Edith, page 16
Boney catches her eye and makes an impulsive movement towards Edith.‘The time has simply careered by, my treasure. I don’t believe I’m ready to leave you quite yet.’
Edith steps back smartly, withdrawing up the steps – her body reacting ahead of her mind. Horrified, she grasps that Boney meant to try and hug her in front of the staff. ‘Have you packed those eggs from the Home Farm carefully? I’d hate them to be scrambled en route.’
‘Yes, yes, they’re well padded. I say, Edith, you will visit soon, won’t you?’
‘Of course. I’ll write and let you know my plans.’ She must manoeuvre Boney into the dogcart before she finds herself wrestled into an embrace. Departures have a bad habit of heightening Boney’s emotions. ‘That trunk looks a little insecure, let me check on it for you.’ She slips past and pretends to busy herself with testing some straps.‘Mike, would you help Dr Smyth up, please? We don’t want her missing her train.’
‘To be sure I will, Miss Somerville. Are you ready, Dr Smyth?’
Boney casts a yearning look at Edith, who pretends to be absorbed by checking the fastenings on her luggage. She sighs, ignores Mike Hurley’s outstretched hand, and pulls herself on board. If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly. That applies to most things in life but particularly to catching trains.’
Edith deems it safe to offer a handshake now. ‘Don’t forget the ear doctor.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Good. By the way, the sooner Mr Shaw reads my play, Boney, the sooner I shall be over.’
Her departing guest presents Edith with a radiant smile. ‘I’ll write to your cousin on the train. You’re destined to realize, my dearest of Ediths, that I’m indispensable to you.’
—
The postal service appears to be working again, and letters are making their way through. The one from Charlotte Shaw, née Payne-Townshend, is everything Edith hoped it would be. She has brought it with her from the morning room into her studio, to re-read for a third time.
I found ‘Flurry’s Wedding’ vastly entertaining, Edith. It brought to mind so many scenes of Rosscarbery and our girlhood, when you and I would spend the entire day on horseback. Ah, the sweet carelessness of youth. Or as the Bard reminds us,
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold
Youth is wild, and Age is tame.
I have passed on your charming play to GBS to read. He’s busy with his own play about Saint Joan but promises to read it soon.
We saw your friend Dr Smyth’s name in the Gazette announcement – Dame Ethel Smyth as she is now. GBS thinks honours are ridiculous affectations but I must confess to being pleased for her. She bounced in on us saying call me Smyth to rhyme with lithe.A most vivacious person. Not quite sane, according to GBS, but he insists sanity is overrated.
Edith folds up the letter and returns it to its envelope lined with pale-grey tissue paper. Nineteen twenty-two is off to a promising start, and the year is still only eight days old. Her eye lands on Loulou, snoozing on the back of her chair, a high-wire act that’s bound to result in an accident, but she looks too comfortable to displace. Edith reaches for her pencils and rapidly outlines Loulou’s shape.
As she works, she begins to ponder the possibilities that lurk behind that description of Edith as vivacious in Lottie’s letter. Did the new dame commandeer their piano and begin playing her suffrage anthem, ‘The March of the Women’, whether they wanted to hear it or not? Did she rehearse her grievances against the Synge family for refusing to sell her the rights to Riders to the Sea for an operatic adaptation? Did she stray into politics and tell them this new Anglo-Irish Treaty was a shameful and cowardly surrender to the gun?
Edith’s speculations are interrupted by the thrum of a motor car. Loulou wakens, ears pricking. She wobbles perilously, manages a leap to the floor just in time and begins to dance around, barking. The motor car sputters to a halt at the front of the house, which means Edith can’t see who it is from her studio. Keeping an ear cocked, she continues sketching, until Philomena pops her head in to say an American journalist has called. Edith puts aside her pencils. Loulou’s legs aren’t quite right, but if it’ll do it’ll do.
‘He sent in this, Miss Edith.’
A card on a salver reads:
Theodore H. Grun
Europe correspondent
The New York Times
All the news that’s fit to print
‘Is there a fire lit in the library? Then show him in there, Philomena. And bring us tea as soon as you can.Tell Mr Grun I’ll be with him presently.’
Edith hustles out of her painting smock, washes her hands and tidies her hair. She sails into the library, where she finds Theodore H. Grun flicking through some back issues of Punch.
‘Miss Somerville, ma’am, I took you at your word about dropping in. Decided to swing by and pay my respects.’
‘I’ve been hoping to meet you, Mr Grun. Now, I’ve ordered tea. Does that suit you, or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Tea’s just dandy. A mighty fine place you got here, ma’am.’ He flashes startling teeth, luminously white, as if each separate tooth has a built-in electric light. ‘Great art and antiques you got.’
‘Thank you. Just some family knick-knacks. Where are you from, may I ask?’
‘Albany, New York. Gee, I wish my family had knick-knacks in this league. Saw a real old sword hanging up in the hall when I came through. Looked like it would fetch a pretty sum.What d’ya think it’s worth?’
Edith frowns. ‘My grandfather’s regimental sword. We wouldn’t dream of selling it.’
‘Could guarantee to get you a good price if you change your mind.’ ‘That’s most unlikely.’
‘Shifted some stuff for a family by the name of Vaughan in a big ole heap over near Killarney. Lot of buyers for this sort of thing, back home in my neck of the woods.’
She stirs her tea. Allows a pause to develop. ‘How long have you been in Ireland, Mr Grun?’
‘Middle of August. Guess I didn’t think I’d be here this long – figured I’d be moving along after a month or so. But the long and the short of it is these are interesting times here. I see your Irish parliament has okayed the Anglo-Irish Treaty. Though no guarantee the losing side will respect the decision.’
‘I hadn’t heard about Dáil Éireann approving the Treaty. How close was the vote?’
‘Happened yesterday. Sixty-four for, fifty-seven against.’
‘Oh dear. I wish it were more conclusive.’
‘Dominion status for Ireland isn’t a bad result, ma’am. Canada, New Zealand and Australia are able to live with it.’
‘It’s a vote for peace, that’s worth remembering.’ The wind loosens soot inside the chimney breast and it patters on the flames. She shivers. ‘Someone just walked over my grave.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Figure of speech. I wonder if Mr de Valera will stay on as president of the Dáil? He said he’d vote against the Treaty. This result undermines his authority.’
‘The Treaty will go before the people to vote on, I hear. That’ll be the decider.’
The door opens, Philomena appears with a tea tray, and Mr Grun attempts to take it from her.
She holds on tight, flustered by his gallantry. ‘I’m grand, thank you, I can manage.’
‘Don’t seem right, an itty-bitty thing like you and a great, big trayload like that.’
Philomena squeals. ‘The blarney out of him! Did you hear, Miss Edith? Mind he doesn’t try and butter you up.’
Grun winks at Edith.
‘I’ll be on my guard, Philomena,’ says Edith.
Edith waits for Philomena to arrange the tea table and leave before resuming the conversation. ‘How does America feel about what’s happening in Ireland?’
‘America doesn’t like to see Ireland bullied by Great Britain. Folks think the Irish have been real plucky.’ He accepts a cup and saucer, and chooses one of Mrs O’Shea’s shortcake biscuits.
‘I was sorry to hear you had your motor car purloined some time ago.’
‘I was pretty darn sorry myself, ma’am. Lucky to get it back, I guess.’
‘Owning a motor car must be a dreadful responsibility. Do you hunt? I have some magnificent animals I’d be willing to part with. A noble beast, the horse. Reliable.’
‘I’m a fan of the combustible engine, ma’am. Shape of the future.’ ‘If you say so. Where do you intend travelling next for your newspaper, Mr Grun?’
‘Oh, I’m not going anywheres just yet.This tussle isn’t over by a long shot. De Valera’s lining up on one side and Collins on the other.The foot soldiers are split, too. Things are about to get real personal.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
‘Can you see this Treaty being accepted by everyone who fought, ma’am?’
She thinks of the captain and the whistler. ‘No. Some want a republic, do or die.’
‘Right. The North is opting out, whatever they decide. Partition.’
Partition. Edith hasn’t heard the term before in relation to Ireland. It sounds ominous. She holds the plate of biscuits in his direction. ‘Will you try another, Mr Grun?’
‘Sure. Great cookies.’
‘May I ask, why aren’t you in Dublin? Can there really be enough to interest you in West Cork?’
‘I come and go. Been to Dublin plenty. Belfast, too. But Skibbereen’s as good a base as any.’
‘Really?’
‘Say, how does your set feel about Irish independence? Are you a unionist or a separatist? Will you pack up and go once Great Britain pulls out?’
‘Certainly not.This is our home. Anyhow, we don’t know that Great Britain will leave.’
‘Oh, I think it’s inevitable. A matter of when, not if. Now, don’t take this personally, ma’am. But wouldn’t it make more sense for you to bail out? Some might think your family’s exploited the Irish for centuries. Payback time’s just around the corner.’
‘My family has not exploited the Irish.’
‘No? You’re taking a heckuva chance others see things the same way.’ Those disconcertingly white teeth make another full-frontal appearance. ‘Strikes me you’re between the devil and the deep blue sea, if you’ll pardon me for saying it. Not Irish enough in Ireland, not Britisher enough in England. But they gotta take you. Whereas you might find you’re not wanted here.’
Edith looks at her cup and saucer. If she squeezes the handle any tighter, the fragile object might smash. ‘Is that your impression, Mr Grun? Have you heard something to that effect?’
‘I hear all sorts, ma’am. How d’ya feel about de Valera? Is he the man to steer the country? Or would you prefer to see Collins run the show, once the dust settles?’
‘The dust hasn’t settled yet.’
‘Heard some people in these parts call de Valera the Dago.’ She pretends not to hear.
‘Say, here’s a thought. Would you accept a cash offer to go? I know a couple of individuals with deep pockets. Happy to take an old pile like this off your hands for the right price. Confidentially, I’ve been instructed to sound out some owners, act as go-beween, if you catch my drift.What d’ya say? Get out while the going is good.’
‘Are you a journalist or a property speculator, Mr Grun? Or, indeed, something else entirely?’
‘Me? I’m all sorts of things, ma’am. A man of many parts. But sure, I’m a reporter, too. Plenty happening here to share with our readers. Real interested in Irish affairs, the New York Times’ readers.’
‘Well, here’s something you can share with your readers. Or with whoever it is that’s pulling your strings. Edith Somerville is going nowhere. The Somervilles are staying put.’
—
Edith watches the yellow motor car drive away. But it stops on the avenue, where the chauffeur sticks out his head and beckons to Jeremiah. The gardener doesn’t budge. While the motor car idles, Grun steps out. He seems to be engaging Jeremiah in conversation. After a minute or two, the trowel is thrown down with a dismissive twist of the hand, and Jeremiah clomps away in the opposite direction. It looks to Edith as if he walked off while the American journalist was still talking to him.
twelve
Tingling from the January cold, leaning heavily on her walking stick, Edith tramps uphill, passing houses with modest facades that open directly onto Castletownshend’s main street, and veering left past the landmark twin sycamores which straddle the perpendicular road, splitting it down the middle. Loulou falls behind to nose around the tree roots. Edith is on her way home from the skimmers’ beach. In one of her pockets nestles a piece of cobalt-blue sea glass – she can never resist a random find on her walks. Edith waves at two farmers she recognizes on the footpath opposite, on their way into Willy Casey’s pub for a bottle of stout. By Tally Ho – another empty house in the village, this one belong- ing to the Somervilles, but they can’t find tenants for it – she pauses to catch her breath. Two figures emerge from the Drishane gateway and walk towards her. As they approach, she sees they are wearing sailor uniforms. They must be from Hugh’s destroyer in Castlehaven Bay.
‘Afternoon, ma’am,’ they chorus.
‘Did you have an errand in Drishane? I’m Miss Somerville.’
They whip their cigarettes behind their backs. ‘We was just delivering some post we was carrying for you,’ says one.
‘Thank you, I’m most grateful. I hope the cook gave you a pot of tea.’
‘We was offered it, ma’am. Had to say no. More errands to do.’
‘Is there any news?’ she asks, more in hope than expectation.
They exchange glances, before shaking their heads.
None they’re willing to share, then. ‘Give my regards to your captain,’ she says.
They touch their caps in salute.
Edith looks round for Loulou. ‘Look lively, Lou!’
The little dog takes her nose out of a drain and scampers to join Edith, who stomps up the avenue. She trills her fingers at old Jeremiah, busy with the hydrangea bushes. He waves the clippers at her. In her parents’ day, there was a crew of gardeners keeping the place up to scratch. They’d spin in their graves to think only one old man was left. She wonders what Grun was saying to Jeremiah the other day. Philomena told her Grun’s chauffeur asked a lot of questions while they gave him tea in the kitchen.
Coat and Wellingtons are abandoned in the outer hall. In the inner hall, Edith sees two envelopes propped on the mahogany stand. Both have a London postmark, and she notices that one is from Mr Pinker. It feels as if it contains something – hopefully the cheque for royalties she’s been expecting. But the second letter intrigues her with its tiny, exceptionally neat handwriting. The name and address on the flap reveal the sender to be none other than George Bernard Shaw. Excitement fizzes through her veins.
‘He must have read the play,’ she tells Loulou.
Edith slides both letters into a cardigan pocket, and sticks her head through the doorway to the kitchen to ask for tea and scones in the inner hall.
‘And Philomena, take Loulou and give her a scrub, she’s more mud than dog.’
Back in the hall, she riddles the fire to encourage a blaze, adds some pine cones from a basket by the side of the fireplace and settles herself in an armchair. Pine scent drifts through the air. She toes off her shoes and stretches out her stockinged feet to the flames. The envelopes crackle and she retrieves them from her pocket, fingers stroking paper. Pinker’s first. She slides a finger under the flap and prises it open.Yes, it’s a welcome cheque, along with a courteous note. Whatever old Pinker’s faults, he always passes on payments promptly. Now to Shaw’s. Good news lies inside, she feels it in her bones.Will she wait for tea or gobble up the contents at once?
‘What do you think, Martin? Shaw as a delayed pleasure? Or instant gratification?’
‘Discipline leads to greater rewards,’ says Martin’s voice in her head. ‘But self-indulgence is necessary from time to time.’
‘Then self-indulgence it shall be.’
Shaw’s letter is dated 20 January 1922. Her eyes speed-read its message.
Laugh at dirt, worthlessness, dishonesty and mischief …You write like a lady in the worse sense of the word … Never seems to occur to you that poor people are human being … Stick to your pen and let the stage alone.
Shaw loathes Flurry’s Wedding! He’s telling her it’s hopeless and to give up playwriting.
The rattle of the tea trolley announces Philomena. She bustles about, lighting oil lamps and making the room cosy.
‘You’ll ruin your eyes, Miss Edith, trying to read without the light on. I’ll draw the curtains. It’s hardly day before it’s night, this weather.’
A slumped Edith gazes into the fire. Her silence alerts Philomena. ‘I hope there wasn’t bad news in one of your letters, Miss Edith?’
Edith straightens her back. ‘Not especially. Thank you, that will be all, Philomena.’
Alone again, she pours a cup of tea, adds a splash of milk and reads the letter carefully. It’s about as damning as it can possibly be.There isn’t a ray of light anywhere. Shaw knows exactly what he’s saying, judging by his final line.
Forgive me if you can.
Months of toil wasted. No fat fee to keep Drishane afloat. Better too much of a lady than not enough of a gentleman. She pities Lottie, married to such a person. If she can’t write, how is it that Somerville and Ross’s books were read by royalty, no less? Queen Victoria and King Edward VII were always delighted to receive copies as gifts.
But that was when Martin was alive.
She examines the letter’s contents for a third time.
As far as it has any thread at all it deals with the marriage of Flurry and Sally.That is to say, it proposes to entertain the spectators with the marriage of a decent young lady to a blackguardly horse thief, dirty and disorderly when not dressed up for some special occasion, unable to learn an honest living, and in no way distinguishable in culture, in morals, in interests, or in decency of language from the poorer rascals whom he orders about by virtue of the social position which he disgraces …
