Blackwater Hall, County Kerry
April 1958
Lady Niamh Rathmore was buried in the family cemetery near an old chapel that had long since decayed to three walls of rubble stone and mortar. The graveyard stood above the rolling hills that fell away towards Kenmare Bay. It was as fine a place as any to be put to rest, but Mama said that even in death, Grandmother would find fault with the view.
Hattie had listened at the door as the doctor told Papa that Grandmother’s heart had simply given out in the night and she wouldn’t have known a thing. She wondered what sort of thing it was that she was supposed to know.
It was the first funeral she’d ever been to. The wake took place at Blackwater Hall, the front room full of the people – Ballinn residents – that Hattie had, only two months ago, so desired to meet. But now they were there, she wanted nothing more than to run and hide in the labyrinth of rooms that she’d previously sought to avoid. She wasn’t sad that Grandmother was gone. Not that she would ever admit that to anyone. The old woman had frightened her and, aside from St Patrick’s Day, they had barely exchanged a word. But for the first time Hattie contemplated what it would be like to lose someone she truly loved. To never see them again. Papa. Mama. Albert. Even Tomas, who had become her only companion on the estate and whom she snuck out to meet whenever Mama was in bed with a headache – now a regular occurrence.
He was there, at the funeral. Grandmother, whom Hattie had never heard speak well of anybody, had insisted on his continued employment at Blackwater Hall after the ‘incident’. She said his father had transformed the estate’s gardens from a heathen jungle into something cultured and refined.
Since St Patrick’s Day, Mama had forbidden Hattie and Albert from seeing Tomas. At this news, Albert had frowned momentarily then agreed to abide by the new rule. He had taken to obeying Mama’s every command and Hattie knew it was so she would help him return to England and the girl he’d left behind.
The congregation was made up of Blackwater Hall estate workers, who numbered only a few, and their families, who numbered many. Hattie sat in the front row between Mama and Albert. Her dark blue dress, which hung just below the knee, covered itchy woollen stockings, and she wedged her hands between her legs. She sat still like Mama and her brother, while Papa leaned forward, a red cushion beneath his knees. When it was time to take Communion, Mama shook her head and said, ‘That’s not for us,’ as the village filed silently past.
In the aftermath of the church, the wake and the burial, Blackwater Hall was quiet, and Hattie was alone in the front room, the fire crackling at one end, the gentle heave of floorboards upstairs above as someone paced back and forth. Papa perhaps. She had made a space for herself under the dining table, a book before her, her legs seesawing as she lay on her front, displaying a lack of propriety that Grandmother would have chided her for.
The door next to the fireplace opened and Grandfather stepped through. He took a seat by the fire, then lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The footsteps upstairs had stopped, and the house was still once again.
But now Mama entered the room.
‘Charles.’ She acknowledged Grandfather and gestured to the chair next to him. The fire popped. ‘May I?’
Hattie couldn’t hear a response, but Mama took a seat, sweeping her feet at an angle underneath her. ‘It was well done,’ she said. ‘As well done as these things can be.’
A nod, perhaps.
‘She would have been pleased.’
‘Pleased?’ said Grandfather.
‘Well, perhaps pleased isn’t quite the right word.’
Grandfather lowered his feet from the footstool and stood slowly. He shook his head and walked to the sideboard. ‘What a preposterous thing to say, Nancy.’
‘I’m sorry . . . My choice of words . . .’ She rubbed her temple. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘My wife was pleased with nothing in life. She’d have been distinctly displeased with her send-off, no doubt. But,’ he said, pouring himself a generous measure of whiskey, ‘we’ll never know.’ He lifted an empty glass towards Mama, his eyebrows raised in question.
She nodded.
His socked feet were silent as he moved slowly back to the fire and handed her a drink, amber liquid honey like behind the cut glass. ‘Things will change around here.’
What he said was true. Grandmother had loomed over the house, omnipresent. It had been a constant effort to avoid her. The only peace Hattie found was in the kitchen, where Grandmother would never venture, and the walled garden, which was muddy from the ceaseless Kerry rains.
Mama sniffed at her drink. ‘I’m happy to take on Niamh’s role in the house, if that’s helpful to you. Oversee the purchasing. Assist with the accounts.’ She paused, stared down at the carpet as though already planning what rugs to buy. Hattie knew she hated that white carpet, hated tiptoeing across it for fear of leaving prints. ‘I can manage the staffing too, if you like. That kind of thing.’
Grandfather nodded. ‘I wondered when you might say that.’
Mama looked at him sharply, her neck a pale slip above her high collar. The dress was an elegant cut but her figure had diminished so much in the past months that it bunched at her waist. She rubbed her bare arms, the faintest goosebumps appearing, picked out by the firelight. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Niamh told me you’d been pushing to remove the gardener.’
Mama shook her head, pursed her lips. ‘I’m quite sure she is mistaken.’ She corrected herself. ‘Was mistaken.’
Grandfather swirled his whiskey.
Mama continued, ‘I merely expressed concern after the incident with Hattie.’ At the mention of her name, Hattie shrank further back under the table. ‘Having a man like that around children is stressful for . . . a mother.’
Grandfather took a deep breath. ‘Yes, the events of St Patrick’s Day. A shame. The man’s troubled, you know?’
‘Yes, I know.’
More rapid footsteps upstairs, a creak. Grandfather lowered his voice, a habit that would take years to break. ‘As Hugo was.’
In profile, the rise of Mama’s cheekbones was stark. ‘But Hugo never became violent? Surely?’
‘These things manifest in many ways.’ Grandfather touched the medals pinned to his front of his blazer and drained the last of his whiskey. Stood. ‘I would be glad of assistance with the more . . . womanly duties on the estate. I’m sure you’ll handle the finances and staff with due care.’
‘I will,’ said Nancy, standing to watch him go. She put her untouched glass to the side and walked to the mantelpiece, running a hand across its green marble surface, inspecting for dust that surely wasn’t there.