it prudent not to leave alcohol or valuables in the boarded-up house. Most items of real value had been transported to Oxford, though the family silver was missing – presumably having been purloined by Art and donated to some communist cause. Only the curtains and heavy furniture remained, like a baited trap to try and lure back their eldest son.
Art had only visited Donegal once since his return from Russia, possessing such a haunted look that Mrs Ffrench had wanted to take his hand and confess how she too hated Moscow. But his stiff shoulders hinted that he would brook no criticism of the state that expelled him.
Little remained of the intense wide-eyed boy she first knew. He had been replaced by a cipher whose only language was rhetoric. For him to utter a single criticism of Stalin would be to shatter the foundation on which he’d built his adult life.
On that visit she heard that Mr Goold Verschoyle had again pleaded with him to take an interest in the Manor House, but Art declared his intention to let the house rot rather than allow himself to be contaminated by the evil of inherited wealth in having any dealings with the cursed business, now or after his father’s death.
Yet during that short visit Mrs Ffrench had also seen Art strip to the waist to spend an entire day lovingly repairing a section of roof where the tiles had come loose. It was plain that the boy still loved the house and this irrational love tormented him. Mr Goold Verschoyle’s final act in Dunkineely had been to write to Art, saying that he was leaving the key with Mr Barnes, their old bank manager in Donegal town. He had left for Oxford because the Irish winters were too wet for his wife’s acute arthritis and they would have more company in an hour’s walk in Oxford than in a day’s drive in Donegal. But she also knew that Mr Goold Verschoyle was departing because he no longer had the heart for the struggle to maintain a house with nobody to pass it on to. She knew this weariness herself because in time Bruckless House would pass, if not to strangers, then to distant relations. This made it harder for her to care about the gardens or rooms filled with unread Soviet magazines that her husband had imported in bulk until the post office refused to deliver them. On some nights this home felt like a mausoleum, but even the grave surely felt warmer than the way she was feeling now.
She should fetch a robe for her shoulders or venture into the kitchen to make hot milk and honey. But it felt like her legs would not move. She sat on the top step to stare down into the dark hall and then, for some irrational reason, sensed that a child stood behind her. She did not know who the child was and knew there was no point in turning because she would not be able to see him, just as he could not see her. But she could feel his lonely terror and knew that he was staring down at an unseen menace lurking at the bottom of the stairs. She also sensed this evil and wondered if she might now still be dreaming. Because the evil had a calm inaudible adult voice – almost like her husband’s – coaxing the child down. She wanted to say, ‘Wait here with me, I won’t let you come to harm like those kittens in the bucket. Trust me, I’ll mind you.’ But she was no mother and this was why the child could not sense her presence, why he stepped forward, one step, two step, slowly descending the stairs. She wanted to follow. But all she could do was sit shivering in her thin nightdress and rock herself back and forth, like a mother whose child had drowned while she failed to hear him cry out in great distress.
TWENTY-TWO
The Bailiffs
Mayo, Autumn 1937
Carts passed along the Turlough Road and occasionally even a motor car but Eva did not want a lift, especially off any local men. They all knew of her shame. Most of them probably knew more about her circumstances than she had known before her visit to Castlebar this afternoon. Today she had finally decided that she had no alternative but to make this inventory herself, because it was impossible to distinguish between truth and alcohol-induced fantasy when Freddie discussed their problems any more. She was unsure if his reticence to discuss money arose from chivalry or pigheadedness. However after visiting every shopkeeper in Castlebar she could now finally assess the crippling extent of their debts.
Only two shopowners had refused to divulge the figures, reluctant to discuss indelicate matters with a lady. They had felt ashamed of her shame. The others were eager to total up the Fitzgerald account to the last farthing, although no one had made her stand in the shop to discuss the matter. She had been escorted into their offices or parlours and offered tea or sherry. Most were more respectful than annoyed, but all stressed the necessity of being paid. Her final call had been to Mr Devlin who was solicitous to the verge of being over-familiar. He even offered to drive her back to Glanmire Wood, but she had thanked him and lied about having sufficient money in her purse to hire a hackney.
Crossing the Mall afterwards, Eva could sense eyes watching behind curtains as she passed the Imperial Hotel – where she feared that Freddie (who had disappeared on a drinking spree yesterday) was holed up in the select lounge, intimidating the young manager into extending his credit. In the two months since the last shooting guest left Freddie had nobody to take onto the bogs. He still ventured out most days, returning with a brace of duck or rabbits that he silently placed on the kitchen table. But Eva knew that much of his time was spent in remote shebeens or alone with his dog, drinking cheap Skylark whiskey and brooding. They could not afford another advertisement in the Shooting Times and Eva was almost relieved to have no bookings because the silver and table linen had been pawned.
A cart slowed now on the road a mile from Turlough and the farmer enquired if she would like a lift. Eva shook her head, managing to smile as she claimed to be simply out on a walk to take the air. The farmer asked after Mr Fitzgerald and the children, then wished her well and shooed his horse on. She felt selfish in not taking the lift because, with only Maureen left, she was needed at home. In the past year the eighteen-year-old girl had become the friend to whom Eva and the children each confided their secrets. At first Maureen had been simply employed to mind the children but willingly accepted more duties when Eva had to let go of Brigid the kitchen maid and finally Mrs McGrory. The cook had worked without pay for the final two months and cried when leaving, not for herself but for Eva and the children. They could not even afford the houseboy who used to come and chop logs but the steadfast Mr Clements, who remained their solitary permanent guest – undertook this task with surprising relish. Maureen and Eva did every
thing else between them, with Maureen refusing to abandon Eva despite the rarity of wages. Maureen’s father had surprised them once with a gift of potatoes, with Freddie awkwardly greeting him and her young sister Cait jumping down from the donkey cart to race into the kitchen and hug Maureen.
Looking up now, Eva was surprised to see her ten-year-old son ahead of her on the dusty road. Spying her, Francis began to run. Eva thought he was alone until she noticed Mr Clements some distance behind. Francis flung himself into his mother’s arms.
‘Hazel has been bold,’ he announced. ‘She ran away.’
‘Where to?’ Eva felt too exhausted to cope with this latest crisis.
‘We don’t know. She’s been missing for hours. Maureen is searching the Breaffy Road.’
Although tougher than Francis, Hazel was more conscious of their circumstances. As Freddie’s drinking grew in tandem with the welter of bills, the girl had taken to living outdoors on her pony, although not allowed to leave the wood alone. This morning she had questioned Eva about where she was going and asked to be taken into Castlebar as well. Eva’s last memory of leaving the wood was of Hazel staring from the last bend on the avenue, a hurt, silent figure mounted on her small pony.
Taking Francis’s hand, she greeted Mr Clements, the old man slightly breathless as he outlined the route they had already searched. They hurried on past the old trees shading the road at Pigeon Hill and down the slope towards the village.
Her entire family seemed to be disappearing. At the start of the year she had felt extraordinarily lonely when her parents moved to Oxford, leaving the Manor House empty. She had not heard from Art since the night he brought Jim Gralton to her house. Thomas regularly corresponded from South Africa and Maud dispatched sensible letters from Dublin, but Eva found it impossible to convey her sense of entrapment in her replies. She had no idea where Brendan was. The only card she’d received from Spain had been nine months ago. Brendan could now be a Republican general or be back in London or in one of Franco’s jails. At least his name never appeared among the Irish casualties listed in the papers so he was still alive. O’Duffy’s fascist Wild Irish Geese had quickly returned home as national heroes without appearing to ever fire a shot and the General’s biggest battle seemed to be with Patrick Belton’s Irish Christian Front over the disappearance of funds collected for their Catholic crusade in church gate collections.
Brendan’s current silence left Mother paralysed with fear. He was never extreme like Art in disavowing contact with his family: the boy was always too sociable, loving life. But he hero-worshipped his brother and could be aping him in refusing to contact anyone. Art had hinted at some quarrel when Eva last saw him, but the hope remained that Brendan was at least in touch with his oldest brother. Maud suspected Art of knowing something because when she last saw him selling the Daily Worker on a Dublin street he had stalked off when she tried to mention Brendan.
Reaching the village school, they decided to try the small road that wound down towards the bridge. Mr Clements did not ask about her trip to Castlebar. He rarely asked questions, but kept out of the way as he waited, like them all, for their world to collapse. Hearing shouts from a tinker encampment beside the bridge, they saw that Hazel must have ridden into the field because tinker children surrounded her, mocking her pony. Older boys were challenging each other to jump the ditch bareback on their piebald horses, but each horse refused, sometimes violently throwing them off. Eva stopped in terror, seeing an older girl help Hazel up onto a horse. Her daughter had no saddle or helmet but no fear either. The ditch seemed impossible to clear, yet the horse tried with all his strength for Hazel. They almost made it before he skidded and fell onto his side.
Convinced that Hazel was crushed, Eva raced towards the bridge with Mr Clements and Francis. But Hazel rose unaided and managed to scramble back up onto the horse. She made a long circuit of the field while a woman emerged from a wattle tent to scream that she would kill the beast. Eva reached the gate as Hazel jumped. Horse and child disappeared into the steep dip beyond the ditch, with even the tinker children shocked into silence until Hazel reappeared, having waded back across twenty yards upstream. Resentful of being beaten by such a small girl, they seized the reins to drag her down while chanting, Proddy, Proddy, go to hell – ringing out the Devil’s bell.
Defiant and haughty, Hazel was taunting them back: Cathy, Cathy, go to Mass – riding on the Devil’s ass, when Eva and the Commander reached her. They managed to escort her to where Francis waited at the gate while tinker women cursed and sods of turf rained after them. Eva knew she should scold Hazel but no longer had the heart to do so. She simply wanted to reach home and lie down with the shutters drawn as if to block out the endless figures circling around in her head. Reaching the village they saw a crowd outside Durcan’s pub-cum-grocery. People fell silent as Eva approached. Mr Durcan emerged in his white apron.
‘That’s a fine day now, mam.’
‘It is indeed, Mr Durcan.’
‘Could I offer you all a lift up home, mam?’
‘Thank you, Mr Durcan, but it’s a nice walk.’
‘It is that to be sure, but all the same I think you’d be wise to send young Missy on by pony and step into the car with me now.’
People were watching closely. Many of the same faces she remembered welcoming her as a bride over a decade ago. She could not decode their expressions.
‘Is it Mr Fitzgerald?’ she asked, alarmed.
‘Oh, he’s right as rain, a true gentleman. He called in some hours back for a dram to keep out the cold before heading home.’ The publican gently steered her towards the car proudly parked outside his premises. His wife and daughter watched anxiously from the pub’s deep-set window. ‘It’s the callers we had half an hour ago who are a wee concern. A misunderstanding, I’m sure, but it’s a class of occurrence we’ve not seen here for a power of Sundays.’
Eva urged Hazel to canter on, then got into the car with Mr Clements and Francis. Once she closed the car door the huddle of people began talking. The engine started with a splutter, startling nearby hens on the road.
‘It might be wise to tell Mrs Fitzgerald what has happened,’ Mr Clements said.
‘Aye.’ The publican nodded. ‘I was coming to that in the privacy of the vehicle. There were three of them, having a whiskey before seeking directions to Glanmire. Dutch courage. Decent enough men but I’d sooner starve than do their job. If their business was in the village they would not have stopped for fear of a mob blocking them. But it wouldn’t be our place to interfere in the gentry’s affairs.’ He looked at Mrs Fitzgerald. ‘Bailiffs, mam, clasping a possession order signed by the Bank of Ireland.’
They turned onto the small road by the Protestant church, passing Hazel on her pony. Mr Durcan was quiet, letting Eva digest the news. She glanced back at Francis’s scared face, knowing how the boy loved those woods. She had been so focused on their local debts that she never questioned Freddie about the Dublin bank to which he had mortgaged the house and lands.
‘What’s a bailiff, Mummy?’ Francis asked.
‘Generations of them are burning in hell.’ Mr Durcan’s bitterness was all the more striking for his quiet tone. Eva recognised the irony that he had been born on the roadside after the Fitzgeralds evicted his parents.
‘Bailiffs are like fleas,’ the retired Commander told Francis. ‘We all encounter them at some time and we get over them. I think we’ve become a bit too cosy here. Maybe it’s time you saw the world, lad.’
Halfway up the drive they met Maureen returning from searching for Hazel. She got in, scared by the funereal silence. A car was parked on the gravel, though the bailiffs had retreated so that Mr Durcan had to steer around them as he reached the lawn. Eva got out and the oldest bailiff approached. ‘Are you Mrs Fitzgerald? Your husband has gone inside, mam, with a loaded shotgun and I think it would be wise of someone to take it off him before he does himself or the rest of us harm.’
‘What right have you
to be here?’ Eva asked.
‘The bank were insistent that we take possession of the house, mam. There’s a wad of correspondence between your husband and them.’
‘I’ve not seen any letters.’
‘Obviously, mam, they’d be addressed to the owner of the property. He’d be well advised to do nothing silly to bring more scandal down on his head.’
The Commander touched her arm lightly and crossed the lawn to enter the open front door. She thought that he was attempting to talk sense to her husband, but just then Freddie appeared. The two men passed in the doorway and Mr Clements nodded like it were a normal encounter. The Commander entered his room and closed the door as Freddie emerged onto the front steps with a five-gallon drum of paraffin oil.
‘Keep back!’ Freddie unscrewed the lid. ‘Take the damn woods but you’ll never have this house. I’ll burn it to the ground rather than see a non-Fitzgerald live under its roof.’
‘There’ll be no fear of that, sir.’ The bailiff stepped forward, trying to be reassuring. ‘I’m sure the land will fetch a good price when the trees are felled, but our instruction is to sell the house for salvage and clear the site. A builder might want the stone, but you can rest assured that nobody will want to live in a place that’s falling down. Now put away the paraffin like a good man before there’s an accident.’
‘I am not your good man and I will do what I like on my own property.’ Behind his fury Eva knew that Freddie was humiliated. A sound of hooves came up the driveway and she wished that the children did not have to witness this. At least the servants were gone apart from Maureen. Mr Durcan was saying nothing.
The Family on Paradise Pier Page 31
