“Hullo, Neddy,” said my younger sister.
“Don’t call me Neddy!” I growled.
“I want Mama,” said Jane, just as if she were ordering an item in a restaurant. She was dark like John and had an upturned nose and a wide mouth that was capable of shaping itself into any number of expressions, most of them impudent. “I want her now—at once—and then I want to go home before Ozymandias dies of grief without me.”
“Who in God’s name is Ozymandias?”
“Ozymandias King of Kings,” said Jane, “is my eldest cat. Why isn’t Mama here to meet us?”
“But she is!” cried John. “Look!”
“Mama!” sobbed Eleanor.
“Mama!” shrieked Jane, elbowing Eleanor out of the way, and there followed a very confused and emotional five minutes on the steps of the hotel. Uncle David and I stood watching with foolish smiles on our faces, Nanny wiped away a large tear and all the passers-by stopped to sigh “Ahhh!”
“Very fitting,” said Nanny when she could speak again.
The euphoria of the reunion lasted some time and was still at its peak when I had the conversation with my uncles about Drummond’s future at Cashelmara. It was not until my uncles had departed to remove my father that I had the chance for any long private conversations with either John or my sisters, for my mother refused to let them out of her sight. However, on the day after my uncles’ departure she was indisposed enough to stay in bed for the morning, and after breakfast Nanny and Miss Cameron announced their intention of taking the younger children to the beach at Salthill. It was only two miles away, and one could travel there by tram.
“Will you come with us, Ned?” asked Nanny deferentially, and I said I would. It was a sunny day and I liked the promenade at Salthill.
After we were safely installed on the beach with the picnic basket and other paraphernalia, Nanny produced her knitting, Miss Cameron took the girls off to look for shells and John wandered away to practice drawing numbers. The tide was low and some sand was exposed invitingly below us.
“Johnny’s come on such a lot,” said Nanny fondly. “He can write now, you know.”
“About time too,” I said. John’s ill-health had made him backward, but I had never thought he was stupid.
“Miss Cameron’s been good for him,” said Nanny. “She took trouble, you know, when the tutors wouldn’t. Mr. MacGowan engaged her because he said Scots teachers were the best, and I must say she’s done wonders for John and the girls.”
“Hm,” I said. I had scooped away a layer of pebbles, found some sand underneath and was busy sculpting some turrets.
“Of course,” said Nanny, “it’s ever such a shocking thing about Mr. MacGowan.”
“Hm,” I said again.
“Mark you, he might have been a wicked man in some ways, but it’s not for us to judge. Murder can never be right.”
I stopped sculpting and stared hard across Galway Bay. The blue mountains of Clare stared back. I thought of Drummond throwing his hat in the air and buying six bunches of violets for my mother.
“A criminal can be sentenced to death and hanged,” I said. “That’s murder, but everyone would say it was justified.”
“That’s quite different, dear. The judge is allowed to give a sentence of death according to the law of the land, but judges are special people appointed by the Queen. We can’t all be judges and take the law into our own hands! It wouldn’t be at all fitting. Besides, remember the Commandments. ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”
The vertigo had begun again. I dug my fingers hard into the sand and screwed my eyes tight shut.
“There, there,” said Nanny quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you by referring to Mr. MacGowan. We’ll talk about something else. I must say, it gave me rather a turn to see Mr. Drummond here with your mama, but of course a poor defenseless woman does need an escort in this wicked world. Ned dear, I don’t want to say it, but I feel it’s only right to warn you that some very vicious rumors are circulating about Mr. Drummond and your mother. I hope he sends for his wife as soon as he gets home.”
I looked at the blue mountains again. There were three clouds above them. I stared, concentrating hard on each cloud in turn.
“Of course your mother’s such a good woman,” said Nanny, knitting needles clicking. “Such a devoted wife and mother always and never a shred of gossip to the contrary, which is more than one can say of many a beautiful titled lady, you mark my words. I’d always trust your mother to do what was fitting.”
After a moment I said, “Will you excuse me, Nanny? I want to talk to John.” I stood up, stumbling over my sculpted turrets, and walked steadily across the sand to my brother.
“Look how pretty my figures are,” said John, who had reached the number nine. “Aren’t figures a lovely shape?”
“I suppose they are. John, seven doesn’t come before six.”
“Papa’s going to design the topiary again, and he says I can help him think up new shapes. I’ve decided to choose the shape of the number five. Eight would be nice, but it’s too difficult.”
“John,” I said, “Papa’s very ill. Uncle Thomas and Uncle David are taking him away to live in England for a while.”
“Yes, that’ll be nice. But he’ll come back, won’t he? He’s promised me we can work on the topiary together.”
“I’m not sure exactly what’s going to happen, but Mama’s going to get a divorce, and—”
“What’s that?”
“John, you must know what a divorce is!”
“I don’t think so. Is it a flower?”
“Good God, no!”
“I don’t expect I would know about it, in that case. I only know about flowers. The west border’s lovely now, all purple and white, and you should see the Azalea Walk! Papa’s bought a new kind of azalea, and—”
“Didn’t he tell you he was going away?”
“Of course—when we said goodbye to him. Aunt Madeleine had come to stay, so she was there, and Uncle David was there too, of course, and Papa wore a nice velvet smoking jacket, bluish, the color of those pretty dark pansies along the east border. Papa kissed me and asked me to look after the garden for him while he was away, so I said I would. Then he wanted to kiss Eleanor, but she ran away and that made him upset. Eleanor’s peculiar nowadays. But he kissed Jane and Jane kissed him twice and hugged him, so that made up for Eleanor. Papa gave Jane a little wooden cat he had carved. He’s always giving her things, you know, and Nanny says he spoils her. Nanny’s very strict with Jane, but it’s no use because Jane just goes to Papa and Papa says she can have whatever she wants.”
Jane had always been abominably spoiled. It was one of the reasons why she was so obnoxious, and whenever the subject was raised I always felt quite unreasonably cross.
“Jane’s a little menace,” I said, unable to stop myself. “She was a menace even before I went away, and now it’s obvious she’s worse than ever. I can’t think why Mama and Papa think she’s so special.”
“Nanny says it’s because she’s the youngest. She says youngest children often get spoiled. Spoiling’s common among parents, like a cold, Nanny says, and even the best parents can catch it. Nanny says it’s a pity and we should feel sorry for Jane, but I don’t feel sorry for her particularly because she’s such a nuisance. Ned, what’s a divorce?”
“It means that Mama and Papa are going to get unmarried and that they won’t be living together in the future. It’s a pity, but it’s for the best. Papa treated Mama very badly and he let Mr. MacGowan ill-treat her too.”
“Mr. MacGowan’s dead,” said John. “I was sorry about that. He had planted some nice little trees, you know, and he showed me the seedlings. They were like baby Christmas trees. I liked them awfully.”
I said roughly, “John, you’re not listening to a word I’m saying!”
“Yes, I am. Mama and Papa are going to get unmarried. When will Papa come back to Cashelmara, do you think?”
“John, that�
�s exactly what I’m trying to tell you! He won’t be coming back. We’re going to live at Cashelmara with Mama, and Mr. Drummond will be the agent When Papa’s better he’ll live in England with Uncle Thomas and Uncle David.”
“Oh, but he’ll come back one day,” said John. “There’s the garden, you see. We’re going to do the topiary together. Does Mr. Drummond like gardening?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“Well, he won’t be any use if he can’t garden. You’d better tell Mama to send him away.”
“John …” I said, exasperated, and then gave up. I could only stare at him helplessly.
“Yes?” he said.
I made one last effort. “Mama’s very fond of Mr. Drummond. He’s going to take care of us all now instead of Papa.”
“That’s jolly obliging of him, but actually I’d rather have Papa. I don’t mind if Papa and Mama get unmarried, but Papa must come back and live with us. Mama can keep Mr. Drummond if she wants, but Papa’s got to come back.”
“John …” I was floundering for words again. “Why can’t you understand?” I said desperately. “You’re ten years old and yet you’re talking like a baby of five. What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m not a baby!” yelled John, suddenly deciding to lose his temper. “I’m not, I’m not! I’m grown up and big and I’m going to fight you!” And he swung his fist furiously at my head.
“Now, now!” called Nanny warningly from across the beach.
I caught John’s wrist and held it fast. “Wait, Johnny. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
“Big beast!” said John, his eyes bright with tears. “Why don’t you go back to America?” And tearing himself free, he stalked off across the sand to the water’s edge.
Miss Cameron and my sisters were only a few yards away.
“Dear me!” said Miss Cameron, who was a tall, angular woman of about thirty-five with a slight but meticulous Scots accent. “What was all that about, pray?”
“It was nothing,” I said. “Just a slight misunderstanding.” I took Eleanor’s hand. “Come for a walk with me,” I suggested, smiling at her. “Maybe we can buy some ices.”
“I want to come too,” said Jane at once.
“You’re not invited. Come on, Eleanor.”
“Let’s see if Nanny has any more of those delicious peppermints, Jane,” said Miss Cameron.
“Shan’t,” said Jane, grabbing my free hand and digging her sharp little fingernails into my palm. “I want an ice.”
“You won’t get one from me. I don’t like spoiled little girls who don’t know how to say please and thank you.”
Jane decided to throw a tantrum. Everyone else on the beach stared as Nanny came skimming toward us, and Miss Cameron clicked her tongue disapprovingly against her long white teeth.
“Run, Eleanor!” I said quickly, so we dashed across the shingle and scrambled up the steps to the esplanade.
“Nothing’s going right for me this morning!” I said wryly. “First I make John lose his temper and then I send Jane into a tantrum. I hope I shan’t quarrel with you as well or I shall feel very out of sorts.”
She smiled but shyly, and her silence was painful to me. I could remember her when she had been little, constantly talking and laughing, always so bright and smart and cute.
“What’s happened, Eleanor?” I said after a pause. “What’s the matter? You’re not shy of me, are you?”
She shook her head, still smiling, and clasped my hand tightly as we wandered down the promenade. We didn’t find any ices, but I bought some potted shrimps from a shrimp vendor and presently we sat down on a bench to enjoy them.
At last I said, “Was it very bad at home after I left?”
She shook her head.
“Was anyone unkind to you?”
She shook her head again.
“You can tell me if they were. Did Mr. MacGowan hurt you?”
She shook her head a third time.
“Who, then?”
“Papa.”
It was my turn to be speechless. I began to feel sick. “What did he do?”
“You mustn’t tell anyone,” she said. “Mr. MacGowan said not to tell anyone, not even Nanny. Mr. MacGowan said that if I told anyone I’d have to be sent away to a boarding school.”
I felt sicker than ever. I could no longer look at my potted shrimps. “Mr. MacGowan’s dead, Eleanor,” I said. “It doesn’t matter any more now. Nobody’s going to send you away.”
“Is he really dead?”
“Of course!”
“I won’t be haunted by his ghost if I disobey him?”
“Never.”
“I’ve been dreaming that his ghost comes back to haunt me,” she said. “I’ve had horrid dreams ever since—”
“Since when?”
“Since Papa went mad,” she said, crying. “It was last autumn. He was helping me stick some new pressed wild flowers into my album, and he was telling me all the names in Latin and in English so that I could label them correctly. There was this lovely tall yellow flower, and when he looked at it he screamed and dropped it and said it was a snake. Then he screamed again and started tearing at his clothes. He said he was being eaten by insects. Cousin Edith came in and Mr. MacGowan, and Cousin Edith dragged me out of the room and afterward Mr. MacGowan said I mustn’t tell anyone.”
“He did that,” I said, “because if Mama had known about it she would have taken you away from Papa, and Papa at that time was trying to convince her that he could deprive her of her children unless she returned to him.”
“But I can stay with Mama now, can’t I? I don’t have to see Papa any more?”
“Of course not. Papa’s a drunkard and not fit to be in the same house as you.” I still felt sick enough to vomit, and every muscle in my body was rigid with anger.
“John says Papa will come back,” Eleanor was saying fearfully.
“That’s not true. He won’t come back. Mama’s getting a divorce.”
“A divorce?” I had thought I was giving her good news, but she was appalled. “Oh goodness, isn’t that terribly wicked? Nanny says divorces never suit.”
“It’s the best Mama can do,” I said rapidly. “It’ll mean that you can stay with her and nobody can force you to see Papa.”
She relaxed in relief. “I do love Papa, but I was so frightened of him in case he went mad again.”
“I understand.” I hugged her reassuringly.
“Mr. Drummond’s not a drunkard too, is he?”
“No, he’ll look after us well, you’ll see. Everything will be fine once we’re all home together again, and you won’t have to worry about anything any more.”
I know I comforted her when I said that, because she dried her eyes and started to eat her shrimps, and presently she even said how nice it was to have a little holiday by the sea.
I didn’t tell my mother what Eleanor had said because I didn’t want to upset her, and although I almost told Drummond that evening I didn’t. I was too ashamed of my father to want to repeat the story, and besides, despite my favorable words about Drummond to John and Eleanor, I was still confused about him. When I went to bed that night I lay awake for a long time worrying in case Nanny should give in her notice once she realized my mother was living in adultery, and before I finally drifted into sleep I remember thinking numbly: If only John hadn’t mentioned MacGowan and his little trees.
But then I slept, and when I awoke all thought of MacGowan and my father had been scrubbed from my mind. For at last it was time to go home to Cashelmara, and it seemed my long nightmare of uncertainty and anxiety was finally coming to an end.
III
I came home. But it was not as I thought it would be. The house was the same, and so were the horses in the stables, and although some of the servants were new they were all valley people and their faces were familiar to me. Even Flannigan the butler was soon to return, lured back by my mother. The view was as dazzling as I remembered, the
lough set in the mountains like a precious stone in a heavy ring, and above the house in the woods the little chapel still stood bleakly above the family graves. Even the cobwebs decorating the musty pews still seemed spun in exactly the same way.
Yet everything was not the same. It was changed because my father was no longer there.
I walked in his garden and it was as if he walked beside me. I wandered across the “lake” lawn, past the blazing borders and up the stone steps to the Italian garden, serene amidst the larchwoods. All the lilies were blooming on the water, and beyond the little teahouse the view of the lough and mountains was framed in white marble. My fingers trailed across the sundial he had carved, and suddenly he was with me again, wearing his shabby work clothes, his long strong hands covered with dirt and his eyes very blue in his tanned face. I could remember wanting to carve yet having no talent for it, but he hadn’t minded my failure. “You’ll be good at all the things I was never good at,” he had said, smiling at me, and when I had said, “But I want to be like you,” he had said that wasn’t important because the most important thing of all was that I should be myself. “If you try to be someone other than yourself you’ll never be happy,” he had said. “You’ve got to be honest with yourself so that you can be honest with other people.”
I hadn’t known what he had meant, and later when I had heard how he had abused my mother and indulged in disgusting practices his words had made even less sense to me.
I went back to the house, thinking I could escape him, but he was there too. I went to the nursery, and there was my beloved rocking horse he had made me long ago. I went to the library, and there were his dog-eared gardening books stacked on the window seat. Retreating to my bedroom, I began to sort through my old possessions—and there was the storybook about King Arthur that he had given me, and stuck inside were the sketches he had made of my pony. I opened a cupboard to shove the sketches out of sight, and out fell my photograph album, the pages flying in the sudden draft of air until it was lying open at the pictures of Eleanor’s christening. I stooped to look. My mother had given me the photographs because I had wanted a picture of my aunt Marguerite, who had died when I was six, and there she was. I could see her standing beside my mother. My mother was holding Eleanor in her arms, and my father was standing next to her, his hand in mine. I wore a sailor suit. We were all smiling at the camera.
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