No Enemy but Time (8 page)

‘Sure she's fine,' he insisted, dismissing the silly man's fears. ‘She's a fine healthy girl and all she is is a bit queasy of a morning. That'll pass when the baby turns. Nothing to worry about at all.' If she hadn't been Mrs Arbuthnot, he'd have told anyone else to stop spoiling her and give her work to do around the house. That'd keep her mind off herself quick enough. He'd no patience with women putting on airs and moaning about the most natural thing in the world. He'd seen women give birth on their cabin floors and get up and cook their man a meal when he came in …

He had little sympathy with Eileen, although he was polite and briskly reassuring. He despised her for betraying her family and her faith. She was a rich lady now; let her take comfort in that. No mother to fuss over her, no aunties and cousins to come visiting and swapping stories about the terrible births they'd had. No old school friends to call and help her pass the time. There were visitors, of course. Lady Hamilton from the Half House and one or two others of her sort. He'd heard their shrill voices when he made a routine call and seen Eileen Ryan sitting up in her big bed looking strained and miserable. He still thought of her as Eileen Ryan, old Jack's daughter. He wondered whether they knew about the baby. They'd have heard it from Mary Donovan. She'd have been up there on her Sunday off, bursting with the news. He saw Mrs Ryan one evening in his surgery. She had a nasty burn on her forearm. Spitting fat, she explained to him. It looked like there might be pus in it. He agreed, and gave her some ointment. He didn't mention her daughter or the daughter's pregnancy. He didn't want to embarrass the poor woman.

Eileen didn't improve much after the three months. She felt weak and seedy and if she went for a walk her ankles puffed up. Mary made her special brews to take the swelling down. Lily brought her breakfast in bed. Doyle picked some choice early plums from the conservatory and sent them up to her.

‘Poor soul,' Mary Donovan said, as they stood round drinking the mid-morning cup of tea. ‘There's something wrong there, for sure. A breath o' wind'd blow her over!'

‘It's a sad state to be in,' Lily agreed. ‘Not a move from her mother …'

‘She wouldn't hear a word from me about it.' Mary was deeply disapproving. ‘I went all that way on me day off, and hoped I'd do some good between them. “I've no daughter,” she says to me. “Her name isn't mentioned in this house.” God forgive us, she was as bitter as gall. I didn't see the auld man. I had me tea with her and the two boys and she didn't press me any further.'

‘It's a terrible thing for them,' Bernadette ventured. ‘I think my mammy'd be the same.' She was still jealous. She had no man and no prospect of one. She thought of Eileen as ‘That one', though these days she didn't dare say so. Lying up there with Mr Arbuthnot and the local gentry fussing round her, as if she was a queen! And the size of the box of chocolates Lady Hamilton brought her last time! She finished her tea and sulked.

‘What about the boys?' Doyle asked.

‘Not a murmur out o' them,' Mary answered. ‘Shamus sitting there like a stuck pig, and Kevin lookin' at his teacup. I tell ye, I was sorry I'd taken the trouble.' She lifted the pot and tipped a little boiling water into it. ‘I'll offer a Mass for them all,' she said. ‘That's all ye can do when things get so bad.'

Mrs Ryan never came, nor was there an answer to the letter Philip sent her. But when Eileen was in the seventh month, Mrs Blanche Arbuthnot came to Riverstown on her way to stay with friends in Limerick.

Blanche Arbuthnot turned in through the gates of her old home. The Labrador bounded up in the back seat, excited by familiar smells. She quelled her with a brisk command.

‘Sit, Bunny!' She was the Major's gundog and had pined so badly when her master died, Blanche had considered putting her down. But, as if she knew her life depended on it, Bunny had attached herself to her. Now they were equally devoted; she took the bitch everywhere with her.

It all looked so familiar. The green lawns were bright and cut close, the thickets of daffodils had not quite died down along the edges of the drive. Nothing had changed since she came as a bride more than forty years ago. She wouldn't admit that she felt nervous. She switched off the engine, glanced at herself in the driving mirror and got out, letting Bunny jump on to the drive. The front door opened before she had time to walk up to it, and there was Philip, smiling a welcome to her, and behind him was her daughter-in-law.

‘Hello, Phil, dear,' she said. ‘I've brought Bunny, I hope you don't mind.'

‘Of course not,' her son said and then the moment she had been dreading came. ‘Mother, this is Eileen.'

She was smaller and slighter than Blanche had imagined. The baby overbalanced her; she moved awkwardly when she came up and held out her hand.

‘How do you do, Mrs Arbuthnot,' she said. Her mouth smiled. The light-coloured eyes were full of hatred. Philip couldn't see, of course. He was beside her, smiling in his good-natured way. A faint colour crept up into Blanche's cheeks.

‘How do you do. It's so nice to meet you.'

‘Do come inside,' the girl said, and stood back to let Blanche go ahead of her.

She had been expecting changes and had steeled herself not to resent them. Philip wouldn't allow anything too drastic, that was one comfort. It was untouched, except that there were very few flowers, sparsely arranged in tight little vases.

‘Where are we having tea, darling?' Philip asked, as if he didn't know.

‘In the den,' his wife replied.

‘The den?' Blanche knew immediately she shouldn't have asked, but the word made no sense to her. Where would you find a ‘den' at Riverstown?

‘Dad's old study,' her son said. ‘Eileen's made it very cosy.'

‘We use it a lot,' the girl said, showing her into the room.

Blanche looked round her at the wallpapered walls and the flounced pink curtains and said, ‘How very nice. Such a pretty colour scheme.'

She sat down and the Labrador flopped at her feet. This had been her husband's favourite room. There was no trace of him now. She was surprised how much it hurt. Philip looked very well, and kept giving his wife reassuring looks which Blanche wasn't supposed to see. If he was happy that was something, but for how long? How long before the difference in their background began to jar? This dreadful, vulgar room!

Lily brought in a silver tray with tea and sandwiches and one of Mary's marvellous sponge cakes. Blanche smiled up at her.

‘How are you, Lily? It's so nice to see you. You're looking very well.'

‘Oh, I am, Mrs Arbuthnot, mam.'

She saw the furtive look at the new mistress of the house and thought, ‘You know which side your bread is buttered, never mind the fifteen years you worked for me.'

‘How do you like your tea?' Eileen asked.

For a moment their eyes met. ‘Not too strong. Just milk, no sugar. Thank you.' She took a slice of cake. There was silence. She had never felt so uncomfortable in her life. Her son was married, her daughter-in-law expecting their first baby and she didn't know what to say next.

‘How's Mary?' It sounded so forced, but she couldn't leave the silence.

‘Mary?' Eileen Arbuthnot echoed.

‘Yes, Mary Donovan – you've still got her, haven't you?'

‘Oh, yes. She's very well.'

‘Can't you tell by the sponge cake?' Philip made a joke out of it. ‘Eileen says her whiskey cake is better, but I haven't let her prove it yet.'

‘Mary'd never forgive you if it was,' Blanche answered. Or if you went into her kitchen and interfered. But I can't say that. I can't behave naturally because I mustn't give offence. They haven't mentioned the baby. I suppose it's up to me. She cleared her throat.

‘Philip told me the splendid news, Eileen. When will the baby arrive?'

‘Early August, Doctor Baron says,' the girl answered.

‘Baron?' Blanche was aghast. ‘Surely he's not looking after you?' She switched to Philip. ‘He's an absolute idiot, I wouldn't have him to whelp Bunny. My dear, you must get somebody from Dublin.'

She knew that she had made a fatal mistake. The girl's pale face flushed an unbecoming red.

‘He's been our doctor since I was born. He's good enough for me.'

Blanche suddenly felt quite tired. What an effort, and then to see it wasted. There was no point of contact and there never would be. She pulled herself together and said, sounding brisker than she realized, ‘Anyway, it's splendid news. One more cup of tea and then I really must be on my way. It's quite a drive.'

Philip said, ‘Mother's going to stay with the Dornaways.'

Eileen said, ‘Who are the Dornaways?'

‘The Earl and Countess of …' He was trying to be jolly again. ‘Dornaway Castle is quite a place. I'll take you down there one day. They're awfully sweet.'

‘They've asked me for ten days,' Blanche said. ‘It's such a lovely house, your father and I always enjoyed going there. You must drive Eileen over to meet Bobby and Jill. I'm sure you'd like them,' she added.

The red flush had faded, leaving her terribly pale, with dark rings under the eyes. She said quietly, ‘I think they'd be a bit grand for me, Mrs Arbuthnot.'

Blanche put down her cup. ‘They're not at all grand. Bobby Dornaway is my nephew. I'm sure they'd be delighted to meet you. It's so nice I can take Bunny. She moped so badly after your father died.' She spoke to Philip. ‘I didn't know what to do. The local vet kept saying I should put her down – he's not a patch on old Pat Farrel – he was marvellous with dogs.'

‘Pat Farrel is a cousin of my father's,' her daughter-in-law said. ‘He's a good man with cattle too.'

‘Yes, so he is. Such a nice man. I keep Bunny in the house now,' Blanche hurried on. ‘She was so damned miserable in the kennel, poor old girl. So now she's a house dog.' She bent down and patted the silky black head. ‘Aren't you, you silly old thing?'

‘Will you excuse me a moment.' Eileen got up, glanced at Philip and her mother-in-law. He looked concerned.

‘Are you all right, darling? Not feeling sick, are you?'

‘No.' She managed a watery smile. ‘No, I'm fine. I won't be long.'

‘Poor little thing,' he said to Blanche. ‘She's had such a rotten time. Been sick practically the whole seven months. By the way, you shouldn't have said that about Baron. He's always looked after the Ryans. Eileen insisted on having him.'

‘I'm sorry.' Blanche wasn't used to being rebuked by her son. ‘But he's an old butcher. She's not a very robust girl, I'd say. But it's not really my business. I only meant it for the best. Good Lord, Philip, look at the time. I must be getting on my way.'

‘I'll go and call Eileen.' He got up and left her sitting alone.

Eileen was not sick. She thought that the spasm of pain would be followed by vomiting, as it often was, but by the time she reached her bedroom it had passed. She crawled on to the bed and hugged herself like a child with no one there to bring comfort. That hateful, arrogant old woman, with her superior airs and her chilly snobbishness, patting her bloody dog and talking about the child she was carrying as ‘splendid news'. So cold and unfeeling; Eileen couldn't have imagined anyone behaving in her own son's home as if she were a stranger, making small talk and occasionally bestowing a few words on her daughter-in-law. Dismissing the doctor who had brought Eileen and all her brothers and sisters into the world as someone she wouldn't have to whelp her mangy bitch. Patronizing Pat Farrel, knowing, surely, that he and the Ryans were close relatives on both sides. She didn't mean to cry, but tears came so easily these days, and it was so difficult to stop. She felt angry and degraded, the child she carried equally despised. She couldn't stop crying, and then the pain came back and nagged at her, till she held her hands to her lower belly.

Philip came running down the stairs. Blanche was already in the hall, clutching Bunny's lead.

‘Is she all right?' she asked, seeing him come down alone. Her son was white-faced, a sure sign of anger in the Arbuthnots. Lily, coming out of the study with the tea tray, backed in again quickly, out of sight but able to hear.

‘She's thoroughly upset,' he snapped at her. ‘Crying her eyes out upstairs, poor darling. Why the hell couldn't you have been nicer to her, Mother?'

They stood facing each other in the hall, mother and son who had never been close, locked in the eternal triangle.

‘I did my best,' Blanche Arbuthnot answered. ‘She wasn't exactly friendly to me. If you care about her and the baby, you'll get a proper doctor to look after her. Don't bother to see me out.'

Philip said, ‘She's having pains. If anything happens I'll never forgive you.' He turned and went back upstairs.

From her vantage point inside the doorway, Lily saw Mrs Arbuthnot open the front door and slam it after her. Then she hurried out to the kitchen to tell them all the news.

Blanche got into the car, settled the old dog on the seat beside her and switched on the engine. She was trembling. It was too much, at sixty-three, too much to lose her husband and be left with the son who was the least favourite of her three children, and this dreadful marriage. The house she loved was full of strangeness and hate. Her eyes filled with tears. If only Teddy or Richard had been spared from that terrible war, she wouldn't be cast out like this. They would have laughed Philip out of such a hopeless misalliance … even so, he could have married his colleen and it wouldn't have mattered because he was the youngest son … I'll never forgive you, she thought. How that whey-faced girl had poisoned him, that he could bring himself to say such a thing to his own mother.