Edith, page 15
Ethel Smyth slaps her knees.‘What a card that Slipper is! I say, is he drawn from life?’
‘He’s a combination of people I knew from the hunt.’
‘Marvellous!’
‘Tell me honestly, Boney, is the play any good?’
‘It’s a tonic for the spirits. It’ll raise the roof.’
‘Really?’
‘Really – you have turned the place into Stratford-on-Drishane! The only thing missing is music. I could write you some jaunty Irish airs to accompany it.’ She beats time against a cushion.‘I can see the framework in my head – the outline of the statues against the sky, so to speak.’
‘Please don’t trouble yourself. Opera is opera and theatre is theatre and never the twain, et cetera. Apart from Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan, of course.’ Edith slides the cushion away from Boney before her fist bursts the stitching.
‘But it will perk up the play enormously. Music improves everything.’
‘You’re too kind. But I’m not convinced the play needs perking up. Music won’t be of any benefit to it.’
‘Nonsense! Music should be mandatory with all stage performances. It’s essential.We can’t have too much of it!’
‘There can be too much of a good thing, you know, Boney.’
‘I disagree.Truly, I’m going to insist on writing the musical score for your play.’ Boney’s arms flail in time to a beat only she can hear. ‘You can supply the libretto. It’ll be a team effort!’
Ice penetrates Edith’s voice.‘My team efforts are with Martin Ross.’
Even Boney realizes she has transgressed. She searches for an olive branch.‘Have another choccy.’ She passes over another of her gifts, a box of Charbonnel et Walker chocolates.
‘Really, I couldn’t.’
‘Just one more. To show no hard feelings.’
Edith selects a rose cream and nibbles at it.‘We must put them away after this.’
Boney pops an entire truffle into her mouth. ‘Why? I see no reason not to indulge ourselves once in a while, my little Quakeress. Now, we need to put our heads together and work out how to make Flurry’s Wedding the smash of the season. I shall have to tackle some big cheese personally on your behalf.You’re far too modest to do it yourself.’
Edith realizes her play stands a better chance if Boney champions it. Exuberant she may be, but her heart’s in the right place. ‘That’s terribly kind of you. I do appreciate how you put yourself out for me, dear.’
‘We’re two sides of the same medal, Edith. I understand you. Better than that family of yours, which takes you for granted. None of them appreciates you for the meteor-like talent you are.’
Edith finds she needs to prop up her head with a hand. It’s only Boney’s first night and already she’s bowling her over. No one is averse to a little flattery but Boney over-eggs everything. ‘What’s happening in London? Is there much interest in what’s going on in Ireland?’
Boney’s fingers hover over a violet cream.‘There was quite the hoo-ha when I was passing through yesterday, on my way to catch the boat train. Your chaps were in 10 Downing Street.’
The chocolate is seized and bitten in half.
‘Was anything agreed?’
‘Didn’t hear.’
‘Oh dear Lord, I hope there’s an end in sight. They’ve been wrangling over terms since October.What’s your sense of the public mood?’
Cheek bulging, Ethel Smyth considers.‘People are war-weary. Keen to have our boys home. But taking up arms against the throne was wrong and those rebels of yours shouldn’t be let off with a treaty. Personally, I’d have that delegation sent over by your de Valera person horsewhipped and thrown into the Tower.’
‘Hurling Ireland straight back into war. I’m very glad it’s Mr Lloyd George who’s at the helm and not you, Boney.’
‘If I were Prime Minister I should insist on you moving into Number Ten with me.’ Boney captures Edith’s hand and strokes it.
Edith springs to her feet. ‘Time to turn in.’ She snaps her fingers at Loulou, dozing by the fire. Instantly, the dog is at her ankles. She holds out her arms and Loulou bounces into them. ‘Will you ring for Philomena when you’re ready to go up? She’ll bank down the fire and so forth. Good night, my dear. See you in the morning. Do feel free to lie on after your journey.’
—
Boney’s visit proves to be enjoyable, despite her attempts to persuade Edith to commit to things she has no intention of doing – such as trekking in Turkey’s Black Sea Mountains with her next year.
‘Everyone will be doing it soon,’ says Boney. ‘If we go now, we’ll be ahead of them.’
‘My father always said, “Wherever the world is headed, let you head the other way,”’ parries Edith.
Boney also tries to turn the croquet lawn into a miniature golf course so she can teach Edith how to play, and harries Edith to do her portrait – Edith refuses, for no reason that she can easily justify to herself.
‘But Sargent sketched me. I don’t know why you say it’s impossible.’
‘It just is, Boney. Don’t go on about it, dear. Why not play me something rousing on the piano?’
Boney launches herself at the instrument. A great tangle of notes floods out, a passage from her Mass in D – the kind of music Lord Kitchener would have composed if he’d been that way inclined, it occurs to Edith. Unexpectedly, Boney breaks off and buries her face in her hands.
Alarmed, Edith hurries to her side.‘My dear, whatever’s the matter?’
‘My ear’s at me. Booming and singing away. I’m dreading what it means. What if I go deaf, Edith? It runs in the family. How will I be able to compose music?’
‘Well, Beethoven,’ Edith begins, but stops short at the expression on Boney’s face. A compound of frustration and terror. She tries again. ‘Have you been to an ear specialist?’
‘Not in a while.’
‘Promise me you’ll make an appointment with one as soon as you’re back home.’
—
‘I say, Edith, who’s that skulking in the flowerbeds?’
Can she see Flurry Knox? Disgruntled at the idea, Edith joins Boney at the window. A young woman is banging a saucepan lid with a wooden spoon.
‘That’s Nora Treacy from the village. She’s helping with the pre-Christmas cleaning.’
‘Why is she making that racket?’
‘There’s a black hen that’s an escape artist. It’s the one we were supposed to eat on your first night – Mrs O’Shea was too busy to wring her neck.’
‘Too disobedient to wring her neck, you mean.’
‘I dare say she was right. Black Bess lays the most enormous eggs. You had one of hers for breakfast – didn’t you notice the double yolk?’
‘I could hardly sit up straight, let alone pay attention to my poached egg. I was exhausted from being woken at dawn by a fearful racket from your rooster.’
‘That’s Roddy. He believes in rousing the household punctually, whether we like it or not.’
Another crash is delivered to the saucepan lid, along with a roared ‘chuckee chuckee chuckee’.
‘Really, Edith, you’re too slack. She should be in the kitchen or scullery. Not loitering in flower beds. Look at her. She’s wandering off now to gossip with your gardener.’
‘He’s something to her. A grand-uncle, I think. The Treacys and the O’Mahonys are definitely related.’
‘This entire country of yours is undisciplined. I meant to tell you about one of the porters at Skibbereen railway station, the day I arrived. Fellow who stank of onions. Asked me where I was destined and when I said Drishane, he told me you were the civilest aul’ heifer that ever drew breath. Then he spotted your man, and would have spent half the day chin-wagging with him if I hadn’t instructed Hurley to get a move on and take us home.’
‘I hope you were polite to Mike, Boney. I rely on him.’
‘His boots were filthy. General Smyth would have made mincemeat of him.’
‘Mike’s not in the army, and neither is he under your father’s command. Do, please, try not to antagonize the staff, dear. For my sake. Now, how about a walk in the castle grounds? I’d suggest a picnic, but the weather has a bad habit of going into floods of tears at the mere mention of the word.We used up all our sunshine for the month yesterday. I know, let’s call in with my friend, Miss Barlow on the way, invite her to dinner. She lives on Main Street.’
‘The medium?’
‘Yes, she’s back from Belfast. Ever such a gifted sensitive.’
‘Anything to Jane Barlow, the writer?’
‘A cousin. Martin was frightfully impressed when she discovered it. Literary connections always swayed her in someone’s favour.’
‘Do you mean Martin knew her when she was alive? Or is this impressed from beyond the grave?’
‘Yes, she knew her. I thought we might arrange a seance after dinner, if Miss Barlow is willing. I think you’d find it interesting.You see, a barrier cuts us off from those we love in that undiscovered country on the other side. Miss Barlow’s powers help to dismantle the obstructions.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’d rather not have anything to do with that, that – business – if you don’t mind, Edith.’
‘I didn’t realize you felt that way.’
‘Well, now you know.’
—
Towards the end of the week, they hire bicycles in Skibbereen and pedal – slowly – out to Lough Hyne, about three miles from the town. It’s Ireland’s only saltwater lake and a place of enchantment, in Edith’s view. Boney pronounces herself enraptured as they perch on a low wall, admiring the view. Clouds coast overhead and the wind gains in momentum. Edith licks a finger pad before presenting it to the air.
‘Good, it’ll be at our backs on the return leg to Skib. I haven’t been on a bicycle in ever such a long time. Didn’t think I still had it in me. Used to do it years ago with Martin. It was quite the craze at one time.’
‘One year, I galloped everywhere at breakneck speed on a tandem,’ says Boney. ‘Not just me on board, of course.With a dear friend. A very dear friend. She was … rather special.’
Edith isn’t listening.‘Years ago, when Noah was a boy, I won a poster competition to sketch a bicycle and rider in twenty lines or less.The cash prize was handy.’
‘What did you spend it on?’
‘Can’t remember. Art materials, I expect. I thought I was going to be the next Renoir.You know how girls are, building castles in the air.’
‘You still do.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Build castles in the air.’
‘About what?’
‘Your life in Ireland.You’re mouldering here, Edith.’
Edith pretends not to hear her. ‘I must have a word with the rector about the list of hymns for St Barrahane’s on Sunday. I’m supposed to play “At Thy Feet, O Christ, We Lay” on the organ. But I can never keep a straight face with that one. It inevitably suggests hens to me.’
‘I see what you’re doing. Changing the subject. You could have a wonderful life with me in England if only you’d take a leap of faith.’
Edith scrabbles her fingers along the top of the drystone wall. They close over a loose pebble. She tosses it in her hand.‘Can you skim stones, Boney? I’m a champion skimmer. Come on, I challenge you to a contest.’ Edith walks to the water’s edge.
Boney scowls. ‘I’ve a better idea.’ She flings her hat on the ground and pulls off her coat. ‘Last one in’s a rotten egg.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘Try me.’
‘But we haven’t brought our bathing costumes.’
‘Tosh! Who needs ’em?’
Unbuttoning rapidly, Boney stands stark naked in front of Edith. She catches a glimpse of pendulous breasts with brown nipples like saucers, and a riot of curly grey hair between her legs. With a whoop, bottom cheeks wobbling, Boney makes a run for the water’s edge and splashes in, causing a commotion among the waterfowl.
‘Whee! Hurry up, Edith!’
‘Boney, get out at once! Someone will see you!’
‘Let them! I don’t care! Come and join me, Edith!’
‘You’ll catch your death! It must be Baltic in there!’
‘It’s exhilarating! I love it!’ Boney turns on her back and splatters a backstroke.
What an exhibitionist, thinks Edith. But part of her admires Boney’s devil-may-care verve.
—
Strolling along a back road parallel with the coast, Edith throws a tennis ball for Loulou. It carries further than she intended, and the dog gives chase into a scrubby field. Under Edith’s arm is a piece of driftwood. Now that Boney is packing to leave, she’ll have some time to herself again. The driftwood’s mangled shape appeals to Edith, and she intends to paint it while it dries out. Afterwards she’ll feed it to the fire.
Her back is hunched against a searching east wind, which somehow manages to sneak under her scarf and down the back of her neck. Edith considers the naked landscape: trees pared to the bone, mountains scowling under a raincloud. Desolate though it is, there are compensations. Just ahead, a robin bobs along the ditch, hopping on springs, and she stands to watch. He jerks his head, pulls a worm from the earth and swallows it down. Intent, she misses Tiger’s approach along a branch. But the tabby’s leap, as fluid as running water, catches her eye. In one bound, the robin is pinioned beneath paw and tooth.
‘Shoo!’ Edith claps her hands.
But the bird is captured. Still with an inch of worm wriggling from its beak, the robin is stolen away.
‘That’s nature,’ says Flurry. ‘Red in tooth and claw. Kitty took that wall with ease.Time was when you could tumble over any wall like a cat yourself.’
‘You have a habit of creeping up on me, Flurry Knox.’
He shrugs. ‘You look as if you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.What’s on your mind, Edith?’
She leans the driftwood against the wall.‘My play needs a little push to get it out into the world. Any fool can write one, but it takes genius to have it staged.’
Flurry tips his bowler rakishly low on his forehead.‘Hasn’t your pal offered to help? The one who tosses life like a pancake?’
‘True, and she has contacts in the theatrical world. But Boney is a bull in a china shop.’
‘Who else do you know in that line of business? Now’s no time to be shy.’
‘Cousin Lottie’s husband is a playwright. But he’s puckish. You’d never know how he’d take being asked for a favour.’
‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’
‘He’s quite the socialist and fiercely clever. I doubt if my play would be his cup of tea. I don’t think he’d have much patience with horsey matters.’
‘You’re not Old Moore, Edith.You can’t predict how he’ll react.’
‘True. I could ask Lottie to have a word with him. If he likes the play, he might recommend it to a producer. I’m going to send the manuscript back to London with Boney. At least it can’t get lost in the postal service. Things are still haywire here.’
‘Is he a success, this playwright husband of your cousin’s?”
‘Enormously. The problem is that once Boney sees the Shaw name on the envelope, she’ll gallop down to Ayot St Lawrence to meet him.’
Flurry takes off his bowler, removes a fly for a fishing rod inside it, and replaces the hat.‘Sure, what harm?’
‘It’s a bit risky, unleashing Boney on them. She has an unfortunate habit of making enemies.’
‘I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her. She has a face that could stop a runaway horse in its tracks.’
‘None of your sauce, you scamp. Perhaps it will be all right. Mr Shaw is quite the eccentric. He may choose to find her diverting.’
‘Why not speak to Lady Gregory? She was always hounding you and Martin to write for the Abbey.’
‘Certainly not. Augusta means well. But Yeats is boiling over with conceit.’
‘He reads detective novels,’ says Flurry. ‘Can’t be entirely bad. But this Shaw fellow might be a better bet.’
The sound of mooing makes her look down the road. A man in a white flannel coat and slouchy hat with its hatband missing is driving half a dozen cows towards them, swishing an ash plant against their hindquarters. His face is as furrowed as a ploughed field.When he draws level, he touches the brim of his floppy hat. ‘Afternoon, Miss Somerville.’
‘Good afternoon, Thady. The rain held off.’
‘That it did, your honour-ma’am.’
After he has passed, she turns back to Flurry. But he has gone, too. Edith opens her mouth to call him, tasting the salty wind on her tongue. On second thoughts, Flurry Knox is not the class of man to appear when summoned. Wings beat overhead – birds flying inland. The threatened storm must be approaching.
She picks up the driftwood.‘Loulou! Where are you Lou? High time we went home.We’ve a visitor to give a send-off to.’
—
Boney wheels and strides, firing directions at Mike Hurley while he loads her luggage into the dogcart for the homeward journey to England. She’s a woman born to wear a uniform, like her father and grandfather before her. But Edith decides Mike needs to be rescued from her attentions.
‘You won’t forget to write to my cousin, Mrs Shaw, asking if you can call with my play? Rather than just arrive? I’ve written to her about you. I expect she’ll invite you to tea. Promise me you won’t simply turn up. They entertain quite a lot and it mightn’t be convenient.’
‘I shall be humming with work. But I’ll take a run down before New Year’s Eve. Otherwise it’ll be impossible because of all the brouhaha over my news.’
Philomena dashes out with provisions for the journey.
Boney slips two bank notes into Philomena’s hand. ‘One for you and one for the cook,’ she says, in a whisper that’s audible a field away.
‘Thank you, ma’am. ’ Philomena bobs a creaky curtsey.
Edith observes the manoeuvre with pleasure. Whatever her faults, Boney is no skinflint.
