No Enemy but Time (25 page)

He heard her say to Sean, ‘I'm so sorry, Sean, my old car let me down again. I had to take a taxi. I was so afraid you'd have started.'

She looked across at Frank and smiled, but she didn't come over immediately. He was suddenly glad to see her. He should have telephoned after they'd had dinner at home, but then Claire came, and he'd forgotten. He made his way over to her. She had a glass of wine in her hand. Sean had provided red wine and beer and there were big plates of ham sandwiches and fruit cake. His mother had offered a proper cold spread, but Sean said No, most people would have eaten before they came.

‘Hello, Marie,' Frank greeted her.

‘Hello, Frank. I didn't know you were coming. How are you?'

‘Fine, thanks.'

‘I should have thanked you for the lovely evening,' she said. ‘I loved your house.'

They sat together, side by side on hard little chairs, and the poet advanced into the centre and began to read aloud from a book of his works. Everyone was very quiet; there were twenty people in that room, and they sat as still as if they were at a funeral. He read beautifully. The language flowed, full of imagery and original ideas. Frank had expected to be bored. He became entranced, and when the first reading ended, he joined in a loud burst of clapping.

From his seat at the back, Sean Filey watched him speculatively. He knew the poems well. They had affected him too the first time he heard them. It was good that Arbuthnot had come under the same spell. Their name was Ireland. They spoke of beauty and sadness, of longing and reflection, of love that blended into a love deeper than the love of men and women. The hairy young man from the suburbs of Cork City was the spiritual heir of the great Irish ballad makers, the poets and bards who brought the people their country's history through verse and song. When the monasteries perished and the ancient manuscripts were burned by the barbarians from over the sea, the songs and the stories were kept in the people's hearts and passed on from one generation to the next. He gave this simple explanation at the end of his reading, and he made it very moving. There was more applause. Sandwiches and cake were handed around. The poet was surrounded and holding a little court.

‘You liked it, didn't you?' Marie said to him.

‘Yes. He's remarkable. I'm ashamed I've never heard of him before.'

‘Sean discovered him,' she explained. ‘Apart from shrinking people's heads, he's a great one for helping Irish artists. There's two critics here tonight, one from the
Independent
and another from the
Cork Examiner
. There'll be a report in tomorrow's papers. That'll help. It's funny, I never liked poetry at school. But I like this. It sings, doesn't it?' She smiled up at him.

Frank said, ‘But they're sad songs.'

‘Ireland's been a sad country,' she responded. ‘Who else has got a national heroine called Deirdre of the Sorrows?' She looked at her watch. ‘I'll have to go,' she said. ‘Could you give me a lift home, Frank! It's not too much out of your way. My car's on strike again.'

‘You'll have to get a new one,' he said. ‘Of course I'll drive you home.'

Outside the door on Baggot Street she turned and said, ‘Come up for a minute. I'll make us some coffee.'

He couldn't have refused if he'd wanted to, and he didn't. Inside her flat, she closed the front door, stripped off her coat and put her arms round his neck. She kissed him, and touched his lips with her tongue.

‘I nearly didn't go tonight,' she said. ‘Now I'm glad I did.'

Frank didn't go home to Meath till the following morning.

She called Sean Filey in her lunch hour.

‘He stayed,' she said briefly. ‘And I'm seeing him tonight. I think we're on.'

‘Good girl,' was his response. ‘Now get yourself the sack. We don't want him forgetting about that job in his bank he promised you.'

He rang off and Marie went back to her table in the snack bar where she had lunch. Cold-blooded bastard, she thought. ‘Good girl.' He'd have played pimp to his own sister if it served his purpose. No wonder he made love like a bird. A peck and a fluttering and a quick glance at the watch … Not like last night. She'd taken the initiative and then found it taken away from her. She was determined to keep it in perspective. She said that to herself several times. He made music with her. Nobody else had even strummed the first note. But that was just a bonus. There was no call for her to think how his hair grew back from his forehead and how she liked stroking it in place when they were lying together. Or the shape of him under the light, with good shoulders and a fine chest with a black fuzz of hair drawing the eye down to his navel. She had let her coffee get cold thinking about him. Get the sack, Filey had told her. Remember the job he promised you. I'll do better than that, Marie said to herself. I'll work in his bank and I'll end up moving into his house. That way I'll really have him in my hand. And if he makes me happy doing it, why not …?

‘If only Frank was here,' Claire said. ‘Then everything would be perfect; it's such a shame he couldn't get back for the party.'

Claudia lit a cigarette. Preparations for the big engagement party and for a spring wedding were taking their toll of her nerves. Now she looked sharply at her daughter and frowned.

Claudia said, ‘You cabled him the news. He could have come back in time for this. Anyway, don't let Neil hear you going on about it. I should think he's sick to death of hearing about Frank.'

Claire turned away. Her mother's attitude was openly hostile to her step-son now, as if she were free to express a long-concealed dislike. Neil came down the stairs just in time, before she said something angry.

‘You look super, darling. Doesn't she, Claudia?'

‘I think we chose the right dress,' was the reply accompanied by a smile.

She likes Neil all right, Claire thought.

Claudia said, ‘I think people are arriving. Now, you two, you do the honours, nobody's come to see me. And of course your father's disappeared as usual, just before the party starts. I'll go and find him. He hates shaking hands.'

Neil slipped his arm round her waist. ‘Why are you looking so pissed off – had a row with Claudia?'

‘No,' she said. ‘She gets on my nerves sometimes, that's all. Here's old Fred King; they've got a marvellous stud at Kilcock. He's sweet, you'll love him.'

Shaking hands with the old man, gnarled as a leafless tree and eighty if he was a day, Neil doubted it. They were swamped by people; Claire repeated names and he shook hands and accepted the congratulations with what he hoped was a good grace. They were all very nice, very warm, but he didn't miss the beady looks that raked him up and down. Claudia appeared and guided them into the main reception rooms, where people were getting drinks and the noise was above safety level. This was Establishment Ireland, he thought, glancing at the men with their old school and regimental ties, the women who would have been at home in any English country house. The same sort of people as the other guests at Butlers Castle, where he had met Claire, except they were the parents' generation. He stood beside her, a drink in his hand and chatted to a succession of people who came up. He found himself locked in by a woman in her forties, weasel-sharp eyes probing him, a long thirties-style cigarette holder in one hand. He couldn't remember her name.

‘Ah,' she said. ‘So you'll be taking Claire to live in England?'

‘Yes, we've bought a house in Gloucestershire, near Tetbury.'

‘I know Tetbury,' she said. ‘Used to stay there with people called Hunt. He died and she ran off with a man young enough to be her son. Talking of sons, I do feel so sorry for Philip. First that wretched Frank goes to the bad, and then you come along and steal his daughter away.' She stared at Neil with open malice. ‘It won't do you much good having a brother-in-law who's an IRA sympathizer, will it?'

‘Excuse me,' Neil said. ‘I must find Claire.' He turned his back on her and pushed his way through the crowd. He came up and caught her elbow. ‘Darling, who's that frightful old cow in the green dress over there – the one with the holder?'

Claire looked across. ‘Min Harding,' she said. ‘She's ghastly. I don't know why she was invited. What's she been saying to you?'

Neil hesitated. An IRA sympathizer … it couldn't be true. Claire never mentioned anything like that. He decided not to spoil the evening. Of course it wasn't true.

‘Oh, nothing. I just thought she was an old cow.'

‘She is,' Claire agreed. ‘And the most barefaced liar. She'll say anything about anybody.'

He was instantly relieved. ‘It's a great party,' he said.

‘Yes, it is. I'm glad you're enjoying it. It is a bit of an ordeal meeting everyone, but they've been dying to meet you and the wedding's too long to wait. I just wish Frank was here too.'

She'd said it several times. He was surprised to feel hurt.

‘Well, you'll have to make do with me,' he said.

Claire smiled up at him, and he was happy again. ‘I think I can manage that,' she said.

Three thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean, Kevin Ryan was giving his nephew lunch at the Columba Club. It was a handsome Victorian building, old-fashioned inside and out. In its way it was a mirror image of the gentlemen's clubs that Irish immigrants had never been allowed to join. There was a lot of solid mahogany panelling and heavy furniture, a big gloomy restaurant with excellent food. Membership meant acceptance into the Irish-American hierarchy, both in business and in politics. Kevin had lobbied hard to be elected. Now he was one of its most distinguished members. He leant towards Frank across the table.

‘We'll have the bank's opening the same week as we warm the Half House,' he suggested. ‘It'll be a double for us, Frankie. Everyone'll come!' He watched his nephew closely, in spite of the broad smile on his mouth, the pale eyes a touch narrower than normal.

Frank wasn't himself. Mary Rose said so, and she had an instinct for such things. Women had instincts, because God in his wisdom had been miserly with brains. But they weren't to be discounted for all that. Frank looked drawn and puffy under the eyes as if he hadn't slept. He seemed aloof, even with the little redhaired cousin who was his favourite among the Ryan children, which worried Kevin. He didn't want him slipping away from him at the last minute. Up until a few days ago, they'd been a big happy family, with Frank settled in as one of themselves. He'd sunk into himself after that cable came.

Kevin said, ‘Frankie, you're not listening to a word I've said. What's troubling you? Won't you tell me?'

For a moment Frank didn't answer. The cable had come and he'd read it, unable to believe that it was Claire telling him she was going to marry Fraser. It was long and full of enthusiasm and endearments, but the basic truth made him sick to his stomach. He was losing her to that pompous bastard. He thought of seeing him paw her on the dance floor at Butlers Castle, of him owning her and taking her away to live in England. Without knowing it, he had crumpled and mutilated the cable in his hands.

He had gone down to dinner with Mary Rose and Kevin and the children and said nothing, because his loss was like a wound. He couldn't discuss it because they'd spout good wishes and bonhomie, and he didn't trust himself to hide his feelings. His jealousy and shock couldn't be shared with anyone. And in the hours without sleep that followed, night after night of them, while he tried to think what he could do, he did despair. He loved Claire. He could have lost her to someone who would have made her happy, and conquered himself in the process, because he loved her with a pure unselfishness. But not to this. Not to a man who typified everything most hateful to the Irish, a man who wouldn't understand her and love her for the woman she really was. She'd warned him that time when she came to Meath, and he'd been too blinded by self-pity and his own dilemma to do more than mildly discourage her. He blamed himself bitterly. Her parents were delighted, the cable said. They were giving a party and she insisted he come home. He didn't even take in the date. Go to a big reception for all their old friends and neighbours, and see Claire with Fraser beside her. No, Frank admitted, he couldn't face that. Let them have their party. Let them celebrate what he knew would be a disaster of a marriage.

‘Frank,' his uncle said. ‘Tell me, lad. What's wrong?'

He focused on Kevin and saw the kindly look and the way he had of cocking his head when he was anxious. Why not tell him? Why not confide?

‘My sister Claire is getting married,' he said at last.

‘The poor boy,' Mary Rose said. ‘No wonder he's upset. But why would his sister marry a man like that?'

From Frank to Kevin, and from Kevin to his wife, Neil Fraser had emerged as a vicious right-wing Tory politician dedicated to keeping the minority in Ulster under the Protestant Unionist heel. No one, least of all Claire, would have recognized a single characteristic of the real man. Kevin cleared his throat, and just in time he swallowed, rather than spat. Even now the old habits tended to slip out. But it was hatred, not phlegm, that made him want to spit.

‘Because she's no bloody different,' he said. ‘She's one of them, and poor Frank doesn't see it. It's no bad thing, Rose. It'll open his eyes to who his real family are, that's for sure.'

‘We all love him,' she said, knowing that it was the right thing to say. And to feel, of course.

‘I'm going out tonight,' Kevin announced.

She was surprised. He hadn't mentioned any change in plan. Normally he kept to his routine. His office by eight a.m. and home to the family by seven. A whiskey or two, sometimes more if he was tired, then dinner and TV and bed. Except for Fridays when Mary Rose took them all off for Rosary and Benediction.