No Enemy but Time (2 page)

‘I never liked that fella,' Billy snorted. ‘You'd no business marryin' a fella like that.'

‘I don't like him much either,' Claire admitted. She managed to smile at him. ‘You're going to help me, Billy, aren't you?'

He shook his head vigorously. The cap stayed glued on. ‘No. Ye'll get divil an' all help from me, gettin' yerself into trouble. Go home to England and yer husband, like him or not, and yer children. What about them?'

She felt very tired suddenly, and angry with him for trying to find a weak spot. ‘You don't have to help me,' she said. ‘I'll manage on my own.'

He muttered a curse; he knew Gaelic, and spoke it among his own. He had always pretended to his employer that he didn't. ‘Ye'll stay where ye are.' He heaved himself up from the kitchen chair and reached for his coat behind the door. ‘I'll take the dogs for a walk up by the river and see what's to be seen. If the Gardai's up there, I'll talk to them, so. I'm not to know about the gates … There's bread and a bite of ham in the larder. I'll not be long.'

Claire watched him through the window, lifting the lace curtain as he had done. His steps were slow, moving to the kennels where the lurchers lived, fastening them to their leads, shouting at them as they leapt up at him in excitement. He was an old man, and frightened of the death squad of his countrymen, yet allegiance to them was in his blood. A deeper allegiance than his love for the children of the Anglo-Irish landlord he had worked for since he was a homeless lad knocking at the kitchen door to ask for a cup of tea and an odd job. Why should Billy put himself at risk for the sake of his hereditary enemies, whether he'd helped to bring them up or not? And she remembered then the old adage tossed around the dinner table by her parents' friends, when the drink had loosened their tongues, and things were said that stuck in the mind like grit in the eye.

‘The trouble is, you just can't trust them. All smiles to your face, and the minute your back's turned, they'll rob you blind. Or walk out and let you down at the last minute.' It was servant talk, of course. But the taint was there, right throughout the race of native Irish. You can't trust them. And you never intermarried. It wasn't just class, as Francis used to say when he raged against the system. It was race, and there would never be peace while that discrimination lasted.

Claire turned away from the window. She sat down in the one comfortable chair; it had come from their housekeeper's room, and had found its way to Billy's kitchen, like the strip of Turkey carpet with the hole in the middle.

The turf stove was alight, and she felt drowsy in the warmth. When they were on holiday from school, she and Francis used to come to Billy's cottage and sit in the kitchen, drinking tea. He taught her brother how to roll a cigarette, and she remembered him doubling up with delighted laughter as the boy coughed and spluttered on his first smoke. ‘You'll help me, won't you, Billy?' The stout refusal, and then the shambling figure going up the long path beside the river, up to the house. He wouldn't find her brother Francis there. Nor would the hard-eyed men from Dublin, if her husband had alerted them. Nor, thank God, the merciless executioners of the IRA.

He was being hunted; she was the only person in the world who knew where he would go to hide.

Billy Gorman trudged up the long path to the kitchen garden and the back of the house. On his way he passed the main drive, and he could see that at the end of it the gates were open. He cursed under his breath, shaking his head at his own folly in coming up to the house at all …

But he couldn't turn back now. Whoever was inside could have seen him from the windows. He took a cheap cigarette out of his jacket pocket, paused and lit it with a match in his cupped hand. It wouldn't be
them
. It wasn't their way to come in the open. They struck in darkness: the kicked-in door, the burst of gunfire, the hooded killers vanishing like demons into the night. But not always, he remembered. They killed the poor idiot from Sallins in broad daylight … He sucked in smoke and coughed. Too late to stop now; better him meeting them than Claire, he thought, and drew courage. For some reason he remembered old Doyle, the gardener, dead now for thirty years, leading him up the same pathway round to the back door and into the kitchen for the mid-morning cup of tea. He'd been a hard man to work for, but he taught Billy everything he knew about that garden and how to take care of it. And when he died, he left the few bits in the cottage to Billy. The back door was ajar. He saw a shadow moving through the kitchen window, and half turned to break into a shambling run.

‘Billy! I was just comin' down to look for you.' There, framed in the doorway, was young Joe Burns, looking to Billy like a guardian angel in his blue Garda uniform.

He gasped with relief. ‘Jaysus, I thought ye was a burglar … I'll tie up the dogs.' The kitchen was cold; the Aga was turned down while Mrs Arbuthnot was away. For a moment or two Billy was too relieved even to ask what he was doing in the house, or how he'd managed to get in when it was all locked up.

The young policeman said in his friendly way, ‘It's a careless man ye are, Billy, leaving them gates and the back door open.' He was a pleasant boy, newly recruited into the local force at Clane. He'd been born there and the Burnses had been part of the village for generations.

Billy squinted at him; his heart had stopped hammering with fright. ‘I locked up everything meself,' he insisted.

Joe Burns shook his head reproachfully. ‘Ye thought ye did,' he said. ‘We knew at the station Mrs Arbuthnot was away; she always lets us know, these days. I was passing when I saw the gates not shut properly, so I thought I'd best come in and see if everything was all right at the house …'

Billy rubbed his nose and shook his head. ‘I'd swear I locked them,' he muttered. The policeman wasn't convinced, but Billy thought, I locked them gates. I locked all the doors. I've been doin' it for thirty years, since old Doyle died. I didn't forget. He looked into the smiling blue eyes of the policeman. There were three cigarette butts in a saucer on the kitchen table. He'd been there for some time.

‘Well now,' Burns said, ‘ye've saved me the trouble of comin' down to see you. I was on my way when you come up.'

But not in a hurry about it, Billy said to himself. Sitting in a kitchen cold as charity, smoking. Waiting.

‘When's Mrs Arbuthnot comin' back?'

Billy said, ‘I don't know. She'll ring me up the day before.'

‘It must be terrible for her,' Joe went on, ‘her son gone missing and all this stuff about him on the radio and television.'

‘He's her stepson,' Billy mumbled. ‘It's not the same.'

‘Ah, you're right,' Joe Burns nodded. ‘It's the daughter she had … the one that married that English fella. Isn't he in the British Government or something?'

Billy didn't answer; he grunted.

‘You've known them all, Billy,' the easy voice went on. ‘Is it true what's said about them two?'

‘What two?' he asked.

‘The brother and sister. It's said they were so close she'd be after coming over when he disappeared. I don't think she'd take a risk like that meself …'

‘What risk would that be?' Billy gazed at him in innocence. He could scent danger, as his beloved dogs could sight a hare a mile away. And every antenna quivered with alarm. The blue uniform didn't signify safety any longer. Billy didn't know what was wrong, he only knew that something was.

Generations of subservience had taught the humble Irish not to answer any question that might get them into trouble.

Joe Burns lowered his voice, as if they might be overheard. ‘She's married to this important man,' he said. ‘The IRA might do some harm to her. Listen Billy, if ye hear she's come home here, ye'll give me a call at the station. Ask for me, if there's any news of her. I'd like to be the one to pass it on.' He gave a slight grin. ‘It'd do my prospects a bit of good.'

‘Sure an' I will,' Billy agreed. ‘But I wouldn't say it's likely. Jaysus, I can't believe I forgot them gates and the kitchen door … Shouldn't we check through the house to be sure nobody's been in?'

Joe Burns said, ‘I've already done that, Billy. I'll be off now. Don't worry yerself, I'll not mention a word of it to anyone. And don't forget now; you hear anything, you let me know!'

Billy nodded, promised again, and they went out together. He locked the back door, gathered his dogs and separated from the Garda at the top of the drive.

Burns waved cheerfully to him and walked back to the main entrance. ‘I'll see ye,' he called.

Billy didn't hurry till he was out of sight. Joe Burns was lying about finding the gates and the back door open. He was lying when he said he'd checked the house. The door from the kitchen into the main hall was always double-locked, and the key was in Billy's pocket. The whole story had been a lie. Burns had opened the gates and the back door himself and slipped inside. He hadn't been coming down to see Billy. Billy had caught him by surprise.

If there was news of Claire Fraser, Joe Burns wanted to be the first to hear it. As Billy came back down by the river and up the hill towards the cottage, he knew the danger in the kitchen had a name at last. Fear flooded over him. He saw the car with its English number plates parked in full view of the road. He didn't waste time. She'd left the key in it. He could be very agile when he chose. He had an old banger of his own, bought with Philip Arbuthnot's legacy. He backed it out of the shed where it was parked and drove Claire's car in off the road. He heaved the shed doors shut, so it was hidden. He was puffing and out of breath. He'd forgotten to shut up his dogs; they'd waited patiently outside the front door.

He didn't go inside at once. He sat on his own doorstep and tried to think what to do. Frank Arbuthnot had disappeared from his Dublin bank four days ago. The news on TV had been full of it. ‘Leading merchant banker vanishes. Fear for his safety.' That was the headline in the
Independent
. Strong hints about his IRA sympathies, as if everyone didn't know he'd been a self-proclaimed Sinn Feinner since he was a youngster. Rumours that he'd been kidnapped or murdered as part of the split that was rending the Provisionals and the old Republican idealists. And Billy had listened to the TV pundits and read the newspapers, and said to himself it was sure to happen in the end. He'd supped with the devil and no spoon was long enough. After what happened to the poor idiot, Donny, at Sallins, just two miles down the road, an Arbuthnot wouldn't be a trouble to their consciences.

And now the child had come back, putting herself in danger for the sake of that brother. He thought of her as the child, though she was married and a mother. He'd dandled her on his knee when she could hardly walk. He sighed a deep, despairing sigh. She must go back to England. He'd drive her to Dublin himself. She couldn't stay in Ireland if he was right about Joe Burns. It wasn't just Frank they were looking for, if they hadn't shot him already and buried him in some bog.

Claire got up when he came into the kitchen. ‘You found someone up there,' she said, seeing his face.

He cleared his throat. Better not tell her the truth. Better just argue her into going back where she belonged. ‘Only Joe Burns. He's in the Gardai now,' he said. ‘I left the bloody old gate open and he came in to check the place.'

Claire sat down again. ‘Don't lie to me, Billy. You said yourself you padlocked it. You've never forgotten to lock up in your life. I don't believe it was Joe Burns.'

‘It was so!' he insisted. ‘Asking questions about yerself. I'm to ring him if you come here, says he. I will, says I. I near had a heart attack thinkin' of you down here under his nose!'

‘I've nothing to fear from the Gardai here,' she said. ‘I've known them all my life. Joe Burns's father used to work here as cattleman – you know that, Billy.'

‘You can't stay here,' he muttered. ‘Love of God, Claire, half the police in Ireland are lookin' for Frankie – if they can't find him, how can you … an' what if he's murdered?'

Claire said slowly, ‘That's the second time you've said it. Why do you think he's dead?'

‘Because he mixed himself up in poor Donny's murder.' He spoke very low. ‘Ye won't know about that. The poor old divil was standin' on the Sallins railway bridge, watching the trains. He's been doin' it for forty years. Everyone knew Donny was mad for watching trains. No harm in him, he was just a bit of an eejit. There'd been a big robbery in Dublin: hundred thousand taken and the bank manager shot dead.' He lit a cigarette and passed the packet to her. His voice trembled. ‘They got off the train, jumping as it went slow under the Sallins bridge. They saw old Donny standin' up there watching them. By Jaysus, they run to the top and stabbed the old fella to death. The Gardai said they thought he'd identify them. So they stabbed him. And anyone could see he was as simple as a child, just by the look of him.'

‘I remember Donny,' Claire said quietly. ‘We used to give him sweets on a Sunday. He was always standing round hoping there'd be a train. There never was on Sundays. I knew he was dead, Billy. And I know how Frank felt about it.'

‘He went to the auld mither and gave her money. He came to see yer mother and talk to her about paying a reward. She'd have none of it, bein' a wise woman.'

Claire didn't have to ask how he knew. Nothing was a secret in Ireland. Her mother's maids would have overheard and repeated every last word through the village before the day's end.

‘There was a lot of talk about it,' Billy went on. ‘Some of the local lads were calling Frank names. Decent people kept quiet; it wouldn't help Donny to get into trouble.'