Ruby Flynn

by Nadine Dorries

  14

  Amy stood at the range and stirred the soup in the huge, black, cast iron cauldron that hung on the crane. It would be served at midday to the staff, along with the bread she and Mary had made earlier that morning. As Amy stirred she pondered her situation. She knew that life had passed her by, just as it had many women in rural Ireland who earned a living, or rather existed, in domestic servitude.

  ‘It’s not that I mind not having had the children,’ she confided in Mrs McKinnon, ‘but I wish I’d had a bit of the other a few more times than I have.’

  ‘Heavens above, you should thank your lucky stars you got away scot-free, if you have indulged already outside marriage,’ Mrs McKinnon replied. ‘I hope you went to confession? Think yourself lucky, Amy, there’s no joy in the creation of excuses and feigning headaches and bad backs half of your life, I can tell you. The novelty soon wears off.’

  ‘Away with ye.’ Amy waved her wooden spoon at Mrs McKinnon. ‘I’ve heard that bed of yours groaning for dear life, there’s no excuses you can make that I would believe.’

  Mrs McKinnon blushed. There was an element of truth in what Amy said. But no more. Thank God. It had taken her forty years to learn to say no with conviction. Even then, it was as though her refusals had driven him crazy. It was as if he had found a new source of erotica in her full-length flannel nightdress and her wire curlers tucked under her terry-towelling turban. He had never stopped bothering her, but she had not relented, no indeed, those days were over. At his age, Mr McKinnon should be very grateful for a good meal, clean sheets and his laundry done. And she told him so almost every day.

  Nothing Mrs McKinnon could say would convince Amy that she hadn’t missed out and her dissatisfaction had intensified over the past year. Rory Doyle was a secret. It was one she had nursed and kept warm, blinded by his words. She had believed him, believed that at any moment she would turn a corner and life would be there, waiting for her, asking what had kept her so long. Yet when the moment came, he ran from Ballyford, leaving Amy behind, alone and weeping.

  Rory Doyle, the man she had fallen head over heels for when she was only a slip of a girl, had used her and left her, but despite that, if he wagged his finger again, she would run to him and she knew it because that was how it always was. It was madness. He was married, loved another, it was a sin, but she would happily burn in hell for one more night with him, just as she had done on so many occasions over the years, before fleeing to confession, just in case she should drop dead without warning. When he wanted something, he knew where to find her and how to get it. Usually it was information about the goings-on at the castle. He was a nosy one all right, was Rory.

  The last time he came she had, as usual, done as he asked, but this time she felt uncomfortable and torn with a guilt that no amount of time in the confessional would ease. Rory had gone a step too far. He still made her feel as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world, even though he always disappeared in the middle of the night and only ever returned under the cover of darkness and in secret. It had been so long and yet, when she lay her head on her pillow at night, he still filled her thoughts and the memories. His words and his touch, but mostly his laugh, remained with her. Despite all that, in her heart she knew that it had to end. She could not undertake one of his errands ever again, even though to refuse him would mean that she would be discarded forever.

  Amy knew that she had been wrong about her life. She had failed to emerge from the shadow cast by Rory and she had been oblivious to the passing years and the futility of the passion she nursed for him. Her life had never begun. Over time, she had learnt how not to be jealous of others good fortune, but it was hard. She was gone forty, fat and forgotten and it was not meant to have been this way.

  She had never wanted to work as a trainee cook in the kitchen, or to be someone’s secret lover. She had held onto her dreams to train as a nurse in Dublin. Amy had worked hard at her studies with that hope lodged firmly in her mind and, apart from the McKinnon’s, she was the only member of staff who could write.

  ‘You will go up to the castle at Ballyford and provide food for us all,’ her mother said, crushing all of her dreams in one sentence.

  ‘I think knowing what it’s like to be loved is what makes me more dissatisfied,’ Amy confided in Mrs McKinnon. ‘There was no other lover like Rory Doyle. It’s the knowing what I’m missing which is the hardest and who wants mutton, after you’ve enjoyed a nice bit of spring lamb.’

  ‘Shh, keep your voice down, Amy, we don’t want anyone else hearing you. If I were a different sort of housekeeper, you would be out on your ear, with immoral chatter like that and as for Rory Doyle, think yourself lucky. You had a narrow escape. Neither I nor Mr McKinnon have a minute for the man. Mr McKinnon is lying awake at night worrying about the fact that Lord Charles has left him in charge of his shipping business while he’s back in Ballyford and that’s more than can be said for Lord Charles who appears to have been completely taken in by him since he was in the nursery. He would never hear a word against Rory when they were kids and Rory was the biggest rascal on the estate. I can tell you this Amy, if either you or Lord Charles knew what Rory Doyle was really capable of, neither of you would go near the man.’ Amy remained silent. She knew very well what Rory Doyle was capable of.

  The soup began to bubble so Amy slid the cast iron lid across and then, lifting the handle, used both her hands to shift the huge pot over onto a cooler section of the plate. She shot Mrs McKinnon a sharp look.

  Amy’s hair was scraped up into her frilled and starched white cloth hat, but the sides had long since frizzed out with the steam, a result of her early morning baking and soup-making endeavours.

  ‘Are you ready to roll out that pastry, Mary?’ she snapped. ‘The trouble with you Mrs McKinnon, was that you were jealous of how, when Lord Charles was just a boy, he took so much notice of Rory and would ignore you. It’s time you let that go.’

  Silence descended upon the kitchen. Mary looked from one woman to the other as they locked horns. Her mouth dried in fear. She knew this exchange could result in Amy storming out of the kitchen. It was always the same. The mention of Rory Doyle’s name always caused animosity between the two women who ran Ballyford.

  Mary licked her dry lips and then broke the atmosphere as she made an almighty row, slapping her dough on the table.

  ‘Lord Charles wants to feed his guests pies, not ask them to visit a dentist, Mary,’ Amy shouted as she watched Mary slap the pastry down overly hard.

  Unperturbed, Mary smiled back.

  ‘And get on with peeling the fruit.’

  Everyone had noted how grumpy Amy had become of late and because she ruled the kitchen, her mood was bringing down the rest of the castle staff.

  ‘I have, Amy,’ said Mary sullenly. ‘I have enough for four apple pies. Is that not enough?’

  Mrs McKinnon slipped away into the scullery.

  ‘Aye, that’s grand. ’Twill do nicely,’ said Amy as she cast a glance at Mrs McKinnon’s retreating back and grinned to herself; on this occasion she had won.

  Later that morning, as Amy stood at the sink to rinse her hands, she noticed Jack alighting from his cart and making his way towards the back door.

  Was it him? Amy thought. Was he really my life, waiting for me to notice? Have I been blind? Have I been spoilt by Rory and been too fussy?

  Half an hour later Jack was still sitting at the kitchen table unable to keep the grin from his face. Amy had chosen to be nice to him, something that didn’t happen very often. Jack didn’t notice Mary raise her eyebrows or roll her eyes when Amy greeted him at the back door.

  ‘Would you like another egg with yer rashers, Jack?’ Amy asked, putting a plate of bacon and fried eggs, speckled with blackened fat, in front of him.

  Jack could not believe his luck.

  ‘If I didn’t know better, I would say ye was trying to have yer wicked way with me,’ he said. ‘Eggs and rashers, I’m usually lucky to have only
the lashing from yer tongue when I bring the goods round.’

  Amy plopped herself on the stool opposite Jack. After wiping her hands on a cloth, which she then discarded. She picked up the teapot.

  ‘Will ye have a sup?’ The teapot hovered over the mug. Jack could have sworn Amy had winked at him.

  ‘Aye, I will,’ he replied, bemused.

  She poured them both a cup.

  ‘Well, you don’t always get treated badly here now, Jack and ’tis a long time since we had a ball. There’s much I need and I can’t think of anyone else who can get what I want for the table. I will need more than one delivery from Dublin and I need provisions from Galway. Will ye be able to manage, Jack?’

  ‘Well, ye know, I would do that for nothing,’ he said, tucking into the best Ballyford bacon rashers.

  Amy spooned the sugar into his mug. ‘I know that,’ she said, ‘and sure, I know I can trust ye with the list an’ all. It’s just that it’s been years since I have catered for a ball in the castle. I’m rusty. I’m not sure if can do it anymore.’

  ‘Get away, never have I heard such a load of rot. Ye run this place, don’t ye? Mrs McKinnon thinks she does, that’s for sure, but ’tis you, everyone knows that.’

  Amy looked more than pleased at his words, even if they were untrue, and for a moment she preened, studying him as he ate, as if seeing him for the first time. God, I have been blind, she thought to herself. He had everything she needed in a man. A kind nature, a nice cottage, a cowshed of his own, even though his new van lived in it, covered up each night in rags. And he had no children. A bonus. As she watched him place a forkful in his mouth, a dribble of bacon fat ran down his chin and Jack licked it away. Amy shivered, more with pleasure than horror and allowed herself to contemplate what a future with Jack would be like. She was a prisoner in a castle in the wildest part of rural Ireland. Amy was truly desperate.

  ‘Did ye hear we had the town clerk himself here from Doohoma?’ she asked, dragging herself mentally out of his bed and back into the kitchen where she belonged. Jack stopped eating and looked up with interest.

  ‘I didn’t, no, but he did ask me plenty of questions when he knew I had brought Ruby up from the convent to the castle. He had been trying to trace her family and he said if Lord FitzDeane was home, he might call in.’

  ‘Well, call he did,’ said Amy, as Jack cleaned his plate with a slice of bread. ‘It was a big chinwag they had, too. Fancy the master discussing servants with the clerk. He may have told him about the Ballyford ball. If you ask me, he’s bitten off more than he can chew with the lady not being quite right.’

  Once Jack had finished, she took his plate over to the enormous stone sink and began to rinse it under the tap.

  ‘Well, ’tis the talk of the village and all around for miles, I’d say they were discussing it in Galway now,’ said Jack. ‘The news is that Lady Isobel must be well recovered from her loss to be throwing the Ballyford Ball and sure, isn’t that a relief, after all this time.’

  Mr and Mrs McKinnon walked into the kitchen together. They had been to visit two families of brawling tenants, each one threatening to murder the other in their beds and all over a stolen chicken. The fact was, no one had stolen anything, the chicken had a mind of its own and exercising good judgement, had hopped into the Ballyford stables.

  ‘What’s the talk of the town, Jack?’ asked Mrs McKinnon. ‘God in heaven, am I dying for a cup of tea, or what? That lot would make a saint weep.’

  ‘Did you knock their heads together?’ asked Amy.

  ‘If I had thought it would help, I would have,’ said Mrs McKinnon, ‘but as it was, the only thing that would work with that lot was the threat of eviction and even that took a while to sink in. Not one of them seemed to care that there would be no food for the children if they carried on. You know, I’m still not sure we have done enough good. Maybe we should call out the Garda, Mr McKinnon?’

  ‘Not yet. If anyone dies, we will.’ Mr McKinnon ladled himself a large portion of soup from the pan and dragged a chair out for himself. Wearily, he tore up a hunk of fresh bread. He looked at Amy and asked, ‘Why is Jack being fed like the lord of the castle? Bit of hanky-panky going on here is there, while we are out refereeing the tenants?’

  Amy flushed bright red and Mrs McKinnon, the hostility of the morning forgotten, rushed to her rescue.

  ‘I’d be careful if I were you, Jack,’ she said. ‘There’s a ball coming up. Never believe the promises of a woman who has to cater for eighty people, especially if they are made to a man with his own van and contacts in perishable provisions.’

  Jack laughed. ‘Aye, I’m not so daft as to think that a woman as beautiful as Amy here would give me a second look.’

  Flustered, Amy jumped up and began to smooth her skirts and to pin her errant hair back into her cap.

  ‘Aye, well, you’re a man of sense altogether, I would say, so I would,’ said Amy, tapping her spoon on the table and looking Jack square in the eye, all notion of romance banished. ‘Can you get me anchovy paste and quail eggs from Galway?’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Mrs McKinnon said triumphantly.

  Jack picked up his cap. ‘I can that, Amy, and there’s strawberries to come every day into Galway, from the airport in Dublin. They will be just in time for the ball.’

  Jack had delivered a consignment of six pushbikes to the castle, which were now stacked on the back of his van, waiting to be unloaded. It was Mr McKinnon who had sent him off to Dublin the previous day.

  ‘Would you believe it, Jack,’ Mr McKinnon had said. ‘I was happy with the horse and then Lord Charles got the car and now we are to have pushbikes, too. Mind you, very handy indeed for the staff to get about.’

  Jack wouldn’t argue, but for him it would always be a trusty Irish cob and his pristine van. Jack was a man of means.

  He had been sure there had been a change in Amy when he had arrived at the castle. There was a look about her, a softer, come-hither quality around the edges. As he left the kitchen, he looked back at her.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow then, as usual.’

  ‘Bye Jack,’ shouted Mr and Mrs McKinnon.

  Amy resumed her earlier air of dejected misery at the range, as she stirred the soup, deep in thought.

  ‘Mary, lay the table,’ she snapped as the staff began to filter into the kitchen, one by one.

  Jane was the first in, dashing down the stairs in a fluster.

  ‘What on earth is up with you, miss?’ asked Mrs McKinnon.

  ‘Nothing, Mrs McKinnon,’ replied Jane meekly.

  ‘Don’t wait for grace.’ Mrs McKinnon had already moved on. ‘The garden lads won’t be in for another half hour and it looks like Ruby must have her hands full. She is usually the hungriest and the first down.’

  Jane stared intently at her bowl as she began to eat and with each spoonful, felt calmer. She had been in and out of this kitchen since she was a girl and if there was one thing she had learnt in life, it was to try and keep your mouth shut, if you had the choice.

  They would all find out soon enough that Ruby was in the study, giving Lord Charles hell, but it wouldn’t be Jane who told them.

  15

  Although she had marched down the corridor towards his study as though pursued by the devil’s own handmaidens, once Ruby reached the large oak door, she stopped dead in her tracks. Despite the thickness of the wood, she could hear a voice speaking on the other side.

  ‘Well, I’m truly glad to hear that and so, the deed is finally done. We are officially a partnership Rory, we must drink to our exciting alliance when you arrive at Ballyford.’

  Ruby leaned in to hear better and pressed her ear to the study door.

  There was a long period of silence. She could hear only her own breathing and the distant rotating of the blades cutting the grass at the front of the castle. She stepped back and peered over at the minstrels’ gallery, wondering if anyone other than Jane had seen or heard her storming along. But the on
ly living soul was Rufus, stretched out in front of the hearth in the hall. Hearing her move, he lifted his lazy head and looked straight at her. He yawned and put his head back down on the stone floor, satisfied that it was only Ruby, who had never taken him running through the woods or thrown him a sausage from the cool store. Knowing that she was very unlikely to do either at this moment, he made himself comfortable once more.

  ‘You lazy hound,’ she whispered to him.

  Moving back to the office door she heard Charles’s voice again.

  ‘I shall meet you myself, Rory,’ he was saying. ‘I can’t wait. Everyone is excited about your arrival, especially Mr and Mrs McKinnon. They told your mother to expect you, when they were at the cottages this morning.’

  Ruby knew that was a flat-out lie. She had heard enough of the whispered conversation between Amy and the McKinnons to know that, if it was Mr Rory Doyle from Liverpool he was talking to, the McKinnons couldn’t bear him and were living in dread of his being invited as a guest to the ball. Mrs McKinnon had told her he was not to be trusted and if Lord Charles could have found a less well-disposed gentleman to work with, she would be surprised.

  After a few moments she heard the click of the handset being replaced and she gently tapped on the door. Ruby was cross with herself. Her temper, usually so dependable, had deserted her. She knocked on the study door once more, slightly louder.

  ‘Come in,’ he shouted breezily.

  He had his back to her and was sitting at his desk in front of the window, facing out over the front lawn.

  As she stepped into the room, she had no idea whether or not it was polite or acceptable to walk into his sanctuary and so she stood, stock-still, a few feet inside the door.

  ‘Ah, Ruby.’ He swung around on the green-leather chair. He lounged back with one hand in his pocket, and his legs splayed out in front of him. She felt thrown by the intimate familiarity of his pose.

  She could smell him. She hadn’t expected that.