by Mary Wood
Andrew tried to lift his heavy eyelids. He couldn’t understand the weakness in his body. When at last he managed to open his eyes, he saw his mother standing with her back to him looking out of the window. His mind wouldn’t give him a reason for him to be lying in his old bedroom.
‘Mother?’
‘Andrew! You’re awake at last! How are you feeling, darling?’
‘Ill, but I don’t know why. What am I doing here? And please may I have a drink?’
‘You were attacked, don’t you remember? Two weeks ago. Oh, my dear, so much has happened . . .’
Memory nudged his fogged brain. He sipped his water, giving himself time to adjust. Time to let all the pieces knit together to give him a picture – and, dear God, what a picture! Bridie, beautiful Bridie, her creamy body . . . her hair . . . Him drowning in the pleasure of her, then his world fragmenting into unbearable pain. The gypsy; the gun; the lies . . . He blocked them out. ‘Where’s Dvina, Mother?’
‘She’s – well, she is at home. She’s very upset. Agatha is here. I’ll send her to you. She will tell you everything. But don’t overdo it, darling. You have been very ill. You had pneumonia. It was the shock, Dr Payne says.’
She left before he could protest. Agatha! God, she was the last person he needed right now, and he didn’t have to ask why Dvina was upset, now that he knew his sister was around!
‘Oh, who’s been a naughty boy, then? As usual. In fact it takes one quite a time to think of when you were ever a good boy, Andrew.’
‘Please, Agatha. Don’t. My head aches, and so does every other part of me. Just tell me what has been going on, and how you have upset Dvina.’
‘Me! I think that accolade goes to you, dear brother. First of all, you go somewhere you gave no indication you would. Then you come up with some ridiculous story about being robbed. Then you spend two weeks in a coma, calling for someone I have since learned is the village trollop!’
Andrew winced. Had he really called out for Bridie? Oh, dear Lord! In desperation he tried to sort out the facts from the swirly dreams he’d had, but wasn’t able to separate them.
‘Nothing to say, have we? Well, try to digest this then: your house was broken into and burgled – for real – that very same night. Dvina is mortified to have lost some very precious sentimental items. Stuff that had belonged to her mother and grandmother and, oh, generations of Portlands, it seems.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘Oh, yes, and that’s only half of it. The gypsy you have welcomed to your estate over the years is thought to have been responsible. It seems he left his calling card – a red band he often wore around his head. They found it on the stairs the next day, but he had long gone by then. Taking, by all accounts, your floozy with him.’
‘Bridie? I . . . I mean . . .’
‘I know exactly what you mean. Andrew, you are disgusting. You take on that frump—’
‘Don’t you dare call Dvina that! She is a very beautiful lady – yes, a lady. Something you have no idea how to be. And your conjecture is all wrong. If I called out Bridie Hadler’s name, it will have been because I had nightmares about her. She has something to do with this. I saw her. She called to me. She stood on the opposite bank and she had very little on. She came from nowhere and started to flirt with me. It flattered me for a moment, then I asked her what she was doing . . .’ God, where are these lies coming from? The more I lie, the easier it gets! ‘She told me she’d escaped for the afternoon away from the sickness of her husband and her mother-in-law. She’d seen me riding up the hill and thought to have some fun with me, if I was willing. Said she could show me a good time. She stepped into the water and came towards me, then seemed to nod to someone. I went to turn around, but that’s when the whip lashed me . . . I assume now it was the gypsy. Maybe she kept my attention while that blackguard rifled through my clothes and saddlebag.’
‘Bravo! A wonderful story, and all so plausible. So why didn’t you tell it before? Needed time to work it all out, eh? Little brother, you take the biscuit and eat it!’
He kept his eyes down, amazed at his own ability to come up with such a tale on hearing that Bridie had gone with Seamus. He’d thought there was more to her knowing that bastard. Well, good riddance. He’d sensed she was trouble; he should have left well alone.
‘Well? What are you thinking about? Trying to conjure up more lies?’
‘Oh, shut up, Agatha, you bitch! I didn’t mention her because of Will Hadler, her husband, who is very ill and doesn’t deserve to hear the truth about his wife. Though the poor bugger must know by now, if she has left him.’
‘Ha, name-calling will not hurt me, Andrew. You, the man who always falls on his feet, shouldn’t have need to resort to it, but a guilty conscience will out. You sicken me, do you know that? Here you are, the richest man in the county – in several counties – and how did you achieve such a status? Through hard work? No! By prostituting yourself, that’s how.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. So I sold myself to Edgar, did I? Well, I bloody well didn’t. And though my marriage was that kind of arrangement, it turned out well. I love my wife very much. Ours is a happy union . . .’
‘Oh, so why isn’t your wife here at your sickbed, instead of at home weeping and thinking of leaving you, because she cannot take any more!’
‘Go away, Agatha. I don’t need this. I can’t argue with you. Please ask Mother to send for Dvina and Dr Payne. I need Dvina here, and I need something to stop the pain.’
She walked to the door, where she turned, the look of triumph making her face ugly. She bloody well enjoyed making menace. Yes, he had his faults, but he tried, didn’t he? He fought his weaknesses as much as he could, but what did she do about hers – her need to sow poison whenever and wherever she could, especially into his life and his marriage? Nothing! Sometimes he hated her.
His mother looked round the door a few minutes later. ‘You two been fighting again, dear? I’m very cross with Agatha. I sent for her because it was touch and go with you on the first night and now, the minute you come round, she upsets you.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Mother. I can handle her. Have you sent for Dvina and the doctor? I’m in sore need of them both.’
‘Yes, dear. You know, Agatha came as soon as she could, and it’s no mean journey from London. She broke her heart when she saw you. There was no consoling her. What is it with you two? I don’t mind telling you as a mother: having two warring children is devastating.’
‘Don’t worry, old thing. We love each other really. God, if anything happened to her, I’d break my heart, too. It’s just a clash of personalities. It can’t be easy being the eldest and yet having no rights just because you are a woman, especially for someone as forceful as Agatha. I appreciate that, even though she annoys me at every chance she can get, and tries her best to put my marriage in jeopardy.’
‘From what I hear, you do that on your own. Though you have been very good for a long time.’
‘Christ, Mother! I still am. I explained to Agatha . . .’
‘Yes, I know you did, but it still doesn’t account for you calling out endearments to this . . . what’s her name? Oh, I don’t know, some Irish peasant name.’
‘Bridie. And I don’t see why it doesn’t. Good God, am I to be hanged for having delirium? Oh, Mother, leave me alone, please. I have a terrible headache and I can’t stand having my integrity called into question by two people who have no business doing so. You are both meant to love me, and yet you attack me the moment I come out of a coma that nearly took my life!’
He now had the satisfaction of seeing his mother hang her head in shame. Pity Agatha hadn’t done the same – nor ever would. His mother’s voice held anguish as she said, ‘I’m sorry, darling. We have all become concerned for dear Dvina. That first night she stayed by your side till you started rambling on about that girl.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Well, dear, it isn’t easy for me to say. It’s embarrassing.’
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‘Oh, come on, Mother, you weren’t born yesterday. At least give me a chance. I can probably explain it all. I have nothing on my conscience.’
‘Well, you made several sexual references. You said she was the best – the very best you’d ever had. You said you would die if you couldn’t have her again . . . that sort of thing.’
His dismay must have shown on his face.
‘Yes, I know; rather difficult to get out of, isn’t it? I hope you find a way, dear. If you lose Dvina you will lose your son, and that – if nothing else – would be a bad show.’
‘Mother! I hate all these insinuations that I am not happy. I love Dvina. I adore her. She makes me very, very happy. I don’t pretend. Surely you have seen our happiness over the past years? I didn’t fake that. It is real.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Andrew. Maybe you can convince Dvina yourself. She is here now.’
Agatha swanned into the room, followed by Dvina.
‘Dvina, darling, please don’t listen to them. My God, this is a nightmare. Well, I am not taking any more of it. You stupid women! How can you judge a man on his delirium, when he’s in a coma? Does everything that has gone before mean nothing? For Christ’s sake, get out of my sight! I have never felt so let down in all my life. Where is that bloody doctor?’
The outburst had done the trick: Dvina was by his side, begging him to calm down, telling him she hadn’t taken any notice, and that she loved him and trusted him. But it had cost Andrew dearly. What little strength he’d had ebbed away from him, and he flopped back on the pillow. The veil he’d fought so hard to remove from his brain floated back over it. His mind began to swim in and out of clouds. When he was in a clear patch he could hear Dvina screaming, ‘What have you done? How dare you speak of personal things concerning me and my husband’s life together, just to triumph over him, when he is so ill? None of it is any of your business. Get out! Get out, both of you. I am having him removed to Hensal Grange. You are not fit to call yourselves a mother or a sister. I will never forgive you for this, never!’
The words travelled around the room, and when they came to him they hurt. This was not what he wanted – his dear mother and sister becoming estranged from his wife. God, he’d known there would be consequences, but not this. Not this!
‘Bridie, Bridie, will you rouse yourself up? We’re here.’
Seamus carried Bridget to the beach. He stood on the shore looking back at her.
‘Come on, Bridie, hurry, for it’s grand to feel Ireland beneath your feet, so it is.’ His smile, a boyish grin, told of his joy. Some of it seeped into her, but the cold sea lapping around her legs tempered it, as did the heavy feeling in her heart.
The sand tickled her feet and the fresh, cooling breeze played with her hair, sending strands across her face and blurring her vision. Brushing them back, she let her gaze take in the intense green pastures and the rolling hills dwarfed by the magnificent mountains. The sight lifted her, for wasn’t she thinking this is how Heaven looks, and her Will was at this moment enjoying his peace there? The enormity of this hit her in the gut, shattering her spirit. She doubled over and her legs gave way. The sand accepted her, shifting into folds around her as if trying to comfort her.
‘Bridie!’
‘Mammy!’
The cries of anguish carried over her head. She had no tears to cry, but the splintered pieces of her heart pierced her whole body with pain. ’Tis that the wickedness of me has come home to haunt me. How can I bear not seeing me Will ever again? How could I ever ask him for his forgiveness?
‘Bridie, me little Bridie, what have I been after doing to you?’
The fear in Seamus’s voice softened it, so that she could remember the way he used to talk to her. The years rolled back, taking her to the happiness she’d felt, just to know he rested across the fields from her house. How many nights had she looked out of her bedroom window to see the outline of him cover and uncover his lamp to let her know he could see her? Three flashes meant hello, four goodnight. He once asked her what she meant by hiding behind the curtain, then popping out again three times. She’d had a shyness on her, an innocence, which prevented her from telling him that this code was her secret way of saying I love you.
Could she love him again? She’d been ready to accept him to her on their last night in Scotland, as he’d told her she must, but he hadn’t kept to it. Instead he had sat by his fire drinking whisky until he’d keeled over. To drown the shame of her disappointment, she’d taken a good drop of the gin he’d brought along for her.
‘Bridie, please . . .’
‘Mammy, Mammy . . .’ Bridget’s voice held fear. ‘Mammy, want Pappy. Want Pappy . . .’
This plea put courage into Bridie. If she was to prevent her little Bridget from suffering, to the point of scarring her life, she had to accept things. She had to make light of her own pain and concentrate on giving Bridget the best she could of herself. This gave her the strength to reply, ‘No, don’t be afraid, me wee one. Mammy is just for being exhausted. And what did I tell you about Pappy? He is here. His soul is in Heaven, and this is as near to that as we can get. Isn’t Seamus for being wonderful, for bringing us here and promising to take care of us?’
‘Don’t want Pappy in Heaven . . .’
‘Would you have him in pain? Would you keep him by you when he had not the strength to do so? No, sweetheart, we have to let him go. Granna will go with him. She will be there, so she will. She’ll take care of him. Now won’t that be nice for him?’
‘Mammy sit up . . . Mammy . . .’
‘There, isn’t it that you’ve made your mammy better?’ Bridget looked up at Seamus as he said this. Her look held the same wariness that she had shown, but something had her listening to him instead of cowing away from him. ‘Now, it is that we have to go. Your mammy isn’t for knowing where, as she hasn’t been before. It is a surprise for you both, and it is for being the loveliest spot in the world. Let me carry you, Bridget. Come on, Bridie.’ Bridget lifted her arms to him, and Bridie felt a warming of her heart.
As Seamus helped her up with his free arm, he addressed the boatman, ‘I have a horse and trap tethered on the shore waiting for us, is that not right, Sean?’
‘Aye, it will be. I told Joseph to make sure to get it here for the day. He won’t let me down.’
‘Good, so we only have to climb up those rocks and then we can take it easy for the rest of the journey. Leave your things, Bridie. I’ll help you both up there, then come back for them. This is a grand day, so it is.’
She had to let herself think it was. That was the only way to cope, and if she didn’t cope, Bridget wouldn’t stand a chance. There was nothing to go back for. Without Will, there would be no point in living back in England. She’d rather live here, for wasn’t she at last back home? Back home, in Ireland.
27
July 1886
The injustice
‘Aye, it’s right what I say: he is coming back over the water on 20th September. That gives us a good while to be putting our plans into place. ’Tis my thinking, if a gang of us lie in wait for him, sure we could overpower him.’
‘We’ll have to be doing more than overpowering him, so we will. Someone has to be willing to kill him, for ’tis the only way to rid ourselves of the evil that is Seamus Finney.’
A draught caught Issy’s legs. Fear shot through her. She waited, holding her breath, thinking herself in danger of being exposed.
She’d come to the pub to find Paddy, after delivering his wife of her fifteenth child. Paddy Docherty wasn’t a man to cross. If he knew she’d heard what he and his cronies planned to do . . . She turned round. The door leading to the street had swung open, but no one had come through it. She must have left the latch off.
The haze of smoke coming through from the snug where the men sat made her eyes smart and caught in her throat. She swallowed, trying to clear the tickle it had caused, as she strained to hear more of what they were saying.
‘Aye, killing him is our only option, but he will be carrying all the jewels he robbed from Hensal Grange, so . . .’
‘How is it you know this, Paddy?’
‘’Cos I helped him. Whilst he was in the big house doing it over, I got his Vardo on the road for him, ready for his departure.’
‘Is it true Bridie Hadler went with him, then?’
‘Aye, but not willingly. But that’s no concern of ours.’
‘I’m for thinking it is, Paddy. She’s one of us.’
‘No, she ain’t. Her father was Michael O’Hara, the traitor to the cause and pilferer of its funds, and she took those funds, knowing where they came from. Seamus is a bastard, but he remained loyal to the Fenians. Oh, I know, ’twas for a long time we didn’t think so, but we know now that Michael O’Hara betrayed him, just as he tried to do to us. Seamus was for following Bridie O’Hara to try to get the funds back, but she had been through the lot by the time he felt safe enough to return to these shores. Now, will you whish with your women’s gossip and listen?’
Issy closed her eyes. My God, Bridie! Eeh, lass, she had a more chequered past than what she admitted to! Forcing herself to put this to one side, she concentrated on hearing everything they said.
‘’Tis me instruction from Seamus to set up a buyer to meet him. I’ve made contact with a bloke I knew back in the day. He knows of the stuff and where it came from, and is willing to take it on. What he doesn’t know is the arrangement Seamus told me to have in place for him. He’s for thinking I am to bring the jewels to him, which I intend to do.’
‘So what is it you are planning, then?
‘Is it thick you are, Martin? ’Tis that we go to Portpatrick, fully armed, and wait for Seamus. When he docks, I lure him towards the inn, where I say the buyer is waiting. You will all be hiding in the shadows. You jump him, so you do. Once you have him down, I’ll be for finishing him off. I’d like to be using some of me torture skills on him, but we need to get the job done – and get out of Portpatrick – without anyone knowing we’ve been there. So, though deserving of a slow death, Seamus Finney will come to a swift end and we’ll dump the bastard in the sea.’