The Nightingale Sings

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Cassie said again. ‘It’s just that seeing the door open—’

  ‘Please now,’ the woman said, with a look to her children before wiping her hands carefully on her apron. ‘Please, there is no reason for ye to be sorry now, for we was only just putting out the meal, and isn’t that what the door would be open for? So as ye may avail yourself? Are there others with ye, or do ye come be yourself?’

  ‘No, I’m all by myself,’ Cassie replied, putting a hand down to touch her dog’s head as he settled happily in the sunshine on the step. ‘I’ve come from over the hill behind, up there.’

  As Cassie pointed to the headland the man nodded once and then stood aside in welcome. ‘We have dinner all cooked,’ he said, and indeed past him in the bar Cassie could now see that the table was fully laid, lit by six candles in jam jars and set with satin red and gold crackers.

  ‘Have ye made provision to eat this lunchtime, milady?’ the landlord’s wife asked Cassie.

  ‘Well, no,’ Cassie replied a little unsurely, uncertain as to what to say next. ‘I’d bought a small picnic I was going to have it on the beach—’

  Again that was as far as she got, the landlord stopping her politely once more. ‘Then we should be honoured if ye would sit down with us,’ he said, holding up one hand. ‘Haven’t we a fine bird cooked and four bowls of potatoes? We have my brother’s home-made pork sausage, our own home-made mince pies, and as fine a home-made plum pudding as ye would find anywhere in the west.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly,’ Cassie replied, overwhelmed by the strangers’ generosity. ‘I really had no wish to intrude on your family at Christmas.’

  ‘There is no intrusion, I do assure ye. So please, now that ye are come to our house, we would only wish for ye to come and share our feast.’

  The landlord stood even further aside so that the doorway was clear for Cassie to enter. The small room was spotlessly clean, with a polished dark wood floor and bar and a peat fire burning well in the stone fireplace. Beyond the bar, through a half-open door, Cassie could see the living room where a small and simple Christmas tree stood in a corner, much tinselled and hung with small, cheap winking lights.

  ‘This is really very kind of you,’ Cassie began.

  ‘Good – so ’tis agreed,’ the landlord said, before Cassie had time to continue. ‘Margaret?’ he commanded his wife. ‘Set our guest of honour in her place now so that I may start carving the bird. Children? Come here and introduce yourselves to our visitor now, the way ye know how, and see to it that she has everything she may want. For ourselves, I am James Murphy himself, as ye may have seen sign painted above the door, and my wife is called Margaret.’

  ‘How do you all do?’ Cassie asked. ‘I’m very glad to make all your acquaintance. I’m—’

  ‘Ah sure there’s no need to introduce yourself, ma’am,’ the landlord interrupted. ‘For as certain as it is Christmas we all know who ye are.’

  Cassie was about to wonder why, then remembering what a small community lived on Dingle most particularly at the far western end, she realized that while she might not know everyone by sight or name they very probably all knew her. So she said nothing, instead shaking hands with each of the children as they all presented themselves to her in a line, as if queuing up to meet a visiting dignitary. Cassie could barely catch what they said as they announced themselves in whispers, but even if they had called out their names she would still probably not have been able to take them in, so bewitched was she by their looks. They were all of them handsome children, the girls dark-haired, dark-eyed and peach-complexioned and the two boys with noses well peppered with freckles, heads of copper-coloured curls and green eyes.

  Placed to the right of her host in a place already set, Cassie was served with a fine Christmas lunch, fresh, succulent, home-made and home-grown. Even the turkey, so she was told, was home-produced, coming from her host’s brother’s farm in Cork, and far from the usual overcooked vegetables and overdone meat Cassie had so often experienced eating out both in public and in private in Ireland the potatoes were perfectly steamed or roasted, the sprouts were firm, and the turkey as succulent a fowl as she had ever tasted. When she commented on the excellence of the food, Mrs Murphy thanked Cassie shyly before her husband offered the explanation.

  ‘Mrs Murphy here is a ferocious reader of the magazines, do you see,’ James Murphy said, adjusting his table napkin which he wore like a bib. ‘She devours all magazines concerning the home with a great eye for the receeps. So there’s hardly a week goes by in the calendar when Mrs Murphy does not present us with some new offering or other, with the result that I have to walk further and further up the mountains each afternoon in order to prevent further personal inflation.’

  It was an extraordinary occasion, for no sooner had the introductions all been made and the family and their guest seated than the day continued as if Cassie had always been a part of it. The conversation flowed, and whenever it touched on anything or anybody local that Cassie might neither understand nor know, a brief explanation was added to put her in the picture before the dialogue continued. Yet never once did anyone ask Cassie a personal question. No enquiries were made as to where she came from or what she did. She was simply treated as if she was someone whom either they always entertained at their Christmas Feast or they had certainly been expecting.

  Only once was something said which Cassie failed to understand and which was not explained to her. Moments after they had all sat down at the table and after the only brief silence that fell during the meal, the youngest child, an angel-faced little girl with permanently wondering eyes, asked her mother something in Gaelic, a question which was immediately echoed by her sisters but not by the boys who were both still sitting watching Cassie with half-bowed heads. Their mother listened kindly to the question and its repetitions before glancing down the table at their father who nodded back at her once, after which Margaret Murphy answered her children’s enquiries briefly but obviously in the affirmative. Whereupon the eye of every child was turned to Cassie in even greater wonder, before their father very kindly but firmly issued what Cassie took to be a serious but gentle scold to them all, also in Gaelic, after which everyone once more relaxed and continued to enjoy their feast.

  After a rich but magically light plum pudding served with a traditional and perfectly made custard, crackers were pulled, paper hats were put on, mottoes were solemnly related and riddles were gravely asked. James Murphy then sought the permission of his guest to smoke his pipe, and, having been granted leave so to do, sat in the chair by the fire he had skilfully replenished while the children helped their mother clear away. Cassie was banned from raising a finger to help, invited instead to sit the other side of the fire where for the full half hour it took to clear away and wash up the lunch things she listened to James Murphy’s legends and stories of the most western part of Ireland. Tales of the heroic, of mysteries and of humour until the children and their mother returned and gathered themselves around the fire whereupon urged on by one of his sons James Murphy related his favourite story, a tale which concerned two English women taking their holiday on Dingle.

  ‘They had hired one of these old caravans of which yous have no doubt heard or indeed seen now,’ he said. ‘The traditional sort that is drawn by a horse. So these two fine English ladies who we must say were not too well versed in the art of such caravans took a two week holiday on the peninsula, but when the time came to return the caravan far from being well rested they were found to be in a state of total exhaustion. Although they had greatly enjoyed the countryside and the weather had been kind and good, it appeared they had found it all but impossible each night to get the horse up into the caravan.’

  After the genuine gales and hoots of laughter had subsided, the youngest girl, whose name Cassie had now discovered to be Maire, tugged at her father’s sleeve and whispered another request. At once James Murphy stood up and lifting the child in his arms walked through to the
living room, followed in line by his other children, his wife and finally, as bidden, Cassie.

  In the tiny and simply furnished room the children all sat down in a circle around the foot of the Christmas tree while their father picked up five of the eight parcels piled neatly on the floor. These he handed in turn to his children, first calling out their names and then bestowing on each of them a kiss as he gave them their present. When the children had received their gifts, James Murphy handed his wife a parcel and in return she took a package from the floor and handed it to him. This left one present unoffered, the largest packet of all, flat and two foot square. In response to a nod from her father, Maire picked it up from the floor and shyly gave it to Cassie with a small curtsey.

  ‘For me?’ Cassie wondered. ‘Are you sure, Maire?’

  ‘Yes, milady,’ the girl replied. ‘We had it ready for ye.’

  As the others carefully unwrapped their gifts, Cassie looked to see if there was in fact a tag on her parcel as there was on every other one, but unable to find one she assumed the family had some tradition of always leaving a spare present at the foot of the tree for any unexpected visitor, just as there had been a place already set. So, seeing that everyone was now waiting for her to open it, Cassie carefully undid the blue crepe paper in which the gift was wrapped and took out her gift.

  It was a picture, a painting of the Nativity, done by all the children. At the top of it in someone’s very best writing was the dedication: To Our Blessed Mother Mary, Mother of the Lord God Jesus Christ.

  Cassie frowned and looked up, catching at once the eye of James Murphy who looked straight at her behind the backs of all his children and nodded at her several times as if to tell her yes, while in front of him five pairs of shining young Irish eyes looked up at Cassie, waiting for her verdict.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ she said. ‘It’s the most beautiful painting I have ever been given.’

  ‘I did that, milady,’ the eldest boy child said, carefully pointing to his contribution. ‘I painted the stable.’

  ‘And I painted the sky and the stars, milady,’ his younger brother said.

  ‘I did all the animals,’ the oldest girl said, ‘because I’m the best at the animals.’

  ‘And I did you and Joseph, milady,’ the next girl said. ‘’Tis quite like ye now that I see ye.’

  ‘And I did Baby Jesus, milady,’ Maire said, climbing on Cassie’s knee, ‘with the help of me mam.’

  Cassie said nothing, but she put her arms round the shoulders of the shyly smiling children and hugged them.

  ‘Can I kiss ye?’ Maire asked from her lap. ‘And will ye kiss me back?’

  Cassie kissed them all and was kissed by them all in return. Then in answer to a look from their father, they sat down at Cassie’s feet and showed each other the gifts they had been given.

  While they played and talked, the three adults in the room said nothing. James Murphy, his pipe relit, sat in an old rocking chair gently pushing it back and forth, while his wife Margaret sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes never leaving Cassie’s face. Finally, when Wilkie, who had been left to sleep in front of the snug fire, pushed his nose round the living room door and the cuckoo in the little clock above the fireplace called six o’clock, Cassie got up carefully from her chair, cradling the now sleeping Maire in her arms.

  ‘I really must go now,’ she said. ‘I’ve far overstayed my welcome.’

  ‘Ye have not,’ James Murphy replied. ‘Ye’re welcome to stay as long as ye wish.’

  ‘I have to get back. I really do.’

  She kissed Maire on her warm pink cheek before handing her carefully to her mother, then kissing all the others goodbye on their insistence she took her leave of the family, thanking Mrs Murphy from the bottom of her heart for all her kindness and hospitality. Mrs Murphy thanked her in return while James Murphy insisted on fetching her dark blue mackintosh with its white-lined hood, helping her back on with it and seeing her to the door, ordering all the children now to let be and stay where they all were.

  Closing the living room door behind him, he followed Cassie across the dark bar which was lit now only by two guttering candles which he extinguished before opening the front door onto another moonlit evening.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Murphy,’ Cassie said, turning to him. ‘Thank you for the most memorable Christmas I ever had.’

  ‘No, ma’am, with respect,’ her host corrected her, ‘I am to thank ye for the most memorable Christmas we have ever had. ’Tis a day my childer will remember the rest of their lives, thanks be to God.’

  ‘Nothing will ever match your kindness,’ Cassie said.

  ‘Ah no sure the day will be remembered for your goodness, not ours. Now, do ye have your picture safe?’

  ‘I do.’ Cassie held it up, rewrapped as it was in the blue crepe paper. ‘And when I get home I shall hang it in pride of place.’

  James Murphy walked with Cassie from the inn to the side of the road. ‘I should have asked you earlier now,’ he said. ‘But did ye walk all the way or do ye have a car parked somewhere?’

  ‘On the headland up there.’ Cassie pointed in the direction of the Three Sisters. ‘But don’t you worry, I shall enjoy the walk. It’s a wonderful evening and I have Wilkie beside me.’

  ‘Now ye’ll come to no harm here,’ James Murphy replied. ‘Even so, if I may, I would like to walk to the beach beside ye.’

  Together they walked down the road which led back to the strand where the full tide was once more retreating.

  ‘We have always observed the same tradition at Claremore, where I live,’ Cassie said as they reached the end of the looping road. ‘My housekeeper to this day always leaves the front door open at Christmas in case the Holy Family calls.’

  ‘Pray God she may have the great fortune herself one day, like the fortune ye have brought to our house. For even when they are grown up, the childer will never stop believing in today.’

  ‘I hope not, Mr Murphy,’ Cassie said, stopping to make her farewell. ‘I myself shall certainly never stop believing in Christmas after today. Goodbye, Mr Murphy, and thank you.’

  ‘God bless you, ma’am,’ James Murphy said, taking her outstretched hand. ‘But if I might perhaps know your real name. In case one day we meet on the other side of the hill.’

  ‘Cassie Rosse. But don’t worry,’ Cassie added. ‘I shall never come back here, I shall make sure of that.’

  ‘’Twould make no difference if ye did, Mrs Rosse,’ James Murphy replied. ‘The childer would never recognize ye. For the person they saw today was not yerself.’

  Once the Christmas holiday was over Cassie plunged back into the work that lay waiting for her on the run-up to the big Festival meeting at Cheltenham, the highlight of jump racing’s year. The good news was that as far as The Nightingale was concerned his return to work was so far proving to be successful. The horse was now doing daily road work with Bridie and from his progress Liam and Niall were both convinced he could start cantering in a fortnight at the most. On the racing front the further good news was that the stable had led up five winners over the Christmas holiday, a number which included two strong Cheltenham fancies, Don’t Say That and Sauce For The Goose.

  ‘Ironic, really,’ Cassie observed to Niall as she inspected her steeplechasers and hurdlers at morning stables. ‘I only started training jumpers for Mattie’s sake, because he said that’s all that he was really interested in.’

  ‘Leave him alone and he’ll come home, Cassie,’ Niall laughed. ‘More to the point, Well Loved’s got a bit of a nose, and if you want to get another proper race into him before the Festival, then I’d say we’re going to have to keep an eye out. There was spot of coughing in the botton yard while you were away. A couple of the two-year-olds were at it, but we isolated them straight away, and so far – touch wood – we haven’t heard another sound.’

  ‘You’re quite right, Niall,’ Cassie agreed. ‘That is much more to the point. We’d better go and have a g
ood look at him, just in case.’

  The bad news came after Cassie and Niall had finished doing their rounds, having found much to their relief that the discharge from Well Loved’s nose seemed to be greatly improved.

  ‘Your lawyer’s been on the phone,’ Rosemary told Cassie as she came into the office. ‘He’s rung twice already, and wants you to ring him as soon as you can.’

  ‘It can’t be anything important,’ Cassie muttered half to herself as she ran her eyes down the list of entries, and as her secretary dialled the number. ‘After all I only had lunch with him just before Christmas.’

  But it appeared she was wrong. Michael Irwin wanted to see her at the earliest possible opportunity, and when they met late the next morning at his office in College Green she pretty soon understood the nature of the urgency.

  ‘They’re refusing to pay,’ he told her. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘They’ve been refusing to pay since the horse was stolen, Michael,’ Cassie reminded him.

  ‘But now not only are they refusing, Cassie,’ her lawyer returned, ‘they are telling us to sue them if we want the money.’

  ‘Then sue them.’

  ‘Of course we shall sue, but it will cost, and it will be difficult.’

  ‘But we will win,’ Cassie insisted. ‘Insurance companies do this by rote, Michael. You know that better than I. But they have no business refusing to pay out on the horse. He was stolen, he was wilfully castrated, and that is that.’

  ‘You know what their defence is,’ Michael Irwin reminded her. ‘They say you arranged to have the horse stolen and gelded because there was something wrong with his gut. They quote the operation after his return—’

  ‘After his return, precisely.’

  ‘And as precedent the time he had bad colic earlier in the year.’

  ‘It wasn’t bad colic.’

  ‘It was bad enough for you to claim the veterinary expenses on your insurance.’

  ‘Worst thing I ever did,’ Cassie sighed. ‘I can’t imagine why I did it.’