Songs of Love and War (7 page)

They set off back down the hill. The evening was cold, but rich smells of damp soil and heather rose up from the sodden ground to infuse the February air with the promise of spring. Occasionally
a partridge or a hare bolted out of the gorse as they passed, and a herd of cows came close to watch them with their big brown eyes and placid mooing. Kitty delighted in them all, wishing she could
stay out for longer and not have to return to the dull nursery wing to dine alone with Miss Grieve. But when she got back to her room Miss Grieve was there, in her stiff dress that left only her
pale face and hands exposed, to inform her that she was expected at the dinner table tonight.

‘I can’t imagine why they want you all of a sudden,’ said Miss Grieve reproachfully. ‘After all, up until now they’ve barely noticed your existence.’

‘It’s because I’m nine and Papa thought I was eight,’ Kitty replied. ‘Silly Papa.’

‘I hope you mind your manners. I won’t be there to prod you.’

‘I don’t need any prodding, Miss Grieve. I shall behave like a young lady.’

‘Don’t get above yourself, my girl. You’re not a young lady yet. So, where did you go with your father?’

Kitty knew not to mention the Fairy Ring. Once, on a wave of enthusiasm, she had told Miss Grieve that she had seen the stones come to life, only to receive a good walloping on the palms of her
hands with the riding crop. She wouldn’t forget herself so quickly again. ‘We rode up on the hills. It was delightful.’

‘Well, don’t get too used to it. I don’t suppose he’ll ask you again. I think he must prefer the company of Miss Victoria; after all, she’s a young woman now. Oh,
she’ll be off to London in the spring and that’ll be the last we’ll see of her, I don’t doubt. She’ll find herself a nice husband, a pretty girl like her. Then
it’ll be Miss Elspeth’s turn and she’ll be away like the wind. As for you . . .’ Miss Grieve looked down her long nose at Kitty. ‘A poor little thing like you.
You’ll be lucky to be as fortunate as your sisters with all your disadvantages. Don’t look at me like that. Screwing your face up makes you even less attractive.’

Kitty stepped into her best dress and clenched her fists as Miss Grieve pulled the knots out of her hair. ‘If I had my say I’d cut it off altogether,’ she said, tugging on a
particularly sensitive tendril of hair at Kitty’s temple. ‘The lengths we go to when the simplest solution would be a pair of scissors!’

When Kitty was ready she ran downstairs, leaving Miss Grieve to eat alone in the nursery with only her sourness for company. She stopped in front of the mirror on the landing and stared at her
reflection. Was she really so ugly? Had Lady Rowan-Hampton simply been kind when she had complimented her looks? And, if she was so unattractive, did it really matter? Then she thought of her
grandmother and smiled. She was a beautiful soul of God; Miss Grieve was just too blind to see it.

It was Sunday night. Old Mrs Nagle’s turf fire was smoking heavily as she puffed on a clay pipe and fingered her rosary devoutly. A big black bastible full of parsnip and
potato stew was suspended above it, throwing out steam into the already smoggy atmosphere. She sat in her usual chair beside the fire, a hunched and emaciated figure dressed in black, chewing on
her gums for her teeth had fallen out long ago. Her granddaughter, Bridie, dutifully stirred the stew with a wooden spoon as her stomach groaned like a hungry dog at the rich, salty smell. Mrs
Doyle sat in her rocking chair opposite her mother, half listening to her husband and sons, the rest of her attention focused on her basket of darning. Bridie’s two elder brothers, Michael
and Sean, sat with their father around the wooden table talking in low voices, their serious faces distorted in the flickering candlelight that burned through the gloom, their rough
labourers’ hands clutching pewter tumblers of Beamish stout. Every now and then Bridie caught something of what they were saying. But she’d heard it many times before. Talk of Fenian
uprisings against the British, worry about working for the aristocracy, always the concern that they might be seen as spies or traitors, and then what? Bridie had long been aware of the Irish
struggle for independence, and the resentment of the British. She had heard talk of it wafting up through the floorboards with the scent of porter and tobacco as she drifted off to sleep, her
father and his friends discussing it long into the night, their voices loud and unguarded as they drank and played cards. She had seen copies of the Sinn Féin newspaper lying hidden beneath
Michael’s bed but struggled to read them. Her father, Tomas Doyle, was a wise man when sober. He would argue that Lord Deverill was a beneficent landlord, unlike many, and Sean as well as Mrs
Doyle were employed up at the castle and treated kindly. Wasn’t it true that during the great potato famine the previous Lady Deverill had set up a soup kitchen in one of the hay barns and
saved many from starvation? It was well known that not one of the Deverill tenants had died of hunger during the famine, or taken the coffin ship to Amerikey, thanks be to God. But Michael,
Bridie’s oldest brother, who was nearly nineteen now and worked with his father on the land, wanted the British Protestants out, whoever they were and however good they were to their tenants.
It was a matter of principle and honour: Ireland should belong to the Irish, he maintained passionately, and the British ‘Prods’ should go back to England where they belonged. ‘A
privilege to buy our land? What privilege is it to buy back land that was stolen from us in the first place?’ he would maintain, banging his fist on the table, his long black hair falling
over his forehead. ‘They’ve stolen more than land. They’ve stolen our culture, our history, our language and our way of life.’ Bridie would hear their voices grow louder as
they each tried to persuade the other and she would feel anxious for Kitty and for their secret friendship, which she so treasured. She hoped that if ever there was trouble in Ballinakelly, the
Deverills would not suffer at the hands of the rebels on account of their well-known generosity and kindness towards the local people.

Bridie was disappointed Kitty hadn’t come to see her today. Usually she’d find Kitty sitting on the wall surrounding the castle grounds and they’d run off together and play
pikki with the local children. Kitty called it hopscotch but she played it all the same. Kitty was like that; if it was fun she’d throw herself into the game with all her heart and not give a
thought to whether she should or should not mix with the Catholic children. She didn’t care either whether one of those children was an O’Leary.

When Bridie thought of Jack O’Leary, with his idle gaze and his pet hawk on his arm, something tickled her belly, like the soft fluttering of butterfly wings. Jack was lofty and handsome
with thick brown hair and eyes as watery blue as an Irish sky in winter. An arrogant smirk played about his lips and there was always a mocking laughter in those wintry eyes as he watched the girls
at their childish play. But Jack had a sensitive side too. He loved all God’s creatures, from the secretive spider to the docile donkey, and spent most of his time among them. He’d lie
on his stomach in the early evening and wait for badgers, leave out food for stray dogs and birdwatch down on the beach in Smuggler’s Bay. He’d taken Kitty and Bridie along one
afternoon in January to watch a family of mice in the garden shed behind his house. They’d stayed for over an hour, as still as statues, as the mice had scampered about the wooden floor as if
on tiny wheels, eating the seed Jack had put out for them. That small episode had bonded them like plotters in a conspiracy, and from that moment on they had set out together for more adventures in
the wild. Kitty was bold and unafraid, curious about all the creatures Jack showed them, but Bridie was scared of creepy-crawlies and hairy mollies and sometimes needed coaxing. Jack would laugh at
her apprehension and say, ‘All animals are the goodies if you see life from their point of view, even the smelly rat. Indeed they all have a God-given right to be on this earth.’ And
Jack would tell them about life from the rat’s point of view and Bridie would try hard to be sympathetic.

Today Jack hadn’t come out either. His father, Liam O’Leary the vet, had begun to take him along when he went to examine colicky horses, lame sheep, and dogs wounded in fights. There
was plenty of work for a vet in a place full of animals like Ballinakelly. So, Bridie had spent the day with the other children whom she didn’t like as much as Kitty nor admire as much as
Jack.

Bridie loved Kitty like the sister she had never had, but she did wonder sometimes if the girl wasn’t a bit ‘quare’ with her talk of ghosts. Perhaps she was driven to
make-believe because she was so lonely hidden away in the nursery with only the grim Miss Grieve for company. Bridie shuddered to think that those ghosts might be real. ‘Don’t ye be
forgetting to stir, Bridie,’ said her mother sharply, looking up from her sewing. Bridie hadn’t noticed her hand had stopped and sat up with a jolt.

‘She’s away with the fairies,’ Old Mrs Nagle tutted, shaking her head. Bridie didn’t think her grandmother would say that about
her
if she knew some of the things
Kitty said.

After tea Mrs Doyle announced it was time for prayer and Bridie knelt on the floor with her father and brothers, as she did every evening, elbows on the chair, fingers knitted, head bowed. Old
Mrs Nagle remained seated in her chair and mumbled the words of the prayer through toothless gums. ‘Thou oh Lord will open my lips,’ said Mrs Doyle solemnly.

‘And my tongue shall announce thy praise,’ they all responded. Then Mrs Doyle recited the prayer she knew so well it might have been embossed on her heart. The tail ends were short:
a hasty prayer for friends and family and for Lord and Lady Deverill, who were both benevolent and fair.

After prayers the neighbours descended on the cottage, as they always did, with their fiddles and Old Badger Hanratty’s illegal poteen, distilled from potatoes in a disguised hay rick
outside his cottage and of a surprisingly high quality. It wasn’t long before the singing began. Bridie loved to sit with her buttermilk, listening to the Irish folk songs and watching the
sentimental old men reduced to tears as they wallowed in nostalgia. Sometimes they’d dance the ‘Siege of Ennis’ and her mother would shout, ‘Off ye go, lads, twice round the
kitchen, and for God’s sake mind the dresser.’ Or her father would grab her mother and they’d dance to the foot-stamping and table-banging, round and round, until Mrs
Doyle’s red face glowed with pleasure and she looked like a young girl being courted by an overzealous suitor.

Bridie’s father was rough with coarse black hair and a thick black beard and she doubted she would recognize him if he returned home one day clean-shaven. He was short but as strong as a
bull, and woe betide anyone who dared take him on in a fight. He’d won many a pub brawl and broken countless jaws and teeth in the process. He was quick to temper but just as quick to repent
and the few times he’d struck his sons he’d fallen to his knees in a heap of regret, crossing himself profusely and promising the Holy Virgin Mary not to do it again. Drink was his
curse but a good heart his blessing; it was simply a matter of finding a balance between the two.

Suddenly her father weaved his way across the room towards her. She expected him to send her up to bed, but instead he took her hand and said, ‘Indeed and I’ll be dancing with my
Bridie tonight.’ And he pulled her to her feet. Embarrassed that everyone was watching, she blushed the colour of a berry. But she needn’t have worried about the steps; she had seen the
older girls dancing often enough. Her father swung her round and round the kitchen just like he did Mrs Doyle, and as she was swung she saw a sea of smiles and among them was her mother’s, a
tender look softening the work-weary contours of her face. After that her brothers took turns and Bridie, so often the spectator, became the focus of their attention and her heart swelled with
pleasure.

That night Bridie could barely sleep for excitement. Her mind had drifted during the recital of the rosary because it had been such a joyous evening. She didn’t imagine Kitty had evenings
like that, dancing with her father, and she rarely saw her brother who was at school in England. For a moment Bridie gave in to the superior feeling. She bathed in it, allowing her envy to be
eclipsed by a warm sense of supremacy. She tried not to compare her life with Kitty’s, but recently Bridie had grown more aware of their differences. Perhaps it was due to her brother
Michael’s resentful comments or maybe a result of the increasing amount of time they were now spending together; whichever the case, Bridie was being given a bigger window into Kitty’s
life and a greater perspective, causing her to wonder why it was that Kitty had so much when
she
had so little.

She could hear voices downstairs; her father and brothers playing cards, Mr Hanratty, drunk on his own poteen, snoring loudly from her mother’s rocking chair, and the longing in the lyrics
of ‘Eileen a Roon’ sung to the haunting tones of a lone fiddle. It was a comforting and familiar lullaby, and Bridie soon drifted off to sleep.

She awoke abruptly at dawn to the sound of loud knocking on the front door. It was still dark, but for a streak of red bleeding into the eastern sky. The knocking was
insistent. She sat up and wondered who would come calling at this time of the morning. At length she heard her father’s heavy tread on the stairs and felt a cold sliver of wind, like one of
the snakes St Patrick banished from Ireland, winding its way round her door and slipping into the room. She shivered and pulled the blanket tightly around her. A moment later the door slammed and
the footsteps went back up the stairs. The house was silent again but for the chewing of a mouse beneath the floorboards under her bed, and the moaning of the wind outside.

‘Da, who was at the door this morning?’ she asked her father when she came down for breakfast.

‘No one,’ he replied, taking a loud slurp of tea.

Old Mrs Nagle crossed herself. ‘’Tis the auld Banshee with the first of three knocks, God save us,’ she said darkly. Mrs Doyle blanched and crossed herself as well, sprinkling
drops of holy water around the room from the little Norah Lemonade bottle by the door.