Time After Time Read online

  April looked at his hand with satisfaction. “Oh, he’s drawn blood. Mum’s own Tiger. Who looks after Mum? Whose does? Zooze does.”

  “Give me back my pen and get out of this kitchen, both of you.”

  “Who’s afraid of the wee-twee wolf –” she swayed towards the door – “you utter stinker!” She retreated in language to the schoolroom. “What’s more, this kitchen’s filthy – just a dungeon for dysentery.”

  Holding her dog to her heart and skirting the kitchen debris with a sort of mournful delicacy, April left the room and went up the stone staircase leading to the ground floor of the house. The curious thing was that the smell on this floor was rather worse than its origins in the kitchen. The old breath of human dinners and dogs’ dinners, chickens’ and pigs’ dinners too, combined with cats’ earths and dogs’ favourite urinals, all clung to the air like grey hairs in a comb.

  April had grown accustomed to her tolerant disgust with most things in life except herself. Resigned and lazy in her private world of deafness, she sailed now, lone as a moon, past and beyond tall mahogany doors to drawing-room, library, morning-room, without a thought of turning a brass drop handle or looking for company. Only, on the landing beneath a window where the staircase paused, turned and went on up, the shadow of a memory, from years that lapsed into nowhere, refused denial. She still saw, rather than heard, the footsteps tearing down the long flight from the top landing. Leaning over the upper bannister rail, dressed for that summer ball, she had watched and agonized for darling Leda, her cousin from Austria, her best friend. Leda’s hysteria had been aroused by Mummie’s surprising refusal to bring her with April to the ball. A partner had failed. “In any case you aren’t out yet,” Mummie had said with chill decision.

  Standing there, in that previous time, April had seen Daddy waiting while Leda clattered and leapt down, half-dressed – her great white dirndl skirts with their ribboned hems flouncing and billowing behind her: the knob of yellow hair drifting from its hairpins, strands smeared to her cheeks by tears; red shoes jumping and balancing and never stopping until she sprang, like a leaping cat, into Daddy’s arms. And Daddy, always so distant and unloving, held her closely. Were they whispering? April could not tell.

  To remember Leda was to be in two worlds, the earliest that of childhood – Leda’s accounts of life in Vienna were vivid and bright as Christmas cards. With her you sped down ski-runs, you skated while waltzes played, you drank hot chocolate through floating cream. Winter came, but it never rained in Vienna as it did so obstinately at Durraghglass.

  Leda’s strange, pretty clothes which Mummie disapproved of and Leda wore with such panache, came, not from D. H. Evans, but from Vienna, “city of dreams”, where Daddy’s wild sister, Star, had married … unfortunately not a Count nor even a gentleman. He owned a restaurant, a very famous one. But his name was not often spoken at Durraghglass or other country houses. It was Jewish.

  When they were nearly grown-up Leda paid another visit. April was too lazy to admit the possibility that she still came – a perpetual ghost of happiness. That summer Leda had just left her larky finishing school in Paris, and April her sober family in Basle. Happily set apart from their juniors, they whispered together, sighed for unspoken blisses, screamed with laughter at new unseemly jokes (better in French). Romantic novels (Strangers May Kiss) were under their pillows at night and locked in blue leather writing-cases by day.

  “Nevermore” – the word belonged to Leda. She was as unreal now as any old dancer in a forgotten ballet, and as sad. Why harry remembrance for her? Half-Jewish and married to a Jew, she perished in some cold unnamed camp, most likely. Who wants sordid details? Better leave Leda’s face as indistinct as a drowned face seen under water. It was simpler, too, to ignore that grey question about Daddy and Leda. It had nothing to do with his death. Shooting accidents can happen to the most experienced men.

  In her seventy-fourth year April possessed a fortunate forgetfulness of youth and its strivings with happiness and sorrow. Now she found (or invented for herself) practical importances which fully occupied her mind and her days. Preserving her looks from the hungry years; maintaining her position as the only married – if widowed – member of her virgin family; keeping her secrets; holding her comforts close and her money carefully gave her objects enough about which to think and plan. Grossly over-familiar with the house and the lives it enclosed, she had an absolute refuge where she could scheme out her activities and ignore the penalties of her deafness. She was the eldest. Her bedroom looked south. She put Tiger down gently, unlocked the door, and followed the cheerful little dog inside. Her key turned again in the lock, and from the wide passage-way her door looked as obdurate as the door of any cell.

  Irritated and shaken once again into the state of annoyance in which April’s absurdities cancelled out any appreciation of her looks or sympathy for her deafness, Jasper was bending over the kitchen sink (quite a grand affair in stainless steel), pinching the pin-prick bite in his thumb under the cold tap, when his youngest sister, Baby June, appeared: a further worrying interruption.

  Baby June came from the farmyard. She wore two old Husky jackets, jeans and gum-boots and a beret as round as a penny. She had stayed Baby June all the sixty-four years of her life on account of her tiny size. There was nothing babyish about her. She could do the work of two men on the place and loved doing it. Her eyes were a pale jackdaw blue with whites as bright as a flag. She was the shape and weight of a retired flat race jockey – too heavy for her height. In her day she had been the terror and success of every point-to-point meeting in the South of Ireland.

  June approached Jasper without much confidence. She worked for him and for Durraghglass day-long, and year in and year out, as diligently as though she expiated guilt of some kind. She did too. She could never forget the hurt she had inflicted. But, secretly, she was happy. Happiness steals through you.

  “What happened to the poor hand?” she asked.

  He didn’t tell her. “April was here, hysterical as usual.”

  She looked at his hand again. “I thought I heard Tiger letting a roar out of him.” She was the only Swift who spoke like the people. There had been no English school for her. No one could teach her to read.

  “You heard April screaming, I expect. I forgot her Librium.”

  “Oh, Jasper, the poor thing! To tell you the truth, I took a couple of tablets myself.”

  “You did?”

  “My poor Sweetheart is having such a nasty labour.”

  “Librium for farrowing sows? You’ll drive me insane between you. How did you know I had a reserve? I forget where I put it myself.”

  “In the Colman’s mustard tin. I knew you kept a few back.”

  “It saves driving nine miles to O’Keefe’s if April runs out.”

  “You’ld never spare me another couple for Sweetheart?”

  “No. Try her with an aspirin.”

  “Don’t joke, Jasper. Remember it’s her first litter. How would you feel? Imagine now, how you’ld feel yourself.”

  “Of course I know just how I’ld feel. Oh, do go back to Sweetheart, Baby, and let me get on with cooking dinner.”

  “Christy Lucey’s with her. He put a blanket on her and said four decades.”

  “About all he’s good for – more utterly useless every day, every hour. And you spoil him.”

  “What’s for the dinner?”

  “Pigeon pie.”

  She looked doubtfully at the birds on the kitchen table. “Won’t they be a bit on the tough side?”

  “Yes. I hope they choke you all.”

  “Oh, aren’t you naughty?” She wandered out.

  Mollified by solitude, Jasper wondered for a dull moment how it was that so utterly silly a woman and so small a person was able to drive a tractor; deliver a calf; perhaps, if absolutely necessary, kill a lamb. He had seen her glittering, satisfied eyes after an assistance at some birth, blood on her hands and on her clothes. The thought of her ver
satile abilities, while he accepted their usefulness, made him shudder. He never suspected that her devotion to Durraghglass was not entirely the quick and mainspring of her life. They knew almost less than nothing about each other.

  With the acceptance lent by hindsight Jasper saw the place as it used to be, fully staffed in house and gardens and farm, losing money year upon year while a full social life continued undisturbed. He could still see four different puddings displaying themselves on a side table before a Sunday luncheon party, and sweet peas arranged by May in two silver baskets. His mother invited pretty daughters of the County to excite his fancy. They frightened him and he bored them. Besides, he could sense their curiosity about what nastiness went on behind his black eyepatch. He loved only his mother. … darling roly-poly Mummie – always wore violet (her colour), and a mauve hat for luncheon parties on Sundays or before Clonmel Hound Show. Occasionally the judges came to luncheon and when that happened the mixed grill was superlative. Sometimes now he would make one for his own lonely pleasure – his midnight feast a secret from those inquisitive sisters. He sighed, both in retrospect and anticipation, for at least he was greedy – memories of the delicious food of other days were romance to him.

  Those were the young, lazy days when widowed Mummie held the reins at Durraghglass, her courage and competence legendary now. Then Jasper had no further responsibilities than a pretence at the life of a country gentleman. For him a day’s shooting or a day’s fishing was far preferable, in its season, to a day’s hunting. When Mummie died (too young and too cruelly) death duties depleted the whole structure of Durraghglass, and afterwards a miasma of overdraft and mismanagement abetted Mummie’s wishes, holding brother and sisters captive for year past forgotten year, locked in inviolable small conflicts and old adventures.

  Sighing still, Jasper picked up another pigeon and ripped away quietly at the myriad breast feathers. No need to pluck the wings and legs. He would discard these, of course, treats for Mister Minkles and his wives. A righteous feeling of peace and busyness in creation came over him. Everything to do with the pie was forming a quiet importance for him when May came in. He disliked her, perhaps, a little more than the other two sisters put together.

  “Quelle odeur – what a smell!” She arrived, as usual, on a tide of protest. “Grips – Gripper – ’ware cat! ’ware cat!” Gripper was a miniature Jack Russell terrier.

  “Pick him up for God’s sake.”

  “No. It’s discipline. SIT. Did I say SIT! Good boy! What is that smell?”

  “Hearts boiling for all your damn dogs, if you must know.”

  “Rotten, too. Why not open a window? The whole house is steaming.”

  “Open it yourself. No, don’t. I must think about my cat. Traps up and he’ll wander.”

  “Why can’t you have that animal fixed and be done with it?”

  “Why not castrate your own dog? Embarrassing little displayer.”

  “Don’t be so squeamish – and that cat box is quite scandalous. Weeks of filth. Flies. Diarrhoea for all.”

  “Look – I’m only just back from Wednesday’s shopping. Give me time.”

  “Time? Organisation, that’s what’s missing. I’ve been to Ballinkerry twice already today. Once for the Countrywomen’s Association, back again for the Flower Arrangers. I’m their President, after all.”

  “Yes. Poor things.”

  “Now it’s almost the six o’clock news and I need Radio 4. I asked you to get my batteries. Did you get my batteries? One of us must keep up with world events.”

  “Keep up with the Archers is what you mean. Your batteries are in the bag with the light bulbs, and you own me £1.70.”

  “I owe you nothing of the sort. I put £2 in the House Pool after my win at Scrabble last Thursday. It’s in my account book – check if you like.”

  He knew she was right so he didn’t take the matter further.

  She rummaged deftly among his parcels. “They’re not with the light bulbs.”

  “Try the bag of cheeses.”

  “Yes. Got them. And what are you giving us tonight? Not those birds? Far too fresh – look – wing feathers tough as old rope.”

  “Dinner will be at nine o’clock.” His voice was icy – ice on the verge of starring and breaking through to black, angry waters.

  “Nine o’clock? Good show! Time to finish my tweed picture. Look out! Your cat’s got a pigeon. Gripper, leave it, sir! Leave it!”

  The noise that an angry, frightened dog and a furious, greedy cat can make together blazed hysterically through the kitchen, and May’s doggy-discipline voice rose to a wail: “Grippy, sweetie, come back to Mummie.” Only the Aga stayed calm, everything else vibrated until the warm air rifted apart. Fear was in the room. The two humans were afraid to interfere with Nature, Nature, red in its usual places; until May, recovering her nerve, seized a moment when Gripper was noisiest and furthest from the cat, to grab him up and praise his courage. Jasper’s hesitation in removing the pigeon from the possessive, growling cat did not escape her comment.

  “Same as ever, aren’t you? Baby June to civilize your pony, and who was sick before the Members’ Race? Afraid of your own cat, now!”

  “If you must look back forty years – who cried before every Hunt Ball? No-hope May – and now it’s china mending and tweed pictures and the Irish countrywomen’s floral club.” It was infamous of him to jeer at her skills and frenzied occupations. But he kept his eyes away from her gloved hands.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very, very much. At least I’ve got both my eyes –” there were tears of wounded fury in them. “Take care what you say to me. I know something you don’t know I know.”

  Jasper’s hands paused almost imperceptibly as he plucked. “I can talk or keep quiet too, remember,” he said, “so shut up, and let me get on with dinner.” He didn’t know what he was threatening her with.

  Left in mid-air for an answer, May hesitated. Could he know? Quite impossible. But she turned towards the door, accepting dismissal.

  So there must be something, Jasper thought. He had certainly lit on some small private guilt, too small even to guess at. Her suspicion of him had only touched a nerve for an instant. For what could be more secure than present business done with a Trappist monk? The Silent Order.

  * * *

  May walked briskly (youthfully was the way she thought of it) up the kitchen stairs. Gripper came behind her doing a faithful four-legged-friend imitation of her purposeful steps. She was hurrying away from what Jasper knew of her life and its unkind imperfection. Her teeth chattered like an angry squirrel’s when she allowed herself to think about that. She even preferred a snide cruelty like Jasper’s to the wonder, the admiration and the unspoken sympathy her skills provoked. May knew she was wonderful without anybody telling her so. It had been to please Mummie, to keep a special place with her that, as a child, she had worked so devotedly at her hand-writing and needlework, and had striven jealously to excel April in eating neatly, never dripping the softest boiled egg, or slopping the hottest cocoa. As she grew older, aware of conscious looks averted, she put intense effort into achieving every skill possible to her in Hand Crafts. Her flower arrangements were balanced and poised past perfection. Prizes fell automatically to her tweed pictures. They were the neatest, prettiest works of art imaginable and sold like hot cakes at Church Sales and other important festivals. She could stuff a doll, she could trim out a dog. She never asked anybody to do up a button or zip up a dress for her. She was adept at making chamois-leather gloves, adjusting the patterns for herself, and making others as Christmas presents for her friends – inexpensive and ever welcome. Nothing was beyond her will to prove super-normal dexterity. Some enterprises trembled on a thrilling, scarifying knife-edge between success and disaster. “Of course, I’m a very fulfilled person” – she was fond of saying this to herself. That was what she was saying now, blotting out the ugly moment with Jasper.

  She waited, sniffing distastefully in t
he long smelly hall, before she opened the nearest of the two high doors of the drawing-room where, beneath the dark gilt fringes of an early Chippendale mirror she would create a Chinese arrangement with the grey-green catkins, Garrya eliptica and early white narcissi – quite an oeuvre, she expected it to be.

  The drawing-room, its four windows facing back towards the north and the mountains, was tall and cold – the narcissi, soaking in a bucket, hardly made their scent known on the air. To make quite sure of her privacy May turned the long keys in the locks of both doors. Then, before starting work on her flower arrangement, she loosened her glove, the better to deal with stripping leaves and balancing stems and branches. She looked aside as she peeled off the glove. She had never grown used to the sight of the hand she had been born with. It needed three and a half more fingers to complete it.

  Jasper’s cat, having eaten as much as he was able of the pigeon, returned to the breadboard where he sat at his ease, making the noises of a sated tiger. “All right, sit there if it gives you the smallest pleasure,” Jasper spoke in a different voice from the nipped-in tone of patient or impatient dislike provoked from him by his sisters. His love for that fierce cat and his predecessors set free in him a benison of indulgence, objectless since little Mummie’s death. Seated on the breadboard within the wreath of carved wheatears, Mister Minkles not only supplied an object for Jasper’s affection and carefulness, he embodied his enduring defiance of those sisters with their clinical, dainty ideas. They were afraid of Mister Minkles, afraid for themselves as well as for their dogs. Not one of them would have dared to lift him off the breadboard. Jasper looked his respect for his cat without touching him. Then he opened an oven door of the Aga to hold his arthritic hands in its level heat. Cooking, cats, and the nurture of exotic shrubs had for a long time provided the shields and defences behind which he evaded interference with his thoughts or his days. No present importance equalled the dream and the possibility which the near future held – a possibility about which his sisters were happily ignorant.