by Anne Doughty
He broke off and came and sat beside her, his shoulders drooping, his lips pressed together.
‘There are things I’ve been thinking about that I should have told you, but I haven’t,’ he confessed. ‘I didn’t want to think about them in the first place. But I will. I promise. But not now. Don’t let’s spoil today, or our holiday. If it’s waited this long, it can wait a bit longer.’
She put her arm round him and kissed his cheek.
‘No, we won’t spoil our holiday. Don’t worry about it. Whatever it is, we’ll find some way of making it better. Remember what Charlie always says: You can’t fix the past, but you can grow past it. We’ve sorted out some nasty things about the past between us. There’s no reason to think we can’t do it again. You ended up writing very good letters, if you remember.’
‘I told you you’d like Hector,’ Andrew said, beaming at her as he shut the bedroom door behind them. ‘But I didn’t realize what a fancy he’d take to you. I’ll have to watch out if he offers you a conducted tour of his trophies. I’ll never forget the look on his face when you complimented him on the wine.’
‘It was most extraordinarily generous to open a bottle as good as that,’ she replied, kicking off her shoes and collapsing into a comfortable armchair. ‘But he is such a generous person. He gives so much of himself. I’ve never known anyone tell such good stories, even when they were not to his credit,’ she went on, smiling to herself. ‘I just never knew what he was going to come out with next. When I was in Mafeking . . . There was this lioness none of us had spotted . . . Honestly, Andrew, I can’t quite believe the experience he’s packed in, even if he is nearly ninety. Africa, royalty, rich American wives. Did he tell you the same stories when you came down five or six years ago?’ ‘I’ve heard the one about the lioness and how his cousin lost his leg, but most of the others were new to me. He’s never mentioned Kenya before. I certainly didn’t know he and Galbraith Cole both fought in the Boer War and then went to Kenya and watched the flamingos on Lake Elmenteita. Wasn’t it sad about Galbraith’s arthritis? That would have put an end to his flamingo watching,’ he said sadly.
‘And he chose to be buried overlooking the lake,’ Clare added, looking up at him. ‘So many of the people Hector talked about are long dead. It must get very lonely if you live as long as he has,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘Andrew, who is Nancy? He seems to admire her very much, but who is she?’
‘Nancy is Lady Enniskillen,’ he said, dropping his dinner jacket and black tie on the bed and sitting down opposite her. ‘She and the sixth earl lived up the road at Florence Court, though the fifth earl gave the house to the National Trust. There was a bad fire there in fifty-five. Hector has always said if it hadn’t been for Nancy the damage it did would have been much worse.’
He paused and began to laugh.
‘What’s the joke, Andrew?’
‘Actually, there is a story he might have told about the fire, but he was probably being polite on your first night,’ he began, grinning at her. ‘Apparently, when the fire broke out Nancy took charge and organized everyone. But at some point she decided she’d better contact the Ulster Club in Belfast and break the news to Lord Enniskillen. The story goes he was not pleased at being interrupted and was overheard shouting down the phone: Well, what the Hell do you expect ME to do about it? There are different versions of what exactly he said. Some of them even more explicit!’
Clare yawned and shook her head. ‘I am not bored, my love, but suddenly I just can’t keep my eyes open. Are you really going off at dawn with Hector?’
‘Oh yes,’ he replied enthusiastically. ‘The first few white-fronted arrived yesterday and Hector says the main group might well arrive overnight. I’ve never seen white-fronted geese. They come all the way from Greenland and don’t usually pass east of Fermanagh, but they might move on from the lake here. You don’t mind, do you?’
The first days of their holiday passed very slowly and peacefully as they adjusted to the leisurely pace of life at Killydrennan. They went for long walks, sat talking under the trees down by the lake, drove to Lough Navar Forest and stood on the edge of the Cliffs of Magho surveying the whole of Lower Lough Erne with its brilliant blue water and scatter of islands.
Crossing to White Island by boat, they stared at the strangely carved figures lined up against an old stone wall. On Boa Island they walked round a Janus-faced figure about which nothing whatever had yet been written. As always, they puzzled about what they saw and wondered from what period in history such remnants had survived.
The remains of the old wartime airbase at Castle Archdale was not a puzzle, however. John Hamilton had told them all about it and said that Hugh Sinton, Aunt Sarah’s son by her first marriage, had worked there, improving the design of the Sunderlands used for anti-submarine patrols off the Irish coast. It was these flying-boats, developed or modified at Castle Archdale, that had been so successful in hunting the U-boats lurking off the coast to intercept the stream of convoys carrying vital war supplies from America.
Hector had breakfast with them each morning, but he seldom appeared for lunch. With great tact, Russell indicated to Clare that his Lordship spent a great deal of time in the Library during the day, but he would always join them for dinner and look forward to hearing of their day’s adventures.
True to Russell’s words, Hector appeared, evening after evening, his tiny, emaciated figure moving briskly, his eyes bright with delight when they told him where they’d been and what they’d seen. One evening, he did admit that he’d always been a night bird and indeed it was Clare who sometimes found she was flagging as it drew close to midnight and Hector was still in full flight.
As the days passed, she was intrigued by how much information he had managed to acquire about her life and about Andrew’s. His questions were perceptive and detailed, yet she never felt he was being intrusive. His interest was so genuine that by the end of the week she’d told him about her time in France and even about her life with her grandfather. She was touched when he began to refer to Charlie Running or June Wiley as people who were now as familiar to him as Viola, Duchess of Westminster or Lord and Lady Enniskillen.
He insisted they were free to do anything they felt like doing, but at the same time he was anxious they shouldn’t miss anything worth seeing. To Andrew’s great amusement, he was so determined they view Florence Court, he made them promise that should they arrive and discover it was not one of the Trust’s official opening days, they would go straight round to the kitchen door and ask for the Housekeeper.
‘Tell Mrs What’s-her-name Hector Richardson sent you. She’s my Mrs Watkins’ sister, but I’m dammed if I can remember her name. The pair of them married a couple of soldiers billeted here during the last war.’
Florence Court was officially open, however, on the wild and blowy afternoon they drove over and they returned triumphant having taken the guided tour, seen all the public rooms and studied the magnificent plasterwork ceiling Hector had particularly wanted them to see. It appeared there was a story to tell about that very ceiling.
‘You can thank my friend Viola for that ceiling,’ he said, as they sat down to enjoy one more splendid meal. ‘Great girl, Viola. Flying Officer in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force during the war. Mentioned in despatches. If she hadn’t got on the phone to the builder chappie during the fire and got him to come and drill those holes in the ceiling, the weight of water in the room above would have brought the whole lot down. Quick thinking, that was.’
Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, it seemed time had foreshortened. Days disappeared as if someone had set the clock running more swiftly. As Clare sat at her dressing table on the Friday morning, she could hardly believe their last day had come.
She found herself suddenly so sad she wondered how she would get through breakfast. She was even more upset when they went down together to find that Hector wasn’t there. Russell himself was serving and reassured her that his lordship was quite well. Before he l
eft them to themselves, he presented her with a note on a silver tray.
She unfolded the single sheet and looked at Andrew doubtfully when she registered the large, scrawling hand.
‘Hector wants me to have tea with him in Lizzie’s sitting room at four o’clock,’ she said slowly.
‘Hmmm,’ said Andrew, raising an eyebrow and then grinning at her. ‘You won’t mind if I go and have a last look at the geese, will you?’
Tea was already laid when Clare arrived at just before four and sat by the fire in the room the former Lady Elizabeth Monn had furnished after her marriage to Hector in 1899. An American woman with style and taste, Clare reflected. Clearly wealthy to have been able to choose such beautiful decoration and objects. Suddenly, she realized with a shock that in all Hector’s talk, he had never spoken of her. It was only looking at an old photograph album that gave her a name and a birthplace in Connecticut.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear Clare. Glad to see you’ve despatched that husband of yours. I want you all to myself,’ Hector said briskly as he breezed into the room. ‘Would you mind sitting in this other chair. This is where Lizzie always sat,’ he explained. ‘Said she could see my face better if I was here. Then she’d know what I was up to.’
He settled himself comfortably, took the cup of tea she handed him and then piled up his plate with sandwiches.
‘Slept through lunchtime again. Russell knows better than to wake me when that happens. Something I wanted to say to you. You remind me of Lizzie. She was the only woman I ever loved you know,’ he began abruptly. ‘Met her in Mombasa when I hadn’t a penny to my name. She didn’t give a damn. Said she’d marry me anyway if I’d just get on and ask her. So I did. She always knew me better than I knew myself. We were so happy together,’ he went on more slowly. ‘The only thing that bothered her was not having a son. We had the four girls you know and she so wanted to give me a boy.’
He shook his head sadly and demolished a whole sandwich before he went on.
‘It was a boy too. But it was Lizzie I wanted, not the boy. And I got so lonely, I married this girl I’d always known, but it didn’t work out. Then the other one married me when I wasn’t paying much attention. In the end, she got bored and went off. Couldn’t stand Fermanagh. Said it gave her rheumatism. Used to send me a Christmas card every year, but she’s been dead now for years.
‘There was only one woman in my life, whatever anyone says. I like women. Far more interesting than most men. Women like Viola, or Nancy, or you. I only saw Andrew a couple of times when he was a boy. That wretched woman at Drumsollen would never let him come here. She kept him as far away from Ireland as she could, though I have to say Adeline’s family did give him a good education. But that’s not everything,’ he said firmly, holding out his teacup.
‘He’s mad about you, like I was about Lizzie, but one of these days you’re going to have to tell him what to do. He’s just like I was. I never knew what to do. When my brother died and Killydrennan came to me it was the last thing I wanted. But we had the four girls by then and a lot of friends around here. I would have gone back to Kenya to get away from the whole Lord Rothwell bit, but it just didn’t make sense. So here I am,’ he said flatly, filling up his plate again as she handed him the sandwiches.
‘You’re right about Andrew,’ she said slowly, as he munched his way through them. ‘He’s always had difficulty making up his mind. I thought it was because no one had ever asked him what he really wanted, they just assumed he’d do what was suitable for a Richardson, even one with no money. But maybe I’m quite wrong about that.’
‘No, you’re not far wide of the mark. My brother was the heir to the title and he was trained up for it. Great chap he was too, I liked him. But my father didn’t think much of me and he didn’t like Lizzie, didn’t like Americans on principle, in fact, so when he thought poor old Charles might not inherit he set up a trust. I got the estate all right, but nothing was mine. Entailed everything so I could never leave. Or if I did I’d be penniless. Lizzie had an income, but that went when she died and I had the four girls to bring up.’
He stopped abruptly, leapt to his feet and passed her the cake.
‘You’ve eaten hardly anything. Come on, this is Mrs Watkins’ seed cake. You have some of that and I’ll shut up. I’ve told you it all anyway. I wanted you to know why I can’t leave anything much to you and Andrew, possibly even nothing at all. All I own is what’s in this room, what Lizzie left me and that’s how I’ll provide for Russell and the staff. Except for one thing.’
Clare ate her cake slowly, watching him as he hunted through his pockets. She was surprised when he took a matchbox from his waistcoat.
‘This is mine and it’s for you,’ he said firmly. ‘Lizzie had it from her grandmother and we used it as her engagement ring. Unlike your pretty emeralds, this is the real thing,’ he added, with a little laugh. ‘Sorry about the box, it went in the fire.’
Clare put down her plate, took the matchbox from his bony, long-fingered hand and opened it. Inside on a piece of dusty cotton wool lay a most beautiful sapphire ring.
Eight
‘Well, it’s still here,’ said Andrew quietly, as they rounded the curve in the drive and saw Drumsollen laid out before them.
On the west side of the house a small area of stonework still reflected the pale sunlight of a rain-streaked October day, but the rest of the facade was in deep shadow. The blue grey cloud piled up above wet, grey slates had already begun to throw large, random spots on the windscreen.
Clare picked up the flatness in Andrew’s voice and wondered if he was feeling the same sudden dip in spirits she had felt as she glimpsed the chestnuts on the main road. Already branches were bare but for a few pink and gold leaves, ragged and tattered. The message was clear: summer was well over and winter lay ahead.
‘Did you think it might have disappeared?’ she replied, glancing at him, her tone as light as she could manage.
‘We’ve still got roses in bloom,’ he went on, without taking his eyes off the leaf-scattered driveway.
She watched him as he gazed around. He was trying to sound enthusiastic about having arrived home but she wasn’t deceived by his effort. She knew how tired he must be after the long and difficult drive, the villages and towns on their route congested with Saturday shoppers and slow moving farm vehicles, but even allowing for that he had seemed very preoccupied on the journey and unusually silent. When she’d offered to drive after each of their brief stops, he’d said he’d rather stay at the wheel because it kept him occupied.
‘Back to porridge’ he pronounced, as he stopped the car.
It was one of her grandfather’s favourite sayings. If anyone had been away it was always pretended they’d been living in the lap of luxury. Now they were back it was all over. There would only be porridge for breakfast. Whenever she’d been away in her schooldays, he’d make her laugh when he said the words next morning. But in Andrew’s flat tone, there was nothing to laugh about.
‘I’ll park here and get John to help me with the stuff. Easier than trying to get it all down through the back door,’ he said, as he got out, the wind blowing his hair, his eyes tightening against a scud of rain.
‘Right. Let’s just dash in and find everyone and wait till this squall passes,’ Clare replied, as she struggled against the force of the wind.
They ran up the steps together and shut the glass doors behind them. The hall was empty and dim as they stood shaking large drops from their shoulders. Except for the tinkle of the chandelier, its glass diamonds set in motion by their sudden arrival, the house was completely silent.
‘Where is everyone?’ he asked, looking round anxiously. ‘There are no cars outside. Surely there must be someone staying?’
‘It’s only half past three, Andrew. If there are guests they’ll be out. Come on downstairs,’ she said quickly, ‘June’s bound to be there.’
The kitchen was very clean, very tidy and completely empty. There was no trac
e whatever of June. As Clare turned to speak to him, the ominous cloud dashed its mixture of sleet and rain against the basement windows and drowned out her words. The room became so dark, they could hardly see each other. She hurried over to the light switches, turned them all on and caught sight of his pale face. He looked as if he had been struck by lightning.
‘Andrew, love, what’s wrong?’
At that very moment, June came hurrying in, followed by John. They were both dripping wet.
‘Now there’s a nice welcome for you,’ said John quickly, as he shook their hands, ‘the pair of us down on our knees beside the drain and not a soul to put the kettle on.’
June made tea and they sat round the kitchen table eating fruit cake. By the time they’d heard the story of the overflowing drain and the other highlights of the week at Drumsollen, Andrew’s face had regained some colour. The cloudburst eased, then stopped abruptly; a few gleams of sun returned as John and Andrew went to bring in the suitcases.
June explained there were, in fact, no guests booked for that night, though there were bookings for Sunday and a few for the coming week. The drain in the back yard was now beyond John’s capacity, so Helen had taken the car and gone into Armagh to see if a plumber John knew would be willing to come out tomorrow.
‘Yer man’s a big shot in the church,’ June said, raising her eyebrows, ‘but if he goes an’ prays in the mornin’ he can slip roun’ here in the afternoon an’ no one a bit the wiser. He’s always keen on wee extra jobs, but he’ll expect cash,’ she warned. ‘We thought it might go that way when it overflowed the first time, so we’ve put the week’s takings in the cash box instead of Helen takin’ them to the bank. I hope that was all right,’ she added, suddenly looking anxious.
‘Of course it was, June. It was very thoughtful of you,’ Clare said reassuringly. ‘You know perfectly well we never carry much money, even if we had it,’ she added laughing. ‘I think we’ve still the price of some fish and chips for tonight. Last night of the holiday,’ she added wryly. ‘Then it really is back to porridge. But we had a wonderful time. All thanks to you and the family. Bless you. I’d forgotten what a holiday was like.’