‘But for me it would be different?’
‘It would be different ‒ yes.’
He wanted Lotti back, of courses. He had been wishing Lotti back into existence from the moment that he had first caught a glimpse of a blonde-haired girl stretched out on the bank of the stream. But it was an idealised Lotti he saw in me, the little girl that the war years had taken from him forever. He thought he could yet teach me, train me in the things that he held important ‒ money, Ireland, even being a Tyrell. This would be a different Lotti, obedient, stay-at-home, cherishing what her father cherished ‒ but with the added virtue that my real fathers had already had four hundred years in the country to which Praeger craved to belong, wholly and completely. I was reminded again of the atmosphere, the feeling I had sensed when Connor had taken me to The Four Kingdoms in Cloncath, and how one man had said it, ‘But this time she’s Irish.’ Praeger wanted that ‒ wanted it so badly that he could not see that he had created his own image of me. For him I had to be what he imagined me to be. It left no room for what I really was, or might become.
I stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr. Praeger. It’s very good of you to offer all this help. But I’m not going to fight Connor. I really don’t think I’m suited to Sheridan Glass or Meremount, or any of these things. But of course I have to find out. And as you said, if I’ve made a mistake, by then it will be too late to do anything about it. But that’s just a risk I’ll have to take.’
The hand he gave me was limp, and it seemed to cost him an effort to raise it. I said, ‘I’ll leave my London address with Fräulein Schmidt. I’m sure you must often be in London … if you can spare the time I would like to cook a meal for you.’
He nodded, but didn’t speak ‒ or couldn’t.
III
I asked Daisy, the receptionist at the Sheridan Museum, to ring through to Connor’s office and say that I would like to see him. He came at once, nodding briefly to the girl as he came through the door. ‘Thanks, Daisy ‒ just skip across to the canteen and have yourself a cuppa, will you? ‒ there’s a good girl.’ She went, reluctant to miss what might happen, and Connor walked slowly down to where I stood before the showcase containing the two Culloden Cups; he was fumbling for cigarettes, and held the packet towards me. ‘You’ll notice it’s strictly forbidden to smoke in here,’ he said, smiling.
‘What’s the use of being boss if you can’t break the rules?’ He took his time lighting both cigarettes, and he waited before he spoke again. ‘Do you mind my being boss here? ‒ finally being boss instead of dog’s-body?’
I shrugged. Inside I still shook from the encounter with Praeger; I had resisted him, fought him against his desire to take me over, to shape me into a more satisfactory Lotti. Connor wasn’t to know it, but I didn’t have the strength left to engage him also. I would have to seem indifferent and cool, and just hope that enough was left in me to get me through this last interview and on the road away from Cloncath.
‘You can be anything you want, Connor. A week ago we’d never heard of each other, so it makes no difference what the other was or did. A week can’t change things so much.’
Why was I trying to prove to him what Praeger had already shown me was not the truth?
Connor pointed the cigarette at me. ‘I’m tempted to say rude things like “Come off it!” You’re talking a lot of rubbish and you know it. Everything has changed this week. You have made it change.’
‘I didn’t do anything. I was just here.’
‘Being here was all that was needed.’
I pushed my hair away from my forehead with a sudden movement of distraction and impatience. ‘Oh, don’t start! Don’t you start! All right ‒ perhaps some things did happen because I came. But if I hadn’t come here, it’s just as likely that the end of the week would have shown the very same results. Lady Maude is dead ‒ but one day she had to die. And you have Sheridan Glass. That’s what you worked for ‒ what you wanted. Now you have it. It’s nothing to do with me. I’m going, and all I want is my own property to take back with me. I came to get the Culloden Cup.’
‘Wait …’ he said, drawling the word. ‘Just wait a minute. Why are you running off like this? Why the hurry?’
‘I’m not running off. It just happens to be the time to go. You can’t want me to stay now.’
‘I asked you to stay ‒ do you remember that? I once asked you to marry me.’
‘Remember? ‒ how do you forget things like that? But that was before you knew you had the glassworks. That was before you knew ‒ how did you put it? ‒ if I was in and you were out. What was said before Lady Maude died doesn’t count.’
I saw the frustration begin in him, the tightening of the mouth, the striving to hold the words in check. ‘Oh, to hell with you! What do you expect ‒ do you want me to start all over again? Do we have to pretend that what has been didn’t happen? Do I have to start to woo you? Well, it’s too late for that. I’m too old to play the romantic boy, and too many things have happened to me. I haven’t time to jump through all the hoops again. If we married, we’d know what we were doing. It wouldn’t be love’s young dream, but it could be a good thing ‒ a damn’ good thing!’
‘You wanted a business partner … wasn’t that it?’
‘Damn you! ‒ I want a wife! I want you!’
They were terrible, long seconds while he plucked the cigarette from my fingers and put it out, a long, long time while he kissed me in which to begin to doubt again everything I had decided about him. It didn’t seem possible that the urgency and warmth of his lips could have been calculated, that the grace note of tenderness in the way his hand supported my head as he tilted it backwards could have been feigned. It was more real than when he had kissed me before, as though we had known each other a lifetime in between, had known and understood and forgiven. We seemed already old in what we felt, as if we were past any possibility of deception. ‘I could be a husband … I could be a lover,’ he said softly, and I knew why Lotti had made her marriage; if she had sought a man to flaunt before her world she had found him. The first rare tastes might have dulled as the long-established patterns of variety and change which was her life had reasserted themselves; but for a time, I thought, she would have had more from Connor than most women could dream of. It was there, and it was real, and it could be mine if I wanted to take the chance on withstanding the wearing force of the rest that I knew about him ‒ or, more truthfully, what I had been told about him.
At last I drew away from him, my breath coming a little hard. ‘It won’t do,’ I said. ‘It never would do … it would be just too much of a good thing. You said the other night that I fitted in well. That’s the trouble ‒ I fit in a sight too well. All any of you can see is the outward part ‒ the part that’s Sheridan and Tyrell, the part that’s Irish and that belongs. And none of you give a damn about the rest of me, the person that’s Eugene D’Arcy’s daughter as well as Blanche Sheridan’s. All of you ‒ every one of you ‒ are doing your reckoning about me, but not with me. Everyone’s told me what I should do, but no one’s asked me what I want to do.’
‘You’re talking nonsense again,’ he said, his tone growing thick and angry. Strangely, I wasn’t afraid of his anger as I thought I would be; perhaps that also was part of the change. ‘You’re talking romantic nonsense, and it’s got nothing to do with what you really think. Are you afraid ‒ is that it? Have you believed that stupid tale ‒ that I let Lotti die? Have you let yourself believe something that you imagined at two o’clock in the morning because you saw me pick up a bloody bath-mat? They’ve been at you again, haven’t they? ‒ Annie and Praeger?’
‘No one’s been at me. And I’ll never know if you let Lotti die ‒ I’ll never really be sure if I was mistaken about you that night when I thought you tried to kill Lady Maude. Annie and Praeger will never convince me, either ‒ because they believe two different things about you.’
‘Two …?’
‘Praeger thinks you let Lotti die ‒ but he be
lieves it mostly because he resents and dislikes you ‒ perhaps he hates you, and it suits him to believe it. Annie … in her heart Annie believes Lady Maude was responsible. And that’s why she’s kept silent. She never would have done that for you. So you see … between the two of them, they cancel each other out.’
‘And you? ‒ what do you believe?’
‘I’ve told you ‒ I don’t know. I’ll never know. Only two people knew for sure, and one of them is dead. Which leaves four of us ‒ Praeger, Annie, Brendan and myself ‒ to wonder for the rest of our lives. And that’s what you have to live with for the rest of your life, Connor. Four of us know ‒ or don’t know. Praeger is getting old ‒ he hasn’t so many years left. Annie has longer. But Brendan and I ‒ well, I will probably outlast you. Someone will always know. Perhaps you got away with murder, but success in murder is like an edge of glass, Connor ‒ it’s both smooth and sharp.’
I was on the Dublin road, almost ten miles out of Cloncath, when the thought came. Beside me, on the other bucket seat, was the wooden box in which the Culloden Cup was packed ‒ it was travelling back to London in far greater security than the way it had come here, probably in Brendan’s coat pocket. I glanced sideways at the box often, feeling glad that I had made no claim on Connor except for what had already been mine. I thought of the Cup as I had grown to know it ‒ I could now visualise it intimately and in part, the marvellous, delicate intricacy of it, the beauty of its lines, the supreme display of the glassmaker’s art as Thomas Sheridan had shown it to his world, and to those who came after him, his heirs, either by name and blood, or by the claim of their own skill. It was then I knew what else it was I wanted that Thomas Sheridan had left behind him. I wanted it very badly, and if Connor would not give it willingly, this was something I would fight him for.
So once again I turned the car back to Cloncath.
Thirteen
After the car was taken off the ferry in Liverpool, I had a long, late breakfast at a hotel, smoking too many cigarettes with coffee, and making a show of reading a newspaper so that I would be left in peace by the waiters. They were closing the dining-room before I had made up my mind. I put through the call to Claude from the hotel lobby and waited nervously, knowing that it had to be done before I was back in London, before the pull of the old values reasserted themselves.
His tone was affable when he answered. ‘Claude? This is Maura. I’m in Liverpool.’
The tone changed to a kind of peevish snarl ‘Well, darling, as far as I’m concerned, you can stay right there. You’ve let me down ‒ you’ve made me look a fool! This is going to take a lot of forgiving, Maura …’
‘Claude, please listen quietly, and don’t explode. It’s just that there’s nothing else I can do. I’ve thought about it all and I’ve decided …’
‘Sweetie ‒ get to the point, will you? I haven’t all morning.’
‘Claude, it’s about the photos ‒ the ones Max took that you were going to use for the Wild campaign.’
‘Yes …?’ The tone was ominous. ‘What about them?’
‘Well, Claude, I don’t want you to use them. In fact, I have to have them back. You see, they’re ‒’
‘What! Have them back? You’re out of your mind! You can’t do that to me, you little bitch! Listen, you dumb bunny, I sold you on the strength of those pictures. And it isn’t that you’re so great, but Max is an inspired photographer. They’re sold, I tell you. You can’t have them back. It’s too late ‒ they’ll never have time to get new ones ready for the autumn campaign for Wild.’
‘Claude ‒ I have to have them back. I’m telling you that and I mean it! Those photographs belong to me, and I didn’t give you permission to sell them. They’re my property, and I mean to have them back. If necessary I’ll sue for recovery of them.’ I couldn’t believe what I heard myself saying; a kind of mad exultation was surging through me at the sound of my own voice telling Claude what he could not do with my life.
‘You can’t! You’ll wreck the whole deal. If you withdraw those photos the Wild people will back down on the whole deal.’ The voice had dropped its note of peevish ill-humour. He sensed that I meant what I was saying, and he was summoning the force of threats and cold logic to beat me; he grew deadly earnest. ‘Maura, I promise you this ‒ if you carry through this crazy idea you’ll be black-listed by every agency in London. You’ll never work again. No one will touch you with a forty-foot pole. And I, personally, will see that they don’t!’
‘Claude, it’s no use threatening me. Whatever happens will happen. I can’t help it. Those photos were never meant for publication. They never belonged to me ‒ or to Max, either. They were my mother’s private property. I had no right ever to let them out of my hands. They are just not meant for commercial exploitation ‒ and that’s that!’
‘I’m listening to you, Maura, and I don’t believe that someone can be saying good-bye deliberately to a promising and possibly a very lucrative career.’ The silken, menacing drawl was back; he hoped to paint the other side of the picture, the side I would be missing; he hoped to ridicule me out of my determination. ‘Just by way of curiosity, darling, tell me what brought on this sudden change? It would be quite refreshing if it weren’t so stupid.’
‘No business of yours, Claude. I just happened to have discovered that everything in life is not for sale. That’s a good enough reason.’
‘How perfectly nineteenth-century of you, darling! How delightfully eccentric! I wonder how long this pose will last? Are you going back to nature in the Irish bogs? Such a pity ‒ you had quite a potential. You might easily have been big-time. But of course you know that you’re finished. From the minute I make that phone call to the Wild people, you’re finished in modelling. You know that, don’t you, Maura? Just that one phone call, and you’re finished. Are you listening, Maura …?’
‘I’ve been listening, Claude, and I’ve heard enough.’ Very carefully I replaced the receiver.
I had to sit in the lounge and have some more coffee, smoke two more cigarettes, and wait to grow calmer. My blouse was wet with sweat, and my hands still shook slightly when I went and placed a second call to London, to Max Arnott.
‘Max? ‒ it’s Maura.’
‘I’ve been expecting you.’ The deep slow voice was calm, reassuring. ‘Claude’s been screaming at me for twenty minutes.’
‘I’m awfully sorry, Max. I just had to do it. It doesn’t really make any difference to you, does it? I mean, they’d be delighted if you’d agree to do the whole series whether I’m the model or not.’
‘I suppose so … It doesn’t matter, Maura. I’m not much interested in doing the series unless it’s for you. But I’m glad ‒ I’m glad we’re not using Blanche’s pictures.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. And I’m glad you realised it in time. You can’t sell what was in those pictures and ever pretend you’re going to capture it again. They were for a special time ‒ it was a very personal thing. I didn’t think you were old enough to understand that ‒ and I didn’t like to spoil your chance …’
‘I’m a good bit older than I was ten days ago.’ My voice was starting to shake. ‘I have to go, Max. I’ll see you and Susie soon.’
When I was able to, I put in the final call, to the shop in King’s Road. It was odd to hear Mary Hughes’s voice answer with my mother’s name. ‘Blanche D’Arcy.’
‘Mary? It’s Maura. I’m in Liverpool ‒ I’m driving to London today. I’ll be in some time tonight.’
‘Well, thank goodness for that! I’ve been worried about you ‒ that sudden change of plan. I didn’t know what to think. You might have sent me a card.’
I had a wild vision of a coloured post-card with Castle Tyrell or Meremount, in its better days, on it ‒ wish you were here. ‘There wasn’t time even for that, Mary. It’s been ‒ mad, and terrible. My grandmother …’ I couldn’t begin it now.
‘Grandmother! I didn’t know you had one. It all sounds very
Irish, dear.’
‘It is! I’ll tell you all about it.’ Of course I wouldn’t tell her all about it; only four of us would ever know all about it, as I had said to Connor. ‘Mary, I just rang to let you know that I was coming back ‒ and would you be an angel and leave some bread and milk in the flat for me?’
‘Well, I’ll wait for you, of course!’
‘No, don’t do that. I’ll probably be quite late ‒ the morning’s gone already, and I expect traffic will be heavy. I’ll probably have dinner somewhere on the road, to have a break. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Maura ‒ just one other thing.’
The voice of the operator cut in, with a demand for more money. ‘Mary, it’ll have to wait. I’ve used up all my change. See you in the morning.’
I brought the car from its parking place to the front of the hotel, and watched my bag and the two boxes being stowed in the back. ‘I took good care of them for you, Miss,’ the porter said, pointing at the boxes. ‘Didn’t take my eyes, off them.’ He got more of a tip than he expected, but then he didn’t know what was in the boxes.
I eased the car into the traffic, and settled down for the tedious drive. I would be sandwiched between heavy lorries all the way, bound for London and the Southern counties; there would be many hours to think about what had happened, what I had done, and what had changed. The past was gone, Claude and perhaps the whole existence I had known in London; Lloyd Justin was gone; the future that had opened up had come and gone ‒ Connor, Meremount, Sheridan Glass ‒ Praeger, Brendan, all gone. I had not become the Wild girl, I had not become Lotti, nor the owner of Sheridan Glass; I had not become the young wife living the American dream. In place of all these alternatives a kind of frightening emptiness waited for me ‒ frightening, because it occurred to me that in the end I might do nothing that was worth doing with the identity I had won.
II
It was late, as I thought it would be, when I got into London, and I was able to park in front of the shop in King’s Road. The lights were on upstairs in the flat and on the stairs. I had brought in my bag and the two boxes ‒ the second one big and awkward to carry ‒ before I saw the envelope on the little hall table. It was addressed in Mary’s loose scrawl ‒ Maura. As I ripped it open I was conscious of the smell that floated down the stairs to me, a rich mingled smell of onion and garlic and wine, and the faint odour of burning. With the note in my hand I started up the stairs, and then stopped as I read the first sentence.
Edge of Glass Page 27