by Sara Seale
He thought of Kathy pleading with her hyacinth blue eyes, and saying: “For Sarah, the money means Dun Rury, but for me—it would make me very happy, Mr. Flint, if you would stop with us. You—you are the only person here who talks my language,” and he looked at Sarah, blinking back the tears, trying to smile at him, and remembered the tired little girl of last night, counting on her fingers and telling him that St. Patrick was a great boy for miracles.
“Well, then, that’s settled,” he said briskly. “Now, my dear child, do get that piano shifted as soon as possible. I really can’t stand these thumpings any longer.”
She leapt out of the chair and out of the room in one swift movement, and he heard her running down the stairs calling as she went: “Kathy ... Kathy ... he’s staying...” He turned and surveyed the room with its nursery wallpaper, its odd pieces of furniture, and its queer air of comfort despite everything. He was committed, and he was not really sorry. He could not possibly have left her to all those halfpennies alone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As October drew to a close, Dun Rury settled into its winter routine. Turf fires burned in all the rooms, the lamps were lighted at teatime, and Aunt Em wore her woollen mittens and complained of rheumatism.
To Adrian, solitary and undisturbed in the nursery, the life of the house became known to him through his windows. He would watch Danny start out for school, bumping down the drive on his old bicycle, then Sarah, running across the grass to the stables, and jumping the ha-ha on her return, her black hair flying. Sometimes Aunt Em could be seen bustling vaguely down the drive, a basket on her arm, bound on a mission of charity, sometimes Kathy would linger on the terrace, a book tucked under her arm, her exquisite face turned in contemplation of Slieve Rury, the lovely mountain which had begun to attract his own eyes.
Of his own thoughts and feelings at that time he was uncertain. There were days when meals were late and sometimes cold, and small requests forgotten or ignored, when he cursed himself for a philanthropic fool for remaining. Yet he knew there was more to his action than that. Despite the inconveniences, and the manifest absurdity of such a family running a business at all, there was something about Dun Rury that held him. After the months of struggle with himself, the hopes, the doubts, the final battle for acceptance, there was a strange tenderness about this corner of the west of Ireland. Dun Rury in its isolation held for him the beginnings of peace of mind and the knowledge that Adrian Flint; the pianist, was no longer impatient, but Adrian Flint, the man, had much to learn.
He took to going for regular walks and felt the better for it. Neither Kathy nor Sarah offered to go with him and he was grateful to them for their lack of interest in where he went. He explored the road east towards Kibeen, and west towards Knockferry, but he did not leave it yet for the mountain paths which Sarah knew so intimately.
The bed had been moved from the nursery, and he slept now in Miss Dearlove’s old room opposite. He had asked for another small table and a cupboard in which to keep his records and papers, and he had become very fond of the nursery, with its hotch-potch of furniture, its nursery rhymes running round the walls and the morning sunlight flooding across the faded carpet. He began to picture the two sisters as children, playing with their bricks and their dolls while Nonie sewed by the fire and averted quarrel.
But perhaps they had not quarrelled. Certainly they never quarrelled now, and perhaps the child Sarah had always yielded to Kathy’s gentleness and fought her own small battles alone.
They took to dropping in on him at rare intervals, though they never stopped long. Aunt Em would take his socks for darning, Kathy would bring flowers for his room and stay to listen to a record, and even Danny would knock and put his head round the door to enquire if Adrian would care for a bull’s-eye. Only Sarah never came. She would stand under his window and shout up at him that she was going to Knockferry and did he want a lift, or she was going to the other side and did he want anything from Casey’s, but she never intruded on the nursery unless he specially asked for her, and he found himself detaining her when she brought up his nightly supper tray, asking questions about the day’s happenings, frowning on her when she looked tired.
But it was from Nonie he learnt most about them. She would sometimes bring his lunch up instead of Mary, and she was always willing to stand gossiping while he ate, her faded eyes roving possessively about the room as if she still considered it her domain. It was from Nonie he heard the accounts of Sarah s previous efforts at making money, of Joe’s long devotion to Kathy, of Danny’s birth which had cost his mother her life, of Dun Rury’s forgotten glory when there were servants in the house and fine horses in the stable; and it was from Nonie that he learned what the young Sarah had felt for her father.
“Proud of him she was, an’ ready to put out her two eyes for him at the drop of his hat. He loved her, of course, but when the mistress died his heart turned to Miss Kathy. She was so like her mother, you see, sir, and who could be a more loving child with her pretty, gentle ways an’ the race of an angel on her. But my heart sometimes bled for Miss Sarah. He would look at her, puzzled-like and call her his changeling which as everyone knows is a wicked thing to say for the fairy child has no soul, but that was the way of it. He’d call for Miss Kathy when he had company and forget Miss Sarah, but it was that wan that grieved when he died, God rest his soul. Miss Sarah had pride but she had no vanity.”
“So he left her Dun Rury as compensation,” Adrian said.
“He left her Dun Rury because she was the only wan who shared his love of the place an’ in his heart he knew it,” Nonie replied. “As to compensation, well, I’d not be knowin’. I think she sees her father in the place an’ if that’s good or bad I don’t know and that’s the truth of it. Doing man’s work in the fields, wearin’ trousers, with Tom Blake, the veterinary with one eye on a sick cow an’ the other on Miss Sarah’s figger, what life is that for a young girl, I should like to know? Miss Kathy knows her station. You won’t catch her wearin’ trousers an’ carryin’ coals and the like. Och, it was a sad thing the mistress died before her girls grew up.”
Adrian wondered. He thought of his own mother, troubling so little to understand him, and of his father in the last years of his life, choleric, fretful, impatient of anything outside his own little narrow orbit. Neither of his parents had ever inspired him with that passionate fondness Sarah had known, and later he had been too much absorbed with his profession for other affections to take its place.
By November he had taken to having his Sunday lunch downstairs. Mary did not come on Sundays and Sarah or Kathy had to help Nonie in the kitchen. It would save work, he said, if he ate with the family. They had gone back to their habit of taking their meals in the old servants’ hall, but on Sundays they used the dining room. Kathy looked forward to these occasions. She liked to put on her best dress and sit at the head of the table as she had done after their mother died, and talk to Adrian as though he was her invited guest. Sometimes Joe came over for the day, and she would divide her attentions between the two, playing the part of gracious hostess with so much enjoyment that both men were amused.
Sometimes Adrian would sit by the snug fire with Kathy for half an hour while Joe and Sarah lent a hand with the washing-up, sometimes they would stroll round the garden with Danny running ahead, playing some game of his own, but more often he went straight to his room and the small social contact was broken for another week. But with Kathy he grew indulgent. He answered her shy questions about his foreign tours patiently, gave her advice on how to deal with her pupils’ faults in execution, and even listened to her quoting poetry with courteous attention.
“You know,” Kathy confided to Sarah, “Adrian’s a very charming man.”
“Adrian?” Sarah looked surprised.
“He asked me to call him by his Christian name. After all he calls us by ours. It’s so satisfying, Sarah, to be able to talk to someone who speaks your own language.”
“Yes, darling, I’
m sure it must be,” Sarah answered absently. It was nice, she thought, of Mr. Flint to indulge Kathy’s charming little affectations. She would have expected him to snub someone whose knowledge of his own subject was so superficial, but then one did not snub people like Kathy. One listened with tolerance and one was charmed and perhaps a little flattered.
“I’m glad he came,” Kathy was saying softly. “Perhaps we were meant to—to help him.”
Sarah kissed her quickly. Dear Kathy, she thought with loving fondness, she had a tender heart for anyone in distress and Adrian would indeed be a monster if he could not find some measure of compensation in her regard for him.
“Perhaps you are,” she said gently, then giggled. “Next time the bath water’s cold, I’ll send you to apologize.
One day he surprised her by asking her if she would take him to St. Patrick’s Well.
“Kathy will take you,” she said.
He looked amused.
“I understood that it was a special place of yours.”
“Well, it is, sort of, but it’s rather cold for picnics, now.”
“Do you think so?” His eyes observed her coolly. “You know, you’ve hardly done your share towards entertaining the guest, have you?”
She frowned.
“You’ve always made it plain that you wanted to be left alone.”
“So I have, and you alone of your family have observed the letter of the law admirably. But one is inconsistent, you know. Sometimes one likes a change. Will you take me to St. Patrick’s Well, Sarah?”
“If you like,” she replied carelessly. “When do you want to go?”
“Any day that suits you,” he said, and she answered firmly:
“It will depend on the weather and my farm work. You must be prepared to go at a moment’s notice.”
The next few days were wet and windy and they all remained indoors except Sarah, who did such work on the farm as the weather permitted, coming in wet and muddy to be scolded by Nonie for bringing dirt into her newly scrubbed kitchen.
Kathy spent long hours in the snug making a frock. She hated mending, but she could sew beautifully and made most of her own clothes. Joe was taking her to a dance on Saturday and she wanted the dress for that. On Friday the sun shone again, and the sky was cloudless, and Sarah stood under the nursery window and shouted:
“St. Patrick’s Well today, Mr. Flint. Are you coming?”
He leaned out of the window, grinning at her.
“A peremptory summons, Miss Riordan! What time do we start?”
“Just as soon as I get sandwiches cut. I hope you’re a good walker.”
“Oh, I think so. My legs are longer than yours. Give me a shout when you’re ready.”
They set out an hour later in the thin November sunlight with a couple of old school satchels containing the lunch, and the two greyhounds trotting at their heels.
“Kathy wouldn’t come,” Sarah said. “She wants to finish her dress for tomorrow, so you’ll have to make do with me.”
He smiled faintly but only said:
“What’s happening tomorrow?”
“Joe’s taking her to a dance in Knockferry. They don’t have them very often.”
“Aren’t you going?”
“Me?” She grinned widely. “What would I be wanting with wearing my shoes out to Ted Murphy’s terrible band and nothing in my stomach but stale sausage rolls and fizzy ginger beer? Besides, there’s no one to go with.”
He laughed.
“It doesn’t sound very exhilarating. Is fizzy ginger beer all they give you to drink?”
“Och, there’s a bar and plenty to drink, but unmarried girls get a terrible reputation in Knockferry if they’re seen drinking spirits in public.”
“That, of course, must be a handicap if it’s a dull evening,” he agreed gravely.
“The only thing to do is to get your partner to slip you one in the ladies’ cloak room, only you have to look sharp and pour it down the lavatory if any of the ladies on the committee come in.”
His eyes twinkled.
“It sounds as if it might be rather a strain.”
He glanced at her swinging along beside him, her eyes alight with appreciation of the day, and thought how different she was from her sister. No, he could not see Sarah observing the conventions of a local hop and deriving pleasure from it, yet from the way she walked, she looked as though she could dance.
“Tell me about your sister and young Kavanagh,” he said. “Is she going to marry him?”
“Oh, one day.”
“But they’re not engaged?”
“No, but Joe’s loved Kathy ever since she was a little girl.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s the right man for her.”
“Joe is good and kind and faithful. That makes him right,” she said obstinately. “Kathy’s very fond of him—we all are.”
“Are marriages still arranged in this country?” he asked idly.
“Oh, yes. Nonie says Mary’s family are trying to arrange a match between her and Mike Dolan who has a bit of a farm near Kibeen, only Mike is asking for two cows and Mary’s father will only part with one.”
“But you wouldn’t advocate that arrangement for your sister, would you?” He sounded amused.
“Well, of course there’s no question of cows with Joe and Kathy, though when the time comes, Uncle B. will arrange a little settlement so that Kathy won’t be empty handed.”
“I wonder would you take it so calmly if a marriage was being suggested for you,” he said with a lift of the eyebrow.
“What would I want with a husband when I have Dun Rury?” she laughed and began to whistle The Spanish Lady.
“Sing it,” said Adrian.
“Sing it? You mean all through?”
“Yes, I want to know the words.”
“As I walked down through Dublin City
At the hour of twelve of the night
Who should I spy but a Spanish lady
Washing her feet by candlelight...”
She began the song, fitting her steps to the lilt of the tune, and he thought how free and unselfconscious she was and what nonsense she had in her head about marriage.
“Who should I spy but a Spanish lady
Brushing her hair in broad daylight
First she tossed it, then she brushed it,
On her lamp with a silver comb... ”
He did not take the implied relationship between Joe and Kathy very seriously. So often these childhood attachments came to nothing...
“Catching a moth in a golden net;
When she saw me then she fled me
Lifting her petticoat over the knee.”
Absurd child with her tantrums and her unchildlike flashes of tenderness...
“... In all my life I ne’er did spy
A maid so blithe as the Spanish Lady!
Whack for the toora-loora laddy,
Whack for the toora-loora lee...”
Sarah finished the refrain with a leap in the air. He smiled, thinking he would always associate this song with her.
“Very appropriate,” he said.
“To me? I always think of Kathy when I sing it. I can, see her through the window, washing her feet and tossing her hair and catching a moth in a golden net.”
“And fleeing with her petticoats over her knees?” He shook his head. “No, that’s you, Sarah.”
She watched while he stooped and dipped his hands in the water, and said gravely:
“You mustn’t expect a miracle, Mr. Flint—not all at once.”
He smiled at her serious face.
“I think you told me that the saint wouldn’t perform that sort of miracle. You said there were others.”
“Did I? Well, of course there are.”
“Such as?”
She wrinkled her forehead.
“I don’t quite know. But I think it may be true that when you lose something you find something else to take its place.”
“You believe that?”
“I think so.”
“You believe there is always compensation in life, no matter how deep the loss?”
For a moment her small face held a look of pain, and he knew she was thinking of her father.
“Not always at first,” she said gently. “But in time—well, things become one, if you can understand me.”
He leaned against the rock, watching her.
“You mean your father and Dun Rury are one.”
“Yes,” she said, startled. “How did you know?”
The noise of the stream remained unbroken for a moment, then he said:
“I’m not altogether sure that’s a healthy idea, Sarah.”
She frowned at him.
“How do you mean—healthy?”
“Well, it’s a sort of sublimation really, isn’t it?”
“Sublimation?”
She was plainly puzzled, and he was not sure that he was clear enough about the theories of psycho-analysis not to confuse her further.
“I mean,” he said, “you have transferred your love for your father to your love for Dun Rury. You’re very young, you know. You mustn’t let it become an obsession.”
“Is that how you felt about your career?” she asked, staring up at the sky.
“Yes, I think it was. I had a childhood rather lacking in affection and I gave everything that was in me to my profession. It satisfied every emotion in me and was all I ever wanted. You in your different way are doing the same thing with your home.”
“Well, does it matter?”
“Yes, I think so, when you make a fetish of it. Supposing you had to leave Dun Rury for any reason.”
“Leave Dun Rury!”
“Well, you might want to get married, for one thing.”
She smiled at the absurdity of such a suggestion, and said: