invaded; so these were my thoughts:
If either side invades us, we’ll be exactly the same as England—the wide quiet fields in one half of the equation, the ruined towns and cities in the other
.
By now I had brought under control my resistance to Miss Begley’spursuit of Charles Miller. At first I had taken the old-fashioned, hunter-gatherer position, and I announced it.
“You should stop it. It’s unseemly. Men do the pursuing. Men court. Men woo.”
She didn’t reply—and then I shut up, because I recalled that Venetia had been the one who’d initiated our relationship. The day we first connected she did all the running, declared her feelings, said that we were meant to be together. I never questioned it; I just followed her lead.
Therefore I’d have been a hypocrite if I hadn’t supported Miss Begley’s focused drive on London. I knew that I’d help her if I could, but I also expected to do nothing more than stand by and watch. Of course I had no idea what I would be watching.
As if all this weren’t enough, I found myself sleepless again, troubled by something else. The night before coming into Dublin to catch the boat, I’d stayed at a concertina player’s home near the town of Kildare. I’d visited the family in the past, they’d heard my questions, seen Venetia’s photograph, and guessed at my anguish.
This time, though, the woman of the house remarked, “I might have a bit of news for you,” and said that her sister had worked as a cleaner at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin and had known Venetia. “They all loved her,” she said.
I nodded.
“Well,” said the woman, “my sister says that they heard at the Abbey that Miss Kelly—well, she’s not well.”
I galvanized. “Where? How do you mean, ‘not well’?” But inside I was screaming,
You mean she might be alive?
My outburst scared her; sometimes I don’t know my own strength. She retreated, and I now believe that I destroyed any chance I had of acquiring her information.
“Oh, hold on, Mr. MacCarthy, hold on. I mean, the same woman, she told me something myself once, and wasn’t it all a lie?”
My face, I know, went white, and I walked out into the night. This was the old, awful pattern:
Cleft in twain again. No farther along, no more healed or eased
.
And yet, I observed something. However scorching this woman found my reaction, I could sense that the flame of that particular lamp was running low on oil. And I surmised why: As she herself might haveput it, Kate Begley had marched right into the fields of my private anguish, pitched her tent there, and was now redirecting the soldiers of my zeal. As a consequence, I was thinking more about her than about Venetia. For the first time, but not the last, I felt disloyal.
32
As I was having these thoughts, something ridiculous took place. The train stopped at some junction, Crewe, I think, and took on passengers. Up to then we’d been seated in a compartment, just the two of us, facing each other, by the window. Now a woman opened the door and raised an inquiring look.
To my annoyance, Miss Begley said, “Come in, there’s only us.” Before I could help, the woman hoisted a crimson suitcase up to the rack and plonked herself down.
I understood the invitation. In the privacy of the compartment, our conversation about what would happen in London had been cranking up again. This newcomer’s presence, though, meant that I couldn’t press anymore, couldn’t ask yet again, “What exactly are we going to London for?”
Now comes the silly part. Miss Begley engaged with the newcomer:
Where are you from? Are you going to London? Isn’t it a lovely day?
A short time later, they’d reached fortune-telling, soothsaying, crystal gazing.
“I believe in it wholeheartedly,” said the passenger. “Do you?”
“Well, I’d have to,” said Miss Begley.
“Why is that?” said the passenger.
“Because,” said Miss Begley, “I do a bit of it myself.”
A hand to her
If either side invades us, we’ll be exactly the same as England—the wide quiet fields in one half of the equation, the ruined towns and cities in the other
.
By now I had brought under control my resistance to Miss Begley’spursuit of Charles Miller. At first I had taken the old-fashioned, hunter-gatherer position, and I announced it.
“You should stop it. It’s unseemly. Men do the pursuing. Men court. Men woo.”
She didn’t reply—and then I shut up, because I recalled that Venetia had been the one who’d initiated our relationship. The day we first connected she did all the running, declared her feelings, said that we were meant to be together. I never questioned it; I just followed her lead.
Therefore I’d have been a hypocrite if I hadn’t supported Miss Begley’s focused drive on London. I knew that I’d help her if I could, but I also expected to do nothing more than stand by and watch. Of course I had no idea what I would be watching.
As if all this weren’t enough, I found myself sleepless again, troubled by something else. The night before coming into Dublin to catch the boat, I’d stayed at a concertina player’s home near the town of Kildare. I’d visited the family in the past, they’d heard my questions, seen Venetia’s photograph, and guessed at my anguish.
This time, though, the woman of the house remarked, “I might have a bit of news for you,” and said that her sister had worked as a cleaner at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin and had known Venetia. “They all loved her,” she said.
I nodded.
“Well,” said the woman, “my sister says that they heard at the Abbey that Miss Kelly—well, she’s not well.”
I galvanized. “Where? How do you mean, ‘not well’?” But inside I was screaming,
You mean she might be alive?
My outburst scared her; sometimes I don’t know my own strength. She retreated, and I now believe that I destroyed any chance I had of acquiring her information.
“Oh, hold on, Mr. MacCarthy, hold on. I mean, the same woman, she told me something myself once, and wasn’t it all a lie?”
My face, I know, went white, and I walked out into the night. This was the old, awful pattern:
Cleft in twain again. No farther along, no more healed or eased
.
And yet, I observed something. However scorching this woman found my reaction, I could sense that the flame of that particular lamp was running low on oil. And I surmised why: As she herself might haveput it, Kate Begley had marched right into the fields of my private anguish, pitched her tent there, and was now redirecting the soldiers of my zeal. As a consequence, I was thinking more about her than about Venetia. For the first time, but not the last, I felt disloyal.
32
As I was having these thoughts, something ridiculous took place. The train stopped at some junction, Crewe, I think, and took on passengers. Up to then we’d been seated in a compartment, just the two of us, facing each other, by the window. Now a woman opened the door and raised an inquiring look.
To my annoyance, Miss Begley said, “Come in, there’s only us.” Before I could help, the woman hoisted a crimson suitcase up to the rack and plonked herself down.
I understood the invitation. In the privacy of the compartment, our conversation about what would happen in London had been cranking up again. This newcomer’s presence, though, meant that I couldn’t press anymore, couldn’t ask yet again, “What exactly are we going to London for?”
Now comes the silly part. Miss Begley engaged with the newcomer:
Where are you from? Are you going to London? Isn’t it a lovely day?
A short time later, they’d reached fortune-telling, soothsaying, crystal gazing.
“I believe in it wholeheartedly,” said the passenger. “Do you?”
“Well, I’d have to,” said Miss Begley.
“Why is that?” said the passenger.
“Because,” said Miss Begley, “I do a bit of it myself.”
A hand to her
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