House of Memories (14 page)

“But how can you behave so normally then?” Nora demanded.

“Maybe because it helps her cope,” Mark interjected thoughtfully, his long sensitive face full of concern.

He was such a contrast to everyone else in Kilmeen, with his
long hair and blonde beard and clothes that always looked, as Peter had once put it, as if he was wearing the kitchen curtains. But all the disarray covered an artistic mind that turned out pictures of startling originality. Now Rodney Jackson marketed them all over America. Until Rodney became involved they had more or less considered Mark locally as a bit of an oddity. But nothing converts the public mind like the ability to earn large amounts of money, and now Mark was viewed with awe in Kilmeen. But either way it had never bothered Mark, who had little interest in the human and viewed the natural world as a wonder for his canvas. That he was Martha’s brother was a puzzle that Kate had never been able to solve, because Martha was the most practical person you could imagine and Mark did not have a practical bone in his body. But Jack had an explanation.

“He’s a throwback,” he told Kate. When she had repeated questioningly, “a throwback?” he continued, “Every few generations a family can turn up ‘a throwback’ who somehow embodies the bloodline of someone long gone. The chances are that back along that family line there was a talent that might not necessarily have been developed, and then down the line it breaks out in a descendent and everyone is amazed. But sometimes the explanation is not lost in the mists of time, as is the case of Danny Conway, who embodies all the bloodline of his grandmother.”

She smiled at the memory of Jack’s words, and Nora demanded in surprise, “Aunty Kate, what are you smiling at?”

Kate gave them a detailed explanation. When she was finished, Mark chuckled in amusement, “So that explains me; I’m a throwback!”

“And you’re a lovely throwback, Uncle Mark,” Nora assured
him, “and because there is a family connection between you and Rodney Jackson, it probably makes him very proud of his bloodline too.”

“Well, he believed in it anyway, that’s for sure,” Mark said.

“Did you hear from him lately?” Kate asked, curious to know if Mark knew anything more than she did.

“He was supposed to come for Easter as you know, but now he’ll be coming in a few weeks’ time, probably the end of the month,” Mark told her. “He has some big plan up his sleeve that he is quite excited about.”

“Like what?” Nora demanded.

“Well, for a hotel in Kilmeen,” Mark told them.

“Where?” Nora persisted.

“I think it’s the school, because he wants to take all those paintings down, and I’m to prepare new ones for the hotel,” Mark told them.

“And where is the school supposed to disappear to?” Nora demanded.

“I’ve no idea,” Mark told her.

“But, Uncle Mark, whose idea was it that we needed a hotel?” Nora wanted to know.

“Your mother’s, I think,” Mark said mildly.

“My God,” Nora gasped. “Peter was right.”

“Why?” Kate asked.

“Well, he said that it was Mom’s idea. That while she had no notion of marrying Rodney Jackson, she would still use him.”

“Dear, dear, but Peter has no false illusions about his mother,” Mark said quietly, and then added thoughtfully, “but then I suppose he inherited that trait from her.”

“Surely Rodney Jackson would not throw Uncle David out of
his school?” Nora protested in dismay.

“I doubt it,” Mark said.

“But you’re not sure,” Nora persisted.

“Well, no, I suppose I’m not,” Mark admitted.

“Let’s change the subject,” Kate intervened. “Today is enough to handle without burdening ourselves with the future.”

“Aunty Kate, you sound just like Jack,” Nora said sadly.

Kate waited until all the neighbours were gone home and then walked up to Jack’s cottage. Toby was waiting at the gate and went ecstatic with delight to see her. She gathered him into her arms and hugged him.

“Darling Toby,” she asked him, burying her face in his bristly neck, “what are we going to do with you at all at all? We can’t take you away from here after all your years, and anyway you’d find your way back, so you’ll have to stay, but we can’t leave you here alone.”

The sight of the little dog looking at her with such absolute devotion brought a lump to her throat, and suddenly her tears were running down his coat.

“We all depended on Jack,” she told Toby as he furiously licked her face and then jumped out of her arms and ran to the door ahead of her. She dreaded opening the door into the silent cold cottage, but to her surprise the fire was lighting. She almost expected to see Jack sitting beside it.

God bless you, Sarah, she thought. You knew that I’d call.

She sat by the fire for a long time, thinking of all the times that Jack and herself had shared these evening hours, and gradually a quiet peace came to her. Toby slept contentedly at her feet. Then she became aware of a subtle difference in the sounds of the cottage. The clock over her head was not ticking,
and she wondered if Sarah had stopped it, or did it need winding? She got up to wind it and put her hand down into the base of the old clock to find the key. Her fingers touched a roll of paper, and she brought it out with the key. She was holding a little bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon. It was the last thing that she would have expected to find in Jack’s clock, and she slipped them back hurriedly, feeling guilty for having taken them out in the first place.

She walked around the cottage. The place without Jack filled her with pain, but still the sense of his past presence comforted her in another way. She opened the door of his bedroom and the smell of his pipe reached out to her. His brand of tobacco gave the room a sweet aromatic whiff. She went over to the window and looked out over his little haggard. All locked up for the night. Sarah had been at work here as well. How Jack loved this room, and when the lads had taken down the dividing wall last year, he was so pleased with his extra eastern-facing window to catch the morning sun. He loved the sky in the early morning and always said that it set the tone for his day. She drifted into his little parlour. He was so proud of this cosy corner where he lit the fire at Christmas. This was his treasure store for all his mother’s beautiful cloths. When she opened the tall press beside the fireplace, a lavender scent floated out to her. All the cloths were neatly folded with little bags of his garden lavender hanging off the edges of the shelves. How well he looked after them, she thought as she gently slipped her hand along the top of the folded rows. Her hand touched a small flat box, and she drew it out and opened it. It contained more of the same letters tied up with the same blue ribbon, and this time she recognised the handwriting. She put the box back carefully and left the
cottage, closing the door quietly behind her.

D
ANNY STOOD INSIDE
the gate of Furze Hill and viewed with satisfaction what had been achieved in just a few weeks. Bill Brady had worked wonders! The house was free, standing proud and clear of the strangling growth that had smothered it for years. It now had a tight coat of
close-cropped
ivy that Bill had trimmed to well below the eaves and around the edges of windows and front door. When Bill had removed the sheeting from the windows, they were both pleasantly surprised to find that the high timber sashes had stood the test of time. But the dark closed shutters on the inside prevented any glimpse of the interior.

As Danny looked up the short driveway, he tried to imagine what the house would look like with all the shutters folded back and the windows and front door thrown open. He longed to see the house breathe again. The front garden and lawn were already taking shape. Gone was the wilderness of years, and now the sun shone down on grass that was turning from brown
to green, and newly pruned shrubs and trees stifled for so long were already breaking into new growth. For weeks Bill had cut back and cleared, and every evening Shiner and himself had come and drawn away heaps of greenery. Bill had sorted out what was worth keeping from what was better discarded, and as Danny watched he was thankful that Bill had not allowed Fr Tim to let the Kilmeens loose in the garden. They would have cleared faster, but all the valuable old shrubs and trees of his grandmother’s time might have been swept away and gone for ever in a tide of enthusiasm. But Bill’s selective pruning was paying dividends, and the garden was recovering fast. The two weeping willows at each side of the driveway fluttered in the breeze and veiled the house from full view of the gate. As the design of the old place unfolded, Bill had nodded his head in appreciation

“Whoever laid this out knew a thing or two about gardening,” he told Danny, but Danny felt that Bill himself was bringing out the best of the place. The day that he uncovered an old vegetable garden to the rear, his delight was infectious. Danny could imagine his mother’s joy in having her own vegetable plot after years of struggling with his father to maintain a little growing area behind the yard. Invariably the bonhams had rooted it up or the calves broke into it, and sometimes he thought that his father had left the gate open on purpose. Now there could be no such happenings because this area was totally cut off from the farmyard, and he loved the way you had to walk through the arch to get to the yard. It was as if they were two different worlds. Bill was right that the whole place had been originally very well laid out. The now-exposed high stone wall extended from each side of the entrance pillars and
surrounded the entire garden and house, back and front. It was easy to see now how his crazy grandfather and father had managed to lock this enclosed world away.

He opened the gate that now swung easily on well-oiled hinges; it had taken Bill hours of grinding and oiling for these simple, elegant gates to work smoothly between the tall stone pillars. Out on the road, he walked along beside the high wall just for the satisfaction of coming back to the gate and looking in at the amazing transformation inside. Jack’s words came back to him: “I remember looking in across the garden at a blue door.” He had decided then that one day there would be a blue door. But before this could happen, they had first to get in through that door. Occasionally Bill would inquire, “Any news of the key,” but as he had now begun work on the barn he felt no pressing need to get the key. To Danny, however, the key had become an obsession that he thought about daily, and a consuming need to get into the house possessed him.

Last night he had a strange dream of the day that his grandmother died. He was a young boy, sitting frightened with the rest of them by the fire. His eyes were glued to the bedroom door behind which Nana Molly was dying. With Nana Molly gone, there would be no one to protect them from his father, who was now pacing around the kitchen in a controlled rage. So he had two things to fear: death and no one between him and his father’s temper. In the dream the door opened and Kate Phelan came into the kitchen. In that few seconds that he could see beyond her, Fr Brady was leaning over Nana. Then the dream faded, but when he woke in the morning it came back to him, and since then it kept drifting into his mind.

“You could grow bananas in here it’s so sheltered,” Bill
declared as he came through the arch. “Time for grub, Danny boy.” He brought his two flasks and sandwiches to the doorstep where they had their lunch every day. As he poured out the tea, Bill surprised him by asking, “Have you thought any more about the lost key?”

“I have thought about nothing else lately,” Danny told him.

“Thought so,” Bill smiled. “Your eyes have a longing look when you view those shuttered up windows and locked door.”

“Bill,” he began slowly, “if you were dying and had something very valuable, to whom would you give it for safe keeping?”

“Now that would depend,” Bill began thoughtfully, “on who was around at the time. If I could trust one of my own, I suppose I’d give it to them, but if I couldn’t I’d have to settle for whoever was available. Who else was there that night apart from yourselves?” Bill asked.

“Kate Phelan and Fr Tim,” he told him.

“And you’ve asked them?”

“Well, Kate doesn’t have it and, sure, Fr Tim knows that I’m looking for it,” Danny told him.

“Tim has a head like a bloody sieve,” his father declared; “always had.”

“But surely he’d never forget something like that?” Danny said in dismay.

“Not making light of your predicament, Danny, but he’s forgotten bigger things in his day,” Bill told him. “Might be no harm to take him on a little jaunt down memory lane.”

Later that evening Danny called on Kate to discuss his predicament, but he was taken aback at how white-faced and tired Kate looked when she opened the door. Jack’s death had really taken its toll on her. He felt uneasy to be bringing his
problem to her, but she smiled warmly in welcome and was obviously glad to see him, which was reassuring.

“Danny, it’s so good to see you,” she told him as she led him back the hallway into the kitchen. “You came at a great time because I’m all on my own and just taking a tea tray out into the garden, so you bring the teapot now and I’ll get an extra cup.”

As he followed her along the garden path, he looked around with interest. Kate pointed out her mother’s old roses and the ferns that Jack had dug out of the glen in Mossgrove. In the profusion of growth, he was enclosed in shady woodland with something of interest around every curve of the long winding path. At the very bottom of the garden under the huge beech tree, Kate set the tray on a table and pulled up two chairs.

“I love your garden,” he told her appreciatively, “and it must be great to have so much of Mossgrove here.”

“That was Jack’s idea,” she told him, her eyes filling up with tears. “Imagine, I still can’t talk about him without crying. But this garden is doing more to help me come to terms with his death than anything else. When I feel real bad, I come out here and get down on my knees and work away for hours, sometimes until it gets dark. David teases me that I will take root out here myself.” She smiled tremulously through her tears. “But it’s the only thing that helps, that and the likes of you calling.”

He was touched by her words and felt a swell of sympathy for Kate, who was obviously going through a terrible time. As she poured the tea, he looked up into the branches of the giant tree.

“Jack used to tell me, pray for the person who planted this tree because they left me a great blessing, and Jack himself left this garden full of his blessings.” She pointed out all the slips
and plants that Jack had brought from Mossgrove and from the gardens of Agnes and Sarah.

“We’ll be able to exchange now as well,” he told her, and immediately her face lit up with interest.

“Tell me all about Furze Hill. Bill Brady tells me that it’s coming on at a great rate,” she said.

“Thanks to Bill,” he told her and then filled her in on the details of the transformation.

“It’s a bit of a miracle, isn’t it, Danny?” she said when he finished.

“Sometimes I am afraid that something will happen to disrupt everything. I have no title and no money, and I feel like a fellow swimming across a lake who can see the shore, but there is always the possibility that he might drown.”

“I don’t think that Jack will let you drown,” she told him with conviction.

“Well, so far I’m floating anyway, thanks mainly to Bill. I don’t know how I will ever be able to repay that man for what he is doing for me. He has worked like a Trojan, and apart from the two friends who helped with the roof, he’s been all on his own. When I asked him how we were going to pay the two roof men, he told me that they owed him one and were glad to help out. He works all day every day and never seems to get fed up with it.”

“Fr Tim says that he is finding the whole thing a huge challenge and that he is a new man since he started on Furze Hill. As you know, he is staying with Fr Tim, and between the two of us, they are not an ideal partnership in that house, because Fr Tim is all over the place and Bill is as tidy as tuppence in a rag. But for Bill it’s still better than being at home where he is not very welcome in the new set-up. I wouldn’t worry unduly
about the money thing, because do you know something Danny? The Bradys are amazing in that money does not figure big in their lives. Fr Tim is just hopeless about money, and Fr Burke despairs of him at times, and I must say that for once I can see what he is complaining about.”

“Talking about Fr Tim,” Danny began, “he is one of the reasons that I’m here.” He went on to fill Kate in with the details of what Bill had told him and his own ideas about the night his grandmother died.

“Could it be possible that she gave Fr Tim the key that night?” he asked hopefully.

“Quite possible,” she answered slowly, “because he was with her for a long time. I kept my distance because I’m always very conscious that when people are dying they might want to say things to the priest. So I stood away over by the window and then, I think, went down into the kitchen.”

“That’s right; I remember it,” he agreed eagerly.

“But how could you remember, Danny?” she asked in surprise. “You were only a young fellow.”

“I have never forgotten that night and I dreamt of it again last night,” he told her, a little embarrassed, because he thought that relating dreams was a bit idiotic.

“How strange,” she said thoughtfully, “but apart from that, as Bill says, the whole thing makes sense that she would have given something valuable to Fr Tim or to me, though probably not to me because I am a Phelan.”

“But how come he didn’t remember it,” Danny asked, “that it didn’t come back to him when he heard we wanted to get into the house?”

“I wonder, Danny, did he know what he had?” she asked.

“How do you mean?” he demanded, feeling that Kate was trying to justify Fr Brady’s forgetfulness.

“I’m not sure,” Kate said slowly, “but I have this vague memory of Fr Tim saying something about a packet, but because he was new in the parish at the time he probably did not know me well enough to discuss things with me. And to be honest, Danny, I forgot all about it as well until you brought it up just now.”

“But if he got something, what would he have done with it?” Danny persisted.

“Probably put it in the parish safe and forgot all about it,” Kate decided.

“Will you ask him about it, Kate, and find out if he did get anything?” Danny asked. “I might be on the wrong track, but I want to explore all possibilities. Apart from anything else, Jack was very anxious that the key would be found, and he was adamant that Nana Molly would have left it in safe keeping, and I can’t think of any other safe keeping available to her that night.”

The following morning just as he finished feeding the calves, Fr Brady’s car shot in the gate, and as he strode across the yard he drew a small packet out of his pocket. Danny felt his heart jump with excitement. Could he possibly have the key?

“Danny, I have no idea what is in this packet. Your grandmother gave it to me on the night that she died, and I put it in the parish safe and it went completely out of my head until Kate rattled my memory,” he said apologetically.

“It can only be the key,” Danny breathed as he took the little parcel wrapped in stained brown paper and tied with knotted cord. Faded writing scrawled across the packet, but he did not take time to read it as he slipped off the frayed cord and tore
away the layers of crumpled paper to reveal a flat cardboard box. Gingerly he lifted the cover, and underneath were layers of old yellow tissue paper. He turned it back to reveal a large rusty key. He felt a wave of relief wash over him. His grandmother had minded this key for years in the hope that one day it would be used again, and when her wish had not been realised in her lifetime, she had wrapped it up carefully, hoping that one day someone, maybe even himself, would come looking for it. He was so glad that he had taken Jack’s advice and waited for the key to turn up, because this big solid key was a link back to his Barry ancestors. It was almost as if they were handing on to him the right to come back into the homeplace. When he turned over the brown paper, the shaky writing read “Molly Barry … 10 March 1952.” She had written it the day before she died.

“It’s hard to believe that I have the key of Furze Hill in my hand,” he said to Fr Brady in wonder.

“I feel so bad that I didn’t remember and connect the two things sooner,” Fr Brady told him regretfully.

“Never mind,” he assured him. “All that matters is that we have it now.”

“I think that it’s Dad and yourself who should go in there together for the first time,” Fr Brady told him, “so I’ll head off back to the village. I’ll call later.”

With his heart thumping in anticipation, Danny eased the key into the lock, but when he tried to turn it, it refused to budge. Disappointment shot through him, and he looked at Bill in alarm.