Another Kind of Life (35 page)

‘Thank you, Mary.’

The young woman smiled and nodded, and May liked the honesty and kindness she could read in her open features.

Hannah took her sister by the hand.

‘Will you ask Nurse to bring the baby to us in the drawing room, Mary?’

May only half heard Mary’s response, half caught the echo of the strong Belfast accent which was suddenly familiar to her again. Instead, she was looking around her in delight. In front of
her was a dark mahogany double door, its solid panels lightened by the presence of large panes of stained glass. The vivid, glassy blues and reds and yellows brightened the wide hallway into which
Hannah now led her. An imposing staircase lay to their right, and pieces of classical sculpture nestled in the curved niches to either side. Hannah’s last home in Stewarts Place had been
nothing like this.

‘Hannah, what a beautiful house!’

Hannah opened the door into the drawing room and turned back to smile at her sister.

‘It is, isn’t it? I’ll show you the rest later.’

The fire was lit and the room mellow in weak, February sunshine.

‘I don’t need to ask if you’re happy,’ May smiled at her sister, feeling as though she were suddenly the older one. Hannah seemed to have recovered all her old freshness
and contentment; May felt shadowy and embittered by comparison. She had a moment’s extreme envy – what she saw was a happy marriage, a baby, a beautiful home. All of the things which
she had been so close to having for herself. And now she had nothing; it had all slipped away.

There was a soft tap at the door and an elderly woman entered, carrying what appeared to be a fat bundle of blankets. She handed the bundle to Hannah and murmured something about tea.

‘Of course! How stupid of me. And ask Mary for some scones, too, will you? Thank you, Nurse.’

May had stood up at once and was gazing at the doll-like face surrounded by a lacy, frilly cap.

‘Take her,’ said Hannah.

May held the baby close, feeling some of the ache of recent months drain away as she watched the barely perceptible sucking movements of the small mouth, the tiny flailings of the perfect
hands.

She couldn’t speak. She smiled at Hannah, her eyes full. Neither needed to say anything, and May was grateful for the silence.

May welcomed all the fuss and activity that surrounded the birth of her tiny niece. She was glad that such a small being had made everybody forget about her recent return from
France. She was able to pass it off easily, expressing her delight at being home, at her new role as godmother to baby Eileen. She was half relieved to learn that her activities were of very little
interest to anyone except her sisters, and marginally to Constance MacBride. No whisper of her fall from grace seemed to have crossed the sea with her. When this became apparent, she finally
allowed herself to believe that she need not be so anxious about being found out. She could not bear the thought of anyone probing what was still an open wound.

‘Treated you well, the Ondarts, did they, my dear?’

Constance MacBride had fixed May with her stern eyes a few days after her arrival at Hannah’s home. May froze. The old lady’s sharp eye, her face full of intelligent curiosity, made
May wonder if she suspected.

‘Yes, thank you, very well indeed,’ she had replied meekly, determined at first to give nothing away, filled with a sudden rush of feeling that she wanted done with the whole thing,
that she never wanted to think about it again. If she ceased to remember, she would cease to feel pain. Mrs MacBride, then her mother – these were the only interrogations she need fear. She
would not be drawn; she would show no sign of weakness.

‘Were you homesick, then? Is that what’s brought you back to us sooner than you’d planned?’

May made up her mind quickly. She looked around her, as though checking she could not be overheard. Constance MacBride’s eyes were instantly alight, and May knew that she had made the
right choice. The woman loved a good gossip, she was sure of it. She leaned closer.

‘I’m not to say – I’m sure you understand – some little trouble over business.’

The older woman gasped.

‘But I understood Ondart to be –
rock
solid!’

May hoped she hadn’t gone too far.

‘And I assure you, he still is. That’s why they had to go to Marseilles at once: Monsieur wanted to handle everything
personally
.’

The older woman nodded, grimly.

‘The only way. Time out of number, I said to my husband . . .’

May breathed a small, silent sigh of relief. It would appear she had hit the right note; now, perhaps, she would be left alone. Constance MacBride was in full verbal flight, happily rehearsing
all her certainties about life and business. She didn’t need an audience: the sound of her own voice delivering her favourite, familiar phrases was comfort enough for her. May sat with her
politely, nodding from time to time, reminded of the day of Hannah’s engagement. On that afternoon, they had all had to endure the heat and the boredom of the MacBrides’ drawing room:
but now she, May, was in her sister’s home. Perhaps she didn’t need to be so passively polite. She half listened to the torrent of recollections, waiting for the appropriate moment to
make her escape. She hoped the older woman was sufficiently indignant not to ask the obvious question: why had May not gone to Marseilles with them? And then she heard the words ‘. . . an
older son, I believe – did you ever meet him?’

May gave her full attention.

‘Monsieur Philippe, yes, I did meet him.’

Then she shook her head gravely.

‘Not at all like his father, I’m afraid.’

Constance MacBride nodded, satisfied.

‘That’s what I always thought. Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll say no more about it.’

Suddenly, May didn’t care. Time and distance would distort the truth anyway, if it were ever discovered, and now she wanted only to be with her family.

Richard arrived the night before the christening. He and Charles were distant cousins, close boyhood friends, and they had kept in touch throughout all of Charles’s years
at sea. Richard was five or six years younger than his cousin, May thought, and perhaps a degree or two poorer. Her first impression was of a big man, with thoughtful and deliberate movements. His
clothes looked ill at ease, as though they were not used to being worn; they hung, baggily, on his large frame. He had a shock of fair hair that kept falling across his forehead, and that he pushed
back from time to time, with a hand rough-veined and callused by hard work. He was a farmer, he told May that night over dinner. Not a gentleman farmer, he said with a smile at Charles, but a real
one, one who got his hands dirty and his boots muddy on a regular basis.

‘Aye – and never was there more truth to the phrase, “Happy as a pig in muck”!’ Charles teased him.

It was getting close to midnight, and May had watched as Charles became more and more expansive. Some of his hand gestures reminded her unwillingly of Monsieur Ondart, yet there was none of that
man’s ill humour here. She noted with amusement that Hannah had moved the decanter of wine just out of her husband’s reach. It had been done discreetly, but she had caught May catching
her and suppressed a smile with difficulty.

‘This man,’ Charles was saying, indicating Richard with a nod, ‘knows every blade of grass, every stone, and the peculiarities of every single animal at Abbotsford.’

He raised his glass.

‘Here’s to his father, who had the good sense to leave his land in such honest and capable hands.’

They raised their glasses.

‘If I may propose a toast now,’ said Richard, looking around the table. ‘To friends old and new, girl babies, and the honour of being . . . godparents.’

He said this last with a smile, turning to ask May’s permission with his eyes. She nodded, feeling strangely pleased to be included. She felt a welcome surge of freedom and ease as she sat
around this table. Nobody knew. Her secret was invisible, she could keep it for as long as she liked. Charles’s and Richard’s animated conversation all evening had amused and
entertained her: for the first time since she had met Philippe, she had a respite from extremes of emotion. She felt neither elated nor anguished. She was glad that Richard was such a calm and
easy-going man. She had been afraid that she would have to make huge efforts for Hannah’s sake, had dreaded meeting this distant relative from County Meath. It was a relief to find he was
such undemanding company. When all four rose to leave the table, it was well after one o’clock. May was surprised she didn’t feel more tired. In some strange way, Richard’s
presence had made the thought of her parents’ arrival the next morning easier to bear. The beginnings of the sense of peace she had felt earlier were still with her as she went to bed. It was
the first release from the torment of rejection which had made her fear, at times, for her sanity. She felt sleep creep up on her. She was suddenly deeply grateful to be home. France had never felt
quite so far away.

She knew she would never get over Philippe, not ever. But it was good to have the edge taken off everything, just for a little while.

Richard had to return to the farm immediately the christening was over.

‘I can’t leave my animals any longer,’ May heard him say to Charles, ‘the Duggans have their own place to look after as well. It wouldn’t be fair.’

May had been gathering empty dishes and bowls from the dining room, bringing them across the hallway to the kitchen where Mary was keeping a watchful eye on two young girls up to their elbows in
hot water. They could have been no more than thirteen, May thought with a pang, remembering the local girls brought in by Madame Ondart to help out at their weekend parties. May could still feel
that sense of exclusion, when it was simply understood that she would keep to the kitchens or to her room – anywhere she chose, as long as she stayed out of sight.

A few moments before, Charles and Richard had left the dining room together. Charles had opened the French windows and both men had stepped outside to light their pipes. They were standing at
the top of the little flight of stone steps that led down into the terraced garden. May had stood there earlier that afternoon, glad to be away from the crowded drawing room for a moment, enjoying
the blue glisten of the sea in the distance. Now she gathered up some more plates from the table and moved away from the open window in case it would appear that she had been eavesdropping. She
didn’t hear Charles’s muffled reply, but sensed that both men had descended further into the garden. She could no longer smell their tobacco-smoke.

She felt a vague sense of disappointment. She loved being here in Holywood, an instant part of Hannah’s household, helping her welcome Mama, Papa and Ellie; she loved being godmother to
baby Eileen, but the day of the christening had brought with it a deepening restlessness. She felt cast off, cut adrift from her own life, the one which she hadn’t fitted into yet. It was the
same feeling she had had in France, waiting for Philippe to decide what they, what
she
, was going to do next. She felt now that she had no talents: her French had improved during her nine
months away, but she was by no means fluent, not nearly good enough to teach. And she really did not want to go home to live with Mama and Papa again. Her longing to travel had brought her nothing
but unhappiness – she wished Grandfather Delaney were still alive, so that he could give her courage, tell her again that she could do anything if she put her mind to it. At eighteen, her
life had begun to feel very small and narrow, unlike those days when hopeful continents had opened up to her so many years ago in Grandfather’s study. The daring and piracy of Grace
O’Malley, the rejection of constraints by such intrepid travellers as Lady Craven and Annie Boyle Hore, the gentle, ladylike travels of her grandmother – all seemed very far away from
her now. Even her two sisters seemed far ahead of her. It seemed that Hannah’s earlier suffering was over – she looked happy, fulfilled. Papa and Mama had been right, after all. It was
also clear that Ellie was taking charge of her own life – she had whispered about wanting to train as a nurse, striking out on her own, swearing both her sisters to secrecy for the moment,
until the time was right.

She would do it, too. She had always had a determined, independent streak, ever since she was a small child. And May could see that she had grown and matured an amazing amount in the nine months
since they had last seen each other. Of all three sisters, it seemed that only the youngest was destined to be a New Woman, deciding her life for herself, supported by work and purpose. Everyone
was moving towards something new, something different, while she, May, was imprisoned, her will paralysed by the events of the last several months.

She had a suddenly terrifying vision of herself spending the rest of her unwilling life under her parents’ roof, perhaps nursing them long into infirmity and old age. Her life stretched
before her as something that would belong to her by default only – no choice of hers, right or wrong, would bring its circumstances about, but simply the cruel randomness of chance. The
spinster daughter, the one who was left behind. The one forced into blind and dutiful obedience long into the resentfulness of a childless middle age.

Panic-stricken, she fled the dining room, and ran silently up the stairs to her bedroom. She poured water from the ewer into the basin on her washstand, immersing her hands in the cool depths.
Trembling, she bent down and splashed her aching forehead. She felt trapped, as though all hope for another kind of life must be abandoned.

Single, alone, unwanted. She could not, would not, allow that to happen.

I
WAS
VERY
glad to hear the news that Hannah’s confinement had gone smoothly, and that she had been safely delivered of a
baby girl. I am sure it is no compliment to myself to say that I welcomed the distraction which the recent arrival of my parents’ first grandchild afforded me. I was no longer the focus of
their attention. Mama now had somewhere else to direct the overspill of her emotions. Papa could remain quite happily in the background, secure in the knowledge that no one was about to interrupt
his daily lethargy, now that a beautiful, healthy baby had arrived to fill the gaps in everyone’s life.