Long Goodbyes (3 page)

The British government’s half-hearted attempts to redress the crisis caused by the potato crop failures, he told us, had been a complete disaster and as a consequence the poor began to starve in great numbers. Benjamin spoke of the local landowner at that time, a Sir William Kenton, who was an absentee landlord for much of the year; he was a man in any situation not much given to generosity, and he exacted high rents from his tenants in spite of their dreadful poverty and showed little mercy when debts were unpaid. He was not, Benjamin related, a popular figure.

‘And he was the owner of this estate?’ I asked, I confess with fascination.

‘He was,’ Benjamin replied, taking a thoughtful sip of whiskey. ‘And he was also my great uncle - I am sorry to say,’ he added with a frown and a shake of his head.
 

‘And folk were made homeless? Left to wander in their weakness? Whole families with young children?’ I was scandalised. I confess I had not studied the history of Ireland so thoroughly as to understand the nature of the appalling crisis.

‘Homeless?’ Benjamin shook his head. ‘Such shelters as the poor had in those days could scarcely be called homes. Hovels, more like. But yes, they were forcibly evicted.’

‘But surely Sir William would not have allowed such terrible things to happen on his doorstep?’ I was leaning forward in my chair, hoping that Benjamin would recount at least some small act of charity. But I was to be disappointed.

‘They would come to the door every day - thin, pathetic skeletons as they were,’ Benjamin said. ‘And he would turn them away. Which was why, among other reasons, he was eventually set upon and beaten to death.’

‘How ghastly,’ Jack said quietly. ‘But a deserved end, no doubt.’

‘And an inevitable one,’ Benjamin nodded. ‘But to this day no one knows who was responsible. The authorities, such as they were, had more to concern them than the murder of a British aristocrat, and a most unpopular one at that.’

‘It’s a terrible picture you have painted, Mr Benjamin,’ I said. ‘I shall not be able to get those poor folk out of my head.’

‘You see now why we prefer to leave the house and all it stands for in the past. Forgive me. I did not mean to upset you,’ Benjamin said.

‘But we did insist, after all,’ Jack said. ‘Think nothing of it. Jenny and I have seen terrible things ourselves over these last two years.’

Mrs Benjamin, who had been listening attentively but with rather an uncomfortable expression, broke her long silence - I believe with the intention of lifting our sombre moods a little.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Enough of this depressing talk. These events, terrible though they were, are over now, and life here has changed for the better. Before we allow you two to go home I insist on a game of backgammon.’

‘That’s a lovely idea,’ I said.
 

So we concluded our evening with the Benjamins on a much more buoyant note. But as I shaped my body to Jack’s that night and allowed my mind to drift in that nether world between wakefulness and sleep, the images Benjamin had conjured would not leave me; they hovered, just out of reach, like thin, accusing spectres.
 

When I awoke suddenly with a start in the wee, small hours my nightdress was damp with sweat. I lay quietly against the pillows for what seemed an age, turning over Mr Benjamin’s story in my mind, watching the full moon hover between the undrawn curtains like a king’s orb in the black, Irish sky.

chapter three

I have tried to remember precisely when Jack began to change. I think perhaps it began the evening after the dinner with Mr and Mrs Benjamin or it may well be that my memory is playing tricks, and in fact his odd behaviour was a direct result of his subsequent visit to the grand house, a mission from which I could not dissuade him despite my forebodings.
 

I have mentioned my restless night and the images which kept me awake as I turned over Mr Benjamin’s account again and again. How can a man’s heart harbour such cruelty, I wondered? Was there no limit to the moral depths to which a human being might sink? How could the authorities have allowed starving souls to be cast out to even greater misery in order to satisfy the greed and covetousness of one man? And yet, it seemed, they had turned a blind eye to Sir William’s cruelty. I have always been possessed of a vivid imagination and could picture the long straggling groups of dispossessed families moving from village to village with heads lowered and feet dragging, hoping against hope to find charity or employment. I could see the pinched, prematurely-aged faces of the children, unwashed, stinking in their rags, eyes hollow and hopeless, trailing after the adults in a slow, purposeless shamble. Whatever I did to distract myself - walking, housework, letter writing - was to little avail: I was haunted by their predicament.

I was roused from my reverie by Jack’s footsteps on the path. His face was flushed and he seemed to have a new buoyancy about him. ‘Well, there’s not much wrong with the old place after all,’ he declared breathlessly. ‘Mr Benjamin gave us to understand that I was to visit a ruin, but it is far from that.’

‘Indeed?’ I was surprised, I recall, because I too had listened to Mr Benjamin’s description of Sir William’s old family seat. ‘Well then, tell me what you found.’

Jack fetched a bottle of beer from the cupboard and pulled up a chair. I busied myself preparing supper as he began to describe his visit.
 

‘The garden is overgrown, of course,’ he said. ‘And I had to fight my way to the front steps. But once I had the door open, well, I had quite a surprise, I can tell you!’

‘Well, tell me!’ I urged him. I was delighted to see my husband’s face so animated, and - for a few moments at least - I forgot my earlier mood.

Jack took a deep draught of beer. ‘It’s palatial,’ he said. ‘We could fit three of these-’ he indicated the length and breadth of our tiny lounge, ‘-into the hall alone. The furnishings are in remarkable order - some look to be very valuable. I can’t imagine how Mr Benjamin has left them to gather dust. They would fetch a pretty price at Sotheby’s.’

‘But how queer,’ I said. ‘Surely the furniture would not be left in a derelict house?’

‘That’s just it,’ Jack said. ‘It’s not derelict at all. It needs a little polish here and there, and some of the fittings are rather quaint, but I daresay it could be made habitable with a little effort.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ A cold thrill ran through me as I understood what had impressed itself upon Jack’s mind. ‘That we move into the grand house? That’s ridiculous.’

Jack was on his feet now, his drink forgotten. He took me by the shoulders. ‘Look, this is a cosy, picturesque little place, right enough, but it’s not the kind of home I imagined - or intended - for our future.’

‘I am perfectly content here,’ I said. ‘I have no need or desire for a grand residence. I just want to be with you. To be happy. And I
will
be happy here, just as we are.’

His face fell. He looked into my eyes and in the silence which fell between us I heard a blackbird chirruping in the hedgerow; the gay sound seemed to encapsulate all I had felt and hoped about our new cottage. I shook my head. ‘I don’t want to move out of this cottage. You were so pleased with it, until last night.’
 

I was close to tears. Something beyond my control had changed and I felt there was little I could do to bring things back to the way they had been. If only we had declined the Benjamins’ invitation . . . and then the most obvious thought struck me. ‘Jack,’ I said, ‘whatever makes you believe that the Benjamins would offer us the house? From what they said last night they seem to want to forget all about it. It is simply too much trouble for Mr Benjamin to contemplate.’

‘Precisely,’ Jack said, with a note of triumph. ‘If we can bring the place up to scratch, surely it’s a gain for them? They can charge additional rent if they wish - that is no issue, my army severance will cover any increase, I am certain.’

‘I will give it some thought,’ I said, wishing to curtail the discussion. ‘But Mr Benjamin made it clear, to me at least, that the house is no asset to him. I believe he would rather it was not his at all. And furthermore, that it is left alone.’

‘Is that what you think?’ Jack said, his face reddening. ‘Well, I shall prove you wrong.’ And with that he left the room. I heard him pacing upstairs, his footsteps creaking on the boards as he traversed to and fro in the small bedroom.
 

I continued my preparations for supper with a heavy heart. Already, something had come between us.

During the days and weeks which followed, Jack spent much of his time at the grand house doing I know not what. He would leave during the morning with a half-hearted excuse that he was going to ‘take some air’ or ‘have a look around’ or ‘do a bit of reconnaissance’. I realised, though, that the house and its grounds had, in some way I could not understand, gained some kind of foothold within his psyche. What was abundantly clear to me was this: it was an unhealthy thing. I have no idea why I should have come to such a conclusion; perhaps it is a woman’s intuition. I just knew that, somehow, I had to break the bond between Jack and Sir William’s crumbling estate, and for this I needed an ally. Orla Benjamin, I decided, was as good a person as any with whom I could comfortably share my concerns. Of course, by this stage I had met others in the local community, but they seemed very different to us: outwardly welcoming, but harbouring, I believe, a slight suspicion of outsiders. Orla and myself, on the other hand, had begun to form a strong friendship; we would often walk together, sharing family stories and experiences in an easy manner which Jack and Mr Benjamin, being of the male gender, could neither replicate not aspire to. It was on one such occasion when I broached the subject of Jack’s new obsession.

‘Yes, it has that kind of effect.’ Orla Benjamin nodded, as if she had heard a similar tale before. ‘One can become fascinated and then-’ she hesitated, ‘-and then it draws you in.’

 
As she said this a gust of wind plucked at my skirts and the sun went behind a cloud. We had just returned from the beach where the day had been warm enough for me to fret over my exposed skin; as a redhead I am most susceptible to sunburn. Now, however, I felt the chill of the Atlantic for the first time and regretted my decision to eschew a shawl. Orla shivered as a fine rain blew in with the wind and we were obliged to walk quickly to a small copse to avoid a drenching.
 

The wood was on a slight rise and gave us a good view of the village and the grand house which presided over it like a ivy-calloused monument to the dead. We huddled together under a lattice of branches, but the chill deluge found its way through the gaps and soon we were both soaked to the skin. Distracted by our predicament as we were, I did not pursue the subject of the house and Orla’s strange comment. By the time the rain eased and we were able to run for shelter I was shaking with cold; by early evening I felt the first flush of fever upon my cheeks.

My recollections of this period are hazy, but I do recall that Jack was attentive, concerned and insistent that I ate and drank, even though for many days after the fever lifted I had no appetite whatsoever. Orla too would visit often, spending many hours at my bedside, her thoughtful, intelligent face heavy with worry.

‘It is my fault,’ she declared. ‘I should not have encouraged our outing on such a day.’

I laid my hand upon hers. ‘Dear Orla, you are not to blame for the inclemency of the weather.’

‘No, but I feel responsible, nevertheless,’ she said. ‘What was I thinking?’

Over her shoulder I saw Jack appear at the bedroom door, carrying a luncheon tray loaded, as usual, with all manner of foodstuffs I simply could not face.

‘But you must,’ he said at my refusal. ‘How will you regain your strength?’

‘She will, in time, Jack. You must prepare something simpler, something smaller to tempt her,’ Orla smiled.

‘It’s not enough,’ he muttered, retreating from the room. ‘Not at all.’

‘Now you are the patient,’ Orla said quietly, ‘and Jack is the carer.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It does not feel quite right.’

‘It will be good for him,’ Orla said to the accompaniment of clattering pans and utensils.

‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘He has been acting rather oddly of late.’

Orla pursed her lips. She was always so precise in her considerations as well as her appearance. ‘He has been through a most dreadful experience,’ she said, ‘and it is not something he will be able to cast off lightly or quickly. You must be very patient. Who knows how long such scars will take to heal?’

‘Dearest Orla, you are wise. I have concluded the same, you see, but I am impatient and fretful.’
 

‘You are nothing of the sort,’ she declared, tapping me lightly on the arm with her finger. ‘You have been unwell and now you must think of yourself. Jack is managing more than adequately, and I shall look in again tomorrow.’

‘Thank you. You are a good friend.’

And so she departed with a cheerful wave, leaving me with my thoughts and the incongruous sounds of Jack’s newly-inaugurated kitchen regime resonating through the cottage’s nooks and crannies like the tolling of a discordant bell.