The Whitest Flower

by Brendan Graham

  As she hurriedly closed the door behind her, she heard the sound of a newspaper being torn, and Pakenham shouting, ‘Where’s my pen? Damned botanist. He’ll not have the last word with me!’

  Mrs Bottomley, the housekeeper at Tourmakeady Lodge, had heard the commotion from the kitchen. As soon as Bridget arrived below stairs she rounded on her: ‘Did you spill the tea, girl?’

  ‘No, ma’am, I did not,’ Bridget replied, a hint of defiance in her voice. ‘It was some letter he got. He chased me out of the room, not wanting his tea, after all.’

  Mrs Bottomley’s hard stare remained fixed on the girl, forcing her to explain further.

  ‘He was in one of those “thundering rages”, ma’am.’

  ‘Well then, you better tidy yourself up and fix your hair. You know how he gets after he’s been in a temper. He’ll need you to take his port up to him. Shame such a fine nobleman as him never got married. Get along now, Bridget, see to, and be ready when he sends for you.’ It was the housekeeper’s duty to see that His Lordship’s needs were met, and not to pass any judgements. That’s the way things were. Sir Richard had kept all of them in their positions, not least herself, despite mutterings she had heard about large debts mounting on the estate. Where would they be without him? If those lazy tenants of his stirred themselves and produced more, and paid the rents on time, maybe then His Lordship might not be in such dire financial straits.

  Sir Richard, having exhausted the newspapers, turned to the two unopened letters before him. Which to read first? It mattered not a curse, he thought. He knew the contents: the gentlemanly yet patronizing tone employed by both Coutts, his bankers, and Crockford’s, his club. Knew that the language, however carefully couched, led unerringly to the bottom line: his debts.

  He first flicked through the letter from Coutts: Beg to advise you … Your Lordship may have overlooked … most earnestly … long outstanding … early remittance of same … sum of twenty-three thousand pounds.

  Pakenham crushed the letter in his fist and tossed it away. He was not too concerned about the bank; such demands were not unusual these days. Why, most of Ireland’s land-owners were in a state of indebtedness to London banks and living at a level of credit well beyond any viable income-to-debt ratio. Repayment of the loans was therefore impossible – unless, of course, one sold up, or succeeded in extracting further rents from those lazy wretches of tenants.

  Like the rest of Ireland’s landed gentry, Sir Richard Pakenham was asset-rich but cash-poor, starved of sufficient funds to meet all the demands his lifestyle exacted. ‘A temporary liquidity problem,’ he had blithely assured Courts on the one occasion he had bothered to reply to them.

  For one brief moment he wondered whether it had been unwise to extend himself so far on the gardens. But the view from his window dismissed all such thoughts from his mind. The croquet lawns; the new sunken gardens with stone-hewn circular seating to accommodate his guests during summer-evening recitals; the bower; the sun-dials set in imported Italian marble; and – his pride and joy – the finest rose gardens in the West of Ireland.

  Reluctantly he tore himself away from the window and gave his attention to the second letter. A demand from Crockford’s was a serious worry. His losses had mounted in recent years, forcing him to retreat to Tourmakeady for long periods. But he had no wish to become a permanent exile from London, as some of Crockford’s members were forced to, being so thoroughly ruined by their gambling debts.

  He liked to gamble. It was a passion with him. He loved it as much for the style, the wit surrounding the tables, and the flamboyant characters who frequented Crockford’s, as for the vicarious thrill of watching a thousand-pound wager ride or fall on the turn of a nine or an eight of spades. Then one day, instead of watching others he was watching himself bet one thousand pounds against the table at blackjack.

  Now, his note to the club had risen to seven thousand pounds. If he were not to pay it soon, his name would appear in the scandal sheets. He might even, God forbid, be caricatured in the Illustrated London News or Punch – delineated with the simian features so beloved of London cartoonists when they depicted the inhabitants of John Bull’s Other Island. His body would be grotesque, distorted, largely made up of two hideously exaggerated riding boots, one sinking into a bog-hole, the other atop a heap of pig manure, squeezing the life out of some hapless tenant whose neck lay between the landlord’s heel and the excrement of swine.

  If that were to happen – and it could – he would be the laughing stock of London. Eventually the news would travel back here, and those wretched people, those bog-savages who through indolence and idleness were the architects of all his misfortunes would laugh at him in their shifty-eyed way. The very thought of it!

  Where was Beecham? It was time that miserable excuse for an agent offered some solution as to how his rents might be increased and the growing list of arrears collected.

  Crockford’s could not be put off any longer.

  The drawing-room call-bell rang in the pantry. God, he’s impatient today, Bridget thought, getting slightly flustered as she resettled the starched white bonnet on her raven locks.

  Bridget had come to the Lodge six months previously from her home near Partry, the other side of the Mask from Tourmakeady. At twenty-two years of age she was the eldest of eight children, and so had a responsibility to help support the family. Her bright, perky disposition and ready smile endeared her to all with whom she had dealings. Mrs Bottomley had found Bridget to be an able and willing learner, brisk and businesslike in her doings. ‘You’ll do well in service,’ she told the girl.

  The one aspect of ‘service’ which Bridget Lynch did not take to so readily was the service Mrs Bottomley kept intimating she should provide to help soothe Sir Richard after his rages. Despite her Catholic upbringing, Bridget was as healthy as any young girl her age, and had no lack of admirers amongst the young men of Partry. Indeed, she had on occasion slipped her mother’s guard for an hour or two to keep a tryst in one of the many sheltered coves by the lake shore. Meeting with a lusty young fellow whom she had taken a shine to was one thing, but being a landlord’s ‘tallywoman’ was another matter entirely. It was a tricky situation for a young girl to be in. Pakenham was notorious for wenching, and Bridget had once heard him remark that it was a damn shame the right of primae noctis had been done away with. This entitled the landlord, in return for granting permission to his tenants to wed, to enjoy the privilege of ‘first night’ with the new bride.

  Bridget thought it must have caused terrible upset, with young husbands, seeing their brides of not yet a day being carried off to the landlord’s bed. Any baby born within the first nine months would then have to be scrutinized for fear it was a ‘landlord’s bastard’.

  Pakenham’s bell rang again, Bridget crossed herself, wondering how much longer she could walk the line between humouring him and angering him. If she angered him, he would cast her out on the roadside. And if she gave in to his advances … she would still go the way of the road, like previous servant girls. A mixture of loss of interest tinged with port-induced remorse on Pakenham’s part would send her packing. So she was coquettish with him, stringing him along.

  Once in a while she would allow him to plant his eager lips on her neck, before dancing away from him. He would pursue her for a while, until, out of breath, he would collapse on the chaise-longue. Then she would mop his brow and cosset him awhile.

  ‘Wait until the next time, you little biddy – you can’t escape forever, you know!’ he would say between bouts of wheezing.

  Bridget knew she couldn’t escape forever. But as she entered the drawing room she resolved that today would not be the day.

  ‘M’Lord, you called?’

  ‘Ah, Bridget – tea for myself and Beecham, here,’ Pakenham said brusquely.

  She left, surprised and relieved to find the agent present, but not at all pleased to see him. Pakenham she could handle – so far – but Beecham was dangerous and cunning �
� a right slieveen. He was always eyeing her when Pakenham’s back was turned. It was just like him to slip into the house unnoticed.

  ‘Well, Beecham,’ Pakenham resumed the conversation Bridget’s entrance had interrupted. ‘It seems we have a situation here, if the papers are to be believed. A worrying situation for a landlord whose land will offer up no produce but blighted potatoes, giving yet a further excuse to his tenants to withhold their lawful rents. What are we to do, Beecham?’

  Beecham moved to within a few feet of where Pakenham stood looking out at the rose gardens. He clasped his hands in front of him, and paused to check that he had Pakenham’s attention.

  ‘It would seem that the blight is uneven in its distribution, and there is no certainty that it will be as melancholy on the potatoes as some reports suggest. Of course, the experts differ, as always.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Pakenham cut in, ‘but what of our own tenantry?’

  ‘Well, Sir Dick – I mean, Sir Richard … my apology, Your Lordship,’ Beecham said slyly.

  Pakenham let that go, maintaining his silence.

  ‘It appears the Catholic Church has done us some favour: the bishops have instructed their flocks to make an early harvest of the potatoes. Most of the peasantry obeyed, and even broke the holy Sabbath to do so. The greater portion of the crop has thus been saved. However—’

  ‘What now?’ Pakenham was losing patience. God, Beecham could be so longwinded.

  ‘If Your Lordship will permit …?’ Beecham gave an impertinent half-bow.

  Pakenham nodded him on.

  ‘I would suggest that, when we summon the tenantry for renewal of their tenure, we make it clear to them that there will be no abatement of rents. Furthermore, we stipulate that arrears of rent will be dealt with by summary eviction, while at the same time impressing on them the need for good husbandry in the coming year.’

  Observing that Pakenham was about to interrupt again, the agent pressed on: ‘You will remember, sir, the spectacle of the tenantry at Maamtrasna, hooleying and drinking when they should have been tending to their fields. We must outlaw all such folderriderry.’

  At the mention of Maamtrasna, Pakenham’s hand involuntarily reached for the still-tender spot at the back of his head where the peasant’s stone had hit him.

  ‘Indeed we must, Beecham. Call them in and tell them what’s what. Damned lucky they’ll be if I don’t clear the lot of them!’

  ‘Well, sir,’ offered Beecham, ‘this blight might present you with an opportunity to commence the consolidation of your land into larger, more manageable, holdings.’

  Pakenham turned and looked the agent squarely in the eye.

  ‘You know, Beecham, it’s a damnable pity that you can be such a disagreeable fellow at times…’

  The crooked smile on Beecham’s face froze as he waited, not sure what was to follow.

  ‘You have a good understanding of affairs and a damned good nose for an opportunity to improve your employer’s lot.’

  Beecham gave as near a full smile as his features would allow. ‘My Lord, you are too kind, I—’

  ‘However,’ his employer interrupted, ‘if you don’t desist from baiting me, and leering at my personal wench, then I shall have your balls for breakfast – after I have keelhauled you from one end of the Mask to t’other. Do you have me, sir?’ Pakenham snarled, pushing his face towards Beecham’s, relishing the sight of the agent squirming away from him.

  Before Beecham could reply, if indeed he had a reply to the prospect of being keel-hauled and castrated, Bridget Lynch re-entered the room.

  ‘Bridget,’ Pakenham greeted her jovially, ‘Mr Beecham will be without tea today. Methinks the Mask air disagrees with him, and he must leave.’

  Bridget made to put down the tray so as to see Beecham to the door.

  ‘Oh, Bridget’ – Pakenham was enjoying this – ‘Mr Beecham is not so poorly that he is in need of your assist.’ He turned to the agent then, and in honeyed tones enquired: ‘Pray, Beecham, do you require Bridget’s assist, or will you escort yourself out? In any event, Bridget must serve my tea before it turns tepid. You know how I abhor tepidity in anything.’

  Bridget had a sense that she was caught in the middle of this rather one-sided exchange. Her unease was not assuaged one whit when Beecham, without speaking, pushed past her and stormed out of the room.

  Chuckling at Beecham’s ignominious exit, the landlord turned to Bridget. ‘If that bounder causes you any concern, you must inform me at once.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. But Mr Beecham never bothered me none,’ she lied. ‘He’s always been proper and gentlemanly towards me, sir.’ Even as she spoke she was vividly recalling how, only a week previously, Beecham had come up behind her and rumbustled her into the storage pantry, pushing himself against her so that she was ‘caught between the ram and the hams’, as she put it to one of the kitchen maids later. Though she had managed to joke about it, she was sure Beecham would have undone her had it not been for Mrs Bottomley’s footsteps sounding in the corridor outside.

  Sir Richard was mightily pleased with himself. He had exposed Beecham in front of the girl, and taught the little upstart a lesson. The girl’s obvious alarm when she walked in on their conversation, and the way her cheeks had flushed when she had lied to him, excited him further. Did she think he didn’t know? Pah! Mrs Bottomley missed nothing. Who did she think she was, this Irish peasant girl holding him, Sir Richard Pakenham, on the leash of a promise? Teasing him, and probably Beecham too, with those long black eyelashes and sideways looks? It was time she learned who was master around here.

  And there she stood before him – waiting, flushed and unsure, her dark eyes set on him. The blood coursed in him from all the excitement of the hour. Gone were thoughts of the blight, tenants, the rents. All he saw before him was all he desired just then.

  ‘Bridget, now that Mr Beecham has so ungraciously left us, we are one tea too many … Would you do me the honour of joining me?’ His manner was so uncommonly courteous that all her womanly instincts were alerted. As she walked towards him, balancing the tray with the silver tea service and fine bone-china settings, she prayed she would not reveal her uncertainty to him. But before Bridget Lynch could control it, the tremor in her soul reached her hands and the cups rattled ever so slightly on their saucers. Though she immediately clenched her hands against the silver tray to silence the rattle, she wasn’t quick enough. Pakenham had heard it.

  He cocked one eyebrow as her eyes darted to him. Heart thumping now, she was only two steps from where he stood. He reached forward. ‘Allow me, Bridget,’ he said, all helpfulness.

  His eyes never left hers. She wanted to dash it all – tray, china, silver, tea, milk – at him and run. But how could she run out of a position which put food into the mouths of her younger siblings through the winter months while her father worked in Lancashire? After all, nothing had happened … yet.

  Sir Richard Pakenham saw the turmoil in Bridget’s face, but he felt no pity for her predicament, only exultation. This servant girl had dared to challenge him. But now, as she released the tray into his hands, he knew, as she did, that this would be his day.

  6

  It was the time of Samhain – the start of the Celtic new year. Patrick and the twins were beside themselves with excitement. Tonight, Halloween, the spirits of the dead would come back to the valley. There would be a bonfire, merriment, singing and dancing.

  Ellen, Michael and the children walked up through the straggling line of cabins. The whole village, save the very old and infirm, had come out into the gathering dusk to make the annual pilgrimage to the bonfire place – a hillock on the high ground, close to the site of the recent céilí. Back down the valley in Glenbeg, Ellen could see figures gathering, heading towards the lakeshore where their bonfire would be kindled. From across the lake in Derrypark, unseen, bodiless voices echoed in the night.

  The Halloween half-moon was high in the sky, partly shrouded by puffs of m
ist. Stars sprinkled the heavens above Maamtrasna – one for every soul of the dead, thought Ellen. She imagined the Máistir and Cáit up there, perched on the handle of the great Plough, guiding, lighting, working together in the heavens as they had on earth. Ellen wondered where her own place in the vault of heaven would be. Would Michael be there beside her, her love-star? Would the children know where to look for them on Halloweens to come? And would they, too, claim their place in the firmament – Patrick the dark, strong star; Katie and Mary, the heavenly twins, set close together. Bright flame-stars.

  And what of this new star she carried within her?

  Where would this miracle-star, not yet of this world, be? Where would it fly across the heavens?

  They reached the Crucán. Ellen felt a shiver run through her, and crossed herself. Now, at the place of the bonfire, the children’s shrieks of delight drove everything from Ellen’s mind save the ceremony of fire about to begin.

  Earlier in the day, the village children had scoured the lakeshore for firewood. The men had dragged down from the mountain great pieces of blackened bogwood, the remains of mighty oaks that, thousands of years ago, had stood where today there was only bogland. Now the villagers heaped these pieces of broken wood, along with old rags and bones and straw, on to the misshapen monster that was growing topsy-turvy-like on the hillock above the village. Through the gaps in the wood, Ellen could see shafts of bleak, early winter light, providing an eerie backdrop to this pagan festival.

  Then, to a chorus of yells, the great pyramid of wood was kindled. At first the kindling took slowly, with little spurts whenever a lick of flame caught the quick-to-burn straw or rags. Gradually, tongues of flame began to reach up from the lower regions of the pile. The children were mesmerized by the fiery serpents which, every now and then, darted out towards them, to the accompaniment of squeals of excitement and fear. At first they would retreat from the flames, but then, daring the fire-devils, they would edge back to their previous positions, their little faces red and white in the night, the fire dancing in their eyes. The bonfire rapidly grew in intensity and ferocity, sweeping up to the sky. Sparks driven off by the wind illuminating the pale marking stones on the children’s burial mound.