Edith, page 12
‘Can’t think why they’d want to.’
‘How are they meant to take care of Drishane if they don’t learn to love it?’
The trap picks up speed. He raises his arm in farewell.
Her brother had a spring in his step. He’s sorrier to leave this toy dog than Drishane. Edith knows love of place is seeded in childhood. But it can be learned, too. None of the coming generation grew up in the house, the way she and Hildegarde and their five brothers did.When things quieten down, she’ll write to Aylmer and Boyle’s sons and invite them to stay. One of them will be Cameron’s heir.
—
Edith expects to feel lonely after Cameron’s departure, but the house folds itself around her, as comforting as a patchwork quilt. She plunders the treasure chest of Irish R.M. stories to borrow a line here, a scene there, for her play. It will all culminate in a wedding, of course. ‘Journeys end in lovers meeting/Every wise man’s son doth know.’ Aloud, she quotes Feste, the Twelfth Night jester. But a plot that’s all romance and no Flurrying would never do. Fortunately, that reprobate Slipper, the boozy, unscrupulous hunt servant, keeps muscling in, and it amuses her to allow him to steal Flurry’s thunder now and again. He’ll be a crowd-pleaser. A succession of productive writing days follows, and she is conscious of Martin’s spirit guiding her pen. Not since the earliest days of their literary career has she experienced such a sense of a mission. No wonder tremendous progress is being made.
Writing those stories with Martin was a joyful time, especially the first collection. That was back in the heel-end of the last century. Martin was pain-free then and, although they had family responsibilities, their shoulders could manage the load.Youth helped. Often, they were doubled over with laughter during the plotting, conscious that MajorYeates’s wife Philippa was ten times cleverer than he, and as for Flurry Knox, he was so sharp he’d cut himself to ribbons one day.
She has no need to consult their manuscripts to choose the stories she’s using to clothe her play. They remain just-landed fresh in her mind. She does, however, trawl her notebooks, scanning for useful phrases to weave through. Opening those marbled covers never fails to comfort her. It’s satisfying to retrieve a sentence written some two decades earlier as an act of faith in the future.That future turned out to be rather more tentative than she imagined.Yet she must make the best of it. Whatever deserts her, courage can never be allowed to fail.A first draft will be completed shortly.
Shortly before bedtime, Edith has an automatic writing session with Martin – it’s part of her routine, and tends not to produce anything sensational. Tonight is no exception. After some platitudes, along with reas-surances that Dooley is happy in heaven, she sets aside pencil and paper,
drinks some warm milk and retires upstairs. She undresses and rubs a skimpy amount of cold cream on her face, eking it out because replacements from the Army and Navy Stores in London can’t be relied on. This is the time of day she misses Dooley most. When she knelt on the bedside rug to say her prayers, he’d crouch alongside, paws over his eyes. It’s too chilly in the room for lengthy devotions. A rapid pater noster and a few invocations, and she slips between the covers, toeing for the hot water bottle. The paraffin oil lamp sighs when she extinguishes it. Edith exhales in sympathy, sinking into the feather mattress moulded to her body shape after decades of faithful service.
—
One day, when a full moon is due, Edith decides to bring her sketching materials to the castle after dinner. It’s currently empty, but her cousins, the Townshends, won’t object to her setting up easel and sketchpad there. She plans to work up some pastels of the castle exterior. The Flurry’s Wedding plot calls for a moonlit scene at Aussolas, old Mrs Knox’s home, and she’s longing to try her hand at the stage scenery. She instructs Philomena to prepare her coffee in a thermos flask after dinner.
Dismay registers on Philomena’s face, as round and plain – and yet as comforting – as an everyday dinner plate. ‘Do you really think you should go out on your own after dark, Miss Edith? What if you run into those boyos again, knocking about?’
‘I’ll bring Loulou. If there’s anyone lurking, she’ll bark to warn me.’
‘True for you. No better one. Except. What good’s hearing them and you on your lonesome? At least ask old Jeremiah to go the length with you.’
‘It’s a long time since I’ve needed a chaperone, Philomena. Look, if I hear anything suspicious, I’ll shelter in the Castle. I know how to get inside, no matter how securely it’s locked and barred. One of the benefits of a misspent childhood.’
‘I don’t like it, Miss Edith. I don’t like it at all. If you have to go, let it be early, before the night draws in.’
‘I want to see the castle by moonlight. I—’
A clatter of hooves stops her, drawing both women to the window.
‘Glory be to God!’ cries Philomena.
‘It’s Samson!’ says Edith. Riderless, reins trailing, the horse is gallop- ing up the drive.
Edith dashes outside, followed by Philomena. By the time she catches up with him, Samson is in the stable yard, drinking from the water trough. His flanks are heaving and coated in dust. He’s thinner, and a quick scan of his legs shows some cuts in need of urgent attention, with a shoe missing from the right foreleg.
‘Find Mike,’ says Edith.
‘He must have escaped from the pups that robbed him,’ marvels Philomena.
‘Run like the wind. He’ll be in Cross Street, at his own place. Tell him I want him.’
Tara whinnies, recognizing Samson, but he’s too exhausted to neigh back at her.
Edith pats him. ‘Aren’t you the champion, finding your way home from goodness knows where. There, boy, there now. You’re safe and sound.’ When Samson has finished drinking, Edith leads him to a bale of fresh hay inside the stable block. She notices sores on his mouth where the bit was sawed at – an inexperienced rider must have been trying to control him. A savage hope flares that Samson threw the scoundrel headlong into a manure pile.
—
Edith and Mike Hurley work in tandem to doctor Samson. Deferring to his expertise, she takes her instructions from him – Mike Hurley is half horse himself. While he bathes the horse’s swollen legs in saltwater, and binds them with bandages, she mixes a solution to apply to Samson’s chafed areas.
Mike is incandescent at Samson’s condition. ‘Poor beast was ridden hard and no care taken of him. He’d drop down dead inside a month with this treatment, Miss Edith. No wonder they have to keep stealing horses.’
‘Anyone who abuses a dumb animal should be shot.’
‘I dare say them fellas will stop a bullet sooner or later.’
Methodical, he checks the leg bandages are tight enough before turning his attention to grooming. Selecting a curry comb, he uses it in circular movements, its short metal teeth dislodging caked-on mud and other detritus. The horse is accustomed to his handling and stands patiently, despite occasional tremors rippling his shrunken frame. Edith tackles his tail and mane, trying to stay out of Mike’s way.
Mike shakes out the curry comb, tutting at the dirt that’s dislodged. ‘Hand me the brush next to you, please, Miss Edith. Not that one, it’s for later. I need the hardest one first.’ Using short strokes, front to back in the direction of the horse’s hair growth, he sweeps stiff bristles over Samson. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if them IRA heroes weren’t headed back our way. Stands to reason they’d come after Samson. Makes them look foolish, losing him.’
‘I thought the same. That IRA captain may be a fanatic but he’s nobody’s fool.’ What if he sends the whistler? Edith quakes at the idea of meeting him again. Fear must be mastered, she tells herself. But that swoosh with his hand, miming a house being set alight, haunts her.
‘I’ll sit up tonight in the stables, Miss Edith.’
‘After what happened last time?’
‘Somebody has to see about the horses.’
‘I don’t know if that’s wise.’ She hesitates. ‘Would some of our tenants keep watch with you?’
‘You know they won’t, miss.That’s asking them to take sides. I could try our Ned again. His mother won’t like it, but Samson won’t survive if they take him again.’
Edith falls silent. Presently, she asks,‘Is he able for it? After the blow to his head?’
‘He’s a Hurley – what’s bred in the dog comes out in the pup. We’ll stick together this time. It was a mistake to separate.’
‘I wish—’ Edith is too overwhelmed to continue. She watches Mike’s sure hands continue their progress over the horse’s hide. ‘No, I can’t allow it. Try Jeremiah. He’ll be company for you, if nothing else.’
nine
Dinner is consumed in jig time, since there is no one to talk to and breed- ing prevents Edith from propping a book against the salt cellar. Standards can’t be permitted to slip. During her meal, she decides that communication by automatic writing with Martin is insufficient at this crisis point. While useful, undoubtedly, it has limitations. Could she hold a seance? Imagine if she managed a materialization! Edith has never been able to effect one. Perhaps, she reflects, a seance is overly ambitious without a medium. On second thoughts, she’ll try the Ouija board.
No time like the present. Edith rings the bell for Philomena to clear the table. A knock on the door, and Philomena plods into the dining room, still in the process of unrolling her sleeves. She is inclined to linger and chat, with Cameron’s absence narrowing the gap between family and servants. Philomena’s strong arms lift and stack. She could follow a plough with those shoulders and arms, thinks Edith.
‘Mrs O’Shea and me thought you might like to join us in the kitchen this evening, Miss Edith. It must be desperate lonesome up here for you, with the master away.’
‘How kind. Do please send my thanks to Mrs O’Shea. But I have plans for tonight. Another night, I’d love to take you up on that.’
‘We have a two-week-old copy of the Skibbereen Eagle. I’m reading it out to her. The eyes aren’t able for the small print, dear love her.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow, Philomena.’
‘I hear one of the doctor’s boys has taken a shine to Timmy the Post’s daughter. Cornelius, it is, the one that’s training to be a teacher. He’s like hounds after a fox – oh very determined to have her. But his family is against the match. She has no dowry.’
Normally, Edith’s ears would prick at such a titbit, noting down its details for future use in a story. But tonight her mind is on Martin and she hears the words without any sense of their meaning. Only when Mike Hurley’s name is mentioned does Philomena snag her attention.
‘I thought I’d bring him out some sandwiches before I turn in. He says he’s sleeping in the stable loft tonight to keep an eye on Samson. You’d be rightly shanghaied, Miss Edith, if the IRA came back for Samson and took Tara, too, out of spite. I heard they drove off a couple or three bullocks on a farmer out Drimoleague way after he wouldn’t give them the time of day, let alone a contribution.’
‘Mike and Jeremiah will keep a sharp eye out.’
‘But there’s only Mike. Jeremiah took a turn, lost his footing, and Mike sent him home.’
Concern pinches Edith. A great deal is being asked of Mike Hurley. ‘How unfortunate. I’ll go out and speak to Mike before I lock up. Could you check on Jeremiah? See if he needs some beef tea, or a hand getting to bed?’
‘Very good, ma’am dear. I’m relieved you’re not going off drawing pictures, down at the castle tonight.’
‘I had second thoughts after Samson galloped up. But I’ve important work to do here in any case.’
Edith goes upstairs to fetch the Ouija board and other props. On her return, Philomena is still tidying the dining room, and when she sees what Edith is carrying, she sets down the willow-patterned tray and folds her arms.
‘Miss Edith, I’ve served you for thirty years, and I’ve earned the right to speak me mind. All this divil stuff you’re at. It’s a sin, so it is. Father Lambe would go pure mad if he thought me and Mrs O’Shea were staying in a house where the mistress calls up ghosts.’
‘Miss Martin isn’t a ghost, Philomena.’
‘What is she, then, and her dead and buried this past six years?’
‘She’s a caring, loyal, loving …’ Edith is lost for words.
‘Ghost!’
‘Presence. She’s a presence. And there is nothing diabolical about it.’
‘Me and Mrs O’Shea, we don’t like it. It’s not right, Miss Edith. Bothering the dead the way you do. Let them that’s gone stay gone.’
‘Really, Philomena, I’ve indulged you quite enough. I won’t be told what I can and can’t do by a member of my staff.’
‘We’ll give notice, so we will.’
Edith is alarmed. ‘Come, come, you’re overreacting.Why don’t you make yourself a nice pot of tea and—’
‘We’ll pack our bags. Or Father Lambe will want to know the reason why.’ Philomena blots her eyes with her apron hem. ‘You’re dabbling with dangerous things, miss. You might maybe be putting your immortal soul in danger.’
‘That will be all, Philomena. We’ll talk about this when you’re less overwrought.’
‘I know you’re the mistress but …’ Sniff.‘Me and Mrs O’Shea …’ Sniff.
‘Off you go, Philomena.’
Truculent and tearful, Philomena trudges out. Edith knows she’ll have to pacify her, but not when she’s emotional.
Now, to the job at hand. Spiritualists always burn incense to enhance the atmosphere, in her experience. As a stand-in for incense, she has decided to sacrifice a muslin bag of dried rosemary from her wardrobe. It will burn slowly.The smell of smoke is meant to alert those who have passed over. So Jem Barlow claims. Apparently, anything but sage is useful – sage drives away spirits, for some odd reason.
She dims the lamps and sprinkles the rosemary into an ashtray, where it smoulders slowly. A sneeze from under the sideboard, and she realizes Loulou has crept into the room. ‘Not a peep out of you, milady.’ She bribes her with a cube from the forgotten sugar bowl.
Edith removes the board from its box. It’s a black-painted rectangle with gold markings. ‘Yes’ is stencilled on one side under a sun symbol, and ‘No’ on the other beneath a moon symbol. The letters of the alphabet are ranged in a double semicircle, while the numbers zero to nine are lined up along the bottom.
Loulou scoots over, springing for her lap, and Edith settles her there, stroking the bridge of the Pomeranian’s nose. Then, emptying her mind of everything except Martin’s face, she places one finger lightly on the planchette, the pointer which slides around the board. She uses her left hand, leaving her right hand free for writing. In a clockwise fashion, she moves the planchette from Yes to No and across the letters, followed by the numbers, doing this for some minutes. When the time feels right, she speaks.
‘Are you here, Martin? If you are, spell out words to me, dearest.’
Nothing happens. She continues manipulating the pointer. Sudden as a squirt of perfume, a memory swims through her: Martin smuggling Edith’s dog through French customs, concealed in one of her enormous leg-of-mutton sleeves. A bubble of laughter bursts from Edith. Martin always looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But there was nothing she wouldn’t do if the humour took her.
The board vibrates. Has she arrived?
‘Martin? Can you—’
The door crashes open. A man enters, toting a rifle.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Somerville. I’m to fetch you down to the kitchen.’
It’s the voice she recognizes first. His skin isn’t blackened this time, showing a face as sleek as apple jelly. But she knows him. It’s the young Kerry fellow who raided Drishane.
From the safety of Edith’s lap, Loulou sets up a rumpus.
‘Hush, Loulou. Stop that racket. Good evening, young man. How are the boots holding up?’
His face splits into a grin. ‘Fit me like a glove.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She looks at the firearm – at least he has the courtesy not to aim it at her. ‘How many are with you this time?’
‘Just me and Patr— … I can’t say his name.’
‘The brute who kicked my dog to death?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Thank goodness. Couldn’t bear to see him again.’
‘He doesn’t have much feeling for people, let alone God’s dumb creatures. He’s as wild as a March hare.’
‘Why are you back? We’ve nothing left to give.’
‘The horse. We saw him in the stable just now. He’s some animal to find his way here from Fermoy. It must be seventy-five miles, if it’s a step.’
‘Poor creature is half-dead, whatever you’ve been doing to him.’
‘Tell you the truth, we’ve had to put two at a time on his back.’
‘You’ll kill him, you know. Horses need to rest if they’re worked. They’re not machines.’
A shrug. ‘Captain’s orders is to bring e’ther him or another beast. There’s a fit-looking mare in the stable. Maybe she’d be a better bet.’
‘I hope you haven’t tied up Mike Hurley again.’
‘The aul’ fella? Below in the kitchen with the women.’
‘Did you hurt him?’
‘No need. He came quiet.Where’s your brother, the colonel?’
‘England. Didn’t the others tell you?’
A nod.
‘You’re checking our story, aren’t you?’
A half-grin breaks through his darkened face. ‘What’s that you have, ma’am? Is it some kind of board game? Like snakes and ladders?’ Advancing, he tracks mud into the Turkey carpet. Loulou launches into another round of yelping.
She covers the Ouija board with its lid. ‘Not quite. Mind your manners, Lou – pipe down.You seem like a nice young man. It’s a shame to see you embark on a career as a horse thief.’
‘I’m a soldier of the Irish Republic.’
‘And a horse thief besides.’
‘Captain’s orders.’ Sullen now, his gaze sweeps the room, absorbing its grandeur.
What if he decides to do some looting? They still have possessions to lose. To distract him, Edith says, ‘Is this really the life you’d wish for yourself? It must be hard on you – on all of you. Haring about the country, sleeping in ditches, hunting and being hunted.’
‘How are they meant to take care of Drishane if they don’t learn to love it?’
The trap picks up speed. He raises his arm in farewell.
Her brother had a spring in his step. He’s sorrier to leave this toy dog than Drishane. Edith knows love of place is seeded in childhood. But it can be learned, too. None of the coming generation grew up in the house, the way she and Hildegarde and their five brothers did.When things quieten down, she’ll write to Aylmer and Boyle’s sons and invite them to stay. One of them will be Cameron’s heir.
—
Edith expects to feel lonely after Cameron’s departure, but the house folds itself around her, as comforting as a patchwork quilt. She plunders the treasure chest of Irish R.M. stories to borrow a line here, a scene there, for her play. It will all culminate in a wedding, of course. ‘Journeys end in lovers meeting/Every wise man’s son doth know.’ Aloud, she quotes Feste, the Twelfth Night jester. But a plot that’s all romance and no Flurrying would never do. Fortunately, that reprobate Slipper, the boozy, unscrupulous hunt servant, keeps muscling in, and it amuses her to allow him to steal Flurry’s thunder now and again. He’ll be a crowd-pleaser. A succession of productive writing days follows, and she is conscious of Martin’s spirit guiding her pen. Not since the earliest days of their literary career has she experienced such a sense of a mission. No wonder tremendous progress is being made.
Writing those stories with Martin was a joyful time, especially the first collection. That was back in the heel-end of the last century. Martin was pain-free then and, although they had family responsibilities, their shoulders could manage the load.Youth helped. Often, they were doubled over with laughter during the plotting, conscious that MajorYeates’s wife Philippa was ten times cleverer than he, and as for Flurry Knox, he was so sharp he’d cut himself to ribbons one day.
She has no need to consult their manuscripts to choose the stories she’s using to clothe her play. They remain just-landed fresh in her mind. She does, however, trawl her notebooks, scanning for useful phrases to weave through. Opening those marbled covers never fails to comfort her. It’s satisfying to retrieve a sentence written some two decades earlier as an act of faith in the future.That future turned out to be rather more tentative than she imagined.Yet she must make the best of it. Whatever deserts her, courage can never be allowed to fail.A first draft will be completed shortly.
Shortly before bedtime, Edith has an automatic writing session with Martin – it’s part of her routine, and tends not to produce anything sensational. Tonight is no exception. After some platitudes, along with reas-surances that Dooley is happy in heaven, she sets aside pencil and paper,
drinks some warm milk and retires upstairs. She undresses and rubs a skimpy amount of cold cream on her face, eking it out because replacements from the Army and Navy Stores in London can’t be relied on. This is the time of day she misses Dooley most. When she knelt on the bedside rug to say her prayers, he’d crouch alongside, paws over his eyes. It’s too chilly in the room for lengthy devotions. A rapid pater noster and a few invocations, and she slips between the covers, toeing for the hot water bottle. The paraffin oil lamp sighs when she extinguishes it. Edith exhales in sympathy, sinking into the feather mattress moulded to her body shape after decades of faithful service.
—
One day, when a full moon is due, Edith decides to bring her sketching materials to the castle after dinner. It’s currently empty, but her cousins, the Townshends, won’t object to her setting up easel and sketchpad there. She plans to work up some pastels of the castle exterior. The Flurry’s Wedding plot calls for a moonlit scene at Aussolas, old Mrs Knox’s home, and she’s longing to try her hand at the stage scenery. She instructs Philomena to prepare her coffee in a thermos flask after dinner.
Dismay registers on Philomena’s face, as round and plain – and yet as comforting – as an everyday dinner plate. ‘Do you really think you should go out on your own after dark, Miss Edith? What if you run into those boyos again, knocking about?’
‘I’ll bring Loulou. If there’s anyone lurking, she’ll bark to warn me.’
‘True for you. No better one. Except. What good’s hearing them and you on your lonesome? At least ask old Jeremiah to go the length with you.’
‘It’s a long time since I’ve needed a chaperone, Philomena. Look, if I hear anything suspicious, I’ll shelter in the Castle. I know how to get inside, no matter how securely it’s locked and barred. One of the benefits of a misspent childhood.’
‘I don’t like it, Miss Edith. I don’t like it at all. If you have to go, let it be early, before the night draws in.’
‘I want to see the castle by moonlight. I—’
A clatter of hooves stops her, drawing both women to the window.
‘Glory be to God!’ cries Philomena.
‘It’s Samson!’ says Edith. Riderless, reins trailing, the horse is gallop- ing up the drive.
Edith dashes outside, followed by Philomena. By the time she catches up with him, Samson is in the stable yard, drinking from the water trough. His flanks are heaving and coated in dust. He’s thinner, and a quick scan of his legs shows some cuts in need of urgent attention, with a shoe missing from the right foreleg.
‘Find Mike,’ says Edith.
‘He must have escaped from the pups that robbed him,’ marvels Philomena.
‘Run like the wind. He’ll be in Cross Street, at his own place. Tell him I want him.’
Tara whinnies, recognizing Samson, but he’s too exhausted to neigh back at her.
Edith pats him. ‘Aren’t you the champion, finding your way home from goodness knows where. There, boy, there now. You’re safe and sound.’ When Samson has finished drinking, Edith leads him to a bale of fresh hay inside the stable block. She notices sores on his mouth where the bit was sawed at – an inexperienced rider must have been trying to control him. A savage hope flares that Samson threw the scoundrel headlong into a manure pile.
—
Edith and Mike Hurley work in tandem to doctor Samson. Deferring to his expertise, she takes her instructions from him – Mike Hurley is half horse himself. While he bathes the horse’s swollen legs in saltwater, and binds them with bandages, she mixes a solution to apply to Samson’s chafed areas.
Mike is incandescent at Samson’s condition. ‘Poor beast was ridden hard and no care taken of him. He’d drop down dead inside a month with this treatment, Miss Edith. No wonder they have to keep stealing horses.’
‘Anyone who abuses a dumb animal should be shot.’
‘I dare say them fellas will stop a bullet sooner or later.’
Methodical, he checks the leg bandages are tight enough before turning his attention to grooming. Selecting a curry comb, he uses it in circular movements, its short metal teeth dislodging caked-on mud and other detritus. The horse is accustomed to his handling and stands patiently, despite occasional tremors rippling his shrunken frame. Edith tackles his tail and mane, trying to stay out of Mike’s way.
Mike shakes out the curry comb, tutting at the dirt that’s dislodged. ‘Hand me the brush next to you, please, Miss Edith. Not that one, it’s for later. I need the hardest one first.’ Using short strokes, front to back in the direction of the horse’s hair growth, he sweeps stiff bristles over Samson. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if them IRA heroes weren’t headed back our way. Stands to reason they’d come after Samson. Makes them look foolish, losing him.’
‘I thought the same. That IRA captain may be a fanatic but he’s nobody’s fool.’ What if he sends the whistler? Edith quakes at the idea of meeting him again. Fear must be mastered, she tells herself. But that swoosh with his hand, miming a house being set alight, haunts her.
‘I’ll sit up tonight in the stables, Miss Edith.’
‘After what happened last time?’
‘Somebody has to see about the horses.’
‘I don’t know if that’s wise.’ She hesitates. ‘Would some of our tenants keep watch with you?’
‘You know they won’t, miss.That’s asking them to take sides. I could try our Ned again. His mother won’t like it, but Samson won’t survive if they take him again.’
Edith falls silent. Presently, she asks,‘Is he able for it? After the blow to his head?’
‘He’s a Hurley – what’s bred in the dog comes out in the pup. We’ll stick together this time. It was a mistake to separate.’
‘I wish—’ Edith is too overwhelmed to continue. She watches Mike’s sure hands continue their progress over the horse’s hide. ‘No, I can’t allow it. Try Jeremiah. He’ll be company for you, if nothing else.’
nine
Dinner is consumed in jig time, since there is no one to talk to and breed- ing prevents Edith from propping a book against the salt cellar. Standards can’t be permitted to slip. During her meal, she decides that communication by automatic writing with Martin is insufficient at this crisis point. While useful, undoubtedly, it has limitations. Could she hold a seance? Imagine if she managed a materialization! Edith has never been able to effect one. Perhaps, she reflects, a seance is overly ambitious without a medium. On second thoughts, she’ll try the Ouija board.
No time like the present. Edith rings the bell for Philomena to clear the table. A knock on the door, and Philomena plods into the dining room, still in the process of unrolling her sleeves. She is inclined to linger and chat, with Cameron’s absence narrowing the gap between family and servants. Philomena’s strong arms lift and stack. She could follow a plough with those shoulders and arms, thinks Edith.
‘Mrs O’Shea and me thought you might like to join us in the kitchen this evening, Miss Edith. It must be desperate lonesome up here for you, with the master away.’
‘How kind. Do please send my thanks to Mrs O’Shea. But I have plans for tonight. Another night, I’d love to take you up on that.’
‘We have a two-week-old copy of the Skibbereen Eagle. I’m reading it out to her. The eyes aren’t able for the small print, dear love her.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow, Philomena.’
‘I hear one of the doctor’s boys has taken a shine to Timmy the Post’s daughter. Cornelius, it is, the one that’s training to be a teacher. He’s like hounds after a fox – oh very determined to have her. But his family is against the match. She has no dowry.’
Normally, Edith’s ears would prick at such a titbit, noting down its details for future use in a story. But tonight her mind is on Martin and she hears the words without any sense of their meaning. Only when Mike Hurley’s name is mentioned does Philomena snag her attention.
‘I thought I’d bring him out some sandwiches before I turn in. He says he’s sleeping in the stable loft tonight to keep an eye on Samson. You’d be rightly shanghaied, Miss Edith, if the IRA came back for Samson and took Tara, too, out of spite. I heard they drove off a couple or three bullocks on a farmer out Drimoleague way after he wouldn’t give them the time of day, let alone a contribution.’
‘Mike and Jeremiah will keep a sharp eye out.’
‘But there’s only Mike. Jeremiah took a turn, lost his footing, and Mike sent him home.’
Concern pinches Edith. A great deal is being asked of Mike Hurley. ‘How unfortunate. I’ll go out and speak to Mike before I lock up. Could you check on Jeremiah? See if he needs some beef tea, or a hand getting to bed?’
‘Very good, ma’am dear. I’m relieved you’re not going off drawing pictures, down at the castle tonight.’
‘I had second thoughts after Samson galloped up. But I’ve important work to do here in any case.’
Edith goes upstairs to fetch the Ouija board and other props. On her return, Philomena is still tidying the dining room, and when she sees what Edith is carrying, she sets down the willow-patterned tray and folds her arms.
‘Miss Edith, I’ve served you for thirty years, and I’ve earned the right to speak me mind. All this divil stuff you’re at. It’s a sin, so it is. Father Lambe would go pure mad if he thought me and Mrs O’Shea were staying in a house where the mistress calls up ghosts.’
‘Miss Martin isn’t a ghost, Philomena.’
‘What is she, then, and her dead and buried this past six years?’
‘She’s a caring, loyal, loving …’ Edith is lost for words.
‘Ghost!’
‘Presence. She’s a presence. And there is nothing diabolical about it.’
‘Me and Mrs O’Shea, we don’t like it. It’s not right, Miss Edith. Bothering the dead the way you do. Let them that’s gone stay gone.’
‘Really, Philomena, I’ve indulged you quite enough. I won’t be told what I can and can’t do by a member of my staff.’
‘We’ll give notice, so we will.’
Edith is alarmed. ‘Come, come, you’re overreacting.Why don’t you make yourself a nice pot of tea and—’
‘We’ll pack our bags. Or Father Lambe will want to know the reason why.’ Philomena blots her eyes with her apron hem. ‘You’re dabbling with dangerous things, miss. You might maybe be putting your immortal soul in danger.’
‘That will be all, Philomena. We’ll talk about this when you’re less overwrought.’
‘I know you’re the mistress but …’ Sniff.‘Me and Mrs O’Shea …’ Sniff.
‘Off you go, Philomena.’
Truculent and tearful, Philomena trudges out. Edith knows she’ll have to pacify her, but not when she’s emotional.
Now, to the job at hand. Spiritualists always burn incense to enhance the atmosphere, in her experience. As a stand-in for incense, she has decided to sacrifice a muslin bag of dried rosemary from her wardrobe. It will burn slowly.The smell of smoke is meant to alert those who have passed over. So Jem Barlow claims. Apparently, anything but sage is useful – sage drives away spirits, for some odd reason.
She dims the lamps and sprinkles the rosemary into an ashtray, where it smoulders slowly. A sneeze from under the sideboard, and she realizes Loulou has crept into the room. ‘Not a peep out of you, milady.’ She bribes her with a cube from the forgotten sugar bowl.
Edith removes the board from its box. It’s a black-painted rectangle with gold markings. ‘Yes’ is stencilled on one side under a sun symbol, and ‘No’ on the other beneath a moon symbol. The letters of the alphabet are ranged in a double semicircle, while the numbers zero to nine are lined up along the bottom.
Loulou scoots over, springing for her lap, and Edith settles her there, stroking the bridge of the Pomeranian’s nose. Then, emptying her mind of everything except Martin’s face, she places one finger lightly on the planchette, the pointer which slides around the board. She uses her left hand, leaving her right hand free for writing. In a clockwise fashion, she moves the planchette from Yes to No and across the letters, followed by the numbers, doing this for some minutes. When the time feels right, she speaks.
‘Are you here, Martin? If you are, spell out words to me, dearest.’
Nothing happens. She continues manipulating the pointer. Sudden as a squirt of perfume, a memory swims through her: Martin smuggling Edith’s dog through French customs, concealed in one of her enormous leg-of-mutton sleeves. A bubble of laughter bursts from Edith. Martin always looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But there was nothing she wouldn’t do if the humour took her.
The board vibrates. Has she arrived?
‘Martin? Can you—’
The door crashes open. A man enters, toting a rifle.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Somerville. I’m to fetch you down to the kitchen.’
It’s the voice she recognizes first. His skin isn’t blackened this time, showing a face as sleek as apple jelly. But she knows him. It’s the young Kerry fellow who raided Drishane.
From the safety of Edith’s lap, Loulou sets up a rumpus.
‘Hush, Loulou. Stop that racket. Good evening, young man. How are the boots holding up?’
His face splits into a grin. ‘Fit me like a glove.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She looks at the firearm – at least he has the courtesy not to aim it at her. ‘How many are with you this time?’
‘Just me and Patr— … I can’t say his name.’
‘The brute who kicked my dog to death?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Thank goodness. Couldn’t bear to see him again.’
‘He doesn’t have much feeling for people, let alone God’s dumb creatures. He’s as wild as a March hare.’
‘Why are you back? We’ve nothing left to give.’
‘The horse. We saw him in the stable just now. He’s some animal to find his way here from Fermoy. It must be seventy-five miles, if it’s a step.’
‘Poor creature is half-dead, whatever you’ve been doing to him.’
‘Tell you the truth, we’ve had to put two at a time on his back.’
‘You’ll kill him, you know. Horses need to rest if they’re worked. They’re not machines.’
A shrug. ‘Captain’s orders is to bring e’ther him or another beast. There’s a fit-looking mare in the stable. Maybe she’d be a better bet.’
‘I hope you haven’t tied up Mike Hurley again.’
‘The aul’ fella? Below in the kitchen with the women.’
‘Did you hurt him?’
‘No need. He came quiet.Where’s your brother, the colonel?’
‘England. Didn’t the others tell you?’
A nod.
‘You’re checking our story, aren’t you?’
A half-grin breaks through his darkened face. ‘What’s that you have, ma’am? Is it some kind of board game? Like snakes and ladders?’ Advancing, he tracks mud into the Turkey carpet. Loulou launches into another round of yelping.
She covers the Ouija board with its lid. ‘Not quite. Mind your manners, Lou – pipe down.You seem like a nice young man. It’s a shame to see you embark on a career as a horse thief.’
‘I’m a soldier of the Irish Republic.’
‘And a horse thief besides.’
‘Captain’s orders.’ Sullen now, his gaze sweeps the room, absorbing its grandeur.
What if he decides to do some looting? They still have possessions to lose. To distract him, Edith says, ‘Is this really the life you’d wish for yourself? It must be hard on you – on all of you. Haring about the country, sleeping in ditches, hunting and being hunted.’
