I said nothing but continued to look at her, smiling.
‘Well, it’s an unusual kind of friendship, I admit,’ Constance continued. ‘But every relationship’s unique, isn’t it? And when a man’s as attractive as Eugene it’s inevitable that from time to time one might get a little carried away in one’s thoughts. It’s his voice, I think, probably. There’s no one in the world with such a beautiful voice. It could make the trees and mountaintops bow down like Orpheus’s lute. It makes me shiver sometimes, it’s so noble and dear and … when I shut my eyes and listen to it I could bear to die right then at that moment because he’s there and that’s all I want in the world … Oh, Bobbie.’ Constance stopped and looked at me with tragic eyes. ‘Oh God, you’re right! I do love him!’ She made a sound that was between a laugh and a sob. ‘Only – only – I didn’t want to admit it to myself because I know he still loves that little bitch, Larkie.’
‘Oh no he doesn’t.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I can see it’s you he depends on for his happiness. Your praise, your help, your reassurance, your sympathy. Your love.’
‘He’s never even kissed me.’
Constance’s voice had risen with the strength of her feelings. The warbling behind us had ceased. I turned to see Katty and Pegeen motionless, a spoon and a knife raised apiece, craning their necks to hear.
‘Let’s go and give the hens their supper,’ I suggested.
We watched the new chickens, who were now displaying all the arrogance of youth, steal the plumpest grains of corn from the older birds. We checked to see that Flavia was not in residence in the hen-house before resuming our conversation.
‘What am I going to do?’ Constance marched up and down inside the wire-netted corral while Maria and Osgar did the same without. ‘How am I going to look him in the face now? I suppose the best thing will be to try to pretend everything’s the same.’
‘It can’t be the same, though,’ I pointed out. ‘You’ve been brave enough to recognize your true feelings. Now he’s got to do that too. My guess is that he doesn’t give a damn about Larkie but he’s absolutely terrified of being rejected twice. He’d rather be celibate for the rest of his life than go through that again. And he’s nursed his wounded pride until it’s as precious to him as a baby at the breast.’
‘The poor darling.’ Constance shook her head sorrowfully as she paced. ‘Doesn’t it make you want to weep in sympathy?’
‘Oh, certainly. But that won’t do much good. Has he ever tried to … make a pass at you?’
Constance stood still, thinking. ‘There was one time, quite soon after his arrival, when we were alone together in the drawing room. Everyone else had gone up to bed. He said – I remember it perfectly – “Would you be offended to be offered the admiration and affection of a heart that has been pierced and drained of its life’s-blood, my dear Constance?” It was the first time he had called me by my Christian name. Wasn’t it a beautiful thing to have said?’
‘Well, yes.’ I remembered that I had thought Burgo’s most trivial remarks to be witty aperçus. ‘What did you say?’
‘I don’t remember exactly. Something about treasuring such affection and admiration all the more. He said, “Why so?” And I said – Oh, what an ass I was! – I said I knew that what he was offering was in the purest spirit of friendship. I wanted to reassure him that I quite understood that he was in love with Larkie Lynch.’
‘You can’t be blamed for that. When he’d made such a parade of his broken heart—’
‘Oh, no, not a parade! It was absolutely genuine!’
‘I mean, you were so conscious of the violence of his grief that you didn’t want him to think you’d got the wrong idea.’
‘Exactly.’ Constance looked miserable. ‘He was a byword locally for suffering and constancy. It was more likely that Father Deglan would take up pimping in Galway than that Eugene could ever be interested in another woman. He spoke so often of Yeats’s lifelong unrequited passion for Maud Gonne. It seemed to have a great fascination for him.’
‘Yes, well, Maud Gonne has always seemed to me a thoroughly vain and rather selfish woman who enjoyed stringing poor Yeats along. Anyway, what did Eugene say when you talked about the pure spirit of friendship?’
‘He bowed and kissed my hand and went to bed. He did look a little gloomy, but then in those days he often did.’
‘Has he said anything else of an amorous kind?’
‘Well, he’s paid me compliments. Once he said I was the only woman he’d ever met who came near to understanding the complex workings of his mind. Wasn’t that dear of him? But I’ve always been careful to let him know that I considered our friendship to be something spiritual and sacrosanct.’
‘Hm. Somehow you’ve got to make him see that a little down-to-earth physical contact would be acceptable. You could, of course, take the direct course of walking naked into his bedroom.’
‘I couldn’t.’ Constance shook her head fervently. ‘I absolutely could not do it.’
‘No, well, I see that. I don’t think I could either. Particularly not after all that talk about purity.’
‘Besides, supposing you’re wrong? Supposing he isn’t interested in me except as a bosom chum?’
‘Men don’t make bosom chums of women. If they don’t fancy them, frankly they aren’t remotely interested in them. A woman who has no sexual potential for a man could be devoured before his eyes by wild beasts and he still wouldn’t notice her.’
‘Darling Bobbie, sometimes I wonder if you aren’t a little prejudiced against men.’
‘Ah, well, if I am, it means that the wool can no longer be pulled over my eyes. And that you can believe me when I say that Eugene only needs to be shown the way to have him galloping up the path to your door, all past loves forgotten.’
Constance smiled and I thought how pretty she was. A stray beam of light caught the russet tones in her soft brown hair and turned her clear skin to gold. Her eyes, her best feature, were a wonderful shade of deep grey. The drab, droopy skirt, holey cardigan and gumboots did nothing for her figure and general allure. The bushy eyebrows needed attention; for a moment I was again inspired to imagine a transformation but then I remembered that I would probably not be there to effect it.
‘I don’t expect it will be too difficult, now you know what it is you want.’
‘You’ll help me, Bobbie, won’t you? You’re so much more experienced with men.’
I winced inwardly at this but I knew Constance was entirely without malice. ‘I’d be delighted to, if I’m still here. I’m afraid your brother and I have had another row. He disapproves of what we’ve been trying to do for Violet.’
‘Damn! I was hoping to have a word with him about that. Was he really angry?’
‘He accused me of trying to kill her.’
‘Good God, he must be mad!’
‘Certainly in the American sense. I’m afraid we rub each other up the wrong way. It’s a clash of temperaments.’
‘But you’ll make it up. I’ll speak to Finn; make him apologize. You can’t go.’
‘I don’t want to.’ I looked at the distant mountains, now patched with gold and copper, their frowning aspect effaced by the sun pouring down their flanks, at the forest of trees on their lower slopes, untamed, as green as parsley. ‘I love it here. I love the wildness, the remoteness. I love being with you and the children. I love feeling useful, being able to make a difference. And I love this marvellous old house, every inch of its damp, crumbling magnificence.’ I turned to look at the massive walls of the castle. ‘When I think of the hundreds of people who’ve taken shelter here and lived out their lives, I feel linked to them, to the past …’
I stopped, conscious that I was sounding rather impassioned.
‘When I think of all your hard work and the difficulties with supplies, Father Deglan’s bullying and Finn’s quarrelling, it’s clear to me you’ve had a spell cast over you,’ laughed Co
nstance. ‘I can’t believe my luck!’
Flurry came through the gateway that led into the courtyard. He was holding the saw.
I looked at my watch. ‘I’m sorry, Flurry. I said four o’clock, didn’t I? And it’s nearly half past. Constance, would you mind finishing off the soup while I do some sawing? It only needs simmering for twenty minutes and then three or four spoonfuls of cream stirring in. Don’t let it boil after that. Stick in a couple of bay leaves, would you?’
‘Bay leaves?’ Constance looked blank. ‘Are they in the larder?’
‘It’s that tree with shiny leaves by the back door.’
Flurry and I put in a good three-quarters of an hour’s work on the railway. I found the sawing easier now I was used to it. But there was still a large pile of sleepers to get through. Flurry was bolting together some metal plates. It bore no resemblance to anything like a train but he was calmly confident.
‘Right, that’s it.’ I hung the saw up on its appointed nail. ‘I must go and finish the cooking.’
‘What’s for dinner?’ Flurry spoke with his pencil clenched between his teeth as he paused in the process of jotting down calculations.
‘Roast loin of pork with prunes and mashed potatoes.’
Flurry’s mouth became letterbox-shaped with disgust. ‘Ugh, ugh, ugh!’ He stamped around in the sawdust, unable to express his complete horror.
‘You could eat the pork.’
‘I never eat pork.’
‘You eat it every day. It’s what sausages are made of.’
‘Is it?’ He looked astonished.
‘Yes. What did you think they were made of?’
‘I thought they came like that.’
‘Sausages are pigs’ intestines, washed, of course, and filled with bread and scraps of meat. These days some butchers use a synthetic material because people don’t like the idea of eating intestines.’
‘No.’ Flurry looked thoughtful but said nothing more.
On my way to the back door, I met Timsy who was walking purposefully across the courtyard to the apple store.
‘We’re low on milk again.’ I gripped him by his greasy collar, Ancient Mariner style, as he attempted to slide away. ‘Did you milk Siobhan this morning?’
‘She’s drying up now.’ He tried to break free but I hung on.
‘Miss Constance told me this morning Siobhan ought to be giving milk for another four months.’
‘Ah, well.’ Timsy looked cunning. ‘God bless her, what Miss Connie knows about cows you could carve on the knob of a shillelagh.’
I did not dare to ask what a shillelagh might be.
‘Did you milk her?’ I persisted.
Timsy’s eyes were fixed on something over my shoulder and he jerked his head suddenly sideways as though afflicted by a tic. I turned in time to see a booted trouser leg disappear into the bushes that grew plentifully around the archway.
‘Who was that?’ I asked.
‘Nobody at all. Sure I milked the old girl at six as always.’
‘I don’t believe you. And there was someone there.’
‘That’d be my cousin coming to tell me about my aunt who’s at death’s door with consumption. God save her soul, she buried six babies—’ I took a step in the direction of the bushes and now it was Timsy’s turn to seize me by the shirt sleeve, pulling it hard until I thought its seams would give way.
‘Let me go!’ A short struggle ensued. By the time I had broken free and reached the bushes, the owner of the leg had gone.
‘All right, Timsy.’ I returned to the attack. ‘What’s going on? Who are these men that wander about the place at all hours? I saw two skulking about today. They didn’t look as though they were up to any good.’
‘This morning, you say? That’d be some other cousins coming to console me about me aunt knowing I was fonder of her than a broody hen of her eggs—’
‘I don’t believe you’ve got an aunt. Or any cousins.’
Timsy pretended to look wounded but I was practically sure he was laughing at me. ‘Well, now, Miss Bobbie. I was hoping to save your blushes, but the truth of it is, these men you’ve been catching sight of, they’ve all heard rumours of your beauty and now they’re coming to see for themselves whether ’tis true or not.’
A grin almost broke through his assumed seriousness.
‘I wonder you’re not ashamed to tell such lies.’
‘Who was it as told Michael McOstrich she wasn’t allowed any time off?’ Timsy allowed me a glimpse of his native sharpness. ‘I heard it from one of my cousins—’
‘Well,’ I cut in ruthlessly, ‘make sure you milk Siobhan this evening. We’re down to our last quarter of a pint.’
Timsy tapped the peak of his cap to indicate respect and compliance, both patently insincere.
In the kitchen Pegeen was pounding the potatoes to atoms and Constance was putting crisps and peanuts into little dishes to accompany drinks before dinner. Olives were an undreamed-of sophistication in Kilmuree. Discreetly I fished privet leaves from the soup. I made the sauce with the wine the prunes had been simmered in, boiling it with redcurrant jelly and cream until it was thick. I put on carrots and frozen peas; the fresh ones had, as usual, failed to appear. I had made a lemon mousse for pudding which Flavia had taken much pleasure in decorating with blobs of cream and hundreds and thousands, making up with gaiety for what it lost in elegance.
Turlough McGurn had had a shipment of lemons from a mysterious source the week before and was selling them ridiculously cheaply provided one took a whole box. I was running out of things to do with them. We had already had lemon soufflé, lemon jelly, lemon meringue pie, lemon syllabub and Sussex pond pudding.
Dinner seemed to be more or less organized. It occurred to me that this might be my chance to return the gardening book. The gap left by the two large volumes I had borrowed was bound to be noticed, and sooner rather than later. I ran up to my room and took the Golden Treasury from my bedside table with feelings of regret for it had cheered many a bleak dawn.
In order to replace the book undetected it was necessary to reconnoitre. I crouched beneath the library window in a thicket of weeds (my ankles being painfully stung by nettles), then lifted my head slowly to peer over the sill. Mr Macchuin was not at his desk. I stood up cautiously and saw that the room was empty. I dashed back indoors and went into the drawing room, pausing at the door to the library. The prohibition against trespassing on this sacred ground was held in such general respect that I felt some trepidation. It had been different when I knew the grand vizier to be far away in Dublin. A bird twittered as it flew past the window and made me jump.
I opened the door. The temptation to tiptoe was almost irresistible. I was immediately glad I had resisted it, however, for I had not taken three paces across the floor when a voice said, ‘May I help you, Miss Norton?’
Mr Macchuin was standing on the library steps just to the right of the window, in one of the only two places that had been out of my field of vision. He had both the ethical and strategic advantage.
‘Oh.’ I had banked on meeting him again in the bolstering presence of Constance and the children at dinner. The memory of our last conversation made me extremely uncomfortable. ‘Thank you. I came to return this. I found it in the drawing room.’
At once I regretted the cowardly lie. He descended the steps and came towards me, holding out his hand for the book.
‘You found it in the drawing room?’ He expressed surprise with his eyebrows.
‘Yes.’ I felt myself grow warm. ‘I’d have knocked but I didn’t know there was anyone in here.’
‘Was it you outside the window looking in just now? I saw a shadow fall across the floor.’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘I see.’ For a moment I thought I saw the beginning of a smile before he frowned, examining the book’s spine. ‘The Golden Treasury of Vegetable Gardening. Now I wonder who might have borrowed it? As far as I’m aware, none of my family knows a butt
ercup from a daffodil. But perhaps they’ve been inspired by your laudable efforts in the walled garden?’
‘Perhaps.’ I attempted to match his coolness.
‘In that case it would be a pity to discourage them, wouldn’t it?’ He held out the book. ‘I suggest you return it to the drawing room for the crypto-horticulturist to consult when the mood takes him or her.’
He did smile then. I was at a loss to account for this lightning change of attitude. But I was not ready to accept what might possibly be a flag of truce.
‘Very well.’ I gave him a look I flattered myself was dignified and turned to go.
‘Miss Norton. I wonder if you’d be good enough to listen to me for one moment.’ I looked at him enquiringly. He had stopped smiling. He was standing with his back to the fireplace. I was struck by his remarkable likeness to the portrait over the chimneypiece, presumably an ancestor. ‘Will you accept my apology for some rough words this afternoon? I was already harassed by some news in this morning’s post and then, when faced by what seemed to me at the time unwarranted and dangerous med—interference, I lost my temper. I’ve since had time to reflect and I’ve come to the conclusion that I was … wrong to speak to you as I did.’
Apologies cost nothing and may not be sincere but I realized that this obstinate and imperious man would have had to wrestle hard with his natural inclination to dictate in order to make one. I relaxed my froideur a fraction.
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