Moonshine

by Clayton, Victoria

  We had reached the staircase. Kit gave my elbow a discreet squeeze. ‘Up you go. Sweet dreams, darling. I know mine will be.’

  He made no attempt to kiss me again. His manners were too good for a public display of private feelings. He was in every way eligible: intelligent, witty, charming. There was no end to his virtues. I felt his eyes on me as I crept up the staircase but I did not look back. I limped along the landing, pain shooting through my ankle with every step. There was a light under the door of the south tower room. I put my head round the door. Nigel and Francie Synge were testing the bedsprings of the four-poster. I hoped, rather bitterly, that they were enjoying themselves.

  As soon as I reached my own room I sank on to my bed and clutched my head. ‘Oh, damn and blast and hell!’ I exclaimed aloud.

  ‘Bobbie?’ A figure rose, blocking from view the red embers of my fire. I switched on the bedside light.

  ‘Liddy! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I must have – fallen – asleep,’ she said between yawns. ‘I wanted to talk to you so I thought I’d wait. I was playing with the kittens and I must have drifted off … Oh, Bobbie.’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘Dad’s such a beast! I’m so miserable!’

  FORTY-ONE

  During the days that followed Christmas a cloud came over the demesne. It rolled in from the Atlantic ten miles away and settled in the valley. After a week of staring out at the fog which left trickles of condensation on every window pane outside and in, we all became a little tetchy.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Liddy, do stop grumbling,’ said Constance, quite snappily for her. We were having drinks in the drawing room before dinner. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you these days.’

  ‘I’m incredibly bored,’ said Liddy. ‘That’s what’s got into me. There’s nothing to look forward to. I’m sick of everything.’

  ‘What about a trip to Williamsbridge?’ Kit suggested. ‘I’ve got to go to the library there. You could buy that dress you’ve been on about.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Constance. ‘Do go, Liddy darling. That’ll put an end to the daily inquisition about whether we really think pistachio will suit you or not. As though you cared tuppence for my opinion.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so stroppy these days.’ Liddy turned her sunglasses on her aunt. ‘I suppose at your age it must be sexual frustration.’

  ‘Liddy.’ Finn, who had been hidden behind a newspaper, lowered it to look severely at his elder daughter. ‘This is the drawing room and you are in the company of your luckless family and their unfortunate guests. Moderate your conversation to suit.’

  It was only when he spoke that I judged it safe to look at him. I always regretted giving in to the impulse for the shock of longing, followed swiftly by guilt, made me absolutely wretched. Guilt because I knew that I must do everything in my power to crush that longing and by looking at him I knew I was feeding it. Guilt because of Violet. Guilt because of the children. Guilt because I accused myself of deceiving Kit.

  I could not understand quite how it was that I found myself daily – hourly – more compromised. When Kit rested his hand on my arm it had a distinctly proprietorial feel. When he kissed me goodnight I felt as though a pact had been sealed. Since the party I had managed to arrange things so that we were hardly ever alone and never for more than a minute or two. This was cowardly and stupid. I knew that before long he would suspect that I was deliberately avoiding him. I had the suspicion that he watched me closely. He might already have noticed that Finn and I rarely spoke to each other and then only with exaggerated coolness. I think it was Aristotle who said that in order to be brave you must first act in a brave way. I intended to apply this prescription to my present difficulty. I tried to behave as though I were indifferent to Finn Macchuin, hoping that genuine indifference would follow. Or if not indifference then at least an ability to be near him without a sensation that was one quarter joy akin to delirium and three-quarters acute pain.

  To my everlasting shame it was not only guilt I felt towards Violet. When I saw her cling to Finn, saw her rest her head against his shoulder and look up at him with adoring reliance I was horribly jealous of her right to do it. When he put cushions behind her back and took the hand she held out to him I felt sick with heart-burning and was disgusted with myself. What could his feelings be? For four years he had taught himself to believe that his wife was forever beyond reach. Now, though Violet was still physically feeble and partly paralysed, the strength of her personality was manifest. Weak and incapacitated as she was, she had become again wife, mother, daughter, sister-in-law and, to me, friend. She had been drawn once more into the centre of the circle and for this at least I heartily rejoiced.

  The day after the party Maud had given orders that the room next to her own should be made ready for Violet. She insisted that her daughter needed no further therapy as she was now capable of recovering unaided. She treated Violet as though her disabilities were caprices. She needed only to try harder and she would be able to sit up and walk and move about like anyone else. Maud did not cosset Violet or sympathize with her and was scathing about her tears and tantrums. She snapped at her when she forgot words or could not pronounce them clearly. She was disgusted by the sight of Violet’s curled hand and ordered Pegeen to strap it to a splint so that it lay straight. It was all very far from the recommended methods of rehabilitation but Violet did not seem upset by the harshness of this new regime, nor cowed by her mother’s tyranny. Perhaps there was the comfort of familiarity.

  ‘I wonder if Eugene’s back from his walk?’ Constance looked concerned. ‘In this fog it would be easy to get lost. I’ll just run up and see if he’s in his room.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ muttered Liddy as her aunt left the drawing room. ‘She’ll be running up a mountain with his slippers next.’ No one answered her and for a minute she sat and brooded. I was repairing a lampshade and Kit was looking at a manuscript. ‘You used to tell us when we were kids to speak the truth and shame the devil.’ Liddy, obviously still smarting from his reproof, addressed her father’s newspaper. ‘Now you’re always trying to get me to shut up. That’s just hypocrisy. Why shouldn’t I say what we all know to be true? Aunt Connie hasn’t had a man for as long as I can remember.’

  ‘If that’s the case then I think she’s shown excellent sense.’ Finn folded his paper with the air of a man much put upon. ‘You’d do well to remember, Liddy, that when you talk of things you know nothing about, you’re likely to make a fool of yourself.’

  ‘What about that dress?’ said Kit tactfully as Liddy screwed up her fists.

  ‘Can we go tomorrow?’ asked Liddy. I could see hope reborn as she registered Kit’s apparent willingness to take her. Since the party she had been appearing only at lunch and dinner, several times with swollen eyes. ‘I’ve got to go back to school the day after.’

  Kit pulled a face of regret. ‘I’m going to see an author in Kerry tomorrow. It’ll take me all day to get there and back.’

  ‘Shit!’ Liddy kicked the footstool hard. ‘And I’ve got stupid play rehearsals on Saturday. The dress is bound to be gone by next week. It’s the only cool thing in the whole of fucking Connemara.’

  ‘Must you swear so extensively, Liddy?’ asked Finn. ‘You’re frightening the mice.’

  Oh, how I envied the arm of the chair on which his hand lay! Constance and Eugene came in then. He had evidently only just returned from his walk. His hair had escaped from its ribbon and hung damply about his face which glistened with moisture. He threw himself into a chair as though exhausted and I bit back a remonstrance about his wet coat being bad for the upholstery. It was Constance’s chair, after all.

  ‘Did you say you’ve already tried the dress on?’ said Kit. ‘If so, Bobbie could come with me and pick it up for you.’

  ‘Would you?’ Liddy turned her lenses towards me and clasped her hands beseechingly.

  I could not avoid being alone with Kit for ever. Perhaps it would be better to stop re
sisting, to give in to his wishes. I liked him. I had enjoyed being with him before there had been talk of love. Transforming this liking into something stronger would be the best and quickest way to conquer that other madness. ‘The day after tomorrow? Well, yes, I suppose I could. I shan’t be able to garden if this weather keeps up.’

  Liddy looked delighted. ‘I can’t give you the money until I’ve paid in Granny’s cheque, that’s the only thing.’

  ‘I’ll lend you the money willingly,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Finn. ‘I will.’

  Our eyes met briefly. He looked away a second before I did. I wondered whether these continual rushes of adrenaline, the shortness of breath, the racing of my heart might ultimately shorten my life.

  ‘I need some sewing threads.’ Sissy, who was sitting with her feet up on the window seat, plying her needle but also, I was certain, observing the scene closely, sent me one of her hatchet glances.

  ‘I’d be delighted to get them for you,’ I said, hearing in my tone the false brightness that was always in my voice when I spoke to Sissy, and which I seemed unable to disguise. Though we had little in common, I would have preferred a semblance of friendship. I suppose efforts of this kind are always detectable, but some people will give credit for good intentions and forgive the insincerity. Sissy did not seem to be the forgiving kind. She bent her eyes to her work and stabbed the needle in, viciously.

  ‘That’s settled then,’ said Kit. ‘I’ll pick you up the day after tomorrow, Bobbie. Two o’clock be all right?’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  He rewarded me with a smile of such sweetness that my courage almost deserted me. Whatever else I did, I must not hurt him.

  Eugene coughed to attract our attention. ‘I should like to accompany you to Williamsbridge.’

  Eugene had been unusually silent since St Stephen’s Day. When addressed he started as though his thoughts were elsewhere. We had been denied poetry readings. Instead he had taken to pacing the drawing room, his hands fastened behind his back, his gaze bent on the ground. If I had not understood that here was a man suffering some dark night of the soul I might have protested at this excessive wear of an already fragile carpet. When he was not pacing the drawing room he was pacing the mountains. The relentless drizzle had caused the toes of his shoes to curl up like cup hooks. Constance’s most recent effort to scrub his shirt collar had resulted in its partial separation from the rest of the cambric and every day a larger expanse of pale flesh was visible. Even the ribbon that tied back his hair had begun to fray. He was a discouraging sight but the stoniest heart must have pitied his state. Constance watched him with compassionate eyes.

  There was just the briefest perceptible pause before Kit said smoothly, ‘Of course. Do join us.’

  I was both disappointed and relieved.

  ‘Rather warm, isn’t it?’

  I wound down the car window. In fact everything one touched was damp and dripping, the air was soft and sodden, and even beyond the valley the fog was thick enough to require headlights. The landscape was exquisite in tones of grey, like a drawing in Indian ink.

  Eugene sat in the tiny space behind the front seats of the little red Spider, his knees drawn up to his chin. ‘I was thinking it was rather cold.’

  ‘Ah, but with the window down you can smell the heather.’

  Inevitably we had caught up with a truck full of sheep. As the road was single track with passing places every few hundred yards, Kit was forced to idle along in third gear. ‘Look at those poor creatures.’ Eugene leaned further forward and Kit opened the window on the driver’s side. Eugene pointed a finger over my shoulder at the faces of the sheep, who did indeed look woebegone. ‘They are going to have their blood spilt by the butcher’s knife. I think I will become a vegetarian.’

  Kit became uncharacteristically annoyed by the slowness of the lorry. I spent the rest of a comfortless journey admiring the mountains and loughs and musing on meatless dishes I could cook for dinner. I finished my shopping in Williamsbridge in two hours and returned laden with parcels to find Kit sitting in the car, flicking through one of the books he had borrowed from the library.

  ‘Darling!’ He threw the book into the back when he saw me peering in through the window. ‘You’re silvered all over with droplets like my old golden retriever. Come and warm up.’

  ‘I’d better put my bags in the boot.’

  ‘I’ll do that later. Hurry up.’

  The moment I had squeezed myself inelegantly into the passenger seat Kit took me and several carrier bags into his arms and gave me a lingering kiss. ‘I’ve wanted to do that for such a long time. Have you any idea what it feels like to see the object of your desire for several hours every day and be unable even to hold their hand?’

  I confined my answer to a smile.

  ‘Why are you always surrounded by other people? You’d think just once in a while they’d want an early night. I thought you’d be angry with me if I gave the game away. Would you?’

  ‘Not angry, exactly. But uncomfortable. I’m not sure why.’

  ‘Is it because you don’t want Finn to know?’

  I remembered that Finn had come into the hall as Kit was helping me to put on my coat, lifting my hair so that it lay outside my collar. There had been something intimate and possessive in the way Kit had fastened the buttons as though I were a child. Instinctively I had glanced at Finn and seen, or thought I had seen, something like extreme distaste on his face before he looked away.

  ‘It isn’t any one particular person.’

  ‘Oh, how I love you, you little liar.’ He gave me that penetrating look I was beginning to dread. But it had the power to awaken the spirit of rebellion that guilt had effectively crushed.

  ‘Kit, I wish you wouldn’t cross-question me. It almost makes me feel I’m being bullied into—’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ This exclamation had nothing to do with my objection to being quizzed. Kit’s finger was pointing to the street. ‘Do look!’

  Walking along the pavement towards us was a man in a pale velveteen suit with a pink silk scarf knotted at his throat. What made him specially noticeable was his air of self-conscious dandyism. He stopped at every shop window to admire his reflection in the glass and to tweak his clothes or brush back a lock of his hair which had been trimmed to just below his ears and was frequently blown into his eyes by a fitful north-easterly.

  ‘It can’t be!’

  ‘It is!’

  ‘He really looks quite handsome! What are we going to say? Ought we to pretend we haven’t noticed?’

  ‘You can pay him a nicely turned compliment,’ said Kit. ‘I’ll concentrate on the driving.’

  Eugene’s expression became diffident as he minced up to the car.

  ‘Hello.’ I scrambled from my seat to let him into the back. ‘How very elegant you look.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ He smoothed the fabric of his lapels and brushed an imperceptible speck from his sleeve before bending to peer into the back. ‘Oh dear.’ He withdrew his head. ‘I am disturbed by the propinquity of that case of wine. It is made of a rough kind of wood. It may snag my trousers.’ He smiled charmingly. ‘Would it be too troublesome to remove it to the boot?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kit with uncharacteristic sharpness. ‘It’s too big. I’ve already tried it.’

  In the end I crouched in the small cavity behind as there was no danger of my jeans coming to harm. All the traffic seemed to be going the other way so Kit was able to drive very fast and my spine was fairly tortured by travelling over potholes at speed, but I judged it better to say nothing. Eugene sat very still in the passenger seat, having adjusted his new clothes with infinite care to prevent them crumpling. Whatever unguent the barber had put on his cropped hair was asphyxiating. Despite Eugene’s complaints that he was becoming windswept Kit insisted on having the windows down again. I guessed from Kit’s silence and the way he drove that he was cross that I was not sitting next t
o him. I knew how significant such trivial things seem when you fancy the world well lost for love. As we were coming towards the foot of the hill that separated the demesne of Curraghcourt from the rest of the expendable world I rested my hand discreetly on Kit’s shoulder and felt him relax immediately.

  ‘Aren’t those trees marvellous?’ He pointed to a row of ancient sweet chestnuts that had once been part of an avenue. Their trunks were six feet in diameter and the grooves of the bark swirled like barley sugar.

  ‘Marvellous!’ I said.

  ‘Sometimes I think there really are fairies here, hiding in trees and under the ground, ready to play tricks on us if we antagonize them.’

  ‘They undoubtedly will,’ said Eugene solemnly.

  Kit lifted his shoulder slightly beneath my hand and I understood the shrug to mean that he enjoyed the dottiness of certain aspects of Irishness and knew that I did too. Suddenly I felt happier and more hopeful than for some time.

  Constance happened to be standing in the hall as we came in. She was carrying a basket of chestnuts for roasting after dinner. Eugene sauntered towards her, trying but not altogether succeeding to look insouciant. He paused beneath one of the great lanterns which were switched on all day because of the fog, so she received the full effect of the suit, the cravat and his shingled head. With commendable presence of mind she dropped only a few chestnuts. They skidded across the floor and disappeared beneath the side table from where Pegeen vacuumed them up the next day, jamming the cleaner and causing much bother until it was taken to pieces by Kit and the troublesome nuts removed.

  ‘Allow me.’ Eugene removed the basket from her hand with a gallant bow. I reminded myself to keep an eye on it if we were to see it again before the winter was over.