Cave of Secrets (9 page)

On a raw morning when the wind gibbered and moaned around the chimneys, Simon was sent to Ballydehob to fetch a doctor. After a long wait the doctor arrived. He was a short, thickset man in a grey frieze overcoat. He did not wear a gentleman’s cravat because he was not a gentleman. Like many doctors, he was also a barber. He carried the tools of his professions in a badly scuffed black bag.

He was shown to Mrs Flynn’s chamber. Tom and his sisters followed. They watched in silence while he bent over the bed and studied her face. ‘Your mother’s blood is too thick,’ he announced as he straightened up. ‘It has congested her organs.’

Opening his black bag, the doctor took out a set of
steel-bladed
knives wrapped in flannel. He tested several of the blades with his thumb. When he was satisfied with their sharpness, he laid two of the knives side by side on Mrs Flynn’s writing desk and put the rest back in the bag.

‘You must leave the room now,’ he informed his audience,
‘whilst I give this poor woman some relief.’

Tom and his sisters waited anxiously outside the closed door. The servants gathered around them, listening as intently as they were. For a few minutes they heard nothing. Then Mrs Flynn gave a sharp cry.

I am the man of the family now, Tom reminded himself. He threw open the door and entered the chamber.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Christmas

C
atherine Flynn looked dead. Her eyes were closed and sunken. Her breathing was so shallow it did not lift the blanket. One of her arms hung over the side of the bed. From a cut in her forearm a thin stream of blood dripped into a basin on the floor.

Tom was horrified. ‘What have you done?’ he cried. The doctor gaped at him. The boy reached out and seized the man by the front of his coat. ‘What have you done to my mother, you maggot!’

The doctor tried to pull away, but Tom held on grimly.

‘I bled her, of course,’ the doctor said. ‘Release me at once, sir.’

Tom had never been addressed as ‘sir’ before. He loosened his hold but did not release the doctor entirely. ‘Mother was as pale as a sheet before you came. Now she’s even whiter. You’ve made her worse.’

With an effort, the man freed himself from Tom’s grasp. He said indignantly, ‘I did no such thing. I was helping her,
you young fool. Your lady mother is suffering from the black melancholy. The humours of her body are foul and polluted. Bleeding is the standard remedy for such ailments.’

‘No one with a head on his shoulders would believe such nonsense,’ Tom angrily declared. ‘There is nothing “foul and polluted” about my mother. Get out of this house before I throw you down the stairs!’ At that moment he looked as if he could do it.

The doctor snatched up his bag and implements and
scurried
from the room. The three girls, crowded together at the doorway, moved aside to let him pass.

Tom beckoned to them. ‘Help me here, Lizzie.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to staunch the flow of blood. ‘Caro, run and find clean linen for bandages. Ginny, fetch the brandy.’

They soon stopped the flow of blood and bound the arm. Then Tom and Elizabeth raised Mrs Flynn enough to allow Caroline to plump her pillows. Ginny tilted a spoon of brandy between her lips. After a few moments she opened her eyes. She looked from one face to another. ‘What
happened
?’ she whispered.

‘It’s over now,’ Elizabeth said soothingly. ‘Do not concern yourself.’

‘It hurt more than I expected. When he cut into my arm …’

‘The filthy maggot,’ growled Tom. ‘He won’t be allowed in this house ever again, I’ll see to that.’ His new confidence
surprised everyone – most of all himself.

Slowly, Mrs Flynn began to recover. She tried not to worry so much about her husband. She saw that she had frightened the children, and she wanted to be strong for them.

Meanwhile Tom put Donal’s family out of his mind. Most of the time. They were part of another life entirely. His life was in Roaringwater House now, where he was needed.

His lessons with Mr Beasley continued. When their day’s work together was done, Tom took his books into his
mother’s
chamber for study. It was pleasant to be there, knowing she was nearby. Sometimes he saw her watching him. They exchanged smiles.

She is getting well, he thought. It helps her to have me here.

He began asking the occasional question so she would think she was helping him.

One rainy afternoon Tom looked up from sharpening the nib of his quill. ‘Mother? I don’t suppose you know any Latin?’

‘Sic semper tyrannis
,’ she said softly.

Tom put down his penknife. ‘What was that?’

‘Sic semper tyrannis
. A phrase in Latin. It means “thus always to tyrants”. Supposedly the slogan was shouted by the Roman senators who murdered Julius Caesar in the Forum.’

Tom was astonished. ‘Where did you learn that?’

‘In my family we all knew Latin. I have forgot most of it, I’m afraid.’

In my family. She had never mentioned her family before. As far as Tom knew, her life had begun with her marriage to William Flynn.

Why was I not curious? he asked himself. But now that he was curious she would not talk about it. When he asked, ‘What were you mother and father like?’ she said only, ‘I hardly remember them any more.’

October became November and Mrs Flynn was up and about again. Still thin and pale, but stronger. She even joined Tom at the door to wave goodbye to his tutor when Mr Beasley left until the following spring.

A few days later, the long-awaited letter arrived. It was very brief.

Catherine Flynn read the letter twice. Then she folded the small sheet of paper and sat staring into the fire. When Tom entered the room she did not look up.

‘Your father is not coming home,’ she said over her shoulder.

Tom’s immediate, frightened thought was of pirates. ‘Was he kidnapped?’

His mother turned to stare at him. ‘Of course not. Why ever did you say that?’

‘I don’t know. I mean …’ He scuffed the floor with his toe, feeling like a child again.

‘Please do not worry, Tom,’ she said, trying to sound as if there were nothing to worry about. ‘William has sent good news. The Lord Deputy is in England with King Charles. In the new year Thomas Wentworth will receive an earldom. Then he plans to return to Ireland and raise an army to fight for the king in Scotland.’

‘What has any of that to do with Father?’

‘Your father is staying in Dublin until the Lord Deputy arrives. Thanks to friends in high places, William expects to be offered a
commission
in the new army. An officer’s commission is highly prized; it comes with a number of
privileges
. William’s appointment will give us security at last.’

Tom was puzzled. He had always taken his security for granted. ‘What about this house, Mother, and our land? Are they not all the security we need?’

‘Wait until your father comes home, Tom. He can explain much better than I can.’

Once again, Tom thought, I’m being treated like a child. But I’m not a child. There are places where I’m treated like a man.

After her husband’s letter arrived Mrs Flynn’s appetite improved. She spent less time in her bedchamber and more with her family. She and her daughters played card games or did their sewing together. Sometimes Elizabeth and Caroline sang English ballads in clear, sweet voices.

Tom rarely joined them. He took to wandering about the house, looking out of the windows.

‘That boy is like a bird in a cage,’ Elizabeth remarked. ‘Whatever is wrong with him?’

‘He misses his father,’ her mother replied.

‘He’s growing up,’ said Virginia.

Winter brought short dark days and long cold nights. A fire was lit in every fireplace, yet still Tom felt cold. Something was wrong. He knew it the way Bríd and Seán always knew when a storm was coming. It must involve his father. A terrible fate might have befallen him.

Tom began having nightmares that he could not quite remember afterwards. But he knew they were awful.

The entire household became involved in ‘bringing in’ the Christmas. Once again the servants scrubbed and polished the house from top to bottom. Virginia drew up a shopping list which included twenty pounds of beeswax, pure white and faintly smelling of honey. The wax was slowly melted in an iron cauldron. Tom measured and cut the lengths of wick while Elizabeth and the housekeeper dipped the candles.

A special large candle was lit on the first day of Advent.

The arrival of the Holy Season was marked by frost-
coloured
sky and frost-spangled earth. At night, if there were no clouds, a million stars glittered, hard and bright, like gifts of diamonds from the Magi. The wind from the bay smelt of ice. Two pigs were butchered, one for the family and one for the servants’ table, and their blood was drained and set aside. Tom contributed more spices from his carefully hidden store, and Cook filled the house with the smell of boiling puddings.

The servants were sent to collect cartloads of holly and ivy. They left at dawn and returned at dusk, since neither plant grew near the bay. On the following day Catherine Flynn and her children were busy tying ribbon into bows and arranging wreaths and swags.

That night they lit candles in all the windows.

Mrs Flynn wanted to buy special treats for the Christmas table as well as the traditional New Year’s presents for the family. Usually her husband took care of such things, but his prolonged absence left the task to her.

She asked Tom to accompany her to the village market at Skibbereen. It was the first time she had asked him to be her escort. He was proud of the honour, but concerned for his mother. ‘Are you sure you feel strong enough?’ he asked.

‘I do feel strong enough, but it might be best if you drive the dogcart. Do you think you can handle the pony, Tom?’

He started to tell her he could handle the oars of a currach
on the open sea, then thought better of it.

The grey pony had taken members of the Flynn
household
to market for fifteen years. She knew the way better than any human. As soon as her passengers were settled in the wicker cart, she started off on her own at a steady trot. Tom flicked the whip above her haunches once or twice anyway. Her only response was to lay back her ears.

‘Do not torment the animal,’ said his mother.

As they neared the village, the road on either side
blossomed
with stalls selling everything from local produce to imported luxuries. Stallholders called out to Mrs Flynn as she passed by. Tom said, ‘They seem to know you, Mother.’

She arranged the hood of her cloak to hide more of her face. ‘They do not know me,’ she said.

Soon the road was crowded with people who went from stall to stall, examining the goods on offer. Shoppers loudly haggled with merchants. Small children ran madly about, shrieking at the top of their lungs. Cattle and sheep and poultry were all available for sale; the air was thick with the smell of them. Dogs barked, geese honked, an ass brayed – and the grey pony came to a halt.

‘I shall wait with the cart,’ said Mrs Flynn, pulling her hood even farther over her face. She gave Tom a shopping basket, a list and a small purse of coins.

Feeling wonderfully important, he tied the reins and stepped from the cart. As he crossed the road a boy on a
shaggy plough horse galloped past. The animal’s huge hooves threw up a spray of cold mud. Tom tried to wipe a gobbet of mud from his cheek, but only succeeded in smearing it.

He went from stall to stall looking for the things his mother wanted. It took a while to find them all. Wide red ribbon for tying up wreaths. Metal polish. A bottle of camphor to keep moths out of woollens, a packet of needles, a set of pudding bowls, a new shopping basket. Tom knew how to weave a basket. But he could not tell his mother without explaining where he had learned.

The last items on the list were the special treats the girls loved at Christmas. Several stalls offered them, but they were shockingly expensive and no one was buying. The small purse was nearly empty anyway. Tom headed back to the dogcart to ask his mother for more money.

The grey pony was standing where he left her, but the cart was empty.

Tom felt a flash of panic. If something happened to his mother while she was in his care, his father really would kill him!

Then he saw her coming towards him, her arms loaded with parcels. Relief washed over him. ‘You gave me a fright, Mother. You should have warned me you would not stay with the cart.’

‘I was buying presents for us to exchange at the New Year. Something for each of you and your father too, even though
he won’t be with us. Did you get everything on my list?’

‘All except the sweetmeats. Raisins and figs and sugared almonds are very dear and I ran out of money. The woman at the stall said they cost twice as much this year as last, because they are imported. If you want I shall go back for them.’

Catherine Flynn shook her head. ‘Perhaps we had best make do with what we have, Tom.’

She was quiet on the drive back to Roaringwater House, wondering why her husband had not sent additional money for the holidays. Wondering if everything really was all right. Wondering.

At the house, Caroline thrust out her lower lip. When she was sulky her beauty vanished. ‘It just won’t be Christmas without sugared almonds.’

‘Christmas is not about treats, Caroline. It is about the birth of hope, which we need more,’ said her mother.

‘I hoped to have sugared almonds!’

On the day of Christ’s birth a priest came to
Roaringwater
House to say Mass in the private chapel. Elizabeth and Caroline had decorated the little chapel with holly, while Virginia had contributed a watercolour painting of the Virgin and Child.

It seemed strange to Tom that his father was not with them. As he knelt to pray, Tom wondered how, and where, Muiris and his family celebrated Christmas. Suddenly he could see their faces as clearly as if they stood before him. And longed
with all his heart to be with them. When he awoke on St Stephen’s Day he could not wait any longer.