Edith, page 7
‘Dear Martin, I’m so relieved. Can we keep the house from being burned?’
it will be spared your ancestors form a spirit shield a circleofprotection that man you heard last night left because I gained entry into his mind and convincd him to go
‘I wondered why he turned away. Have there been other attempts on the house?’
gang of ruffians bottom of the avenue severel nights ago your papa made a great racket as though apackofhounds was charging them and they lost their nerve swerve verve nervenervenerveyyyyyyyyy
‘I wish you’d told me.’
not permitted to mention it until youdid our role is not to cause fear but offr reasurance
‘Advise me, Martin. How do we get through this?’
The pencil hovers over the paper, indecisive, before it rears against her fingers like a nervous colt objecting to the bridle.
a stitch in time saves nine
‘I don’t understand.’
Nothing.
‘Martin? Please help me.
give a littel to save a lot
‘Yes! That’s what I suggested to Cam. It’s the practical way to deal with these people. I’ll tell him you urge it. Will the raiders be back tonight?’
theyare undecided
Edith places another blank folio beneath her pencil. ‘Martin, Mama’s ruby ring is still in Drishane. Where should I hide it for safekeeping?’
The pencil wavers and dips. When it touches the page there is only a continuous line, broken in the middle.
_ _
‘I don’t understand, dear.’
The pencil lies idle.
‘I’ve hidden it but I’m worried it can be found. Won’t you tell me where to put it?’
Still nothing.
Edith sighs. ‘Martin, how do you think our play is going? I feel your hand in mine as I work.’
It is
sailingalong
with the wnid
in its sails
She reaches for more paper. ‘Will it be a success?’
The pencil quivers but does not write.
‘Will Flurry help me to keep Drishane in the family?’
The pencil lurches again, and this time the tip begins to shiver across the page.
there
is
a n
impediment
‘What is it?’
Nothing.
She waits.
Nothing.
Unable to help herself, she bursts out, ‘Martin, don’t desert me! What is it?’
The pencil almost slips from her grasp, so swiftly do the letters pour out.
pmihc
Edith can’t make head or tail of the peculiar word but knows it for a riddle she must set aside to solve later. It is a significant answer, judging by the changed writing size.
‘So this is the impediment. Can’t I overcome it? Or is it too powerful for me?
Nothing.
‘Is it a person?’
Now the pencil bucks between her fingers.
threeblindmice see how they run
‘Is it someone I know?’
they all ran away from the farmerswife
Edith waits.
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
‘I’m still here, Martin. Guide me, dear. I rely on you.’ The pencil fidgets, but is uncommunicative.
‘I visited your grave yesterday. I placed some chrysanthemums from the hothouse in front of your headstone. Bronze ones. I always feel such a sense of contentment when I’m there. Dooley came with me. Dear, I’m in sore need of your strength and wisdom. Won’t you advise me?’
always use your witsand strik a bargain whereyoucan
‘Yes, I’ll do that Martin. Anything else?’
Sur le pont d’Avignon on y danse on y danse.
‘What times we had in France. Back when the world was young. Didn’t we, dear?’
121-121-121-121-121-121-121-121-121-121-121-121-121-121
‘Is that a psalm number? A house number? What is it?’
The pencil slips from her hand and Edith feels a sense of emptiness – as though she walked into a room expecting to see someone who is nowhere in sight. The connection with Martin is severed.
Pins and needs tingle in her right hand and arm. She massages it, sensation returning.The intelligence which moved her hand is gone. Still, it has been a reassuring encounter. Parched, she swallows a long drink of water, gathers the sheaf of papers and reads over the messages again.The writing – proof of her communication with Martin – is always a comfort to read back over.
Her eye snags on that one-word answer about an impediment to her plan to use Flurry’s Wedding to save Drishane.
pmihc
How poisonous the Lilliputian word looks. She spells it out. P-M- I-H-C. Attempts to say it aloud – pim-ee-hic. What can it mean? She pulls another blank page towards her and doodles a rearrangement of the letters. Sometimes, when Martin is agitated, she gives Edith jumbled-up words for answers. A scribbled michp is followed by himcp – both meaningless. Is it possible it’s mirror writing? She catches up the sheet of paper with automatic writing on it, and goes to a chiffonier surmounted by decorative etched glass. She holds up the page and reads the reverse image of the ominous word.
pmihc
Edith’s reflection is grey-white in the mirror. The enemy is within.
five
Three nights later, a fox’s bark wakens Edith. Instantly, she is fully alert. She hobbles to the window and parts the curtains by a whisker – enough to catch the moving arc of a torch beam outside. Her dressing gown and a tartan scarf are lying ready on a bedside chair. She pulls on both against the night chill. Next, she collects her old riding whip, which she has taken to sleeping with under her bed, and makes her way to Cameron’s bedroom close to the top of the wide, graceful front staircase.
A tap on his door. ‘Cam, there’s someone outside.’
No answer. She raps again. Still nothing. She opens the door. A candle burning inside a globe on the bedside table shows the bed to be unoccupied, covers smooth. He must be sitting up again. Senses a-twitch, she hurries downstairs, fingers trailing along the banister – remembering which loose stair tread to avoid without counting. She passes portraits of her ancestors etched on cavernous walls with the clarity of India-ink sketches, Dooley skittering along behind, knowing instinctively to stay quiet. She can see where she’s going because Philomena is now leaving paraffin lamps burning overnight at strategic points in the house, on Edith’s instructions.
Near the bottom of the staircase, a dark shape jackhammers her heartbeat. Are they inside already?
‘Who’s there?’ To her annoyance, her voice quavers a little. ‘It’s all right, Peg, it’s me.’
She catches hold of the bannister, knees buckling. ‘Are there men outside, Cam?’
‘We think so.Young Hurley’s just been in to say there’s some activity down near the road. He’s going to investigate. Mike Hurley’s manning the back gate and I’m holding the fort here.’
Edith hauls herself down the last few stair treads. Cameron is fully dressed, a pool of buttery lamplight falling on an ancient fowling piece in his arms, which belonged to their grandfather. So much for handing over all of their weapons to the RIC.
‘You told me you weren’t going to stay up again tonight.’
‘Changed my mind.’
‘I could have shared the wait with you. Four hours each.’
‘Next time.’
Loulou dances into view, emitting a series of self-important yips. Dooley circles her, the two sniffing one another.
‘Pipe down, the pair of you,’ says Cameron. ‘You can do all the socializing you like tomorrow.’
A whinny.
Edith stiffens. ‘They’re at the stables. They’re after the horses.’ ‘We’ll see about that.’ He indicates his shotgun. ‘Death or glory, like Uncle Kendal’s Lancers!’
‘Have you lost your mind? That antique will explode if you pull the trigger. It could blind you!’
‘A man feels more secure when he has a firearm.’
‘Cam, you never saw a gun fired in anger in the army. You ran the music school. Put it away!’
The sound of something being dragged at the rear of the house stalls their argument. Brother and sister exchange glances. Turning as one, they head for the back door.
‘You two keep as quiet as mice,’ hisses Edith, and the dogs wag their tails, understanding her, as dogs always do.
The dragging noise is louder here.
‘They’re moving away the sandbags,’ whispers Cameron. ‘I’ll go out through the French doors in the drawing room and see if I can’t take them by surprise from behind. You stay here.’
‘Is that wise? Going outside?’
‘Can’t skulk in here leaving all the risk to the Hurleys.’
Something hard is drummed against the back door. A stick, perhaps, or a weapon handle. Instantly, the dogs unleash a high-pitched cacophony.
‘Did you agree a code with the Hurleys?’ hisses Edith.
He looks remorseful. She resists the urge to pull a face at him.
Cameron lays his forefinger against his mouth, gestures to stay where she is and approaches the source of the knock. The dogs follow. ‘Who’s there?’
The rat-a-tat-tat is repeated. The dogs begin baying.
‘That you, Hurley?’ cries Cameron.
Edith goes to stand beside her brother. She hears other voices outside, their words indistinct. Boots stamp on the cobblestones.
From outside: ‘Open up in the name of the Irish Republic!’
The dogs intensify their racket.
‘Shut up, Loulou, Dooley,’ hisses Cameron. He calls out, ‘State your business.’
‘Our business is Ireland’s. Now open the door or we’ll break it open.’ Cameron hoists his gun to rest the butt against his shoulder. Fear presses against Edith, suffocating. He’ll get himself killed if he carries on like this. ‘No! Let them in, Cam!’
From outside: ‘I’m going to count to three.’
‘This house can’t be defended, Cam. Do as he says.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘The odds are against us.’
From outside:‘One!’
‘A child could break in, never mind a gang of men!’
‘Two!’
‘Please, Cam!’
‘Hold your horses. I’ll open up!’
He unbolts the door, and gives ground, stepping back to join Edith. Even as he moves, the handle is turned from outside. On a blast of damp night air, a knot of men crowd into the passageway. Lamplight falls onto faces blackened by burnt cork to prevent recognition, heightening the menace they project. They surge forward and Edith and Cameron retreat into the kitchen. Edith counts five men. Two are holding rifles, another has a pistol and the others are armed with cudgels. One looks like a policeman’s baton. So the stories are true about Republicans using captured weapons.
‘I’ll be relieving you of that, Colonel Somerville,’ says the man with the pistol.
Edith notices his weapon is an army-issue Mauser. Robbed, no doubt. She also notices the men keep their caps on.
Cameron is gruff. ‘Who are you? State your business here.’
‘We’re soldiers of the Irish Republic. I won’t ask you again. Hand it over.’ He wears authority like a familiar coat.
Cameron bites his moustache. Quickly, he bends forward and lays the fowling piece beside his feet.
Good for Cam, thinks Edith. Let the fellow stoop if he wants it.
The leader nods to one of his men, who lifts the weapon and moves closer to the lamplight to examine it. ‘A woebegone aul’ blunderbuss. Sure even the crows wouldn’t be afeard of it.’
‘Should be in a museum,’ says another. ‘Not sure we’ll get much good out of it, Captain.’
‘It might come in handy at a pinch.’ The leader returns his attention to Edith and Cameron. ‘Well, now, aren’t you as snug as thrushes in here. How many in the household?’
Neither of them answers.
‘Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.’
Silence.
The leader pushes his face into Cameron’s. ‘I’m running out of patience. Did you hear me, soldier boy?’ A beat. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘Four indoors. My sister and me, plus two servants.’
‘I hope for your sake you’re telling the truth, Colonel.’
Edith appraises their visitors, some detached part of her mind urging her to memorize what she sees. None of the trespassers are older than their twenties and one looks like a boy. All are in corduroy trousers and collarless shirts, but have puttees, caps and odds and ends of assorted uniform. Trying to look like an army, she supposes. Two wear filthy trench coats with bulging pockets. None are locals – she’d recognize them, blackened faces and caps pulled low or not. But villagers must have given them information and fed them, perhaps sheltered them. Yet they carry a smell of the woods and unwashed bodies. Perhaps they’ve been sleeping outdoors. Every one of the men has stubble, even the overgrown lad, suggesting no shaving opportunities for several days.
She pays closest attention to the man doing the talking. He has a Cork city accent and wears a leather motorcycle jacket. His face is lean but unlined beneath the slouch hat with one side pinned up. He’s younger than she expected a leader to be, maybe twenty-three. She can tell he’s like a wasp, ready to sting in a split second.
Dooley darts close to the men, unleashing a furious tirade of yelps. Loulou joins him, snarling, but when one of the men shouts at her the little Pomeranian reverses, yipping, to cower beside Cameron. Dooley holds his position, quivering with fury.
‘What do you want with us?’ demands Cameron.
‘Donations to the cause, Colonel Somerville. You’re nicely placed here. Time to do some sharing.’
‘What cause do you mean?’
‘Oh, I think you know perfectly well, Colonel.’ He turns to one of his men and mutters a command.
‘Right-o, Captain.’
‘You go with him,’ he tells the man with Cameron’s fowling piece. Sleek as silhouettes, the two leave the kitchen.
Incandescent, Dooley scoots after them.
‘No, Dooley! Stay!’ cries Edith. He crouches on the spot, sides heaving, sending a volley of barks after the men.‘To me, Dooley!’ Reluctantly, he trots to her side. There, he fixes his gaze on the man addressed as captain and snarls, low in his throat.
One of the men turns his rifle so the stock is jutting out. He points it at Dooley. ‘Either you make that fucker shut up or I will.’
Edith stoops to Dooley, shushing him, and he subsides.
‘Noisy little beggar, isn’t he?’ says the leader. ‘We’ll have to lock your animal in a cupboard if you can’t control him. Still, you have to admire his loyalty. Now, where were we, Colonel? Ah, to be sure, the cause. Irish freedom. Either you’re for freedom or against it. We don’t have much tolerance for them that faces both ways.’
‘We’re for it, of course,’ Edith puts in. ‘I gave one of you ten shillings not four months ago when I was stopped in the village.’
‘Is that so, Miss Somerville? And grateful we are for each and every donation. But eaten bread is soon forgotten and we need to impose on your good nature again. I’ve a column of men to feed and arm.’
‘Isn’t there a peace deal being thrashed out?’ says Cameron. ‘Your chaps, Griffith and Collins, are over in London in the middle of talks with the Prime Minister. Why are you still arming?’
‘Talks can go nowhere. We must be prepared for all eventualities.’
Cameron snorts.
‘What have you done with the Hurleys?’ Edith puts in. ‘I hope you haven’t hurt them.’
‘Tied up in the stables, Miss Somerville. They’ll come to no harm if they stay put. One of our lads is out there, keeping an eye on them. Now, about your donation.’
‘We have no money,’ Cameron protests.
‘Ah-ah!’ He wags a finger. ‘Shame on you for fibbing, Colonel. The likes of you always has some of the readies. Your idea of hard up and mine are two entirely different things.’ He pats the inside pockets of his jacket and extracts a cigar stub. ‘Could I trouble one of you for a light?’
Edith glances at Cameron, who appears rooted to the spot. She fetches the matches kept by the stove and hands over the box.
He lights up, luxuriates in a long inhalation and rattles the matches. ‘With your permission.’ He pockets the box. ‘Never know when a match might come in useful.’
The other men laugh.
Through a smoke ring, the leader squints at Edith. ‘I believe you’re a writer, Miss Somerville. I had a look at one or two of your hunting stories. They gallop along at a fair old lick. You know your stuff, I have to hand it to you. Of course, these parts would have been prime hunting country, back in the day.’
‘The hounds have been stopped.’
A puff on his cigar and he shakes his head. ‘We couldn’t have the High-and-Mighties careering over decent folk’s land, now could we? And not so much as a by-your-leave. What kind of a republic would that be? No, I didn’t much care for your Irish R.M. stories, though I heard the voice of the people in some of them. There was too much forelock tugging and your honouring for my liking.’ He taps his breast pocket. ‘I prefer Shakespeare’s sonnets. Carry a copy of them wherever I go. When I read, I want to be elevated. And the Bard never disappoints.’
Edith’s lips purse to the size of a farthing. He doesn’t speak like a gentleman, for all his cigar-smoking and bardolatry. ‘We wrote as we found, my partner and me.’
‘I dare say. But what you thought you saw, and what was there before your eyes, mightn’t be one and the same.Your Ireland is a playground. A land of plucky mounts that never refuse a jump, woods filled with game for your shotguns and cunning foxes who get the chop after a merry chase enjoyed by all, foxy included. But that’s not our Ireland.You know nothing of the people’s struggles. The constant battle to make any kind of living that keeps body and soul together. The loss of children on the emigrants’ ship.’
‘The land is rich – there’s plenty for all to share. Old grievances do nobody any good.’
