Edith, page 4
As Edith starts in the direction of the pantry, a loose stone outside is driven along the yard. Mid-step, she falters, a row of tiny hairs quivering against the back of her neck. This time, she distinctly hears footsteps. Her blood flow reduces to a sluggish trickle. The steps approach one of the windows. Metal against stone suggests their owner is wearing hobnailed boots. Crunch, crunch, crunch. A man, and no lightweight. Just one set of feet. He walks directly up to the window and stops. He must see the lamplight and know somebody in the household is awake. Is it her imagination or can she hear breathing?
Paralyzed, she waits. Her eyes never leave the shutter fastening. It can’t be opened from the outside – while the glass is intact. But removing a square of glass causes little difficulty to the determined housebreaker. She’s watched her brothers do it to gain access to a locked boathouse: they wrap an elbow in sacking and push in the glass. A small pane shattering doesn’t make much racket.
Dimly, she becomes aware of scuffling noises from the glory hole, punctuated by growling and rapid bursts of barking, but is too focused on the trespasser to pay Dooley any attention. Whatever he’s up to, he’ll have to deal with it himself. Now the footsteps begin their stamping again, this time ranging along the outer wall of the kitchen. As though searching for admission. There is a slit in the shutter nearest to her, where the wood has split. The footsteps stop there. After an eternity, a dark shape flits in front of the gap, moving away.
Belatedly, it occurs to her that she ought to cry out for help. Cameron would come charging downstairs with some weapon or other. Not his army gun, that was handed in to the RIC barracks. All firearms had to be surrendered. Otherwise, there’s a risk of them falling into rebel hands. But before Cameron could arrive, the prowler might force an entry and use her as a hostage – he’s just a few feet away whereas her brother is on another floor. Besides, her throat has seized up. She’s not certain she can squeeze out more than a croak. Where’s Dooley when she needs him? She hears him barking and scuffling, still wrestling with something in the glory hole. The noise is enough to waken the dead, but the household slumbers on.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. The intruder has passed along the rear of Drishane and is now heading back to where she waits. He’s taking quite a chance. Her brother could throw open a window and fire a shot at him. This person doesn’t know they have no guns. His confidence sends an adrenaline spike of fury coursing through Edith. Convulsively, her fingers tighten on the milk pan. If he does burst in, she’ll clatter him with it.
After an eternity, the footsteps grow fainter. It sounds as if they are retreating across the stable yard, maybe hurdling the gate at the end of it leading to the woods. Exhausted, she slumps into a seat. The thought of malignant forces on the estate is horrible. She ought to raise the alarm, organize a search of the grounds. But what if there is more than one trespasser and Cam is injured – even killed? Her mind races, weighing alternatives. Leave well enough alone until the morning, she decides. All things considered, it’s the safest course.
Drishane is too securely barricaded for any casual robber. Possibly, the footsteps belong to an advance scout. She’ll talk to her brother in the morning, and together they can organize further precautions with Mike Hurley, Jeremiah O’Mahony and any of the villagers willing to lend a hand. There’s a thought. Will the villagers stand by them? It’s hard to know whose side they’re on. Face to face, they’re courteous to the Somervilles. But their loyalties may lie elsewhere. The people are seething at the Crown forces’ violence, never mind towns under curfew and fairs and meetings banned.
When a truce in the fighting was called two months previously, she hoped they were over the worst. Normal life might resume. Much of the country remains outside the law, however, and units of IRA men are still operating – particularly in Munster. The Royal Irish Constabulary is depleted, with many constables calling it a day, while those digging in for their pensions are barricaded into barracks, police officers in name only. Last year, England sent over reinforcements – the RIC Auxiliaries, in their debonair Glengarry caps, but a bad situation was made worse with their wildness and tit-for-tat violence. As for the trigger-happy Black and Tans, if you weren’t a rebel before meeting those soldiers, you’d be one for certain after an encounter with them. That’s if you lived. Jeremiah O’Mahony’s nephew was pulled over for not having a light on his donkey cart, taken away for being surly and flogged near death with a strip of wire. No wonder the people feel rancour.
Thuds and crashes continue to burst from the glory hole.
‘Whatever you’re doing, stop it at once, Dooley,’ she cries.
Edith decides to sit up and keep watch. Sleep is impossible now. At least Martin will help. She has assured Edith there are good spirits in heaven who care about Drishane and can be called upon in emergency. Family members, and so on. Edith feels the dull poke of pain in her hand. Why, she’s still holding the milk pan. When she sets it down, she sees a ridge in her palm scored by the handle.
Dooley reappears, swaggering, a dead rat between his jaws. He deposits it on the tiles and sits back on his haunches, tongue showing, dark eyes lambent.
‘So that’s what you’ve been busy with.’
He gives a triumphant yowl.
She tugs gently on one of his ears. ‘Quite right, you deserve a prize. You’ve had rather more success with your unwanted visitor than I have with mine. Let’s see what we can find in the pantry.’
Using coal tongs, Edith grasps the rat by its fat, furry middle and opens the range door, dropping it in. Next, she fetches a slice of chicken that seems to have been put by for tomorrow’s lunch. Settling herself in Mrs O’Shea’s armchair beside the range, she feeds it to Dooley from her hand, morsel by morsel. A final sniff at her fingers and lick of his chops, and he hops onto her lap, circles twice and settles down to sleep. The heat from his body spreads through Edith, a comfort to her racing mind. The house has escaped tonight – touch wood – but the family’s good name in the district won’t shield them forever. Sooner or later, rebels will arrive looking for horses, guns and money. She warms her hands on Dooley’s flanks. By and by, her eyes drift shut.
—
‘Saints preserve us, Miss Edith, you’re after giving me a desperate fright sitting there, so you are!’ It’s Philomena, first up to light the fires and carry tea on a tray to Cameron and Edith.
Edith blinks to absorb her surroundings. The previous night’s events return to her with a sour spurt of juice in her mouth. ‘Good morning, Philomena. I seem to have passed the night here.’ She stretches her neck and adjusts her position to massage it, shifting Dooley’s weight.
Just then, their cockerel crows.
‘Imagine being awake before Roddy. I haven’t been abroad this early since my hunting days.’
‘Did something happen, Miss Edith? What were you thinking of, sleeping down here?’
‘I’ll tell you once I’ve had my cup of tea. I’m parched.’
‘Miss Edith? What’s going on? Were we – did you hear something in the night?’
‘Tea first, please, Philomena. We’ll talk then.’
Philomena looks mutinous, but bustles about the kitchen. She pushes the kettle onto a hot plate on the range, ferrets for wood in the basket by the pantry door and crashes open the shutters. Edith hears snatches of her complaint. ‘Catch your death of cold at that aul’ malarkey’ … ‘not twenty-one anymore.’
Edith knows she ought to stand up to do some stretches, and her weary bones deserve soaking in a hot bath. But she can’t rustle up the energy to move quite yet. Dooley feels the same. He opens one eye, observes Philomena’s activity and burrows into his mistress’s lap. ‘My warrior,’ she croons, caressing his wiry fur. She’s conscious of Philomena’s shrewd glance but pretends not to notice.
‘You’d hand that animal the moon out of the sky if he asked you for it, Miss Edith.’
‘Dooley killed a king rat last night, a fellow as big as himself. I suppose there’s no sign of the colonel yet?’
‘Ah, sure, you won’t see hide nor hair of him ’til I hit the breakfast gong. He’s a man that’s fond of his leaba, so he is. You’d imagine he’d be used to early rising after the army. But divil the bit of it. There’s days I think if breakfast was changed to eleven o’clock in the morning, it would suit him just as—’
Enough is enough. Edith interrupts Philomena’s flow. ‘When you bring up his tea you might say I’d like a word with him before breakfast. As soon as he finds convenient. Tell him it’s important.’
Philomena restricts herself to a tight nod.
Oh Lord, thinks Edith, now she has a cross Philomena on her hands. And if they are to keep Drishane safe, they need the staff onside. A cup and saucer is handed to her. ‘You’re an angel. Make sure you have some tea, too. There’s nothing to beat it for starting the day.’
‘I have to see to the colonel first. Tea and hot water for shaving, he needs.’
Edith sips at the steaming brew. Philomena has added extra sugar, a welcome treat – they are meant to be economizing on sugar, which is becoming hard to source. Dooley lays his front paws on her chest, pleading with every inch of his dear wee face. ‘Down, boy. You’ll have your share.’ He looks a shade doubtful, but obeys. She splashes some tea into the saucer and sets it on the red quarry-tiled floor.
Philomena treats herself to an unmistakeable sniff before leaving the room with Cameron’s tray. Edith creaks out of the chair and hobbles to the nearest window. She peers outside, alert for some sign of unusual activity. A fast-moving shape catches her eye. It’s Mike Hurley arriving for work, bright and early, as usual. He lives with his family on Cross Street in the village, in the cottage where he was born. There’s nothing Mike doesn’t know about horses. He trained as a stable boy for the Dunravens at Adare Manor, but leapt at the chance to come home when Edith was able to take him on some years ago. She raps the window pane but he doesn’t hear her. Wrenching open the sash window, she calls his name.
‘Morning, Miss Edith. You’re up with the lark. Did you want me to ready Tara for you? The road’s worse than ever, mind you. Holes as big as bullocks. The boys have been busy. Must think there’s a chance of the Tans or the Auxies coming this way on patrol.’
‘No thank you, Mike. That won’t be necessary.’ She beckons with a finger. ‘There’s something I need to ask you.’ When he’s standing right outside the window, she leans forward, voice lowered, forefinger against her lips. ‘Are all the horses in their stalls? None missing?’
An eyelid flicker ruffles his expression. ‘Haven’t checked them yet, miss. I’m just on my way in to them. Did something happen last night?’
‘I believe there was an intruder on our property. I heard footsteps in the yard.’
‘Are you all right, Miss Edith?’
‘No harm done, I think. I’ll have a word with you later, Mike, after I speak to the colonel. But please check everything carefully in the stables. And not just the horses. Look over the bridles, saddles and so on. We shall have to think what to do about the horses. They’re an incitement to the robber class.’
‘Right you be, Miss Edith.’
She tugs shut the window. Philomena returns while she’s fiddling with the catch on the sash.
‘The master says he’ll be down directly. Won’t you tell me what’s going on, miss? I know something’s not right.’
Edith hesitates. Maybe she should just tell Philomena. But paws skittering outside signal the arrival of Cameron’s dog Loulou, who hurtles into the room, rushing straight to Dooley’s empty saucer of tea. She gives the china an exploratory lap, more in hope than expectation. Dooley growls and Loulou backs under the table, trailing her plumed tail. The cream Pomeranian, only seven inches high, is dwarfed by the furniture. Dooley, more than twice her size, growls again to show who’s top dog.
‘Ignore him, Lou,’ says Edith. ‘Dooley, mind your temper.’
Where Loulou appears, Cameron is never far behind. He arrives now, scarlet in the face. To her surprise, he is still in his pyjamas and a navy woollen dressing gown. Childhood aside, Edith could count on one hand the number of times she has seen her brother in his night clothes, and still have fingers to spare.
Anxiety splinters his voice. ‘What’s this I hear about you sitting up all night?’
‘Why don’t we go into the morning room, Cam? We can talk there.’
A knock on the back door delays them. Edith and Cameron exchange glances while Philomena answers it, converses and returns to the kitchen. ‘Mike Hurley says to tell you all present and correct, miss.’ An inhalation of breath. ‘He wouldn’t say what he meant by it.’
‘You’ll know soon enough, Philomena. I need to talk to the colonel first.’
Edith leads the way, to where the table is ready for breakfast and preparations for a fire are lying in the grate. Ignoring her protesting kneecaps, she hunkers down and strikes a match. Paper twists catch fire instantly and begin sparking the wood. She hauls herself to her feet and meets her brother’s eye.
‘There was a man prowling about the stable yard last night, Cam.’
‘Why the blazes didn’t you call me?’
‘I know, I should have. I think I must have been paralyzed by fright.’
‘If someone is loitering on our property after dark, you can be sure they’re up to no good. You really ought to have woken me, Edith.’
‘I thought I heard something, but convinced myself I was imagining things. When I couldn’t get back to sleep, I went downstairs to check the locks and bolts. It was just a precaution. Honestly, if I’d believed there was someone I’d have knocked on your door and sent you down. Then when I did realize it, I just sort of froze. By the time I pulled myself together he was gone. So I thought I might as well let you have a night’s sleep while you could. Because … we have to assume … I mean, I expect he’ll be back tonight. You’ll have to sit up.’
‘I still think you should have woken me, old girl.’
‘It was stupid of me, Chimp. But honestly, I believed the danger had passed. I’m not idiotic enough to tackle a gang of men single-handed.’
‘A gang? I thought you said one intruder.’
‘Yes, just one. I think. Let me tell you what I heard.’
After Edith updates Cameron, he says, ‘I’ve been expecting something of this nature.’
‘At least we have some notice. We can be ready for them. They’ll want guns, of course.You handed in all of yours, didn’t you Chimp? We were warned to, in the springtime.’
‘I’ve told you before, I gave our duck guns to the RIC. Along with that old shotgun Hildegarde’s Egerton passed on to you. Then, after Skib courthouse was burned out last June, I handed in the small revolver with filigree work on its handle. The one I picked up in Paris. Let them shoot me, I thought, but not with my own gun.’
‘And your army pistol? You’ve surrendered that, too?’
He fidgets with his moustache. ‘Can’t bear to part with it. But I’ve hidden it well. They’d have to tear the house apart to find it, Peg.’
‘Are you mad, Cam? When Park House was broken into, not a mattress survived their bayonets. Nelly and Mimi’s nerves were ground to shreds.’
‘You can’t expect young ladies to stand up to that kind of pressure.’
She lowers her voice. ‘These men have a network of local sources. The servants could be passing on information. Not deliberately, perhaps, but you know how word gets about. What’s to stop Philomena mentioning your revolver to Mrs O’Shea, and maybe she’d say something to her sister in the village about Colonel Somerville being armed. And she’d tell a neighbour, and so on. We’re watched, Cam, whether we like it or not.’
He crosses to the French doors, which open onto a manicured lawn and flower beds blazing with lobelias, Japanese anemones and cactus dahlias. ‘It all seems so peaceful out there.’
Edith thinks of the biplane which buzzed the nearby hills earlier in the year, trying to flush out a group of IRA men believed to be hiding there.‘Deceptively so.’
‘I can’t give up my service revolver. We’d be like lambs to the slaughter.’
‘If they find it, your gun will be used against the Crown, dear.’
‘They might not find it.’
‘And they might.’
He slaps his hand against the door frame. ‘Have it your own way. I’ll go to Skib after breakfast and give in my revolver at the barracks.’
‘Good. The sooner all our guns are off the premises the better. Your service pistol – and any others that might have slipped your mind. When they come, as come they will, you can look them in the eye and say you have no weapons. If you’re straight with them, hopefully they’ll spare the house. Dr Jim gave them a donation instead of weapons. But if you’re caught telling an untruth, it gives these people permission to do their worst.’
‘Donation my eye,’ snorts Cameron.
Edith stands her ground. ‘It saved face for the rebels – no one wants to leave empty-handed. I’m convinced that’s what stopped Park House being set alight.’
‘No wonder the Jim Somervilles sold up. We’re fools to hang on here, Peg. At least we still have something to sell. If the house goes up in flames there’ll be nothing worth putting on the market.’
So, he’s back singing that song. Has Drishane ever had a more ineffectual master? She chokes back her impatience. ‘Selling up is the easy answer. They won’t get rid of us without a fight. After more than two hundred and fifty years here, we’ve earned our right to live in Ireland. Let’s show them what we’re made of, Cam. What we have we hold.’ She joins him at the window, and pats him on the shoulder. ‘Good times will come again.’
