Long Goodbyes (2 page)

His eyes were moist as he looked at me and I instinctively reached over and placed my hand on his. ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘You mustn’t dwell upon it.’

‘How can I not?’ He shrugged and knocked out his pipe on the chair leg. ‘How can I not wonder that I am here while my friends are either dead or crippled? How can I not consider their fate and whether their sacrifice means anything at all?’

‘Of course it means something,’ I said anxiously. This was the first time he had spoken of what had taken place in Belgium and France since we had left to return to England.

‘Sixteen hundred dead, they say,’ Jack was looking at me but not seeing me. In his mind, I knew he was back there once again, waiting for the bombardment to lift, waiting for the order to advance. He blinked twice in rapid succession, a slight nervous tic I noticed he had acquired of late. ‘Sixteen hundred or more. How shall we get them back? How shall we go on?’ He leaned forward and grasped my arm. ‘Can you hear it? The guns have stopped. It’s almost time.’
 

He cast about him for his rifle, his pack. I had seen this behaviour before but had thought it cured; the last occurrence had been in the hospital itself, just a few days after his admission. But here, now, in this tranquillity? I was on my feet immediately and took firm hold of both his arms.

‘Jack. It is over. We are quite safe.’

He looked at me with eyes which were unseeing, at least of his immediate surroundings. He moved his head rapidly this way and that, as though checking that his squad were in the correct position. I placed my hands upon his cheeks and made him recognise me. ‘Jack. It’s me. Your wife. You are in Ireland. Safe. There is no advance. It’s finished. Over.’

He started at my words, shook his head once and sat back heavily in the chair, letting his arms dangle. He spoke eventually in a voice so soft I had to strain to hear it. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’m not quite myself.’ He looked up and smiled and my heart went out to him. He had seen things no man should see, experienced terrors no civilian could guess at. It would take time, I realised, a great deal of time to heal his weary mind.
 

‘Come,’ I said, taking his hand. ‘We shall walk together to the beach and search the rock pools for crabs. Perhaps we shall find a big one for dinner.’

The coast was but a ten minute stroll away and we had often spent a lazy afternoon ambling on the pebbles, watching the rush and swell of the Atlantic as it cast its great waves ashore. The humps of Blasket rose from the sea like some prehistoric beast, the island’s long strip of sandy beach clearly visible at its north easternmost point. That folk still lived on the nearby islands was a revelation to me and a subject of much fascination. Such a hard life eked out in such challenging conditions! I had met one of the islanders in the village the previous weekend: she had come ashore to fetch supplies, and I was struck by the quaintness of her accent. I later remarked to Jack that I did not possess the tenacity to be an islander. But it was pretty, nevertheless, to imagine the islanders going about their business from our coastal vantage point.
 

It was a peaceful haven we had discovered, and we scarcely met another soul as we wandered like castaways, bending on occasion to pick up a shell or examine a newly revealed rock pool. It was therapeutic for us both, this emptying of the mind. Our senses, not our intellects, governed our actions on these forays, and I encouraged every boyish gesture, every simple pleasure as Jack oh so slowly forgot himself and became entranced by the intricacy of a sea shell here, a rock formation there.

On this particular outing, however, we did meet another: Mr Benjamin was walking his wolfhound along the water’s edge. The huge beast loped ahead of him, darting every few paces in and out of the sea and vigorously shaking its fur after each soaking. We closed the distance to exchange pleasantries. I had met Mr Benjamin several times at the local bakery and once or twice at the little church by the crossroads and had consequently got to know him tolerably well.
 

‘Good day, Mr Benjamin,’ I waved cheerfully.
 

“And to you, madam, and to you, sir.’ He doffed his cap while the wolfhound came sniffing around us to determine our allegiance, although I noted that the animal gave me a wide berth. Apparently satisfied that at least Jack posed no threat, it recommenced its small excursions in and out of the surf. ‘I hope you don’t mind Conall? He’s fierce looking, but tame enough.’

‘Not at all’, Jack said. ‘I’m fond of dogs.’

‘He loves the sea, does he not?’ I said, laughing at the beast’s antics.

Mr Benjamin chortled. ‘He does indeed. I was going to rename him Canute when I realised what an affinity he has with water.’

Jack laughed. ‘It would have been a fitting name.’

Conall, soaked through from the brine, loped up and nuzzled Jack’s leg, and Jack reciprocated by giving the wolfhound a vigorous pat. But then the dog turned his attention to me. At first it seemed as though he would behave as he had with Jack but as he approached me his hackles rose and he backed away, tail between his legs. I was utterly dumbfounded and looked behind me to see what might have scared the creature so, but there was nothing there, no one but the three of us upon the beach.

Mr Benjamin paled a little, I recall, but then began to apologise most profusely. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter, I’m sure’, he said. ‘Conall, come here at once!’ But the animal was cowering, keeping his distance.

I could see, however, that Mr Benjamin was somewhat troubled by the incident and was trying not to show it - for fear, perhaps, of offending us further. This he had not done at all for I do not consider myself easily offended, particularly by something which seemed at the time so trivial.

‘How extraordinary,’ said Jack. ‘And such a big animal.’

‘Now then,’ Benjamin said, apparently anxious to divert our attention from what had just occurred. ‘I am remiss in not having invited you to dinner. My wife, Orla, has begged your forgiveness for our poor hospitality and hopes to put things right by extending an invitation to you both for tomorrow evening, if you are able to come?’

‘We would love to,’ I said. ‘Please send our best wishes to your wife and tell her that she is not to feel in the least bit inhospitable. Rather, it is we who are the guilty party, for you have done so much already in preparing the cottage and making us feel so welcome.’

‘It’s settled, then,’ said Benjamin. ‘Seven o’clock is the hour.’

‘Until then,’ Jack said. ‘And thank you.’

We watched him make slow progress along the shore, Conall romping in and out of the sea alongside him. On our way back to the cottage we spoke little. It was the first in a series of incidents which would in time undo all the good that had been achieved in those early weeks.

chapter two

The Benjamins’ home was modest, but comfortably furnished. As we knocked and waited I glanced at Jack. He had been strangely subdued since the beach walk and I couldn’t imagine what had unsettled him so. Why should a dog’s behaviour be any cause for concern? For the incident with Conall was the only thing to which I could attribute his mood, except of course the troubling memories, the
illness
, which was how I had begun to think of his condition. It
was
an illness, as surely as if one of his organs was suffering from some disease - a disease of the soul, not of the flesh, but a disease nevertheless.

As it transpired, the evening was a great success. Orla Benjamin was a quiet but pleasant woman and her expertise in the kitchen was evident in the quality of the meal she presented. Jack ate moderately, while I, for some reason, enjoyed a voracious appetite the like of which I had rarely experienced before. Perhaps, I thought, it was the novelty of having another prepare a meal which so engaged my digestion that evening. My enthusiasm did not go unnoticed.

‘It’s a pleasure to cook for someone who enjoys their food,’ Orla Benjamin declared with satisfaction.
 

I felt a small flush of embarrassment. Had my pleasure been so evident? Perhaps I had crossed some line of Irish etiquette? But if that were the case then it didn’t seem to bother Mrs Benjamin, although I noticed that Mr Benjamin regarded me with not a little curiosity for the remainder of the evening. In due time we repaired into the spacious drawing room and fell into pleasant after-dinner conversation. The men set to work on their pipes as we exchanged pleasantries, and soon the atmosphere was fragrant with the smell of tobacco mingled with woodsmoke from the open fireplace. It was a comfortable and enjoyable hour. The Benjamins, we discovered, had roots in Ireland traceable to the early seventeenth century. They had lived in London a long while but the call of the
auld
country, as Orla Benjamin rather quaintly put it, had been, in the end, impossible to resist.
 

‘Ireland is peaceful and pretty, and one has such a sense of community,’ she ventured brightly.

Mr Benjamin tamped the tobacco in his pipe and grunted. ‘Long may it remain so.’ He looked meaningfully across at Jack. ‘But the events in Dublin last April shook things up more than a little, I can tell you. And we’ve not heard the last of it, mark my words.’

‘Indeed not,’ Jack agreed. ‘But surely you don’t feel threatened by the republicans? After all, yours is an Irish ancestry.’

‘That may be so,’ Benjamin said guardedly, ‘but my career in London will have done me no favours in republican eyes.’
 

‘Come now,’ said Orla Benjamin. ‘Let us not stray into politics. We are far from the reach of these affairs here in the south west. People are treated as people on the peninsula, regardless of their political affiliations.’
 

‘That may be so for the time being, my dear,’ said Benjamin gravely, ‘but the future situation is less clear.’

‘So, when did you move back?’ I asked, hoping to shift the conversation to lighter topics.

‘Just before the war,’ Orla replied. ‘It was September, 1913, I think, was it not, William?’

Benjamin nodded. ‘Thereabouts.’

‘The house needed considerable renovation before we were able to move in’, Orla explained. ‘And your cottage too. We had no desire to make reparations to Kilmareich House, though, not with its history. We were quite content to settle in one of the larger estate houses. It is a more manageable size, after all.’

‘And where exactly is Kilmareich?’ Jack asked, puffing his pipe with satisfaction. I was pleased to see that his spirits had been lifted, if not by the meal, then certainly by the company. He seemed to have taken to the Benjamins, and I found myself whispering a silent prayer of thanks for their cheering company.

‘You’ve not seen it?’ Mr Benjamin replied, his eyebrows arching in surprise. ‘It’s a stone’s throw from your garden, behind the screen of elms.’

‘How odd that I’ve never noticed it before,’ I said. ‘Is it very grand?’

‘Once,’ Benjamin said, his expression shifting in a flash to one of caution. ‘But no longer. It is run down - in disrepair. It would take more money than I would wish to spend to have it restored to its former glory. Not,’ he said quietly, ‘that I would have any wish to do such a thing.’

‘But how mysterious, Benjamin,’ Jack said, leaning forward. ‘Why ever not? I have an interest in property and architecture. In fact, I was thinking of studying exactly that, before-’ He paused, his expression clouding briefly, but then recovered. ‘-Anyway, might I take a look? It may not be as expensive a thing as you imagine to repair. Besides, it’s part of your heritage, isn’t it?’

‘Not a part I would wish to acknowledge,’ Benjamin said.

‘Would either of you like a little whiskey?’ Orla Benjamin broke in. ‘It is wonderful for the digestion - in small quantities, of course.’ She smiled.

‘That’s very kind,’ I said. ‘I don’t usually, but perhaps on this occasion.’

‘You are very welcome, my dear.’ Orla Benjamin smiled again and rose to retrieve the decanter. ‘And your husband?’

‘Thank you,’ Jack said. ‘That would be very pleasant.’ He turned his attention back to Benjamin. ‘Now look here, Benjamin, would you have any objection to my having a look around the old place?’

Again I noticed an almost imperceptible, silent exchange between the Benjamins as Orla set four whiskey tumblers down and began to pour a measure into each.
 

‘If you wish,’ Benjamin said, spreading his hands. ‘But I would counsel you against it, if you would accept such advice.’

‘But why?’ Jack’s face was as animated and alert as I had ever seen it. ‘What harm would there be just to have a look?’

‘Perhaps you had better tell them, dear,’ Orla Benjamin said. ‘Then they can make up their own minds.’

‘Very well,’ Benjamin said. ‘I will tell you. But in my view it would be as well to let such things go, leave them alone, in the past, where they belong.’

‘Well,’ Jack responded, ‘you simply must tell us now. If there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s a secret.’

And so Benjamin began and we listened, at first politely, then becoming engrossed as he spoke of the history of the house, its estate and the terrible years of famine in the mid-nineteenth century. The images evoked by his words filled the room and our imaginations readily supplied any detail upon which our host declined to elaborate, no doubt to spare my sensibilities.