Moonshine

by Clayton, Victoria

  ‘I think I may have read something about it last week,’ she said. ‘But I usually skip anything to do with politicians. This country’s drowning in politics and it all means so little in the end, just excuses for men to fight one another. But go on, Bobbie, I’m listening.’

  Though I had recounted the facts in a bright, dry style Constance’s soft grey eyes were soon swimming in commiseration.

  ‘You poor darling! You must be missing him so much! And you’ve given him up! I call that noble.’

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that it wasn’t nobility at all. Self-preservation.’ I explained my reasoning and was sufficiently detached to notice that a little of Sarah’s argument had crept into my tale.

  ‘But how will it be for him?’ asked Constance, her sympathetic nature rushing to embrace the woes even of a stranger. ‘He’s clearly unhappy with his wife.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think he is, though. I just assumed that he must be. He told me he hadn’t had an affair during ten years of marriage and I quite believe he was telling the truth. He’s not a confirmed womanizer. I have to face the fact that in many ways his wife is perfect for him. She leaves him free to live his life as he likes. I know I’d want rather more than that. I’m not sure …’ I paused for a moment as I thought. ‘I really wonder if Burgo is the sort of man who wants to live with a woman at all. A love affair; brief, highly charged meetings, the thrill of love-making when passion is heightened by approaching separation – corny but exciting: I think that all suits him terribly well. It dovetails nicely with a demanding, high-pressured job. It’s a neat diversion from the serious business of achievement. Not too time-consuming.’

  ‘You make him sound rather … superficial,’ Constance said with an air of apology.

  I wanted to protest against this accusation. Though possibly doomed, it had been a magnificent, tragic, once-in-a-lifetime love affair. It had to have been worth taking risks for. Our great passion had been a force majeure which justified the betrayal of Anna. But had I not just condemned him out of my own mouth?

  ‘I don’t know what to think any more. I feel so confused. I hope you don’t think, now you know, that I’m a bad character. A scarlet woman.’

  Constance had laughed and placed a broad hand with nibbled cuticles on my arm. ‘Of course I don’t think any the worse of you. Good heavens, no! You’ve got things out of proportion, Bobbie. I know very well that love is unpredictable. You’ve been badly hurt. No one can hear terrible things said about themselves without minding but you must put those wicked lies out of your mind. My sanity depends on your remaining at Curraghcourt.’

  I felt much better after confiding in Constance. But though I knew she was right about rising above the calumnies of the press I had a perverse desire to know what was being written about Burgo and me. I looked quickly through the Irish papers in the shop and could find nothing in any of them about either of us. Absurdly, I felt something bordering on disappointment, as though yet another link with Burgo had been broken. It had been five days since we had last spoken. I had almost looked forward to seeing a photograph of him. The English papers were not yet in, the woman behind the till informed me. But, to be sure, the news in the Irish Times was every bit as good. To placate her I ordered next month’s issues of Vogue, Harpers & Queen and the Tatler.

  The children and I had lunch in Katy’s Kauldron. The chips had the texture of cotton-wool and the sausages swam in grease but I remembered the macaroni and was grateful.

  ‘“Anyone who had a heart, pom-pom,”’ crooned Liddy as we drove home. She was apparently in the best of spirits as she pinged the elastic of a bracelet of red plastic hearts she had bought from Lulu’s Hat Box. ‘“Would look at me, pom-pom, and know that I le-e-erve yew.” Bobbie?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Do you think sex before marriage is a sin?’

  I hesitated. It would be wrong, surely, to gainsay the customs and beliefs of Liddy’s world. And I had a responsibility to Constance. Though she had expressed liberal views when discussing my relationship with Burgo she might feel differently about the sexual behaviour of her own family. But she had asked me what I believed.

  ‘Well, that depends. Not being a Roman Catholic I don’t see things in terms of sin and virtue, more as questions of kindness and unkindness or wisdom and folly. A sort of practical morality if you like, something quite fluid which I have to work out daily and be prepared to change my mind about. In principle I think it’s actually a good idea for people to make love before they marry. They may not enjoy each other sexually, you see, and that would obviously be something of a disaster for both of them.’

  ‘Would it? For the woman as well, do you mean? Granny says a woman liking sex is the sign of a sick mind. She says sex is the price girls have to pay for being married. Aunt Connie pretends to disagree but then she never has sex with anyone so what does she know? Of course the nuns and Father Bernard would burst blood vessels at the very idea that it might be nice. But they’ve never had it either. Sissy once told me that sex was worth risking going to hell for and that it was better than anything you could possibly imagine, but Sissy’s cracked, isn’t she?’

  ‘Sex can be just as enjoyable for a woman as for a man. And I certainly don’t think there’s anything disgusting or wrong about it. Sometimes the experience itself isn’t good because of ignorance or not loving each other enough. And sometimes the circumstances aren’t right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, people might be too young. Or too old, I suppose. Or the relationship isn’t suitable. You wouldn’t make love with your sister’s husband, for instance, or your friend’s—’

  ‘Oh, you mean adultery,’ said Liddy airily. ‘I know all about that. Father Deglan said Dad and Sissy were in mortal sin and their behaviour set a disgraceful example in front of children and unmarried females. Aunt Connie got very cross with him and sent me and Flurry and Flavia out of the dining room but we listened behind the door. Granny stuck up for Dad. She said he was a proper man and had a man’s needs. She said Father Deglan wouldn’t be such a superstitious old fool if he didn’t deny his own. There was an unholy row. I thought they were going to hit each other.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Sissy said she loved Dad more than her own soul. Dad said he was grateful for everyone’s concern but he preferred to mind his own business and perhaps they wouldn’t mind minding theirs.’ Liddy laughed suddenly. ‘Dad’s got a way of speaking that’s really crushing. They all shut up after that.’

  ‘I can see he might have been annoyed.’ I wondered if public disapproval was the reason Mr Macchuin spent so little time with his children when they were so clearly in need of parental love and guidance. Presumably Dublin society was less censorious.

  Liddy was silent for a time, continuing to ping her bracelet. ‘“Anyone who had a heart”’, she sang, ‘“would know I dream a-r-ve you.”’

  ‘Do look at that.’ I pointed to the lead-coloured mountains whose peaks were wreathed with clouds. ‘Just like volcanoes about to erupt. So dramatic!’

  ‘Can we walk along the King’s Road?’ Liddy asked dreamily.

  ‘Not only can but must. It’s only two streets from my house.’

  ‘Not really? Oh, joy!’

  ‘Look, a ruined tower! With a huge bird perched on top. It’s a heron, isn’t it?’

  ‘Belville Sassoon,’ murmured Liddy. ‘Mary Quant.’ A little later she said, ‘It must be grim for you here. You must miss London like anything.’

  ‘I did when I was living at home in Sussex. But here, it seems so far away as to be hardly relevant.’ We had been bumping up the track through the walled garden when Liddy asked me that and now we reached the top of the hill from where one could look down on the turrets of Curraghcourt emerging from a sea of waving trees. ‘Do you know, the strange thing is I find I don’t miss it at all.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Was there a miracle in Kilmuree?’ said Constance as we u
npacked the box of groceries in the kitchen. ‘I’ve never seen Liddy so cheerful.’

  I explained about the proposed London visit. ‘I hope you approve. I ought to have asked your permission before promising.’

  ‘God bless you! It’s exactly what she needs. Something to look forward to. The poor child’s been fretting for a change for a long time. I knew she was getting depressed but it’s so hard to be fair to everybody.’ She ran her fingers through her hair, making her fringe stand on end and leaving a smudge of ink on her forehead. She had spent much of the afternoon copying out Eugene’s latest poem under his instruction, using a calligraphic pen on special handmade paper sent from Dublin. She had shown me the result with justifiable pride. Her handwriting was exquisitely neat, which was slightly unexpected when one considered her distrait appearance. ‘I’d thought of trying to get away for a day to take Liddy to see the megalithic tombs in the Burren but a week in London’ll be more fun. What a tonic you are, Bobbie!’

  ‘Thank you. The meat and vegetables I ordered should be here any minute. They were promised by tea-time.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ Constance looked amazed. ‘I can never get anyone to deliver anything without several really ratty telephone calls.’

  ‘They’d better. Otherwise I shall have to do something clever with sardines again and I for one am already sick of them. Speaking of telephones, do you mind if I ring home again?’

  ‘He – whah.’

  ‘Oliver? What are you eating?’

  ‘Jutht a minute.’ There was the sound of lip-smacking. ‘Hello, Bobs. Ruby’s homemade toffee. It’s scrummy but extremely adhesive. The house has fallen silent but for the sound of mastication and the occasional burst of swearing as Mrs Treadgold takes out her teeth and prises them apart with the bread knife. It’s put paid to Father’s tirades and Mrs Treadgold’s cheery quips about me turning into a vampire, for which I’m grateful.’

  ‘Why does she think you’re turning into a vampire?’

  ‘Because she’s one of those simple folk who think there’s some virtue in getting up early. I don’t see it myself.’

  ‘What time did you get up today?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’ I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock. ‘Ruby made me some maple syrup pancakes for breakfast – she doesn’t bat on about sunlight and vitamin D – and gave me a plate of toffee to sustain me during my bath. I was just getting into it when I heard the telephone ring so I came scooting down to answer it.’

  ‘I’m touched that you bothered to scoot.’ I could not keep a little severity from creeping into my voice.

  ‘I thought you might be Sherilee.’

  ‘How’s Mother?’

  ‘She felt sick after you rang yesterday. No connection, I’m sure.’

  ‘Perhaps too much sugar? Is she better today?’

  ‘How would I know? I told you, I’ve only just got up.’

  ‘Go and see, would you? I’ll hang on.’

  I heard a clunk as the receiver met the hall table. The smell of Ô in the sedan chair had been overpowered by oranges. Curls of peel lay next to a pile of crumpled paper handkerchiefs on the seat. I had glimpsed Flavia’s face, tense with misery, through the window of the sedan chair when I had crossed the hall on my return from Kilmuree.

  ‘You’d think,’ said Oliver after what seemed like a long time, ‘that one’s mother would be accustomed to the sight of her only son in the raw. Surely she must have been present on occasion at bathtime, perhaps even have changed the odd nappy?’

  ‘You mean you’re standing in the hall without any clothes on? At five o’clock in the afternoon?’

  ‘I told you. I was getting into my bath. And what difference does the time make? Ruby, thank God, was calm.’

  ‘She saw you with no clothes on?’

  ‘She’s a sensible woman. She said I’d catch my death of cold and chucked me Mother’s dressing-gown. Hang on, that’s the doorbell. No, don’t hang on. I’d better answer it. Ruby’s giving Mother an enema and is best not disturbed. Toodle-pip, old thing.’

  ‘Oliver! Wait a minute! You haven’t told me—’ But the line was dead.

  ‘This is it.’ Flurry pulled the sacking from what looked like a row of metal boxes and tubes bolted together. ‘It’s called the Flying Irishman. This is the tender.’ He pointed to one end. ‘The driver sits here, in front of it. This is the boiler.’ He indicated the other end.

  ‘How does it work?’ I asked.

  ‘When you put coal in the furnace the flames heat the water in the pipes and turn it into steam. It builds up pressure and then it’s forced into the cylinders which drive the pistons. Simple.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem simple to me,’ I said. ‘I’d imagined something much smaller when you said a model railway. You know, like a Hornby set.’

  ‘Of course it’s got to be big enough to sit on and take real passengers,’ said Flurry. ‘What’s the good of it otherwise?’ He looked enquiringly at me, his grey eyes magnified by the lenses of his spectacles, as though the idea of imaginative play was a foreign concept.

  ‘Have you made it all yourself?’

  ‘I’ve got this book by Bassett-Lowke. They made lots of railways. Thady O’Kelly, the blacksmith, makes the parts from my drawings.’ He pulled away another piece of sacking. ‘Here are the wheels. My next job is to get them on to the chassis.’

  ‘It must cost a lot of money.’

  ‘Dad gives me money for it. And I do maths homework for the boys at school. They pay me five pence a sum. Twenty-five pence for geometry because there’s drawing and it takes longer.’

  ‘Aren’t the other boys going to be rather stuck when it comes to exams?’

  ‘I give them coaching for sixty pence an hour. I’m good at it because I’m a boy and I know how they think.’

  ‘It sounds hard work.’

  ‘I like maths. And it means they leave me alone. Otherwise I’d be beaten up because I wear glasses and can’t play games. They call me the Prof.’ Flurry gave one of his rare smiles. ‘I hate History and English. I can’t see the point. As for Scripture …’ He made a sick noise. ‘It isn’t true. How could it be?’

  I did not feel myself qualified to answer this. ‘What is it you want me to do?’

  ‘See those sleepers?’ He pointed to a huge stack by the barn door. ‘They’re real ones Dad bought in a job lot. They have to be sawn into three. My railway’s going to be triple gauge. We’re using a lot of old iron fencing for the rails. There’s a tape measure and a bit of chalk by the saw-horse.’

  ‘I want to strike a bargain with you, Flurry.’ He pushed his spectacles further up his nose and looked at me expectantly. ‘If I agree to spend some time every day – as much as I can manage – cutting up these sleepers, will you eat the vegetables I put on your plate?’

  Flurry jumped backwards as though I had struck him. ‘You mean turnips and things? Sprouts?’ He shuddered.

  ‘Not those two if you really hate them. I agree they’ve got a strong taste. But potatoes and frozen peas and carrots aren’t difficult.’

  ‘They are for me. Why?’

  ‘The reason you get styes is because sausages aren’t a balanced diet. You need vitamin C.’

  ‘This one’s nearly better.’ He pointed to his eye.

  ‘Yes, but there’s one coming on the other eye. It isn’t good to use the antibiotic ointment indefinitely. And you’ll start to get other things.’

  ‘Like scurvy, you mean. We did that in History.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How much of them have I got to eat?’

  ‘Well, we could start with a spoonful.’

  Flurry drew wide the corners of his mouth and screwed up his eyes in expression of absolute disgust. ‘What size spoon?’

  ‘Pudding size.’

  Flurry clasped his hands behind his back and walked up and down the barn, thinking. Then he said, ‘Tell you what. For half an hour’s sawing I’ll eat half a spoonful. For an hour I’ll eat a
whole one. Done?’

  ‘Half an hour, one spoonful. An hour, two.’

  ‘Half an hour, three-quarters. An hour, one and a half.’

  I refused to negotiate. I was pretty certain that an hour’s nonstop sawing would nearly kill me. After further argument we spat on our palms and closed the deal with a handshake. I took up the saw.

  Neither the promised delivery of vegetables from Turlough McGurn nor the meat from Sean Rafferty materialized.

  ‘It’s the Irish way, I’m afraid,’ said Constance. ‘We’re a gregarious lot and like to have everything on an agreeable footing. Sometimes truth seems less important than saying what we think will please.’

  I made six tins of sardines into a fish pie with the last of the tinned potatoes. It was quite as revolting as it sounds but was received with rapture. I could not decide whether they were all masters of the art of concealing their true feelings or if poor Constance’s food had been even worse than mine. We were only a few repulsive forkfuls through it when there was a commotion in the hall. The deep baying of the huge dog tethered to the porch set off Maria’s shriller barking. Then we heard a scarcely human voice lifted in a roar of protest such as a lion might make on seeing another better-looking lion approaching his females.

  Into the dining room, without ceremony, burst a giant red man. He was quite six feet six inches and his shaggy hair and full beard were flame-coloured. His complexion was fiery to match. Even his eyes seemed to be crimson with anger. He stood inside the doorway, screwing up his face in a ferocious glare and smiting his palm with his fist. Maria stopped barking and ran under the table to press herself against my leg.

  ‘Michael McOstrich!’ cried Constance in a voice of astonishment.

  I liked the Irish way of referring to others by their full names. It gave a picturesque, biblical flavour to proceedings. Michael McOstrich was straight from a miracle play. He could have played Wrath without make-up. Then I remembered where I had heard the name before and my amusement ebbed.