Her eyes they shone like the diamonds
You’d think she was queen of the land
And her hair, it hung over her shoulder
Tied up with a black velvet band.
Cormac is well into his third song, having enjoyed a rapturous applause from the audience after the first two, when the door opens and a couple walk in. I wouldn’t have noticed them were it not for Kitty, who turns to look, and then does not turn back. I notice a change in her energy. She does nothing. She doesn’t have to. I can feel her stiffen. I can feel a shift inside her, even though on the outside she remains unaltered.
I watch the man, who must be in his sixties. He is tall, bearded, with dark brown hair falling over his forehead and curling about his neck. His eyes are the colour of washed denim and he has a chiselled, attractive face. He sees Kitty and a flicker of surprise lights up his face. He nods at her, then averts his gaze and concentrates on finding a table. The woman he is with is, I imagine, his wife. She is fair-haired and sweet-looking. She, too, notices Kitty, but unlike her husband she smiles and waves. Kitty waves back. I can’t see her face, but I think she must be smiling too. When she turns back to the musicians, I ask her who they are.
‘Jack and Emer O’Leary,’ she replies. ‘Alana, their daughter, is married to JP.’
I turn my attention back to Cormac, who is now singing a song about the war.
At Boolavogue, as the sun was setting
O’er the bright May meadows of Shelmalier
A rebel hand set the heather blazin’
And brought the neighbours from far and near
I must have misread Kitty’s body-language, for Alana’s parents are family. However, I’m certain I saw something pass between her and Jack. Something awkward, but intimate. Perhaps it’s the Babycham and brandy, an odd mix, but Kitty was right. It is delicious.
Chapter 13
The musicians take a break and Cormac puts down his accordion and comes to the bar. He stands beside me and grins boyishly. ‘So what do you think?’ he asks, but he knows I am impressed. He can see it on my face.
‘I thought you were the local taxi man,’ I reply provocatively.
‘I know you did,’ he says. He asks the barman for a Murphy’s stout. ‘Well, looks like I’m the local bard as well.’
I find myself grinning like an idiot. ‘Is there anything else you do?’ I ask.
‘Jack of all trades, master of none.’ He shrugs.
‘I’d say you’re master of both.’
He notices Kitty seated beside me. ‘Hello, Kitty,’ he says.
‘You sang beautifully, Cormac,’ she replies. ‘I love those old folk songs.’
‘They were written with broken hearts,’ he says.
‘They were indeed,’ she agrees. ‘And when something is written with that kind of emotional integrity, it goes on touching people through the generations.’
Just then, Jack and Emer O’Leary come to the bar and I find myself being drawn away from Cormac and introduced. They comment on my likeness to Kitty and we all laugh. Emer was born in America, which is where she and Jack met and married. She talks of it fondly, but her heart is here, she says. Ballinakelly is home. She has no desire to ever return to the country of her birth. Kitty jokes that I will stay in Ballinakelly too. ‘There’s a magic in the land that some people find irresistible,’ she says. Then she looks at me steadily. ‘I think you’re one of those people, Faye.’ I consider my mother; she obviously wasn’t.
‘Unfortunately, my husband has no desire to come to Ireland,’ I tell them.
Emer frowns. ‘You’ve come without your husband?’ she says, not unkindly.
‘Yes, my mother died and I needed time alone. I wanted to come and find her roots,’ I tell her.
‘She has a lot of roots,’ says Jack with a grin.
‘Did you expect to find so many?’ Emer asks.
‘I expected to find none,’ I reply.
‘But you found your twin,’ says Emer with a chuckle, looking at Kitty.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say, glancing at Kitty who is strangely quiet. ‘I’m a less beautiful version of my cousin, but I will accept the compliment.’
Emer pulls a sympathetic face. ‘Oh, come now. You’re lovely,’ she says and Kitty agrees.
‘At least I now know where I get my red hair from. Mom had brown hair and Daddy was fair. None of our children have red hair. Only me.’
‘Well, you’ve got the whole town talking,’ says Emer. ‘Not a lot happens in Ballinakelly these days, so when it does, everyone gets very excited.’ The way she says ‘these days’ suggests that once a great deal happened. I think of the door that is only ever open a crack and wonder what did happen. I want to throw it open and know everything.
As we chat I notice that Kitty and Emer are at ease together, but there is definitely an awkwardness between Jack and Kitty. I wonder whether anyone else perceives it, or whether I’m reading too much into it. After starting my mother’s diary I think I’m beginning to imagine secrets and intrigue where there is none.
When I turn back, Cormac has moved off. I search for him in the crowd. He’s not far away, talking to a group of people at one of the round tables in the middle of the room, but I’m disappointed he’s gone. I wonder whether I’ll get another chance to talk to him. I find myself wanting to talk to him very much.
I rejoin Kitty’s conversation with the O’Learys and observe. Jack lights a cigarette, while the women talk about JP and Alana and their small children. Emer dominates, although she is gentle and quietly spoken. There is something very soothing about her presence. While Kitty is all effervescence and movement, Emer’s pace is slow and unhurried. Shortly, Emer is called over to a group of women at a table and the awkwardness between Kitty and Jack evaporates. I realize then that the self-consciousness is not between them, but assumed in front of Jack’s wife. Now she is gone, they are very natural together.
I drink my brandy and Babycham and my head grows pleasantly light. I notice a tenderness between Jack and Kitty as they talk to each other, an intimacy that is not in their gestures – they don’t touch each other – but in their eyes and their smiles and in the air between them. Whatever their history, there is no doubt that these two people are very fond of each other. I wonder whether Jack is the reason Kitty was so excited about coming here this evening. From their conversation, I have picked up that Kitty never comes to Ma Murphy’s, or to any other pub for that matter. Jack teases her and I notice too that he refers to her as Kitty Deverill, not Kitty Trench, and at one point he says ‘you Prods’, so I assume that he and Emer are Catholic. I assume that most of Ma Murphy’s is Catholic. His teasing is affectionate and familiar. How much more suited to Kitty would this man be than the one she married.
I would love Kitty to open that door a little so that I could see into their past.
Cormac and his band return to their posts and the music starts up again. Emer and Jack go back to their table. I don’t know whether it is the brandy and Babycham but I gaze at Cormac and feel something stir inside me that I haven’t felt since college. I know I must have felt it for Wyatt, but I can’t recall. Or I don’t want to recall. I certainly don’t want to think about Wyatt. I stare at Cormac. I sway to the rhythm and am deeply moved by the passion in his voice, and I wish it would never end. That I could sit here for all eternity with him in my view and his singing in my ears.
It is not long before everyone is joining in, even those who have no ear for music. They sing loudly, joyfully and with so much enthusiasm that I join in too. It’s easy to pick up the words of the choruses and the tunes are catchy. Kitty knows all the words by heart and she links her arm through mine and encourages me with her smile. We sing together and I don’t think I have felt this happy in a very long time.
I don’t get to talk to Cormac again. I watch him move around the room. He is popular. Everyone wants a piece of him and he indulges them with his crooked smile and his wit, and I wish that he would
come over and indulge me. But he doesn’t. I’d like to go and talk to him, but I know that’s not appropriate. Even the Deverill in me, released in the saddle that morning, knows that it’s not seemly for a woman to approach a man, especially a married woman. So I remain on my stool and I talk to the people Kitty introduces me to and I soon realize that they are not aristocratic people like the Deverills, but they are her people all the same. Even though she doesn’t share their broad Irish brogue, she is one of them and I admire her so much more for that.
As the evening draws to an end the room goes quiet. Even the lights seem to dim. The atmosphere turns from buoyant to wistful. The bartender announces last orders. They collect their final glasses of stout and whiskey, light their last cigarette, and then they demand one more song.
The band put down their instruments. Only Cormac plays his accordion. I can tell from the first bar that it is a sad song. A deeply sad song. The room is so quiet that, if one closed one’s eyes, one might be fooled into believing there is no one in it but Cormac. He sings ‘Danny Boy’. It is one of the most famous Irish ballads. I have heard it before, but it is like I am hearing it for the first time because Cormac’s voice is so tender. His eyes shine and his voice breaks with emotion. He is giving it a new expression and I am transfixed. I look around the room and see that many have tears in their eyes, and then I look at Kitty and she is crying too. She might not share their way of life, but she shares their history, that’s certain. And she shares their love of Ireland. My thoughts turn once again to my mother and I wonder how she could have left this country and never returned.
Oh Danny boy the pipes the pipes are calling
From glen to glen and down the mountain side
The summer’s gone and all the flowers dying
’Tis you ’tis you must go and I must bide
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow
’Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy oh Danny boy I love you so
But when ye come and all the roses falling
And I am dead as dead I well may be
Go out and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an ave there for me
And I will hear tho’ soft you tread above me
And then my grave will warm and sweeter be
For you shall bend and tell me that you love me
And I will sleep in peace until you come to me
When the song is over the locals sing the National Anthem and then slowly get up and leave. Some go and shake Cormac’s hand, others depart in silence. One or two need to be helped out because they are too drunk to walk. Kitty slips off her stool. ‘Time to leave,’ she says. I nod. I glance at Cormac, hoping I might catch his eye, but he is busy with his friends. Reluctantly, I follow Kitty outside.
The air is chilly and there is a dampness in it. I don’t think we’ll enjoy a sunny day tomorrow. I can feel the clouds above us. They are dense and low-hanging. There are no stars or moon to illuminate our way. As we drive out of town and into the lane it becomes very dark. The car headlights expose the odd cat or fox who stares out from the hedgerow with bright, glowing eyes.
‘That was a beautiful evening, Kitty,’ I say.
‘I knew you’d enjoy it,’ she replies.
‘The people of Ballinakelly are so friendly and open to strangers.’
‘You’re not a stranger,’ says Kitty. ‘Not really. You’re a Deverill.’
I laugh. ‘After the initial curious looks, they seemed to accept me, didn’t they?’
‘Trust me, they’re riveted. You’re a celebrity. Didn’t you notice how everyone wanted to shake your hand?’
‘I thought you were introducing me to your friends.’
‘Oh, I know them, of course, but they were bold in their determination to meet you. I don’t imagine anyone has been talking of anything else. They were all taken by surprise when you showed up.’
‘And when you showed up,’ I add.
She sighs. ‘Yes, I don’t usually go to the pub. Robert dislikes them.’
I watch the road ahead and decide to test my luck. ‘Jack and Emer O’Leary are lovely people. You are fortunate that your brother married into such a nice family.’
Kitty nods. ‘You’re right. I am lucky.’
‘If they met in America, what brought them to Ballinakelly?’ I ask, even though I have worked out the answer.
‘Jack was born and brought up here,’ she replies. ‘His father was the vet and then he followed in his footsteps and became a vet too.’
‘What was he doing in America?’ I ask, hoping the door might open a little more.
‘He left to make a new life. So many did. After the Civil War he wanted to start again, somewhere new.’
‘Did he fight too?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Is that why you know the locals like him and Cormac? You all fought together?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did your family know you fought on the other side?’
‘No.’ She looks at me and lifts her eyebrows, and I’m glad I haven’t offended her with my probing. ‘I lived a double life, Faye,’ she says.
‘That’s amazing, Kitty. You’re like the heroine of a novel.’
She laughs. ‘It would make a good story, I don’t doubt it.’
‘Does Robert know?’
‘Yes. Robert is very understanding.’
I sense the door opening and persevere. ‘When Emer said that nothing happens in this town any more, I got the feeling that once upon a time lots did. It’s hard to imagine drama in a sleepy place like Ballinakelly.’
‘I’ll give you some good books on Irish history, then you’ll understand what these people have gone through.’
But I don’t want a book. I want her to tell me her story.
We arrive at the White House and the door to her past is now closed. There is to be no more looking back. We eat soup and bread in the kitchen and Robert comes to join us. We tell him about the evening and I notice that Kitty does not mention Jack and Emer O’Leary. I sense she doesn’t want me to mention them either. So, I rave about Cormac and his beautiful voice. Robert listens as I go on and on about the music and the lyrics and how moved I was, and then he arches an eyebrow and says to Kitty, ‘It looks like your cousin is being seduced by Irish charm.’
I blush. I feel it creep up my neck and flourish on my cheeks and there is nowhere to hide. I laugh dismissively. ‘It’s hard not to be,’ I reply. ‘For a foreigner, it’s very seductive.’
Kitty comes to my rescue. ‘Cormac has the charm of the devil,’ she says with a smile. ‘And when he sings, he’s irresistible.’
‘Isn’t it lucky that Wyatt isn’t with me. He wouldn’t appreciate my admiration for Cormac O’Farrell, not one bit.’ I only mention my husband because I feel guilty. I have harboured feelings for another man tonight and believe, somehow, that by mentioning Wyatt those feelings won’t count. I fall back into the safety net that is my marriage, and perhaps think that Wyatt’s name will protect me from myself, from the devil, or the Deverill, that is the growing recklessness inside me – like a cross protects against vampires.
Yet, as I drift off to sleep, I think only of Cormac. I try not to. I try very hard, but he is persistent. In the end I give in. They are only thoughts, after all, and what is the harm in dreaming?
The following day Kitty and I go out riding again. It is an overcast, drizzly day. Indeed, soft rain falls upon our faces as we make our way into the hills where the beauty is not at all diminished by the weather. The sea is grey and rough, the wind playful and gusty. Seabirds squawk loudly as they wrangle over carcasses of crabs and other poor creatures on the sand. We gallop and the recklessness inside me grows. My thoughts turn back to Cormac at every pause in our conversation and I find myself thinking of ways to engineer a meeting. I can’t go to the pub on my own and I can’t wander about
the town in search of him. I don’t need a taxi to take me anywhere and I don’t know where he lives, so I can’t casually walk past his door. I know I’m being ridiculous. I’m a married woman. I’m in my late fifties! I’m too grown-up for this kind of crush. Yet, I can’t stop myself. The harder I gallop, the louder I laugh and the more I bond with my cousin, the more the Deverill blood is pumped through my veins and the stronger I feel.
Then an idea pops into my head. Mass. I will surely see him at Mass.
That evening we go to Kitty’s sister’s castle for dinner. It is cold and austere, not at all like Castle Deverill, but Elspeth is sweet and keen to be friends, and I am warmed by her hospitality. JP and Alana are there too and my uncle Bertie and aunt Maud. They have invited their neighbours – other Anglo-Irish grandees who have titles and names I don’t remember. I realize that Kitty is rare among her class. No one else seems to cross the class barriers, or religious barriers either, like she does. The Anglo-Irish stick together. They hunt together, dine together, go to the Protestant church on Sundays and intermarry. I wonder how JP managed to wed the Catholic daughter of the local vet. I wonder whether that was one of the dramas of the past that Emer alluded to. I can only deduce that, whatever happened then, the two of them are very happy now.
The Secret Hours Page 17