Songs of Love and War

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘What is it we’re drinking, Adeline? It’s very strong.’

  ‘Cannabis,’ Adeline replied sleepily. ‘It’s a herb I grow for my nerves.’

  ‘She’s a witch,’ said Hubert from the card table where he was now getting tipsy on a third glass of whiskey. Kitty looked around in astonishment. They were all intoxicated, every one of them.

  ‘Oh, we know she’s a witch,’ said Laurel. ‘The three of us are witches, aren’t we, girls?’

  ‘Why aren’t you named after a shrub, Adeline?’ Hubert asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Adeline replied. ‘Our mother wasn’t a very keen gardener. Perhaps she couldn’t think of one.’ The three sisters dissolved into laughter again.

  Adeline filled her teacup then handed the silver pot to Laurel who poured greedily before passing it to her sister.

  ‘Kitty, why don’t you have some? It’s frightfully nice,’ said Hazel.

  Kitty sighed resignedly. If Jack went off to war there’d be no point in living, she thought. ‘Oh all right, I might as well,’ she surrendered, recalling the delightful feeling of carelessness it had given her.

  ‘What about our game?’ said Hubert from the card table. Kitty took a sip and looked at the Shrubs. They looked back at her, and then, as the herb took over Kitty’s senses, they all burst into a fit of uninhibited, delicious laughter.

  The following morning Kitty refused to get out of bed. She sent Bridie up to Mr Trench with the message that she was unwell. Bridie wondered whether they’d had a fight, but Mr Trench only looked concerned and not at all like a man spurned. ‘I hope she feels better later,’ he told Bridie. ‘If she feels like a gentle walk around the gardens this afternoon, I am at her disposal.’ Bridie thought him most gentlemanly and envied Kitty the attentions of such a handsome and charming man.

  ‘They say the Irish are going to have to fight,’ said Kitty dolefully from the bed when Bridie returned. ‘That means your brothers will have to fight.’

  ‘Michael would rather die than fight for the British,’ said Bridie briskly.

  ‘So would Jack, I’m sure.’

  At the thought of Jack going off to fight, Bridie was alarmed. ‘Jack won’t fight. None of them will. The British will have another war on their hands; here in Ireland.’

  ‘They already do,’ said Kitty, sitting up and sipping the cup of tea Bridie had brought her. She looked out of the window. The spring sun shone brightly and birdsong wafted on a sugar-scented breeze. ‘Do you think Jack knows about this?’

  ‘Of course he does. They all do. They’re talking of nothing else.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘That they won’t fight. They’ll have to imprison the entire male population of the country.’ Bridie sat on the bed. ‘Michael says the British are playing into their hands. It’s good for the cause, is it not?’

  ‘Oh it is. I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Kitty, cheering up. She climbed out of bed and began to dress.

  ‘I thought you were sick,’ said Bridie in surprise.

  ‘I’m feeling a lot better now,’ Kitty replied cheerfully. ‘Must be something you put in the tea.’

  ‘I put nothing in the tea,’ said Bridie innocently. ‘Shall I tell Mr Trench you’re better now?’

  ‘Goodness, no!’ said Kitty, laughing.

  ‘He says if you’re feeling better he’ll walk with you in the gardens.’

  Kitty smiled. ‘Oh, I’m not up to that. Anyway I don’t want to give him the terrible bug that I have. No, I’ll walk alone.’

  Bridie watched her in confusion. That wasn’t the behaviour of a woman in love, nor was it the behaviour of a sick woman.

  When Kitty reached the dining room for breakfast she was surprised to see her grandmother and the Shrubs sitting around the table. ‘We stayed the night,’ said Hazel with a smile. ‘We weren’t in any state to go home, were we, Laurel?’

  ‘No we weren’t. I don’t know what came over us, but it was delightful.’

  ‘Your grandfather’s gone fishing,’ said Adeline. ‘I don’t think he could take any more of us.’

  ‘We never finished our game,’ said Hazel.

  ‘I do believe we were winning, Kitty. Tell me, why on earth did we stop?’

  Kitty sat down and poured herself a cup of tea. O’Flynn shuffled round the table. ‘Would you like some eggs, Miss Kitty?’ he asked.

  ‘Why not, O’Flynn. It’s a lovely day. I might go out for a ride.’

  ‘What about Mr Trench?’ said Adeline.

  Kitty sighed. ‘I have a headache,’ she lied. ‘I couldn’t possibly concentrate today.’

  Adeline smiled. ‘I must say Mr Trench is a saint. I’m sure he’d find more diversion in England.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d find a prettier pupil than Kitty,’ said Laurel.

  ‘He certainly wouldn’t,’ Hazel agreed. ‘I’m sure he’s more than a little in love with you.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Kitty. ‘He’s the most serious man I’ve ever come across.’

  ‘Not dull though,’ said Adeline. ‘He’s a very intelligent young man.’

  ‘What does he do all day when he’s not tutoring you?’ Laurel asked. ‘He can’t ride with that leg.’

  ‘He reads,’ Kitty told her. ‘Reads and reads and reads and when he’s done reading, he reads some more.’ She grinned over her teacup. ‘I’ve tried to make him laugh. Oh, how I’ve tried. But he barely even smiles.’

  ‘Well if you can’t make him smile, Kitty, no one can,’ said Adeline.

  ‘Give him a taste of your cannabis and I’m sure you’ll find he opens up like a boiled mussel,’ said Laurel.

  Hazel laughed in agreement. ‘Like a boiled mussel,’ she repeated.

  Kitty ran to the wall. She retrieved Jack’s letter and wandered into the greenhouse to read it. Just as she sat down on the bench she heard voices. They were quiet and secretive, like mice. Kitty stood up and slipped the letter down the front of her dress. Hiding behind a large fern, she strained her ears but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. Their words came in rushed, sporadic whispers. Careful not to be seen she peered through the leaves. There, chewing on radishes, were two scruffy children. Kitty was astonished. She hadn’t expected to see children. She looked closer and determined that they weren’t tinkers but urchins from Ballinakelly. Their hair was matted and dirty, their clothes ragged and frayed, their feet bare. Kitty stood in silence as they munched through lettuce, carrots and raw parsnip. She wanted to tell them that they’d have the most terrible stomach ache if they didn’t cook the parsnip first. But she waited until they had had their fill and run off before she returned to the iron bench and her letter.

  After she had read Jack’s message she decided to put out some food for the children in case they returned the following day. Some bread and butter and slices of ham would satisfy them more than vegetables. It wasn’t right that children should go hungry, she reasoned, when they had so much at Castle Deverill. Mrs Doyle didn’t question her when she asked for the food, nor did she look surprised when Kitty took it into the garden. She was used to Lady Deverill making up baskets of provisions for the poor. Kitty arranged the food beneath a fly net on the table where she had spotted the children. Evidence of their snacking could be seen in the radish heads lying scattered at her feet.

  As she came in from the garden she bumped into Mr Trench on his way out. ‘Ah, Kitty, I’m pleased to see that you’re feeling better,’ he said. Though Kitty wondered why his face did not break into a smile to show her how pleased.

  ‘I am, thank you,’ she replied, trying not to look guilty.

  ‘I’m taking the trap into Ballinakelly. It’s the fair today. Why don’t you join me? The fresh air is clearly doing you good.’

  She couldn’t think of a suitable excuse and was left with no alternative but to accept. ‘I would like that very much,’ she replied politely, thinking that perhaps she’d be lucky and bump into Jack. ‘Let me get my hat.’


  As she set off towards the stables she raised her eyes to one of the bedroom windows and saw Bridie’s face peering at her through the glass. Her friend waved and watched as they disappeared out of sight. Bridie smiled knowingly. It was plainly obvious that Kitty had arranged the whole diversion so that she could spend time in the garden with Mr Trench. But why hadn’t she confided in her?

  It was a warm day. Spring filled the air with birdsong and the fertile scent of renewal. Buds were turning green and beginning to open in the sunshine and the countryside was no longer looking bleak. It was hard to believe, on such a lovely day, that there was disharmony anywhere in the world.

  Mr Mills had got the pony and trap ready and was standing waiting in the stable yard. When he saw Kitty he doffed his cap. ‘Top of the morning to you, Miss Kitty.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Mills. Isn’t it a fine morning?’ she replied.

  ‘It is indeed, Miss Kitty.’ He looked gravely at Mr Trench. ‘Be careful out there,’ he warned. ‘There are people who are none too happy at present.’

  ‘I will, Mr Mills,’ Mr Trench replied, climbing into the trap and taking the reins. Mr Mills gave Kitty his hand and helped her up so that she could sit beside her tutor. Mr Trench shook the reins and the pony set off at a gentle trot.

  For a while neither spoke. Kitty wasn’t used to being with her tutor outside the classroom and she didn’t know what to talk to him about. Mr Trench kept his eyes on the track ahead. A gust of wind nearly blew Kitty’s hat off, which gave her the opportunity to break the awkward silence. ‘That was close,’ she said, holding it down with her hand.

  ‘The wind is an unpredictable thing,’ said Mr Trench.

  ‘Oh, it is,’ Kitty agreed. ‘Is it so windy in England?’

  ‘Depends on where you are. On the coast it can be very blustery. In the winter there are winds that fell trees.’

  ‘What did Mr Mills mean by unhappy people? Are they hungry?’ she asked, thinking of the children she had seen that morning in the greenhouse.

  ‘No one wants to be forced to fight, Kitty.’

  ‘Conscription.’ She sighed. ‘I know and they shouldn’t have to.’

  ‘Ireland is part of the United Kingdom, like Wales and Scotland. It’s only right that the Irish should play their part as well.’

  ‘Many already are playing their part, God help them.’

  ‘Not enough.’

  ‘Do you wish you were fighting, Mr Trench?’ Kitty asked.

  Mr Trench was used to Kitty’s bluntness. ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied, equally blunt.

  ‘I wish Papa had a stiff leg so he didn’t have to.’

  ‘No you don’t. You wouldn’t wish it on anybody. One feels a failure.’

  She looked at him and frowned. That was the first piece of personal information he had ever volunteered. ‘You’re not a failure, Mr Trench. You might find you’re the last man standing. All the young women will throw themselves at you. Your leg might make you the luckiest man in England.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ he replied, embarrassed.

  Kitty smiled. ‘When God takes with one hand He gives with the other.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘According to my grandmother and you know that she’s right about everything.’

  At last they reached Ballinakelly. As it was fair day there was no school. Some of the children looked after animals for a few pence while the farmers went to O’Donovan’s to get drunk, others played chase up and down the street like a pack of stray dogs. Groups of women wearing their Bandon cloaks and carrying wicker baskets stood chatting and gossiping. It was not uncommon to find the odd cow wandering unattended as the boys bribed to watch it grew bored and ran off to join in the fun. The square was heaving with chickens and sheep, pigs and horses as it did the first Friday of every month. The townspeople mingled tightly with those who had come from neighbouring towns and villages, and tinker women weaved among them selling holy pictures and begging. It was a noisy affair and Kitty could hear the sound of music playing over the drone of voices as a trio of violinists busked at the far corner of the square.

  Kitty enjoyed the fair. She lifted her chin and searched the faces for Jack. Where there were animals he was sure to be. Mr Trench tied the pony to a post and went round to help Kitty down, but she had already jumped into the mud and was striding into the crowd.

  ‘Kitty!’ he called, running after her. He found her looking at a stall of hanging rabbits, yet to be skinned.

  ‘Poor little things,’ she said, peering at them. ‘One minute grazing happily, the next hanging up here by their hind legs, destined for the pot.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose people have to eat, but still.’

  ‘Well hello, Kitty,’ said a voice Kitty recognized. She lifted her eyes to see Lady Rowan-Hampton smiling at her beneath a bright blue hat.

  ‘Hello Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ said Kitty coolly. Then remembering her manners she added, ‘I don’t think you’ve met Mr Trench.’

  Grace extended her gloved hand. Mr Trench shook it and bowed politely. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ she said with her usual cheeriness.

  ‘He’s my tutor,’ Kitty said.

  ‘Yes, your father mentioned the fine education this young man is giving you.’

  Kitty frowned. ‘What else did he tell you?’ she asked frostily.

  ‘How proud he is to have such an articulate and opinionated daughter.’

  ‘I don’t think I can take all the credit for that,’ said Mr Trench.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you can. Kitty’s always had a mind of her own.’ Grace laughed. ‘I imagine you’ll be leaving for London at any moment.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Kitty retorted. ‘I’m staying here where I belong.’

  ‘Well, that’s something you and I have in common,’ said Grace. ‘Our unwavering love of Ireland.’

  ‘As well as a few other things,’ said Kitty pointedly. Grace frowned. ‘Good day to you, Lady Rowan-Hampton.’

  Mr Trench hurried after her. ‘Was it really necessary to be rude?’ he asked.

  Kitty turned to see his face red with indignation. ‘Why, Mr Trench, I think you’re showing emotion for once.’

  He ignored her comment. ‘She seemed a perfectly charming lady.’

  ‘Oh she is, perfectly charming. But you don’t know the half of it.’

  ‘Good reason or not, one should always try to be polite.’

  Kitty rounded on him fiercely. ‘Why? Because, if we’re not all polite, our true feelings might be revealed and then what? God forbid we show our feelings.’

  ‘Now you’re being unreasonable.’

  ‘Mr Trench, you’re my tutor. You’re to teach me history and maths and geography and French. You’re not employed to teach me manners. Miss Grieve taught me those and by God did she hammer them home. I was rude to Lady Rowan-Hampton because she has done something unforgivable which I will never forget as long as I live. I don’t expect you to understand but the least you can do is remain silent on the matter. Now, I’m going to look at the horses. I shall return to the trap in half an hour. Does that give you enough time to do what you want to do?’

  Mr Trench sighed. ‘It does.’

  ‘Good.’ Kitty marched off and was swallowed into the sea of people.

  She went in search of Jack but to her disappointment he was nowhere to be found. She saw his mother talking to Robin Nash, who ran the best dealing yard in Ireland, but she didn’t dare ask where Jack was. She sensed Mrs O’Leary didn’t much like her although she couldn’t think why. Among the people were members of the Royal Irish Constabulary in their black uniforms and forage hats, Father Quinn in his long black robes and the Rector, Reverend Daunt, in a tweed suit and bright white clerical collar. Kitty managed to avoid the Rector and Mr Trench, who she saw ambling aimlessly among the sheep looking lost.

  After half an hour she walked back to the trap, feeling dissatisfied. Mr Trench was waiting for her, being watched by a surly bunch of young men in caps and jackets, smoking
in the road outside O’Donovan’s. He offered her his hand and she took it, lifting her skirt and climbing into the trap. Then he walked round to the other side and climbed in beside her. Just as they were about to depart something came flying towards Kitty and struck her in the eye. She gave a howl of pain and slumped forward, putting her hand to her eye. Mr Trench began to shout at the offending young man, but it was Jack who appeared suddenly and put his arm around Kitty. When she saw him she cried all the more, afraid to peel back her hand. With a little gentle coaxing he lifted her trembling fingers and she realized to her relief that she wasn’t blinded after all, just bruised.

  Jack leapt down to punch the man who had thrown the potato but a constable pushed through the crowd who had gathered round like curious cows to watch the fight and stood between them. After a brief discussion it transpired that a certain Mr Murphy had thrown the potato because Kitty was a symbol of England and Mr Murphy was cross about the pending threat to send him off to the front against his will. ‘Will you be pressing charges, Miss Deverill?’ asked the constable, holding a defiant Mr Murphy by the arm.

  Kitty would like to have seen the man thrown into prison for his malice, but she looked at Jack and realized that if he didn’t know her and love her as he did he might very well have thrown the potato himself. ‘No, I won’t,’ she replied. ‘Just realize this, Mr Murphy. I am as against conscription as you are, make no mistake. Throwing potatoes at defenceless young women won’t change Mr Lloyd-George’s mind.’ The constable let the man go and he slunk back into the throng and disappeared into O’Donovan’s with his band of friends.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Jack whispered, perching on the step for a quiet word with her.

  ‘I’m going to have a horrid black eye,’ she replied, giving him a small smile.

  ‘At least you still have an eye.’

  She laughed. ‘Would you still love me if I didn’t?’

  ‘You know I would.’

  ‘When can we meet?’

  ‘Tomorrow? Down on Smuggler’s Bay at four?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  He caressed her wounded face with his eyes. ‘You look after yourself now. Things are going to get rough.’