The Tour (38 page)

The twins were also dressed handsomely – Juliet in the simple christening robe that had been used to baptise at least four generations of Buckleys, and James in an identical robe made for the occasion by Mrs Canty. Both babies were wrapped in elaborately embroidered white blankets.

Mrs Canty told Solange she had overheard Richard and Edith arguing about the christening robes. Edith had wanted to order new ones from some French couturier based in Dublin but for once Richard had put his foot down. Every Buckley baby was baptised in the family gown and the twins were not going to be an exception. Mrs Canty delighted in telling the tale of how ‘The One’ – as Edith was unflatteringly called by her – got her comeuppance.

Richard made two trips in the car that day: the first, bringing Mrs Canty and her husband and a silent Edith to the church; the next, to collect Solange and the twins. As Solange entered the church with a baby in each arm, she felt the eyes of at least a hundred people upon her. Perhaps she imagined it, but it seemed as if they were more interested in her than in the babies. Edith and Richard sat side by side in the front pew, not touching, and next to them sat Dr Bateman and his wife, who were standing as the children’s godparents. Once again Solange was struck by the peculiar ways of the Irish. These people were offering to be the babies’ guardians in the event of their parents’ death, yet here in the church on the morning of their christening was the first time they had ever even seen them.

Dr Bateman had called late on the morning of the birth to ensure Edith was well and that she had delivered safely. He had complimented Solange on her professionalism and when she had asked would he like to examine the babies, he had stated that he was quite sure they were in excellent hands between her and their father, and promptly left. He had not appeared in Dunderrig since.

The babies were duly baptised and afterwards Richard invited a select group of people – friends and family, Solange assumed – to the Eldon Hotel in Skibbereen for lunch. He’d pleaded with her the night before to come to the lunch but she had refused. Edith wouldn’t want her there – she was staff now, whether Richard liked it or not, and it wouldn’t have been appropriate.

Chapter 3

R
ichard sat beside the fire in his study thinking about his wife. She had been bored and disparaging ever since her arrival at Dunderrig. He had hoped that the twins would soften her heart, but it hadn’t happened. He tried to pinpoint the time when she had turned into this cold, snobbish person.

She had been such a beautiful, quiet, serene kind of girl. Such a restful person to be around, that he had decided only two weeks after meeting her at that hospital dance in England that she was the girl for him. He wasn’t much of a dancer but Jeremy had convinced him to have a night out. They had almost finished their training in Beauford Hospital, in Bristol, and Jeremy was planning to join up as soon as he qualified. There was a girl that Jeremy had had his eye on all week and he was determined to have a crack at her. Richard was used to his friend falling for a new girl every few days; he also knew Jeremy would not let him rest until he agreed to accompany him to the dance. It was easier just to give in.

Richard had never had much success with girls. He had always envisaged himself married but the process of becoming so seemed a bit of a mystery. There were a few girls at home in Dunderrig who were chatty and seemed friendly but he was painfully shy and clammed up whenever a girl approached him. Since meeting Jeremy, it had become even harder for him to meet anyone – the girls were always dazzled by his handsome and vivacious friend, while he himself faded into the background.

He had seen Edith straight away when he walked in. He had plucked up the courage to speak to her after he heard her ordering a cup of tea in an Irish accent. She had been visiting an elderly relative in Bristol and had been convinced to attend the dance by her cousin. They danced several times that night and Richard was sure he had never seen a girl as beautiful. They had gone to tea the following day and for a walk afterwards. She seemed to be happy to discuss issues of the day but rarely answered a direct question, and made very few demands on him emotionally; often they just strolled in comfortable silence.

Yet on their fifth date, as they walked through the Clifton area of Bristol, he had inquired about her parents. And after some hesitation, she had told him that her mother had died when she was still a child, and that her father had become everything to her. Then, after much prompting, she told him her father’s story. He had been a professor of English and History in University College Dublin, who regularly spoke out against the horrendous living conditions endured by the working classes. He had supported Jim Larkin in encouraging the workers’ strike of 1913, and had been addressing a rally when a riot erupted between the crowd and the police. Badly injured in the ensuing melee, he had died a week later of his wounds.

The normally serene Edith became visibly upset as she spoke, and he realised then how difficult it was for her to discuss such emotional issues. There had been minimal physical contact between them up to that point but there, in the middle of the street, he had held her in his arms and comforted her. That was the turning point; she was so vulnerable and beautiful, and he decided he wanted to take care of her always.

After that initial fortnight in Bristol, they arranged to stay in touch when Edith returned to Dublin. He was working hard in the hospital, gaining experience before deciding his next move. He’d always intended returning to Dunderrig and taking over the practice from his father, but the old doctor wasn’t yet ready to retire and besides, meeting Edith had made him rethink. She seemed very settled in Dublin and so, after a few months of letters, and an occasional meeting, he had accepted a locum position in Kingstown. Edith had been so pleased. He had proposed in Stephen’s Green and she had agreed happily. He smiled ruefully at the memory. Nothing he did seemed to please her these days.

Those days in Dublin seemed a lifetime ago now. Edith had been happy and busy then; she had continued her interest in matters political, and he was so absorbed in his work that he was only glad she had a wide circle of friends to keep her occupied. Many of them were well-known literary and political figures – people who had known her father. Occasionally they came to the house for dinner or drinks; yet while Richard did his best, he found their conversation about the Irish cause a little wearisome. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but these academics and writers seemed so far removed from the common people they purported to represent. He contributed very little to these conversations and he knew his lack of enthusiasm embarrassed Edith. They never argued, but he remembered one such dinner at a grand house in Ballsbridge, when he’d explained to an artist sitting on his left that while Irish independence was of course something to aspire to, it wasn’t worth one drop of blood. He said that negotiation and dialogue was the only way, and that he hoped a peaceful solution could be found.

He would never forget the looks from their fellow diners; it was if he’d just said something incredibly rude or vulgar. Edith was furious with him and didn’t speak to him all the way home. From them on he didn’t attend those dinners – much to the relief of them both. They rubbed along well together, while not seeing too much of each other.

And that was where everything would have stayed, had he not received that letter from Jeremy describing the conditions in the hospital in Amiens. It was not in the true Jeremy style: his letters were usually about his passion for the gorgeous Solange. Before he’d convinced her to marry him, he had regularly asked Richard’s opinion about how to get her to see him as someone serious, rather than a playboy. Richard found the idea of Jeremy asking
him
for advice ridiculous. Jeremy was the one who could talk to women. He himself could barely manage a romantic relationship with his own wife.

This latest letter was in a different vein, however, as Jeremy described the kind of injuries the young men at the front were sustaining and how supplies and staffing levels were woefully inadequate. He wrote too of the horrors suffered by so many Irishmen in the bloodbath of the Somme – many of them from the Munster Fusiliers regiment, from Richard’s native west Cork. Suddenly, the idea of going to France, making a difference and helping his own countrymen seemed the logical thing to do. He asked his parents if Edith could live with them in Dunderrig while he was in France, and they agreed at once. The idea that his wife would refuse never crossed his mind.

‘No,’ she said calmly, when he had finished.

‘No? No to what? To Dunderrig? Look Edith, I know you have your friends here, but I can’t leave you here alone and unprotected.’

‘It’s true that I do not want to go to Dunderrig. My life is here. I am helping, doing something worthwhile, something my father would be proud of. But nor do I want you putting on a British uniform and fighting for their King.’ She spoke slowly, but with steeliness to her tone he had never heard before.

‘But Edith, my dear, I won’t be fighting. I’m a doctor. I will be working in a hospital. Tending to the wounded. I don’t have any political opinions about it; I simply want to help. It’s Irish boys are out there too you know, thousands of them. Please try to understand, I love you, but I have to go. And while I’m gone, I want you to be safe.’ He was aware he was pleading.

She looked as if she was weighing up whether or not to continue. Her voice held a bitterness he’d never heard from her before. ‘Yes, Richard. There are thousands of Irishmen fighting. Thousands of traitors to their own country. If they were so anxious to fight for something, then why not here, on their own soil, for their own people? You know how I feel about the British, and everything they stand for. Their puppet police murdered my father. Murdered him, Richard, for having the courage to speak out. I cannot support you putting that uniform on your back. Frankly, I’m shocked that you would even consider it. The Rising might have ended in disaster, but we are not beaten. Already we are working on getting our men out of British gaols and when they come home, I want to be here, in Dublin.
Here
is where you should be, looking after your own, not risking your life and wasting your skills in a country that has nothing to do with us. I am asking you, as your wife, not to do this.’

Richard felt as if he were seeing her for the first time – he had been so busy with the practice, he hadn’t realised how deeply she had become involved with the volunteers. Since the Rising the previous Easter, the city had been on tenterhooks. It seemed to him now that her support of an Irish republic could only get her into trouble, and that it was more important than ever that she relocate to the peaceful backwater of Dunderrig while he was away in France and unable to protect her.

He tried at first to reason with her: ‘Edith, I do understand your loyalty to your father. He was an honourable and brave man but really, this is no environment for a woman, let alone one whose husband is away. I love you and I want you to be safe. Please try to understand my reasons for going. I don’t agree with war – I hate it, in fact – but medicine is not about ideology. The boys and men who are suffering need me to help them. I’m sorry you are unhappy, but I must insist that you go to Dunderrig. I would be out of my mind with worry were you to stay here.’

She looked at him with disgust, and from that moment on she rebuffed all efforts he made to be conciliatory. They had driven to Dunderrig in silence a few weeks later and everything he said was greeted with monosyllabic responses. His parents went to great lengths to make their daughter-in-law welcome, yet Edith showed them the same level of disdain she now did Richard. His father had taken him aside and questioned him: What was the matter, had they done something wrong? Richard didn’t wish to explain. He simply said that Edith would need to get used to country living, and that would take time – he was sure they would be a comfort to Edith, and she to them. Then, with a heavy heart, he set sail for England.

FOR RICHARD, THE WAR
passed in a haze of noise and blood. There was nothing glorious or noble about it, just the daily – and nightly – grind of trying to patch together the broken bodies with which he was constantly presented. He tried to get home on leave to see Edith, but he’d only managed it twice. He wrote long letters, but she replied only with short notes – answering all questions he asked her, but with absolutely no warmth. Still, she had met with unexpected enthusiasm the news that he was coming home on leave in the May of 1918, and announced she was coming to Dublin to meet him off the boat. He half-suspected his wife was more interested in seeing Dublin than in seeing him. He had heard from his mother that she often travelled up to the city, staying with friends overnight. He supposed there was no harm in it. It must be dull for a young woman to be stuck in a house with his elderly parents and no-one her own age to befriend. He knew some of his old school friends’ wives had made efforts to include her in their social circle, but it seemed she was still very much a Dublin girl. He told himself that when he returned home and the war was over, they would patch up their marriage, hopefully have children, and all would be well. By then she would have forgiven him.

They arranged to meet in the Bayview Hotel in Kingstown. They had often gone there for dinner in the early days of their marriage, so he hoped the location would rekindle their love. When Richard arrived at the hotel, around seven in the evening, he had expected to find her dressed for a night out. Instead, he was surprised to be greeted by his wife wearing a negligee and even more delighted to find her in an amorous mood. They’d made love quickly and silently. Richard would have liked to remain in bed with her, but she was determined that they go down to dinner. She never asked about his life in France. A group of her friends were waiting for them in the dining room. Hiding his disappointment, he made light conversation; his wife had taken up smoking and kept abandoning him for the terrace of the sea-front hotel, yet he was so happy to see her animated and smiling again that he indulged her, and agreed to her suggestion that they stay in the hotel for a few more days before travelling to Dunderrig. Although his leave was suddenly cut short before he could get home to see his parents, he had returned to France with a lighter heart. In her next, very short letter she had told him she was pregnant. He was overjoyed, although worried that she herself expressed no pleasure in the news.