Songs of Love and War (21 page)

For a while neither spoke. Kitty wasn’t used to being with her tutor outside the classroom and she didn’t know what to talk to him about. Mr Trench kept his eyes on the track ahead.
A gust of wind nearly blew Kitty’s hat off, which gave her the opportunity to break the awkward silence. ‘That was close,’ she said, holding it down with her hand.

‘The wind is an unpredictable thing,’ said Mr Trench.

‘Oh, it is,’ Kitty agreed. ‘Is it so windy in England?’

‘Depends on where you are. On the coast it can be very blustery. In the winter there are winds that fell trees.’

‘What did Mr Mills mean by unhappy people? Are they hungry?’ she asked, thinking of the children she had seen that morning in the greenhouse.

‘No one wants to be forced to fight, Kitty.’

‘Conscription.’ She sighed. ‘I know and they shouldn’t have to.’

‘Ireland is part of the United Kingdom, like Wales and Scotland. It’s only right that the Irish should play their part as well.’

‘Many already
are
playing their part, God help them.’

‘Not enough.’

‘Do you wish
you
were fighting, Mr Trench?’ Kitty asked.

Mr Trench was used to Kitty’s bluntness. ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied, equally blunt.

‘I wish Papa had a stiff leg so he didn’t have to.’

‘No you don’t. You wouldn’t wish it on anybody. One feels a failure.’

She looked at him and frowned. That was the first piece of personal information he had ever volunteered. ‘You’re not a failure, Mr Trench. You might find you’re the last man
standing. All the young women will throw themselves at you. Your leg might make you the luckiest man in England.’

‘I doubt that,’ he replied, embarrassed.

Kitty smiled. ‘When God takes with one hand He gives with the other.’

‘Is that so?’

‘According to my grandmother and you know that she’s right about everything.’

At last they reached Ballinakelly. As it was fair day there was no school. Some of the children looked after animals for a few pence while the farmers went to O’Donovan’s to get
drunk, others played chase up and down the street like a pack of stray dogs. Groups of women wearing their Bandon cloaks and carrying wicker baskets stood chatting and gossiping. It was not
uncommon to find the odd cow wandering unattended as the boys bribed to watch it grew bored and ran off to join in the fun. The square was heaving with chickens and sheep, pigs and horses as it did
the first Friday of every month. The townspeople mingled tightly with those who had come from neighbouring towns and villages, and tinker women weaved among them selling holy pictures and begging.
It was a noisy affair and Kitty could hear the sound of music playing over the drone of voices as a trio of violinists busked at the far corner of the square.

Kitty enjoyed the fair. She lifted her chin and searched the faces for Jack. Where there were animals he was sure to be. Mr Trench tied the pony to a post and went round to help Kitty down, but
she had already jumped into the mud and was striding into the crowd.

‘Kitty!’ he called, running after her. He found her looking at a stall of hanging rabbits, yet to be skinned.

‘Poor little things,’ she said, peering at them. ‘One minute grazing happily, the next hanging up here by their hind legs, destined for the pot.’ She sighed. ‘I
suppose people have to eat, but still.’

‘Well hello, Kitty,’ said a voice Kitty recognized. She lifted her eyes to see Lady Rowan-Hampton smiling at her beneath a bright blue hat.

‘Hello Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ said Kitty coolly. Then remembering her manners she added, ‘I don’t think you’ve met Mr Trench.’

Grace extended her gloved hand. Mr Trench shook it and bowed politely. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ she said with her usual cheeriness.

‘He’s my tutor,’ Kitty said.

‘Yes, your father mentioned the fine education this young man is giving you.’

Kitty frowned. ‘What else did he tell you?’ she asked frostily.

‘How proud he is to have such an articulate and opinionated daughter.’

‘I don’t think I can take all the credit for that,’ said Mr Trench.

‘No, I don’t suppose you can. Kitty’s always had a mind of her own.’ Grace laughed. ‘I imagine you’ll be leaving for London at any moment.’

‘Certainly not,’ Kitty retorted. ‘I’m staying here where I belong.’

‘Well, that’s something you and I have in common,’ said Grace. ‘Our unwavering love of Ireland.’

‘As well as a few other things,’ said Kitty pointedly. Grace frowned. ‘Good day to you, Lady Rowan-Hampton.’

Mr Trench hurried after her. ‘Was it really necessary to be rude?’ he asked.

Kitty turned to see his face red with indignation. ‘Why, Mr Trench, I think you’re showing emotion for once.’

He ignored her comment. ‘She seemed a perfectly charming lady.’

‘Oh she is, perfectly charming. But you don’t know the half of it.’

‘Good reason or not, one should always try to be polite.’

Kitty rounded on him fiercely. ‘Why? Because, if we’re not all polite, our true feelings might be revealed and then what? God forbid we show our feelings.’

‘Now you’re being unreasonable.’

‘Mr Trench, you’re my tutor. You’re to teach me history and maths and geography and French. You’re not employed to teach me manners. Miss Grieve taught me those and by
God did she hammer them home. I was rude to Lady Rowan-Hampton because she has done something unforgivable which I will never forget as long as I live. I don’t expect you to understand but
the least you can do is remain silent on the matter. Now, I’m going to look at the horses. I shall return to the trap in half an hour. Does that give you enough time to do what
you
want to do?’

Mr Trench sighed. ‘It does.’

‘Good.’ Kitty marched off and was swallowed into the sea of people.

She went in search of Jack but to her disappointment he was nowhere to be found. She saw his mother talking to Robin Nash, who ran the best dealing yard in Ireland, but she didn’t dare ask
where Jack was. She sensed Mrs O’Leary didn’t much like her although she couldn’t think why. Among the people were members of the Royal Irish Constabulary in their black uniforms
and forage hats, Father Quinn in his long black robes and the Rector, Reverend Daunt, in a tweed suit and bright white clerical collar. Kitty managed to avoid the Rector and Mr Trench, who she saw
ambling aimlessly among the sheep looking lost.

After half an hour she walked back to the trap, feeling dissatisfied. Mr Trench was waiting for her, being watched by a surly bunch of young men in caps and jackets, smoking in the road outside
O’Donovan’s. He offered her his hand and she took it, lifting her skirt and climbing into the trap. Then he walked round to the other side and climbed in beside her. Just as they were
about to depart something came flying towards Kitty and struck her in the eye. She gave a howl of pain and slumped forward, putting her hand to her eye. Mr Trench began to shout at the offending
young man, but it was Jack who appeared suddenly and put his arm around Kitty. When she saw him she cried all the more, afraid to peel back her hand. With a little gentle coaxing he lifted her
trembling fingers and she realized to her relief that she wasn’t blinded after all, just bruised.

Jack leapt down to punch the man who had thrown the potato but a constable pushed through the crowd who had gathered round like curious cows to watch the fight and stood between them. After a
brief discussion it transpired that a certain Mr Murphy had thrown the potato because Kitty was a symbol of England and Mr Murphy was cross about the pending threat to send him off to the front
against his will. ‘Will you be pressing charges, Miss Deverill?’ asked the constable, holding a defiant Mr Murphy by the arm.

Kitty would like to have seen the man thrown into prison for his malice, but she looked at Jack and realized that if he didn’t know her and love her as he did he might very well have
thrown the potato himself. ‘No, I won’t,’ she replied. ‘Just realize this, Mr Murphy. I am as against conscription as you are, make no mistake. Throwing potatoes at
defenceless young women won’t change Mr Lloyd-George’s mind.’ The constable let the man go and he slunk back into the throng and disappeared into O’Donovan’s with his
band of friends.

‘Are you all right?’ Jack whispered, perching on the step for a quiet word with her.

‘I’m going to have a horrid black eye,’ she replied, giving him a small smile.

‘At least you still have an eye.’

She laughed. ‘Would you still love me if I didn’t?’

‘You know I would.’

‘When can we meet?’

‘Tomorrow? Down on Smuggler’s Bay at four?’

‘I’ll be there.’

He caressed her wounded face with his eyes. ‘You look after yourself now. Things are going to get rough.’

‘Tell that Mr Murphy he has a good aim,’ she said loudly, remembering that Mr Trench was seated beside her. ‘Why doesn’t he put it to good use?’

Jack stepped down. ‘I’m sure he will. Off you go now.’

Mr Trench shook the reins and Kitty tore her eyes away from Jack, who put his hands in his pockets and watched the pony and trap trot off down the road. As they drove to the castle Mr Trench was
very talkative. The drama had injected him with excitement. He gave Kitty his handkerchief with which to wipe her tear-stained face and nurse her bruised eye and he discussed the band of men who
were clearly up to no good. ‘I saw them watching me,’ he told her, ‘and I just knew something was going to happen.’

But Kitty wanted to explain to Mr Trench that she was on
their
side. That they had her sympathy and her support, but all she could say was, ‘What a silly lot. Potato throwing
won’t get them anywhere.’

The following morning her left eye had swollen to the size of a golf ball. When her grandparents saw it, her grandfather threatened to deal with the potato thrower himself until her grandmother
convinced him that
that
sort of bullish behaviour would only make matters worse. She told Kitty to rest and applied a cool poultice of comfrey to the bruise. Nonetheless Kitty crept out of
the castle to retrieve Jack’s note from the wall. He had placed a posy of wild woodbine there too, tied with a piece of string. She brought it to her nostrils and inhaled the sweet perfume
and her heart swelled with happiness that Jack belonged to her. When she entered the greenhouse to read his letter she noticed the empty plates at once. The children had returned and they had eaten
all the food. She smiled at the thought of those satisfied bellies. But what if word got out and they brought their friends with them tomorrow? Would she end up feeding the entire population of
children in Ballinakelly.

In the summer of 1918 the conscription crisis was over but the fighting continued on the Continent and the number of dead grew. The cousins descended once more on Castle
Deverill, but a sadness hung over their usually glorious arrival. Beatrice, once so spirited, had expanded in her grief as if armouring herself in fat would defend her beleaguered heart. She now
moved around the castle grounds in a stately fashion, like a rudderless galleon with black sails. Augusta lamented that God had not taken
her
in George’s place. ‘He had his whole
life ahead of him,’ she declared. ‘Whereas I am used up and spent. I only hope God preserves our darling Digby and takes me instead of him. I am ready for the call whenever it may
come.’

Digby’s father Stoke and Hubert went out fishing as usual but they stayed away much longer, finding the company of sad women too emotional for their tastes. They preferred not to talk
about their sorrows, but to chew on them in private like dogs with bitter bones.

Maud returned with Victoria and Elspeth, but she quarrelled with Elspeth and tormented Vivien and Leona who were both engaged to marry Army officers once the war was over. Her jealous remarks
were wasted on Beatrice, whose emotions were numbed by a mixture of heartbreak and Adeline’s cannabis, but not lost on Elspeth who confided in Kitty that she was thinking about entering a
convent: ‘The only place on earth I can be free of our mother and the beastly convention of marriage.’

Kitty, Celia and Bridie met in Barton’s tower, which was the only place in the castle where they were safe from intrusion. Kitty and Celia complained about their sisters and Bridie told
them the gossip from the kitchen and how her mother had reported that Victoria had asked her if she knew of a wise woman in Ballinakelly who could help her conceive – Bridie giggled that
she’d happily play the part for a sixpence. Barton Deverill listened from his chair and his face shook off its habitual grimace and the corners of his mouth twitched as he inserted comments
into their conversation that only Kitty could hear.

In November the war finally came to an end. The fighting ceased. The guns fell silent. But the tremor would vibrate on in the earth the artillery had violated and in the minds of those who had
walked through Hell and survived. The euphoria of victory was soon replaced by the sobering realization that almost an entire generation had been killed. Every family had suffered losses. No one
had been spared the anguish of mourning. The British Empire had won, but something of the old world had been broken forever.

Bertie, Digby and Harry returned home to their families who gratefully received them. Outwardly they looked the same as the men who had left four years before, albeit thinner and a little older,
but inwardly they had been irrevocably altered. In the tradition of all Deverill men they drank to blot out the images and they smiled to hide the truth that they never shared, for putting it into
words would only breathe life into the memories they wanted so badly to forget.

In December the Irish voted in the General Election, the result of which was a landslide victory for the radical Sinn Féin Party, defeating the nationalist Irish Parliamentary Party that
had dominated Irish politics since the 1880s. Of the one hundred and five MPs elected, most had fought in the Easter Rising. ‘By Jove! Who would have predicted the bloody Shinners winning
like that, eh?’ Hubert huffed over his newspaper.