learned. The recognition came as a soft shock; she could no longer count herself innocent.
‘What’s that fella doing here?’ Mother said
sotto voce
as the Bugler turned away.
‘To pay his respects to Pappie,’ Bella whispered harshly.
‘Sure, he never even met your father,’ Mother said.
Mick collared his military friend, clapping an arm across his gold-encrusted shoulders and muttered urgently. ‘What about a jar with Tom and myself in The Bleeding Horse?’
‘Now now, son,’ Mother said.
Mick scowled. He took the Bugler aside and there was some urgent whisperings between them, some male hugger-mugger afoot.
‘Bella?’ Mother called.
She was climbing into the carriage and settling herself on the seat with Jack on her lap.
Presently Mick joined them, lumbering aboard reluctantly and Tom followed him. The carriage took off with an enormous lurch. Through the window, Bella watched as the figure of Corporal Beaver, standing alone by the graveside, receded from view. The other mourners had scattered so her last sight of Pappie was of the Bugler, standing guard at the open grave.
It was a desolate sensation returning home to the darkened rooms with the blinds down, the clocks stopped. It seemed to Bella as if the house held its breath, the floorboards waiting for Pappie’s tread. Only his belongings were still in residence – his jacket hanging on the hook of the parlour door; his books by the bedside. He had got only half-way through Trollope’s
The Way We Live Now
, she noticed, thinking how poignant that he would never know now how the tale finished. His Bible lay on the counterpane. She opened it and riffled through its pages. In the inside back cover he had inscribed the marks from her report cards at the College. Her 52 out of 60 for penmanship, her 56 for spelling, even her poor 28 for grammar. It made her heart seize and she shut the good book quickly so as not to be reminded. Ofhis absence; of her own promise.
She set to and made an early tea. Mrs Tancred, next door, had left some eggs and they sat down to eat in a silence as solemn as the Last Supper, broken only by Isaac who remarked there wasn’t much eating in an egg, not for a man. He was all of twelve but he had developed notions of himself, particularly with his father gone. They were the only words exchanged between them. Bella was glad of it – it seemed an offence to chatter. When they had finished and Bella was stacking the plates, Jack came up to her and nuzzled into her side.
‘When is me Da coming home?’
Of late, being distracted, Mother had let him pal around with that Connor boy, a Catholic of decidedly rough manners who called his own father just plain Da.
‘Who’s looking after me Da?’ he persisted. ‘Why aren’t you up in the room looking after me Da?’
She hated hearing Pappie being reduced to the level of Mr Connor, a common labourer.
‘Oh Jack, will you stop it before you give us all a headache,’ she snapped at him.
‘Bella!’ Mother said and whisked the child on to her lap.
‘He’s only making us all feel mournful with his lonesome whingeing,’ Bella said trying to justify being short with him.
They each lapsed into their own thoughts after that. Jack fell into a drowsy sleep; Mick lit up his pipe; Tom read the newspaper . Then somewhere in the distance a church bell chimedthe seventh hour. Mick and Tom hauled themselves out of their stupor and donned their greatcoats.
‘We’re off for a quick drink,’ Mick announced for both of them. That’s the way it was with those two. Mick rowed out and Tom got carried in his wake. He halted at the door. ‘A word outside , Bella, if you please.’
She followed them out into the hall.
‘I have something for you, Bella,’ he said, ‘though I’m not sure it’s at all suitable.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘I have a little
billay do
for you,’ he said, plucking a letter from his inside pocket. ‘From an admirer.’
She blanched. The
‘What’s that fella doing here?’ Mother said
sotto voce
as the Bugler turned away.
‘To pay his respects to Pappie,’ Bella whispered harshly.
‘Sure, he never even met your father,’ Mother said.
Mick collared his military friend, clapping an arm across his gold-encrusted shoulders and muttered urgently. ‘What about a jar with Tom and myself in The Bleeding Horse?’
‘Now now, son,’ Mother said.
Mick scowled. He took the Bugler aside and there was some urgent whisperings between them, some male hugger-mugger afoot.
‘Bella?’ Mother called.
She was climbing into the carriage and settling herself on the seat with Jack on her lap.
Presently Mick joined them, lumbering aboard reluctantly and Tom followed him. The carriage took off with an enormous lurch. Through the window, Bella watched as the figure of Corporal Beaver, standing alone by the graveside, receded from view. The other mourners had scattered so her last sight of Pappie was of the Bugler, standing guard at the open grave.
It was a desolate sensation returning home to the darkened rooms with the blinds down, the clocks stopped. It seemed to Bella as if the house held its breath, the floorboards waiting for Pappie’s tread. Only his belongings were still in residence – his jacket hanging on the hook of the parlour door; his books by the bedside. He had got only half-way through Trollope’s
The Way We Live Now
, she noticed, thinking how poignant that he would never know now how the tale finished. His Bible lay on the counterpane. She opened it and riffled through its pages. In the inside back cover he had inscribed the marks from her report cards at the College. Her 52 out of 60 for penmanship, her 56 for spelling, even her poor 28 for grammar. It made her heart seize and she shut the good book quickly so as not to be reminded. Ofhis absence; of her own promise.
She set to and made an early tea. Mrs Tancred, next door, had left some eggs and they sat down to eat in a silence as solemn as the Last Supper, broken only by Isaac who remarked there wasn’t much eating in an egg, not for a man. He was all of twelve but he had developed notions of himself, particularly with his father gone. They were the only words exchanged between them. Bella was glad of it – it seemed an offence to chatter. When they had finished and Bella was stacking the plates, Jack came up to her and nuzzled into her side.
‘When is me Da coming home?’
Of late, being distracted, Mother had let him pal around with that Connor boy, a Catholic of decidedly rough manners who called his own father just plain Da.
‘Who’s looking after me Da?’ he persisted. ‘Why aren’t you up in the room looking after me Da?’
She hated hearing Pappie being reduced to the level of Mr Connor, a common labourer.
‘Oh Jack, will you stop it before you give us all a headache,’ she snapped at him.
‘Bella!’ Mother said and whisked the child on to her lap.
‘He’s only making us all feel mournful with his lonesome whingeing,’ Bella said trying to justify being short with him.
They each lapsed into their own thoughts after that. Jack fell into a drowsy sleep; Mick lit up his pipe; Tom read the newspaper . Then somewhere in the distance a church bell chimedthe seventh hour. Mick and Tom hauled themselves out of their stupor and donned their greatcoats.
‘We’re off for a quick drink,’ Mick announced for both of them. That’s the way it was with those two. Mick rowed out and Tom got carried in his wake. He halted at the door. ‘A word outside , Bella, if you please.’
She followed them out into the hall.
‘I have something for you, Bella,’ he said, ‘though I’m not sure it’s at all suitable.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘I have a little
billay do
for you,’ he said, plucking a letter from his inside pocket. ‘From an admirer.’
She blanched. The
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