The Friday Tree (42 page)

He shook his head. “That’s the bit nobody can understand, least of all the child. It’s all he wanted to talk about in the station. You could say Mrs Silver didn’t have her husband near her. Still, you’d think maybe she could have gone with him to wherever he was. Or, she could have spent her time with her own child. Most women would, it seems to me.” He shook his head again, and poured more tea for Brigid and Francis, then for himself. He heaped sugar into his cup, and stirred it, and then he pushed the bowl towards Brigid. “There was a lot of talk at the time. I don’t know. I doubt if anybody knows. It was a nine-day wonder. Then she was dead, and poor young Silver was packed off to school. And that didn’t work out very well, as we know. If he didn’t escape, he was expelled, and he was an expert at both.”

“What happened after he left Granda’s?” said Brigid.

“He seems to have found his way up here. He wouldn’t tell us. My guess is he climbed on to the back of a lorry, judging by the state of him. Dangerous for any child.”

Brigid thought: not that one, but she did not say so.

“Anyway, he got back here, but he didn’t go home. He hid in the plot and, God forgive me, with all that was going on, I didn’t find him. Nor did John Steele. Not to mention that housekeeper. There’s another one shouldn’t be in charge of a child.” He put his cup down and shook his head. “He had little more than a blanket he got from somewhere, and clothes too big for him, and shoes stiff with damp.”

“Our aunt, in Lecale,” said Brigid. “She gave him the clothes and the blanket.”

“Was that it? It’s a miracle he didn’t get pneumonia, or worse, outside in the night air. Characters running about the plot. And we only got one of them.” Mr Doughty got up. “We’ll need to toast more bread. Anyway, young Silver is with his father at the moment, and I gather he’s going to be all right. He’s a hardy soul, for all he looks so frail.” He lifted a slice of bread from its wrapper, then paused again. “The strange thing is: Mr Silver should have been on the
Princess Victoria
himself that day.”

“Why was he not?” Brigid asked. “Mrs Silver mightn’t have been so lonely if he had gone. She might have talked to him instead of Laurence. She said she had lost somebody: was it him she had lost?”

Mr Doughty shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. The Silvers were both booked on that boat. Mrs Silver was singing at something in Scotland – was it to do with Burns Night? I think it was. Anyway, he was to go up there for this concert or whatever it was and come over home with her, I suppose to patch the whole thing up. Who knows? Then, for whatever reason – his work, maybe? – he cancelled his booking a day or two before, and she was on her own.”

That’s when she asked Uncle Conor to go and see her, Brigid thought, and then she asked him for something he could only give to Rose, and he wouldn’t give it. She thought this, but she did not say it.

“And she asked Laurence to meet her on the boat,” said Francis, suddenly, “and then they both died.”

“Yes,” said Mr Doughty, and his voice changed. “More’s the pity. It was a long way to ask someone to come just so that she could talk about the troubles she had brought on herself.”

“Where’s Mr Silver, now, Mr Doughty?” Francis asked.

“Still in Egypt, I believe. It’s hot out there at the moment, and I don’t mean the weather.”

“My granda said it was shaping up to be hot round the border towns,” said Brigid.

Mr Doughty sat back in his chair, and looked long at Brigid. “Did he, now?” he said. “Well, you can tell him from me, next time you see him, he’s not wrong. It’ll be another hot Twelfth, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Is Ned with his father?” Francis said.

“I believe so,” said Mr Doughty. “He should be anyway. He should be with his father.”

“Mr Silver told Ned that Catholics are riddled,” Brigid said.

“Riddled?”

“Riddled with something . . . super-something.”

“Superstition?” Mr Doughty laughed, a great, hearty laugh. “Well, I’m not. And I’m a Catholic, like you. So’s John Steele, as a matter of fact.”

There was a sound in the hall, and the door was pushed open. The children’s mother came in, carrying a tray. She wore her blue dressing-gown: Brigid had a fleeting memory of Christmas morning.

“Mr Doughty, what must you think of us?” she said. “I’m so sorry. We’re at sixes and sevens here.”

“Mrs Arthur,” he said, scraping the chair as he got to his feet, “forgive me. I was talking to the children outside, and I invited myself in for a cup of tea. I hope you don’t mind.”

Good Mr Doughty had not given away their secret. He pulled out a chair for the children’s mother and sat down beside her.

“Mr Doughty,” she said, “we have been a little out of events the last while. Francis has told me your news of Isobel and her brother. What of my sis– . . . my late husband’s friend, Cornelius Todd?”

Mr Doughty sat up straight in the chair. “Ah. Cornelius Todd. Well, Mrs Arthur, I don’t want to trouble you about this at the moment. I remember he was, as you say, a friend of your late husband. It makes me sorry to tell you that Cornelius Todd has . . . connections, to the IRA.”

She put down her cup, almost missing the saucer. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she said, and let her head drop.

“Mrs Arthur,” said the policeman. “I’m off duty at the moment. I’m here as a neighbour. Let’s not distress ourselves about it. Maybe, another time, we’ll talk of it.”

“His father was involved, the time of the Civil War. He was very much against Partition. That’s all I ever knew,” said the children’s mother, almost to herself. “I know Rose worried in case . . . and my brother had doubts . . . but Maurice and my father-in-law always said Cornelius had more sense . . . and I’m sure he promised Rose he’d keep away from . . . I don’t know. Truly, I don’t know. Maurice could tell you more about him, but Maurice . . .”

“There’s nothing to tell, Mrs Arthur,” he said. “We knew all we needed to know, long before. We were watching him, ever since those bad boys tried to bomb the barracks in England last autumn. Todd had been involved, and so, as we now know, was the man we caught in the plot.”

“Yes,” she said. “Isobel’s brother. How I was deceived in that girl.”

“Indeed. But for a long time, it seems, Cornelius Todd has had no involvement, beyond visiting prisoners, which is not a crime, and attending gatherings in public places, which is not yet a crime. He seems not to have been a part of this latest business. I’m sorry for your sister. She’s a lovely young lady.”

Mrs Arthur lifted her head. To Brigid, she looked like Mama again. “Thank you, Mr Doughty. As it happens, my sister had already broken her engagement to Cornelius Todd some little time ago. He is nothing to her now, or to us.”

Mr Doughty bowed his head. “For your sister’s sake, and for yours, I’m glad. But I meant that I was sorry that she had to learn of his involvement.” He stood up. “How’s the little birdie coming on?” he said, and stroked Brigid’s hand.

“I think he’s –” Brigid began.

“Brigid,” said her mother, “go and put that bird back in its cage. I don’t know why you –”

“She was showing him to me, Mrs Arthur. It was my fault,” said Mr Doughty and Brigid, in that moment, gave him a corner of her heart.

They walked him to the front door, Brigid keeping her hand over Dicky.

Mr Doughty stopped in the hall. He was going home, he said, to his daughter for his dinner, and in the afternoon he would come and do some work in the plot. “I was wondering,” he added, “if this young man would like to help me? I could do with a hand in the plot.” He looked down at Francis, and placed one hand on his head.

Brigid, left out, was not pleased.

Francis turned his head to look at his mother. “Mama?” he said.

“Would you like that, Francis?” she said.

“I would,” he said. “But what about Brigid?”

Mr Doughty said: “Would you like to, as well, Miss?”

“Could I watch?” asked Brigid and, to her surprise, everyone laughed.

Her mother said: “Brigid can watch, or she can help me make rock cakes for later. Rose is coming back to stay for a while, and I think Granda Arthur is coming up to town today on the bus. We can all have tea.”

Brigid nodded. “Mr Doughty too?” she asked.

“Of course. But first,” said her mother, “some of us, myself included, need to get dressed.” She opened the door, and the summer light streamed in. “I must put up the curtain,” she said, and then, as Mr Doughty stepped through the doorway, she placed her hand on his arm. “Mr Doughty,” she said, and her voice dropped, “I don’t want my sister to run the risk of meeting . . . anyone she doesn’t want to. You know who I . . .”

Mr Doughty looked down at his feet. “As far as I know, Mrs Arthur,” he said, “she’ll meet no one. Cornelius Todd hasn’t been seen since the day of the funeral. He seems to have left Northern Ireland. And, I’m afraid, it’s going to be left at that.”

“But, Mr Doughty,” said Mrs Arthur, “Isobel . . . she was in our employment. Won’t we all be involved in questions about the whole thing, now that the funeral is . . .”

“Mrs Arthur,” said Mr Doughty, “Isobel is gone. Her brother is behind bars. Nothing will happen to involve you or your family.”

“Are you sure?” she said.

“Yes,” said Mr Doughty. “I am. It’s because of young Silver .
. . or, more to the point, because of his father, and the work he is doing out in Egypt.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“I mean, our instruction is that neither the government in London, nor anyone connected with it, is to be left open to embarrassment. Because of Silver’s position, it’s thought best not to risk scandal.”

“Suez,” said Mrs Arthur.

Mr Doughty nodded. “Yes. Suez. You’ll hear no more of this business, and we have to close the book. The fellow that we know caused trouble is back behind bars. I wish we could have had a word with that other character, whoever he was, because I know I saw someone else there last autumn – and I would have liked to catch Todd, too, before he took off.” He looked at the children, first Brigid, then Francis, and said nothing for a moment. “But I didn’t,” he continued, “and now I can do no more. Do you know, Mrs Arthur, I think across the water they don’t care what goes on here. They don’t care what we do to one another, so long as they’re not embarrassed before the world. Suez matters to them – we don’t.” He sighed again. “Well. On another bit. Good morning to you all, and I’ll be happy to join you later on.”

At the foot of the stairs, Brigid exchanged glances with Francis. She was not sorry about Isobel. She had always had mixed feelings about Uncle Conor – but never to see him again, his broad shoulders and his crooked smile? Francis’ face showed the same uncertainty, yet neither said anything, until suddenly Francis left Brigid’s side, and stepped in front of Mr Doughty. The big man stopped.

“Mr Doughty,” said Francis, “there is something I
have to tell you.”

Mr Doughty said nothing. Motionless, he waited.

Something cold gripped Brigid’s heart.

“Francis,” she said, but Francis only looked quickly at her, anxious and flushed, and turned back to Mr Doughty.

“I brought food to someone in the plot,” he said.

“Did you, son?” said Mr Doughty, but he did not sound cross, or even surprised.

“He was hiding. He didn’t do any harm to anyone. He told me about it one day. I was off school. I was – I hadn’t been well, and then I was allowed to go up the garden. And he was in the plot, and . . . we got talking, and he told me the whole thing, how he got involved with the IRA because he thought it was for the good of Ireland.”

Ireland, thought Brigid. Not Ireland again.

“But he wouldn’t do what Isobel’s brother wanted, all the bombings and the guns. He left the IRA, and came home here. He didn’t want to have any more to do with it. He wanted to have a normal life, like us. He was a friend of . . . of our father.”

“Francis,” cried his mother. “What do you mean? Your father had nothing to do with those men.”

“No, I know, I didn’t mean . . .” said Francis, and he turned to face her. “But he was a friend of Daddy long ago, before all these bombings in England, when they used to speak Irish and talk about Parnell. Like Uncle Conor,” and Francis lifted his head, almost defiantly. “Uncle Conor was part of it, really part of it, but he was still Daddy’s friend.”

His mother said nothing. She bit her lip, and her face grew pale.

“But I know Daddy didn’t have anything to do with all that,” said Francis, “because I asked the man in the plot about that, about Daddy. And he told me, straight, that Daddy said men with families couldn’t afford the luxury of politics beyond their own fireside. ‘Render to Caesar,’ he said Daddy said.”

Wanly, his mother smiled. “He did like to say that, especially when clients complained about the amount of tax they had to pay. But yes, Francis, I see what you mean.”

“Tell us what happened your friend in the plot, Francis,” said Mr Doughty, evenly.

My
friend, thought Brigid, with irritation. George Bailey is
my
friend.

“He came over here after the bombings in England, because he knew if he got arrested he would be blamed, even though he had left before all that started. Uncle Conor tried to help him, he said, but there was only so much he could do.”