No Enemy but Time (23 page)

As she'd expected, he didn't insist. The perfect gentleman, she thought contemptuously, angered by the fact that she was hot for him herself and wouldn't have minded being bundled into bed. But she had her part to play.

‘It's not that I'm a virgin,' she explained. ‘I just don't sleep with a man till I'm sure.'

‘Sure of what?' Frank asked her. He leaned over and did up the last of the little buttons that covered her breasts. He brushed his hand over them, and she caught her breath sharply.

‘Sure if I could love him,' Marie answered, and then, ‘Stop touching me, Frank. It isn't fair.'

‘I don't want to be fair,' he said and kissed her neck. Then he moved away and stood up. She watched him from the sofa. He kicked one of her shoes by mistake. ‘When will you come down to Meath? You said you'd like to see the house.'

He was getting his coat on. He bent and brought out her shoes from under the sofa. He smiled at her. She hated him for smiling at her like that. Filey had told her to go slowly. ‘Be careful. He's not one of your gawbeens. He's clever and he's sophisticated. Get your hook in deep.' Filey was wrong. He might be clever, but he wasn't sophisticated or he wouldn't be fooled by the little girl act. He'd have seen through her. No sophisticated man would be going home because she'd given him that guff.

‘When do you want me to come?'

‘Wednesday's a good night,' Frank said. ‘I'll ring you tomorrow night. Goodnight, Marie. Thanks for this evening.'

She didn't move. She didn't want another goodnight kiss, or she might forget Filey's instructions. He was a fool and he was going to swallow the hook with herself and her sob story as the bait. She despised him, but she had never wanted a man so much in her life. She went to bed and lay awake, unable to cool her own fever. Wednesday was three whole days away.

Frank felt he'd made rather a fool of himself that night, offering her a job, nearly ending up in bed with her. He thought he'd better cancel their date for Wednesday. Next morning he actually dialled the number but there was no reply. He didn't want to take advantage. English and American girls knew how to look after themselves. He had an old-fashioned view of the naïvety of Irish women. He admitted he found her very sexually attractive. She had suddenly appealed to his sympathy and stirred all sorts of muddled emotions in him. And they
were
muddled. Coming back from America he found it a blessing and a curse to be at home. The fine old house at Meath succoured and reproached him at the same time. His grandmother had left it to him, with her fortune. He owed his independence to her. And yet he couldn't bear to see her photographs about the place, because of the picture Kevin Ryan had imprinted on his mind. The image of a cold, contemptuous old patrician, scorning her pregnant daughter-in-law and bringing on premature labour.

The Mahoneys fussed over him, and their subservience reproached him too. They should have been on friendlier terms, less servants and master than fellow Irish. But he knew nothing would have disconcerted them more than an attempt on his part to be familiar. The warmth of a kind and affectionate family was lacking in the emptiness of his handsome house. And above all he missed Claire.

He had always missed her, he realized, from the time they were separated in boarding schools, through his days at Oxford and the years spent in America. But they came home to Riverstown and the old happy fusion took effect. Now that link was broken. They would see each other, but it would never be the same. And then, on Monday night, she telephoned. He forgot all about cancelling Marie Dempster.

Claire had been trying to get through for an hour, while the maddening recorded voice repeated that all lines from England were engaged. Neil was taking her to the theatre and she didn't want to be hurried. The bustling Jenifer had breezed in and out and just remembered to tell her that her brother had called while she was away. Finally the lines were clear and the eccentric telephone exchange in Meath connected her.

‘Frank, it's me! How are you?' She glimpsed her reflection in the glass above the telephone. It smiled happily back at her. It was so good to hear his voice again. They hadn't been in touch for weeks.

‘I'm fine,' he said. ‘It's great to get you at last. I phoned, but you were away.'

‘I was staying with a friend. Rather a special friend. Listen, he'll be here in a minute and I'll have to go. I wish I could come over, but I'm broke at the moment. You've no idea how expensive London is. I've got so much to tell you. Listen to me, babbling on. How are you? How was America?'

‘Interesting,' he said. ‘Clarry, I'd love to see you. I've got a lot to tell you too. I'll stand you the air fare, but I don't want to make trouble for you with the parents. I don't think they'd like me paying for you to come here.'

‘Is it still that bad?' she asked him. ‘I hoped maybe things had settled down. Frank, there's nothing wrong, is there?'

There was no use trying to deceive her. ‘Not wrong, no. I'm fine; but I've got a lot of things on my mind. Why don't I come and see you?'

‘Don't be silly.' Her response was instant. ‘There's no bed for you here; you can't swing a cat in the place it's so small. Don't worry about the money. I can manage it. I'll slip over, nobody need know. Can you meet me on Friday? I'll let you know the flight.'

‘You're sure? It would be great to see you.'

‘I'll be there,' Claire said. A few minutes after she rang off, Neil Fraser was ringing the front-door bell in the street below.

Neil intended asking her to marry him that night. But he didn't. After the theatre when they were having dinner in the smartest private club in London, she asked him to lend her the air fare to Ireland.

‘Whatever for? Darling, you can have anything you like, but why not ring up your mother if you want to go back?'

‘Because I'm not going to Riverstown,' she explained. ‘I'm going to stay with my brother Frank. I told you, they've had a falling-out and it's difficult.'

Neil shrugged. He had heard about a family row but hardly bothered to listen. Certainly he didn't take it seriously. All families quarrelled, but it was soon made up. Claire had not attempted to explain the circumstances. She knew instinctively he wouldn't understand.

‘Surely it's not still going on,' he said. ‘This was months ago, when you first came over to London.'

‘It is, and I can't see an end to it. No, maybe I can. Maybe something will happen that will bring Frank and Dad together.' Like a marriage, she thought suddenly. ‘He sounded rather miserable on the phone. I spoke to him tonight. I said I'd come over and see him. I hate asking you, Neil, but I haven't a penny in the bank till my next allowance. I'll pay you back the minute I get the money.'

He said, ‘Of course you can have as much as you want. When are you going?'

‘This Friday,' Claire said. She saw him frown.

‘We're going to stay with the Miltons,' he said. ‘It's been arranged for ages. We can't let them down.'

She said quietly, ‘I can't let my brother down. I said I was coming. He needs me, Neil. I can go to the Miltons another time.'

He was very angry. James and Pru Milton were not just friends who could be inconvenienced. Milton was one of the Prime Minister's PAs. It was very important for him to go, and to bring Claire with him, if they were going to get engaged. He had planned to ask her that evening and take her down to Gloucestershire as his fiancée. It was impossible to cancel the arrangements. Their joint destiny shifted its course for those few seconds while he hesitated.

‘Please, Neil,' she said. ‘I'm really worried about Frank. I must go over.'

He loved her too much to see her look unhappy. Their lives swung back on course.

‘All right,' he said. ‘I'll go to the Miltons. You go to Ireland and put your mind at rest.' He leaned across the table and held her hand.

Claire gripped his fingers tightly. ‘Thank you, Neil. I won't forget this. You're a darling man, as they say at home.'

The Miltons were very understanding when he explained that Claire had to go to Ireland unexpectedly. He lied about her father's health, and was annoyed when Claire found the excuse funny.

‘Why not my grandmother's funeral?' she asked, laughing at him.

‘Well, I could hardly tell them that you'd gone to hold your brother's hand!'

The retort was sharper than he meant. But he drove her to Heathrow and then set off for Gloucestershire. He was sure she would marry him; he couldn't imagine a future without her, and when they were married, all this over-dependence upon her family would stop.

Frank was waiting for her at the airport. The flight had been bumpy, and she looked pale. He hugged her for a moment.

‘Good trip over? Not so good?'

‘Bloody thing bounced up and down like a rubber ball,' Claire said. ‘There was an old nun in the next row saying her rosary at the top of her voice. I nearly died of fright! Oh, Frankie, darling, it's so lovely to see you!'

‘Come on,' he said. ‘Let's get home,' and arm in arm they walked out to the car.

She leaned back in the big armchair and stretched her arms above her head. The fire roared in the grate, a brandy as sweet as benediction waited in its swollen-bellied glass beside her. Everything was warm and Irish and familiar, and there was Frank sitting opposite. England and Neil seemed a million miles away.

‘I'd forgotten what a lovely house this is,' she said. ‘Grandmother had great taste. What have you done with all her photographs?'

He said quietly, ‘I've put them away.'

Claire opened her eyes wide. ‘Why? Oh, not because of that old story about your mother? I don't believe it, Frank. I don't believe she did anything to hurt your mother. I think Dad went hysterical and had to blame somebody. You ought to put them back. After all, she left everything to you.'

‘Conscience money,' he answered. ‘I didn't believe the story either. But I heard it in America. It's true, Claire. My mother went into premature labour because of the way she treated her.'

‘Oh, God,' she sighed. ‘What good does it do to rake up old wrongs? It's all so long ago, Frank. Put the photographs back; forget it.'

‘My uncle told me something else,' he said. ‘It's funny, Claire, but I can't get it out of my mind. The night I was born, I was baptized a Catholic.'

She stared at him. ‘You couldn't have been! Dad was there!'

‘Apparently the nurse did it,' he explained. ‘I was very small and it's common practice among Catholics if the baby's in any danger. It doesn't need a priest to be valid.'

‘You don't believe in it, surely to God? It's just a lot of superstition … babies going to hell if they're not baptized!'

‘No,' he answered, ‘I don't believe in that part of it. But it's a strange feeling, that's all. To be brought up one thing all your life and then find out you're something else.'

She picked up the brandy glass. She didn't like the way he was talking at all. ‘Brother dear' – she tried to sound light-hearted – ‘if you take any notice of what some silly old biddy did all those years ago, you need your head examined! How can you be any different?'

He raised his head and looked at her, and then into the fire. ‘It makes me more Irish,' he said.

The fire blazed up suddenly, as something in the turf ignited.

‘We're all Irish,' she insisted. ‘Living in England has taught me that. Even Mummy would feel a foreigner if she went back now. I certainly do.'

‘I always did,' he countered. ‘And I spent most of my young years there. School and university. I'm more at home in the States.'

‘Because you were mixing with all the other Paddies,' she smiled. ‘Getting jarred and singing “The Mountains of Mourne”. You've always harped on this “different” thing. I remember you saying it to me when we were children. Darling Frank, it doesn't even make you happy. Be proud of being Irish, but don't let it get under your skin like this. Calling yourself a Catholic – just because this uncle you've just met tells you some old wive's tale. How do you know it's true?'

‘Because the nurse who baptized me told Mary Donovan. And she told my uncle.'

‘If I say this is a lot of old biddies' gossip, you'll call me a snob, I suppose?'

‘It seems to me,' Frank said gently, ‘that it's worrying
you.'

Claire nodded and finished her brandy. ‘Yes, it is. Because it's having an effect on you, and you're my brother and I love you. What's got into you, Frank? Is it America – was Dad right when he told you to leave old Ryan alone? All this business about our grandmother … putting the photographs away … you've known the story since you were a child, so why is it suddenly an issue? This nonsense about being baptized a Catholic, when you've been christened and brought up Church of Ireland all your life. What's the matter? Can't you tell me what's really at the back of it?'

She got up and came to him, balancing on the arm of his chair. She slipped her arm round him. She felt so motherly, she could have stroked the dark bent head.

‘He never loved me,' she heard him say. ‘He couldn't look me in the eye. There was always something about me he hated. I tried to forget it, Clarry. I tried to please him, but nothing worked. He was all right with me on the surface, but the first opportunity he turned me out.' He twisted round to look at her. ‘I go to my own home once a month or so, and we talk about the farm and the cattle prices, like two strangers. And he can't wait for me to go.'

‘Oh, Frank,' she murmured, and held him close. ‘Oh, how awful for you. I didn't know it was as bad as that. I kept hoping it would mend with time. Maybe it will. I believe it will.'