by A. O'Connor
Johnny was painting Clara in the ballroom when the door opened and Prudence walked in. She marched across the floorboards and stood right in front of Johnny.
“May I help you?” he asked, shaking his head in confusion.
Her hand came from behind her back and she held a white feather out to him.
“For me?” he asked, his eyebrows arched.
“Yes.”
Johnny reached forward and took the white feather. “You’re too kind. I will put it in my feather pillow along with the rest of them.”
She marched to the door and turned to look at the two of them. “Children play while men die.”
Johnny nodded at her. “Very profound. May I say something profound in retaliation?”
“By all means.”
“Shut up!”
Prudence slammed the door after her.
“I imagine the Germans would be far more terrified of her at the front than they ever would be of me. Perhaps she should go in my stead? Is she always so aggressive?”
“Yes.”
“How do you stand living with her all the time?”
“I manage.”
Johnny threw the feather away and continued to paint.
Clara looked at him curiously. “Doesn’t it bother you? Being handed a white feather? Told you’re a coward?”
“Not in the least. I don’t give a damn. That war is just a waste of time, and is utterly pointless. If others want to throw their lives away on a muddy foreign field, that’s their problem. But I’m not doing it.”
Clara felt herself getting angry. “You mustn’t call the war pointless, Johnny. My husband is fighting it. Many of my friends are fighting it.”
Johnny stopped painting and observed her. “That’s it! Hold that look on your face!”
His words made her more angry. “I wish you wouldn’t say things just to provoke me so you can get your damned painting correct!”
“Oh, it’s my damned painting now, is it?” he laughed. “I thought it was your damned painting. Anyway, I’m not saying it just to get a reaction from you. I really don’t believe in this war.”
“But why?”
“Because what’s it about?”
“Because the Germans invaded Belgium –”
“No, that’s a consequence of the war not the cause of it.” He adopted a bored voice. “It was all about a lot of chest-thumping in my opinion. And that was then and this is now. Nobody expected it to turn into this deadlock of slaughter, and I don’t think anybody really remembers what it was all about in the first place. So no, I don’t agree with it one little bit.” He continued painting.
“I think you’re being very disrespectful – under the roof of an officer in the army and talking like that.”
“I’ve never shown much respect for anything, so I don’t think I will now. Now keep quiet – I need to concentrate.”
Clara’s mouth dropped open and she was about to chastise him, when one look at the intensity of his face at work stopped her.
64
“What are you doing next Saturday night?” questioned Johnny.
“Well, I have no plans,” answered Clara.
“You do now. A gang of friends of mine are down from Dublin and we’re having a bit of a get-together in my house. Be there no later than ten.”
Clara sat across from Prudence on Thursday evening as dinner was being served.
“Chicken again!” Clara was exasperated. She had expressed her dislike of chicken continuously but it made no difference – it was still served regularly.
“There is a war going on, Clara. Let’s be grateful for what we have,” said Prudence as she happily tucked in.
Clara sighed but tackled the chicken, hoping to put Prudence in good form before she broke her news. Eventually she chose her moment.
“Oh, and I’m going to a get-together at Johnny Seymour’s on Saturday night.”
“Johnny Seymour’s!”
“Yes.”
“A get-together! A get-together of what?”
“I don’t know – a get-together of his artist friends and writers, I imagine.”
“A get-together of his well-heeled vagabond motley crew I imagine . . . There’s something smacking of very bad taste about attending a party when your husband is fighting a war. Indecent even.”
“You didn’t say that when you encouraged me to go to the Bramwells’ party that turned out to be a practical joke. You nearly pushed me out the door to it.”
“Yes – well, I thought you’d learn your lesson from that experience.”
“I have. I’ve learned to ring ahead to make sure I have the details correct. I have and they are.”
“I can’t imagine what Pierce would say.”
“Like anything I do, not much, I imagine. Why don’t you inform him and if he has any issue with it, he can write and tell me. That would be a novelty.”
“But – what will you wear?” asked Prudence. “You can’t fit into any of your frocks since you put on all that weight.”
“You’ll be glad to know my diet has worked, and I can now fit into them all again,” assured Clara. “The continuous serving of chicken helped my diet a lot.”
As Prudence studied Clara she realised she had lost weight, and the weight loss suited her and made her more beautiful than ever.
“Perhaps you’ve gone too thin?” Prudence commented. “If there’s one thing Pierce hates, it’s a skinny woman.”
Prudence was with one of the stable boys, who had a bucket in his hand and a piece of hose stuck into the petrol tank of the car.
“Will I stop yet, Lady Prudence?”
“Yes, that should do it,” said Prudence, smiling.
Later, Clara came into the drawing room with her silk shawl over her glamorous dress. “I’m going now. I’ll see you later,” said Clara.
“Yes, enjoy!” Prudence hardly looked up from her reading.
“You’re sure you don’t want to come as well?”
“No, thank you. Not my cup of tea.”
“I won’t be late.”
Clara left, feeling it was lovely to get away from the house and Prudence for a night.
65
She drove the several miles to Johnny’s house and turned the corner into his gateway. Although smaller than Armstrong House, Seymour Hall was an impressive manor house perched on a hill looking out over the lake. A number of cars were parked outside the front of the house and she felt nervous as she sat in the car waiting to go in.
What’s wrong with you? she scolded herself. You’re Clara Charter, doyenne of London society – you’re able for any social occasion.
But for her even to have to say that to herself made her realise how much she must have changed from before she married Pierce. She got out of the car. There was loud music blaring from the house and as she approached the front door she could see through the windows lots of elegantly dressed people inside dancing, laughing, having fun. She rang the doorbell but nobody came. She tried it again and still nobody came. Realising the bell couldn’t be heard over the din of the music, she pushed the door open and walked into the hallway. All the doors inside the house were open and people were drifting in and out.
She went through the rooms searching for Johnny. Finally she spotted him deep in conversation with a woman in her forties who was wearing a diamond tiara and earrings. She recognised the woman from seeing her driving around beside Johnny in his car in town.
“Ah hello!” Johnny called over. “There you are! Thought you weren’t coming!”
“Sorry I’m late,” she said and went over to them.
“Never a problem being late here, as long as you’re not early to leave.”
He kissed her on both cheeks, giving her a start.
The woman beside him was looking at Clara quizzically.
“Countess Alice Kavinsky, may I introduce Clara, the Lady Armstrong.”
Clara immediately recognised the name. Countess Kavinsky was a famous actress o
f the Dublin stage.
Clara smiled at her. “I thought you didn’t believe in using titles, Johnny.”
“He doesn’t!” said Alice, before looking at Johnny knowingly. “Only if he is trying to impress one aristocrat with another.”
“Anyway, come along, Clara. I need to introduce you to people,” said Johnny. “Excuse us, Countess.”
He led her away through the crowd.
“Aristocrat indeed!” he whispered to Clara. “She’s actually from a small farm somewhere. Married a Hungarian Count who later committed suicide.” He waved a hand at a long buffet table. “Help yourself to some food if you feel peckish.”
As Clara looked at the feast of food laid out on various tables she realised that the government’s call to conserve rations had obviously fallen on deaf ears in these quarters.
Clara smiled at everybody as Johnny introduced her. They were all writers, poets, artists, actors and playwrights and Clara recognised some of them as being very famous.
They eventually circled back and joined a group which included the Countess Kavinsky where the topic of discussion was inevitably the war, to Clara’s disappointment – she had imagined that these intellectuals would have other subjects to discuss. However, as she listened she realised that they had their own take on the matter.
“What you have going on is wholesale slaughter. We’re not even hearing the magnitude of what’s been happening because the press is gagged by the government,” said a playwright whose play had just been a triumph in Dublin.
“Poor fools are being marched to their deaths and don’t even know it – there hasn’t been anything like it since the Dark Ages.”
“The war will mean the collapse of empires everywhere. All these outdated empires will collapse and be replaced by working democracies that look after what the people want, not what an outdated elite want,” said a man in his thirties with intense blue eyes and blond hair whom Johnny had introduced as the poet Thomas Geraghty.
“Like America – that’s the future,” said Alice Kavinsky.
“Starting right here in Dublin, in Ireland – why not? A revolution here would lead by example. This war is an opportunity to get rid of the old order and in with a new republic!” continued Thomas.
“Where we can protect people’s rights,” put forward another guest.
“A society based on culture and the arts,” offered another.
“But no bloodshed! There’s enough of that going on on the continent,” Johnny said firmly.
“A society based on giving everyone the same opportunity regardless of their circumstances.”
Johnny had drifted off and Clara was left standing there at the edge of the group feeling awkward.
Suddenly one man turned to Clara and said, “Clara Armstrong? As in Lady Armstrong, I presume?”
“Yes,” nodded Clara.
“The Armstrongs have a reputation for hosting elaborate hunts. I hope you aren’t part of it?”
“No – I hate hunting!”
“Good!”
Clara edged away only to be cornered by an elegant woman in pearls and a short haircut. “You see, my dear, it’s only a matter of time before women get the vote. I mean, how can they stop us now? We’re doing all the work while the men are at war. I’m training as a mechanic myself. You should try it – fascinating.”
The evening sped by and Clara met one eccentric person after another.
She eventually found herself back with Countess Alice who was intent on explaining her personal philosophy to her. “I believe there won’t be contentment in this world till we have complete equal division of personal property. I mean why should just one person live in a big house while a huge family is crammed in a one-room flat? Darling, you must accompany me to the slums of Dublin. They are the worst in Europe without doubt. And you know this country has one of the highest average incomes. It’s just not being distributed properly.”
Johnny slipped over to her and whispered, “How are you enjoying it?”
“I don’t know! I’ve never encountered anything like it.”
“Good!”
“They are all bursting with ideas of how the world should be run. They all want change and quickly.”
“I know.”
“They scare me.”
“Good!”
Clara got a shock when she looked at her watch and saw it was three in the morning.
“I have to go!” she said suddenly.
“So soon? But it’s only getting started,” said Johnny.
“For you maybe. But Prudence is timing me, I can assure you.”
Clara smiled at Countess Alice as she said goodbye. “I hear you’re a great actress. I’d love to see you on stage one day.”
“So kind. And I’m so delighted to have met you at last. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Have you?” Clara was confused.
“So much. You must be quite special for Johnny to endorse you like that. He doesn’t endorse all his girls, you know.”
Johnny suddenly appeared at Clara’s elbow. “Right, shall I show you to your car?”
Outside she sat into her car and smiled up at Johnny.
“Are you sure you’re all right driving back on your own,” he asked. “You’re more than welcome to stay here.”
As she looked up at the comfortable grandiose building, she was half tempted.
“Are you trying to ruin me? I don’t think so. Thanks, Johnny, it was fascinating.”
She started the engine and set off. It was a nice moonlit night and she was enjoying the drive back through the country roads when the engine cut out and the car came to a halt. She tried the key again and again, but the engine would not get past the revving stage.
She sat there wondering what to do. She was stranded and still quite a distance from Armstrong House.
“This can’t be happening!” she shouted loudly as she got out of the car and, grabbing her purse, set off walking. She looked an unusual figure as she walked through the countryside, her blonde hair, pale skin, cream satin dress and shawl luminous in the moonlight. She seemed to be walking for hours and was exhausted as she finally turned through the gateway of the house and began to walk up the long driveway.
Prudence stood at the window of her bedroom as she saw Clara walk across the forecourt and wearily climb the steps up to the front door, her shawl trailing behind her.
“Really, Clara, you really must check if the tank has petrol before you set off on one of your jaunts in the future,” said Prudence.
“The car has always had petrol in it before.”
“You see, this is the problem with you, Clara. The petrol doesn’t just magic itself into the car, it is arranged. And you rely on other people to arrange it.”
“Well, I won’t in future!”
“Good! I wasted the labour of two stable boys today to go fetch the bloody car. I sometimes wonder should we cut costs and get rid of the car altogether.”
“Never!” Clara nearly shouted at the idea.
“Isn’t the car just a waste? I mean, everyone else can ride horses perfectly except for you.”
Clara stood up, appalled. “The car is not going, Prudence! Or I go with it!”
“Oh, don’t give me an ultimatum, Clara. I hate ultimata.”
Clara marched out of the room leaving Prudence to laugh to herself.
66
If her grandmother had intended having her portrait painted to act as a kind of therapy for Clara, she had judged well. Clara enjoyed the experience immensely.
To be associated with art was something she had always wanted, and now her image was becoming enshrined for ever in Johnny’s work. She didn’t know what to make of Johnny. He could be hilariously funny, terribly insulting, incredibly moody. Some days he maddened her so that she felt like slapping him, other days he made her laugh so she felt like embracing him. He would work intently on the portrait and then without warning throw down his paintbrushes and declare they were going off to C
assidy’s bar for the rest of the day to get drunk, or off to take a boat and go rowing on the lake. He was exciting. And he was the polar opposite of Pierce. After getting so used to Pierce’s evenness, his coolness, his aloof removal from the everyday world, Johnny’s expansive personality was intoxicating.
The Easter Rising in Dublin exploded without any warning. Days of shootings and carnage wrecked the prosperous city centre in a short time, much to citizens’ fury.
“Scandalous, if I may say,” said Fennell as he served Clara breakfast while she read the front-page report of the Rising.
“Honest decent people unable to get about their lives and go to work over a few silly men playing soldiers!” He finished pouring the tea into Clara’s cup.
“Quite right, Fennell! It’s seldom one hears you speaking any sense!” It was Prudence at the door of the room.