No Enemy but Time (33 page)

Claire fumbled in her bag. Her eyes had filled with tears. ‘Darling Frank,' she said. ‘I'm so sorry. I'm a tactless idiot. I'll never talk like that again.'

He smiled and she was instantly forgiven. ‘Oh, yes, you will,' he countered.

‘Well, I'll try not to,' she amended. Then she thought of something. ‘Is your girl friend a good Catholic?' It must be her influence. Silly not to have realized it.

Frank said, ‘She's an atheist. She wouldn't go near a priest. So you can't blame her. We'd better get the bill, that waitress is giving us dagger looks.'

Outside the pub he helped her into her car. He bent down to the window.

‘Look after yourself. And for God's sake, don't worry about me. I know what I want and I know what I'm doing. Write to me, won't you?'

‘Yes, I will.' She looked up at him. It always hurt to say goodbye. It hurt long after she had got home.

He watched the car move off and waved. He didn't notice the two men sitting in a Ford Escort in the car park. He didn't know that they had pulled in soon after he drove up to meet his sister. One of them noted the time on his pad. They began to follow Frank as he drove back to London. Every meeting he made was monitored, but the only ones of significance concerned the Minister's wife. Sooner or later he would have to be told.

When the baby girl was born, Neil was away on a fact-finding tour of the Middle East. Claire went into labour two weeks early. Claudia flew over as soon as she heard. Philip was not feeling well. He had just got over a very bad cold, and he was tired. He wasn't as young as all that, she pointed out. There were no complications; Claire had an easy delivery under close supervision. Neil sent flowers and a cable, but he couldn't break off his tour. It was a calm and happy occurrence and she liked feeding the little girl. She had been unable to feed the first child.

It was comforting having Claudia there. She moved into the Gloucestershire house and took charge of everything. When Claire came home after five days, she found a new nanny installed and her mother presiding over the household as if she'd managed it all her life.

‘I sacked that girl,' she explained. ‘I caught her walloping Peter for some silly little thing, and I told her to pack her bags and get to hell out before you came back. This girl's very nice; poor little chap, he mustn't have his nose put out by the new baby. You must make an extra fuss of him.'

Claire said, ‘You fuss enough for both of us. You are marvellous, doing everything. It's so lovely to be home. I hate hospitals. That awful smell.'

Claudia enjoyed herself till Neil came back. Then she was off, she declared, and nothing would persuade her to stay.

‘The last thing a man wants when he gets back is to find his mother-in-law stuck in front of him. You're a perfect family now, darling. Take my advice and call a halt. Two's quite enough and you've got a pigeon pair … she's a dear little thing, isn't she? Lucy suits her down to the ground. I think she's going to be the image of Neil!'

There had been a letter from Ireland and a big basket of flowers delivered to the house. They came from Frank, but Claudia didn't comment. There was nothing to be said about him now. He had put himself beyond the pale. Any idea of going against Philip's wishes and giving him Riverstown was out of the question. She considered her step-son's behaviour utterly despicable. She actually called him a traitor to herself. Thank God Claire was happy, nice new baby and such a fine husband. He really was going right up the ladder. One day, as she said to Philip, he might be in line for Prime Minister.

When she got back she found Philip in bed. He'd had a dizzy fit while he was walking in the garden. Billy had helped him back to the house and the doctor advised him to rest. It was nothing to worry about, he insisted. Knowing how he hated being ill, Claudia didn't fuss. She accepted his explanation and spoke to the doctor behind his back. The dizzy fit had been a slight heart attack.

She didn't want to worry Claire, and instinctively she turned to her son-in-law for support. He was kind and reassuring. He wouldn't tell Claire unless her father got worse. He was so anxious not to upset her equilibrium so soon after the birth. Anything
he
could do … Claudia promised to call on him. Philip did as he was told and rested until he was passed fit to get up for a little every day. He looked tired, but not ill. Claudia's worry eased.

Six months later he died in his sleep.

‘You'll never believe it, but he's going to that funeral!'

Sean Filey knew Marie had a furious temper, but this was different. She was slit-eyed with rage. It made her look ugly.

‘It's his father,' he remarked. ‘Of course he'll go. Why do you care?' He knew very well why she cared. He knew that time had fed her jealousy until she was possessed by it and blind to reason.

‘His father,' she mocked. ‘A father who cut him out of his will, treated him like dirt all his life – he ought to be celebrating the auld bastard's dead!' In moments of high emotion, her brogue crept back.

‘Perhaps he is,' Sean suggested. ‘Going to the funeral doesn't mean he's sorry. I still don't see what it's got to do with you.'

She stared at him, and then said something that surprised him.

‘Because if he was heart and soul with us, he'd spit on the grave before he went! I'll tell you why it's to do with me, and it's to do with you too – I don't trust him.'

Filey said slowly, ‘What the hell are you saying?'

She slumped into a chair. ‘You've heard him say we shouldn't hit civilian targets. I've heard him say more than that. He's got doubts, Sean.' She raised her head and looked him boldly in the eye.

Filey said quietly, ‘Has he now – since when? Why haven't you reported this before?'

She was not to be cowed; she had gone further than she meant to because she was goaded by anger. But it was the truth, and she thought bitterly, Why should I protect him … after yesterday, why should I go on codding my own people just to save his skin?

‘I wanted to be sure,' Marie answered. ‘I noticed things had changed after we got Mountbatten. He was moody, not himself at all. I opened a bottle to celebrate. He wouldn't join me.'

Filey said nothing to that. Marie sat still. It served him right. She should have warned Filey months ago that he was weakening. Yesterday had been the watershed, she thought. Yesterday when I told him what a worm he was to pander to that family. He showed me his true colours then. He's going to hold that bitch of a sister's hand, that's what it is.

‘He's still passing the funds through,' Filey said at last. ‘So he's still useful. But for how long, that's the question? I'll have to report this to the Council. You'll be asked to repeat it all.' He looked at her and said, ‘It is the truth, isn't it? You're not condemning him for reasons of your own, are you?'

She got up. ‘If you think that, then go on trusting him till he turns us all in. I'm going now. You do what you like, but you can't say I haven't warned you.'

When she had gone he stayed on in the house. He made himself a cup of tea. She was insanely jealous. Jealousy could warp a personality until they couldn't see truth from lies. Or vengeance from loyalty. But he couldn't deny that Arbuthnot had reacted badly to civilian casualties in the North. Sean had despised him. He saw it as weakness, not humanity. There was no place for scruples in a desperate struggle. Nothing but single-minded, ruthless action could achieve their goal. There would be innocent victims as in any other war. But if Marie was right, and the shift in Frank Arbuthnot's attitude was fundamental, then something might have to be done about him. On balance it was safer to give her the benefit of the doubt and call a meeting with Jim Quinlan.

Marie drove on to see her mother. She was good to her family, generous with the money Frank gave her. She hadn't been to visit her mother for some time. That was the reason she gave to herself for not going straight back to Meath. She couldn't forget the dislike in his eyes the night before, or the angry dismissal as he slammed out of the room and went to sleep elsewhere.

‘Keep your tongue off my sister! If you ever say a word against her again, you can get out and stay out!' he had said.

Marie's mother was pleased to see her, but suspicious when she lingered past her usual time.

‘What's happened to that fine fella of yours?' she demanded.

‘He's all right,' Marie answered sullenly.

Mrs Dempster knew her daughter. ‘Ye've not been fightin' wit' him, have ye? Divil another man ye'll find as generous as that one … Jaysus, look at the clothes on ye, and that grand car.'

Marie wished she'd shut up. She was fond of her mother, but the old woman's speech and ignorance grated on her. So did the house where she'd been born. It was alien to her now. The cheap furniture, the garish carpet in all the colours of the rainbow, bought with her last cheque. The plastic flowers on the table, and the sugar-sweet picture of Our Lady, blue eyes raised to heaven. Marie hated that most of all. It symbolized the Ireland she wanted to see changed for ever. Irish women were pious, submissive, enslaved by men and the Church. Her mother was typical. She left the politics and the fighting to her menfolk; she talked of her own heroic father who'd fought in the Easter rising in 1916, but Marie knew it didn't mean more than a chance to boast among their neighbours. She had no sympathy or understanding of her daughter's revolutionary ideals. Except to laugh at them and point out how she'd taken to the rich life like a duck to water. Marie couldn't argue with that. But nothing altered her desire to sweep away the Ireland of her mother's generation. She wanted to see it a proud, united country, rid of its oppressors down to the last babe in arms.

She found a bottle of gin under the kitchen cupboard. The auld one liked a nip now and then during the day. She poured herself a drink. She had to go back. She had to face him and try to mend their quarrel. The truth was, she said aloud to herself, she couldn't imagine life without him. Her mother would say it was the grand house and the servants to wait on her she'd miss. But it wasn't so. It was Frank she wanted. To see him sitting in the chair opposite at the end of the day, like an old married couple. She'd dreamed of that for a long time. But no longer. He'd never marry her. She'd had to swallow that and it was a bitter draught. But she could accept it so long as they were together, sharing their lives by day and living at Meath. Marriage was a middle-class convention. She could do without it. But not without him. Most of all she wanted him in her bed at night. That was a hunger that grew with the years. It tortured her and enslaved her because her need for him was stronger as his need for her grew less and less. She finished the last of the gin and grimaced.

Her mother came back. ‘I've wet the tea,' she said. ‘Ye'd best be gettin' back home then. It's not good for a man comin' back to an empty house.'

He was not there when Marie opened the front door. She always knew if he were near. She called and Mrs Brogan hurried out into the hallway. She had a healthy respect for Marie Dempster, even though she didn't have a ring on her.

‘Where's Mr Arbuthnot?'

‘He's away over to Kildare,' she was told. ‘He phoned to say he'd be in for dinner.'

Marie nodded abruptly and turned away. The Brogans must have heard them shouting the night before. She went upstairs to their bedroom. Kildare. She said it aloud.
She'd
arrived for the funeral, that was it. That sister had come over and he'd gone to meet her. She sat down in front of the dressing table. She could have swept all the lotions and bottles on to the floor and smashed the lot. She looked drawn and sallow, with deep rings under her eyes after a sleepless night.

He'd made her suffer so much. He'd tortured her for years with his love for someone else. Looking in the mirror as if she were face to face with her own soul, a terrible thought came to her and she didn't dismiss it. She loved him, but she'd gone to Sean to try and do him harm. If she'd succeeded, if they believed her, anything might happen. It might be a relief. An agony, but a relief at the same time. But it wouldn't be enough if only Frank paid for her misery. It should be both of them …

Mrs Brogan met him when he came in. ‘Miss Dempster's upstairs. She asked if you'd go up.'

He'd spent the day making arrangements for his father's funeral. Claudia was far more shocked by Philip's death than she admitted. She'd accepted his offer and left the details to him. Neil couldn't come to the funeral because it wasn't safe for him to be in Ireland even for a few hours. Frank sensed how much she wished it was her son-in-law taking the responsibility. Claire was only flying in and out the same day. In spite of himself Frank was conscious of grief. He had loved the father who never loved him, and he was surprised to find he was capable of mourning him. He had forgotten about Marie. The night before, he'd shut himself up in a spare room. When he came down next morning she had gone. It had been a sickening scene. She had suddenly flared up at him, spewing her poisonous jealousy about his family, lashing out at Claire, whom she had never even met. Now she was back. He supposed he had better go upstairs and see what could be salvaged in the relationship. On his part, not very much, he suspected.

When he came into the room, she ran into his arms, begging him to forgive her. There was nothing else he could do. But he refused to let her tempt him into bed. And sitting opposite him in the handsome dining room, Marie knew that she had lost her only hold on him.

It didn't rain at Philip's funeral. There were no Hollywood-style mourners under a mushroom growth of black umbrellas. The sun shone, the service was dignified, with a moving choice of readings and Philip's favourite hymn, ‘Abide with me'. The church was full, and after the burial in Naas cemetery, the congregation came back to Riverstown for a buffet lunch. Everyone clustered round Claudia, saying what a grand man he was and how they were all going to miss him. There was more emphasis on funny stories and anecdotes than sadness. The concept of the wake had carried into Anglo-Irish custom. The widow needed cheering up, the dead man would rather his friends had a decent drink and a laugh in his memory than went about with long faces. People were polite to Frank, but not warm. He had betrayed his father's class and lifelong convictions. It was good of Claudia to have him in the house at all. And of course everyone knew that he wasn't going to inherit the Arbuthnot family home. Two hundred-odd years, and it was bypassing the male heir and going to the wife. Most of Philip's friends thought it too drastic. There were black sheep in every family. But it was a mistake to break the line like that. One of Philip's cronies from the Kildare Street Club had too much to drink and started making remarks about the IRA. He was hurried off home and Frank knew nothing about the incident.