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Any return, even one so meticulously planned, most always comes as a surprise. While the idea of home or momentary reprieve appears vividly during the exhausting hours of travel, to again see it—bathed in magnificence and grandeur—was a page lifted directly from a fairytale.
That is, of course, if the authors were the infamous Grimm brothers.
The large, grey, stone house stood out upon the landscape; towering above the English cliffs and churning waters. My mind had long before memorised every crack and shadow hidden or cast by natural light. I could have told you exactly how many of Mrs. McCarthy’s roses had begun to sprout up through the soil (there were twenty-two, though perhaps twenty-one, as the last seemed to approach life with the most timid of advancements). The subtle crumbling along the front step had ceased to be a structural hazard and was soon regarded as a familiar endearment. There was no doubt.
It was the epitome of a welcome sight.
The welcome itself; however, was anything but reserved.
“It’s grand to see you both back safe and sound. And looking so well too. Why, Professor, is that a tan I see? Sure and I thought you only burned, so I did. Should I be considering it a miracle you came back at all?” Keane’s hearty laugh shot through the foyer as he dropped a small battalion of leather cases.
“Mrs. McCarthy, I assure you, the food of the finest hotels along the Riviera couldn’t hold a candle to yours.”
“Here here.” I echoed, allowing my own bags to fall with a mighty clatter, my leather jacket being added atop the heap at the moment it left my shoulders. The white-haired housekeeper blushed politely, but nary niceties nor flattery could quell so mighty a tongue as she turned back to my companion.
“I’m pleased to see your little holiday left you a little blarney for a poor old woman. What a shame you and Joanna never had a proper honeymoon like all those folks in the magazines. Then again, I suppose the Riviera is a much better place to visit during the tourist months. How sad it was for business and not pleasure. I think a girl ought to have a proper honeymoon, so I do.” Now it was my face which turned a deep shade of violet as Keane tugged fiercely on his ear. Rarely demonstrative, he seldom spoke any sort of praise which was not hidden carefully behind brutal honesty and the obtained clip of the English.
Keane adjusted his necktie.
“Is there a fresh pot of tea, by any chance?” Mrs. McCarthy’s inquisitive mind leapt to the next conversation with enormous enthusiasm.
“Sure, didn’t I make one just a minute ago in preparation for yourself, Sir. It’s waiting in the kitchen, along with those scones you like so. But mind you won’t set one foot in my kitchen before all those bags are up those stairs. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, sure, you wouldn’t leave all that heavy work to an ancient thing like myself.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Keane answered and swept two of the largest pieces of luggage into his arms while Mrs. McCarthy pulled me gently into the kitchen. The scents of fresh baked goods completely enveloped the bitter aroma of Keane’s special tea. His stash of the Irish blend seemed as unquestionable and constant as the house itself. I snatched two cups from the cupboard, filling them both until the steaming liquid was a polite distance from the fragile rim. As the study was Keane’s domain, the kitchen was Mrs. McCarthy’s. It did not reflect the intelligence and mindfulness of the other rooms, but it was a quiet and gentle reminder of the femininity long forgotten. It was a woman in a man’s world.
But now, there were two.
Two determined feminine figures to outnumber a single male who bore the unwavering strength and determination of the greatest of Irishmen.
I set the floral teapot on the table just as Keane strode in and threw his lengthy form into the nearest kitchen chair. The sugar bowl was snatched into his possession; two spoonfuls dumped dramatically into the aromatic blend before he sat back with the cup cradled in his slender fingers. As with everything, he retained an impressive sense of dignity. I often suspected this was instilled within him at an early age, as it had with a great many other legends and heroes.
Wanting nothing and understanding most everything.
Keane swished his spoon soundlessly through his tea.
“As the place is still standing, I take it all is well in this part of the world?” Mrs. McCarthy glanced up from the sink, dish towel dripping from her wrinkled hands.
“Sure enough, all’s well in Dublin, so it is. That neighbour of yours came around once or twice, but he didn’t say anything worth repeating to yourself, Sir.”
“Lord Billington rarely says anything of importance. How the devil he came by such an illustrious title is something of a mystery in itself.” Keane’s housekeeper turned completely from her work.
“Look here, Sir, I don’t mind your ‘who the devil’ and ‘what the devil’. Sure, aren’t I used to all that, so? But really, to use all that ‘blasting’ and ‘damning’ in front of a young woman—your wife, Sir—I’m afraid it just cannot be tolerated.” My companion’s characteristically placid face stretched into a fury of drawn eyebrows and eyes turning grey at the question that shook, not only his pride, but a habit that had been perfected through years at sea.
“I can bloody well say what I like when it so strikes me to do so. This is my house and therefore I may abide by my rules.” He paused briefly and glowered into his teacup like a rebuked child. “When it comes to that blasted buffoon Lord Billington, such words are necessary—and dare I say accurate—to use liberally.” I waited silently for Mrs. McCarthy’s reply. Being cursed by a colourful tongue myself, I could sympathise with Keane far better than I could her saintly practises. This did not lessen any respect or friendship she and I had created over the years, but it was a simple fact. I liked to curse as much as Keane did. More, when a desperate occasion arose.
At last, Mrs. McCarthy’s offended air melted into an understanding smile and she turned back to her sink of dishes.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, now isn’t that the truth, Sir. Will you be having another scone before I put them away?”
“I couldn’t.” Keane announced, setting his teacup silently on the table. “I’m afraid Lawrence and I had a rather large lunch.”
“You had better have saved enough room for my shepherd's pie.” She threatened gently. “It should be done and waiting by the time you return from your meeting.”
“Meeting?” I echoed as my mind reeled for some forgotten appointment with my editor. Heaven knows where my mind wandered day to day. But no, the truth soon hit me and I all but sprang up from my chair in a wild panic of suppressed energy. “Good God, Keane, it’s Tuesday!” He glanced at the calendar pinned to one of the cupboards and grimaced.
“So it is. Lawrence, you go on and get your hat and coat and I will join you momentarily. No doubt all the interesting lectures will have long since finished, but if we hurry, we may be able to get a few words in before William Obner begins those never ending soliloquies of his. Hurry now.” I dashed up the stairs, swallowing the polished steps two at a time. Certainly the action was neither ladylike, nor something acceptable on any occasion that did not threaten one’s life. And I was not trying to save my life.
I was saving my sanity.
Keane took a step toward the hall and turned back to the bustling Mrs. McCarthy.
“Were there no other callers?”
“One, Sir. Ross Cambell.” His brow creased slightly.
“Did you tell him I was away?”
“Many times. But you know the lad. Forgets his mail route half the time, so. I believe he wanted to speak to you privately. Something about the writings in the papers. Have you seen it yet? No? Nasty story, so it is. Claims the government lost a few important files. Top secret papers, and the like. Some say it is a spy. But sure, Sire, I’m not one to spread mindless gossip.” Keane reached for his long overcoat, for, despite the early warmth of the Riviera, Devon’s evenings had stubbornly refused to rise to a comfortable temperature.
“And Ross hasn’t visited since?” The housekeeper smiled kindly.
“Not since a week today, Sir. Sure, but isn’t that how it goes. Always coming and leaving. And speaking of leaving—”
––––––––
THE SOCIETY, AS IT was called by the few intellectuals invited to join, was a safe haven of sanity. Many of the men were well into their sixties and seventies, save Doctor Gleason, who was an awe-inspiring ninety-three. Keane was the youngest male member by almost a decade, and I remain to this very day the only female ever to be honoured with entry.
Though my marriage to Keane did cause a few of the older gentlemen to reconsider my membership, although they presented it to me years before.
Every lecture revolved around the world of psychology. By the end of the meeting, the men would return home; coddling their torn and bruised theories and rejecting any of the evidence laid before them. They were all doctors of some study or another; all experts in their chosen trade. Even Keane was the bearer of a doctorate degree as well, but the title announcing professorship was always more appealing—and, he thought, less aggravating—at social events.
At least, the select few we attended.
The only other gentleman to retain some other title was Major Burke; a man teetering on the ripe old age of eighty-nine. His white hair had thinned in the front with the rest combed back against his skull. His nose was round and long, while his eyes had sunk back slightly into his head. In truth, he resembled an old bird, rather than an ageing intellectual. It was he who silently waved us to two unoccupied seats near the back of the meeting room as a scrawny man with a cane drilled on about some unintelligible topic.
Keane dubiously lowered his lean frame onto a sorry looking basket chair near the Major, gifting me with a rather comfortable high-backed armchair.
“Good evening, Brendan old boy. Joanna. I thought you wouldn’t be back until Thursday?” My companion shifted uncomfortably in the constricting chair.
“Yes, we returned earlier than expected. Well-kept minds, and everything. Has Old Windy said anything of use yet?”
“He never does.” The major huffed. “I believe the only way I shall ever leave here will be in a pine box.” I grinned. William Obner was one of those men who, though the body may wither and fail, his mouth continued onward. His high-pitched voice scratched out one absurdity after another; driving Keane further into annoyance and I into the first nods of sleep.
The fact The Society congregated in an Inn’s warm sitting room did not assist me in my venture to remain cognisant of my surroundings.
It had not quite occurred to me until then how rigorous our journey had been, nor how truly exhausted I was because of it. I tugged my brown leather jacket tighter about my shoulders and silently wished for some great force of God to strike down old Windy William where he stood. Nothing serious, mind you. A mild heart attack would suffice, so long as it stopped the deafeningly high squeal going on and on and—
“Come now, Obner.” Major Burke spoke up suddenly, rising from his seat a fraction that the crown of his head might waver above those handful of members before us whose agreement to the presenter’s long-strung words closely resembled a deep snore. “You’ve been speaking for almost half an hour and none of it has had anything to do with today’s topic of mental stability between men and women. If you want to ramble on about politics, go into parliament. Lord knows we all know your views on most any matter put before Prime Minister Attlee. Don’t we, gentlemen?” A murmur of groggy agreements stumbled forward from the ancient assembly. “Quite. Now, I suggest we let another member impart some knowledge upon our gathering and perhaps we might actually expand our minds, rather than shrivel them with your political ideologies. I would be honoured to nominate Doctor Keane here.” The official title shot through my brain as it did every time we attended The Society. Major Burke was one of the few men my companion ever allowed to use his illustrious position in mentioning his name, and each time a certain thrill rushed through the room, awakening those few to whom sleep came willingly. William Obner; however, was seldom impressed by anything, and most certainly not a man who would willingly waive his right to be called ‘doctor’ in favour of a lowly professorship.
Infamous university or a group of local youths looking to further their education.
Eventually, his private practice.
It didn’t matter.
Not to Old Windy.
The man in question turned the assembly’s attention back to the middle of the room
“Major Burke, while I may forgive your indiscretions toward my eloquent speech,” Some empty headed buffoon in the corner had the nerve to murmur a ‘hear hear’. “I hardly think the good professor is an unbiased source in this matter, as he, as of several months ago, is now unionised in the bonds of holy matrimony. Of course, all of us here wish you the most hearty congratulations, Professor Keane.” My companion did not flinch, though the first two fingers of his right hand did momentarily fall over his lips as though he were smoking an imaginary cigarette. Major Burke; however, was having none of it.
“Perhaps he is the best of all of us to speak—Miss Lawrence as well—for they have a better point of view to the differences between the minds of males and females than any of us old bachelors.” The same buffoon in the corner mustered up a bit more intelligence to give a louder exclamation of approval at this declaration. Even Doctor Gleason pounded his cane against the floor with astounding strength.
Obner raised his hands in silence.
“Very well. Very well. Professor Keane, would you and Ms. Lawrence care to enlighten us with whatever knowledge you might have acquired? Perhaps then the assembly might see my ideas are not quite so dull as they wish to believe.”
––––––––
“WHAT A CLOSED MINDED, infuriating, and utterly disagreeable man.” I spat bitterly as Keane and I followed the long string of bumbling intellectuals from the hall and out into the street. Major Burke hobbled by our side.
“Never mind Old Windy. You were both marvellous. Absolutely marvellous. Joanna, if your husband doesn’t return to teaching at the universities, you could easily find a position. Your youthful insite would bring our country forward into the modern thinking we need. And Brendan, by God man, why you stay with that private practice as you do I shall never know.” My companion chuckled dryly and tugged his silver cigarette case from his breast pocket.
“Principles, Daniel. Principles. I have watched men waste away their years in the name of ‘education’ without ever having made a single improvement toward the minds of the common man. But in private practice?” Keane lit a cigarette between his lips and silently observed the trail of smoke wander off. Turning. Rising. Disappearing.
He dropped the box of matches back into his pocket.
“You and I have seen war. We endured its evils and were granted the strength to carry on. If you could only see how many young men I have staggering into my study every week; every single one stripped of their dignity for the sake of their country. Oh, the government thanks them kindly in writing and gives them medals and pins; however, when all is said and done, the poor lads are sent on their way with problems which can destroy a man.” The major nodded briskly; the ageing vertebrae in his neck popping quietly as he did so.
“Quite right. Quite right. You were wonderful all the same; both of you. Oh, there’s my driver. Good night, then.” Keane and I said our good-byes and walked the rest of the distance to our automobile without another word.
Anyone is capable of creating a useless conversation, but few are able to create such meaningful silence.
My companion goaded the vehicle to life, easing it out onto the roads with nary a falter from the mechanical beast. Nearly a year had passed since our escapade to America, and a little over two years since I first visited the place of Keane’s youth.
It was also approximately a decade since I first met Professor Brendan Keane himself.
And he had not changed.
Oh, his hair was almost entirely grey now, and perhaps there were a few lines near his eyes which had once been nonexistent. However, the most notable changes had begun to take their course long before I appeared upon the threshold of his life, or he upon mine. There were the angers and frustrations of his youth, magnified by the first war and cemented by the second. And yet, I did not believe the hatred of the world applied to him as it did for those more bloodthirsty soldiers. Whatever he might have felt at the time had been immediately drawn into himself and bound tightly within cords of self control. Were they to surface, I suspected them to be carefully condensed into poetic lines so skillfully crafted one might have forgotten of the war and any other pain the world had inflicted upon him. Even now, as he moulded the automobile’s wheel between his hands, I could still sense a deep pit of energy forged mightily by decades of wrongs. Some even stretched to his childhood.
I knew little of those years.
I had briefly met his brother and nephew some time before, but it was only his sister and brother-in-law who still walked upon the earth. I had too seen the place of his birth and most everything which had created those first memories of his life.
But I knew little of war, save what I had seen in my unofficial service to the Red Cross, and even that was admittedly a selection of pleasantries compared to the hell Keane had travelled nearly twenty years before.
I sat silently as he parked the automobile outside his house before making to climb from the passenger seat. Rather than doing the same; however, Keane turned off the ignition and leaned back into the dark leather with a long, painful sigh.
“You know, Lawrence, I do believe I have become a stranger to this world of ours. Morality, honesty, and equality seem to have disappeared completely and all else has become commonplace. My lectures hardly pertain to the up and coming generation anymore.”
“But the universities—”
“Ah, yes, the universities. A group of young idealists who wish to parade about an old man’s antiquated theories, which serve no better purpose than to entertain a group of men who would hardly consider anything beyond modern society.”
“Come now, your ideas are hardly something to be scoffed at. I would say you are far greater than Freud ever was.” Keane glanced at me for a long moment, his pride fighting for control over his tongue. Eventually he tipped his head back once more against the seat.
“And yet the world shall honour and exalt his name, while my articles line birdcages and wrap fish.” I winced at the coldness in his voice, as though a stone was being slowly drug across the hope of all humanity. My companion mistakenly attributed my discomfort to the general fault of the cooling night. “But nevermind that now. It is late, and a fine glass of brandy sounds far too pleasant to keep us rambling all night.” He climbed out of the automobile, wrapped the keyring in his fingers, and led me leisurely up the gravel drive.
How peaceful it was to be surrounded by the English countryside; nothing but grass and cliffs for miles. If it were light, I might have caught sight of the land’s natural dip toward the ocean some ways down. At the bottom of that great lowering of earth was a small beach where the Saint Gobniat, Keane’s sailboat, would be docked no doubt within the next few days.
Tomorrow, if there was time.
What pleasant thoughts these were, and therefore I was not prepared in the slightest for Keane’s long arm to swing violently backwards and slam against my stomach with a crippling strength. I staggered back a few steps with a strained gasp.
“Good God! Keane, what the devil do you think—” His hand fell upon my arm, gently this time, but with enough force that my eyes immediately noticed the true cause of my misery.
The front door was open.
Keane enlarged the gap between door and latch with the toe of his shoe, while his arm remained splayed outwards at an awkward angle as a barrier. My mind tried desperately to be logical. Perhaps Mrs. McCarthy—but no—she would have gone home before this.
Wouldn’t she?
I glanced at the scratched face of my wristwatch. A few minutes past eleven. She normally left at nine. Nine thirty at the latest. No, this was not Mrs. McCarthy.
Unless...
My fears of Keane’s faithfull housekeeper, and one of the most loyal women on God’s green earth, lying unconscious on the floor were by no means improved as we stepped into the darkened hallway. An ornate flower vase lay in massive shards across the carpet; blue and green glass writhing hopelessly before succumbing to their eternal end, for there was no chance of repair.
A pity.
Mrs. McCarthy was rather fond of the decorative piece.
As Keane did a thorough search through the upper rooms, I took it upon myself to face the horrors of my imagination and glance in the kitchen. To my surprise and relief, every pot and pan remained motionless in their proper positions, with the oven still left warm and glowing with life. No housekeeper, but her shepherd's pie was almost fully baked.
I rejoined Keane in the hallway as he reappeared at the bottom of the staircase and we turned toward the final place left untouched by our investigations. The cor domus.
The study.
A fluttering light—like the flight of a mythical fairy or a handful of disorientated fireflies—glowed from beneath the large, oak doors. But what sort of light was it? A warning? An invitation?
In one strong swoop, Keane swung open the magnificent entryway; throwing himself bodily forward into the room. There was no electric torch searching through desk drawers or hidden safes, but the fireplace had been lit and was burning with vigour. Though none of the other lights were on, the leaping flames were enough to illuminate a shadow curled tightly into the leather of Keane’s favoured armchair.
A boy.
A youth.
A child.