No Enemy but Time (6 page)

She left the dining room that November morning and took the dogs for a walk down by the river. The old Labrador and the two Jack Russell terriers loved to go rabbiting along the bank. She hadn't a dog of her own yet. Domestic pets were not a part of Irish life; animals were worked, not cosseted. There was no sentiment towards them and no positive cruelty either. People were poor; even the better-off worked grinding hours on their farms, and if anything was to be fussed over, it was the old people or the children.

It was a mild morning, with a wintry sunshine dappling the ground under the trees. The river washed down on its run through Dublin into the sea, and a solitary man with a low-slung dog at his heels walked along the opposite bank. Eileen loved the river. She didn't fish, of course. Sports were not considered fit for girls. A race or two on prize day at the local school, modesty insisting on decent skirts and proper bloomers underneath them, was as much as the Irish girl was permitted. The others might bring up their daughters to ape men, but not the Children of Mary. She had a young brother, Kevin, who was fond of her in his quiet way. He didn't say much, but he was always kind to her. Her eldest brother thought of nothing but the day when he'd have the farm and be able to marry his sweetheart. He was thirty-five and had a while to wait, everyone reckoned.

The Labrador ambled beside Eileen. The terriers bounded along ahead on their short legs. Philip loved the smelly, aggressive little dogs and was always fussing in case they got stuck down the rabbit holes. Eileen couldn't understand why he felt like that about them. But she took extra care if she was out with them alone.

He wanted her to accept the Hamiltons' invitation. She shivered, pulling the coat closer round herself.

Marrying him was one thing; loving him and defying her family and Father Dowd had taken more courage and determination than she knew was in her. But the injustice of their attitude was the undoing of their arguments. Earning the obedience and respect of the women in the house, who saw her as no better than they were, was yet another obstacle. Many nights she had cried with loneliness when he was fast asleep beside her and risen smiling the next morning to continue the battle. It was all but won and she felt at peace. Even the house, with its big grand rooms and dark paintings of Arbuthnots, seemed less strange once she had altered the bedroom and rearranged the study into a cosy sitting room where she and Philip spent their evenings together.

But meeting the neighbours who knew who she was and that her mother-in-law had moved to another county rather than come face to face with her – that really frightened her. She was native Irish. All her life she had been taught that Philip and his kind were aliens in possession of land which they had stolen from its rightful owners. Oppressors of Ireland and its people, persecutors of the Catholic Church. Alien corn, Father Dowd called them once when he was being entertained at home and he and her father were discussing politics. The alien corn had been rooted out and burnt. Everyone said that the priest had encouraged many of the burnings during the twenties. His own family had been driven by starvation to emigrate to America. The terrible wrongs of the past were stronger than the Christian commandment to forgive. Eileen knew what she had thought of the Arbuthnots and their kind, until she fell in love with Philip. She knew what they in turn thought of her and her people. It had been made very plain over the centuries. And fundamentally nothing had changed. When the old Major, so soon to die, had travelled secretly to see his son and meet her, she recognized his courtesy because he was a gentleman, but there was no welcome and no warmth in him. He came in coldness, as she thought at the time, and left in coldness, to go to his grave.

There was a bench, fashioned out of a fallen tree trunk; the weather was mild enough to sit and watch the river. The old dog sank down by her feet; the terriers scuttled off to rootle through the brushwood. She called after them to no purpose. She remembered that terrible scene with her father, when he forbade her to see Philip again and told her she was going down to Cork till she came to her senses. He didn't listen to her when she tried to explain that they were going to marry. ‘Marry in the Protestant Church! No daughter of mine'll set foot in it – I'd see ye dead first!' He didn't want to hear about the compromise they'd come to: an Anglican marriage, the sons to be in their father's religion, the daughters baptized Catholics. All he could see was the shame and disgrace such an alliance would bring on a good Irish family.

She'd gone to her room and cried in misery. And there her mother came to add her warnings. They were gentle, because Bridget Ryan was a quiet woman; Jack Ryan blustered enough for both of them. She sat on the edge of the bed and reminded Eileen what was at stake: the damnation of her soul. Hadn't she understood what Father Dowd said that very afternoon? None of her family or friends would speak to her; she'd be cut off from her own kind. And what about
his
friends? Did she imagine they'd accept her? Wouldn't she always feel a fool, knowing they were laughing at her and her Irish ways. ‘Bog trotters,' Bridget Ryan reminded her. ‘That's what they call us. Paddy an' his pig. We're all right in our place, but that place is under their feet. Are ye telling me ye'll ever be at home among them?'

The next morning Eileen left the farm. She would never hear from her parents or her brothers and sisters again. She was outcast, as they had threatened.

Now she took Claudia Hamilton's letter out of her pocket and re-read it. Dinner on December 19th. Philip said they should go. ‘You'll like her, darling. She's great fun.'

Philip was confident she'd be a success. He was always telling her how pretty she was, how well she ran Riverstown. He was a happy man, in love with his wife and deeply content. Twice he'd driven over to see his mother and come back optimistic that she'd come round to the marriage and visit them one day soon. Everything was wonderful, he said, and she knew it was for him. And if his mother came, she'd have to entertain her, instead of slamming the door in her face for the way she'd behaved. Philip had written a very conciliatory letter to her father, hoping they'd accept him as a son-in-law. Eileen was amazed that he expected a reply.

She got up, suddenly chilled after sitting so long. There was no sign of the terriers. Her spirits sank.

‘Buttons, Ruby!'

‘They're here, mam, wit' me.' Doyle shambled up the path, the little dogs trotting beside him. ‘There's an auld wind come up,' he said. ‘Ye'll catch yer death o' cold, sitting there.'

‘The sun's gone in,' Eileen said. ‘It'll come on to rain soon.'

‘It will, so. I'll bring them little divils back to the house for ye, mam. Ye'd best go in before the rain.'

‘I will, so,' she said, and for a moment there was a blessed communion between them. Doyle grinned at her and she had to turn away because her eyes filled with tears. She looked poorly, he thought. And sad, sitting there on the bench, not noticing the weather change. It must be lonely living away from your own. She was a nice enough girl and he felt sorry for her. He tethered the little dogs with a piece of twine and he didn't hurry walking back. Doyle never hurried. Time was made for man, not man for time. He'd get to the back door in time for his morning cup of tea and a warm by the kitchen range.

‘You look lovely, sweetheart,' Philip said. He had come in from his dressing room and Eileen was waiting, dressed and ready for the dinner party. He wore his clothes so well, she thought, looking at him; not a bother on him, while she had tried on three different dresses before choosing one in desperation. He was born confident, sure of himself. How could he understand what an agony the evening must be for her.

‘Lovely,' he repeated. ‘Where did you buy that? I don't remember it.'

‘I bought it,' she said, ‘from that big shop in Piccadilly. It cost a fortune. I'm not even sure I like meself in it.'

‘Well, I do,' he said. ‘Now, darling, get your wrap on and we'll go. Claudia's English and she doesn't like people to be late.'

He squeezed her hand as they pulled into the drive of Half House. ‘You'll be a wild success,' he murmured. ‘Everyone will fall in love with you.'

Claudia Hamilton was very tall. She was thin and her bare arms were muscular. She had fair hair that was done in a roll round her head, bright blue eyes and a loud English voice. She greeted Philip with a kiss, which didn't please Eileen – until she realized that it was common practice. They all kissed each other, these strange people. Then she held out her hand to Eileen and gave it a strong clasp that made her wince.

‘How lovely to meet you. And what a divine dress. Come along in and let me introduce you.'

She didn't know any of the names; she smiled and shook hands and was passed from one to the other like a parcel. Being inspected, appraised. Philip's Irish wife. Everyone was very friendly. She was given a dry Martini, which she hated and put down almost untouched on a table when nobody was looking. People made conversation with her, avoiding awkward topics like her marriage. London was safe and she answered questions about their stay there and managed to smile and be animated. Claudia was talking to Philip; she wished he was beside her, but after the first ten minutes, he'd been taken away to talk to someone else. She wondered what they were saying to each other. Once she'd seen Claudia watching her and been encouraged by a broad smile. ‘You're doing well,' it seemed to say. They went into dinner. She hesitated, glancing anxiously at Philip, who was on the other side of the table.

‘You're here, next to James.' Claudia guided her to the seat on the host's left. ‘Don't let him drink too much,' she whispered. It was an astonishing thing for a wife to say about her husband to a woman she'd met for the first time.

The food was not very nice; the regiment of cutlery ranged either side of her plate took any appetite away. She managed to get it right by watching the woman opposite to her. She sipped the wine, picked at the first course and let James Hamilton carry the conversation. He did his best. He chatted about the weather, the racing, the poor scent out hunting – did she hunt? Well, of course, she must take it up … his wife was mad on it. Break her neck one day if she wasn't careful. Terribly sad about her father-in-law's death. Such a grand fellow. How was poor Blanche these days? Pity she'd gone off to Meath.

‘I don't know how she is,' Eileen said suddenly. ‘I've never met her.'

Hamilton looked puzzled. His wife had explained the situation to him, but he never listened to what he called women's gossip. He knew Arbuthnot had married a local farmer's daughter, but that was about all.

‘Haven't you? Why ever not? She turned into a recluse or something? Not like Blanche.'

‘She didn't want Philip to marry me.' Eileen couldn't stop herself. They know, they must do. I'm not going to pretend. I'm not ashamed of anything. ‘That's why she went to Meath. So's to be out of the house before I came into it.'

‘Really?' He looked at her with interest. What an extraordinary girl. How very embarrassing to say all that in front of everybody. He wondered how many people had heard. Pretty little thing, but Philip must clue her in a bit about how to behave. ‘I'm sure she'll come round,' he said.

‘She may,' Eileen answered, ‘but I won't.'

She drank a little wine and noticed that the girl on Hamilton's right was staring at her. Imperceptibly Hamilton had switched from talking to her to the girl who was still staring at her. The man on her other side was eating. There was a pool of isolation and she was in the middle of it. There were twelve people round that table and they were all known to each other, on kissing and Christian name terms, with the same background and interests in common. The exclusion only lasted a few minutes, but it seemed a lifetime to her.

‘Tell me, Mrs Arbuthnot.' The man next to her had stopped eating. ‘Do you think there'll be a war?'

‘War?' She shook her head. ‘War with who?'

‘Germany,' he explained. ‘You girls are all the same. Never read anything in the papers except the fashion articles. I'm afraid there will be.'

‘But we won't be in the war. It's nothing to do with us.'

He paused for a moment and she realized that she had said something wrong. But what?

‘Not for some people, I suppose,' he said. ‘But I can't see Philip sitting back and doing nothing about it. Anyway,' he gave her a distant smile, ‘let's talk about something cheerful. How do you like living at Riverstown?'

She muttered something, anything non-committal would do. He wasn't in the least interested; he went on cutting up his meat and making little packets of food on his fork. What did he mean about Philip? If England went to war, why should Philip go and fight in it? But of course he would. His father had held army rank and won a medal in the last war. Her own uncles, more fools them, had gone off to France to fight and come back gassed.

Her plate was taken away. She refused the sweet. Philip couldn't persuade her to say pudding, when it was ice cream or some sugary mousse. She felt slightly sick. The wretched man was right, of course. She didn't read the English
Times
or the
Irish Times
, which were the only two papers that came into the house. There were no tabloids, none of the women's weeklies with their recipes and home hints that her mother loved reading. War! She wouldn't let Philip go.

She knew that the women left the men to linger in the dining room. She was prepared for the move when it came and followed Claudia Hamilton and the other ladies upstairs. It was a lovely bedroom. There was a big, flouncy bed, covered in silk cushions, pink lighting and fluffy white rugs.

‘The bathroom's through there,' Claudia said. She sank down on the bed.