Authors: Tim Vicary
There was a silence. I suppose the man of the house has spoken and that is the end of the matter, Deborah thought. But she was not prepared to go on with it. This is the first real conversation I've had with him since he came back. And all it's going to do is drive us further apart . . .
He pushed the newspaper away. ‘Anyway, I can't stop here talking about this. I have to be at local HQ by nine. Sir Edward Carson is coming here tomorrow and I have to plan all the troop dispositions for his escort, for one thing.’
‘Tom will miss you if you go now.’
‘I've got to ride the way he's gone. I'll meet him on the way to the three oaks and say goodbye to him there.’
‘Good,’ she said softly. ‘He'll like that. The boy worships you, you know, Charles.’
A strange expression crossed his face. A mixture of emotions, it seemed to her — part anger, part pride, part guilt. He said, irritably: ‘So he should, damn it! Boy's got a soldier for a father, he ought to be proud. I hope one day he'll join a good regiment, as I did. He's got the makings in him.’
That's why we send him to a boarding school at the age of eight, she thought. To knock all the female nonsense out of him. It's as though men and women are brought up as different tribes.
Her mind still full of the appalling daring of Sarah's action, she said: ‘I just wonder if you're setting him the right example, that's all.’
She hadn't planned to say that. But, now that it was said, she did not regret it. It was too late for regret and tactfulness now. She had tried all that.
He put down his cup of coffee softly, and glared at her. ‘Just what the devil do you mean by that, woman?’
The look frightened her, as his anger always had. But she was too tired, too weary of trying to please and entice him over the past two weeks, to care any more whether he was upset. The way he had spurned her yesterday had hurt and humiliated her more than anything he could say now.
She said. ‘I'm not your woman, I'm your
wife.
Remember? We're supposed to love, honour and respect each other. And what I meant was, that I don't see how you can be a proper father to the boy, because you're never here.’
‘Never here? I've been here almost every day of his school holidays, haven't I?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, you have. And that's the first time for the past four years, isn't it? For most of that time you were in Egypt. So it may be that he sees you as a hero but he hardly knows what you're like. Neither do I, if it comes to that.’
For once, she thought, I have astonished him. The dark eyes in Charles's lean, aristocratic face stared at her. For a moment the mouth under the carefully trimmed military moustache was open in shock. Then he said, sharply: ‘I don't know what you mean. As a soldier of course I am away a lot. It's part of the conditions of the service. The boy understands that and respects it, as I respected my father. As for you . . .’
He hesitated, perhaps unwilling to hurt her. But contempt, it seemed to Deborah, was the only response she could get out of him these days. At least it was a sort of recognition, better than being ignored. So she said: ‘Yes, Charles? As for me?’
He got up from the table, clasped his hands behind his back and strolled to the window before answering. Like a man searching for the right words to lecture a platoon of soldiers, Deborah thought, almost amused. Perhaps I should stand to attention.
At the window, Charles swung round abruptly to face her.
‘As for you, Deborah, from what I hear you have hardly been at Glenfee yourself, for most of the past year. Instead of attending to your duties as Tom's mother and mistress of this house, you have been running away to Dublin, involving yourself with this ridiculous notion of feeding the children of illiterate strikers and filling the house with street urchins who smash the windows and uproot the trees. That is scarcely better than your sister! Certainly not the sort of conduct that qualifies you to criticise me, I would have thought. When we married I had hoped for better from you.’
When we married.
The cruel arrogance of the man. As though I am a child, a servant in this house. Deborah was sure her face had gone white. She said: ‘You had hoped for what, exactly?’
‘A mother who would not embarrass my son, at least. How do you think the boy feels, when he hears of these foolish antics? A mother who spends her time in the slums of Dublin and fills the house with paupers. Whose sister slashes pictures in London. What do you imagine Tom thinks of that?’
‘Nothing very much, I suppose. I have tried to explain it to him, and he seems to understand.’
‘Oh, does he indeed?’ Charles shook his head. ‘Well, let me tell you, madam, the boy is deeply embarrassed. He tells me so on our rides. What do you think his schoolfriends would say, if they found out the way you behave?’
Very coldly, Deborah said: ‘I am sorry if he feels like that. But if he does it is a failure in his friends, not in me. I only do what I think right and just.’
And look where that lands me, she thought. Making a gift of myself to a beautiful handsome devil like James Rankin, who cares for the future of all mankind but doesn't care to commit himself to any one woman in particular. Men always win.
Charles said: ‘Well, if you think such foolish behaviour is just, that only goes to show how far women are from understanding the world of politics. I suppose we should be grateful you don't actually perform these unwomanly acts of vandalism yourself.’
Deborah's hand shook on the table in front of her. She felt a surge of anger welling up inside her, changing as anger so often did with her, to tears. To prevent herself from crying she stood up and gripped the back of a chair.
‘So what exactly
would
be womanly behaviour as far as you are concerned, Charles? You seem to know so much about it and yet take so very little interest. What would make me a proper wife again, for you?’
For a second he flinched, as though something had struck home. Perhaps because of the desperate appeal underneath her shaky façade of anger. But he recovered quickly. He looked away from her with a mocking, dismissive laugh.
‘I should have thought that was obvious. Take care of this house — it is large and complex enough to absorb your energies, surely? Be a mother to Tom, without embarrassing the boy. And, if you really need any other interest, support the Union. That is the really important question in politics these days. If you knew anything at all you should know that.’
He glanced at his watch, as though the conversation was over.
Suddenly it came to Deborah what she had to do. There was no point staying here, having fruitless arguments like this. Brooding, waiting for her stomach to swell and her life to disintegrate around her. Sarah is in prison; she needs my help.
And Rankin is in London, too.
She said: ‘I shall have to go to London, Charles.’
‘London? What the devil for?’
‘To see my sister, of course. Give her what support I can. And Jonathan. He'll be dreadfully upset about this.’
He considered her without answering at first. As though weighing up, quite coldly, the advantages and disadvantages of what she had said. Perhaps he
wants
me to go, she thought. He can't
like
having me here.
‘You feel it is more important to help them, then, than to stay here and give your support to me?’
Those cold blue eyes, watching hers. Bitter, clouded, distant. ‘Do you really want my support, Charles?’
‘It would be the proper, decent thing. What a wife is expected to do. Support the Union.’
He didn't say it with anger. She thought, for a fanciful moment, that it sounded a little like an appeal from somewhere far away. So she waited, to see if he would say any more. Even now, if he would come to her, their marriage might be saved.
Nothing.
‘Charles, I don't give a fig for your Union.’
She hadn't meant to say that, either, or known it was coming. But as the words came out they sent a strange thrill through her. As though they were not about the Union of England and Ireland at all, but about her own union with Charles.
As though she had slashed a picture herself.
‘I see.’ Charles stood quite still in the doorway. Like a man who knows he is wounded, but is not quite sure yet where he has been hit. Her odd, defiant words echoed in their ears.
Will he forbid me to go? she thought. At least that will show that he cares.
‘Then you will not be here when I get back?’
‘No, probably not. I shall catch the first ferry tonight after I've taken Tom to school. If there's time, I'll ask Simon to drive me to the harbour.’
‘Very well. I wish you a good journey, though I fear you will find it a wasted one. If Sarah's sent to prison you probably won't even be allowed to see her.’
‘I shall see Jonathan, anyway. And he may find a way. He is an MP, after all.’
‘Much good may it do him!’
Charles turned on his heel and walked away without saying goodbye. As the heels of his riding boots clicked away down the corridor, Deborah thought, is this how it all ends, then? I may never meet him again.
She walked upstairs to the tall window on the landing to watch her husband ride away down the drive. As he had promised, he met Tom in the five acre field and the horses stood together for some minutes while their riders talked. She wondered if they were talking about her.
As she watched, she repeated the words softly to herself. They had, she found, an almost sensual taste on her lips, like sharp, bitter chocolate.
It's true what I said.
I don't care a fig for his Union.
Tom's school, St Andrew's Preparatory, was on the banks of a small river flowing down to Lough Neagh. It was in a rambling, shabby Stuart manor house, with a number of stables and cottages round it, and a sixteenth century Protestant chapel. Simon Fletcher drove Deborah and Tom towards it down a long twisty rutted drive, full of potholes which threatened to destroy the Lancia's suspension at any minute. As the chimneys of the old house came in sight beyond the cricket fields, Tom pointed eagerly ahead.
‘Look, Mother! There are some boys already practising in the nets! I think that's Randall — yes, it is! Randall and Carter. They're in my house team. We're going to win the cup this year, I bet you anything!’
Deborah looked — not at the nets, where several youths in white flannels were queueing up to bowl or bat, but at her son, whose face shone with excitement. She felt at once glad and empty. Glad that Tom was so excited, that he liked the place and seemed so eager to return here; but empty, sad and lonely for herself.
All the way, on the two-hour car journey, she had tried to talk to him. He had shown great excitement when talking about the school, or his friends, or his pony, or his father. But when she had tried to sound him out about what he really felt about the things Charles had mentioned — her activities in Dublin, the holidays she had arranged at Glenfee for poor children — the curtains had come down behind his eyes. He said little, he lost interest. It was obvious he did not want to talk to her about these things. This had happened before, and she had always assumed that it was just because he was too young to understand. But perhaps Charles was right, perhaps he was embarrassed or ashamed. Once she asked him.
‘Tom, when you're at school, do the boys ever talk about the sort of things I'm involved in? Working for poor children, things like that?’ She had not dared mention Sarah.
He looked at his hands, then glanced away over the fields, where a herd of cows was making its way slowly down to a ford by a stream.
‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘Not much, though.’
‘What do they say?’
‘I don't remember. Silly things, really. Oh, look, there's a heron!’
She looked, saw the big grey bird flying laboriously up, away from the cows, along the line of the stream. She said, softly: ‘Am I an embarrassment to you?’
For a moment she thought he was not going to answer. He followed the bird with his eyes, ignoring her. It was a silly question, she thought, unfair to him. Then he said: ‘Carter said something once, but I punched his head. He won't do it again. Look, there! It's going down, into that pond!’
And with that she had to be content. So he had stood up for her, after all! She felt a sudden urge to hug him, thank him for his loyalty, but she resisted. That would have embarrassed him surely. Instead, she talked about the heron, and cricket, and the difficulties of Latin prep, and the mice they fed with breadcrumbs in the dormitory, and secret midnight fishing trips down to the river, until the school came in sight along the dusty track and they were there.
They met the headmaster, Dr Duncan, on the front doorsteps where he stood with the matron to welcome returning boys. He was a beefy man with a round, genial face and imposing mutton-chop whiskers. He bowed to Deborah, ruffled Tom's hair, and shook Simon Fletcher by the hand. He seemed impressed by Simon's military uniform, which, as always, was immaculately pressed, despite the long journey.
‘You gentlemen are well organised then, from what I understand?’ Dr Duncan said.
‘Oh yes, sir,' Simon answered. 'We do our duty and the Ulster Volunteers are well prepared. At least in County Down.’
‘Glad to hear it. Though perhaps I shouldn't say so.’ Dr Duncan met Simon's eyes for a moment, then winked at Tom. ‘Ticklish business, this politics. But if men don't stand up for law and order and the United Kingdom when it's threatened, then we don't deserve to live here. That's what I expect your father says, eh, young Cavendish?’
Tom smiled proudly. ‘Yes, sir, of course. Father's a colonel in the UVF now, you know, sir.’
‘Jolly good show! Excellent.’ Dr Duncan beamed at Deborah. ‘Which probably means that Mrs Cavendish is kept busy as well, if I know anything. Eh, what? But I expect you'll want to be away up to your dorm.’ He turned to Simon. ‘Can you manage that trunk, young man?’
‘Just about, I think so, sir,’ Simon said, unstrapping it from the back of the car. Deborah marvelled at him. He had been silent for most of the journey, but now he seemed so suave, polite, more at home here than she felt herself. But then it is a male institution, she told herself. Mothers are an embarrassment. Even those without advanced views.