The old man was, for once, at a loss for words.
‘It’s Helen …’ he says, not sure what to say next.
‘What about her?’
‘… hasn’t she got a great ass?’ The old man had lost his nerve and just said the first thing that came into his head.
Charlton Park is like a palace, with thirty bedrooms and more than forty staff, indoor and outdoor. When you arrive in your car on this large area of crunchy gravel outside the house, you see huge steps and pillars, which are the main entrance, with the butler standing waiting. One time when Lucy arrived, a handsome footman was sent to carry her suitcase. Lucy was so busy ogling him she didn’t notice her case was coming undone. It split open and all her clothes, including a large amount of knickers, fell back down the steps. I had never before seen Lucy so embarrassed or move so fast. It was hilarious. Of course if you were a grown-up, the staff would unpack the suitcases for you and at night-time, I swear to God, guests would go to their bedrooms after supper to find the toothpaste had already been put on their toothbrushes.
Another time we had all arrived for a long weekend and Granny didn’t even know we were there until the next day. She only realized when she saw us all walk across the lawn past her morning room. Granny’s butler, Wood, who had a terrible shaky head from some illness, had forgotten to tell Granny we’d arrived. When Granny knew we were all there, we would be summoned one by one for an audience after breakfast. Granny by this time was in a wheelchair. Wood would escort us individually into her morning room, which had these huge windows looking out onto the lawn. ‘Master Justin, m’lady,’ he would announce loudly. Granny would be writing at her desk and spin around with this big smile and put her arms out to give me a hug and ask me all the things I’d been doing. She was great, Granny was, and I miss her now she’s dead.
One of the really fun things about Granny was her motorized wheelchair. It was custom-built by Bentley, the motorcar manufacturer, just for her. It had three wheels and a black leather cover, which you could pull up like a hood to stop the rain. Granny used to lend it to me and I would go whizzing through the formal gardens past the open-air opera house and the Victorian fire engine, which stood on display all proud and red in the Blue Pavilion at the end of the Long Pond. The pond itself was full of fish and had a huge fountain that you could turn on with a handle hidden in the water reeds.
There were two ghosts at Charlton: one ‘inside’ and one ‘outside’. The outside ghost was a lady who used to be ferried around the gardens in her silver sedan chair. The inside ghost was a Cavalier, one of the king’s followers from the Civil War, and he was very troubled, according to my Aunt Gwendoline, Mum’s eldest sister. She told me that when she was my age, the Cavalier came to her and spoke. Gwen could see him in the long mirror in her bedroom and said that he didn’t know where he was or even that he was dead. Gwen went immediately and told Granny. Granny, realizing that a Catholic priest was the only answer, waited until Grandpa Charlton had gone away on a business trip to South Africa. The minute he’d left, Granny called in a priest and the ghost was exorcised. Everyone in the family was sworn to secrecy as Grandpa would have had a fit about a Catholic, let alone a priest, being in his house.
Another great event at Charlton was the cinema evenings. The cinema was in the dungeon and had been a theatre for the house before films were invented. The cinema was full of wicker chairs and old French drawings and the staff would bring champagne and warm quails’ eggs during the intermission. Granny always had the latest films sent down from London along with a whole film crew. (The projectors were already a permanent fixture in the next-door room, with their huge lenses poking through the wall.) But the film was always a surprise. We could never guess what it was going to be. For a laugh Uncle Freddie, when we asked him what it was going to be, would always answer, The Ghost Goes West. But it never was.
We could do anything we liked at Charlton and nobody ever shouted. The house was full of old pictures and old tapestries and old smells and I really liked this drum from the Civil War, which sat in the main hall. The hall itself had amazing wooden carvings by someone called Grinling Gibbons: pheasants and ducks and swans and fish as well as all other kinds of animals. The ceilings were incredibly high and there was a whole nursery wing just for us.
We used to get old Nursie, Mum’s nanny, to read us The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, although she was nearly a hundred by then. Nursie had this big mole on her face and she used to make us press it and she would go ‘Buzzzzz’, making a terrible sound just like a demented bell. It was really comical and we never got bored of pressing the mole. I bet she did. But she never complained.
Seven
A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.
Brendan Behan
Thursday, 27 June 1963
It’s lunchtime and there’s terrible tension in the dining room. The old man, wearing a scowl that would frighten a hedgehog, drums the table with his podgy, hairy fingers. He’s ‘really vexed’, as Bridget calls it. He checks his watch then drums the table again. Cromwell, that ugly Nazi camp guard, sits begging and dribbling beside him. The old man’s hungry, Mum’s late, and it’ll be our fault if she doesn’t hurry up. ‘Where the hell is your mother? The Lone Ranger’s on at two. I’ll probably miss it now!’
Asparagus tips a-bloody-gain. Bridget moves round the table pouring hot butter on the long green stalks that are supposed to make your wee smell. Come on Mum, please! As softly as possible I take the bottle of Lucozade and remove the crinkly yellow paper, pop the cork and pour a glass. The fizzing seems really loud, and I can feel the old man watching me. He stops tapping. ‘Don’t you ever drink anything else?’
Emma can’t resist defending me by having a go at Mum’s bad habits. ‘It’s better than getting plastered every day, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t push your luck, young lady. You’re skating on very thin ice.’
Lucy leaps to Emma’s rescue. ‘Dad? The Lone Ranger’s great! You really should’ve been a cowboy, don’t you think?’
‘Don’t I know it. They’ve a good life, they have.’ Now he’s lost in his own world, thinking about being John Wayne come over to sort out the Irish.
So we’re still waiting for Mum and the old man’s looking tense again. For tense, nervous headache … take a Lucy Montague joke. ‘Dad? What did the Lone Ranger say to his Indian when they got to the Canadian border?’
‘Get on with it,’ he says, only half-interested.
‘Onto Toronto, pronto, Tonto!’ The old man roars with laughter and the tension is gone just as Mum walks in clutching a bunch of flowers. Thank Heavens.
‘Hello everyone. Lovely day.’
‘Stand up for your mother. Christ!’ We all stand without much enthusiasm.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Mum says to the old man.
‘Not at all,’ says I to Mum. The sisters laugh.
‘Not you, you twit! Bridget? Wine for Her Ladyship.’ Mum sits, placing the flowers beside her. The old man doesn’t notice and just starts eating like a wolfhound. Bridget pours the wine into Mum’s glass, right to the brim, and then leaves. Mum, hardly eating, as usual, picks up the fresh-picked flowers and smells them, sniffing really loud. What the hell is she up to? The old man looks up like a perch at the bait. ‘Good walk then?’
‘Very pleasant, thank you, darling.’ She sniffs again. ‘Mmm, divine.’
‘Well?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Looks good, hey?’
‘I’m a little lost,’ says Mum.
‘The garden of course!’ He’s looking for praise, that’s what it is. And she knows it although she pretends she doesn’t. So what’s she looking for?
‘The roses look amazing. Liam has olive fingers, not green,’ says Mum.
The old man is thrilled. He grins like he’s just won the Irish Hospital Sweepstakes. ‘I told you he’d work well. Not easy to find someone like that. Lazy bloody Irish.’
‘Just o
ne thing …’ says Mum. Uh ho. Here we go.
Suddenly she’s changed her mind. ‘No, no, don’t worry. I’m being pernickety. Anyway, Justin? What have you been up to today?’
Is she pulling my bloody leg? Lucy and I look at each other. In all my years on this planet she’s never asked me such a personal question.
‘No, I insist,’ the old man says to Mum.
‘Oh well, if you insist …’
‘I do.’
‘I just think, occasionally, it might be a good idea to check the greenhouses. Seems to be a pane or two broken. That’s all.’
The old man’s livid. ‘Jesus effing Christ!’
‘Bobby? It’s really not important.’
Now he’s yelling at the door to the kitchen: ‘Bridget? … Bridget!’
‘Dad! Please!’ Emma’s trying to calm him whilst Mum sits there smirking.
Bridget pops her head round the door. ‘Sir?’
‘Liam and Paddy. Where are they?’
‘At their dinner, boss.’
‘Now don’t be too hard, darling,’ says Mum.
‘You’re too bloody soft! That’s why I have to take charge. Bridget? You tell Liam and Paddy from me, they’re to forget their effing dinner and go right now to the greenhouses and repair any panes broken. Tell them next time … they’re for the high jump!’
‘Sir.’
‘Jesus, you’d think they’d be grateful to have a job.’
Mum, of course, is delighted with herself. She swigs her wine and purrs. The old man as usual pets Cromwell because it makes him feel better. ‘Good boy, Cromwell. Good boy!’
Christ. I hate the three of them. The old man, Mum, and that stupid German fucker.
I didn’t always eat in the dining room. In fact, I’d only been allowed this great honour in the last year. The rule was that we ate in the nursery until we reached twelve years of age. The nursery was great fun at the beginning, with just Lucy and myself throwing food all over the place, but then I was alone for three years once Lucy had been elevated to the big league.
One time when I was just six, Lucy and I decided to have a midnight feast. During the day we managed to sneak all these goodies from the larder: quails’ eggs, smoked salmon, potted shrimps, even Laura Secord chocolates from Canada that an old aunt used to send over every Christmas. There we were, Lucy and I, munching away on our delicious picnic by candlelight. It wasn’t really that delicious and we weren’t really that hungry. It was the illegality of the whole thing that made it exciting.
Suddenly there was an angry voice from outside the bedroom door. ‘What is going on?’ It was Mum and we thought we were in terrible trouble. But no, not at all. Mum admitted that she’d caught on to what we had been up to and she had decided to give us a surprise by bringing us extra goodies. Well, she ruined the whole bloody thing, didn’t she? To be fair to Mum it was really kind of her but she couldn’t understand why we looked so disappointed. Then Mum didn’t really understand children. Though I did feel bad for her afterwards. At least she tried.
*
Annie Cassidy, carrying the Rake’s package, carefully opens the main door of The Hall. She’s not quite sure what she is going to do, but in her own mind, whatever it is will be justified by the fact that she has never let people down, especially when she has made a promise.
Annie looks around the deserted entrance hall. She thinks back to the night before, when she saw that gorgeous creature, JFK, on the two tellies. Annie is distracted by a stunning display of red and white roses, which wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her dad. She walks softly towards the silver bowl, reaches out, pulls a white rose down to her nose and inhales. She forgets all about why she is here, in Justin’s house.
In the pantry, Bridget Collins, clutching a wet plate, stands frozen to the spot beside Mary, the new maid. Both are concentrating intently as President John F. Kennedy speaks to the Wexford people on the wireless:
‘Mr Mayor, Mr Mayor, Chairman of the Council, Minister, my friends. I want to, er, I want to express, er, my pleasure at being back from whence I came. There is an impression in Washington that there are no Kennedys left in Ireland, that they are all in Washington. And, er, so I wonder if there are any, er, Kennedys in this audience, could you hold up your hands so I could see?’
Bridget and Mary immediately raise their hands. Bridget laughs: ‘Ya little liar!’
‘So’re you!’ says Mary, still laughing.
‘Oh Jesus, the coffee! Quick, Mary, put the kettle on!’ Mary rushes to the Aga, grabs the kettle, lifts a lid on the stove and slides the kettle across onto the hotplate. Bridget opens a cupboard in the pantry and takes out the Wedgwood coffee cups and saucers.
In the entrance hall, Annie clutches the silver-framed photograph of the Queen. Annie runs her hand across the glass, imagining what it would be like to go to Buckingham Palace and meet her. She notices a beautiful Chinese vase sitting above the fireplace. She replaces the framed photo carefully, then walks over to the fireplace, stretches up onto her tiptoes to reach the mantelpiece and takes a hold of a handle on the side of the vase.
‘Hey!’ Annie is taken by surprise, as she hears the boss man shouting, right behind her. She whips round but, at the same time, releases her grip on the vase, which falls to the ancient stone floor, smashing to bits.
*
The old man strides into the hall followed by Mum, Emma, Lucy and me, with Bridget behind carrying the coffee tray. Having heard the commotion I know something bad has happened. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Annie? Am I seeing things? Fuck!
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ The old man, hands on his hips, glares at Annie. Silence. I can’t speak and neither can Annie and I’m looking to Lucy to rescue Annie with one of her jokes. Quick, oh quick Lucy, anything please, just a quick one, like …
What does the American say to his wife at breakfast? ‘Pass the honey, honey.’
What does the Englishman say to his wife at breakfast? ‘Pass the sugar, sugar.’
What does the Irishman say to his wife at breakfast? ‘Pass the tea, bag!’
Although to be honest we often tell these kind of jokes about Kerrymen instead of Irishmen because all the people where I live say that it’s the Kerrymen that are the real thickos of Ireland. So it would be like …
Did you hear about the Kerryman who couldn’t tell the difference between arson and incest? He set fire to his sister!
Back to the drama of the entrance hall and everyone’s still in shock at seeing Annie and the smashed Chinese vase and I’m on my knees helping to pick up the pieces and whispering to her, to Annie, ‘Are you crazy?’
But before she has time to answer the old man repeats himself: ‘I said, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Good old Emma’s in there, quick as a flash: ‘She’s looking for me.’
‘What?’ says the old man, all confused.
‘I am,’ says Annie, all innocent with her big eyes wide.
‘Why?’ asks the old man, all suspicious.
‘Mind your own bees’ wax! Girls’ talk,’ says Emma, fronty as anything. She grabs Annie and strides towards the front door. ‘Where were you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago.’
‘Sorry, I forgot. But what about the vase?’ asks Annie. Oh just go Annie, run, for fuck’s sake, while you still can. Run like Ronnie Delany.
Luckily, Bridget’s on the ball. ‘I’ll clean up. That’s my job, not yours.’
The front door slams as it always does in our house. Emma and Annie are gone and I’m breathing a deep sigh of relief, but why do I bother? I know what’s coming. ‘You! My study. Now!’ Oh shit! Now I’m for it.
*
In the gardens, Emma Montague strides purposefully along. Annie follows gratefully. ‘Thanks a million, Emma, really.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘Looking for Justin.’
Emma stops, a little put out that Annie thinks she’s so gullible. She offers Annie her crucif
ix. ‘Hold this and tell me again.’
‘I can’t say. I promised … hi Dad!’
Liam is replacing the broken glass at the greenhouses. He hasn’t the faintest which child could have done such a horrible thing, but he’s not going to let it spoil his day. ‘How are ya pet? Emma? How’s it going?’
‘Fine thanks, Liam.’ As they continue to walk, Emma pushes Annie. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘A man, a gentleman, asked me to give a message to your mother, in secret.’
‘What message?’
Annie hesitates.
‘I said, what message?’
Annie hands over the Rake’s package. Emma opens it and recognizes the cigarette case. She realizes what has happened.
‘Am I in trouble?’ asks Annie.
‘No, Dad is. Please Annie, tell no one. Especially Justin.’
Back at The Hall, in the comfort of his study and where he most feels like a man, Bobby sits, picks up a pipe and lights it. Puffing smoke he reaches for his coffee, slurps loudly and settles back into his favourite armchair. The Lone Ranger theme song begins: ‘The Lone Ranger! Hi Yoooo Silver!’ Bobby cannot relax. He hates the anger he has inside, and he hates the boy. He knows, logically, that it’s not the boy’s fault. But he cannot help it, this anger, and he just wants to rip Justin’s head off every time he sees his horrible little face. And, Bobby reasons, why the fuck should I have to suffer the humility of pretending he is my son when he doesn’t even look like me?
*
I’m standing at the open study door waiting for my execution. ‘Shut-the-door-sit-down-shut-up!’
‘You said you wanted to see me.’
‘After. Sit!’ Oh great. Now I have to wait for the bloody Lone Ranger. I sit down on the foot stool in front of the old man and try to concentrate on the tellies. Bloody cowboys. Now I’m staring out the window, trying to forget. There’s old Sean Plant with the lawnmower, trying to get it started. I hope it takes off on him and I hope he gets pulled into the bloody ha-ha and lands up in the nettles. I did that once as a kid in my bathing suit. I was stinging for ages and the dock leaves didn’t help. Suddenly the Lone Ranger appears on his stupid white horse. ‘A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty Hi Yo Silver! The Lone Ranger. Hi Yo Silver, awayyy!’
The House of Slamming Doors Page 6