‘Another one, darling?’
The protrusion of the tip of Violet’s tongue initiated a repeat of the process.
‘Good girl! Would you like to stay sitting up or lie down again?’
Again the half-human, half-animal grunt.
‘That means down. I think.’
Constance took the pillows away and with great tenderness arranged the lank hair as before and repositioned the crossed hands over the bedclothes. She kissed the smooth forehead. ‘Father Deglan’s coming to dinner tonight, Violet. I’ve warned Bobbie to take no notice of his outbursts. D’you remember the arguments you and he used to have? Sometimes I was frightened you were going to start rolling on the carpet pulling each other’s hair out. Remember the time you accused him of having turned you into a pagan? You said he’d put you off God entirely. God was a sadistic bully, you said. You made him weep with temper!’
A slight ripple of movement ran over the mask-like face.
Above the bed was a crucifix and on every wall were pictures of Jesus or Mary, their faces dolorous, their hands supplicating. A glass stoop of holy water hung by the door.
‘Well, Violet dear,’ Constance patted the lifeless hand, ‘we’d better go now and leave you in peace. Pegeen’ll bring you some stirabout in a little while. God bless you.’ She took great care to shut the door noiselessly behind her. ‘I’ll never get used to it,’ she said as we retraced our steps down to the kitchen. ‘Violet was so full of life. Sometimes even now, I half think she’s pretending, that she might suddenly sit up and say, “Ha ha! Fooled you, Con!” Then she’ll swing her legs over the side of the bed and light a cigarette and tease me as she always used to. We used to get on all right but she was much more sophisticated. A sweet, affectionate girl and high-spirited. I was always shy but Violet adored being the centre of attention. She did everything to extremes – never missed a day’s hunting – sometimes she’d ride all day and then drive for four hours to Dublin for a party afterwards. She was never tired and I don’t remember her ever being ill before she had the stroke.’
‘How long has she been like this?’
‘She was thirty-two when it happened. That was four years ago. She was on the ferry crossing to England. Apparently the friends she was with were trying to lower one of the lifeboats without the crew noticing. Violet was lookout. It was her idea and typical of one of her games. Suddenly she was lying on the deck making odd noises. She’s never said a word – nothing you’d recognize – from that day to this.’
I was unable to find an adequate expression of the shock and pity I felt. ‘Is there no hope? What do her doctors say?’
‘After a brief spell in hospital she spent two years in a convent outside Dublin. The nuns looked after her beautifully but they were old ladies and it got too much for them. Young girls aren’t so keen to take the veil these days. When the convent closed Finn had her brought back here.’
‘Has she made any sort of improvement?’
‘If anything she’s gone backwards. When I used to visit her in the hospital, she’d open her eyes. Now she never does.’
By now we had reached the hall. ‘Does she have to be so far away from everyone else?’ I asked.
Constance turned her head as though to make sure that no one was listening. ‘To tell you the truth, it’s Maud that wants her shut away. She insists Violet needs absolute quiet. To be fair, Dr Duffy and the nuns have backed her up. Dr Duffy says a sudden shock might actually kill Violet. But …’ Constance looked over her shoulder again as we descended the passage to the basement. ‘Really, Maud can’t bear the sight of her. She used to be so proud of her pretty, vivacious daughter. Maud’s arthritis is so bad now she can’t get up to the top floor to visit Violet. The fact is she doesn’t want to. It’s not that Maud doesn’t care. I know she’d give her own right hand to have Violet as she once was but as it is she’d rather not be reminded. You can understand it.’
I realized that Constance was pleading Maud’s case. ‘Well, yes. I suppose so. It’s impossible to know how one would feel in such a situation.’
‘It is, indeed. I always try to have a little talk with Violet each day. And I read her some poetry. Sometimes I think she can understand me but other times I’m not so sure.’
‘Is it necessary to keep her in semi-darkness? I thought stroke patients were supposed to be stimulated.’
‘I’ve heard that, too. But I wouldn’t want to be responsible for another stroke that might end her life. You may call it cowardice, for that’s what it is. Dr Duffy visits her once a month. He always says to carry on as we are. He says Violet’s brain’s most likely damaged beyond repair.’
I tried to imagine what it might be like to be conscious and imprisoned in a helpless body. ‘Do the children go to see her?’
‘Flavia goes though I sometimes wish she wouldn’t: she’s always so miserable afterwards. Liddy and Flurry hardly ever. They don’t know what to say. They feel awkward. You mustn’t think they’re hard-hearted.’
‘Of course I don’t think that. It must be terribly distressing for them.’
‘I’m so glad you understand. If they do try to talk to their mother Pegeen tells them to hush. We take it in turns to feed Violet but Pegeen’s more devoted than anyone. It was she who put the statue and the candles and the religious pictures there. Maud would go mad if she knew. Being Anglo-Irish, of course she despises papacy.’
‘I see.’ I longed to ask if Mr Macchuin visited his wife but I did not dare.
‘Finn goes up there most days when he’s at home,’ said Constance as though reading my thoughts. ‘He takes up papers to read and spends an hour or so with her.’
I supposed it was unreasonable to expect more from a man who had brought his mistress to live in the same house as his children while his wife lay comatose in the attic. I decided to say nothing more on the subject in case Constance should divine my disapproval. It was none of my business and I would confine my thoughts to my job which was, most immediately, to prepare dinner for nine people.
But as I made a hollandaise to go with a piece of salmon I had taken from the freezer and was thawing in a pan of water, opened yet more tins of potatoes, peas and spinach and stirred pineapple chunks into sherry and evaporated milk – which was as horrid as it sounds but everyone had second helpings – I could not prevent images recurring in my mind of Violet’s face, white against a whiter pillow, of her body quietly drawing breath in a silent, darkened room, the seconds expanding to hours as a life that was not a life continued relentlessly, joylessly, perhaps agonizingly, towards death.
‘Sarah?’
‘Bobbie! Thank God! Just a minute, let me shut the front door and get rid of my bag. I’ve just this second walked in.’ I heard the door slam and then a creak. In my mind’s eye I saw Sarah flinging her considerable weight into the little papier mâché and mother-of-pearl chair beside the telephone in the tiny hallway of Paradise Row. ‘I’ve been crazy with worry. Where are you? You were so bloody mysterious I started to think “leaving the country” might be a metaphor for the bare bodkin or chucking yourself in the Thames.’ Sarah and I had spoken briefly on the telephone a few times since Burgo and I had first made the headlines but I had been obliged to be extremely circumspect. ‘Why haven’t you been in touch sooner? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Really. I’ve been so busy since I got here this is the first moment I’ve had to call you.’
‘You sound OK. Are you eating?’
‘Quite well, really, considering how awful the food is.’
‘Where’s “here”?’
‘Ireland.’
‘Ireland? What the hell are you doing there? I expected you to say Guatemala.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Because it’s one of those places people go when they want to get away from everything.’
‘You’re thinking of Ferdinand Lopez.’ Sarah and I shared a passion for the novels of Anthony Trollope. ‘That was fiction.’
I felt a little wounded by the mixture of scorn and incredulity in Sarah’s voice but I remembered that her inability to be hypocritical and disguise her feelings was a quality I valued. She was fiercely loyal and I had no doubt that she had been genuinely worried. Also she would have been hurt because I had not confided in her.
‘I didn’t say anything because we had to be so careful. Nobody knew except Oliver. I told him because he sometimes answers the telephone at home. But I didn’t tell another soul.’
‘Because you knew it was a bloody moronic thing to do! You knew anyone who cared tuppence about you would say you were behaving like a gibbering jelly-brain!’ The words were harsh but I could hear that she was a little mollified to discover she was not the only one who had been kept in the dark. ‘Well, I suppose one oughtn’t to be surprised at anything, really. But after all we both said to Jazz about Teddy, it does seem incredible.’
‘I can’t defend myself.’
‘I suppose you fell in love.’ Her tone was sarcastic.
‘It must have been that.’
‘Oh, all right. I’ve no right to lecture you. I’m sorry, Bobbie. And you must be going through hell. Put my bad temper down to the fact that I’ve been so worried about you. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Bobbie, and I’d do anything to help you.’
‘I know that.’
‘So you’re dotty about this man.’
‘Yes.’
‘You must be. I have to admit,’ she added in a more sympathetic tone, ‘he’s got something, bastard though he is. Charisma, a journalist would call it. He almost managed to win me round. Only remembering how wretched you sounded the other day – that and a firmly entrenched distrust of the male sex – stopped me from actually liking him. Of course that’s his job, isn’t it, winning people over to his way of thinking?’
I was thankful I was seated in the sedan chair as my stomach seemed to plummet to my feet, like being in an express lift. ‘You’ve seen him? When? Where?’
‘He came here, to Paradise Row. Yesterday. He wanted to know where you were. He seemed pretty cut up.’
I felt such a rush of love for Burgo that I almost decided on the spot to ring for a taxi. ‘Was he upset?’
‘I got the impression he usually gets his own way about things,’ continued Sarah. ‘He likes to be the one to call the tune.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he knew from what you’d told him that I was a good friend and he was going to assume that I’d have your interests at heart. He was going to tell me the truth. I don’t know why I always immediately mistrust people when they say that; I suppose because it suggests that generally they don’t. Anyway, the long and short of it is he’s willing to divorce his wife and give up everything for you. He thinks being harassed by the press and your family has driven you into a state of temporary insanity. Not quite how he put it but that was the gist.’
‘Oh, Sarah!’
‘What?’ When I did not reply she said, ‘If you’re so crazy about him, what’s stopping you from taking up his offer?’
‘I don’t want him to give up everything. I do love him. I don’t want to be the destruction of everything he’s worked and planned for. I hate the idea of dragging him down into disgrace and obscurity. Surely you can understand that? And if I did I’d always be afraid afterwards that I wasn’t good enough, clever enough, kind enough, pretty enough. Enough.’
‘I see,’ said Sarah and was briefly silent. Then she said, ‘Do you know, I don’t quite buy it. I mean, I’m sure you think you feel that but … I don’t know, I’m no expert on matters of the heart but I think there’s something here that doesn’t quite add up.’ I knew that contrary to her assertion Sarah did consider herself to be something of an expert on the human psyche. I imagined the expression in her round brown eyes becoming intense as she assumed her favourite role of Seeker after Truth. I also knew that quite often Sarah was spot on and therefore I was prepared to listen to her. ‘It’s true, he did harp on about how ready he was to cut himself off from all that made his life worth living to throw in his lot with you. I didn’t quite pick that up at the time but now I remember I was left with the feeling that he was prepared to go through fire and water in order to call you his own. Now, I can appreciate that divorce is a nasty business and it’s a shame if you’ve been successful to have to creep down to the bottom of the ladder again, but the way he talked about it you’d think he was going to be torn to pieces, like Orpheus by the women of Thrace. It might have been more graceful if he’d concentrated a little more on his concern for you.’
‘He’s ambitious. It’s not a crime – in my eyes anyway.’
‘No. Nor in mine, actually. All right, so he’s your average self-centred man, only more so. But there’s something else that really is odd. In this situation every other woman I know anything about would just fall into his arms and let the future take care of itself. I mean, that’s one of the things I object to about adultery: the way it falsifies feelings. Forbidden fruit and all that. Generally the mistress, at least if she’s single, gets so fed up with being side-lined that she’ll do anything to get him out of his wife’s arms. Now you’re putting yourself to considerable inconvenience to do the opposite.’
‘I’ve told you why.’
‘And very pretty, selfless telling it makes.’ I flinched at this but allowed her to carry on. ‘I think it may be darker than that, old thing.’ I braced myself for the broadside that was coming. Sarah frequently prefaced her home truths by ‘old thing’ to soften the blow. ‘This man has power. He’s an authority figure. No …’ she added as I started to speak, ‘I’m not going to give you the old chestnut about power being an aphrodisiac. I think this has something to do with your father. We needn’t go into details but let’s just say it isn’t the happiest of parent-child relationships, is it? I think when you took up with Burgo Latimer you wanted a father figure to whom you could submit without compromising your integrity and who would give you in return the love and admiration your pa has always withheld.’
‘Honestly, Sarah, you’re making this up as you go along.’
‘Of course I am. That’s what inductive reasoning is. I’m putting two and two together and making five. But I might be right. You know, consciously or subconsciously, that your father hates you because you’ve struggled from an early age to escape his control over you. Not only over your mind but your body. Naturally you won’t let him do the one thing he desires above all else which is to have sex with you—No, hear me out,’ as I attempted to protest. ‘Your father’s the sort of man that thinks women are only good for one thing. Of course you know you’re right to resist this but none the less the refusal puts you into a state of conflict because you experience all the guilt every child feels when it disappoints its parent. But Burgo Latimer also treats you with brute selfishness, creating an emotional climate you recognize and therefore feel comfortable with, subordinating your needs to his own, making you grateful for what crumbs of attention he can spare from his work and his legitimate lover. But because he’s not your father you can gratify his sexual demands and thereby receive the affection and approval you crave.’
I leaned sideways to rest my temple and cheek against the cool glass of the sedan chair window. ‘Sarah, if you knew how ghastly this makes me feel you wouldn’t go on.’
‘Aha!’ said Sarah triumphantly. ‘We all know that the truth hurts, don’t we? Well,’ she co
ntinued in a milder tone, ‘I won’t go on then. I don’t want to make you more miserable than you already are. I’ll just conclude by saying that I think that’s why you’ve left him. Because your instinct to survive – which I trust you’ll listen to – tells you that the love affair between you and Latimer will eventually stultify all possibilities of growth and happiness. He’d be all right, dictating terms, exacting obedience and submission in return for his grand gesture, but you’d be locked into a child-like passivity, always having to be grateful, trying to please, giving up your right to autonomy for as long as you lived together. And because of your pa you know exactly what that feels like and you want it like a hole in the head. It’s not his sacrifice you’re anxious to prevent, but your own.’
‘Oh God!’ I said feebly. ‘I’m incapable of even beginning to argue with you. If I was confused before, now I’m practically deranged.’
‘Nonsense! You’ve got sense and you’ve got guts. I have complete faith in you to get over it.’
I felt absurdly grateful for this sudden declaration of confidence. ‘Really? You don’t despise me utterly, then?’
‘Of course not! You’re the sanest woman I know. The first person I’d turn to in a crisis. This is just a blip on the chart. And in the end you’ll be stronger for all this. We all know about suffering unto truth. Now, tell me what gives in Ireland?’
‘I’ve taken a job as housekeeper in a rather run-down castle in Connemara.’
‘Never!’ Sarah was silent while she digested this. ‘You’re not having me on?’
‘I promise you. I’ve taken a short break between turning centuries-old food out of cockroach-infested cupboards and cooking dinner in order to ring you.’
Sarah was intrigued and by the time I had described Curraghcourt and its inhabitants and my first day as housekeeper I had managed to recover a degree of calm. Sarah’s enthusiasm for the project and her ability to see why I might find it therapeutic encouraged me to think that for the time being at least I was in the right place. We said goodbye with our old feelings of affection and sympathy more or less restored.
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