When Constance and I entered the drawing room, hot and tired from our labours, Eugene ceased to pace with his arms folded behind his back. ‘Ah, Constance! You have been detained by duties connected with your role as chatelaine, I am certain.’
‘Are we late?’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Gracefully he waved away her apology and turned to me. ‘A beautiful evening, Miss Norton.’
‘So it is.’ The drawing room, like the dining room, faced south and so looked down the canals. Having been immured in the kitchen for the last two hours, I had not noticed that the sky was campanula blue, finely threaded with cloud.
‘I’ve been wandering in the woods all afternoon. Such sweet softness in the air, the light shot through with rainbow hues. I rested against a log and as I watched a lone bird hovering above my head I was reminded of the romance of Liadain and Curithir: lovers destined never to be united. It has inspired a new poem. I shall share it with you this evening. Also an accompanying tune which I shall play to you on my psaltery.’
Constance brought me a glass of white wine. To Eugene she gave a glass containing a brown liquid with something floating in it.
‘It is a special brew Constance makes me,’ he explained. ‘To soothe my throat before a recitation. Madeira laced with honey and the yolk of an egg.’ He sipped, with the air of a man conscientiously doing his duty while Constance and I looked on admiringly. ‘Exactly right. I am nearly ready to begin. But I find I am a little warm after my exertions.’
‘I’ll get your fan.’ Constance was at the door in a trice.
‘I fear it is in my room.’
‘I won’t be a minute.’
With a convulsive movement Eugene swallowed the yolk whole, looking so exactly like a frog that I had to cough into my hand to hide a smile. ‘I trust you have spent the day pleasantly, Miss Norton?’
‘Do call me Bobbie.’
Eugene pointed his left foot and bowed over it in acknowledgement. At the ends of his spindly legs were muddy shoes, high heeled with tattered rosettes on the toes. ‘I should be honoured if you would address me as Eugene.’
I nearly bowed back before I thought how silly I would look. ‘I have enjoyed myself, though naturally I’ve been busy cooking and cleaning—’
Eugene raised a hand in protest. ‘Let us not contaminate our minds with horrid images of toiling and moiling in the dirt. A young lady of your obvious cultivation of mind ought to have been gliding across a lake in an elegant barque beneath a silken awning, reading Homer. If there must be such a sordid thing as housework I prefer to think of you flitting about the house scattering a shimmering fairy dust that makes all it touches clean and bright.’
Constance, very much out of breath, returned with the fan.
‘My good angel!’
Eugene waved it before his face and massaged his throat while Constance and I sat down next to each other on one of a pair of sofas beside the fireplace, raising puffs of dust. The sofas, inspired by Hepplewhite, were upholstered in lovely old grass-green lustring that was falling into holes. Constance hunched her shoulders, clasped her hands together beneath her chin and prepared to be transported.
My own experience of poetry readings did not lead me to suppose that pleasure was forthcoming. Writing and reading verse require quite different skills.
‘Tá sé in am di TEACHT!’ Eugene boomed suddenly, startling me.
‘That’s the title,’ Constance explained in a low voice. ‘It means something like “It is time for her to come”. Eugene is writing in Gaelic at the moment. I must admit I find it extremely difficult, but the sound conveys a great deal of the sense. You can tune in to it with your subconscious.’
This was an unexpected boon. In order to give my subconscious free rein, I was almost bound not to listen.
Eugene threw back his head and flung up his hands as though he had a gun at his back. ‘Ró-dhéaNACH!’ he cried.
That was almost the last word I heard for my attention was drawn by this action to several pieces of string that ran from the ceiling, presumably to guide the drips when it rained down to a large pan. The plasterwork was nearly as good as the dining room but not, I thought, by the La Franchini brothers. I had not had time to tackle the drawing room but my spirits lifted as I saw wonderful Irish Georgian furniture waiting, beneath piles of magazines, old socks, dead flowers, dirty glasses, toffee papers, apple cores and ashtrays brimming with cigarette ends, to be brought to life. What might it cost, I wondered, to have the plasterwork repaired? Unfortunately the roof must be put right first to keep out the rain and I knew from the bills at Cutham that this would be prohibitive.
Leading off the drawing room was the library. Constance had already explained that this room was set aside for her brother’s sole use. Borrowings had to be authorized and woe to him who had the temerity to sit in it. Even from the threshold it was obvious that though the library was dusty it was less disordered than the rest of the house. The large desk was bare of papers; the grate was swept clean; the books were neatly arranged; there were no remains of food or objects out of place. It told me little about its owner, except to reinforce the impression I already had of someone selfish and uncongenial.
Without warning Eugene distracted me from my thoughts by uttering a high nasal howl over several notes like a counter tenor. Then his voice sank again to its former style of delivery, resonant and portentous with something of a Gielgudian tremor in it. Behind his head birds wheeled in a sky that was beginning to lose its brightness. Flurry approached the window and put his face against the glass to look in at us, compressing his features into amorphous shapes like snails’ feet. He waved the saw he was carrying and beckoned to me to come into the garden. I shook my head slightly and changed this to a rhythmic nodding for Eugene’s eyes flashed at once to my face. When I dared to look again at the window only the condensed breath from Flurry’s mouth and nose remained.
After another long minute of recitation during which Eugene minced about the room wearing an expression of agony as though his shoes were filled with dried peas, he stopped to pick up his psaltery. This was a lyre-shaped instrument with three strings. He plucked them with a large goose feather, making a hideous twanging noise. He had to concentrate to do this and I was free to let my eyes roam.
The drawing room was magnificent, a double cube with a wonderful marble chimneypiece. The walls were hung with yellow damask, the stretchers and nails hidden by a gilded fillet. But the damask was faded and spotted with damp, the fillet missing in places, the chimneypiece stained brown by smoke. It was a crying shame to see it crumbling before one’s eyes. I could do little to halt the decay in the brief time I expected to be at Curraghcourt but I would get to work tomorrow on the furniture with duster and beeswax. That oyster veneered chest-on-stand required expert repair which was beyond my capability but I could do something about the pair of gilded consoles with marble tops. A solution of vinegar would clean up the marble and once the day-to-day housework was running smoothly I might find time to do something about the textiles. The curtains needed repair and that wonderful old carpet, Savonnerie most likely, was in a shocking state—
‘Tá CEOBHRAN ag teacht!’ cried Eugene.
He seemed to be coming to some sort of climax. He had put down the psaltery and stood with one hand on his hip, the other pointing downwards to something that lay at his feet. His tone was reproachful, as though his favourite spaniel had disgraced herself on the carpet. Constance explained to me afterwards that it had been a touching scene of reconciliation during which the hero had forgiven his faithless sweetheart and renewed his vows of love as she lay on her deathbed. I felt rather let down by my subconscious.
‘A stór! A stór!’ Eugene sank to his knees. ‘Ní bheidh mé I bhfad!’ He dropped his chin to his chest.
It seemed it was over, to the thorough misery of all the characters. I looked at Constance. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Then I realized that the drama and possibly the tragedy were here in
the drawing room. Constance was in love with Eugene. I did not waste much time wondering how such an intelligent, sweet-natured girl could fall in love with a Narcissus who looked like a frog. I had already learned that love defies reason.
Eugene rose and dusted off his knees.
Constance sprang up. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you! I’m almost lost for words, it was so moving!’
Eugene nodded gravely, then looked at me.
‘It was extremely … stimulating.’
Eugene frowned. ‘I hope not too stimulating. It is after all a lament.’
‘Well, yes. It was stimulating and tragic at the same time.’
‘You think so?’ Eugene seemed gratified. He stood for a while in profile, holding his chin, his stomach outlined by a beam of sunlight, lost in thought.
‘Perhaps,’ murmured Constance, her beautiful eyes soft with love, ‘another poem …?’
I leaped up. ‘The salmon!’
Constance seemed disappointed but looked hungrily at Eugene. ‘If you’re not too shattered by today’s performance, tomorrow we might …?’
Eugene bowed. ‘There can be no ill effect that solitude and sleep will not ameliorate. Salmon, you say?’ His eyes bulged with what looked to me like unpoetical greed.
Constance looked at her watch. ‘Father Deglan will be here soon. I ought to warn you, Bobbie, he’s a terrible old traditionalist, politically as well as spiritually. He thinks de Valera was second only to God. Never mind that the man knew nothing about economics and kept Ireland in the dark ages for forty years. Father Deglan’ll be bringing all last week’s newspapers. We’re too far away for the paper boy to cycle so we’re always a week behind with the world. It’s not a satisfactory arrangement because he cuts out the articles that have anything to do with the Church and it always happens that anything I’m interested in is on the back of them. He always brings the Daily Mail as well as the Irish papers so you’ll have some idea of what’s happening in England.’
‘Oh, good,’ I said, wondering where I had left the scissors. I hoped it would not be necessary to reduce Father Deglan’s newspapers to unreadable shreds.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Well, Constance, me girl,’ roared a voice from the hall. ‘You’d better be making Finn pay for new guttering if he won’t contribute to Church funds. I’m wetter than a drowned man!’
‘Oh, Father Deglan, I’m so sorry.’ Constance ran ahead of me to greet him. ‘Those naughty … drainpipes,’ she finished feebly. ‘You must come and get warm by the drawing-room fire. Though it’s supposed to be summer we decided to light it as there’s a little damp in the air.’
This had been my idea and Constance had been amenable to this, as to all my suggestions. There was apparently no shortage of turves, provided Timsy could be persuaded to dig them out of the ground, so it seemed imperative to me to have fires every day in all the principal rooms to bring the indoor temperature up to something tolerable and to do battle with the damp that was destroying the contents of Curraghcourt and the fabric of the building as well. Throughout the house the walls and ceilings were spotted with black, the floorboards and skirting boards were spongy, the curtains and carpets were falling apart, and everywhere smelt of decay.
‘Now, Father.’ Constance tucked her hand into his arm and turned him to face me. ‘You must meet the greatest piece of good fortune I’ve had for a long time. This is Miss Bobbie Norton, who’s been sent by my fairy godmother to put everything right.’
‘My dear Constance!’ Father Deglan frowned and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘There’s only one source of good things and one provider of help in times of trouble and you know well who it is, though you like to talk like a heathen.’
I had expected an ascetic with a pinched, disapproving mouth and cold, sin-seeking eyes. Father Deglan was ruddy, shining and fat, with a crop of greasy, grey curls. He had a large corky nose from which water dripped. One of his eyes had a cast in it so that it gazed into the distance, unfocused and dreaming. Only his good eye met my expectations. It was sharp, intelligent and appraising.
I put out my hand. ‘How do you do? I’m the new housekeeper.’
‘How are you, Miss Norton?’ He took my hand and crushed it. ‘Your reputation has electrified Kilmuree already. They were right about the voice anyway.’
‘Now, Father,’ said Constance crossly. ‘I won’t have you being unkind to Bobbie. I like her English accent.’
‘It’s certainly a rest for my ears’ – Maud was coming slowly down the stairs – ‘after listening to the mangle you peasants make of a civilized language.’
‘I’ll not give you the satisfaction of rising to your insults, Maud Crawley. Rather call me a peasant than a liar or a thief. Is it civilized you call that sharp manner of speaking, like a shower of stones? Aye, if civilization means arrogance and pride of assumption. If civilization means to steal land and let the rightful owners starve without lifting a hand to help them. But, thank the Lord’ – he came closer to peer at me with an eye that could have peeled varnish – ‘you’re not as painted as I was expecting.’
‘Don’t be offended, Bobbie.’ Constance smiled at me. ‘He speaks so often to God that he’s apt to look down on us plain mortals.’
‘Arrah, Constance, you’ve no reverence in you, not at all.’
‘I’m not offended,’ I said. ‘Let me relieve you of those.’ I indicated the dripping bundle of newspapers that was slipping from beneath Father Deglan’s arm. ‘I’ll dry them out in the kitchen.’
He shot me another piercing glance before relinquishing them and going into the drawing room with Constance and Maud.
‘We got him!’ Flavia and Flurry came running into the kitchen as I was struggling with a fish kettle filled with near boiling water, a cumbersome and dangerous piece of equipment.
‘So I saw. Let’s hope he doesn’t catch cold from his wetting and get pneumonia.’
‘You don’t mean it?’ Flavia asked anxiously. ‘Old Mrs Canty died from pneumonia.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll be all right. But perhaps you shouldn’t do it again.’
‘Well!’ I saw that Flavia was alarmed. ‘He shouldn’t be so strict and nosy. He always asks me how often I’ve prayed and what I’ve been praying for and it’s private! Dad never asks me that sort of thing and he’s my real father! But I don’t want Father Deglan to die.’
‘Dad’s too busy to ask questions,’ said Flurry. ‘Besides, he isn’t interested. And anyway there are worse things than being dead. Mrs O’Kelly told Pegeen Mummy would be better dead. I heard her.’
‘She wouldn’t! That’s a wicked thing to say and I don’t want her to die ever!’ Flavia’s eyes filled and her chest began to heave. Maria, who had followed me slavishly around all day because I had given her some stewing meat for breakfast, whined in sympathy before returning her eyes to my face. ‘At least I can hold Mummy’s hand and sometimes I know she wants to talk to me but she’s looking for the words.’
‘I can’t help what other people say,’ declared Flurry. ‘Don’t cry, Flav, it’s a waste of time. You said you’d help me sawing. I need six hundred more sleepers.’
But Flavia had left the room, head down.
‘What can’t be cured must be injured,’ Flurry said philosophically.
‘You mean endured.’
‘Yes. Will you help me tomorrow?’
‘Certainly, if there’s time. But I want to go to Kilmuree for provisions.’
‘You mean food and things? Can I come?’
‘If I can borrow the Land-Rover, you may. In fact, I’d like your company.’
Flurry regarded me solemnly. ‘You aren’t going to get soppy, are you?’
I laughed. ‘I hope not.’
‘Good. Only women like to get into stews about things.’
‘Stews?’
‘Yes. They get soppy or mad as fire over tiny things that men don’t notice.’
I had a sudden insight. ‘Is that what your father says?�
�
‘Yes.’
‘Mm. I wouldn’t be afraid of a little emotion occasionally. Feelings are important.’
‘How are they?’
‘Well, they can be enjoyable. And sometimes they’re a guide to the truth. When you can’t reason things out sometimes you can just feel what’s right.’ I saw that Flurry had lost interest. He was trying, with grubby fingers, to make a pyramid with the chunks of butter I had cut up for the hollandaise sauce. I removed them. ‘Where are Katty, Pegeen and Timsy? I haven’t seen them for a couple of hours.’
Constance had told me that every evening she cooked and cleared away dinner single-handed as by that time the girls and Timsy were too drunk to be of use. The Protestant work ethic that was part of my social conditioning revolted against this laxity. I had made up my mind that such anarchy would no longer be tolerated, so after visiting Violet I had locked up the black bottle again to give them time to sober up. No protest had been made from Timsy and Pegeen. Katty had been busy lighting a pipe and had merely given me a malevolent look. Their tea break had already lasted over an hour.
‘They’re drunk in the apple store,’ replied Flurry. ‘Timsy found Sissy’s homemade wine. Dad said it was probably poisonous. He told her to throw it away. What was that you said?’
‘Nothing. It was a bad word and Father Deglan would be disgusted if he heard you repeat it. Well, we must manage without them.’
‘I don’t like the sound of we.’
‘You want help with the sleepers, don’t you? Just dry those plates for me, would you?’
Flurry obligingly took the cloth and began to polish some rather beautiful plates with deep blue borders and fine gilding which I had found in the storeroom.
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