Cashelmara (92 page)

My father had known all about Drummond.

I flicked through the letters again. “I know you’re very young … hard for you to understand … wanted only to be honest with you … ever your most affectionate and devoted father …”

Putting all the letters together again, I retied the red ribbon around their yellowing edges and put the bundle back in the drawer. Then I went out.

I walked across the lawn into the woods. It was dark in the Azalea Walk, but above me the sky was lightening and a solitary bird was starting to sing.

I reached the chapel but didn’t go in. Instead I walked past my grandfather’s fine marble headstone, my fingers trailing lightly over the deep engraving, and skirted the mounds that belonged to my great-grandparents, who had died long before I was born. I walked to the corner of the churchyard and then I stopped on the brink of the open grave to look back.

It was very quiet. Even the bird had stopped singing.

I listened. There was no sound to hear, but I listened to my memory. After Drummond had talked to me beneath the Tiffany lamps in that New York restaurant I had wiped all thought of my last conversation with my father from my mind, but now the Tiffany lamps which had hidden my father from me month after month, year after year, were dissolving, and as at last I saw beyond them to the truth I had been too afraid to face, I knew I would never dream of those lamps again. The barriers had crumbled, my memory was opening into the past and I could hear my father telling me again about his friendship with Hugh MacGowan.

I had misinterpreted what he had said, but now, with the Tiffany lamps dissolved and Drummond’s brutal explanation no more than a distorted echo, I heard my father’s explanation afresh.

Better to face the truth, no use trying to be something one can never be, impossible for him to make my mother happy …

I wanted to tell him I understood, but there was no time, because he was already talking passionately about all the things that mattered to him—his children, his garden, his home.

The memory of his voice blurred. I found I was no longer listening, for now I was thinking of Drummond—not the Drummond I had trusted but the other Drummond, the man who had cheated my father out of Cashelmara, deprived him of his garden and those he loved, schemed to live off my father’s land with my father’s money while he slept with my father’s wife. I tried to remember my father being dishonest, but I couldn’t. He had admitted he was foolish with money, and he had even admitted to me that he was a bad husband because he couldn’t love my mother as a husband should. He had had weaknesses—yes, of course, but he had never lied about them. It hadn’t been his fault that I had been too young and stupid to understand when he had told me about MacGowan. At least he had tried to tell me; that was enough.

And suddenly I thought: That was a very brave thing to do.

It occurred to me to imagine myself afflicted by that loathsome act of God and trying to explain my affliction to my son. But it was beyond my imagination. I couldn’t conceive of ever having the courage, and it was then I thought: No wonder he needed to drink. No one can be brave all the time.

I looked down into the grave that lay waiting for his coffin, and suddenly my feelings toward my father were so clear that it amazed me to think that they could have been so confused for so long. For my father was indeed a hero, not an unreal hero who existed only in the pages of a child’s storybook but an ordinary man who was honest when most men would have lied and courageous when most men’s courage would have failed them. I no longer gave a damn that he had been a drunkard and a pervert; that didn’t matter. For my father had loved me and he had been honest with me,
that
was all that mattered, and one day …

One day I would make amends for having turned my back on him for so long.

AT FIRST I HAD
no idea how I might make amends to my father, for since my mother was in such a dangerous position it was no use talking melodramatically of avenging his murder, but later after considering the possibilities I decided the best way to make amends would be to oust Drummond from Cashelmara. The only trouble was that I didn’t see how I could take such a step at that time without hopelessly antagonizing my mother. It was true that the estate was now mine beyond any shadow of doubt, but I was still a minor and all the powers remained vested in my trustees. In theory Drummond could be dismissed from his position by my uncles, but in practice … My mother would object and the fighting would start again. The thought of more fighting repulsed me. Anything, even doing nothing, was surely better than that, but I thought that when I was twenty-one and my own master I would be able to suggest tactfully to my mother that she and Drummond might live elsewhere.

Since it was too much to hope that she might have tired of him by that time I would have to buy them a small country house in some place where they could live discreetly without embarrassing the girls. Eleanor would be almost grown up by then, and it would be a shame if my mother ruined her chances of finding a decent husband. I would give my mother a moderate allowance, employ lawyers to manage her financial affairs and refuse to receive Drummond at Cashelmara. That would take courage, of course, but if I were as old as twenty-one it was unlikely that I’d be afraid of anyone, even a murderer. Meanwhile, I would simply have to bide my time. There was nothing I could do except bury my head in the sand like the proverbial ostrich and blot all thought of the murder from my mind.

The funeral took place. John had an asthma attack and was obliged to stay in bed, and the girls weren’t at the chapel either because Nanny said Eleanor was too high-strung and Jane was too young. I was there. My mother wept all the way through the service, my uncles were ash-white and my aunt Madeleine talked afterward about the will of God. Cousin Edith came but said not one word to my mother, and the next day she returned to Scotland. Her sister Clara, who wrote to my mother once a year, informed us later that Edith had settled down in Edinburgh and was interesting herself in the propagation of higher education for females.

After the service we found Drummond waiting patiently outside to take my mother back to the house, and when she saw him she did manage at last to stop crying.

“Poor Sarah,” said Uncle David to Uncle Thomas. “It’s hard to remember all those years when she and Patrick lived happily together … still a little fond of him perhaps despite everything … after all, if a woman has borne a man four children there must be some feelings nothing can erase.”

But Uncle Thomas was too busy thinking about Cousin Edith to reply. “Thank God Edith didn’t stay,” he said to me in private after the small cold luncheon was finished. “Do you know she actually told me that she thought Patrick had been murdered and that Sarah was to blame? My God, that woman would say anything against your mother! It’s disgusting.”

My fear must have shown itself in my expression, for he added hastily, “Of course I told her to be very careful. Statements like that are actionable as well as being damnable lies. There’s no need for you to worry, Ned. I doubt if we’ll hear from her again.”

I managed to say, “She couldn’t demand an autopsy, could she? I know they wouldn’t find anything, but the scandal would be so bad for my mother.”

“Quite unnecessary to have an autopsy,” said Uncle Thomas, who, being a doctor, was familiar with such matters. “No suspicious circumstances. Dr. Cahill thought one should be conducted just as a matter of form, but Madeleine said it was pointless and I agreed with her. As you say, the only purpose it would serve would be to create more scandal for your mother, and this family has suffered quite enough from scandal during the past few years.”

“Dr. Cahill … he didn’t have any doubts about the diagnosis, I suppose?”

“Good God, no! Of course he was away at Cong at the time and didn’t actually see your father, but Madeleine said there was no doubt at all, and she’s had a lot of experience with cirrhosis of the liver at her hospital. I’d trust Madeleine’s judgment absolutely, and if she had no doubts I have none.”

After a pause I said, “I see.”

Uncle Thomas said suddenly in a low voice, “Ned, if I thought for one moment that Drummond was responsible for this I would arrange with the appropriate authorities here for an autopsy and say to the devil with the scandal. But I don’t see how he can be. It’s not just that he was at Cashelmara all day in full view of the servants. It’s not even that it would have been difficult for him to get his hands on a toxic substance. It’s simply that he would never have arranged such a thing and then allowed your mother to visit Clonagh Court at what would have been a most crucial time. I’ve talked it over with David, who fancies himself a great expert in this field on account of all those detective stories he reads, and he agrees with me. He also made an interesting point which I hadn’t thought of. He said in his opinion Drummond wasn’t the Borgia type. Guns, yes—but poison, no. So you see, bearing all that in mind, we have no alternative but to confirm what we originally suspected—that Patrick died a natural death.”

“No alternative,” I said. “Yes, of course.” I was so relieved I could hardly speak; my eyes even filled with tears. For Uncle Thomas had succeeded in restoring my faith in the possibility of coincidence, and when I saw that my father might indeed have died a natural death I stopped asking myself how I could endure the years until I reached my majority. I would no longer have to wake each morning with the knowledge that I was sharing a house with my father’s murderer. I would no longer have to be so fearful of an autopsy and I would no longer have to worry about my mother’s danger. Life could be almost normal again. Of course I would still have to get rid of Drummond one day out of respect for my father’s memory, but that could wait till later.

I felt as if I had emerged from some appalling nightmare, and in my first surge of happiness I hardly paid any attention when Mr. McCardle, the Protestant chaplain from Letterturk, approached me with the offer of spiritual help.

“It occurred to me that on this occasion you might welcome a little religious guidance,” he said in his ugly Belfast accent. “The death of a father is always hard for a young man, and since your mother—alas!—is not a regular churchgoer and your only aunt is a papist …”

Since I was in such a happy mood I listened politely. I even consented when after his long sepulchral homily about the life everlasting he offered to give me the lessons necessary to prepare me for my confirmation.

“I shall call once a week and give you two hours of instruction,” he said, beaming at me, and I said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” and beamed back.

It was only after he had departed that it occurred to me that I had no desire whatsoever to be a fully fledged member of the Church of Ireland. I hated the dreary hour of matins once a month, and although I had always disliked the dark desolation of the little chapel, my father’s funeral service had turned mere dislike into loathing.

But I didn’t want to dwell on the funeral. I was still too relieved and happy.

“Ned, you never play with us any more,” complained John that afternoon. He had made a startlingly quick recovery from his asthma.

“Who cares?” said Jane, cuddling her nasty orange cat. “I don’t want to play with him anyway.”

“Oh, Jane, don’t say things like that!” pleaded Eleanor, looking up from her book.

“I’ll say just what I like,” said Jane, glowering at me. “Come along, Ozymandias my dear. We’ll go and find Mama. Present company don’t suit at all.”

For the first time it occurred to me how absurd it was that I should refuse to be friends with a little girl half my age. Was it possible that I could have been jealous of all the attention my parents had paid her? I hoped it wasn’t, but to make sure I said as I watched her retreating back, “I’ll take you all on a picnic, if you like. We’ll take lemonade and jam sandwiches and go down to the strand.”

“Hooray!” said John, jumping in the air.

“Oh, I’d like that!” said Eleanor, shutting her book with a bang. “But would it be fitting so soon after the funeral?”

“Nanny’ll say it would do us good. And if she doesn’t say it I shall say it for her.”

Jane had wavered in the passage. “I’m not invited, I suppose.”

“That’s for you to decide. If you can spare the time you can certainly come with us.”

“I shan’t leave Ozymandias,” said Jane, testing me.

“You can bring Ozymandias but not the other cats. I’m not going to the strand to build Noah’s Ark, you know.”

So we all went, even the wretched cat, who followed Jane on a lead as if it were a dog. The strand lay along the western end of the lough, and although the sand was dull and heavy it was adequate for castle-building. John drew pictures with a stick, Eleanor paddled dreamily and I helped Jane build a fort.

“Tell us about America, Ned,” said Eleanor when her feet got cold.

“About the zoo in New York,” said John. “Oh, how I’d love to go to a zoo!”

“Tell us about the little girls called Connemara and Donegal,” said Jane.

I began to tell them for the hundredth time about the Gallaghers, and as I talked I was filled with a longing to return to their house on Beacon Hill.

“They laughed all the time,” I said. “You should have heard them! Everything was such fun. They had this marvelous house in the middle of Boston and every room was very bright and gay. There were pictures of pretty women on the walls and religious statues everywhere—not cold stone statues like the ones in the chapel but plaster statues in brilliant colors. There were splashy sorts of wallpaper and plump stuffed sofas and a tinny old piano where the A-sharp always broke when Kerry played ‘Rose of Tralee.’ Mr. Gallagher wanted to get a new piano, but Mrs. Gallagher wouldn’t have it because she had had the piano all her married life and she said it was her good-luck charm.”

“Was Mrs. Gallagher like Mama?” said Eleanor, asking the ritual question with relish.

“No, not a bit. She wasn’t half as beautiful. But she never got flustered over anything, and whenever the girls did something awful she’d just say, ‘For sure you’ll break your poor darling pa’s heart when he hears of this,’ and the girls would cry at the thought and everything would be forgiven. Mr. Gallagher was a great big swashbuckling fellow, and he smoked big cigars and kissed Mrs. Gallagher every night when he came home. He kept six horses and two carriages and it was a wonderful sight to see the family go off to Mass every Sunday. The girls wore pretty dresses and everything was so gay. I expect their church was like that too. Catholic churches are different from the chapel, you know. There are pictures everywhere and those brightly colored statues and lots of gold cloth. And there are candles everywhere too, like a birthday cake, and a nice smell and everyone sings in Latin, which is a wonderfully mysterious language for singing in, much better than English.”