Edith, page 2
Beyond Skibbereen and heading east, she has five miles of obstacle-strewn country lanes hedged by flaming furze to negotiate. But with a horse which knows the way home, there is time to consider Cameron’s behaviour. Her indignation against him simmers. He’s always had an irresponsible streak, but instead of fading over time it has intensified. Perhaps it’s more apparent since he retired from the army two years ago and is living full-time with her in Drishane. That squirmer with Dwyer is due directly to her brother.
Remembering a pit in the middle of the road near the O’Mahony farm, its danger camouflaged by branches, she climbs down to lead Tara past. Cameron is in a financial pickle, she realizes – the signs were there all along but she’s been slow to detect them. And the disruption to the postal service has allowed bills to mount. Timmy the Post works like a Trojan to scramble through, but he’s only human. She climbs into the cart again and Tara whizzes along, eager for the paddocks.
Ahead, a man is standing by the side of the narrow road. He’s in his late twenties, wearing knee-high riding boots and a hacking jacket. There’s something familiar about him. She squints at his face but he’s bending over, adjusting a bootstrap. Just as they are parallel, a flash of autumn sunlight blinds her.The dogcart bowls past without her catching a clear sight.Yet the prickle of perspiration against her hairline and in her armpits identifies him. Her body has recognized this man.
No, it’s not possible.
It can’t be who she thinks it is.
She drives on in a daze.
Martin speaks. ‘I saw him, too.’
Edith knows the voice is inside her head. That Violet Martin, otherwise known as Martin Ross – friend, cousin, literary collaborator – isn’t here with her in the dogcart. She’s dead and buried – gone almost six years now. Even so, their conversations help her to tease out dilemmas.
‘Perhaps it was a figment of my imagination,’ suggests Edith.
‘And perhaps not. Anyway where’s the harm?’
The bend for home appears ahead, followed by her first sight of the sea, a hat ribbon on the horizon. Edith continues her conversation with Martin, who isn’t there, except in her heart.
‘Something will have to be done about Cameron, Martin.’ ‘Cameron’s always hidden from unpleasantness.’
‘He simply can’t leave bills unpaid. Above all, he can’t do it here, where we live.Tongues will wag.They may be flapping already.The family has to live up to its good name.’
‘Cameron’s Cameron. He’ll never change.’
‘He must.’
‘You know what you have to do, Edith.’
‘He can’t be left in charge. I thought he could. But I was wrong.’
Edith waits for a denial, a defence of Cameron.
A sigh, whisper faint. It’s corroboration.
When Martin doesn’t speak, Edith does. ‘I’m going to have to do something about him.’
She needs to know how bad things are. A thought occurs to her. One so dreadful that her vision blurs. Has the staff been paid? Or is a backlog building up for Mike Hurley, Philomena Minihane, Mrs O’Shea and Jeremiah O’Mahony? And for the others they use occasionally from the village? She shakes her head to dislodge the appalling possibility. Even Cameron wouldn’t be so irresponsible.
Would he?
two
Edith is unpinning her hat as the luncheon gong sounds. It conjures up her brother on the staircase – punctuality was drummed into them from childhood.
Cameron’s expression brightens. Only two years separate them and they’ve always been friends.‘Hello, Peg, I thought you were intending to lunch in the West Cork.’ He hurries downstairs. ‘Good of you to come back. Never much cared to eat alone.’
Edith knows Cameron misses the companionship of military life as much as its certainties. But she’s in no mood to be sympathetic. She tosses her hat on the hall stand and pats her hair. ‘I did mean to eat out but there was a change of plan.’
‘The Murphys will be inconsolable. They depend on the celebrated authoress making an appearance now and again in their dining room – raises the tone of the place.That hotel must be a goldmine for them. It’s always heaving whenever I stick my head in. Shall we sit up? The gong’s gone.’
‘I’ll come through directly after I wash my hands. Mustn’t keep Philomena waiting – the servants have enough to put up with, I suspect.’
‘Oh dear. You’re using Mama’s precise tone of voice when she had a bone to pick with someone. Me, usually.’
That pulls her up short. If he thinks she’s attacking him it will prove counterproductive. This situation requires diplomacy.
Just then, Philomena stomps by carrying a tray. Their housemaid always walks as though she’s wearing Wellington boots.
‘Shan’t be a jiffy, Chimp.’ Deliberately, Edith uses her pet name for him. ‘By the way, I collected our post in Skib. Couple of letters for you. Left them on the table there.’
Edith washes off the grime from her morning’s business in the downstairs cloakroom and joins her brother in the dining room. It’s excessive, just the two of them eating here in lofty splendour, but neither likes to break with tradition. As soon as Edith is seated, Philomena serves steaming soup from a tureen. Her stomach gurgles at the smell.
‘You must be hungry after gadding to Skibbereen and back in a morning,’ says Cameron. ‘Any news from the bright lights?’
Philomena tracks between Edith and Cameron with a basket, offering thinly-sliced toast triangles. Surprised, Edith glances up at her small face crowded with features. It’s a face she knows as intimately as her own.
‘Mrs O’Shea wasn’t able to bake rolls this morning, Miss Edith. The range is acting up again.’
‘We really must have that looked at.Thank you, Philomena, that will be all.’
Alone now, Edith assesses Cameron. He doesn’t come across like a man on his uppers. Look at him, ladling butter on his toast without a care in the world.‘Any news in your letters?’
‘Weekend shooting party over Ballycotton way’s been cancelled. English guns won’t travel on account of the Troubles.’
‘How disappointing.’
‘Can’t be helped.’
‘How are we fixed as regards bills, Cam? Keeping our heads above water?’
A wave of his hand. An attempt at bravado.‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Leave them to me to sort out.’
‘But are you taking care of them?’
He blinks.‘Don’t quite follow you.’
‘Or are you crumpling them up? Throwing them in the wastepaper bin?’
He wets his lips, about to speak. Reconsiders. Lifts his soup spoon and manages a few mouthfuls of oxtail.
She presses the starched linen napkin against her mouth. ‘The bills aren’t going to be abracadabra-ed away in a puff of smoke, Cam. We need to work out how to meet them. I was accosted by the butcher on the street in Skibbereen, in full view of every corner boy. He mentioned an account of four months’ standing.’
‘I don’t remember any bill from Dwyer.’
‘He’s been sending it in, week after week.’
‘No, I expect it went astray. Can’t rely on the post these days.’
‘His boy hands it in at the kitchen door.You know that perfectly well.’
His colour heightens. ‘Stop hectoring me, Edith.You don’t have the right.’
She concentrates on her soup, trying to work out how best to proceed. Cameron may be risking cash he can ill afford on the Stock Exchange. The men in her family have always had a taste for financial speculation.
A tap, the door opens, and Philomena backs in with a platter. At once, Edith’s expression turns neutral, as does Cameron’s.
‘Thank you, Philomena. Leave it on the sideboard and I’ll serve us.’
‘Sure, whatever you like, Miss Edith. If that suits you it suits me. I’ve plenty to be gettin’ on with. There’s lovely fresh peas from the kitchen garden to go with Mrs O’Shea’s fish pie.’
A soft thud and the door closes again. Edith rises and scoops a helping of fish pie onto a plate, adds some vegetables and places his luncheon on the tablecloth in front of Cameron. In the process, she rests her hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, Chimp. Let’s put our heads together. Any ideas? How about your army pension, could you funnel a little more of that into the estate?’
He stares at the plate. ‘That’s a drop in the ocean when it comes to Drishane.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You seem to imagine I’m in receipt of a massive pension from His Majesty’s grateful government. Quite the contrary. Modest is the best description. And it doesn’t stretch far enough.’
Nonplussed, Edith fetches her own plate and sits down. A brooding atmosphere seeps out through the dark-green wallpaper. If only Cameron had married an heiress. He never even made a serious try at bagging one. Either of the Payne-Townshend girls would have been perfect for him. Not only related to the Somervilles, so the right sort, but rich as Croesus. It seems positively sinful those fortunes left the family. Her second brother, Aylmer, could afford to help, having had the good sense to court a wealthy widow. But it’s possible he feels tapped once too often. In any case, he and Emmie live in England and are distant – both geographically and mentally – from Drishane’s expenses. There are three other boys, and a sister, Hildegarde, but none of them is flush. And they have their own families to consider.
Only she and Cameron never married. There was no requirement for Edith to do so, unless she could pull off a suitable match, which she didn’t manage. A few offers were made but none deemed fitting by Papa and Mama. She shed tears at the time, but it’s water under the bridge now. However, Cameron has neglected his duty. He neither bagged an heiress to buttress their house, nor provided an heir to inherit it.
‘Plenty of chaps in the next generation. One of them can take the place on,’ he always says, at any mention of a successor.
But why would their nephews want to be saddled with it? Especially if they didn’t grow up in the house, learning to love its idiosyncrasies? His logic is self-serving. Very well. If her brother lacks the gumption to behave like a responsible Master of Drishane, he’ll have to hand over the reins to her. He can be governor in name. But she’ll be the one who makes sure the family seat is passed on intact to the next generation.
‘This isn’t good enough, Cam. Somervilles have always paid their way.You’re letting the side down.’
‘And I suppose you’re the resident expert?’
‘At least I care about doing the right thing. All you seem to care about are your own selfish pleasures.’
‘Pleasures? Stuck here in the middle of nowhere with all sorts of blackguard behaviour happening under our noses? Believe me, if it was pleasure I was after, I wouldn’t look to Castletownshend. I’m fed up with Ireland and her endless quarrels.’
Silence settles. Cutlery scrapes on bone china. Edith realizes the conversation has taken an unfortunate turn. If they start talking politics an almighty row will brew up. Covertly, she watches her brother at the head of the table. He has extravagant tastes. But even Cameron must realize the well has run dry. Granted, retrenchment is challenging. Papa struggled with it too. But Cameron only has himself to consider, whereas Papa had the burden of settling five sons into careers and making arrangements for two daughters. Not that she required much arranging, she aimed to be self-financing from the outset. Earned her first money at the age of sixteen, designing greeting cards.
‘Chimp, frugalities are needed. Let’s just face up to it and introduce them.’
‘I really don’t see how I can frugalize any further.’
‘In that case, there’s no help for it – we’ll have to sell something.’
‘Land?’
‘Certainly not! There’s been enough of that already. You’d have to let it go for half nothing and then it’s gone for good. No, I was thinking of the houses in the Mall.’
‘Your retirement nest egg.’
She shrugs, as if it’s irrelevant. For years, Edith has been using her literary earnings to buy up properties in the village, amassing a modest portfolio. She rents the houses to suburbans who clamour to stay in Castletownshend during the sailing season, and sometimes she persuades a member of their extended family to take out a lease.
Cameron strokes his moustache.‘It might be the answer, Peg. If you don’t mind letting one or two of them go.’
Outrage flares at the easy way he accepts her sacrifice. Before she can help herself, Edith exclaims, ‘It most certainly is not the answer! It’s a stopgap. I won’t get one-quarter of the true value, with the state of the country. Cameron, you must go through the household accounts with me and put everything on an honest footing. This may be your house but it’s my home and I work bally hard to help keep it going. Shutting me out is unjust!’
Crimson patches his cheeks. ‘I loathe this blasted old heap! I’m only living here because you nagged me into it. Told me it’s my duty as the eldest son. I’d gladly hand it over to Aylmer, or Boyle, or any of the boys who’d take it off my hands. But none of them will touch it. They’ve more sense. The tin it costs to keep the house running beggars belief. And you could sink your life savings into the estate without making a jot of difference.’
‘Do stop exaggerating, Cam. The house is sound. It simply needs some maintenance. As for running costs, the servants have taken a cut in wages, as well you know.’
‘We still have to feed them and keep everything up to scratch. This place is a swamp – gobbles up every last pound in a man’s possession, gives an almighty belch and stands ready for more. But you’ve always been blind to its faults, Peg. Grandpapa made a pet of you and filled you full of stories about the importance of the Somervilles holding tight to Drishane. Trying to do right by it made Papa miserable.’
‘At least he didn’t sell off fields for ready cash. You don’t even drive a good bargain.’
‘The land is mine to dispose of as I see fit.’
‘It was given to you to hold in trust – not peddle, to supplement your income.’
‘For two pins I’d put the entire estate, house included, on the market tomorrow. Sell it all, lock, stock and barrel.’
‘You can’t mean that, Cam!’
‘Try me.’ A curious note spikes his voice. It almost sounds like relief.
‘Do you really want to go down in family lore as the Somerville who let it all slip through your fingers?’
‘The blasted family myth! Just because you’ve bought into it doesn’t mean I have to. Anyway, who made you the voice of my conscience? You look to yours and I’ll look to mine.’
Edith mangles her fingers. The conversation isn’t going the way she expected. She presumed Cameron would be touchy enough, proud enough, to wince at the thought of having ‘The Somerville Who Lost Drishane’ as his legacy.
‘Chimp, don’t let’s fall out. We’re on the same side, remember? Together, we can handle this.’
‘The best way to handle this is to sell up and find a nice serviced apartment in Kensington or Westminster.’
‘You’d hate it.’
‘You might. I wouldn’t.’
‘I know the estate is going through a bit of a drought. And you’re bound to be worried, as the head of the family. Why don’t we think about ways to economize? Hold our nerve, stand our ground?’
‘Cutting corners won’t do the needful, I’m afraid. That horse has long since bolted.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You might as well know the truth. We’re in a bad way. I’m in a bad way. We could lose Drishane.’
Lose Drishane.
The room blurs. She hears a rushing sound like applause in her head.
The next thing she knows, Cameron is holding a glass of water to her lips. ‘Here, drink something. I think you may have passed out, old girl.’
Trembling, she manages a few sips. When the mist clears, she sees her cutlery has been knocked to the floor. Cameron picks it up.
‘I’m all right. I just had a bit of a turn. Really, I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look fine.’
Her mind begins to recalibrate. She knew they were in a tight spot but not how bleak their prospects were. She hasn’t taken such a knock since her hunting days. With an effort of will, she sits up straight. ‘Cam, what I need from you now is to know exactly where we stand.’
Cameron retreats to the sideboard, pours himself a brandy, and tosses it off in a single swallow. ‘Will you have one?’
‘No thank you.’ She dips her napkin in her water tumbler and presses it against her right temple. ‘Why don’t we strike while the iron is hot? Spend the afternoon going through the household accounts?’
He lifts the decanter again. ‘Come on, Peg, what’s the use? We’re survivors of a bygone age, you and me. Let’s just chuck it over. You could live with me in London – we could share the expenses there just as well as here. And we’d have some capital from the sale.’
‘I could never leave Drishane.’
‘Why not? It’s a draughty old house with rats under the floorboards and walls dripping with damp. It’s in the middle of nowhere. And the natives don’t really want us here – you know they don’t. However much they pile on the flattery.’
She raises a hand, palm outwards. ‘I won’t listen to another word. We’ve been in Ireland nearly as long as the potato. We belong here. Now, let’s order coffee and get down to brass tacks about finances.’
‘Not right now, Peg. Fact of the matter is, I promised to take a run down to the castle this afternoon. Give the place the once-over for the Townshends. You can’t rely on caretakers. Sooner or later they take liberties. Believe I’ll stretch my legs in that direction now.’
‘Chimp, we can’t carry on like this. You’re behaving as if it’s ill-bred to discuss money. Please stay and thrash it out with me.’
‘Sorry, old thing, can’t oblige. We’ll do it later.’ ‘When later?’
‘Soon. Although, I give you fair warning, you won’t like what you hear.’ He sets down his empty brandy balloon, jams his hands in his pockets and saunters towards the door.
