Moonshine Page 21

  ‘Will you be quiet,’ I said. ‘You’re frightening the pony with all that shouting. Now, either you get back on the box and drive the pony or I will.’

  Timsy answered with a moan. Somehow I managed to coax him on to my seat. He lay across it at full stretch, flinging his arms and legs about so wildly that he was in danger of rolling off. Though I was tempted to leave him lying by the roadside I reminded myself that I had a duty to my employer so, at the expense of my fingernails, I fastened him by his waist and ankles to the bench with some rope I found beneath the seats. I climbed on to the box in a temper approaching savage. I instructed the Cockatoo, who had calmly cropped the grass at the roadside throughout this taxing operation, to walk on. He flicked back his ears and twisted his head to see who was in charge but when I shook the reins he broke into a trot. It was my first experience of driving an animal but in fact I was doing nothing more than preventing the reins from becoming tangled in the pony’s legs, for the Cockatoo kept up a steady pace without another word from me for perhaps two miles while Timsy called on the stars above to persuade Kathleen to look favourably on his love.

  ‘Is this right, Timsy?’ I asked as the Cockatoo turned off the road into a thicket of trees.

  ‘Right it is,’ he moaned. ‘Every damned yard, begging your pardon, is a yard nearer that terror of a woman who’s as savage as a cage of ferrets downwind of a rabbit.’

  I wondered whether he meant Kathleen or the mistress of the house. The moonlight showed me a long track that sloped steeply upwards. We approached a small house that looked quite pretty in a rambling sort of way and my heart lifted, but as we drew level I saw that planks were nailed over the windows and there was a hole in the roof. The Cockatoo kept up a good pace as we entered a wood. The track wound between the trees in almost total darkness and I shivered until my teeth chattered as the leaves dripped a freezing postscript to the rainstorm on to our heads. I had a brief glimpse of what might have been a pair of gateposts in a high wall and abruptly we seemed to have left the wood behind. A faltering light showed the remains of what had long ago been a garden. There were rows of small trees, perhaps an orchard, and the track had become a curving path without tarmac.

  I turned round to ask: ‘Is this Curraghcourt?’

  ‘Begor, it is, it is,’ Timsy murmured drowsily.

  A stray beam glittered on something reflective and I saw a building of some kind clinging to the wall on my left. But this was also a ruin, hardly more than a broken frame containing splintered glass.

  ‘Timsy! This can’t be right! I don’t believe the Cockatoo knows the way at all.’

  For answer there came a snore. The Cockatoo trotted faster, ignoring my attempts to pull him up and soon we left the overgrown garden, the left-hand wheel scraping a gatepost in the opposite wall. The pony snorted with effort as the track inclined sharply to the brow of the hill. As we reached the top the moon sailed free from the clouds and I saw before me a steep drop that rolled down to a shadowy plain. From the floor of the valley, encircled by trees, rose the massive walls and lofty towers of a castle.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘Timsy! Wake up!’

  We were careering downwards now, the weight of the cart pressing the Cockatoo into a canter. It seemed probable that the cart would be shaken to pieces for the track was rutted and strewn with stones. To prevent myself being thrown off I had to let go of the reins and hang on to the box with both hands. Maria had jumped out and was running ahead of us. A vision of her being crushed beneath our wheels and of the pony’s legs being caught in the reins presented itself so clearly to my mind that I closed my eyes and gave myself up to providence.

  As we reached level ground the Cockatoo, no doubt thinking of supper, broke into a gallop. I had never been so frightened in my life. Not until the cart ceased to bounce and throw itself wildly from side to side with terrifying creaks and thuds as though about to shatter into its component parts did I dare to look. We were rattling round a curve in the drive towards something that loomed like impenetrable rock. I hung on with one hand and clutched my head protectively with the other arm. The sound of the pony’s hoofs changed briefly to a subdued thunder, then rang on stone. We had crossed a wooden bridge and were passing beneath an arch into a courtyard. The Cockatoo came to a standstill, his snorting and blowing echoing from the walls that I sensed rather than saw for it was very dark.

  I sat still, waiting for the thumping of my heart and the trembling of my limbs to subside. It seemed scarcely possible that no one had heard us arrive. The Horsemen of the Apocalypse travelling full tilt could not have made more of a racket. A pale glimmer – one could not call it light, it was rather an alleviation of the enveloping gloom – was detectable through a door in front of me that stood fractionally open. I stepped down from the cart, stiff and weak and conscious of my dishevelled state, certain that the reek of decomposing cabbage had transferred itself to my clothes.

  I was about to make a search for a knocker or doorbell when I remembered Timsy. To my dismay the moon came from behind a cloud to show me that the rope was dangling loose and the seat was bare. I felt alarmed. He might have been seriously hurt. My first impulse was to run back the way we had come. A little thought persuaded me that without a torch, bandages, a stretcher and strong men to lift it I would only be wasting valuable time.

  I stepped into the deep shadow of the doorway. My foot encountered something yielding, there was a low, bloodcurdling growl and sharp pincers gripped my ankle. I jumped back with a shout of surprise and pain. A pair of malevolent yellow eyes blinked up at me. A dog the size of a Shetland pony was stretched across the threshold. No one came in response to my cry. I wondered what to do. I was afraid to step over the dog but somehow I must make my presence, and Timsy’s absence, known without delay.

  The solution was unexpected. From above my head came stifled laughter. I looked up to receive a cataract of freezing water full in the face. Actually it was probably no more than a small jugful but the shock left me gasping. The dog, which had also received a wetting, lumbered to one side, leaving the entrance clear. I saw the iron handle of a doorbell and yanked it hard. Its relaxed response told me it was not working. I pushed open the door and went in.

  I stood in a hall the size of a ballroom, my ankle throbbing and water dripping from my hair into my eyes. The room was deserted. Dark streaks of moisture ran down the massive pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling some forty feet above my head. Circular displays of swords, daggers and battle-axes decorated the panelled walls. Sixty or seventy feet away, at the far end of the hall, tattered battle standards hung from poles above a flight of stairs which divided to disappear in shadow. On one side of the staircase stood a sedan chair, on the other a suit of armour. The light from four enormous glass lanterns was reflected in a puddle in the centre of floorboards as black as bog oak. To my left was a huge stone fireplace containing a smouldering pyramid of ashes. Above it an enormous pair of antlers, far larger than any deer’s head could have supported, persuaded me that I must have wandered into a fairy tale. I had not then heard of the Irish elk, a gigantic creature long extinct.

  On my right, extending some fifteen feet in length, was a magnificent side table. I walked over to examine it, momentarily forgetful of Timsy. It was mahogany, eighteenth century at a guess, carved by a master in the style of William Kent. It was as fine as anything that had come up for auction at Boswell’s. Dust lay on it as thick as felt. A bust of Shakespeare stood in the middle, a tiara perched on his marmoreal locks. Scattered down the table’s length were books, newspapers, a vase of dead flowers, a tin of Vim, two blackened sausages on a plate and a bottle of nail varnish, its cap off and a drop of shining pink depending from the brush a millimetre from the precious surface of the table.

  I screwed on the lid of the nail varnish before looking quickly at the dates of the newspapers. They were all several weeks old. I inspected the tiara. The setting was good and the stones emitted flashes of light like the real thing. But s
urely no one in their right minds would leave the front door open and several thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds lying around in the hall?

  ‘If you’re thinking of stealing it,’ said a voice behind me, ‘you’ll be wasting your time. It’s paste.’

  I moved away with an alacrity that must have looked guilty and turned to face my accuser. An old woman, a fairy Carabosse, was walking slowly towards me, leaning on two canes. Her spine was so crooked that her head was thrust forward and twisted a little to one side. Her hair was grey with two white wings springing from a high forehead. Her black clothes emphasized the emaciation of her frame. Her flesh seemed to have shrunk on her bones. But when she lifted her head to look me full in the face I saw that her eyes were not old. Not only were they unusually large, they were alight with challenge. She seemed to be all eyes, like a creature that lives in darkness, one of those translucent shrimps that is tossed about on the rolling currents of the ocean floor.

  ‘Or perhaps you’re a bailiff, come to distrain the family chattels?’ Nor did she have an old woman’s voice. It was clear and imperious, with no trace of the brogue. Her expression was proud and unpleasant. ‘No job seems too sordid for women these days. I wonder how you like equality now you’ve got permission to slave like blacks all day and behave like prostitutes all night?’

  I was taken aback to find myself on the receiving end of so much rudeness from a stranger, but perhaps there had been a mistake. ‘My name’s Bobbie Norton. I’m the new housekeeper.’

  She narrowed her great cold eyes and took a step nearer to look at me more closely. I smelt cigarette smoke. The wings of her hair were touched with the gold of nicotine. ‘Ah, yes. I was told there was another girl coming. You’re English.’ I could see from the increase of scorn in her expression that this was no recommendation. ‘And you’re late.’

  ‘I was at the bus station punctually. Mr O’Leary was … taken ill on the journey. He fell off the cart and I’m afraid he may be injured. Someone ought to go and look for him.’

  She made a derisive sound. ‘Why don’t you say he was drunk? I hate euphemisms. Why are you wet? It stopped raining hours ago.’

  ‘Someone threw water over me when I was standing on the doorstep.’

  ‘That would have been my grandchildren.’

  She spoke as though it was a matter of complete indifference to her.

  ‘That was after your dog bit me.’

  ‘It is the dog’s business to bite strangers.’ Her eyes travelled slowly from my face down to my shoes. ‘Your appearance does you no credit, Miss Norton. I particularly requested that the new girl should be clean.’

  This made me angry but I assumed the cool hauteur I usually reserved for my father. ‘Then you should have sent a clean cart. And a sober driver. And an umbrella.’

  ‘If we are to get along together, Miss Norton, you had better understand that I do not expect to be answered back.’

  I clenched my fists inside my pockets. ‘And I don’t expect to have water thrown over me by delinquent children. Nor to be bitten by a dangerous animal. As for being accused of stealing—’

  ‘Your expectations are of no interest to me. I find you insolent, Miss Norton. I do not doubt that you are conceited. There remains the faint hope that you are not lazy.’

  This was too much. I felt my face grow hot. ‘If you’ll allow me to use the telephone I’ll ask a friend to come and pick me up at once.’

  ‘A friend?’ The sneer in her voice was galling. ‘I suppose you mean a man. Young women these days are no better than common trollops.’

  This shaft wounded me more deeply than she could possibly have guessed. ‘That’s a ridiculous generalization!’ I was unable to contain my anger. ‘Anyway, my morals are none of your business.’

  So much for my resolve to be an invisible menial. That had gone by the board before I had even taken off my coat. But I absolutely refused to submit to insult. I was disconcerted to see something like a spark of humour flash into those lamp-like eyes. Or was it triumph because she had goaded me into losing my temper?

  She stared hard at me for a moment or two in a manner I was prepared to resent but when she spoke her tone was no longer contemptuous. ‘Well. Perhaps we’ve both been hasty. It might be better not to judge from first impressions. If I have offended you … I am sorry for it.’

  I hesitated. My own feelings were not so easy to command. My cheeks were burning and my heart was beating hard.

  ‘Maud? Is that you?’

  I heard quick footsteps behind me and a young woman came into the hall.

  ‘There you are! I wondered—Oh, hello! Are you Miss Norton? I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you.’ She took my hand and smiled. ‘I’m Constance Macchuin. We spoke on the telephone.’

  Her eyes were remarkable for thick dark lashes. Her eyebrows were dark too, and bushy, like a man’s. She wore an old hacking jacket with bulging pockets and fraying lapels over a cotton print skirt and gumboots. She continued to smile at me while running her fingers through her brown curly fringe as if conscious of its untidiness. Then she tugged at her pony-tail from which wisps were escaping.

  ‘You’re not at all what I expected,’ she continued. ‘So young. And much too good-looking to be our housekeeper and … What am I talking about?’ She laughed. ‘I don’t know what I expected …’ Her voice trailed away. ‘You look so cold!’ She felt my sleeve. ‘And you’re wet!’

  ‘Someone threw water over me when I was standing on the doorstep.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Constance looked dismayed. ‘How naughty of the children! Those murder holes were used to pour boiling oil or whatever was to hand, probably rendered mutton-fat, over our enemies in the old days. Though you’d think they’d have known better than come to the front door. Finn and I once soaked an aunt we particularly hated and we were sent to bed for a week. Finn made a great mistake telling the children about poor Aunt Lizzie. I’m sorry, Miss Norton, what must you think of us? Of course they must apologize and—’

  ‘Oh, well … never mind,’ I interrupted, seeing that her distress was genuine. She knocked her words together and breathed quickly while rubbing her forehead with her fingers as though to smooth away a frown. ‘Luckily it wasn’t very much. I can understand that a murder hole and someone standing right underneath it was too good to resist. Besides, I’d already had one wetting. It rained quite hard after we left the bus station.’

  ‘But … surely the Land-Rover …?’ She looked at Maud.

  I saw again the shimmer of mischief on the older woman’s face, immediately suppressed. ‘You were out enjoying yourself in the Morris and there was no petrol in the Land-Rover. I thought Miss Norton would appreciate an authentic Irish experience. I sent Timsy with the outside car.’

  ‘You didn’t! Oh, Maud! But I asked Timsy to siphon a gallon out of the tractor specially to go and meet Miss Norton! And now I think of it, you were there when I told him. And I was certainly not enjoying myself. Mrs Gogarty’s son has gone to America and she begged me to call to stave off her terrible loneliness. I found the entire neighbourhood crammed into her sitting room, having a party.’ She turned to me. ‘What must you think of us? That old trap’s only fit for a museum. We only keep it out of sentiment. And the Cockatoo is far from an ideal carriage horse. It’s lucky you weren’t injured. Where is Timsy?’

  As though on cue the front door opened and Timsy shuffled in. He was muddy and dishevelled but, to my relief, in one piece. He put down my suitcases, made a bow in our direction, lost his balance and sat down hard, his legs sticking straight out in front of him.

  ‘Timsy! What are you doing?’ Constance went over to him and pulled at his coat. ‘Get up! What will Miss Norton think of us?’

  ‘Oh, Miss’s a good sport. She’ll think nothing of it. We had a grand time in the pub, didn’t we?’ He winked at me and raised an invisible cap in salute. Presumably the real thing was somewhere beside the track.

  ‘So you’ve been drinking.’ Maud looked a
t me. ‘That explains your bad temper. It’s not a good beginning, is it?’

  ‘Oh, Maud!’ said Constance crossly. ‘That’s wicked of you! Of course Miss Norton didn’t want to go to that horrible McCarthy’s.’ She turned back to me. ‘It’s my fault. I forgot to fill the Land-Rover up when I was in Kilmuree yesterday. You must have been so uncomfortable! You must come upstairs at once and get into something dry and I’ll bring you some tea. Or would you prefer whiskey?’

  ‘No. Thank you. I – I’m not going to stay. I thought I’d telephone a friend of mine who’s staying with friends not far from here—’

  ‘You’re angry with us and I don’t blame you one bit. Please, let me try to make amends – I can’t bear you to go away thinking so badly of us; really we aren’t the monsters we seem … You’ve come such a long way and we need help so badly! Just wait till the morning and take a look at us by daylight, won’t you?’ She wrinkled her forehead into an expression of pleading and clasped her hands together beseechingly.

  ‘Well …’ I said slowly. Part of me wanted to flee this lunatic asylum now and for ever but another part, the voice of reason probably, said that the running must stop somewhere and the morning would be as good a time as any to come to a decision. Besides, I was dog tired.

  ‘Good! I’ll show you to your room. Maud, did you remember to ask Katty to air a bed in one of the best bedrooms?’

  ‘Certainly not. Those are for guests. I imagine Miss Norton has come intending to do some work. I told Katty to prepare the west tower room.’

  Constance picked up one of my suitcases. ‘You know quite well those tower rooms aren’t fit. Besides Miss Norton is a guest – a very welcome guest, too – and when did we last have anyone to stay? No one in their right minds … Oh, well, anyway, let’s see. This way, Miss Norton.’