No Enemy but Time (20 page)

They were both standing, facing each other; they were amazingly alike in their anger.

‘Frank, I'm warning you,' his father said. ‘If you take up with people like that, you're not welcome in this house!'

‘They're my mother's people,' Frank answered. ‘As much my family as you are. And you're not going to forbid me to meet anyone. I have my own house, if I'm not wanted here.'

‘Then bloody well get out and go to it!' Philip shouted. Twenty-five years of pent-up antagonism exploded in him at that moment. He shouted at his son and showed the hatred that he'd hidden even from himself. The child that was the image of himself, but with the disquieting look and alien ways of a subject race. A despised race, who could never be trusted. A changeling …

‘Get out,' he repeated, and it was more deadly because it was said in a flat, cold voice.

Claire got up; she was trembling. ‘Dad, if you turn Frank out of this house then I'm going with him!'

‘Oh, Christ!' Suddenly, shockingly, Claudia exploded. ‘What a bloody scene you've made, over nothing! I'm sick to death of the whole bloody lot of you! You'd drive any sane person mad.' And then she rounded on her daughter. ‘And as for you, you're going to England next week and that's that. It's time you grew up and stopped holding his hand anyway.' And having said that, she flared at her step-son. ‘Your mother died when you were born; you never even saw her.
I've
been the only mother you've ever known! I've brought you up, Frank, and I've never had a thank you from anyone. This is my home too, and it's not going to be disrupted like this. Now I'm going upstairs and you can all go to hell!' As she banged out of the room she burst into tears.

It was as if the roof had caved in. Claudia never lost her temper. She was the level-headed influence, ready to see the funny side or defuse a clash of temperaments. Suddenly she had shocked them. Claire had never seen her mother cry before.

Philip looked at his son. ‘I won't have her upset,' he said. ‘If you want to hobnob with the likes of Ryan, leave Riverstown.'

‘Frank, please,' Claire whispered.

He didn't glance at her. He put the envelope with the letter in it into his pocket. ‘I'll go tomorrow morning,' he said.

Chapter 5

Suddenly in that late September, there was an Indian summer. London was hot and stifling when Claire arrived. It was a Thursday, time enough for her to settle into the flat she was sharing, before beginning her course on Monday. She couldn't remember being really unhappy before. After Frank left, the days at Riverstown had seemed the longest and most miserable of her life. There was a pall of gloom over the house; Claire was shocked to see that her father seemed unmoved. Two occasions peaked in her memory. The morning when Frank said goodbye to them both. There was a flat calm after the storm of the night before. He said he was sorry he and his father couldn't agree on certain issues, but he hoped they'd continue to be friends, and held out his hand to Philip. For one dreadful moment Claire thought her father was going to reject it, but he didn't; he said it was a pity, but this solution was the best. He was cold and distant, as if he were speeding a stranger on his way.

There were tears in Frank's eyes when he embraced her. For his sake she stayed composed. For a second or two she clung to him with all her strength, as if to tell him that she loved him and nothing would ever change her. He had said goodbye to Claudia.

‘I'm glad you made your peace,' was all his father said.

Then he was gone, and the next day his clothes and personal belongings, representing his whole life for twenty-five years, were collected and taken to Meath.

The second saddest incident in that wretched time was finding Frank at the airport to see her off. Claudia had driven her in, and there he was, waiting outside the departure lounge, looking thinner and drawn about the face.

‘Good God.' Her mother didn't look pleased to see him. ‘This is a surprise …' And then, because she knew how to behave, ‘How are you, Frank? Have you settled in? I meant to telephone.'

‘I'm fine,' he said, turning away from her. There was no need to pretend any more. She might have brought him up, but he wasn't beholden to her now. ‘I wanted to see Clarry off,' he said. ‘I thought this might amuse you,' he said to Claire.

It was a paperback of a book long out of print.
Lady into Fox
.

She looked up at him and smiled. ‘I'll read it on the flight. Take my mind off crashing. I'll write to you, Frank.'

‘Have a good time,' he said. ‘I've got to go now. Look after yourself.'

‘I will,' she called after him.

He turned and waved and said, ‘Goodbye, Claudia,' as if she were a vague acquaintance.

Then Claire's flight was called and she was kissing her mother and hurrying through. At the doors into the departure lounge she turned to look for him once more. Claudia saw her, waved, and then she had disappeared.

‘Thank God, she's gone,' she said under her breath. ‘It's not a moment too soon.' She drove home and poured herself a very large gin and tonic. She didn't trust herself to mention Frank's appearance to his father. ‘Thank God,' she repeated, pouring another stiff drink, ‘Thank God, she's out of it. And he's out of the house.'

Being a practical woman, she set about life with her usual vigour the next day. She arranged a large lunch party for the weekend, asking a lot of their old friends. It was as if she had something to celebrate.

On the flight to London Claire opened Frank's present. He had written on the flyleaf: ‘To remind you of old Reynard. Love Frank.'

She took a taxi to the flat in Fulham, which was extravagant, but she had so much luggage for the three months' stay. She felt hot and depressed and already lonely. The girl she shared with was also taking a course, but at a secretarial college and for a year. She was a distant cousin and they'd met briefly one summer. Claire remembered her as a plump girl who talked about young men all the time. But she was kin, and Claudia wouldn't hear of her daughter living in London with strangers. She was at home that first evening; she was very cheerful, full of the fun she was having. They had supper and Claire tried to fit her clothes into one tiny cupboard and a small chest of drawers. It was far worse, she decided, than being at school in Switzerland.

Her flatmate's name was Jenny, and the more she bubbled about the young man who was taking her out at the moment, and the friends and their pub crawls and parties, the lonelier Claire felt. And at the root of that feeling was the chasm that had opened up inside the family. She felt insecure for the first time in her life, and so low in spirits that she filled the jolly Jenifer with dismay. Cousin Claire looked like being a perfect drip, she thought. She was out on Friday, and Claire spent the evening alone, watching the English television, which was full of violent scenes in Northern Ireland. It was so odd to see it, because it made what was happening there seem so close. Riverstown was only sixty-odd miles from the border. For all they were aware of the trouble, it might as well have been six hundred. She couldn't forget home and Frank; London and the flat seemed completely unreal. He'd be so lonely in that big house, rattling around on his own, with the Mahoneys who housekept his only company.

She lit a cigarette, switched on the TV channel to an American comedy and said to herself, ‘I'll give this cooking thing a try, but if I can't stand it over here, I'll go back and live with Frank. He'll need somebody to run that house for him. The Mahoneys will run rings round him otherwise.' Unconsciously, she echoed Claudia's opinion of the Irish servant class.

When the telephone rang the next morning, Jenny answered it, and after a moment banged on Claire's bedroom door.

‘It's for you,' she shouted. ‘Some dishy-sounding man called Neil Fraser.'

And that was how Claire's three months' stay in London ran on to a year. She came home at Christmas and Easter and brought Neil back to meet her parents. Frank was not in Ireland at the same time. They wrote and telephoned, and his news was exciting. He was travelling to America, starting to set up the merchant bank with some US backing. His uncle Kevin Ryan had been over and met him at Meath. He had been a great help and introduced him to a lot of useful people in New York. He spoke of him so enthusiastically that Claire was uneasy. At the end of that year, when she rang Frank to tell him she was engaged to marry Neil Fraser, it was a woman's voice that answered and said he was away, but she would be glad to give him a message. Give, Claire noted, not take. Whoever she was, she wasn't old Biddy Mahoney.

She was staying the night in Neil's flat. They had started the evening in bed, which she enjoyed more and more after losing her early shyness. He was a marvellous lover, she thought, sighing happily. They were going to be blissfully happy. She stretched her hand out and the ruby and diamond engagement ring sparkled in the light. Suddenly her life was exciting and the awful void of Frank leaving Riverstown had been filled by this clever, sophisticated man who made divine love to her and showered her with presents and promises of the wonderful life they would have together.

She had made a lot of friends and met many more through Neil. His father was a widower, and very sweet whenever she went down to stay. Neil had a brilliant political career ahead of him, and she knew people were saying that all he needed was a beautiful young wife and a family to complete the electoral appeal. She was determined to help him and make him proud of her.

He yawned and sat up beside her. They always made love with the lights blazing. Claire had been diffident at first, but he explained, ‘Half the pleasure is looking at you, darling … Don't be such a little nun,' and then behaved in the most intimate and outrageous way to prove his point.

‘Hello, darling,' he said.

She smiled up at him. ‘Hello.'

‘Did I snore?'

She nodded. ‘Like a pig.'

He tweaked her hair. ‘You're hell, do you know that?'

Claire played the game. ‘Then why are you marrying me?'

He dived at her. ‘Because you've got the loveliest boobs in London. Not to mention …'

Claire wriggled away from him, laughing. ‘No, you don't start that again. You said you wanted to see
Panorama.'

‘I did, didn't I? Well, get up then.'

He was fun, she thought happily. A lot of Irishmen were staid, come to think of it. She was sure their girl friends didn't have a bed life like hers. She dressed and went out to make dinner for them. The cooking school had been a ghastly bore. She said she'd have learnt more from old Molly, the cook at home, but in fact she cooked very well and she'd Claudia's talent for flowers. Neil used to boast that she could make a few dead twigs look like a work of art. She liked cooking for him; only too often he insisted on going out to smart restaurants, and several times to the House of Commons, because he wanted to show her off. He was pleased that his colleagues had reacted so favourably.

His father had expressed disquiet because Claire was so young. ‘Only just twenty-one, Neil. It's very young to fill the role, you know. If she's going to be an asset to you, dear boy, she's got to be very tactful and clever.' She was a delightful creature, he added, and pretty as a picture. Neil said firmly, ‘London is full of tactful, clever women pushing their husbands. What makes Claire so special is she doesn't give a damn about impressing people or saying the right thing. That's exactly why everyone likes her. Me most of all.' And that was the last time his father mentioned her age. They sat down to dinner and he thought, what a lucky thing I accepted that idiot Charles Butler's invitation to go to Ireland. I might never have met her otherwise. I'm going to be happy with her for the rest of my life, just like I am now, looking at her across the table.

‘I rang my brother to tell him we were engaged,' she said.

‘Oh? What did he say?' He had a clear memory of the dark Irishman who'd watched them dancing in the ballroom at Butlers Castle. He'd never seen him since, but he hadn't forgotten him.

‘He wasn't there,' Claire said. ‘It's funny, a woman answered. It wasn't the housekeeper.'

‘What's funny about it? Doesn't he have girl friends?'

‘Not the sort who stay in the house when he's not there. She said he was in the States. I wonder who she is?'

‘How would I know, darling?' he said, and looked at his watch. ‘I'm going to turn on the box. I don't want to miss this programme.'

‘It's not about the North again, is it – I'll wash up if it is,' Claire said. She didn't really want to watch one of Neil's factual programmes. She didn't know or care about political issues in England and she felt if she heard one more pundit talking about the problem of Ulster, she'd scream. They made much more fuss about it in England than in Kildare. But then, it was their soldiers being killed. She cleared away and left Neil to the television. She wondered again who had answered the telephone in Frank's absence. Maybe her parents would know. It was about time she phoned them again anyway. She ignored the fact that Claudia had rung her up only the night before.

Philip took the call. He said to Claudia, ‘That was Claire; I called you, but you must have been upstairs.'

‘I was outside, showing Mack poor old Blue Boy's leg.' Her old hunter had cut into himself out walking, scared, as she put it, by a group of bloody yobs larking around on the road. He'd given himself a nasty gash which had just missed slicing the tendon. She was worried to death about the old boy, and spent more time dressing the wound and looking at him than she did in the house. ‘Damn,' she said. ‘Sorry I missed her. Everything all right?'

‘She's fine,' Philip said. ‘Full of beans. Apparently she'd rung Frank and some woman answered. Claire wanted to know who it was.'