by Ann Bridge
“That is soothing, although it’s rather a sad song, I always think” she said.
“Ah, it’s a sad song, all right. Count Fersen used to sing it with Marie Antoinette” said Gerald O’Brien.
Chapter 2
Gerald left a couple of days later, and this time Edina raised no objection to Julia’s taking young Philip and Nannie Mack in to the steamer to see him off.
“Why have you got to go away?” the child asked, as they stood on the quay.
“Got work to do, my boy.”
“What sort of work? Farming, like Uncle Philip?”
“No. Chasing bad people and helping good ones, mostly.”
“What sort of bad ones? Murderers?”
“No, more usually robbers.”
Small Philip’s eyes sparkled.
“Oh, I’d like that! When I am bigger, can I come and help you chase robbers?”
“If you get very good yourself, maybe you might. No assault, mind—you couldn’t chase robbers if you go in for that.”
“What’s assault?”
“Taking a croquet mallet to Nannie, and thumping your mother! No more of that, mind.”
“Oh, I won’t! Not never! When are you coming back?”
“Some time—when I can. Goodbye now, Peanut.” He bent and kissed the child, and walked a little way down the quay with Julia.
“He’s a darling, really” he said to her. “Be gentle with him, my dearest.”
“He’s so good with you” she said wistfully.
“Don’t worry about him—romp with him, come out to him! And now, when are you coming out to Mayo, God help us?”
“In about a fortnight, I thought, if Helen can have me then.”
“You won’t stay at Rossbeg?”
“Oh better not stay at first, do you think? Wouldn’t that make a lot of talk? Let me stay at Rostrunk, and come over for the whole day, at a week-end, when you’ll be free. I’ll come twice, at least! And you’ll come over to the O’Haras’.”
“I will surely.” He pressed her arm. “Don’t worry about me either, my darling one. Whatever you decide in the end, I’ll accept.”
“You’re too good!” she said, with tears in her eyes. “Look, they’ve got the gangway down; you ought to go.”
“Ah, I will. Goodbye, my dearest heart.”
While the party on the quay were making their farewells, Edina and Mrs. Hathaway, not surprisingly, were discussing Gerald’s prospects in the morning-room at Glentoran.
“I must say I think she’d probably be wise to marry him— he’s a wizard with children,” Edina said. “It would be the making of that child to have him for a step-father.”
Mrs. Hathaway sounded a little dubious.
“I don’t think it would be quite fair to a man to marry in order to give one’s child a good guardian” she said slowly.
“But Mrs. H. that needn’t be the only reason, need it? I think he’s a charmer—very much a person one could marry and be happy with. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I think he is, in himself. It’s”—she paused for words to express her hesitation. “It’s Julia’s terrible sense of duty that I’m afraid of” she said at last. “Oh, I wish Colonel Jamieson needn’t have died!”
“Anyhow, she’s perfectly right to go over and stay with these other friends, and have a good look at the house and everything. He’s insisted on that—he told me so” Edina said.
“Did he? Well, that is very kind and wise of him. He is the nicest thing imaginable” the old lady said. “Only it would be such a different life for her.”
“In her place I think I should be rather thankful to settle down to a bit of domesticity and peace and quiet, instead of this perpetual spying and sleuthing” Edina said vigorously— Mrs. Hathaway laughed.
Julia set off for Ireland a fortnight later, Lady Helen O’Hara having said that then would be a suitable time for her to pay a visit to Rostrunk. Philip Reeder tried hard to make her travel via Stranraer—“if you’re in Scotland, it’s absurd not to use a Scottish port”—but Julia professed a passion for the Dublin-Liverpool boats, to which she was accustomed, and did as she chose, as usual.
She had her normal comfortable little single cabin, a familiar cheerful stewardess brought her tea, as ordered, sharp at six; by seven-fifteen she had dressed and packed, and was tucking into an ample breakfast of bacon and eggs in the saloon—she had left her luggage in charge of an elderly steward, who had promised to take it ashore and secure her a taxi, when the gangways were down. “No roosh, for the train at Westland Row” he told her. Well, she didn’t believe the Stranraer boat could have been any improvement on this, was Julia’s reflection; no doubt about it, the Irish were most comfortable people to travel among. But what would they be like to live among? With this question in her mind she was a little watchful of her own reactions, which normally she was apt to ignore. She always enjoyed returning to Dublin, she thought, as she went up on deck—there was the Customs House, beautiful as ever in the early light. And when she had gone ashore, and the usual cheerfully chatty taxi-driver took her to Westland Row, and a friendly porter installed her in a smoking First in the Martinstown coach, Julia felt vaguely and irrationally encouraged.
She sat down in the back corner seat, lit a cigarette, and idly watched the other passengers passing along the platform to board the train—her attention was caught by one party which also obviously intended to get into the Martinstown coach; they stood waiting by the door till a porter arrived wheeling their luggage on a barrow. There was a man, tall, dark, handsome, and rather noticeably well-dressed—too well-dressed, Julia thought; two children, a boy and a girl, perhaps ten and twelve; and a woman, small and slight, with fair wavy hair—her clothes were as casual as the man’s were elegant: she was bare-headed, and wore pale corduroy slacks, a rough sweater, and a loose fawn wind-cheater. But there was something vaguely attractive about her rather square pale face, with a wide forehead and a wide mouth, and still more about the dégagé attitude in which she stood, her feet far apart, looking up at the elegant man and laughing. She shooed the children and the porter into the train, where they presently irrupted into Julia’s carriage—yes, only one seat was taken, Julia told the porter; while the fresh lot of luggage was being stowed in the racks and on the middle seats she continued to watch the pair on the platform. When the porter emerged it was the woman who tipped him; Julia saw him gape at the size of the tip, and then touch his cap, grinning. A whistle blew; the elegant man enveloped the woman in a warm embrace before she hopped onto the train as it started to pull out.
Julia’s normal feeling of slight annoyance at the idea of a long railway journey with children in the carriage was only partly modified by her even slighter feeling of interest in the fair woman, who now came in and sat down, and pulling a cigarette-case out of her jacket pocket, offered it to Julia—“Oh, I see you’re smoking—good” she said. She spoke with a very faint American accent. The children asked if they could have their books.
“Yes—they’re in the small tartan grip; get them out yourselves” she told them briskly. When they had done so— “Now clear off” she said. “Find yourselves places in some other carriage.”
“What if they’re all full?” the boy enquired.
“Then you can stand in the corridor—but I don’t suppose they are, for a moment. Scram!” his mother adjured him. Laughing, the children obediently went out.
Julia was highly amused by these proceedings, and studied the stranger with more interest. No, she was not pretty, and yet there was something akin to the compelling appeal of beauty in the colourless square face—the eyes, of a very light hazel, were beautiful, actually.
“I can’t stand children on a train” the stranger now remarked calmly. “Children are always hell to some extent, but on a train they’re somehow complete hell.”
“They seem very obedient” Julia said politely.
“Well if children aren’t obedient, they’re just plumb unendurable”
the fair-haired woman pronounced.
Julia felt that she would have liked to hear Gerald in discussion with this very positive person, who seemed to have solved her own child-care problems so satisfactorily. Presently they settled down, by mutual consent, to their newspapers; at lunch-time the children were recalled from their exile in the corridor to get down a hamper and eat an ample lunch of meat pies, tomatoes, cream-cheese with biscuits, and cake—perhaps being so very well-fed contributed to their cheerful docility, Julia thought, again amused. She too had a modest parcel of Glentoran meat pies, but gratefully accepted a tomato and a cup of excellent coffee, piping hot from a thermos. Over this they talked, the children having been banished again. The fair-haired woman talked well and easily—about recent plays in London and Dublin, and recent books by English and Irish writers; Julia was rather out of her depth, especially in the Irish part, but found her new acquaintance very good company. She was gay, and yet somehow detached—“neutral” was the word that came into Julia’s mind; she gave quick amusing little appraisals of this actress or that singer, but they were all perfectly good-tempered—it struck Julia suddenly how unusual it was to be so amusing without a single harsh or even sharp judgement. About herself she vouchsafed no information whatever except that she had “a shack on Achill,” to which they were on their way; Julia found herself quite glad that they would be together for the whole journey—Martinstown was the terminus.
In spite of her detachment and apparent casualness, the fair woman was quite practical; fifteen minutes before the train was due in she summoned the children, got them into their anoraks, made them stow their books in the tartan grip, and handing down the luggage out of the rack, caused them to carry the small pieces along the corridor and place them near the door; two heavier ones she took herself. By the time less active travellers began to bestir themselves, the small party was strategically placed for a rapid exit.
“Bye!” she said to Julia, as she left the carriage, and “Goodbye—thanks for the coffee” Julia replied. When they had gone she got down her own luggage and put it on the seat; then she lowered the window and sat by it, to watch for Helen, who had said she would be meeting her.
Almost before the train had really stopped the two children sprang out, and took the pieces of luggage which their mother handed down to them; in a moment they were joined by a middle-aged man, short and thick-set, who lifted the heavier pieces out; when the fair woman followed, he too enfolded her in a warm hug, kissing her repeatedly— Julia watched with amusement. This new admirer was the greatest possible contrast to the Dublin one; he was at least twice his age, and as plain and scruffy as the other was handsome and elegant. Catholic in her tastes, Julia said to herself laughing, and waved to Lady Helen, who now approached with one of the two Martinstown porters; he came in and took her suit-cases, and she got out and greeted her hostess.
In the station yard the other party were stowing themselves and their luggage into a very ancient and shabby Ford. “Helen, do you know who those people are?” Julie asked, indicating them.
“I’ve never seen her before—he’s Billy O’Rahilly” Lady Helen said. “Thank you very much, Mick” she said, giving a coin to the porter, and getting into the car.
“And who is Billy O’Rahilly?” Julie asked, getting in beside her.
“One of our poets!” Lady Helen replied, with a slightly ironic inflexion, as she drove off.
“Oh. Does he live in Achill?”
“No, he lives quite near us, our side of Oldport. Why on earth should you suppose he lived in Achill?” Lady Helen enquired, curiously.
“Oh, because she said she did, part of the time.” Julie explained about her companion on the journey down, and her peculiar method with her children—“In fact I thought her frightfully nice” she ended. “Could she be his wife?”
“Billy’s not married, that one ever heard of,” Lady Helen replied. “For her sake I should hope she isn’t, nor going to be—he’s rather a dubious type, Michael says.”
“Oh dear! Dubious in what way?” Julia asked; she had no very great faith in General O’Hara’s assessments of people, as a rule.
“Oh, he’s mixed up with all those parlour pinks in Dublin, the Lefty intelligentsia” Lady Helen said vaguely. “He has the most extraordinary people to stay. And he has the most hideously noisy motor-boat!” she added. “It goes like the wind, and fills all this end of the Bay with its roar when he takes it out.” Some time later, after they had passed through Oldport, as usual collecting various parcels, as they were crossing a bridge she pointed to a grove of trees on the right of the road—“That’s Billy’s house” she said, “in that wood.”
“Where does he keep his boat, then?” Julia enquired.
“In the inlet below the bridge, where the river runs out— there’s a path to the anchorage along the bank. He doesn’t use it all that often, thank goodness, but it’s horrible when he does.”
“How boring for you” Julia sympathised. She was a little disappointed that her amusing new acquaintance’s local contact should be some one the O’Hara’s disliked.
“Gerald’s coming to dinner tonight” Lady Helen remarked, as they turned down the familiar lane to Rostrunk.
“Oh, good.”
“He seems to have enjoyed his week-end at Glentoran. How did he and the Reeders get on?”
“Oh, they were utterly seduced by his singing, of course! —Philip especially.”
“Philip Reeder?” Lady Helen asked, with a lift of her eyebrows.
“Yes, completely. As a matter of fact small Philip was too” Julie said; it was as well to get this over at once, she felt.
“Oh, he took to him, did he? I’m so glad. Gerald seems to have approved of The Peanut, as he calls him, too. I think he’s quite ready to take on the job, Julia” she said, turning to her friend with a smile of great affection.
“Bless you, Helen. Yes, well we shall have to see” Julia said.
“Yes—‘see’ is exactly what he wants you to do. He’s taking you down on Saturday—an early start, he said. He really is a most chivalrous creature, you know.”
“I do know. But I must take my time, Helen.”
“Of course. I won’t pester you.”
They all spent a pleasant and quite unembarrassed evening, and even General O’Hara, least tactful of men, refrained from any comment when Gerald O’Brien arrived at 8:30 A.M. on the Saturday to drive Julia down to see his establishment. It was one of those rare clear mild spring days which occasionally bless the West of Ireland at the beginning of April, and Julia’s spirits rose. They passed through Martinstown, but some miles further on took a small turning to the right.
“Oh, is Rossbeg out here? I thought it was by Lough Balla” Julia said in surprise.
“ ‘T’is, but I want to show you something pretty first” he said. They were driving south-westward, and mountains rose ahead of them, above the gently undulating farmland; now they came to a river and followed it, and presently reached the strangest place Julia had ever seen. It was a village, the little white houses set rather sparsely, with a group of monastic ruins among them; but the river either divided into several, 01 was joined by others, she couldn’t be sure which —anyhow there was water everywhere, crystal-clear and brimming; one had the impression that the whole place was afloat.
“Oh, how magical!” she exclaimed. “Do stop, Gerald.”
“I thought you’d like this” he said, pulling into the side of the road.
“It’s too lovely. What are the ruins?”
“Oh, an Augustinian Abbey—the Augustinians were great settlers all through the West. But there was a much earlier monastery here; sixth century, they say. This was always a holy place, and specially good to be buried in” he said gaily. “Come on and I’ll show you.”
“Can’t we look at the ruins?”
“Another day. We don’t want to get in wrong with Bridgie by being late for lunch.”
Some distance beyond the floating vill
age the road ran through woods. Gerald slowed down and pointed out to Julia small cairns of stones, some as much as two or three feet high, standing on the bank at the edge of the wood, or, where a track ran through the trees, at intervals along it. “Those are coffin cairns” he said. “Whenever a funeral is brought along the road or that track, the people bringing it put a stone on the cairns as they pass.”
“Do they really? Why?” she asked.
“I don’t know the reason” he said. “It’s just a custom they have, when people are taken to be buried at the Abbey ruins. Maybe they do it at other places too, but this is the only place I’ve seen it.”
Julia insisted on getting out to examine one of the cairns. “But Gerald, these stones at the bottom are all over moss!” she said, after peering at it.
“Ah, they would be. People have been doing this for ages —centuries, I daresay.”
Beyond the woods they came out into open country, rather flat, where the underlying limestone emerged onto the surface of the soil in bare grey stretches, fissured into deep crevices—the “limestone pavements” which are such a strange feature of parts of County Galway and the County Clare; ferns grow in the deep clefts, and the bare rock is set with small bright flowers. Julia was enchanted.
“Gerald, what fascinating places you seem to live among! I’ve never seen anything in the least like this before.”
“Did the O’Haras never take you to the Burren?”
“No—where’s that?”
“Down in Clare—there’s miles of this limestone there; in fact the Burren is practically all limestone. We’ll go there one day; now we must get home.” He turned east again, and they soon left the limestone and were back in farming country; presently, from a confusion of small roads they emerged onto a main one, and drove rapidly north. They passed through a small town, then again through woods; among these was set a noble gateway, with a pretty lodge beside it. “Who lives there?” Julia asked.
“No one, now; old Mary Browne used to—it’s been in the Browne family for ever. But the money ran out; she was never much of a manager—and she had to go.”