Songs of Love and War (38 page)

‘Bridget, you have shrunk my dress,’ Mrs Grimsby accused as Bridie struggled to attach the little hooks into the eyes at her mistress’s back. ‘How do
you expect me go out in
this
?’ Bridie wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the dress that had got smaller but her huge body that had got bigger, but she knew better and remained
silent. ‘Really, I can’t imagine how Lady Deverill put up with you. A slovenly maid isn’t worth having. There’s no future for you if you can’t even wash a dress
without shrinking it to the size of a child’s. I suppose you’re thinking
I’ve
expanded? Yes, I know what goes on in your unpleasant little mind!’

Bridie let her rant on. Experience had taught her that it was better to say nothing for Mrs Grimsby liked answering back least of all. At last the hooks grabbed the eyes and the dress was firmly
put together, though straining badly at the seams. ‘I can barely breathe, Bridget. Do you want to kill me? Is that it? You want to see me to my grave like everyone else.’ Mrs Grimsby
turned round, her face pink and sweating. ‘They all think I don’t see through them, but I do. They take me for a fool but
they
are the fools, because I know them for what they
are: greedy, avaricious, two-faced scavengers. Money is a great curse, Bridget. You may think me wrong for saying so, but when one is rich one doesn’t know if people like one for oneself or
for what they can get out of one. Sometimes I’d rather be poor like you, with one friend who loves me for who I am. Do you have a friend, Bridget?’

‘No,’ Bridie replied quietly.

‘That’s because you don’t make yourself very appealing. Smiling would help.’ The old lady chuckled with difficulty in her straitjacket of a dress. ‘I suppose
you’re going to whine and tell me I make your life difficult. Well,
my
life is difficult, Bridget. After Eliot died everything changed. I was on my own like you are now. I had to fend
for myself. Like me, you’ll grow to be strong and resilient. Perhaps you’ll even learn to smile. Smiling might win you a husband and then you can shrink his clothes as well. Now help me
out of this dress. I can’t possibly wear it. You’ve ruined it. Find me another, the blue one, or have you shrunk that, too?’

Mrs Grimsby left the Cottage in her blue dress, her great bosom almost bursting the seams at the front, and already fanning herself vigorously and breathing with effort. Bridie watched her go
and heaved a sigh of relief. She was used to her abuse now but not impervious to it. Her mind wandered to the first time Mr Deverill had held her and her heart burned with longing to be loved. She
leant against the wall in the hall as Mrs Grimsby was driven away by the chauffeur and felt her mind spin as the memories somehow slipped through her defences to remind her of a time when she had
had not only a friend in Kitty but a lover in Mr Deverill. A man with strong arms and a handsome smile and eyes that looked deeply into her soul and made her feel cherished. Her mother’s face
floated before her and her grandmother, Old Mrs Nagle, smoking her clay pipe in her chair by the fire. But before she surrendered to the images Mr Gordon stepped into the hall and coughed
deliberately, rousing her from her reverie. ‘And what are
you
doing?’ he asked imperiously, for it was not her place to stand there by the front door.

‘I was seeing Mrs Grimsby to the car,’ Bridie replied, shaking away the pictures of Ireland and the sense of melancholy they induced.

‘You should have called me. I’ve worked for Mrs Grimsby for forty years. She would prefer
me
to see her to the car and settle her in. Did you make sure she had a bottle of
water?’

‘No . . . I . . .’

‘Oh dear,’ he said, clearly taking pleasure from her oversight. ‘Well, it is very hot and she will get thirsty. She always likes a bottle of water in the car.’

‘I presumed the chauffeur—’ Bridie began.

‘Don’t ever presume, Miss Doyle. It’s not by presuming that I am her most devoted and trusted servant. You have to use your head so that she doesn’t have to use hers. She
is old and fragile, although you may not think so. I see the softer side, of course, which very few have the privilege to see. She will be hot and uncomfortable when she comes home. You had better
be ready with a cool bath and some cold water. Did she tell you where she was going?’

‘No,’ Bridie replied.

Mr Gordon gave a superior little smile. ‘Oh, well, for fear of being indiscreet I will simply say that she is having luncheon with relations whom she despises. She will be in very bad
humour when she returns. You had better brace yourself. It is a miracle that you’ve survived this long. Miss Ferrel says it’s because you have nowhere else to go.’ He shook his
head. ‘This must be quite an endurance test. Or do you think you’ll find her soft centre?’

‘No, Mr Gordon, I don’t.’

‘That is one thing you
may
presume, Miss Doyle. It took me thirty years to win her trust. I doubt she’ll be here in thirty years. As for you, I’ll be surprised if you
last another thirty days.’

Bridie left the hall and retreated upstairs. She wiped away tears as she busied herself tidying Mrs Grimsby’s bedroom and hanging up the discarded dresses that lay draped over the bed, too
small for the old woman’s inflating body. She wondered why Mrs Gottersman kept making her cakes; surely the cook could see that her mistress was getting bigger and bigger. Bridie sat for a
moment and put her head in her hands. She was tired. She hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in months. Mrs Grimsby thought nothing of waking her up for the smallest thing, like checking
behind the curtains for a ghost or simply because she wanted the reassurance that she wasn’t alone – and the chamber pot. How could any living creature fill it so often and with such
relish?

Bridie would have loved to have asked Mrs McGuire who had claimed her at Ellis Island to help her find another position. But she had been kind enough already. If she had had the time Bridie
would have knocked on Mrs McGuire’s door, just to see a friendly face, but she was rarely allowed out of the house and her days off were few. Besides, she didn’t want to admit defeat,
not to Mrs McGuire or even to herself. She had transgressed in the eyes of God by bearing children out of wedlock; she had to put it right now through hard work and sacrifice. She had to ask for
God’s forgiveness. She had to be good.

When Mrs Grimsby returned in the late afternoon, Mr Gordon welcomed her home at the door. Bridie watched them from behind the wall on the landing above the hall. They spoke together in low
voices, the butler inclining like a drooping reed so that their heads were almost touching. Mrs Grimsby patted his hand and shook her wobbly chins, showing her gratitude for something he said. Mr
Gordon put his head on one side, listened attentively and sympathetically when she talked. The old woman smiled feebly, fanning her perspiring face, which was flushed from the heat and a little
wine, Bridie thought, judging by the way she was swaying slightly. Mrs Grimsby gave Mr Gordon’s hand another pat, looked up at him from beneath her painted eyelashes and pulled a face, a face
that Bridie thought was almost flirtatious; the face of a girl giving a smidgen of hope to a boy who fancied her.

As Mrs Grimsby began to climb the stairs, Bridie walked out to meet her. ‘Good afternoon, madam,’ she said.

Mrs Grimsby’s face hardened. Gone was the smiling girl she had been with Mr Gordon; back was the grouchy old woman struggling to move in a dress that was much too tight. ‘Get me out
of this thing at once!’ she snapped, striding across the landing towards her bedroom. ‘You should never have let me wear this dress. I’ve been feeling faint all day.’ She
staggered into the room and leaned on the chest of drawers, thrusting her back at Bridie so that she could unhook the dress. As soon as Mrs Grimsby was relieved of it she went to her bed and lay
down in her petticoat. Her mountainous body lay inert on the covers, spread out like a waxy corpse, eyes shut, mouth agape, her breath rattling in her chest. ‘Fan me!’ she demanded.
Bridie found her fan on the top of the chest and opened it. As she waved it in front of Mrs Grimsby’s face, little wisps of grey hair quivered at her hairline. The sweat slowly dried around
her nose and on her upper lip where it glistened among the fine down that grew there. Bridie said nothing. She listened to her mistress’s breathing and fanned her until it was obvious that
she was asleep. Every now and then she gave a snort and her body twitched. Once, she opened her eyes in surprise to see that her maid was still standing over her and the cool breeze from the fan
was still blowing. Bridie was too afraid to leave. She knew that, if Mrs Grimsby were to wake up and find her gone, she would be in terrible trouble. So, she remained, fanning until her arms
ached.

The summer days grew shorter. Mrs Grimsby took tea on the veranda and wrapped her shoulders in a shawl as the sun dipped behind the Cottage and the air grew cooler. She seemed
to grow tired of people and went out less, receiving fewer guests. She preferred to sit alone, gazing out over the ocean, or deep in a book, her reading glasses propped on her nose. Then one Sunday
at the end of August Bridie was called to the garden. Mrs Grimsby was sitting on the swing chair, listening to the birdsong in a long dove-grey dress. She was lost in thought, her face surprisingly
soft in repose.

‘Read to me,’ she demanded, handing Bridie a book. ‘And read with expression. Alice had such a dead voice. She even looked like a dead fish hanging in a frame on the wall.
Well, off you go. No need to sit on ceremony.’ She stroked her cat and closed her eyes expectantly.

‘A Collection of Poems, by William Butler Yeats,’
Bridie read.

‘It’s my favourite book. He’s an Irish writer. I thought you’d like that. I want to hear it read with an Irish accent. It’s appropriate that it should be read with
authenticity.’ Mrs Grimsby did not open her eyes. Bridie was astonished by the kindness of her words, or perhaps she had chosen an Irish writer to torment her. ‘Do you know
Yeats?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Bridie replied.

‘Good. There’s nothing more tedious than a stupid woman, that’s what my father used to say. He taught my mother everything he knew. She wasn’t born to privilege but she
had a lively mind. You’re no beauty, Bridget, but if you’re stupid as well as plain no man will
ever
marry you.’ She opened her eyes and looked at Bridie like a hawk
considering its prey. ‘You do want to marry, don’t you?’

‘I won’t ever marry,’ Bridie replied firmly, returning Mrs Grimsby’s stare with a boldness that even took
her by
surprise.

‘How very unusual,’ said Mrs Grimsby. Bridie lowered her eyes for Mrs Grimsby’s enquiring stare was much too intense to endure.‘Of course you
will
marry,’
Mrs Grimsby continued stridently. ‘All girls marry in the end because we live in a man’s world, Bridget, and a woman on her own is a helpless creature, unless she has money. Money
doesn’t guarantee happiness; I am a fine example of
that.
But it gives one power, Bridget.’ Her fat fingers stroked her cat. ‘The trick is in finding the
right
man.
Now that’s a gamble.’

‘I am in service to you, madam. I think no further than that.’

Mrs Grimsby frowned. ‘Children?’

Bridie answered without flinching. ‘No, I don’t long for children.’ She squeezed her heart shut and suffered the agony in silence.

‘I was not blessed with children but with great wealth. Eliot was a talented industrialist. I have no one, you see, only parasites who leach onto me for my fortune. Take Paul, my hyena
nephew. Do you think he enjoys coming to see me?’

‘Does he not?’

‘Of course he doesn’t. He’s waiting for me to die. They all want a piece of my wealth.’ She sniffed disdainfully. ‘Well, you might as well begin. Read “The
Stolen Child
”
.’

Bridie found the right page. She took a deep breath. ‘
Where dips the rocky highland Of Seuth Wood in the lake . . .
’ She glanced at Mrs Grimsby who sat with her eyes closed
and her chins tucked into her bosom. Her fingers were still, buried in the fur of her cat who slept peacefully in her lap. ‘
Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a
faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand . . .’

Without opening her eyes Mrs Grimsby began to recite it with her. ‘
Where the wave of moonlight glosses, The dim grey sands with light, Far off by the furthest Rosses We foot it all the
night . . .’
The old lady’s voice trailed off and she sighed with rare pleasure. ‘Beautiful, Bridget. Beautiful,’ she sighed.

Bridie read on, her face flushing at the extraordinary compliment and the tone in her mistress’s voice that suggested she meant it. When she reached the final verse, Bridie’s eyes
filled with tears. She struggled to stop her voice from quivering with emotion for every line brought her closer to her home. ‘
Away with us he’s going, The solemn-eyed: He’ll
hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal-chest . . .
’ In that
moment she saw her mother and father dancing round the kitchen table, their eyes sparkling with pleasure, their unguarded smiles only for each other, and she was sure she could hear the sound of
fiddles carried on the breeze from across the ocean of time and space.

‘You read that superbly,’ said Mrs Grimsby quietly when Bridie had fnished. Bridie looked up from the book to see that her mistress’s cheeks were pink and shiny, like the
cheeks of a child. ‘Tell me about Ireland,’ she asked, and her gentle tone caught Bridie off guard. ‘Is it really as beautiful as Yeats describes it?’

‘It’s more beautiful,’ Bridie replied, her heart lurching painfully at the thought of the lowing calves on the warm hillside.

‘Are there really fairies?’

‘My friend Kitty sees fairies all the time,’ said Bridie softly, suddenly afraid that she had said too much and that Mrs Grimsby would chastise her for being outspoken.