The Secret of Eveline House Page 2

  Violet had a friend who lived in London. Luckily, from her letters she had her address. But London was like another planet. So many people, so many strangers, smells and sounds she had never witnessed before. Somehow she navigated her way to the boarding house on the Kilburn Road. She sat on a wall near it, hoping to see her friend. Three hours passed and then she heard some girls giggling as they walked up the street.

  Elsie Morton, who worked in a factory in Kilburn, had arrived home.

  Elsie wrapped her in a hug when she saw her.

  ‘Mother of God – well, I cannot believe my eyes!’ Elsie’s warm brown eyes crinkled up in delight at the sight of her friend and her dark ponytail bobbed up and down as she jumped in pure excitement.

  Elsie knew of Violet’s love for fancy writing and drawing. There had been very few books in Whitewater, but those Violet could get her hands on she had devoured. Elsie knew a boy who worked in a bookshop, an English boy called Ralph she’d met at one of the dances, thin as a whippet with dark-rimmed glasses. He got Violet a job in the bookshop. It was heaven for her. She worked hard but the big bonus was being able to borrow books to read.

  She read everything, from the Brontes to Dickens to Joyce. Eventually she found a shelf which contained scripts of plays and she knew she had found something that spoke to her. She fell in love with the works of Tennessee Williams, Lady Gregory and Yeats. She couldn’t afford theatre tickets so she began to queue and stand outside the theatres, trying to sneak in when no one was looking. If she was lucky enough to get inside, she would watch, transfixed, as the words she had read were given life.

  When she was off work, she would disappear off up to the heath and write and draw. The bookshop owner, Mr Watson, a tall thin man with glasses and a serious face, was kind to her and loved introducing her to new books, authors and plays.

  Two years in London, doing little else but working and reading and watching every play that she could get in to see, amongst all her scribblings and little sketches she eventually wrote a play. She showed it to Mr Watson. He read it and showed it to a friend who was director of a small but reputable theatre and Violet’s play Unholy Love was performed.

  It was a love story about a priest who had fallen in love with a young woman, but in it she had also expressed her love for Ireland – a land that had almost strangled her but had also filled her heart with its music and a landscape that haunted her dreams with its heather-filled mountains and crystal lakes.

  She sent back the money that she had taken that last night in Ireland. She wrote several letters home, trying to explain why she had left. But her letters were never answered.

  Her writing and the theatre were her salvation.

  Then she met Henry Ward. Elsie was getting very serious with Joe Barry, an Irish emigrant from Wexford, and one night he introduced her to Henry.

  Henry was tall and fair with eyes as blue as sapphires. He was funny too and, despite living in London, had lost none of his Wexford accent. She loved the way that he seemed to rarely take his eyes off her. She could almost feel him fall in love with her. He seemed to make it his business to try to bring joy to her life. He had arrived as a labourer but had somehow turned his life around and was now a goldsmith.

  These were the war years, with days and nights of bomb shelters, fear and rationing. Henry didn’t waste time – he soon presented her with a beautiful engagement ring he had made and proposed. She accepted and they were married quickly and quietly.

  Violet knew she was pregnant the day Henry was called up. He was in the trenches in France when Sylvia was born.

  When Henry, and his brother Anthony, returned home safely from France Violet’s happiness was complete.

  Silvia was like a tiny version of her mother, except her hair was blonde like her father’s. Her skin was white as milk. She was almost ethereal, too angelic for this world. Violet worried about her as she seemed to live in her own world, shying away from people. As she grew older it was clear that the little girl found life outside of her family very challenging. Social encounters were very daunting for her sensitive nature.

  Then Henry began to talk about returning to Ireland. He felt an Irish upbringing would be better for Sylvia. He had often told Violet that he felt London was cold and indifferent, and that he had sworn one day he would return. He begged Violet to move back, to somewhere near Dublin. She could go back to London when she needed to, he said. She said no. But she knew that Henry adored his Irish heritage and had never fully recovered from leaving it behind.

  Eventually he wore her down and she agreed to look at a house in Wicklow. In a small town called Draheen.

  They were intrigued by Eveline House. It was perched on its own piece of land just at the edge of the town and there were views over the Wicklow Mountains that would take your breath away. They put a bid in and secured it.

  Henry was happy and sure that life in Draheen would help Sylvia to make sense of the world. Violet had doubts about how positive it would be for her.

  They sent her to school, but Sylvia could not handle being in the school environment. Her London accent ensured that she received constant mockery and her timidity encouraged bullies. After a few weeks, Violet persuaded Henry to take her out of school. There was a retired schoolteacher, Mrs Kennedy, who was kind and gave Sylvia private lessons every afternoon at Eveline. Also, Sylvia loved to paint, and Violet turned one of the bedrooms into a little sanctuary for her to paint in. It was there she spent most of her time now.

  The woods at the end of the town was the only other place that Sylvia really loved.

  Blythe Wood was a cornucopia of colour no matter the season. Violet loved to take her daughter down after the rain, when the oaky smell blended with the fragrant wildflowers and made the air pungent with a heady aroma. Even with its winter coat Blythe Wood was beautiful, covered in a silver frost that crackled beneath their feet.

  But as much as Violet loved the woods and the house, that stifling feeling that had almost choked her when she was seventeen seemed to be seeping back into her life. She had found that her mind and heart were free to think and breathe in the anonymous streets of London. But here in Ireland the air of judgement and religion hung like a veil over the land.

  She could feel the stares as she walked up the town. But at least she felt secure in the fact that she had changed immeasurably since she had first left Ireland. Nobody would recognise the elegant lady of Eveline House as that girl from Whitewater who had stowed away on the back of a milk lorry.

  CHAPTER 3

  New Year’s Eve 1949

  That night, to bring in the New Year, Henry had invited some friends over for drinks. Victor Gettings, the local doctor, and his wife Heather were coming. Trevor Banville and his wife Chrissy were also coming. Trevor was the local bank manager. Father Quill had promised to drop in.

  Betsy joined Violet in the search for Sylvia. They found her huddled in the cupboard beneath the stairs, clutching her Petite Suzanne doll. Amy Smith, an American friend of Violet’s, had given Sylvia a collection of books by Marguerite de Angeli one Christmas. Sylvia fell in love with Petite Suzanne, the little French-Canadian girl in the stories. Amy then gave Sylvia a Petite Suzanne doll for her birthday and since then she had rarely left it out of her hands.

  Sylvia was shivering when they found her, her white skin almost grey.

  ‘Sylvia, whatever are you doing in there?’ Violet said softly. ‘I was worried about you. Come on out, darling.’

  Sylvia shook her head and held the doll closely.

  Betsy climbed in and coaxed her out.

  ‘What has upset you so, pet?’ she asked gently.

  Then she noticed that the little girl was holding something behind her back. An envelope. She gently prised it from her hand and handed it to Violet.

  Violet was taken aback at the look on her daughter’s face.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Where did you get this letter?’

  Sylvia’s blue eyes filled with tears. She dro
pped her doll and began to sob.

  Violet pulled her towards her, hugging her and soothing her.

  Later, when Betsy had led Sylvia off to the kitchen for some supper, Violet looked at the envelope. It had Sylvia’s name on the front and was already opened. Violet pulled out a letter and paled as she read.

  The words were written with a heavy hand in blue ink. Splotches of ink were scattered on the page. One of the words had an ink-stain almost covering it. But the word was still legible. The letter looked as if it had been written by either an uneducated hand or a childish one. But the message was clear despite the amateur appearance.

  To the daughter of the Devil

  Leave Draheen now with your witch of a mother. You have been warned!

  CHAPTER 4

  Who could do such a thing to a child? If ever Violet needed proof that she was not wanted here, she had it now. She could feel her legs give way. Whoever had written this vicious letter had achieved what they set out to do. To terrorise them. She had left Ireland before – she should never have returned. She should have listened to her gut and not allowed Henry to persuade her that things would be any different now.

  Her family had turned their backs on her – surely that had been good enough reason never to return? She had written to her mother, asking to meet with her. She had written so many letters over the years. She wrote to tell her that her play was a success and that she had met Henry. She wrote to tell her that she was getting married and then, when Sylvia was born, she wrote hoping that finally her mother could forgive her for leaving. But there was never any response. She wrote to tell her that she was coming back to live in Ireland, in Draheen. But there was only silence. Her friend Elsie Morton was also from Whitewater and had kept her up to date on what was happening with her family. At times she would ask Elsie to try to find out if all was well with them. Elsie would write home and ask her mother discreetly if there was any news about the Clarke family. But, other than hearing about the emigration of her siblings, there was no other significant news for Violet. In the end she stopped asking Elsie to check. She should have seen it as a sign long ago. She was not welcome. She had no place in Ireland.

  She had to tell Henry about this wicked letter and somehow convince him that they had to move back to London. It would not be easy. She knew he loved Draheen and had really settled in, despite their terrible encounter in the church. He had a temporary workshop in the town, and he had commissions from as far away as New York. He had made friends with several businessmen and, despite the talk about Violet, the men of the town had really taken to him. He was constantly out to card games and meetings about improving Draheen.

  She could feel the tears sting her eyes. She was so worried about Sylvia. She was eight years old but she could read quite well and so had been able to read the letter. Henry had been convinced that Ireland would open its arms and welcome them. But the reality was a different story. She was ostracised because of her plays and Sylvia was bullied and frightened partly because of her mother and partly because of her accent.

  Sylvia had made no friends in Draheen and spent most of her free time in a make-believe world where her doll Suzanne played a large part. In London, they had a small circle of friends and Sylvia seemed to feel fairly secure with them. But here in Draheen she was fearful of everyone.

  A few weeks previously Violet had to go to London for the opening of her new play. Sylvia withdrew even more while she was away. When she came back after two weeks, she was shocked to see her daughter thinner and paler and more withdrawn than ever. She vowed not to leave her again. Betsy had told her that she had cried and cried while she was away. Henry and Betsy did everything they could to soothe her, but she was inconsolable.

  Violet knew she was an intelligent little girl and extremely artistic, but social interactions were becoming impossible for her. They had hoped as she grew older that she would grow out of it, but as each birthday approached Violet knew that her little daughter’s desire to live a reclusive life was stronger than ever. Other than their daily walk in the woods, she rarely went out except for tea on a Saturday afternoon at O’Hara’s Hotel. Sylvia loved the iced buns and lemonade, but Violet knew that she would refuse to go into the town after this.

  They both adored Eveline House and it was certainly Sylvia’s haven. The garden at the back was surrounded by a stone wall. When they first caught sight of it the wall was covered in a white rambling rose. The garden was abundant with yellow and red roses. Now in the depths of winter there were the Christmas roses and berried holly. Betsy had filled the house with clusters of holly and ivy behind every picture. She had put vases of Christmas roses throughout the house. When the weather was not too cold, Sylvia would play out in the garden with her dolls. But loving the house and garden was not enough and Violet could see her daughter clinging to home out of fear of being tormented on the streets of Draheen.

  Now this letter, this dreadful letter. If Violet had received it, nobody would ever have known, as she would have burned it. But whoever sent it was cleverer than that – they knew the effect it would have on Sylvia. There was a postbox outside the door but normally the postman would knock on the door and chat with Betsy about any news in Draheen and would often come into the kitchen for a cup of tea. But this letter had no postmark and as it was a Saturday no post had arrived. Sylvia would not tell her where she had found it. Or, God forbid, if the writer had arrived up to the house. Sylvia had been playing in the rear garden earlier. Although it was cold, dressed in her coat, hat and mittens she loved to run around with Milky the cat for a few minutes before it was too dark. Could someone have crept up the avenue and given it to her over the wall? This worried Violet even more. It could be anyone.

  ‘Don’t let them bully you out of Draheen,’ Betsy implored. ‘They’re just a bunch of bullies! There are always a few bad apples, but there are good people here too, don’t forget that. They would be ashamed of their town if they knew that you had received this. They have their own way of dealing with these kinds of bullies.’

  ‘I know there are good people here, Betsy. I have made some friends like the doctor and his wife and Father Quill and you of course. But most of the townspeople will never accept me. Father Cummins put a stop to that. I had a gut feeling about it before we came. We should never have come.’

  ‘If I could get my hands on whoever wrote that, I would fry them! Some little good-for-nothing!’ Betsy grimaced, her green eyes bright, her face flushed.

  ‘It was an adult who wrote this,’ Violet whispered. ‘A child couldn’t express themselves like that – I know it looks a bit childish but from the words it strikes me as written by an adult.’

  ‘But who could do such a terrible thing to a young girl?’ Betsy asked.

  ‘Somebody with an agenda – to run me out of this town – and I believe they will not stop until they have their way.’

  ‘But, if you go, then you are allowing them to win,’ Betsy said, aghast.

  Violet knew that Betsy would hate to see them leave. But it was the only answer. Betsy was so good to them. She was about seven years older than Violet and felt like an older sister at times, always looking out for her.

  ‘They have won already, I want to go,’ she said, ‘but convincing Henry of this will be difficult. I have never seen him so content. He always longed to return to Ireland.’

  Henry’s father had left Ireland with his two sons and just the clothes on his back after his wife died. He had to leave the small world he knew and loved and live in what seemed the dark dungeons of London. She knew it would break Henry’s heart to leave again, especially as it seemed they were being run out of the town. But she was sure it was the only way to protect Sylvia. She could not risk something even worse than today’s letter happening to her.

  Violet looked into her daughter’s eyes and smiled reassuringly. Sylvia looked ghostly in her white nightdress she was so pale, her frightened blue eyes shimmering with tears.

  ‘I will check on you every t
en minutes tonight and you are not to worry about that letter. It’s just some very silly person. Try to put it out of your mind.’

  ‘I don’t want them to hurt us, Mummy. I’m afraid. What if they come in here, somehow break into our house? They said such horrible things in that letter.’

  Violet felt sick, thinking of its contents. So, they considered her evil. A witch of some sort. Well, she’d had enough. She would talk to Henry later and tell him that they would have to leave. As much as she loved Eveline, living here was impossible. They could sell the house. They could rent an apartment for the moment in London. It would be more upheaval, but it was for the best.

  ‘Nobody will hurt us, pet. Try to put this out of your mind. Pop into bed now.’

  Sylvia climbed into bed and Violet tucked her and Petite Suzanne in.

  She kissed both child and doll on their foreheads.

  ‘I must go down now to get everything ready for our guests, but I will get Betsy to bring some hot cocoa and cake up to you, alright?’

  ‘Thank you, Mummy,’ said Sylvia and at last she smiled.

  Henry looked dapper in a tailored suit, his fair hair curling at the back of his white shirt. Violet tried to relax, but all she wanted to do was run up to check on Sylvia and make sure she was not lying awake.

  Betsy had managed to get some lovely canapés from O’Hara’s Hotel, and they sat with their drinks in the large drawing room, listening to the songs of John McCormack.

  Victor Getting, the doctor, and his wife were in high spirits. Heather was the height of glamour in a red-silk dress with her dark hair in a fashionable cut that framed her face. Trevor Banville, the bank manager, and his wife Chrissie were a more staid couple but good company nevertheless. Trevor was quite a serious man who spent most of his time birdwatching when not working, while Chrissie was a keen member of the local Flower Club.