The Sea and the Silence

by Peter Cunningham

  ‘I have had a room made up here for you tonight,’ Norman said with great weight.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘In your new home.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It will be the first time a woman has slept here since my mother died. You will be taking her place,’ he said.

  Hot and a little dizzy, I went outside and lit a cigarette. The storm had suddenly died and a moon had come out. I could see John Rafter, also smoking, standing in the field beside his van.

  ‘John?’

  ‘How’s it going, Iz?’

  ‘I’d like you to drive me home.’

  Feral eyes floated from hedgerows as the van weaved the lanes between Grange and Tirmon. I was chilled although I had done little else but dance.

  ‘Are you all right?’ John asked.

  ‘I’m just a little tired.’

  ‘You’re shivering’, he said and reached into the back and handed me over a jacket which I put around my shoulders. When he dropped me at Longstead, he said: ‘I’ll go back and wait for Bella and her old fella.’

  The house was already asleep. How I relished its softness and disorder, its lack of purpose or ambition. I went in and put on the lights in the hall and found a pair of outdoor shoes and a coat, then went outside to the wall beyond the lawn and lit up a last cigarette. How many times I had observed Longstead from that spot, seeing but unseen. My smoke eddied in the night air and I batted it away. Bella and Nick would be home soon and if they found me up, Bella would be full of awkward questions about my leaving my own party so early. There was a noise. I turned. As I did, I was clamped at the mouth and around my waist.

  We fell back and I saw the stars reeling. I tried to shout for help. I was pinned, and could feel the strength of my attacker and hear him grunting as he held me. I kicked and bit. I could think only of the land agitators, the dispossessed, now come to remove their last remaining obstacle to Longstead. My throat cut. I bit again. Hard.

  ‘Iz!’

  He had released me.

  ‘Jesus, but you can put up a fight!’ Frank gasped.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1945

  His face flitted in and out of shadow as clouds ran across the moon. He was unshaven and his clothes were wet and bedraggled. My first thought was that Bella and Nick would return at any moment.

  ‘Quickly,’ I said and caught his arm.

  I led him down the avenue, across the stile and into the lake field. I took off my shoes, hoisted my dress and ran, my legs drenched from the dew. The moonlight was eerie and erratic and each time it shone I kept thinking it was the lights of the van. Inside the old lambing shed, the floor was covered with the musty hay of former seasons.

  ‘Why..?’ I began, but I couldn’t finish the question, nor did I need to.

  He shook his head and I could see in a beam of moonlight how thin he was.

  ‘It was Alice,’ he said softly. ‘Had to be.’

  ‘She told me… she told me that you’d said you didn’t want both our lives to be ruined,’ I said.

  Frank’s eyes closed. ‘I sent her to Dublin to bring you back down with her. I thought it would be safer to cross to England from Monument. She came home and said that you had broken it off with me, that you’d decided it was for the best.’

  My chest hurt where my breath was caught. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she was crazy, which is a terrible thing to say about your own sister when she’s dead. Because she thought I was betraying what she stood for.’

  His head was down and his hair fell forward.

  ‘Are you on the run from the guards?’ I asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘And yet you came back for me,’ I said.

  ‘Tom sent me the notice of your engagement,’ he said. ‘I knew that wasn’t what you wanted, because you told me. I knew then that Alice had told me lies.’

  We kissed in that damp little shed, although I didn’t care if the heavens opened.

  ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I will die if I can’t be with you.’

  He unbuttoned my dress, then kissed my shoulders and gently pulled down each strap of my white slip. Unclipping my hair, he smoothed it out with his fingers. I undid his shirt and saw bruising on his shoulder. His chest hairs were darker than those on his head, spreading out before diving in an ever darkening line. I could feel blood I had forgotten surging powerfully, my ears humming and my whole head resonating. Afterwards, I stroked his back and tasted his skin.

  ‘What will become of us?’ I asked.

  ‘We will become like the stars in the sky,’ he said.

  ‘The ancient Greeks used to think the stars were their gods.’

  ‘Then I want to be Hector, son of Apollo,’ he said.

  ‘Hector, the great warrior, the greatest in Troy,’ I said and hugged him close. ‘My Hector.’

  Frank said, ‘I want to do this for the rest of our lives.’

  I came down to breakfast, my feet barely touching the ground. All night in bed, or what part of it I spent there, I could inhale his skin from mine.

  ‘What on earth came over you last night?’ Bella asked. ‘Poor Norman was crestfallen. I had to make your excuses.’

  ‘I was feeling ill.’

  ‘Perhaps you should see a doctor,’ said Nick, and as always when he spoke, I felt a chill on my neck.

  ‘I’m perfectly well now, thank you,’ I said and cut myself a slice of soda bread.

  ‘Stanley Penrose took me aside last night,’ said Bella, eyeing me. ‘He thinks it’s only reasonable that you give Norman a firm date for your wedding.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’

  ‘I must say I do think the poor man has a point.’

  He’s far from poor, I wanted to say; but instead I said, ‘I know. It was unfair of me. I’ll decide a date with Norman before the end of this week.’

  ‘Well, at least that’s something’, Bella said and she and Nick exchanged a look.

  As if the storms had swept away the final traces of winter, heat poured from the sun, birds sang and darkness and menace were forgotten. Light was exquisite in the garden, illuminating the heads of snowdrops. The love that ran through me, that was my blood, made me want to shout for joy and tell everyone what I was doing. Fifty yards from the house, under a monkey puzzle tree, I sat and made myself remember all the good that had unfolded here, the fine lives that had had this place at their beginning, the great hopes that Longstead had given rise to.

  ‘You’re singing.’

  I whirled. Nick had materialised behind me.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘It was lovely,’ he said. ‘Sorry, did I startle you?’

  ‘No. I mean, a bit. I was miles away.’

  ‘Anywhere in particular?’ He seemed to radiate a power that threatened everything I wanted. ‘Bella and I are taking a picnic down the fields and were wondering if you’d like to join us?’

  He was smiling, but his eyes were too knowing, as if my mind could conceal none of its plans.

  ‘I… I can’t today, thanks, but maybe another day.’

  ‘What’s happening today?’

  ‘I thought… that I would go and see Norman… and plan the date for our wedding.’

  ‘Now there’s a good idea,’ Nick said and strode away down the lawn, hands behind his back.

  I would have liked to have had Mother to myself for the morning, but Bella and Nick were always in the room.

  ‘I must get a photograph of you girls,’ Nick said.

  We stood at the front door, Mother in her black straw hat, Bella in the centre, and me. Nick peered down into his box camera.

  ‘Lovely,’ he said and I heard the clock in the hall strike noon.

  Bella went to the kitchen to see what had become of their picnic and Mother took her easel and pallet to the lawn. I helped her carry her paints and her chair. We went to a spot to the right of the avenue, from which the shining lake could be seen in the distance. Nick and Bella were making their way down to the stil
e. Even this far away, I could hear Bella’s voice.

  ‘You’re very good to me,’ Mother said as I put the chair down.

  ‘It’s not difficult when you love someone very much,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I do understand how you must go, Iz, but I wish you didn’t have to,’ Mother said.

  I stared at her, as if she too, and perhaps all the world, knew my mind.

  ‘Go?’

  ‘To live in Mount Penrose,’ Mother said. ‘Longstead is so much prettier.’

  I put my cheek to hers and my arms around her neck. ‘I will always love you, wherever I am,’ I said and made my way back inside.

  At half past twelve, I walked down the avenue with only the clothes on my back. I could never have foreseen that I would be leaving Longstead without a solitary possession, but that too felt good and uplifting in the way I imagined pilgrims or hermits must feel uplifted as they cast off all in pursuit of a higher goal. I waved to Mother, but she didn’t see me. I called,

  ‘Goodbye.’

  When I reached the gates, I was out of breath, although I had made a point of not hurrying. The village of Tirmon, whether on mornings of icy sleet or as now, when the sun bathed it in almost beatific light, showed few signs that people lived there. I passed Mr Rafter’s shop. The clock inside showed ten to one. Scents of coffee and jute sacking followed me along the footpath. I began to sink, unaccountably, as if scents alone could unlock the responsible part of my reasoning process. Turning back, I ran into the shop.

  Bells chimed and faces looked up from behind counters. It was one of the small miracles of life that Mr Rafter, despite all his business interests and the need to be in so many different places at once, was nonetheless always in his shop when he was needed.

  ‘Miss,’ he said. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  I felt the familiar internal plunge as dismay overcame hope.

  ‘Oh God, what?’

  ‘The Ruskies are heading for Berlin,’ Mr Rafter grinned. ‘It’s as good as over.’

  I closed my eyes with relief. ‘I didn’t know what you were going to tell me.’

  Mr Rafter’s girth, so often derided and sniggered at, was all at once so very replete and comforting. I said,

  ‘The reason I’ve come in is that I wanted to say that I’d be… most grateful if you could keep an eye on Mother. If anything should ever happen to me, Mr Rafter.’

  The grocer’s clever eyes seemed to join the ranks of all those who could read my intentions.

  ‘And what could happen to you, Iz?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I don’t expect anything to happen. It’s just that, well you’ve always been such a friend, I thought that if…’

  He ran his hand over his face and rubbed his nose vigorously. ‘Your father and I were the best of friends. We’d talk about history and how each of us had got to where we were. We knew the changes that were coming, we just didn’t know when.’

  ‘Mother wants to go back to England. Now that the war is nearly over, she’ll soon be able to.’

  ‘We’ll all be sorry to see her go.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Rafter. I’m meeting someone, I’ve got to rush,’ I said, cursing myself for having come in.

  ‘Ah, you were always the best of them as far as I was ever concerned,’ he said and walked with me to the door. ‘But you’re far too young to be worrying.’

  ‘I know, ‘I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He held the door for me. I could feel his eyes on my neck as I resumed my journey through Tirmon.

  The bull-nose Morris sat like a small, dogged animal at the far side of the village, a little wisp of white steam drifting from its bonnet. I ran the final fifty yards.

  ‘Another minute and I was gone,’ said Tom King.

  We lurched away, dust behind us.

  ‘Is Frank all right?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ Tom said and looked in his rear-view mirror. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  We drove for an hour, weaving back and forth through the lattice of tiny roads, gradually working south and then east, before meeting the north-south main road into Dublin. Tom had booked a cabin and two tickets in his own name on the mail boat to Holyhead that would sail that evening from Dún Laoghaire. Frank and Tom had spent the night before in the Dublin Mountains. Tom shook his head, as if trying to come to terms with the starkness and finality of the day. ‘These are queer old times, aren’t they?’ he said.

  ‘Did you hear that the Russians are heading for Berlin?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a good omen,’ Tom said.

  On the outskirts of Dublin, people were in their front gardens, digging or weeding.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I said. ‘Why did Alice do what she did? She took months out of our lives. Why? If she hadn’t, I’d never have agreed to marry another man, Frank and I would have gone away and by now we’d be free in England instead of being in danger here. Why did she do it?’

  Tom’s big chin sank into his chest and he gripped the steering wheel.

  ‘It wasn’t her, it was history. It was years of resentment and difference, it was people long dead whose blood is your blood. It was about wanting and having and greed. She saw her chance and she took it. With some people, it’s beyond their control. She’d probably have liked you, you know. ‘

  ‘I can’t understand it.’

  ‘You don’t have to understand it,’ Tom said. ‘Frank tells me you have a sister much the same.’

  Old, bowler-hatted men sat on a canal bank in the sun, and beneath them, on the water, swans glided, their hinged reflections perfect. Trams veered around St Stephen’s Green. Tom parked, nose in, and we walked together down Grafton Street. The billheads for the evening paper shouted, WAR SOON OVER! Metal wheels hummed on their tracks and bells clanged. Tom looked back over his shoulder more than once. We turned into Wicklow Street. I longed for Frank. Childbirth would be like this, I knew, pain bearable because of love. I went in through the Wicklow Hotel’s revolving doors, and then through its homely hall, hat drawn over my eyes, past the panelled dining-room with its white-jacketed waiters setting up for dinner, past the staircase up which we had gone together so often and so happily, and into the busy bar at the back. He was sitting in a booth near the door to the toilets, his face drawn and pale.

  ‘I thought you’d never come.’

  I began to kiss him, not minding who was watching. I covered his face in kisses and he held me close and said, ‘It’s all right.’

  I knew then, if ever I had been in doubt, that I loved him completely, for love, I understood, won’t settle for anything less than its full entitlement. Tom handed him an envelope with the boat tickets.

  ‘What time does she sail?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Eight,’ said Tom.

  ‘We don’t want to go on board until the last minute,’ Frank said.

  Tom went to the bar and I found myself checking the clock over the counter.

  Frank asked, ‘What did you tell them at home?’

  ‘Nothing. They think I’ll be there for supper,’ I said and had a sudden, guilty image of Mother sitting, waiting for me.

  ‘That must have been difficult for you.’

  I looked at him and saw in his eyes what I had seen the first night.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ I said. ‘I’m just bringing forward what would have happened anyway.’

  Tom came back with whiskies and we swallowed them.

  ‘I think we should get out to Dún Laoghaire,’ Tom said. ‘The car is up on the Green.’

  ‘You two go first,’ Frank said. ‘I’ll meet you at the car in five minutes.’

  I stood up and then, before I reached the door, looked back. The whiskey had brought some colour to his cheeks. He winked at me. I winked back. I went out the hall for the street, striding ahead, my chest filled with hope. And I saw Nick.

  I turned, colliding with Tom.

  ‘Tell Frank to get out!’ I hissed.

  I faced the street again.

 
‘Iz, what are you doing here?’ Nick asked.

  ‘What do you mean? What are you doing? You’re meant to be on a picnic.’

  ‘Iz, please…’

  I saw the two men: in long coats and slouch hats, they stood on the far side of the street by the windows of Switzers.

  ‘Are you following me, Nick?’

  ‘Iz, I’m your brother-in-law, I care for you. So does Bella. We all care for you very much.’

  ‘So much so that you see fit to follow me.’

  ‘We know what’s going on,’ Nick said. ‘Listen, please. This is not easy for either of us.’

  I could see the men glancing up and down the street.

  Nick said, ‘None of this is your fault. But what is important is that you don’t do something extremely stupid.’

  I looked defiantly at him. ‘I’ll do exactly as I please,’ I said and reached back, for I knew Tom was now behind me, and linked my arm through his. ‘Come on, darling.’

  Nick’s face was full of puzzlement.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Tom asked him and we walked arm in arm down Wicklow Street.

  Every pair of eyes on the footpath of Grafton Street and from the trams seemed to be for us alone.

  ‘Where is Frank?’ I whispered, walking fast, holding on to Tom as if to life.

  ‘He’s got out through the toilets,’ Tom said, teeth gritted. ‘He’s going to meet us in Dún Laoghaire.’

  I almost had to run to keep apace as we reached the top of Grafton Street.

  ‘Get in,’ Tom said.

  He went to the front, swung the handle and the old car shuddered to life in a cloud of soot. We reversed out and then lurched around the corner, up the Green, crossing the intersection into Harcourt Street at speed.

  ‘Damn!’ Tom swore.

  I looked behind. We were already half-way up Harcourt Street but at the bottom end I could see a big, boxy four-door saloon with prominent headlamps sway around the corner from the Green.