‘That’s unfair.’ Freddie downed the remaining whiskey. ‘I wanted what was best for my son. If Castlebridge College was so terrible a decision why didn’t you stop me?’
It was a valid question. One freezing winter of trying to educate the children in Glanmire Wood had been enough to endure. In the autumn of 1940 Eva had rented a house in Bray to allow Francis and Hazel to attend progressive Dublin day schools. But last spring when Freddie received his promotion and announced that he had secured Francis a place in a Hertfordshire boarding school Eva instinctively knew that such a move would be disastrous. Still she let it happen for Freddie’s sake, hoping that the school might forge a bond between father and son. Although settled in Bray, Francis had been prepared to go to please his father and so Eva had dismissed her foreboding as a selfish desire to keep Francis to herself. But nothing had prepared the boy for Castlebridge College. The headmaster – with a steel plate in his skull from the Great War – flew into furies that even terrified his staff. Eva had gone to live with Freddie, to be near Francis, with Hazel happy to become a boarder in her Dublin school. Eva still felt sick at the memory of awful London cocktail parties with the other officers’ wives. Battling to see who could conjure the smartest frock amidst the austerity. She had rarely heard Freddie talk at such gatherings without mentioning Francis’s boarding school.
‘At least I removed him from Castlebridge before too much damage was done.’ Eva broke the terse silence.
‘Before he found his feet, you mean,’ Freddie sniped. ‘Six weeks into the autumn term hardly gave the boy time to settle back in.’
‘All last summer he was terrified to return. The child was losing his mind in that school and so was I with worry.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Freddie poured another whiskey. ‘He’s not a child any more for a start. He merely had some problems adjusting after your mollycoddling. There may be mental illness on your side but Francis is a Fitzgerald.’
‘None of my family ever locked their father in a cave with a bear,’ Eva snapped.
‘My ancestor might have been a lunatic but he was no coward,’ Freddie said. ‘He would not have been reduced to a shrivelling sissy by a few schoolboys.’
Voices came from outside as Francis and his tutor returned.
‘Don’t let him hear you say that,’ Eva pleaded. ‘He’s still your son.’
‘I hardly recognise him,’ Freddie said wearily. ‘Every time I come home he’s more of a stranger. And you have changed too.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Life wasn’t that bad in London, was it? The other wives often ask about you.’
‘I’d nothing in common with them.’
‘You’re not being fair on yourself. You’re a good-looking woman still, you could compete with the best of them.’
‘Can’t you understand? I don’t want to compete.’
‘I understand less and less. You’re stuck here in the ether and I don’t know how to make you think in a sensible fashion. Even your brother has started to make more sense than you. Where is your brother these days?’
‘Which one?’ Eva replied unfairly.
Freddie spread his hands. ‘What do you expect from me? I’ve badgered the War Office to ask their Soviet counterparts for some record of Brendan, but do you know how many Russians are dying in this war? They haven’t time to locate one misguided Irish adventurer.’
‘You’ve done your best,’ Eva admitted. She deliberately consulted the wristwatch Freddie had bought her, to emphasise her appreciation of the gift. ‘At what time is Mikey taking you to the station?’
‘Any moment now. I intended to bring Francis a watch on my next trip, but he seems to have already acquired one.’
‘Harry bought him one for his sixteenth birthday.’
‘That’s rather forward.’ Freddie sounded annoyed as if the tutor had usurped his role.
‘He’s just showing his affection. They’re like brothers at times.’
‘Really?’ Freddie’s voice soured. ‘I’m not sure I didn’t make a poor choice of tutor.’
War had been the making of Freddie, giving him a chance to show leadership in a world he understood. He could be tough with those who needed toughening, fresh-faced boys with no notion of how quickly death could come in Burma and Sicily. But last October he had shown himself capable of kindness when he arranged for a young Scottish lieutenant – being invalided out of the army because of injuries received when routing the Germans in Cap Bon in North Africa – to come here and recuperate as Francis’s tutor. Freddie must have felt that he was solving various problems at once. Harry Bennett was handsome and likeable but not the type of man whose company Freddie enjoyed. Perhaps he had chosen sensitively, recalling Francis’s distraught condition on the night when Eva removed him from Castlebridge. But Eva suspected that Freddie hadn’t really looked beyond the rank of Harry’s uniform. Perhaps he was only seeing the tutor properly on this trip home.
Freddie finished his whiskey and stood up. Their conversation was over. Eva had kept him at bay, cautiously playing for a stalemate. Poor Freddie. She wondered what he said about Francis now at cocktail parties, surrounded by officers whose sons had witnessed the boy’s breakdown.
‘Naturally I shall stop off in Dublin to see Hazel,’ Freddie said.
‘Boarding school suits her,’ Eva replied.
‘Quite.’
Hazel was enjoying boarding school, standing out for her good looks and tomboy behaviour. Francis had been equally popular as a dayboy in Dublin. But his confidence was so shattered after Castlebridge that Eva had brought him back to Mayo to let him slowly regain his self-belief. Since Harry Bennett’s arrival his old high spirits had returned. But symptoms of nervous tension, evident throughout his father’s stay, were visible now as Francis opened the drawing room door, aware that they had been discussing him.
‘I hope Harry and I were not too long,’ Francis said. ‘We hurried back for fear of missing you.’
‘There’s little enough chance of Mikey being on time.’ Freddie’s joviality was forced. ‘And no chance of the train.’
‘The train would wait if they knew you were coming,’ Francis replied.
‘Probably hoping I’ll bring a few logs along to burn, eh?’
The laughter sounded hollow on both sides. During this trip they had skirted around each other, equally at a loss about what to say next.
‘I’d better pop downstairs and bid adieu to Maureen if she’s back, what?’
Freddie disappeared into the hallway. Francis stared at Eva anxiously.
‘He’s not sending me back to England, is he?’
‘He has agreed for you to stay here until September and then go to the Quakers.’
‘And he won’t send Harry away until then either? I mean we work hard together.’
‘Your father is not proposing to send either of you anywhere.’
‘That’s okay then.’ The boy was relieved. ‘I knew you’d put in a good word. I know how…’ Francis glanced at her as if they shared a secret, then listened. ‘There’s the cart.’
Eva heard a creak of wheels and both she and Francis gave a sigh of relief, then shifted guiltily for allowing the other to see it.
‘I’d better tell Father. He has a long journey.’
‘Yes,’ Eva said. ‘Tell him.’ Her son’s conspiratorial glance worried her. Francis knew her better than herself. Had he already guessed that Eva couldn’t wait for Freddie to be gone so she could be alone with her two young men? She had not faced this shocking truth until she found herself returning Freddie’s kisses in the dark and imagining the feel of Harry Bennett’s lips. Over the past six months she had grown close to Harry, with the tutor reading her poetry late at night when Francis was in bed. Their souls shared much in common, yet Eva had previously not allowed her mind to dwell on him in a physical way. It was impossible. She was married and Harry far younger. So four nights ago Eva had been shocked to find herself committing mental adultery
. In her mind it had been Harry Bennett’s body moving inside her, making her respond in ways that excited Freddie. For the last three nights she had carefully blocked out all such thoughts. But by day she felt confused and guilty. She could never be unfaithful and certainly not with someone closer to Francis in age. Yet she yearned for tonight when the house would belong to her again, with Francis asleep and Harry sitting up with her, their heads bent close over some book.
She heard Freddie ascend the kitchen stairs with Francis and Maureen following. Harry Bennett came to the doorway of the bedroom he shared with Francis – the only one upstairs still inhabitable apart from her own. Freddie glanced around, sensing them all secretly waiting for him to go.
‘Better not keep Mikey waiting, eh?’ He picked up his single case. For every trip home he seemed to pack less. Francis accompanied him to the doorway. Eva suspected that this awkwardness between father and son could only grow worse with time. The tragedy was that it would not take much to make Freddie proud. He was not a father who needed to produce a genius. Freddie just wanted his son to be an able-bodied version of himself. A good shot and sport, a man’s man who could hold his drink and talk as an equal to anyone. But Francis made friends in a different way. Freddie’s fellow officers would think him frightfully wet, someone who left himself open to the possibility of ridicule, a spirit too free for his own good. She watched them shake hands warily. Harry Bennett kept his distance until Freddie turned.
‘Keep up the good work, Bennett. His Latin sounds capital to me.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘We have a gold medal prospect for Trinity, eh?’
‘Francis should certainly be able to hold his own when he resumes his schooling.’
‘And no doubt the time is coming for you to rejoin the war effort. You look a new man after your rest here.’
‘Late summer should see me back in London if they can find use for a cripple. I’ll look you up, sir.’
‘Excellent.’ Freddie peered down the hallway. ‘Meanwhile you keep them all shipshape, Maureen.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
Freddie shouldered his case and limped towards the cart, with the dog at his heels wagging her tail. Eva followed, aware of a collective release of tension behind her. He hoisted the case onto the cart and turned, while she fed the horse the apple she had been saving.
‘London isn’t that far away,’ he said, quietly so that Mikey couldn’t hear. ‘The Irish Sea is the safest for shipping in Europe. They never shifted me from those married quarters after you left. I rather rattle around in them alone.’
‘Let’s see how Francis does in Waterford.’ Eva removed an imaginary thread from his uniform to emphasise his smartness.
The petrol crisis meant that it was months since Eva had seen a motor car on the roads in Mayo. But she knew that Freddie would enjoy sitting up on Mikey’s cart as it passed through Turlough village. It would help erase the shame of his penniless retreat six years ago, with bailiffs at his door. He would nod to the Durcan women and Delia when they came to their shop doorways, accept good wishes from men waiting with their horses at the forge and women chatting outside McQuaid’s post office, store up nods of respect against any bad times ahead. Finally he was the poor relation who made good.
He kissed Eva and climbed up, his greatcoat and officer’s cap folded on his lap. Mikey made a noise in his throat and the horse started off, bearing him back into the army world in which she had been lost when trying to live as his wife. When would they meet again? She felt a familiar foreboding for him as he returned to the constant bombardments of London. Freddie looked down with an echo of the smile that once charmed her in Donegal. Momentarily he seemed younger and there was much she wanted to say.
She put her hand on the slowly moving cart as if to stop it. He said something, softly so that Mikey couldn’t hear, but the creak of the cart prevented his words from reaching her. He touched her hand before the cart slipped beyond her grasp as the horse strained forward. Freddie called cheerily to the others as he was borne away beneath the overhang of chestnut branches.
Eva walked back up to the steps. Nobody said anything, their looks conspiratorial, unwilling to admit their relief at his departure. Freddie had sensed this too. Throughout his stay he must have known that he was an outsider in this sanctuary paid for by his wages.
‘Will you be eating upstairs or down?’ Maureen asked, despite already knowing the answer.
‘The kitchen will do fine, like before. It will save the carrying.’
Eva felt a sudden stab of jealousy at the way Maureen glanced at Harry and smiled as she went back inside. Harry and Francis went off to resume their lessons, her son touching her shoulder as he passed. Eva was tired and confused. She wanted to change the sheets on her bed. She wanted to bathe. Just for a moment she wanted to be in a good house with electric light and bath taps. She lit a cigarette, held the smoke deep inside her, then breathed out. Spitefully, she thought of eating upstairs with the boys. Even farmers with meagre holdings rarely ate with their servants. Then she stubbed out the cigarette, ashamed. When had she ever considered Maureen a servant? They lived as equals, confiding secrets. But the girl’s smile at Harry had infuriated her. Though why shouldn’t Maureen smile? She was Harry’s age, he was a good-looking man and even the slight limp left by shrapnel added to his attractiveness. Eva doubted if Harry would marry a girl like Maureen, but romance blossomed in unexpected circumstances. She should know this, but in truth Eva knew nothing. Over the past few days she had found herself analysing every comment the young Scotsman ever made, unsure if she was conjuring meanings that were not there.
She recalled the night when he first came. In Italy the Allies were breaching the German lines on the River Volturno and in Mayo there was sufficient snowfall to make the avenue impassable except on foot. Francis had been sent down to the gate lodge to await him, still nervous of meeting people after Castlebridge. An hour had passed, with Eva anxious about her son freezing in that roofless lodge. She had been unsure if the tutor would object to sharing a room with Francis. His journey would have been difficult. When boarding a train in Dublin there was no guarantee of how long it would take to reach Castlebar. Freddie’s letter had been short on specifics: ‘The chap was a classics student in Edinburgh University before enlisting. From a good Scottish family. I met him by chance, visiting one of my boys in hospital. He seems more your type than mine. I sold him the idea of getting some peace, a bit of shooting, a chance to recover his strength. The poor blither definitely needs country air. He will be good for Francis in the short term, though I suspect he’ll soon be raring to get back into the swing of things…’
Another wounded soldier seeking refuge. Eva had half expected that, if and when he appeared, Francis would need to support him, head bandaged, wincing in pain. The way she sometimes imagined Brendan reappearing. But when she finally spied them beneath the chestnut tree, Francis and the tutor had been walking steadily, his limp barely perceptive, their heads close together, both clasping a handle of his cardboard suitcase. They were laughing and something about their faces that night was beautiful. She knew at once they would be friends. But only now did she realise how important Harry had become to all of them living here.
Eva went inside to change the sheets on her bed in the Commander’s old room, which by now was almost as damp as the basement bedroom where Maureen slept. Through the wall she heard Francis and Harry discuss something in low voices. She locked her door, undressed and washed fully with cool water, then chose a frock that made her younger, something Maureen occasionally asked to borrow. Freddie’s train would leave Castlebar soon, crammed with emigrants bound for England. The Free State government was so concerned about this exodus that they were trying to ban farm labourers from emigrating, while actively encouraging a clear-out from the Dublin slums. The Liverpool boat would be packed by the time Freddie got on board. She should have persuaded him not to wear his British uniform. It was one thing in May
o where his name was a shield, but she worried for him among the dockside crowds.
Maureen looked up when Eva entered the kitchen to help her.
‘Mr Fitzgerald gave me a bigger present than he needed to. He’s a generous man.’
‘Freddie was never good with money.’
‘It’s lucky he doesn’t need to be any more. Dinner won’t be long.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
Maureen eyed her summer frock and freshly washed hair. ‘Sure I’m right as rain, Mrs Fitzgerald.’
Convinced that she was about to blush, Eva walked out into the sunshine. The air was still. Even the squabbling songbirds were silent in the trees. A scent of wild garlic came from a bank of woodrush and bilberry. Normally Eva hated to see wild flowers indoors but just for tonight she allowed herself to pick a whole armful. Filling a vase with water she left them on the kitchen table before setting it for four. Francis and Harry clattered down the stairs in a cacophony of clowning and laughter. They washed their hands at the basin, flicking water at each other as Maureen half-teased and half-scolded them. Eva picked up the book that Freddie had smuggled home for her, Put Out More Flags by Evelyn Waugh. Another writer banned from Castlebar Library. She would finish it quickly and loan it to Harry.
Because she was so looking forward to sitting by the fire with him, she felt that dinner would never end, with the small talk afterwards and the nightly stroll by all four of them through the woods. But eventually it came time when she could suggest that Francis think of bed. Maureen finished moving about and the house was dark except for three candles in the candelabrum above the hall fire where half-burnt logs yielded a marvellous scent of ash. Just Harry and she were left in two fireside chairs. Shadows stirred around them, an odd spark spat from the logs and they could discuss things which Freddie would never understand. Harry made the war distant, rarely mentioning his experiences in France. He made the poverty and rationing of wartime Ireland distant too. His manner reminded her of the classmates Art once brought home to Donegal whose youthful idealism had made poetry seem as vital as bread. Both of them were tired, yet neither seemed keen to stop talking.
The Family on Paradise Pier Page 42
