The Blood Upon the Rose (24 page)

‘I should have asked it before, I suppose, but …’

‘But what?’

‘But you didn't seem to worry, so why should I?’

‘And you a student of medicine. So-called. Have you read Knowlton?’

‘Who?’

‘Charles Knowlton.
The Fruits of Philosophy, or the Private Companion of Young Married People.
It's a book about how to avoid babies.’

For the first time in the conversation Sean was speechless. He simply gaped at her. It reminded her of his reaction to some of the medical lectures, but now she felt contempt, not compassion.

‘I see you haven't. Well, I have. And I've been making use of the advice in it. Just as well, isn't it?’

He found his voice. ‘What do you do?’

‘I stick a sponge up myself.’

‘My God. Is that - why you didn't bleed, the first time?’

A faint trace of a smile crossed her face. It was very faint; there was no warmth in it. ‘No. That was an accident on a horse, when I was fifteen. Lucky for you, wasn't it?’

The whole conversation offended him. It brought them together in a way he didn’t want, not at all. He said: ‘But that - that's killing life. That's a sin against God, for sure.’

There was a silence. It went on for some time. Sean's words hung heavily in the air between them. Then Catherine got out of bed and began to get dressed in front of him. There was nothing provocative about the way she did it. Her nakedness seemed an insult, almost. She was careless about the way she put on her clothes, brisk, matter-of-fact. She ignored him, as though he had been a chair or a stuffed baboon.

When she was dressed she took a comb from her bag and began to push her hair behind her ears with swift smart strokes. Her eyes sparkled in the firelight, but no tears fell. She said: ‘I suppose you, then, have been making love to me all this time in the belief that I would probably get pregnant, and that then you could disown me.’

Certainly he felt shame now. But also a sullen, deep resentment at the way he had been used. No women did that. No women he knew. He had never even heard of a woman doing it.

In a sort of harsh whisper, he said: ‘I never thought of it.’

She turned then and faced him. She had the comb between her teeth, and she was fastening her hair back with a pin. When she had done that, she took the comb out, and said sadly: ‘Sean, Sean, I knew most men were stupid, but truly I never thought it of you.’

For the first time he saw she was crying. He stood up and held out his arms to embrace her. For a moment she let him hold her, but she stood quite still and cold in his arms, shutting him out. Then she brushed him away.

‘Come on. I want to go home.’

For most of the walk home they didn't speak. It was not a conversation either could have carried on in front of men singing outside pubs, or army lorries cruising the streets. Sean was tired and furious. But near Merrion Square he began again.

‘I suppose you have done this with other men.’

They had been walking side by side, without touching. He had stopped as he spoke, but she walked on briskly, looking straight ahead.

‘Why should you suppose that?’

‘Why else would you have read about it?’

She stopped then, suddenly, so that he almost ran into her.

‘To avoid having babies, that's why! So that when I did meet the man I wanted, I could really love him, as I have loved you, Sean, without being afraid or worried about what would happen. That’s what I thought. I thought it would be beautiful and it was, Sean, it really was, until tonight. You don't really love me, though, do you?’

‘It’s not that. I … I’m not sure I should be thinking about that, now with the war on. I’ve got to concentrate on one thing. Anyway, you shouldn't have done that - what you did. It's wrong.’

She stared at him with her heart breaking. She thought how she had kissed - almost every part of him. I thought a woman could be free like a man, she thought, but it isn’t so. Not if the man won’t let you.

She said: ‘Sean Brennan, you don't really like me at all, do you? You just like killing, for your wretched idea of a new Ireland. You didn't even think about me.’

She waited for an answer, but there was none. So she turned on her heel, and walked away from him alone, into Merrion Square, where the lights of her father's house were burning brightly.

When Catherine got home she went straight to her bedroom and wept, pressing her face into her pillow to muffle the sound. I was so sure, she thought; sure that he loved me as I did him. Sure that a boy who was fighting for the freedom and future of the country would see how girls can love equally and freely without guilt or shame, just for the beauty of the act itself. And all the time I was nothing for him but a passing pleasure that got out of hand, a distraction from the serious business of killing. He thinks it's a sin because I made sure we could have no child …

So where the hell is your sin then, Sean
, a voice screamed inside her head. She snatched her pillow and flung it across the room. It knocked a china figurine of a horse off the mantelpiece. Oh no, she thought. She groaned, got up and tried to pick up the pieces; but it was smashed beyond repair. It was a statuette she had had since she was eight; her father had given it to her when Blaze, her first pony, died of the colic. She had cried all night then, too, for many nights; it was then she had learnt the trick of smothering the sound in the pillow, when her parents could bear her grief no longer. Her father had seen the statuette in a shop, and bought her it because it had almost exactly the same markings as Blaze. She had put a wreath round its neck, and promised to keep it always.

Those were the days when her parents still lived together and seemed to love each other, and she and her brothers talked and laughed together at the same table, and rambled endlessly along the cliffs. Those days were long gone now. If they had continued, perhaps she would never have felt the need to break away, to defy her father, make her own career, and choose a lover from the slums. She could have turned to her parents for love and advice instead of facing betrayal and failure like this on her own.

She swept up the fragments of the broken horse into a small pile by the side of the hearth, crawled back into bed, and turned her face to the wall.

Towards dawn sleep came - the sleep of exhaustion. She dreamed that she was riding her pony across the beach. It was the big wide beach near her home, a beach of white sand five miles long at low tide. The sea was far out, little white breakers curling gently on her right. Flocks of seagulls were paddling around near the sea's edge. She trotted towards them and they lifted away as they always did, screaming raucously and circling behind her. She kicked the pony to a canter through the shallows, and they went on madly, splashing through the clear inch-high waves that rushed in over the flat hard sand. Far away in the hazy distance was a fisherman, a tiny figure pulling a coracle out of the sea. As she galloped towards him, the warm summer wind blew on her and her clothes flew off, piece by piece, into the air behind where the seagulls snatched them. But although the sun shone on her and in front of her, she was sure there was thunder behind. When she reached the man he turned and looked up at her with Sean's face, and spat. And then she was past and galloping on in the cold wind, with the sun gone somewhere behind a cloud, and there was a horse behind her. She could hear its hooves drumming and drumming on the sand but she dared not look back. Her pony was tired and beginning to stumble. Each time he stumbled, a leg fell off.

She woke, sweating and unrefreshed. More from habit than anything else, she washed, dressed and went down to breakfast. To her dismay her father was there, eating a plate of mushrooms and kidneys. He looked depressingly cheerful, and unusually pleased to see her. Before she could escape, he stood up and pulled out a chair for her. She sat, meek, dutiful, depressed.

‘Now, my dear, what can I pass you? Same as me, perhaps? Kidneys? Eggs are pretty fresh, I had one of those.’

‘Just tea, please.’

He poured her some. She cupped her hands around it and sipped. It was hot at least. Stewed as well but she didn't care.

‘You came in late last night. More of the Gaelic, eh ?’

She nodded. Once the Irish classes had been a focus of conflict between them; now they were a welcome excuse.

To her surprise he made no disparaging comment. She couldn't help noticing that he ate with unusual gusto; his whole manner radiated energy and what passed with him for good humour. In a way it was a tiny comfort; a distraction from the bleak wasteland of her own thoughts. She gazed at him balefully over the tea. This is my own father, she thought: he betrayed Mother and sent her mad; his mistress is dying of cancer; both his sons have been killed in the war; he's threatened to disinherit me unless I marry - and he's happy. Maybe men are a different species.

He finished the kidneys, wiped his moustache with a napkin, and sat back to look at her. His good humour faded a little.

‘You look like death, girl. What's the matter with you?’

She felt the tears prick in the corner of her eyes and thought: If I start to cry now I'll never stop for hours and that would be too, too messy and humiliating altogether. So she tried to smile, failed, and said: ‘Just a bad night, that's all. Too much study, I suppose.’

He considered her answer. ‘You work too hard, girl. You should get out and enjoy yourself more - ride, go to balls, the races, something like that.’

‘How? We haven't got any horses here, Father.’

‘Could have. Still got the mews - could clean that out.’

She sighed. ‘I don't want to ride, Father - not in midwinter in the middle of Dublin. Anyway, I'm too busy: I've got my studies, and this house to run.’

‘Yes, all right, all right. Just thought it would put some more colour in your cheeks, that's all.’ He pulled a bell rope to call Keneally and order a fresh pot of tea.

When the butler had gone, Sir Jonathan leaned forward confidentially. ‘Now there's a thing I've meant to say to you, Cathy. This house - your side of the bargain. You've done a damn good job, I reckon. Decorations good, servants respect you - pretty fine achievement for a girl your age. Struck me last week when I came back from London. Place is a real home, in its way.’

The servants respect me? Heavens, she thought, do they really?
Certainly she had been sharp as a whiplash when she came in the first night she had made love with Sean. She had issued two orders to Keneally on the doorstep when he had met her, before the man had had a chance to voice any concern. It was the only way, she thought - always be ahead so there is no chance for questions. But she had been living on a tightrope. Has it really worked, she wondered, or is Father just blind, as he is to so much else?

She sipped her tea, and said: ‘Well, thank you.’

Keneally brought in the fresh pot, and poured. Sir Jonathan said: ‘I just wanted to say it. Give credit where it's due. But there are other parts to our deal, as you know.’

Here it comes, she thought.

‘You need to be brought out into society more, meet the right sort of young men. So now that we've got the place into good order, I think we should start entertaining.’

She put down her cup with a clatter, slopping tea into the saucer. ‘Oh no, Father - I can't do that.’

‘Why not? Just a few guests for dinner once in a while – I’m not thinking of throwing the place open to a grand ball, of course not. Never manage that these days, more’s the pity. But you could order a meal, couldn’t you - tell cook what to make, that sort of thing? I’ll take care of the guests. Nothing to it.’

‘Father, please. Not just now.’

‘But it’ll take you out of yourself, you silly girl, bring you to life, away from your miserable books and student politics. Launch you, too, the best way we can. Bring a few young fellows here, see how you like ‘em. Remember the other part of our deal.’

She shut her eyes. He thinks I'm a mare in season, she thought; he'll open the door and all the young officers will come sniffing round like stallions. The thought was too absurd for words.

‘Anyway, I thought we'd start next Saturday. I'm going to the races with Colonel Roberts and his wife – he’s got a part share in two runners, he says. So I asked them back here afterwards for dinner. MacQuarry might come too, with his lady, so that’ll make six; and then I can hunt up a couple of young officers for you, to make up the younger party. We should manage it, wouldn’t you say?’

‘You mean you’ve already arranged this?’

‘Partly.’ He sipped his tea and smoothed his moustache with his finger. ‘Got to try to keep things going, even in the midst of these blasted outrages, after all. Look.’ He leaned forward again and, to Catherine's great surprise, took her hand in his. ‘We’ve been through some pretty bad times in the past few years, Cathy my girl, and I've no doubt you’ve thought pretty harshly of me once or twice. Wouldn't be normal if you hadn’t. But we’ve made a deal and so far as I can see you’re sticking to your side of it, and I want to stick to mine. Then we'll make a new start in the family, if we can. Play our part in bringing the country back to its senses. What do you say?’

You're mad as a hatter,
she thought. You're completely out of touch. I've been making love to a revolutionary in the slums, and now you want me to arrange a dinner party for British officers.

Her lower lip trembled, and she felt a horrible urge to burst into hysterical laughter. To subdue it, she passed her cup for some more tea, and concentrated grimly on the way the tea flowed out of the spout into the cup, as though her life depended on it.

Then she said: ‘All right, Father. I'll arrange the dinner for you.’

Kee said: ‘I don't believe it!’

‘It’s true, sir. I’m quite sure it was her.’

The young detective flushed. He had only recently been promoted from the uniformed branch, and he was anxious to do well. But he was not immune to the resentment felt by many of his colleagues for the two blunt Ulstermen who had been brought in over the heads of southern Irish officers to run G Division. The detective, Allan Foster, was a tall, well-built young man, and now he had to stand to attention and look down at Kee, who was apparently calling him a liar.