Ballinn, County Kerry
July 1939
They stood on Ballinn’s main street.
‘You want to go where?’ Nancy looked at Charlotte. Was she obliged to return the girl to Blackwater Hall before the sun went down? Her relationship with her parents-in-law was already fractured almost beyond repair.
‘To the rambling house.’
For a week, Nancy had tiptoed around the Rathmore household, tucked herself away in the library, or out in the gardens when the sun shone. Charlotte’s situation with Lord Hawley was bringing out the worst in her, and for six days she’d bitten back remarks she knew she would later regret. If she voiced her true feelings about the proposed marriage, the schism between her and the Rathmore family would rupture. Still, she thought, at least that would solve a problem; she would never have to return to Blackwater Hall.
But there was Charlotte to consider, and being absent was no support at all. ‘It’s time to go back,’ she said, hating that she sounded like an overbearing friend. Or a high-handed mother.
‘Nonsense. You’ll absolutely adore it.’ Charlotte flashed a cheeky smile. ‘I promise.’ She placed her hand on her heart.
Nancy knew the key to Charlotte’s promises lay in the fine print. She always had an ulterior motive hidden up her silken sleeves and Nancy was beginning to understand just how cunning her sister-in-law had become.
Charlotte produced a pout that could soften steel. ‘A seanchaí is coming tonight . . .’
Nancy gave her a look of fear. ‘Seanchaí? Is that something revolutionary?’
‘A storyteller.’ Charlotte waved a pale hand. ‘It’ll only be a few tales and maybe a dash of poitín.’
Nancy put her hand to her forehead. It felt warm.
Charlotte winked. ‘I’ll only have a wee dropeen.’
Nancy didn’t know where to begin. ‘Charlotte . . . if your mother heard you . . .’ She shook her head.
They had paused outside the village hall. The Lobby – as it was grandly called in Ballinn – had spat them out and the Dramatics Secret Society was dispersing. The evening had been full of surprises. Nancy had never been one for the stage; she preferred to build stories in her head, scooped up from the pages of the novels in which she was usually lost. She rarely went anywhere without a book – she’d brought Death on the Nile to the hall – and Teddy complained that Agatha Christie would have been present at their wedding if it hadn’t been such a small affair. She’d expected to sit, discreetly reading, while Charlotte herded a gaggle of giggling girls into order. But she had underestimated the talent of the locals.
As they’d arrived, she’d recalled the society was no longer made up solely of girls, and those who had joined the artistic ranks were not just boys, but men. She had never had a wandering eye, but the broad-shouldered lads with their dark Celtic hair that made Charlotte’s fairness so stand out were hardly going to make the evening difficult to bear. Their accents were thick and delicious and they had a natural talent for entertaining. They could read a verse, crack a joke or create a character without a script or a note to be seen. It was all in their heads, a part of their culture, a rich upbringing in homes without wealth. And when one young man took to the stage to sing all alone, the magical rhythm of his voice sent a shiver down Nancy’s spine. As though someone had walked over her grave.
She looked down the road. ‘Well, if your mother is quite so reclusive . . .’
‘Frightfully people-shy . . .’
What was the harm? A few stories. A chat. A break from the house was just what she needed. She placed a hand on her stomach. Protected the secret inside her.
She could always forgo the poitín.
The two women followed a rough track to the house. It was edged with fuchsias, red-purple flowers dripping from the foliage like blood from a pinprick. The soft light of the summer evening had faded fast and Cottah Mountain was bathed in shadow. Nancy was pleased that Blackwater Hall sat somewhere behind that summit.
Gentle puffs of smoke rose from the chimney ahead and the scent of peat hung in the air. A single magpie sat on the roof looking down at them. As the cottage door opened, the faint smell of cooking was chased out of the house by laughter. Nancy followed Charlotte over the threshold, her vision adjusting as she stepped inside.
The conversation stopped when they entered and a dozen pairs of eyes turned to them. Those assembled were scattered, squeezed, into the tiny cottage’s lower floor. A stairway led to a sleeping level above. Four kerosene lamps lit the space and Nancy was shocked to see that the floor was made of neatly swept packed earth. There wasn’t a soft furnishing to be seen. Everything in the house was at a slight angle, as though, over time, the wicked Kerry winds had played a trick and nudged the house little by little so the occupants had never noticed.
A young woman stepped forward and waved her hand at the gathered group in a way that said mind your manners. Nancy recognised her as the maid from Blackwater Hall. They’d spoken briefly; she was a bright girl who responded eagerly to questions, words tumbling out of her until – abruptly – she would stop, then excuse herself to continue her work, demure as a mouse. As though she had suddenly remembered where she was, who she worked for, and quickly packed away her personality to get back to the task at hand.
‘Tabby,’ said Charlotte, taking the girl in a hug. Nancy had never seen them interact at the house, and it highlighted the double life that Charlotte now led.
‘Céad míle fáilte. Welcome.’ Tabby took Nancy’s hands in her own – it was an unexpected intimacy, and Nancy blushed. ‘We didn’t think you’d come.’ She wore a bright red blouse, at odds with the dimness of the room.
Charlotte said, ‘It was her idea, wasn’t it, Trouble?’ Nancy bit back a protest. Charlotte had let slip her new name to Teddy, who had taken to it with gusto. A cup of coffee, Trouble? A walk by the lough, Trouble? Come to bed for some trouble, Trouble. ‘She came to tonight’s Dramatics Secret Society and—’
‘And now half of the Dramatics Secret Society is here.’ Tabby turned her head. A long birthmark ran down the left side of her neck. ‘They’re getting notions about the Abbey Theatre.’ She said notions with one raised eyebrow and more than half a smile.
Several familiar faces sat huddled around a lamp, heads together, a picture of collusion. A boy lifted his gaze, grinned. It was Charlotte’s turn to flush. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then winked at Tabby, and when the young woman laughed, the room fell back into chatter. A little of Nancy’s apprehension melted away, but something remained, a wayward thought, a niggling doubt that she’d just become complicit in something she didn’t want to know about.
The group that sat around the table were fascinated with Nancy’s tales of London, a world apart from their own. Suddenly she’d become the entertainer and they the audience. The talk soon turned to theatre.
‘Ye’ve been to the Adelphi?’
Once. The view from her seat was half obscured. Teddy’s was worse. ‘It was wonderful. Bobby Get Your Gun.’
‘Isn’t there a Gaiety Theatre in London too? Like Dublin?’
‘There is.’
One of the girls laughed. ‘Can the English not think of their own names?’
Someone else: ‘How’d I go at getting a job there?’
‘At the Gaiety?’ Nancy shifted.
‘In London.’
‘You need to be smart,’ laughed one lad. ‘Speak proper.’
‘Broken Irish is better than clever English,’ quipped another, downing the last of his poitín. He stopped short, tipped his glass at Nancy, coloured.
She fell into the moment, said with a certain Kerry self-deprecation: ‘If I can get a job, sure, anyone can.’
Her inflection was appreciated and she felt a shift around the table, a relaxation. ‘What kind of a job?’ It was the young man with the singing voice that had, only an hour before, sent shivers down her spine. He sat on the other side of Charlotte.
‘I’m just a secretary.’
‘Soon she’ll be a journalist. And write a novel.’
Nancy waved Charlotte’s words away. There was a raucous laugh at the other end of the house; some private storytelling, it seemed, had already begun. It broke the group’s concentration, conversations spilling off to either side.
He prompted: ‘A novel?’
‘Maybe.’ Nancy blushed. ‘I tried once, but . . .’ She let it hang.
‘The next time,’ he said, ‘will be better. And then better again after that.’ Something in the pit of Nancy’s stomach flipped at this unexpected encouragement. ‘Here, we say hindsight is the best insight to foresight.’
‘Stealing more of my words of wisdom, Tomas?’ Tabby was there, grinning. She put two cups on the table. ‘Poitín. And tea.’ When Charlotte proffered her cup – a taste? – Nancy shook her head and took her own drink, wrapping her hands around it, though they were perfectly warm.
Charlotte nodded to Tabby. ‘These two are brother and sister. Can you tell?’ Nancy could. Tomas and Tabby. They had the same eyes; as green as the emerald fields that surrounded the village and rolled to the sea. ‘And both work at the house.’
Nancy had never seen Tomas there. She was embarrassed at her ignorance.
As if sensing her discomfort, he said, ‘I’ve been working in the copse since you arrived, helping my father. He’s the gardener.’ She had seen him, repairing the boathouse the day she’d met Charlotte by the sweet peas. She sipped her drink, nodded, tried to think of a question about the copse, to turn the conversation towards him. The fire behind them puffed smoke mostly up the chimney and the smell of peat was heavy in the air. On the griddle, flatbreads browned, and a steaming kettle hung from a fire arm.
Charlotte said, ‘Tomas can tell you everything you ever wanted to know about coppicing.’ Nancy raised an eyebrow, waited. ‘And history.’
‘He’ll talk the ear off you,’ said Tabby. Tomas raised his hands in surrender; his smile was cheeky, handsome.
‘But it’s so important,’ Charlotte sipped her poitín, ‘to understand how shackled Ireland once was. Still is.’
Sensing an impending lecture on the evils of aristocracy, Nancy said, ‘We do need to know where we come from’ – she recognised the irony in what she’d said – ‘but we shouldn’t let it hinder us.’ She paused. ‘Hindsight is the best insight to foresight.’
Tomas flushed at the pleasure of being quoted, and Tabby gave her brother a playful shove before taking a seat beside him. ‘We’ve got a treat in store for you tonight, Nancy.’
‘Oh?’
She took a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. ‘I’ve been asked to recite some poetry.’
Tomas peered at the words she held in her hands. ‘What’s that?’
‘Poetry,’ she said with impatience.
‘It doesn’t rhyme.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ This conversation had clearly been had before.
‘What’s the point of that?’
‘You eejit,’ said Tabby. ‘Poetry is a painting in words. It needn’t rhyme. It shouldn’t rhyme.’
‘Airs and graces.’ Tomas took a drag of his drink, then almost lost it as Tabby elbowed him with a laugh. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Go on, write a rhyme.’
‘No.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Tomas, I’ll write you a verse on my hundredth birthday, how’s that for you? A promise . . . to Tomas.’
He raised an eyebrow and Charlotte giggled, a flush creeping up her neck. Warmth from the drink, warmth from the room. Warmth from the company. Tomas said, ‘It’s a deal. You can enlighten everyone with your favourite proverbs.’ He put out his hand and they shook on it. ‘Only eighty years to wait,’ he said with glee.
Around them, a hush descended and all eyes turned to the door. A small, wiry man stood there. He had unruly eyebrows that threatened to escape his face.
‘The seanchaí,’ whispered Charlotte unnecessarily.
He observed his audience, clearly revelling in the rapt attention, then broke the silence with a word: ‘Splendid.’ Then he stepped before the fire and began to speak. ‘My brother fell in love with a German. I suppose it’s happened before and it will happen again. They married, see. In the end. But in the beginning, things weren’t so rosy . . .’
Nancy took a sip of her tea and stole a glance at Charlotte. She was leaning forward, the glow of the fire playing on her face, her mouth slightly parted. Her hair was flyaway; it had been ruffled by someone – one of the boys? – at the village hall, and strands had escaped her half-up do. She wore, as always, her butterfly comb, its jewels flickering in the muted amber light. And when she turned to Nancy, raised her half-empty glass of poitín, the smile she gave was as soft and warm as the first throes of love.