The Silence in the Garden Read online

  ‘Brigid’s come up in the world since then. She cooked the fish you’re eating.’

  ‘You mean you kept her on?’

  ‘She would hardly have cooked the fish if we hadn’t.’

  ‘So that child …’ the Bishop began, and did not continue.

  ‘Kings of England have come into the world so,’ Mrs Rolleston said. ‘Kings of Ireland too, no doubt.’

  The visitors, intrigued by what they’d heard, consumed their fish in silence. Then John James mentioned the bridge, offering a fresh topic of conversation. Long anticipated, he reported, the work had begun in the spring.

  ‘A bridge?’ repeated the Bishop. ‘I did not know this.’ He frowned severely. First there was the elderly bridegroom, then a child illegitimately born to servants, now the information that the island was to change its nature. The Bishop glanced at his wife and saw that she, too, continued to be nonplussed. A necklace of garnets, inherited a year ago, decorated the folds of her neck and was the only sign of life about her, for her features had gone blank and her knife and fork lay still on the plate in front of her. He had witnessed this before when she suffered bewilderment.

  ‘Girders,’ John James said, ‘are already set in cement.’

  The Camiers had observed the understructure from the ferry and had remarked to one another that a bridge appeared to be in the process of construction. Villiers Hadnett had noticed nothing. Nor had Lady Rossboyne.

  ‘This is truly singular,’ the Bishop declared, raising his voice so that it would carry to his wife and rouse her. She gave a little jerk and dutifully turned to Lionel to talk about her children. ‘Our older son’s in India,’ she said. ‘Managing a tea plantation.’

  If people would like it, John James suggested, tomorrow they might walk across the island to see what progress the bridge was making. He observed that a feature of life nowadays in Ireland was that little was brought to completion. He mentioned the Limerick tramway and the loss of the middle section of Daniel O’Connell’s statue. He drew attention to the plans there’d once been for a park in memory of a temperance priest.

  ‘But we might see for ourselves,’ he suggested, if that would be agreeable.’

  His mind was not on what he said. A letter had come from her, a thing that had never occurred before. She had apparently withdrawn from the bank the price of the motor-car in ten-pound notes. There was something he couldn’t read properly, about a hat-box, and tissue paper, and about being nervous because there was a family from Dunmanway in the house, people she’d never laid eyes on till a week ago. He’d torn the whole rigmarole up, envelope and all, and gone specially to the kitchen to burn the pieces in the range since there was no other fire in August.

  ‘I had not heard about a bridge,’ the Bishop repeated. ‘We neither of us had heard a word about a bridge.’

  Villiers Hadnett, regarding the surface of the table in front of him, spoke to Mrs Camier of his journey from Athlone. Finding this tedious, Mrs Camier turned to Finnamore, who was on her other side. ‘You’re in the law, Mr Balt?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I am in the law,’ Finnamore replied, I have been a solicitor all my life.’

  ‘And is that agreeable?’

  Finnamore gave the question his consideration. He knew about the Camiers. They had run through a great deal of money. Camier, before this present marriage, had been sued for breach of promise. Mrs Camier was pretty and presented an air of flightiness. She was said to pride herself on being able to draw people out.

  ‘I do not complain,’ Finnamore said. ‘I believe I never have. On the other hand, I know no other work.’

  ‘Now, though, if you had a choice, Mr Balt,’ pursued Mrs Camier in a kittenish manner, her eyelids blinking rapidly, if you could choose from all the world’s work, what would you say?’

  Finnamore considered that question carefully also. He pondered, chewing a fragment of vegetable, before replying. He thought to smile, but did not do so, fearing Mrs Camier might interpret this as a lack of serious attention paid to her query.

  ‘I believe I would run the same course,’ he finally pronounced. ‘I cannot see myself tempted elsewhere.’

  ‘Not travel and adventure? Not the dash and thrill of commerce?’

  ‘I think not. I am familiar with the law. I know nothing of commercial matters.’

  Mrs Camier, sensing that the conversation she had worked so hard to stimulate was about to dry up, and reluctant to be again exposed to the continuing monologue of Villiers Hadnett’s journey from Athlone, touched Finnamore lightly on the arm with the tips of her fingers and said she could easily see him adventuring in Africa—a claim that visibly startled the solicitor. Not understanding that Mrs Camier was seeking to set a carefree mood, he wondered why she had poked him with her fingers. It was unusual at dinner, he considered, for a woman to behave so; it seemed to him unusual, also, for a woman to keep opening and closing her eyes so much. Her husband, he noticed, was drinking a great deal of wine—which, if he only knew it, the Rollestons could ill afford. Mr Camier issued a short, barking laugh from time to time but did not speak much.

  ‘I have never considered life in Africa,’ he said. ‘I am not that kind of person.’

  ‘Then tell me, Mr Balt, what kind of a person you would say you were. Tell me without thinking. Say straight out. Lower your voice if you feel the need to.’

  Further down the table, the Bishop’s wife spoke about her second son, who, in spite of not possessing his brother’s advantages, was also doing well, having established himself in Jacob’s Biscuits, where he was in charge of an accounting room. ‘At school he did the sums in his head. Never wrote a figure down.’ The Bishop’s wife nodded in support of her claim, disturbing a little the garnets on the folds of her neck as she did so. Lionel said he often ate Jacob’s biscuits.

  ‘So, you see, it is the year of the bridge.’ Re-filling the wine-glasses, John James endeavoured to keep things going on the other side of the table. ‘We shall remember 1931 as that. The bridge that never was, I’d lay a wager.’

  ‘I should have thought, more likely, as the year of Villana’s wedding,’ the Bishop corrected.

  ‘That too,’ John James willingly conceded. ‘Villana’s wedding.’

  Lionel’s thoughts, also, were far removed from the conversation he engaged in. So were Villana’s. Mrs Moledy’s naked body had now entered John James’s and would not go away.

  ‘I think I am a serious person,’ Finnamore said in reply to further pressure from Mrs Camier. ‘I think I am a person who takes things seriously. I was a serious child. I have a serious disposition.’

  ‘And nothing else to add, eh?’

  Patty said to herself that any moment now she would spill either the mint sauce or the gravy. Mrs Haverty, alert by the door, thought she could have efficiently assisted with the peas and the potatoes, and felt cross that she had not been asked. She had managed to fit into the uniform that had been worn by a maid of similar size in the past; it seemed hard that she was not permitted to advance further than the sideboard.

  ‘When Villana and I are married I am to live at Carriglas,’ Finnamore informed his interlocutor in an effort to alter the nature of the conversation. ‘That has been agreed between us because Villana wishes it, because Villana has lived here all her life. Well, of course I am delighted,’ Finnamore went on, taking pleasure in his revelations now. ‘But I had seriously to consider the fate of my cat and my maid. I did not ask my maid to accompany me, and Villana has a fear of cats.’

  ‘I should have thought the extra help of your maid might have been welcomed.’

  It would be alien for her here. She is no longer young and was a boon companion of my mother’s. No, it is better not so. My clerk, Eugene Prille, has found good homes for both of them.’

  ‘Prille?’

  ‘That is the name of my clerk.’

  ‘Well, that’s most interesting. Most interesting. It is not a name I am familiar with.’ Mrs Camier paused, and then contin
ued: it’s a wrench to be parted from a pet. You’ll find it so?’

  Indeed. Prille is a Huguenot name originally. Eugene passed his childhood in Macroom.’

  Mr Balt, there is something you are not telling me, I think!’

  ‘Well, only perhaps that when I come to Carriglas I shall be closer to the condition of the estate. It is a dream, shared with Villana, that between us we may return Carriglas to its former glory.’

  ‘Now how very nice that sounds!’

  ‘Due in part to generosity and in part to negligence, much is in need of attention. There is land that must be winkled back to the family. I, with knowledge of such matters, will perhaps devote my life to that. I do not know if you’re aware of the history of this family? In particular of the generation we call the Famine Rollestons?’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘The John Rolleston of that time married Catherine Esmond of Ninemilecross. It was they who first of all waived the rents.’

  ‘How odd of them!’

  ‘People had perished all around them. If they had not died of starvation they poisoned themselves with the weeds they ate. The Famine Rollestons were widely renowned for their compassion. A most remarkable generation, but alas disastrous in terms of the effect on the family fortunes.’

  ‘Well, that’s most interesting.’ Mrs Camier’s encouraging murmur suddenly acquired an acerbic note; her eyelids ceased their motion. She had herself once contemplated marriage for money: she could not recall if the price had seemed as high. Hastily she returned her attention to Villiers Hadnett, who was now revealing details concerning his state of health.

  ‘So she’s not to marry Hugh Pollexfen?’ Lady Rossboyne said loudly and in a general way.

  ‘No.’ It was Lionel who replied, being close by.

  ‘The engagement was broken off more than ten years ago,’ Mrs Rolleston called down the table.

  ‘At Buttevant we made sure it was Hugh Pollexfen. The present I brought had Hugh Pollexfen in mind.’

  ‘Villana is to marry Mr Balt,’ Mr Camier explained.

  ‘Of course she is. They told us in the drawing-room. What I’m saying is why not Hugh Pollexfen?’

  ‘A disagreement, I dare say,’ Mr Camier hazarded, and gave one of his short laughs. ‘Presumably they were unsuited.’

  Lady Rossboyne was not entirely satisfied by that. The couple would not have become engaged in the first place if they were unsuited, she pointed out. She had taken the bridegroom they’d been presented with to be Hugh Pollexfen’s uncle, one of the Pollexfens of Rosscarbery. She found the circumstances bizarre.

  ‘Of course it is often the case,’ the Bishop confided to Mrs Rolleston, ‘that a singular match turns out to be one of the most profound happiness.’ The severity of his eyes deepened, affected by a mood of earnestness. ‘I have observed it often in my experience.’

  ‘I, on the contrary, have not. I quite deplore all this.’

  ‘Deplore?’

  ‘This wedding is an occasion of farce.’

  Aghast, the Bishop made a sound he had not intended to, caused by the onset of alarm. Food hurried down his throat. His jaw sagged.

  ‘I have come to conduct the wedding,’ he said, realising as he spoke that the words were foolish.

  ‘You may recall you wrote to ask if you might.’

  ‘I do indeed recall. It seemed a friendly move to make. A wedding within the family. I am a bishop, after all.’

  ‘Villana was touched. She shares with you this family thing.’

  ‘I had no idea you disapproved.’

  It is not disapproval. Disapproval is a different sentiment entirely. It is simply that I yet have hopes Villana may draw back.’

  In what way draw back? What do you mean?’

  I mean that, faced with the ultimate before the altar, Villana will walk away from it. I really cannot see that she’ll fail to realise in time.’

  ‘But this is no way to begin a marriage. They have vows to make. I shall be speaking to both of them. I was quite unaware there was some doubt.’

  ‘I had a dream that Villana said she was destroying the poor man’s peace of mind.’

  ‘A dream?’

  ‘Take no notice of me. I believe the feeling is that I am ga-ga. I believe that’s so.’

  ‘Oh, surely—’

  ‘Being ga-ga is seeing things differently when you’re old. How horrid this trifle is!’

  She would give a shilling, the Bishop’s wife thought, to be able to go away and take off her stays. ‘Scarlatina,’ Villiers Hadnett said. ‘And trouble with a lung.’ Mr Camier again drained his glass and gave another laugh. It was odd, Lady Rossboyne mused, that the bridegroom should have reminded her of the original bridegroom’s uncle. Mrs Rolleston stood up.

  In the drawing-room there was coffee, and then the men came in after they had sat over their port for half an hour. Lady Rossboyne and Mrs Rolleston talked about the past; mutual relatives were recalled. Mrs Camier attempted to draw out Lionel and did not succeed. While listening to Villiers Hadnett telling him about his lung, John James remembered the name of the carpentry instructor: Spokeshave Billimore. Finnamore supplied Mr Camier with the history of the Ganters, from Kanturk, who had briefly had a connection with the Rollestons. His partner, Harbinson, was to be his best man, he informed Mr Camier. The Harbinsons were originally of Mountmellick.

  Mrs Camier, drawing out the Bishop, heard about ten minutes that had changed his life. Ten minutes in May 1894, a Tuesday morning. The bells of St Canice’s cathedral in Kilkenny had been ringing at the time, but Mrs Camier was never to discover why, because while the Bishop was explaining how he had grappled with a theological enigma during those particular ten minutes the evening was brought to an end. ‘Goodnight,’ Mrs Rolleston abruptly said, and taking from his waistcoat the watch Villana had liked to play with as a child, Finnamore noted that it was almost the time he had arranged for the ferryman to be at the pier. The double journey was to cost him a price he considered high: one and sixpence because of the lateness of the hour. He shook hands with the visitors; Villana accompanied him from the drawing-room.

  ‘Lady Rossboyne is very direct,’ she apologised on the avenue, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘She did not offend me.’

  Villana took his arm. He was so very kind, coming to Carriglas when he might have insisted on remaining in his house, obliging her to live where she did not wish to live. The interest he took in Carriglas was a kindness also: she saw it as such.

  ‘But I fear I did not make much impression.’ He sighed. One way or another he had not enjoyed the evening. He had made no headway in his conversation with Mrs Camier; and her husband had finally interrupted him to say he had no interest in genealogy. ‘They found me dull and much too old for you.’

  ‘It does not matter what they found you. That is of no importance.’

  Again he sighed. He could not help wishing his reception had been warmer; it was a natural thing.

  ‘Finny, will you be nice to me about something?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. Of course.’

  ‘There is no real need to make a fuss about the inscription on the bridge.’

  He stopped in his walk, considerably taken aback.

  ‘Oh, but there is. I have put the case forcibly. No one has been left in doubt.’

  ‘Funds for the inscription have already been collected. It is always difficult to reverse such decisions.’

  ‘But not impossible. We have reason on our side. We have humane considerations.’

  ‘We would rather you did not continue to make a fuss.’

  ‘But, my dear little girl—’

  ‘I believe I speak for all of us. The bridge is there, and that is that. John James pretends it will somehow not be completed, but of course we know it will be. Similarly with the memorial plaque.’

  ‘That man sought to murder you and your brothers. In a most gruesome manner he brought to an end the life of an unfortunate servant.’

  �
�Yes, I know.’

  ‘He chose to be the family’s enemy. Had he lived he would have burnt Carriglas to the ground.’

  ‘Yes, that is probably true.’

  ‘Every time you cross that bridge—’

  ‘We know about every time, Finny. We are well aware. But we would rather you did not make a fuss.’

  He made no further comment. In silence they continued through the gloom.

  After their journeys the visitors retired early that night. The Camiers, who had accepted the wedding invitation because of the lavishness of the Carriglas parties they’d heard spoken about, consoled themselves with a decanter surreptitiously conveyed to their bedroom. Villiers Hadnett pulled the bell in the wall by his bed, requiring a carafe of water, but no one came. The Bishop confided to his wife that he was greatly perturbed by the prediction that Villana at the last minute would draw back from the altar and he himself be made to look a fool. His wife, involved at that moment with her stays, replied that she would not be in the very least surprised. Lady Rossboyne’s mattress, in the past lain upon by the Viceroy during his summer visits, had become lumpy with the passing of time. ‘No better than turnips in a sack,’ she crossly muttered.

  Carriglas, August 25th, 1931. This morning John James set up the croquet hoops, and the game was played again, as I remember it in the past. Afterwards the visitors sat beneath the strawberry trees or strolled about. Their presence dominates the household, and has become its centre, even though Villana is the reason for their being here. John James makes what effort he can. Yet neither he nor Villana—and certainly not their brother—seems able to escape from the shadows of their abandoned lives. More than ever I recall the trinity they formed as children, when only my brother was invited to share its secrets. I cannot help believing that their affectionate loyalty to one another has not evaporated, though it’s no longer in any manner expressed. I don’t know why I have that feeling so particularly when the visitors are here.

  After lunch a procession left the house, slowly crossing the gravel sweep, moving down the avenue. I had not thought to join it, but Mrs Rolleston pressed me. She says quite often, and more these last few busy weeks, that I should not feel tied so to the house. ‘Yes, do come,’ John James encouraged.