The Convictions of John Delahunt (28 page)

Coppinger Row is a narrow lane that runs aslant and cobbled in the warren of houses between Trinity and the Castle. One side is taken up in its entirety by a wing of the Powerscourt townhouse, a gaudy Palladian mansion that sits incongruous amid the mazy streets. The other side has a terrace of old dwellings squeezed together, some with Dutch-billy gables, others with shopfronts on the ground floor.

I knocked at the door of one of the houses. After a moment, a bright voice approached inside the hallway, and then my sister Cecilia opened the door wide. She still spoke to someone over her shoulder, so didn’t notice me at once. Her hair was loosely pinned beneath a maid’s cap with a lace trim.

When she turned, she searched my face for a couple of seconds, and her right hand came across to rest on the door’s edge. ‘John, I hardly recognized you.’

I stroked my chin. ‘I’m letting my beard grow out.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s not it.’

Then, as if it only just occurred to her, she stepped forward and embraced me precisely. I was about to hug back, but she straightened and held me at arm’s length.

I said, ‘I like your hat.’

She smiled at that, and it may as well have been the face that peered at me across the dining table, trying not to giggle while our father said grace. She reached up and unpinned the maid’s cap. ‘We’re doing some spring-, well, autumn-cleaning.’ Footsteps in the hall caused her smile to fade, and she glanced backwards.

A stocky housekeeper holding a rag and jar of brass polish descended the stairs. She openly craned her head past Cecilia to look at me.

‘My brother has arrived unexpectedly, Sally. Could you bring us some tea upstairs?’

The woman looked down at her cloth, as if a break from her chore was an inconvenience, nodded brusquely and disappeared.

Cecilia led the way up a cramped staircase to the drawing room and sat in an armchair beside the fireplace, which was set in a diagonal chimney breast in the corner. I pulled at the lid of a piano just inside the door, expecting it to be locked, but it swung upwards on its hinges. A booklet of sheet music drooped open on the stand.

‘Are you learning to play?’

‘No. The piano came with the house, though Charles plays it occasionally.’

I opened my fingers in a V and played two ivory notes at random. They didn’t harmonize.

‘Not so loud. He was at a ball last night and didn’t get home till late.’

‘You didn’t go?’

She hadn’t been feeling up to it.

I replaced the lid. On top of the piano, a few framed pictures sat in a row unaligned. One of them was the mounted silhouette of my mother. I reached towards it, but its support was faulty, and the heavy frame slipped on to its back with a clatter, causing the piano strings to hum.

‘Sorry.’

‘Will you not come and sit down?’

I nodded and picked my way to an empty armchair. ‘It’s a lovely house, Cecilia.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Very cosy.’

She looked at me more closely to see if I made sport. ‘Charles’s parents are coming to visit in a few days. That’s why we’re sprucing it up.’

‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘The dreaded in-laws.’

She smiled, but then seemed to recall the relationship I had with my own, and looked away. A package wrapped in brown paper rested on a side table. I ran my finger over its hard, lumpy edge, then picked it up to examine closer. It turned out to be a stock of lead bullets.

Cecilia watched me handle the parcel. ‘How is Helen?’

‘She’s fine. In good health. She continues to write her novels.’ I put the bullets down. ‘They’re coming along very well.’

It was disconcerting to see items from my childhood: cushions on the sofa that Cecilia had sewn when she was a girl; the painted terrestrial globe that once sat in my father’s chamber; the garish oriental rug that lay in our front parlour.

A young maid entered, and we both sat silently while she laid out the tea. When she left, I said to Cecilia, ‘I’ve gone back to Trinity to get my degree.’

‘Oh good.’

‘Yes, though the fees are very high.’

Cecilia staked her wet spoon in the bowl. ‘What have you been doing for money?’

For a fleeting moment, I considered telling her. ‘I’ve found some work here and there to match my talents. But you know how it is.’

She nodded and another silence developed. Then she turned her head towards the writing desk. ‘I meant to say, I received a letter from Alex.’

She went to the desk, opened a drawer and withdrew an envelope. The letter consisted of two sheets, but only one had writing on both sides. Several of the lines had been expunged with neat black strokes. Before I could comment Cecilia said, ‘That’s how it arrived. The war office must have seen it first. I can’t imagine what he wrote that would have to be concealed.’

My eyes flitted over some of the uncensored passages. Alex wrote the usual account of life at the front: the long days of inaction followed by bursts of excitement; the constant wariness of infection; the incessant search for wood in order to make fires and brew tea – anything was used, the stocks from old rifles, the sides of broken stretchers. And interspersed were expurgated sentences hidden under ribbons of black ink. I held the letter up against the light in case a hint of the writing could be seen beneath. But the clerk in the war office had been commendably thorough.

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s a mystery.’ I put the pages aside. ‘Cecilia, I came here because I need a loan.’

She stayed still for a moment, then retrieved the letter from the table and folded it back into its envelope.

I said we both knew the inheritance I’d received was practically worthless. I had done my best to find employment to support myself, Helen and our household, but now that I was back in college, that was more difficult. ‘Helen and I live very frugally. Ten pounds would see us through to the new year.’

A door opened and closed in the floors above, and there were heavy footsteps on the landing. I expected to hear them descend the staircase, but after a few moments all was quiet once more.

I said, ‘I’d prefer it if Charles didn’t know about this.’

She went to replace the letter in her writing desk, and I followed her into the middle of the room. As she brought the shutter down on the bureau, her back was turned for a few seconds.

She said, ‘Charles isn’t on active service so he’s only receiving half-pay. I’m afraid I couldn’t lend you ten shillings, John, let alone ten pounds.’

‘And yet you’ve enough to employ two servants.’

Her face darkened. ‘How we spend our money is not your concern.’

There were more footsteps in the floor above. This time they sounded in the stairwell.

‘I’m sorry, Cecilia. I shouldn’t have asked.’ I stood for a moment with my hands in my pockets. ‘I’d better be getting back.’

‘I could speak with Charles. Arrange for you both to meet. Perhaps—’

‘No, I don’t want that.’ I forced a smile. ‘I’m being silly. Helen and I will manage just fine.’

Before she could speak again, the door opened and Captain Dickenson entered. His shirt-tails hung loose from his waistband, and the ends of his moustache had been waxed into points. He paused when he saw us standing in the middle of the room. ‘John,’ he said. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

‘Charles. I’m sorry for calling in unannounced. I happened to be passing by.’

‘Not at all. You’re always welcome.’ He smiled at Cecilia.

My sister hesitated, then said, ‘Actually, John wished—’

‘No, it’s fine.’ The mantel clock’s chime for midday came as a relief. ‘I was just leaving. I must get back to Helen.’

Cecilia took a step forward. ‘But, John …’

I was already walking towards the hall door. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ I stopped at the entrance and looked back. ‘I’ll write soon, Cecilia.’

With that, I slipped down the stairs, past the housekeeper, who was polishing the brass letter box, and out of the front door. I walked up Coppinger Row, turned the corner, and only then withdrew the item concealed in my jacket pocket: the silhouette of my mother in its solid silver frame.

I immediately went to a shop in Exchequer Street. Three metal balls painted gold hung suspended beside a sign that read, ‘Money advanced on plate and jewellery, items of apparel, and every type of property’, beneath the name ‘Clifford & Son’.

The shop-room was low and gloomy. A counter spanned the back wall, divided into three booths by wooden partitions. Mr Clifford and his son each dealt with a customer. Clifford senior examined a gold necklace with a magnifying glass, the chain drooping between his fingers. The younger broker spoke with a woman who clutched a bundle of ball gowns. He held each one up by its hanger to judge the design and quality of the cloth, as if choosing a gift for his wife.

I stood near the counter to wait my turn. The shop was cluttered with heirlooms and keepsakes brought in by their owners as collateral for loans, and now abandoned. One table contained assorted chinaware with chipped rims and faded patterns, and a wooden box filled with pocket watches jumbled together. Above that, several heart-shaped lockets hung suspended by different lengths of chain. Each of them was clasped shut and I wondered if any still hid miniature portraits of young lovers.

When my turn came, I handed Clifford the picture for appraisal. I knew the frame was of good quality. The moulding was solid and weighty, made of hallmarked silver decorated with delicate scrolling by the silversmith Thomas Meade. My father once pointed out his initials stamped on the back.

Clifford’s eyes swept over the frame for a second, and then he looked at me closely. ‘I don’t want this,’ he said, returning it to the counter. ‘You’re trying to fence it.’

He wrote a note in his ledger, as if our business was concluded.

‘I can assure you this picture has been in my family’s possession for decades.’

The broker’s pen stilled, and he seemed to reconsider. Perhaps he was swayed by my accent, though that was easily mimicked. More likely his job made him adept at spotting liars. And what I said was strictly true.

But then he shook his head. ‘No, you’ll have to take it elsewhere. If you really owned that you’d have hocked it months ago.’

I picked up the frame and regarded it. There had to be a way to prove ownership.

Once when I was a child in Fitzwilliam Street, I played a simple game of tag with my brother in our father’s study. Alex chased me round and round the desk; occasionally he would stop abruptly and reverse course, and I had to prevent myself from running into his simple trap. During the game, I brushed the picture and it tumbled to the floorboards. The thin glass pane covering the silhouette shattered.

Our mother happened to be on the landing and she came in. She strode over to pick up the damaged frame, visibly upset. I stood to one side, knowing I would surely be punished once my father found out. She regarded us both in turn, then daintily picked out a shard that had stuck in the surround, and said perhaps our father wouldn’t notice. It was only a piece of glass after all. She told Alex to fetch the dustpan.

While he was gone, she undid the small clasps at the rear of the picture, removed the stiff brown backing, and then tipped the card into her hand. She turned the leaf over and showed me the reverse, which was bare with mottled specks of grime. In one corner there was a small inscription in pencil.

My mother said she’d written it for my father just after they were married, and before Alex was born. She hadn’t seen it in ten years.

The handwriting was neat and precise, but I couldn’t decipher the joined-up letters. She traced her finger lightly over the message as she read. When she finished, I looked up at her. A strange expression had come over her face, though I couldn’t describe it then, and memory is too fickle to judge it now. She was reflective at least, wistful, perhaps melancholic. She smiled when she noticed me gazing at her, and her face returned to normal.

I said to the pawnbroker, ‘There’s an inscription on the reverse of the portrait.’

‘You could have seen that any time.’

‘Just look.’

He frowned at me, but then unfastened the backing and took out the card. He took his magnifying glass and examined the bottom corner.

I recited from memory. ‘It says, “Henceforward, I am forever yours, Clara, May 1817.”’

One of his eyes scrunched shut; the pores on his cheek were made large by the looking glass. He nodded. ‘That’s indeed what it says.’

‘She was my mother, Clarissa Delahunt.’

‘If only she could see you now.’

Before I could reply he said, ‘Do you want to sell it to me, or pawn it?’

His slender fingers were leaving streaks on the familiar silver surround. I changed my mind. ‘Pawn.’

‘Very well.’ We discussed the value of the loan. I was never good at haggling, and besides, now that I intended to buy the frame back, it seemed wise to keep the price low. Clifford charged a rate of 20 per cent. If I returned in a month’s time with the principal plus interest, I could have it back, otherwise he would sell it in the shop. He wrote a docket in duplicate, and we signed each other’s copy.

Clifford counted out the money, then handed me the silhouette, which was still out of the frame. ‘Better take this now,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’

Usually at this time I’d still be in the Repeal Society rooms in college, but I decided to make my way home via Moore Street. I meandered through the market stalls buying ingredients for a beef stew, then stopped at Meyler’s on Great Britain Street for two bottles of wine: a cheap one to braise the beef, a less cheap one for Helen and me. A slow-cooked stew would do her good. Even if she couldn’t eat the meat, the broth would be warm and wholesome.

But when I arrived home Helen was gone. Her chair had been neatly pushed in beneath the writing desk, and the coathook was bare. The clothes still hung from the washing line in the middle of the room, except one dress was missing. I felt one of the other petticoats. It was still slightly damp.

If she had gone out dressed in wet clothes then she could get pneumonia. I thought for a moment. Or was it rheumatism? I pictured her wandering Dublin’s streets like Ophelia, with uncombed hair and mismatched clothes, making peculiar enquiries of passers-by, becoming transfixed by the shimmer of sunlight in a puddle, or stumbling unaware beneath clattering hooves. There was nothing for it. I fastened my coat and went to look for her.