Songs of Love and War

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Michael,’ said Father Quinn, standing up and towering over Tomas’s sons. ‘You’re head of the family now. Sean, you must help him on the land. You’re needed here. And, Bridie?’ He settled his powerful gaze on the child, who felt herself tremble beneath it. ‘You will help your grandmother in the home until you are old enough to work at the castle with your mother.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ she replied quietly.

  He put a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘And it wasn’t your fault. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ she answered, unable to stop the tears from spilling over onto her cheeks.

  ‘You must be strong for your mother. And, Michael?’ he said and his voice had once more taken on its habitual severe and uncaring tone.

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘Don’t go casting blame. Every action has a consequence and we can never know what that consequence might be. However, it is God’s will and we mustn’t question it.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Michael replied obediently, disguising the craving for vengeance behind dark impenetrable eyes.

  Lady Deverill visited with a basket of food. She paid her respects to Tomas Doyle and sat with Mrs Doyle and Old Mrs Nagle, giving comfort as best she could. ‘You know, Mrs Doyle,’ she began, looking kindly at the widow through the smoke coming from Old Mrs Nagle’s clay pipe. ‘We’re not human beings having a spiritual experience, but spirits having a human experience. Your Tomas will always be with you. Just because you can’t see him doesn’t mean he’s not here. He’s made of light now, like a rainbow, and he’s in a far better place.’

  ‘Indeed, Tomas is with the Lord, Lady Deverill, and I am at peace,’ Mrs Doyle replied.

  Adeline handed Bridie a shoebox. ‘And this is from Lord Deverill. It’s a reward for you, Bridie, for your bravery. I know it won’t bring your father back, but I hope it will give you some consolation.’ When she had gone Bridie opened the box to find a pair of shiny black patent-leather dancing shoes with big silver buckles. She gasped in wonder. Bridie had never worn shoes before and the soles of her feet were as tough as hide. With her breath caught in her chest she put them on at once. ‘They’re a fine pair of shoes, Bridie,’ Sean said softly, hoping Michael wouldn’t spoil the moment by accusing her of profiting from an incident that had led directly to their father’s death. But Michael had heeded Father Quinn’s words and sat solemnly on a chair, biting his tongue.

  Bridie’s heart gave a little splutter as it was temporarily jolted back to life by the excitement of her first ever footwear. The shoes were slightly too big, which was fortunate because that meant they’d last longer. She walked clumsily around the kitchen like a cart horse, trying to get used to the heaviness of the leather after the lightness of her bare feet, and the feeling of having something hard against her skin. But she couldn’t take her eyes off them: they were the most magnificent things she had ever owned.

  Soon neighbours and friends arrived to pay their respects and Mrs Doyle offered them snuff, whiskey and Lord and Lady Deverill’s generous basket of food. Liam O’Leary came with his wife, Julia, and Jack, nursing a shiny purple bruise on his cheek. He took off his cap and shook his head dolefully at the sight of poor Tomas Doyle. Julia, who believed herself much too grand to enter such a humble abode, put a handkerchief to her nose and grimaced at the sight of the corpse, waxy in the candlelight.

  Liam O’Leary didn’t stay long, just enough time to have a drink and pay his respects. As he left, he blessed himself with the bottle of holy water Mrs Doyle always kept by the door, along with the sprig of palm from Palm Sunday. Julia ignored the water: she was eager to be as far away as possible from the miserable cottage and the corpse inside it.

  Bridie was pleased to see Jack and gave him more sympathy for his bruise than his mother had done. He noticed her shoes at once. ‘Lord Deverill gave me a beagle,’ he told her. ‘Mother wanted me to give it back.’

  ‘Why?’ Bridie asked in astonishment.

  ‘I don’t know, but she doesn’t like the Deverills.’

  ‘Will you give it back?’

  He grinned raffishly. ‘Not on your life, Bridie. A reward’s a reward and I earned it.’ He ran rough fingers over his jaw.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ Bridie asked.

  ‘It sure does.’ He glanced at Tomas lying on the table and shook his head. ‘But I’m lucky to be alive, Bridie. Your poor da, God rest his soul.’

  The following day the entire town came out for the funeral and the sun shone down as if Tomas himself had made it so. ‘Happy is the corpse that the sun shines on,’ they all said as they made their way into All Saints Church. Every chair was taken and barely an inch of stone floor was left free for an extra pair of feet. Mrs Doyle sat in the front with her family, dignified in her black shawl and dress, between her two sons with Bridie beside Sean in her new polished shoes. Father Quinn gave a rousing sermon, praising Tomas for his hard work and kind heart and holding him up as an example to the rest of the community, omitting his temper and his love of whiskey. ‘God always takes the good ones,’ said Miss Nellie Moxley under her breath.

  ‘Sure, I’m only waiting for the call now meself,’ Miss Nellie Clifford whispered back. ‘It can’t be long. I’ve one foot in the grave and the other on a bar of soap.’

  Tomas was buried in the churchyard alongside those of the community who had gone before. Bridie found it hard to believe that her father was in the ground, never to appear again with his kind eyes and reassuring presence. Even though Michael was a man now and more than capable of doing his father’s work, she still felt as if the once solid foundation of her existence had turned to marshland. She would miss the comforting certainty of her father’s love. Her eyes watered as she remembered the times she had ridden beside him in the cart to take the butter to the Cork Butter Exchange. Irish butter, her father would proudly tell her, to feed the Empire. She could hear his voice as if he were whispering in her ear: Don’t mind the thunder, Bridie. ’Tis only barrels rolling across the sky. Quietly she began to cry.

  When Adeline told Kitty the sad news about Tomas Doyle she gasped in horror and pressed her hand to her open mouth. ‘I have given her a pair of shoes as a reward for alerting us to the poachers, but it’ll be a bittersweet present considering the tragedy it brought,’ said Lady Deverill. Kitty sat beside her on the sofa in her grandmother’s warm sitting room and thought of her friend Bridie. ‘The funeral was today,’ Adeline continued. ‘I gather the whole of Ballinakelly turned out for it. He was well loved,’ she reflected.

  ‘I’d like to have gone to the funeral,’ said Kitty.

  ‘My dear, that would not have been possible. One has to be tactful.’

  ‘But Bridie is my friend.’

  ‘She is your friend, but there are many who would think ill of her for mixing with the likes of us.’

  ‘Why is that so, Grandma?’

  ‘Because there is a lot of resentment, Kitty. A conquered people always resent the conquerors. That’s only natural, isn’t it? Many Irish Catholics had their lands taken away from them and given to the English—’

  ‘Like the O’Learys,’ interjected Kitty.

  ‘Quite so, my dear, just like the O’Learys.’ She sighed, weary of the acrimony. ‘So, they want their land back, the English out and they want independence. Naturally they are suspicious of anyone who associates with the English. That’s us, Kitty. Bridie would not want her family and friends to think her disloyal, would she?’

  ‘I would want my land back if someone had taken it.’

  ‘Of course you would.’ Adeline smiled indulgently at her granddaughter, and a little proudly, too, because of her sharp intelligence. ‘But if the O’Learys were to have their land back we wouldn’t have Castle Deverill and all that goes with it. What is done cannot be undone now without terrible consequences. It is better that we all live in the present moment and not think too much about the atrocities of the past. After all, we have to live together and get along.’

  ‘Po
or Bridie,’ Kitty sighed.

  ‘I know, her life is hard. Losing people we love is bad enough but intolerable if one doesn’t realize that they never really leave, they just fade out of sight.’

  ‘You will never leave me, will you, Grandma?’ Kitty asked sincerely.

  Adeline put her arm around Kitty’s shoulder and pulled her close. ’You know I won’t, my darling. And what’s more, you’ll know I’m still with you because you will be able to see me. That’s a rare and wonderful gift.’

  Kitty ran into the garden, her thoughts with Bridie. The sun was warm upon her skin and the air scented with the sweet, creamy smells of sweet box and Daphne bholua. She knew every inch of her grandmother’s gardens and fell upon a witch hazel bush, whose yellow flowers gave off a soothing, medicinal fragrance. She picked enough to make a small posy, which she tied with string from one of the greenhouses. When she had finished she went to the stables to find Mr Mills.

  ‘Mr Mills, Mr Mills!’ she shouted across the stable yard.

  Mr Mills appeared beneath the stone arch of the stable block, carrying a rag in one hand and leather polish in the other. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Kitty?’

  She ran over the cobbles and held out her posy. ‘I want you to give this to Bridie. Mrs Doyle and Sean aren’t here and she must get it today.’

  Mr Mills shook his head gravely. ‘A terrible business. Poor little Bridie, losing her father so young.’ He went back inside and Kitty followed him. The stables smelt of horses, hay and manure. A couple of lads were sitting on stools, polishing tack, their sleeves rolled up to reveal strong arms as they vigorously rubbed the leather. They stopped working a moment to watch. If Kitty had been Lady Deverill, or any of the other women of the family, they would have jumped to their feet, but Kitty was a child and usually running about the grounds with Bridie Doyle so they remained on their stools.

  Mr Mills put down his rag and polish and found a dusty jar in the tack room. He plunged it into a barrel of water and took the flowers from Kitty. ‘I’ll pass by their house and pay my respects later this afternoon. They’ll keep like this. I’m sure she’ll be grateful for your thoughtfulness, Miss Kitty.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do. She’s my friend, Mr Mills,’ said Kitty boldly, affronted that he should be surprised by her gift. ‘My best friend.’

  Since her afternoon riding with her father, Kitty had been released from the nursery and included in the family meals. Maud watched her suspiciously from the end of the table. There was something troubling about the audacious look in the child’s eyes that made Maud feel guilty. They were much too large, an unusual shade of grey, like a wolfs or some other wild animal’s that Maud couldn’t think of, and somehow terribly impertinent. It was as if Kitty, like Adeline, could see into the hidden recesses of her soul and knew all her secrets. Maud felt defensive even though Kitty was too young to understand her mother’s coldness. She tried to talk to her youngest daughter as she would talk to Victoria and Elspeth, but those eyes seemed to mock her attempts at conversation, as if Kitty was amused by how hard her mother struggled to find a meeting of minds when there clearly wasn’t even a scrap of understanding between them.

  ‘Miss Grieve, I would like you to teach Kitty a little humility,’ Maud instructed the governess after one particularly uncomfortable luncheon. ‘She has a very brazen way of staring at people. Frankly, it’s rude. A girl of her age should learn to lower her eyes and not look at one so directly.’

  ‘I will see to it, Mrs Deverill,’ said Miss Grieve.

  ‘Please see that you do or Kitty will have to have her meals in the nursery again.’ It was a relief for Maud when Kitty sat through the following luncheon with her eyes on her food. Kitty, much too wily to allow herself to be cowed, soon learned that she could look at anyone else directly; it was only her mother who flinched when she caught her daughter’s eye. Wily she might be, and resilient too, but Kitty wasn’t so hardy as to be unaffected by her mother’s hostility. It cut her deeply.

  Mr Mills leaned his bicycle against the whitewashed wall of the Doyles’ cottage and pushed open the door. Old Mrs Nagle was sitting in her usual chair, keeping the bastible hot with burning twigs while fish hung in the chimney to smoke. Mrs Doyle was in her rocking chair, sewing a black diamond to denote mourning into the elbow of Michael’s jacket. The cottage was dimly lit but warm and the smell of cooking made Mr Mills’s stomach groan.

  ‘Good day to you, Mrs Nagle and Mrs Doyle,’ he said, taking off his cap and nodding formally.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ Mrs Doyle asked. ‘Bridie will pour you some. The pot is still hot.’

  Mr Mills turned to see Bridie’s pale face appear out of the gloom. Her big dark eyes made her face look small and miserable. The buckles on her dancing shoes caught the light of the fire and glinted. ‘What a grand pair of shoes, Bridie,’ he said and for a moment the child’s face regained its colour and she smiled, gazing lovingly down at them.

  ‘A gift from Lady Deverill,’ she replied quietly.

  ‘A gift well earned.’ He held out the posy. ‘These are for you, from Miss Kitty.’ Bridie took them gratefully and pressed them to her nose. Her eyes welled with tears at this small kindness and she lost her voice for a moment. ‘She said it was important that I give it to you today.’ Mr Mills’s heart caved in at the sight of the wretched child. ‘She said you’re her best friend.’

  Bridie smiled tentatively and she nodded. Mr Mills saw the effort in her straining neck as she tried to suppress her emotions. ‘Why don’t you make me a cup of tea?’ he asked gently, allowing her time to compose herself. She nodded briskly and set about pouring it into a basin.

  ‘Life goes on,’ said Mrs Doyle from the hearth. ‘Mr Doyle is with our Lord now and we have to continue as before. He wouldn’t want us to fall apart now, would he?’

  ‘He most certainly wouldn’t, Mrs Doyle,’ said Mr Mills.

  ‘Well, there’ll be no more tears shed then.’ She pursed her lips and went back to her sewing.

  Kitty gave Mr Mills his tea and walked over to give her grandmother another. ‘I have my Bridie for comfort and my boys,’ said Mrs Doyle, smiling at her daughter with a fondness Mr Mills had never seen before. ‘Mr Doyle was very proud of his children, Mr Mills. Michael and Sean are hardworking lads and Bridie here will soon be old enough to work for Lady Deverill. We’ll get by, won’t we, Bridie? We have much to be thankful for. We have a roof over our heads and a kind-hearted landlord. Few can claim as much.’

  Bridie sat at the table and put the jar of witch hazel in the centre. Her aching heart was soothed by the flowers that radiated friendship and understanding as surely as they radiated their perfume into the smoky atmosphere of the cottage. She thought of Kitty and pictured her face as though she were sitting right opposite her, her eyes bright and eerie in the candlelight, and she could hear her voice in her head as if she were really speaking. Your father is still with you, Bridie. You have to believe he’s beside you. Those we love and lose are always with us. And Bridie, once doubtful that Barton Deverill was really in the armchair in the tower of the castle, now wanted to believe more than anything that her dear father had simply faded out of sight. She wished she had Kitty’s certainty and her gift of seeing the dead; more than ever she wished she could turn back the clock and bring her father home.

  Michael was not a man to sit quietly with his prayers. He wanted revenge and his lust for vengeance consumed him. The hanging of the murderer was not enough for the life of Tomas Doyle. The whole settlement would pay for the crime, he decided, knocking back a cup of Hanratty’s poteen that burned a trail down his gullet. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, he thought darkly, hate and grief no longer two separate emotions, but one potent force of malevolence, fuelled by alcohol. As he crept through the undergrowth towards the shabby caravans and carts parked together in the middle of a field he was glad that clouds covered the eye of the moon for perhaps even God had turned away, leaving him to see that justice was done.r />
  He reached the cluster of simple dwellings, glad that the tinkers hadn’t yet moved on. Perhaps they stayed in the hope of a last-minute reprieve for the man sentenced to be hanged. Michael didn’t care. Quietly he untied the horses. The docile beasts neighed quietly but remained where they stood. He lit his torch and with the flame lit the other four he had brought with him. Sneaking up on the caravans he thrust the torches anywhere there was a gap. The fire spread quickly and efficiently, catching light on the straw bedding and devouring the thick fabric covering the roofs. Then screams rose above the noise of cracking and burning and people poured out of the blaze like rats. That’ll teach them, Michael thought with satisfaction. As he stole into the darkness he turned to see the devastation, a great bonfire in the centre of the field, throwing golden light onto the surrounding grass and hedges. But as he walked away the cry of a woman reached his ears and turned his heart to ice. ‘Help! Help! My little Noreen! My little Noreen!’

  There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Michael Doyle was responsible for the fire that killed the tinker child, but no one in Ballinakelly dared mention his name when questioned by the constabulary. Michael Doyle was wild and menacing, capable of reducing a person to pulp with one look of his hard black eyes, and there was not a man in Ballinakelly who wanted to incite his wrath. Indeed, the town closed ranks around him and Mrs Doyle, Old Mrs Nagle and Badger Hanratty vouched for his presence that night beside the hearth. Yet Michael’s torment was only just beginning. Noreen was a whisper in his nightmares and a stain upon his conscience, and his guilt blackened ever deeper his calcifying heart.