Edith, page 6
She considers telling her about the previous night’s intruder and decides against it. The post is said to be opened and read by the rebels. On that basis, it’s a risk to mention the horses but she has to take it.
We have nothing of worth here. It will be a frightful waste of their time if they do honour us with their presence. Meanwhile, we potter along as best we can. Cameron and I managed to have a game of croquet the other day – it was almost like old times. Apart from the unseasonal hailstones!
You don’t happen to know of anyone who’s in the market for a hunter or two? I have a couple of toppers here. One of them is black apart from two white socks on his hind legs. He has the courage of a lion – has never refused a jump in his life.The other is a long-backed roan stallion, a little on the short side but he’d suit a plucky lady rider. Do ask around for me if you can.You’d be doing me ever such a good turn.
Fond regards,
Edith
P.S. Mike Hurley would accompany them and guarantee to deliver them to their new owners in tip-top condition.
Edith puts the letter in an envelope and addresses it to Dr Ethel Smyth of Coign, Hook Heath, near Woking, Surrey, England. Boney was awarded an honorary doctorate in music by the University of Durham, and friends omit the title at their peril. This afternoon, she’ll make arrangements for it to be sent to England via Hugh’s destroyer. She doesn’t like to abuse his generosity, but selling horses is no trivial business to her.
Now to the play. As she looks over yesterday’s work, doubt nibbles. Flurry’s Wedding tells of Flurry Knox’s usual horsey shenanigans and the resident magistrate Major Yeates’s attempts to rein him in. Flurry’s pranks are all in a good cause, intended to raise the cash to marry his several-times-removed cousin Sally Knox. Edith is convinced it’s a cracking piece, full of fun and frolics, which are sorely needed in these uncertain times, but how is she to place it?
She has no contacts in the theatrical field. None that count, anyhow. She knows Lady Gregory socially, of course, but has no intention of handing over her work to the Abbey Theatre. Martin would never approve. They manufacture their past, the Celtic Twilighters. That enterprise is too, too worthy. Besides, there’s no money in a Dublin run. And even if she were to give it to the Abbey, nationalist Ireland has always been lukewarm about the Irish R.M., perceiving slights where none were intended. No, she doesn’t care for the Dublin literary set, all long-haired male poets and short-haired female novelists. Flurry must be placed with a London producer. He deserves nothing less. Royalties lie at the end of the West End rainbow.
She considers unsealing the envelope and adding another postscript. Boney is a natural-born networker and bound to have ideas about whom to approach. But she is such a busybody. If Edith solicits her advice, she’ll commandeer the play in its entirety. Before she knows it, her friend will be voicing opinions on plot, character, staging and scenery. Ethel Smyth is true-hearted, unflagging in her affections and enthusiasms. She charges out to meet the world head-on without ever pausing to check if her hat is sitting straight. But her conviction that she’s an expert on virtually everything can be a little trying.
Edith sucks the lid of her fountain pen, and inspiration strikes. Her cousin Charlotte is married to George Bernard Shaw. Lottie has always had family feeling galore, besides being a helpful sort – nearly clever, but not quite. She’ll send the play to Lottie for advice, and her cousin is bound to ask the great man to take a look. That will set it on its way. If Shaw likes it, he’ll recommend it to someone influential. Edith is confident he will. The public loves those hunting stories – their agent, Mr Pinker, was always badgering the Somerville and Ross team for more. Admittedly, it’s been a few years since the last R.M. collection. Nineteen-fifteen, in point of fact – such a sad year. She lost Martin a few months after publication. Not lost entirely, she’s with her always. But it’s not quite the same.
Edith sighs. She must go back out to the stables and give those sovereigns to Mike. Then she really should take a rest.
—
Dinner is a melancholy affair: hunters gone, jewellery gone, guns gone. So far as Edith can judge, Cameron has carried out her instructions. The problem is you can never tell with her brother. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d held back some dagger or spear from his soldiering days. But at least his army revolver is with the RIC and Mama’s jewellery is in a Bank of Ireland safety deposit box. She expects him to take more of an interest when she tells him about Mike Hurley’s scheme for hiding the hunters, but he’s too wrapped up in his own day, chuntering on about detours taken and streams splashed through. You’d imagine he was navigating the Orinoco.
Nodding and looking outwardly sympathetic, she is preoccupied by a heart-stopping realization. She forgot to give Cameron the most important item of jewellery in her possession. She kept some paste jewellery to palm off on raiders, and handed over everything else in her jewellery box – apart from Mama’s ruby ring. The last person to wear it was her sister Hildegarde, who borrowed it and noticed the stone was loose. When she returned it, Edith didn’t put it back where the ring belonged, instead slipping it into the pocket of her travel bag because she meant to take it to London to be reset. But the country was in such convulsions that any unnecessary journey seemed unwise. Which means Mama’s ruby ring is in Drishane. Should she confess to Cameron? Not after the row she raised over his service pistol.
She needs a proper chat with Martin. If only she could manage a seance. But her neighbour Jem Barlow, who acts as her medium, has gone away for a time. The nightly diet of rifle shots and flames against the sky – not as distant as one would prefer – has taken its toll, and many of the more substantial properties in the village and surrounding area are deserted. Still, Miss Barlow’s absence hasn’t derailed Edith’s communications with the spirit world. Edith, too, possesses the psychic spark – she’s had it since girlhood. Her automatic-writing sessions are treasure troves of sensible conversation with Martin. She’ll do some after dinner.
Over dessert, a measly affair of stewed fruit with insufficient sweetening, she considers asking her brother to join her. Sometimes, he plays Brahms on the piano to assist with atmosphere during seances. She gauges him through narrowed eyes. No, he’s showing the strain of recent events. Look at him fidget – he’d never sit still long enough for her to go into a trance. Oh, he’s feeding that chubby-chops of a Loulou some left-over slivers of fat cut from his meat. Deceitful little creature, just like her master. Cameron must have slid them into his napkin before his dinner plate was collected. A filthy habit, Mama would never have permitted it at the dinner table. No wonder that creature is like a waddling sofa. Dooley is much better behaved. As a reward for not begging, she goes to the sideboard and lifts a sugar cube from the bowl. She bends down and Dooley takes it from her, table manners as restrained as a duchess’s.
‘Any chance of a splash of coffee, old girl? Now you’re on your feet.’
‘Of course. I’m being terribly slow tonight, aren’t I?’
‘Not at all. As a matter of fact, I’m astounded you’re still standing. Tough as … Chip off the old block. Mama, I mean.’
‘You were about to say old boots, weren’t you?’
‘Steady on, Edith, I was trying to pay you a compliment. But any attempt to flatter women – even a sister – is a risky business.’
Edith pours out their nightly aid to digestion and carries the cup and saucer to Cameron. She’s had to tell Mrs O’Shea to brew the coffee weaker than usual because beans are in short supply at the grocer’s. Fortunately, they’re not reduced to reusing grinds yet. And at least her Townshend grandmother’s silver coffee pot is safely in storage, along with its matching milk jug, sugar bowl, tongs and tray. She loved seeing them clustered there, like a plump mother goose with her goslings. But she’s happier not seeing them, currently.
Cameron scratches one of his prominent ears, looking pleased with himself. ‘You’ll be glad to hear I’ve fixed things with Hurley and his nephew to share sentry duty in the grounds tonight. And I’ll be sitting up, on guard in the house. Thought about roping in O’Mahony but Hurley said he was too old, it wouldn’t be fair. Volunteered his nephew instead. So you mustn’t fret, Peg. We have it all in hand. You can’t lose a second night’s sleep.’
She’s about to protest at him making arrangements without consulting her. On second thoughts, Cameron needs to feel he’s in charge. ‘Well done, Chimp.’
‘You do think Hurley’s trustworthy, don’t you? And the other servants?’
‘They’ve worked for us for years. Surely you don’t suspect them?’
‘They might have divided loyalties, the way things stand. Maybe they’re hunting with the hare and running with the hounds.’
Edith chews her thumb knuckle, slanting the thought this way and that. It’s as hateful as it is logical. The British haven’t ruled Ireland well – quite the reverse. Why shouldn’t the common people support men of their own sort who tell them they can make a better job of government? Words are cheap, of course, but they may be effective.
‘But they’ve never given us any grounds to doubt them,’ she says. ‘They must have known about your revolver but didn’t breathe a word to anyone.’
‘I suppose.’
Edith tries – and fails – to imagine running Drishane without staff. Who’d cook their meals and serve them? Set their fires and beat their carpets? Her play will never get written if she has to spend her time thinking about mincing leftover beef into sandwich meat or searching for eggs in the hens’ hidey-holes.
‘Anyhow, you’ve asked Mike Hurley now, Cam.’
‘Didn’t have much choice. There was no one else. Stopped off in the village on the way home from Skib. Thought I’d have a word with some of the men. See if they knew anything. Meant to ask them to help us keep watch. Didn’t in the end. There was something odd about the behaviour of two of the Connors boys. Furtive – that’s the best way to describe them. I didn’t like it. So I said nothing. Came back up the hill to Drishane and fixed things with Hurley instead.’
‘Some of those Connors boys are Sinn Féiners. At least one of them is on the run.’
‘But their father saw service in the Boer War!’
‘That was then.’A dragging sound outside causes her to startle. ‘What’s that? Are we expecting anyone?’
‘The young O’Mahonys. Jeremiah’s grandsons. I was able to lay my hands on some empty potato sacks in Skib. Stopped into the O’Mahony place on the way home and squared it with their father. I’ve put them to filling the sacks with sand. They’re setting a battery of sandbags against all the outer doors so no one can force their way in.’ He expands his chest, ready for her congratulations.
‘Are they able for it? Can’t be more than twelve or thirteen.’
‘Looked strong enough to me, from farm work. Any chance of another splash?’
She tops up his coffee. Despite her apprehension, the artistic side of her brain admires the arc of the flow from spout to cup. The tree- trunk brown colour is perfect for a woodland painting – darker than toffee, lighter than chocolate. ‘I hope you haven’t asked the O’Mahonys to patrol with the Hurleys. They’re only children.’
‘I might use them as lookouts another night. We’ll see how we go.’
‘You know, I can’t help wondering if we aren’t better getting a raid over and done with, dear. We’re in the IRA’s sights. We can’t hold them off indefinitely.’
‘No reason to leave the henhouse door lying open.’
‘I suppose.’
He drains his cup and stands. ‘Believe I’ll go out and inspect those sandbags. Might look in on O’Mahony, too. Tell him to keep an eye out from the gatehouse. I know Hurley says he’s too old, but it’s all hands to the pump in an emergency.’
When she’s alone, Edith rings the bell for Philomena to clear away the dishes. She intends to work at the dining-room table where there is plenty of space to spread herself. She’s seen arms flung about like windmills at trance writing, pots of ink and vases knocked over. She doesn’t need many props – a thick pad of paper, a selection of pencils and Martin’s tooled-leather cigarette case will be sufficient. Along with some peace – unfortunately, Philomena is inclined to linger and chat. Abstracted, Edith listens to the casement clock bonging eight-thirty. She had counted on starting now – it’s a conducive time for Martin, apparently.
Her silence doesn’t discourage Philomena. ‘I saw Mike Hurley taking two of the horses away. Then back again on foot, without either one of them. Where he went, he wouldn’t say. Just tapped the side of his nose and said, “that’s for me to know and you to guess”.’
Edith glances up. ‘What you don’t know you can’t tell, Philomena. There’s safety in ignorance. It’s for your own good.’
Philomena’s eyes round, catching her meaning. ‘I hear you, Miss Edith. Shall I leave all the candles lit? Are you intendin’ for to stay and have one of your ghostie-things here?’
‘Yes, leave the candelabra lit. You may extinguish the oil lamp on the sideboard.’
‘It’s a mortal pity to think that you, who was always flourishing about as if you hadn’t a bone in your body, running here there and everywhere, should be sitting in at nights at this aul’ malarkey. Me, I’d have no truck with talking to the dead. Not for all the tea in China. And sure, wouldn’t Father Lambe have me guts for garters if he heard I was at that aul’ caper?’
‘That’ll do, Philomena. I know what I’m about. Incidentally, you may be reassured to know Mike Hurley and his nephew Ned are patrolling the grounds tonight. At least we’ll get fair warning if intruders are about.’
Philomena gives a dramatic shiver. ‘With the help of God. There’s plenty of blackguards taking their chance to settle old scores. All for Ireland, indeed.We’d be greener than cabbage if we believed that yarn.’
She takes a last check that everything is back in place. Adjusting the cut-glass bowl of chrysanthemums so that it stands in the centre of the table, Philomena lifts a tray stacked with dirty crockery. Turning with her load, she almost trips over Dooley.
‘I’ll swing for that animal one day,’ she mutters.
Edith chooses not to hear.
Alone, she sits upright in her usual seat at the foot of the dining-room table. Three candles burn with a steady flame in front of her. The paper and pencils rest near-hand, ready for the moment of connection. She never doubts her ability to communicate with Martin – Edith knows she possesses the necessary spark of psychical power, her shortcut to the beyond. Her right hand lies on the table, palm upwards, relaxed. Her left hand, heavy with Martin’s ring, caresses Martin’s cigarette case, thumb pad tracing the initials VM. Martin had a variety of cigarette cases, but this was her favourite. A faint scent of tobacco rises towards her nostrils.
Practice has taught Edith how to enter a trance. She closes her eyes and empties her mind. Pinpoints of light loom and fade behind her eyelids. Distant sounds honeycomb the silence, before the dream state takes over and noise dwindles into nothingness. She slows her breathing, conscious of taking air into her body and holding it in her lungs, feeling it swirl through them before being expelled. Her blood roars along her veins.
Now she feels a tingling, pricking sensation in her right arm. It is followed by a numbness in the arm from shoulder to hand. The limb becomes cold and disconnected, as if it no longer belongs to her. But Martin isn’t here yet. Her mind has not yet emptied. It continues to intrude on her connection with the other world. Around her, Drishane is a patient presence. Head tilted to one side, she keeps stroking the case, aware of her ribcage rising and falling. Now she opens her eyes and fixes her gaze on the door opposite. She doesn’t see the grain of the wood, nor its brass handle. Even the door’s rectangular shape is indistinct. Blankness spreads across her vision, her mind lulled into a dream state.
The force begins to grow within her. A swollen sensation runs up and down the right arm, converging on her finger tips. Without conscious thought, she lifts one of the pencils, leaning it loosely against the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger. She listens, not with her ears but her body. All at once, her heartbeat trips and her hand jolts, fastening tightly on the pencil. It executes a series of circles in the air.
Martin is with her – Edith senses her presence. She knows she must initiate the conversation.
‘Are we safe in Drishane, Martin?’
The pencil is propelled towards the paper. As soon as its point touches the page, words spill out: angular, downward strokes scoring deep onto the surface. Edith has no knowledge of what she’s writing. She doesn’t even look at the page, gazing instead into the candlelight. For now, her hand does not belong to her – the force causing it to move is external.
The pencil ceases its activity as abruptly as it began writing. Only when it stops moving does Edith feel that she, too, can stir. It’s as if she has been held in a gentle but firm grip and is now released. She exhales, and reads the spiky script.
You must be braveand resourceful a challenging tiem lies ahead but you are not alone tap into your reserves of courage believe and allshall b e well
The script has covered almost an entire page. She turns it over, presenting another blank surface. Cameron’s doubts about the Connors boys are preying on her mind.
‘Are the tenants loyal? And the villagers? Can we count on them?’
some are and some are not you must take sensible precautions but it will be impossibel to escape the attention of nabothsvineyardnabothsvineyard raiders entirely
She takes another page. ‘What do you suggest?’
The pencil rises from the page and moves forwards and back a few times, indecisive, before crashing back down onto the paper.
You are not alone we who love you guardguardguardguard &&&&& _ _ we guard you we patrol drishane and keep at baythe most desperat among these menofviolence
