But the obscene dreams were better than the dream with the Tiffany lamps. That dream recurred at least once a month, but by this time I was used to it and never let it frighten me. Sometimes I even managed to wake myself before the dream had progressed to the interior of the restaurant, and then I didn’t feel disturbed by the dream at all, only annoyed that it had interrupted my rest.
My uncle Thomas came for a visit after Denis had left, but Uncle David stayed behind to look after my father.
“Is everything well, Ned?” said Uncle Thomas when we were alone together. “You’ve been very quiet.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Fine.”
“Good. I’m glad to say Drummond still seems to be most conscientious about the estate, although it’s a pity he’s not educated enough to keep better records. However, I’ve had a word with your mother, and she’s offered to make sure that the books are correctly kept. It was unfortunate she changed her mind about letting the children see Patrick, but I suppose she was entitled to be reluctant, and of course it’s no use considering the possibility of a visit now that he’s drinking again.”
I said nothing.
“I thought I would mention it,” said Uncle Thomas, “in case you felt guilty about refusing to see him at Easter. I do understand that it must be peculiarly upsetting for you to be confronted with your father at present. But perhaps later …”
I opened my mouth to tell him the truth but shut it again. If I told the truth my mother might get into trouble.
“Let’s talk of something else,” said Uncle Thomas hastily, mistaking the cause of my embarrassment. “How did you get on with Drummond’s boy?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“Good. Pity there’s no boy of your own class here. If you’ve changed your mind about school—”
“No.”
Uncle Thomas departed at the end of August, and two days later my cousin Edith, Hugh MacGowan’s widow, arrived at Clonagh Court.
I hadn’t seen her since before I left for America, for directly after MacGowan’s murder she had gone to Edinburgh, where she had a townhouse. However, recently my mother had written to her to ask if she would remove her possessions from Clonagh Court since it was obvious she had no intention of living there again. Drummond had had the idea that instead of rebuilding his old home he might use Clonagh Court as his official residence. Having been built as the dower house, it was much grander than old MacGowan’s cottage, where he had been living since our return from America.
Cousin Edith had plump hips and no waist, and when she moved you could hear her corsets creak. She had large breasts of no particular shape, and I felt absolutely sure her thighs would be vast too. When she called at Cashelmara I spent the first five minutes imagining her wearing nothing but a pair of black stockings, and so absorbed was I with this repellent but irresistible mental exercise that it was some time before I heard a single word she was saying.
“Ned!” said my mother reprovingly from a long way away. My mother was in a great gale because she had never thought Edith would call. In the past they had been sworn enemies and barely on speaking terms.
“I’m sorry, Cousin Edith,” I said. “What did you say?”
Cousin Edith asked me what I did with myself when I wasn’t taking lessons with Mr. Watson.
“I go fishing and hunting,” I said. “Sometimes I take the curragh out on the lough.”
“Alone?”
“No, I have several friends.”
“What sort of friends?”
“Edith,” said my mother, “I must show you some of Jane’s paintings. They’re so clever for a little girl not yet seven.”
“What are your friends’ names, Ned?”
“Joyce, O’Malley, Costelloe …” Something in my mother’s expression stopped me. “Just valley names,” I mumbled. I could have kicked myself for not realizing that Cousin Edith would think my friends very low. I hadn’t wanted to embarrass my mother.
“I think I’ll just run up to the nursery and bring the other children down,” said my mother. “Why don’t you come with me, Ned? Excuse us, Edith.”
“Oh, Ned, you can’t leave me alone!” said Cousin Edith with an awful attempt at a winsome smile. “Where’s your chivalry? Very well, Sarah, run along and fetch the children.”
“Well, perhaps—”
“Oh, please! I should so love to see the dear little things!” said Cousin Edith, and my mother, outmaneuvered, retreated with reluctance.
“Well, Ned,” said Cousin Edith, “I declare your dear mother looks very well. So nice, is it not, that she has Mr. Drummond to look after her?”
“She does look well, I agree.”
“Do you see much of Mr. Drummond?”
“Now and then.”
“When is now,” said Cousin Edith, “and when is then?”
“I see him at dinner.”
“Every night? How nice! And breakfast too?”
“No.”
“He breakfasts alone with your mother?”
“No, at his house.”
“Come, Ned, you can be honest with me! We both know how matters are arranged, don’t we?”
I didn’t answer.
“Does your mother take you to church every Sunday?”
“There’s a service in the chapel once a month.”
“Does your mother go?”
“Nanny takes us,” I said and immediately wondered why I hadn’t lied and said yes.
“I’m so glad your dear mother isn’t hypocritical,” said Cousin Edith. “I confess I deplore hypocrisy. Do you like Mr. Drummond?”
“I like him the hell of a lot better than I liked Mr. MacGowan,” I said before I could stop myself, “and if you’ve finished insulting my mother, perhaps you’d be good enough to leave.”
“Ned! How rude!”
I said a word that should never have been said. It was stupid of me, for I played straight into her hands.
“And coarse!” said Cousin Edith. “Worse than a guttersnipe!”
I walked out.
Two weeks later, soon after Cousin Edith had paid a visit to Surrey, my father informed my mother through his solicitors that he was taking steps to remove the children from her custody and to have the deed which had ceded Cashelmara to me declared invalid by the Court of Chancery.
Chapter Three
I
“HE’LL NEVER SUCCEED,” SAID Drummond. “The deed was legal enough, and how can he take the children when he’s still a drunkard?”
“He’s not asking for the children for himself,” said my mother, the shadows dark beneath her eyes. “He wants them to be made wards of court so that a guardian can be appointed.”
“They can never prove that you’re not a wonderful mother to those children!”
“But the adultery, Maxwell,” my mother whispered, and to my horror I saw she was crying. “Edith will testify … I knew she only came to spy.”
“Yes, and she found out that I don’t live here, that I never spend a night beneath this roof!”
“But the servants … That maid I dismissed because she interrupted us—she went straight to Edith, I’m sure of it, and that was why Edith called.” She was weeping so hard she could no longer speak.
“Mama,” I said, stumbling over to her. I was so distressed I hardly knew what I said. “You mustn’t cry. Papa’s made these threats before and they never came to anything. Please don’t cry. Please.”
“He’ll never let me have any peace,” she said. “So long as he lives I’ll never have a moment’s rest.”
“Sweetheart, you know it’s not as black as that,” said Drummond, stooping over her. “Don’t you trust me to find a way out of our troubles as usual?”
“There can’t be many ways left,” she said. “I’m going to lose the children, and if he turns us out of Cashelmara I’ll lose you too.”
“Sarah—”
“There wouldn’t be any money,” she said, sobbing, “and I’d be too much of a bu
rden to you. I’m no longer young. You’ll leave me.”
He shook her by the shoulders. “I’ll never leave you,” he said. “Understand? Never. How many more times do I have to say that?”
“But if there’s no money—”
“I’ll make money. Meanwhile, we’re staying here.”
“But if Patrick has the deed set aside—”
“It’s all talk! All he ever does is talk, and to be sure he could never have the deed set aside!”
“He could say he was unwell at the time—not in his right mind, that the deed was extorted from him by fraud, duress … Oh, Maxwell, there are any number of excuses he can make, and Mr. Rathbone’s such a clever lawyer!”
“There’s more than one clever lawyer in the world, and we’ll take all the others.”
She was in his arms, and when I saw her expression I turned away and peered blindly out of the window. In the silence that followed I knew he was kissing her. I could see their bodies reflected dimly in the glass of the window pane, and although in my discomfort I willed them to stop they seemed to have forgotten I was in the room.
My embarrassment increased until it was intolerable. Not looking at them, I blurted out, “I could go and see my father and beg him to let things be. Perhaps he’d listen to me and be generous.”
The bodies in the reflection separated. My mother’s voice said bitterly, “Your father would never be generous now. Matters have gone too far. He wouldn’t even believe us if we promised to let you visit him.”
“We must consult the lawyers,” said Drummond, and the next day my mother departed for Dublin to take legal advice. It was thought better that she travel alone. It would only have given rise to more gossip if Drummond had accompanied her, and she wanted to create the best possible impression on her lawyers.
Two days later my aunt Madeleine arrived to say that not only had Cousin Edith returned to Clonagh Court but that she had brought my father with her.
II
My father had wanted to come at once to Cashelmara to remove his children, but Aunt Madeleine had managed to persuade him to wait until she had spoken to my mother.
“But my mother’s gone to Dublin to see her lawyers,” I said, “and I don’t know when she’ll be back.”
We were in the morning room downstairs. The cherubs of the china clock were busy striking eleven o’clock, and beyond the windows the rain blew mistily across the untrimmed lawn.
“Perhaps it’s a good thing your mother’s not here,” said Aunt Madeleine surprisingly. “If she were she would without doubt have a nervous collapse, and that would only serve to complicate the situation. Let me see. I’d better arrange with your nanny—Mrs. Gray, isn’t it?—for you all to go to Salthill for a few days. Sea air is most bracing for children at this time of year.”
I stared at her. “You mean—I don’t understand—you don’t think Papa should see us?”
“Certainly not! First of all, he has absolutely no right to come here and abduct you in direct defiance of the court order, and second he’s drinking very heavily again and it would be most unsuitable if he took charge of you. The situation is quite different from that time earlier in the year when he was sober and requesting to see you in a proper manner. Of course, Edith is entirely to blame for the present distressing dilemma. Your uncles were firmly opposed to your father leaving England, but Edith influenced him, and once your father had made up his mind there was nothing your uncles could do to dissuade him. The best that can be done now is to remove the children to a secret destination and then talk to Patrick until he sees reason. He must realize that this notion of abduction simply won’t do. If he wishes to get the custody order amended he must do it through the courts.”
“But, Aunt Madeleine … you do think, don’t you, that we should go on living with Mama? I wouldn’t mind visiting my father, but—”
“Of course it would be unsuitable if you lived with him permanently. He must stop drinking again before that idea can be considered. As for your mother, I hardly know what to think. I cannot condone her liaison with that man, and I think it’s very bad that you should be confronted with it daily. John doesn’t matter—he’ll always be too young to understand—but it’s a shocking example to those girls growing up and God only knows what effect it’s having on you. One can only pray, as I do daily, that you survive with your moral standards untarnished.”
“I don’t want to be taken away from my mother,” said my voice.
“No, of course you don’t, and in spite of all I’ve just said I don’t think you should be. This ceaseless tug of war between your parents is even worse for you than seeing daily examples of your mother’s infatuation with Maxwell Drummond, and that’s what I must persuade Patrick to accept when I return to Clonareen. Now, I think I should speak to Nanny to arrange for your departure to Salthill as soon as possible.”
We left for Salthill that afternoon, and Drummond, to my relief, rode with us. Aunt Madeleine was opposed to this, but we had to spend the night at Oughterard, and traveling is difficult enough with three young children without the complications arising from an overnight stop. Drummond found rooms for us, saw that the horses were properly attended to and tipped all the right people so that we received good service. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t been there. When we reached Salthill the next morning he installed us in a quiet hotel near the promenade and stayed until Miss Cameron and Mr. Watson arrived with the luggage in the extra carriage, which had been hired from Leenane. It was only then that he told me he would be leaving.
“It would be nice to spend a few days with you by the sea,” he said to me, “but I’d best go home in case your father makes more mischief.”
“I wish I knew when Mama will be coming home from Dublin.”
“She might be in Galway tomorrow. I thought that before I go back I would leave a note for her at the Great Southern Hotel to tell her where you are, so maybe in a few hours she’ll be arriving here to look for you.”
He was right. She came. She was red-eyed from weeping, and her clothes were shabby after the long train journey and she hadn’t bothered to do her hair carefully so that it fell down as soon as she took off her hat.
“You look very tired, my lady,” said Nanny at once. “You’d better lie down and rest for half an hour.”
“Oh no,” said my mother. “I must see the children. I’ve got to see the children.” She was quite distraught.
After a pause Nanny said, “I’ll fetch them. They’re with Miss Cameron at present. Ned dear, order your mama some tea.”
“What happened, Mama?” I said when we were alone.
“They weren’t sure about the deed. They thought perhaps it might be set aside. But they said you could easily be made wards of court if your father applied to the judge. Do you know if he’s applied yet? I told the attorneys I didn’t know if he’d applied.”
“I don’t know. Mama, if we’re made wards of court, does it mean the judge would appoint someone like Uncle Thomas—or Aunt Madeleine—to be our guardian? Because if so, we would still stay with you. Aunt Madeleine said we should stay.”
“The judge is almost certain not to allow that. There’s the adultery. And I haven’t gone to church. I’ve failed to set you a good religious example. And there’s the fact that I haven’t sent you to a proper school and allowed you to associate with those peasant boys.”
“Good God!” I said, so amazed that for a moment I forgot to be frightened. “What stupid things people worry about!”
“I’ve got to stop your father,” she said, not listening to me. “I’ve got to reason with him. I’m going back to Cashelmara tonight and then I shall call at Clonagh Court.”
“Mama, you can’t go back tonight—forty miles! It’s impossible! Stay here tonight. Please stay.”
“But I must leave early tomorrow. There’s no time to waste.” Her eyes were bright, as if she had a fever. She was twisting her hands over and over in her lap. “I must see him,” s
he said. “I must.”
“Let me come with you.”
“No!” she said sharply and then added in a softer, more normal voice, “Stay here and look after the little ones for me. Please, Ned. It would mean so much to me if you did that.”
So I stayed. For three days I played with my brother and sisters on the beach or in the hotel, and then at last on the third night Maxwell Drummond arrived and asked to speak to me alone.
III
We went to my bedroom. It was a narrow little room, and the wallpaper, which consisted of a pattern of enormous roses, made it seem even narrower. There was a chair and a washstand, a tallboy and a brass bed.
“What happened?” I said in a low voice.
He sat down on the chair. I had never thought of him as being either young or old, but now he looked every one of his forty-five years. His eyes were bloodshot with tiredness, and the lines were deep about his mouth. He looked at me without expression.
“Sit down, Ned,” he said.
I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed. Nothing happened except that I began to feel sick and was gripped by the terrible conviction that soon I’d feel sicker still.
“Your mother went to see your father at Clonagh Court,” he said. “She was prepared to be friendly and even brought him some gifts from the children, but he was beyond reason and there was a quarrel. She left. He drank himself senseless. The next morning he was so ill that your cousin Edith sent for your aunt Madeleine, who said your father was suffering from an illness called cirrhosis of the liver. It’s common among drunkards, and your father had suffered attacks before. Your father was very ill for twenty-four hours and finally went into a coma.” He stopped.
I said nothing. Above us the gaslight flickered, and beyond the curtains the rain was tapping at the pane.
“He died,” said Drummond.
There was another silence.
“This morning it was … Your aunt came to Cashelmara to tell your mother, and I spoke to her. ‘Cirrhosis of the liver,’ she said, and I made her say it two or three times to make sure I had it right.”
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