Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  Easing myself around the other side of the landing, I pushed open another door. Tom’s room. I told myself I was doing research for the book, but in my heart I knew I was snooping. For the book, I needed to look in his kitchen, not his bedroom.

  Photographs of him, mostly in chronological order, took up nearly every inch of space. Children lined up in school uniforms with their smiling teachers in class pictures, graduation photos, Tom standing with various young girls in semi-formal dresses with corsages pinned to their blossoming bosoms, pictures of Tom in chef’s whites from various restaurants. Near the door were a whole array of photos of Tom with Tabitha. I recognized her from the promo pictures. Tabitha with Tom on the set of the show, smiling and getting their mic packs attached. Tabitha with Tom, laughing against a backdrop of bleached-out white buildings and Aegean blue sky of Greece. Tabitha with Tom at a family wedding, the bride beaming between the two of them, pulling them closer for a hug. Finally, Tabitha with Tom, head dipped demurely, smiling up through her lashes and holding out her engagement ring. I was dizzy with homesickness. I wanted to be back with Maggie.

  “Sheila! Did you fall in?” Mary cackled, and Mrs. O’Grady laughed along good-naturedly.

  I scurried down, and around the corner.

  “Jaysus, you put the heart crossways in me,” Maeve exclaimed in a high-pitched voice, clutching her heart. “Sit yourself down. A pot of tea’s hot and waiting on the table.”

  The two women sat me down and filled me to my toes. Mrs. O’Grady must have asked me a dozen times if I’d like my tea warmed up. She asked if I’d like honey instead of jam, did I prefer soft cheese to the cheddar, and had I gotten enough to eat? I’d like to say I minded my manners and ate like a bird, but the truth of the matter is that I took her up on every offer and didn’t leave a crumb on my dish. Everything was just so good. I may have skipped a few meals the week before I left, and maybe I drank my dinner one too many times, but it was as though I’d been on rations up to this point. I thought back. Since I’d stepped foot on the plane, I’d eaten every scrap of what was put before me. It was like I’d been starving to death. I couldn’t say why. Of course in New York, eating — or rather, not eating — for women had the status of a competitive sport. Who could order the smallest salad with the least dressing at lunch? Who wanted to eat when the constant stress hovered at fight-or-flight level daily? Even if people wanted to eat, when was there ever time?

  To make some gesture of manners, I did manage to mumble, “Oh no, you shouldn’t wait on me hand and foot,” at some point between butter-slathered bites of bread. I was so relaxed. Maybe it was all of the bready, heavy food talking but it was as though time had stopped. As I thought about it, I realized most of my eating was done at my desk or over the kitchen sink. And when I sat down for a restaurant meal with Hank, I was always on my toes.

  “Did you bake this bread?” I asked. The two women burst out laughing.

  “’Course I baked it. What do you think?”

  I didn’t know. At home, it came in plastic bags from Food Emporium, or else I splurged on pricey loaves over at Sarah’s Bread. I’d never made bread in my life.

  “Can I have the recipe?” I asked. I’d take what I could to get the book rolling, but I wished it were for a more intricate dish.

  “You can, sure. And I’ll just go slice another loaf. You’ll starve while you’re sittin’ there.”

  “Please, keep your seat.”

  “Because I’m an aul lady?” she asked. I was mortified. Before I could sputter an apology, she and Mary laughed. “I’m teasing you. Don’t mind it. It’s our way. But grant me the pleasure of feeding you two gorgeous girls. It does me good to see you enjoying food at my table. It’s true, I am an old lady but I’m fit as a fiddle, and expect to be till the day I join Eoin in the family grave, God rest his soul.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. The word loss made me think of my mother, and I felt my eyes sheen over.

  “All right, pet?” Her voice softened with such gentle concern, it brought the lump that had been threatening to rise up to my throat. I nodded. I coughed and then managed to say, “Just tired, thanks.” When she looked away, I dabbed my eyes with my linen napkin from lunch.

  “You know, Tom still doesn’t like talking about his Da. He sets flowers on the grave out in the churchyard on Eoin’s birthday and whatnot, but keeps his thoughts to himself. As for me, the hurting has dulled and turned to joyful memories over the years. I lost my dear husband 21 years ago this April.”

  “And have you dated much since then?” I asked taking a sip of tea.

  Mary and Mrs. O’Grady looked at each other with raised eyebrows and burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “It’s just, well…” Mrs. O’Grady knit her brow. “I wouldn’t know how to explain it.”

  Mary stepped in. “You see, Sheila, it wouldn’t be common for a widow to start keeping company after her husband passed. Not a respectable one, anyhow.”

  “But why not?” I pressed. “If a Catholic woman is faithful, and her husband dies, then shouldn’t she have another chance at happiness?”

  Mary’s lips struggled to form words. “It’s hard to explain, it’s perhaps a custom or tradition. I don’t even know if it’s to do with being Catholic. Maybe it’s to do with being from a small village, or with being Irish.”

  “Does it have to do with widows being past childbearing age?” I asked. I was framing the situation through my New York, feminist, Sarah Lawrence College-lens. Why wouldn’t a woman have a right to physical intimacy, regardless of her age? If she remarried, it wasn’t adultery.

  “It would just be weird to us,” Mary blurted. “This isn’t New York after all. We don’t go around talking about our personal lives. Now, do you need a top-up on that tea?” She poured, not waiting for me to answer.

  “It’s just our way,” Mrs. O’Grady said. “I had my married life with Eoin and if there’s any justice, he’s with the Lord right now, looking down on this gathering, proud that I’ve done right by his name.” Although the sentiment was nice, I felt a little squirmy. Hank is a vocal atheist. My grandparents were holiday Catholics. They only graced the doors of the church on Easter and Christmas. And to be fair, for the occasional funeral or wedding. My mother and I had accompanied them to church on occasion, but I didn’t grow up imagining guardian angels or lost loved ones watching over me. I hoped no one mentioned ghosts. I’m kind of a chicken when it comes to the supernatural, even if the otherworldly beings are supposed to be on my side.

  “It’s awful to think Chef lost his Da so early.” Mary said. “He’s a fine man in his own right, despite it. That’s all down to you, Mrs. O’Grady.” She raised her teacup in a toast.

  I raised mine in reply. I saw a flash of black and white beside me, and turned to see Nap the dog balancing precariously on four spindly legs atop a birdbath outside the window. “Go on, shoo, you disloyal creature!” Mrs. O’Grady shouted. The dog jumped down and skulked away.

  “Since the very day Tom brought me that beast, no bigger than your fist he was, he’s been sneakin’ off like a thief to beg scraps and cuddles off Lord Wexford, the very Earl himself. Disrespectful pup! Swanning right up to the Lord of the Manor, no doubt looking for a cozy spot in his antique bed that sits three feet off the ground!”

  “Ooh, that sounds gorgeous. Who could blame Nap for wanting to curl up there? When did you see his bed?”

  Mrs. O’Grady blushed slightly, and said, “I didn’t see his bed, strictly speaking. I’m remembering his room from when his departed wife was still with us. The point is, the dog was meant to keep me company. Tom felt I was too lonely. Pish! You did me no good, though, did ya, ya mangy mutt? One scratch behind your raggedy ear from the Earl when you were a pup and you worship him,” she hollered after the dog. “I like to give him a hard time,” she confided, “but I can’t blame him for being fond of the man. Tom wouldn’t be a patch on the man he is today if the Earl h
adn’t stepped in. After Eoin passed, he could have turned us out of this house and no one would have thought a thing of it. My Eoin was a stone mason,” she said, turning to me. “He mended the walls, the roads, the stable mews buildings, you name it. He built a fair number of new structures as they were needed as well.”

  “I heard tell he was a jack of all trades,” Mary prompted.

  Mrs. O’Grady buttered a piece of roll, beaming with pride. “He stepped in wherever a pair of hands was needed, just as you do, Mary. Capable and hard-working, like yourself. He cared for the cows, looked after the horses, dug ditches when the ponds were overflowing. For his trouble, he got to stay in this cottage, where his father and his father before him lived, and draw a salary.”

  “The Earl did the right thing, letting you stay,” I said.

  “Not only did he let us stay, he pays me the same as he did Eoin. Always has!”

  “And it’s a bargain for him,” Mary said emphatically. “Who else would have taken charge of the henhouse when it needed someone stepping in? To say nothing of the fine breads and pies you do for the restaurants. Besides, you’re the eyes and ears of Castle Stone. The Earl can’t be bothered to oversee all the goings-on around here. And all that’s to say nothing of how you cared for his wife during her illness. I only arrived at the end, but I witnessed it with my own eyes. Lady Helen couldn’t have known a tenderer nurse if she’d had children of her own to look after her. He’s got a friend in you!”

  “Ah,” she said, her eyes shining, “He has. There’s no denying that.” She stared into the distance for a minute. “Sheila, tell us about yourself. Mary and I have been gabbing, and you’ve hardly said two words together. Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “No, she’s definitely, definitely not,” Mary said, winking at me sideways. Great. Ashleigh told her I’m a lesbian. I made a mental note to straighten that out as soon as possible. Here, in front of Mrs. O’Grady and a representation of Jesus, didn’t seem the time nor place.

  “That’s a shame,” she looked at me with kind eyes. “I’ve a feeling that you’re the sort who would make a man a good wife.” Under her scrutiny, I felt like a failure. I wasn’t sure what made a good wife, but I doubted I had it. I always saw myself more as a pal than someone a man wanted to marry. Or at most, someone a guy would date for six months, and break up with in order to find himself, only to be engaged three months later because he’d “found his soul mate, and wasn’t I so happy for him?” “At any rate, I’m sure you’ll be a help around the estate. There’s nowt so valuable as an able pair of hands, and there’s plenty of work to be done ‘round here. Our Tom’ll be overjoyed to have you in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you for the lovely meal, Mrs. O’Grady,” I said, folding my napkin. “But shouldn’t we be getting back, Mary?”

  “Ah, sure, you must be wrecked.”

  “Mrs. O’Grady, you’ve spent your whole day taking care of me. I’m sure you have better things to do.” I wanted out of there before we could start discussing how well I could tat, or what kind of experience I had curing meats. Lying to a rotation of front desk clerks and undergardeners was one thing, but I didn’t relish the idea of duping this kind woman. I’d have to make it my business to stay as far from her as possible during my period of treachery. Maybe if I dug in seamlessly, got the story I needed to get for the book, and got out quick, they’d all forget about me as quickly as they’d known me.

  Every plan I had for a speedy getaway was foiled as Mrs. O’Grady pushed clean cloths filled with fresh rolls, brown paper envelopes containing the luscious creamy butter she’d served us, and jars of jam on us. She sat at the table and hand-copied her soda bread recipe onto a note card, then did one for the blackcurrant jam while she was at it. She wanted to fry me some more bacon. I practically had to break into a run to get away from her hospitality.

  “Just bring back the towels and the jars when it suits you,” she called, waving. “When you come, we’ll sit down for another good aul chin wag!”

  There was no getting around it. I’d have to go back and visit.

  Dear Mags, I wish I could just call you right now, but I haven’t had a minute to look into a phone plan. Maybe Mary, Ashleigh’s friend and the intern coordinator, can help me out tomorrow. I’m not blaming you, but there’s a mistake on the plane ticket. You have me coming home September 24th, not August 24th. Can you imagine if I stayed that long? I’ll bet it’s going to cost Fort Knox to change the flight, but once I pin down this book, there’ll be the promise of money coming in, so I can pay you back. So, you know how we imagined me soaking in an ancient claw-foot tub with cucumber slices over my eyes, catered to by hot and cold running servants? It seems the luxurious, historical rooms in the castle that we saw on the internet are occupied by exotic foreign royalty, and the eccentric old lord who owns the joint. As I write, I’m lying on a cot that St. Francis of Assisi would have complained about. It’s a step up from summer camp, but a step down from a college dorm. I can tough it out for a day or two, or even a week, if that’s what it takes.

  It’s not all doom and gloom, though. Walking around the grounds is like being in a Merchant Ivory film, but in Wizard of Oz technicolor. You wouldn’t believe how green the grass is or how blue the sky is if I told you. Mary has been very nice. After our tour, insisted on swinging me by the worker’s pub, a little room off the back of Uncle Jack’s — that’s the uber-luxe pub for the guests. I told her I was only up for one drink, and I asked for a vodka and soda with lemon. Mary told the barman, who was also a stable mucker (apparently we rotate shifts there?), to ignore me and give me a large Guinness. That stuff is an iron fist in a velvet glove! I met a lot of the other estate workers and interns, but because of the Guinness and the jet lag, it was kind of a blur. Just as I was about to call it a night, Tom O’Grady came in, wearing a dark wool pea coat with the collar flipped up, and his hands jammed in the pockets. He walked straight up to the bar and stood next to my stool. When I asked if I could buy him a drink, everyone in the whole place sucked in his or her breath and went still. “No,” he kind of yelled at me. “I’m just in here to hand over the key.” He finally tacked on a “thank you,” but it seemed to take considerable effort on his part to force it out. After he left, Mary leaned over with big eyes, laughing at me. She told me that Chef never drinks with the gang. A handful of the guys offered to “stand me a pint” and clapped me on the back, saying “Good on ya, Sheila,” and “Nice one.” I left pretty soon after. Mary offered to walk me, but the moon was out. Reflected off of the lake, it lit up the whole estate. I stuck to the paths, but I still got a little turned around heading back to my cell. I wound up around the back side of the castle. T O’G was sitting on a stone bench, with his hands clasped and his elbows on his knees. I could feel him pretend not to see me, the way you do when you wind up on a subway car with someone you kind of know from the office. Still, when I walked away from him on that path, I know he was watching me. It kept me from being scared alone out there in all that open space. I’m so tired, Mags, and I have to be up at the crack of dawn. I’d better sign off and go to bed. I wonder where T O’G sleeps. I mean for the book, of course. So I can write it into the headnotes or whatever.

  ‘Night, Mags. I like writing to you in this journal. It makes it feel like you’re not so far away. Love, Shay

  Chapter Eleven

  There is no luck except where there is discipline.

  Turns out my cellblock is right behind the chicken coop. I don’t believe in Satan, but if I did, I’d swear he’d taken the form of the rooster who woke me up before dawn. What originally erupted as a textbook “Cock-a-doodle-doo” morphed into a scream and ended with a repetitive barking laugh. The feathery bastard obviously enjoys his job. I wonder if the hens have ever gotten together to form a plan to peck him to death in a Dionysian fury.

  Mary told me I could take the late morning shift and join the crew at 6:30. She winked and told me not to spread it around that she was givi
ng me special treatment. 6:30 is special treatment? I had half a Guinness in me at the time of this announcement, so I didn’t have the stomach to ask when the early morning shift began.

  I’d gotten up extra early to type notes about the meeting with Mrs. O’Grady into my laptop. It felt shifty using the information, as she’d invited me as a guest into her home. Still, it was all in the interest of the book. And in the end, that was all for her son’s good, right? I pushed away any guilt and put down every detail she’d shared about his childhood, and every aspect of the house and her lifestyle that I’d observed.

  Realizing I needed to hurry in case I got lost, I ducked quickly through the no-frills shower. I didn’t have time to put on makeup. It was a good thing the uniform I’d been given came with skullcap. The dark stripe of my roots was descending by the hour, and without my electrical appliances, my shoulder-length long bob was looking very 1970s free love. I wondered if I could pop out this afternoon for a touch-up. For the time being, I twisted it into a bun and popped on my little scarlet hat. I pulled on my white trousers, which I have to say were baggy in all the wrong places and didn’t do me any favors, and buttoned up my black and white striped chef’s coat with Castle Stone embroidered near the shoulder. I looked in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself. I resembled me, but that was about the extent of it. I looked like I could be my younger cousin. I looked closer. My skin looked really good. It was clear and dewy, and there was color in my cheeks. I remembered the reflection of myself in the potted plant the night I’d met Maggie at Le Relais down in Soho. That girl looked sallow and oily. The girl I examined now looked rested and healthy. Must be a combo of the hat color and the lighting, I thought, heading for the door.