‘What type of report?’
‘One that claimed me incapable of fulfilling routine tasks by arriving on duty in an intoxicated condition.’ He took a sip of whiskey. ‘It detailed excessive drinking in the mess, disorderly behaviour. There may have been some letting off steam. But how, in all conscience, could anyone present in the mess make such a report when every man jack of us was equally smashed? Whoever reported me lacked the decency to report themselves.’ Freddie looked at her, unable to hide his bitterness. ‘My MBE is a pay-off. I wanted to let you enjoy tonight, but this is as good as it gets. Surrounded by chums with knives behind their backs. I gave them six years and what do I have? What home have I to return to?’
‘Glanmire was always your home.’ A chill gripped Eva, imagining the tiny easels in her new kitchen blighted by Freddie’s uncomprehending presence. The army had been a bulwark for them both. With his excuse gone for staying in London they were stranded in the glare of truth.
‘It didn’t feel like my home these last times I went back,’ Freddie said quietly. ‘I felt an intruder with you all there. Home has become whatever room I’m billeted in.’
‘What will you do?’
Freddie downed his whiskey and watched the first dancers take to the floor. ‘You tell me,’ he said quietly.
Eva lit a cigarette, trying to stop her hand shaking. ‘The thing is, Freddie, with the money Mother is leaving she has encouraged me to buy a house in Dublin.’
‘A wise move. I can help you look.’
‘I’ve looked already. I paid a deposit on one for the children and myself. I thought you were staying in London.’
‘So did I.’ Freddie considered the implication that Eva had not consulted him. ‘You did okay on the price?’
‘I think so. I thought I might teach.’
‘Teach what?’
‘Painting to children.’
‘Teach them to draw?’
‘To express themselves freely. I could be good at it.’
‘What would you think of my chances?’
‘Of painting?’ Eva was surprised.
‘No.’ Freddie smiled. ‘Of teaching again.’
She imagined Freddie stalking between the tiny easels, barking at children to buck up.
‘The thing is, Freddie, I thought I’d teach them alone.’
Freddie looked away, unable to contain a mirthless laugh. ‘Me with a paint brush? I don’t think so.’ He clicked his fingers at a waiter for another whiskey. ‘That’s not what I meant. There is a position which I’m told is mine should I care to accept it.’
‘Where?’
‘A prep school in Wicklow. They want someone to double as a mathematics and games master, a disciplined chap not scared by a few drops of rain. It’s not compulsory to live in, but I get the impression they’d prefer if I did. They need a man on the spot to organise the young chaps. It’s where military experience comes in, you see.’
The waiter brought his drink. Eva wasn’t sure whose feelings he was trying to spare with this face-saving enthusiasm for his new job. ‘Therefore a house in Dublin would be awkward for me, though it sounds perfect for you. Naturally the school would welcome you, but my cottage sounds pretty compact…a gate lodge really. Not that I mind, but I mean you’re used to more space…’
Freddie’s jovial tone could not disguise his hurt. The chatter around them grew louder, making him raise his voice and drown out any last vestige of intimacy. The band struck up Hazel’s favourite tune, A Gal in Calico, and on cue she took to the floor.
‘Not that you won’t be a welcome guest,’ Freddie added. ‘Any weekend you wished to pop up.’
His pause allowed her the chance to say that he would be equally welcome in Frankfurt Avenue. It was cruel not to reply, but while Freddie hadn’t scoffed at the notion of her teaching, even if he didn’t interfere, his sense of unspoken ridicule would pervade the house, crippling her dreams as surely as arthritis had crippled Mother.
‘Of course I’ll come to see you,’ she said. ‘The children too. When do you start?’
‘January. I’ll be a new boy, like Francis in Trinity. I have of course made provision for his fees.’
Freddie approvingly watched Hazel swirl about the dance floor with her young man.
‘The thing is, Freddie,’ Eva said. ‘Hazel is talking about wanting to go there too.’
‘Hazel attend Trinity?’ Freddie looked surprised. ‘With her looks? That seems a tad unnecessary.’
‘She has a good brain.’
‘Undoubtedly she’ll use it to find a good man.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The fact is this damned prep school doesn’t pay well. There’s rather a surfeit of retired officers. MBE doesn’t stand for Mayo Before Eton. The old boys’ network have all the good Civvy Street jobs collared. Surely you can make Hazel understand the need to prioritise. Francis will have to earn his own way in time. He’ll have no one to support him. Hazel has her love of horses.’
‘That’s hardly the same thing.’
‘It’s as good a way as any to meet a decent young man. What about the Irish Times photograph you sent me of her jumping at the Horse Show? Hazel stands out. She’s still at school, yet she’s the finest looking woman in this ballroom. She knows it too, she has the poise and confidence to hold her own with anyone. She won’t be slow getting invited to the Trinity Ball and we’ll let her if a decent class of chap invites her. Let’s see if Francis is as quick to find a partner to invite along.’
‘Young women flock around Francis,’ Eva said. ‘He’s like a bosom pal to them.’
‘That’s a new word for it,’ Freddie replied scornfully. ‘I’ve heard Clark Gable called many things but never a bosom pal. Trinity should knock the soft focus out of him, once he avoids those Yankee ex-servicemen on the GI bill.’ Freddie watched his daughter dance. ‘Will she be frightfully upset not to go?’
‘She’ll understand.’
Freddie nodded, aware that Eva was lying for his sake. Tomorrow in Buckingham Palace he would receive his bauble, a pay-off for the years which cemented their slow separation. Eva would take appropriate snaps with her Brownie camera, playing the role of an officer’s wife. Such memories were all he would have to sustain him when he placed his dress uniform in a trunk and donned the dull garb of a teacher in his native country where few wanted reminders of having sat out the war.
Silently they watched Francis lead a partner out among the couples. He danced with rare grace and the girl in his arms knew it. The dance floor was crowded, though it lacked the frantic gaiety that Eva recalled from the war. These young people did not need to treat each dance like it might be their last. Freddie leaned forward.
‘Since we’ve exhausted our range of excuses for not living together, can I ask one question? Why did you ever marry me?’
‘You know why.’
‘I don’t because I never thought about it back then. I loved you and presumed you loved me.’
‘I did.’
‘You probably actually did, because people like you – God bless them – love the entire world. Trees, birds, bunny rabbits in the fields. Love is easy because you splash it around like rainfall. I loved you differently, I didn’t love anything else. I would have picked you out from a thousand people. You were my favourite living being. I was never even your favourite Freddie.’
‘That’s not true,’ she protested.
‘It is.’
Eva was hurt by the truth in his accusation. The two Fredericks journeying to Donegal twenty years ago as rivals and friends. She had let herself be ensnared in the excitement, imagining that once she had exchanged vows with Freddie all doubts would disappear. It took her two decades to fully wake up. But if Freddie loved her so much, why did it take so long to hammer out a marriage settlement in Father’s study while she had paced upstairs, feeling like a heifer at mart? Freddie might not have spat on his palm to seal the bargain, but pragmatism had guided his love, clinching the best deal between a clubfooted man and a dowered
woman edging towards spinsterhood. Still they had done their duty by the children and while the future would be difficult, at least she could now make her own mistakes without being impeded by his disapproval and could stop seeing herself reflected in his eyes as an irredeemable dreamer.
‘Perhaps tomorrow we might talk to the children and work out a civilised arrangement,’ she said. ‘Come down from Wicklow some evening when you’re settled into the new job. Inspect the house. I’d value your opinion.’
‘At least it will be warmer than Glanmire House. I hope to visit Mayo over Christmas for some shooting. I’ll enjoy rattling around the old place on my own.’
Eva could see him calling into his uncle in Turlough Park, drinking in the Imperial Hotel, stopping at Durcan’s shop for cheap Skylark whiskey. He would not mention his MBE, but the news would have gone before him. Everyone would acknowledge it by their comments or their silence. Freddie had fought to keep his neighbours free from war, a truth too uncomfortable to mention. Despite sly remarks about him bowing before a foreign king, there would be local pride in his success.
The band swung into It’s a Pity to Say Goodnight. Freddie watched his children who were flushed with vitality and excitement and who wanted this evening to never end. They were unaware that it was their father’s final encore. He would spend his last weeks in the army as an outsider, knowing that somebody had betrayed him. Perhaps it was planned for months with tabs kept on him, loose remark after remark, last drink after last drink. The war was over and ranks were closing. He would be resolute with his new pupils, teaching them values they would grow to laugh at. Occasionally he would visit her, the homeliness of Frankfurt Avenue increasing his sense of failure. He would make new friends, not all in a bottle. But tomorrow would remain the bitter apex of his life, while Eva was poised on the cusp of both orphanhood and freedom. They would never be as close as this again. Seeing Mrs Templeton watching them, Eva deliberately took Freddie’s hand in hers. He looked down, surprised and pleased, as he grew aware of being watched. A waiter approached, paging Eva who was wanted on the telephone. Freddie accompanied her to the porter’s desk. It was Maud, saying that she had called the doctor again because the pain was worse, with Mother slipping in and out of consciousness. It was probably impossible to reach Oxford tonight, but Mother might be gone by the time Eva got there tomorrow.
‘I’d drive you if I could,’ Freddie said when Eva replaced the receiver. ‘At one time chaps here would loan me a car with petrol but people don’t want to know me now.’
‘I shouldn’t have left Mother,’ Eva said, ‘but she insisted that I come.’
‘You belong with her really. I should never have taken you away from Donegal. You must get the first train in the morning. I’d like the children to stay, see their father in a good light. The thing is that I’d feel bad asking you to return to the barracks tonight, with only one bed and whatnot. I think you would be better off in a hotel. I’ll pay, naturally. Let the children enjoy the rest of the night but there’s no need for you to stay. There’s nothing more to say, is there? I’ll tell them you were called away to Oxford and are trying to get there tonight. I’ll put them on a train to you straight from Buckingham Palace.’ He surveyed his former comrades and added, with such force that she almost believed him: ‘I’ll be glad to get away from this.’
In the end she agreed to slip away without spoiling the children’s evening. But firstly she showed him the Russian death certificate. He snorted, like she knew he would.
‘Oddly enough, this could be good news. The Russians are masters at twisting facts. They may say he is dead to hide the fact that he’s alive. You might as well try to eat mercury with a fork as understand how they operate. I don’t know anyone who could tell you whether to believe this or not.’
But Freddie was wrong in that and wrong to believe that she was going directly to a hotel to await the first train. The porter hailed a taxi outside the Dorchester, with the driver reluctant to let her out on a corner in Whitechapel, where just one terrace of uninhabitable houses remained standing against a flattened streetscape. But Eva wanted to walk from here.
Finally it was done, she had left Freddie and after tonight her world would be different and uncertain. Like the citizens of these bombed streets, she needed to start a new life. Mother’s life was ending and Eva had one last duty to attempt. She reached a street with sounds of life. Turning a corner she found a crossroads miraculously unscarred, with public houses on two corners. Making herself an object of curiosity, she hovered outside an unlit shop, reluctant to venture unaccompanied into either pub. Despite trying to remain unobtrusive, a policeman approached after a time, his voice suggesting that he mistook her for a streetwalker. When her clothes and identity papers revealed her as a lieutenant colonel’s wife his tone grew respectful. He seemed reluctant to leave her standing alone after she explained how she was waiting for someone. But his attitude changed when Art emerged from a side street, carrying a satchel of newspapers. Perplexed, he shook his head and walked away.
Art stopped when she approached, anxiously scanning her face for news of Mother. He was losing the public school accent so at odds with his shabby appearance. Neither of them wanted to enter a smoky pub. Art had a one-room flat nearby on Hungerford Street, with an entire corner devoted to a stack of pamphlets condemning Animal Farm. Apart from a portrait of Stalin, the room was otherwise spartan as a prison cell.
Eva showed him Brendan’s death certificate, which he studied carefully. Art could never utter the heresy that a Soviet document might be a fake, but Eva noted his reluctance to positively authenticate the certificate.
‘He should never have gone to Spain,’ Art said. ‘Enthusiasm is no substitute for discipline.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘This appears to state so.’
‘Conveniently killed by the Germans, with no offer to repatriate the body, no proof of anything.’
‘Proof would be impossible. Do you know how many patriotic comrades died in the war, never mind…?’ Art hesitated.
‘Never mind what?’ Eva asked angrily. ‘Your brother was an innocent man. Did you betray him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know what I mean,’ Eva said. ‘You’re the one of us who always knew everything. You were the shining light, so you explain it. Mother is dying. Will you travel with me in the morning and face her?’
‘I’ve told you before, my life as a Verschoyle is over.’
‘Then, as a Russian, tell me whether to show her this death certificate if she is still alive when I get there?’
Art spread his hands. ‘Bureaucratic mistakes may occur. We lost millions in the Great Patriotic War. England thinks she won the war because London suffered. But not like in Russia. I can’t say if every prisoner on the train was killed or just marked down as dead after fleeing in the confusion. All I can offer you is my bed for the night. I don’t mind the floor.’
‘There’s a bed for you in Oxford and a house in Donegal falling asunder. Why won’t you face Mother?’
‘She blames me for what happened. I blame myself.’ He rose. ‘I have some customers – not many – here. If I don’t catch them leaving the pubs they’ll be gone.’
‘Sit down,’ Eva pleaded. ‘Stop always running from us.’
Art lowered his satchel reluctantly. ‘In my dreams I often see you and Maud and Beatrice Hawkins laughing in sun hats, sitting up on Mr Ffrench’s cart. I don’t know if my wife and child starved to death. Maybe I dream of Donegal to avoid dreaming about them.’ He hesitated, unsure whether to confide in her. His sudden boyish look reminded her of when he would enter the kitchen in Dunkineely, excited at having discovered wreckage on the Bunlacky shore. ‘That’s why I’m finally going home.’
Mother always claimed that Dunkineely was in his blood.
‘I’m pleased,’ Eva said. ‘But what about Samuel Trench’s daughter? Will you share it with her family or…?’
She stopped as A
rt stared at her like she was a retarded child.
‘I’m going home to Russia. They have finally issued a visa. They know I never broke faith. I kept the flame alive and they have recognised that.’ His tone held the fervour of a true believer who would calmly confront savage beasts in a coliseum. His gaze recalled Martin Luther’s piercing eyes. ‘The British Empire is finished, with just the fag-ends ready to be swept away. New nations will look to the Soviet Union. That’s why I must be there. I know my place. I hope one day you find yours.’
‘Your place?’ Eva felt a sudden fury. ‘After what they did to your brother?’
‘Your certificate shows that he was a victim of Nazi aggression. The Soviet Union never harmed him.’
‘They kidnapped him in Barcelona.’
‘How do you know that is the true version of events?’
‘Will you promise to find out the truth when you go there?’
‘Brendan may not wish us to find him. He may have requested the Soviet authorities to produce this certificate so that we will give him the freedom to be left alone. I am going to Russia to try and find my wife and child.’
‘And what if the secret police are waiting to put you into a camp too?’
‘There is more than one kind of prison. If a labour camp is the work that Stalin has earmarked for me I will take it, because it is better to be the smallest cog in a great mosaic than to stand alone in exile and know that your life means nothing.’
‘You asked me a favour in Mayo once,’ Eva said. ‘I hid Jim Gralton. Now I’m asking you for the favour back. Come to Oxford.’
‘No.’
‘Are you so proud that you cannot even say goodbye?’
‘I was never proud. I live by the sweat of my hands. There is no work I ever refused.’
‘Watching a mother die is work too,’ Eva said. ‘It’s slow and painful but it must be done because we are only asked to do it once. If you’re brave enough to face a Soviet prison, then surely you can face a darkened bedroom in Oxfordshire?’
The Family on Paradise Pier Page 48
