The Secret of Eveline House Page 4

  His father Jim may have left with barely the price of the boat to England. But they had conquered London. Luck had found them there. They had started on the building sites but Jim being hired by Mr Bayley the jeweller to do some carpentry work after hours had changed everything. Henry had assisted his father and Mr Bayley had taken to the hardworking young Irishman. He hired Henry first as messenger boy and general help but, when Henry displayed a keen interest in the goldsmith’s craft, Mr Bayley began to take him aside in the evenings to train him. It wasn’t long before he was working full time side by side with the jeweller. He fine-tuned his craft under Mr Bayley and then, after the war, established his own goldsmith business.

  His father had wanted him to stay working for Mr Bayley, but Henry had bigger plans. They had worked. He never would have had the money to buy Eveline or acquire the loan needed to help buy the new premises if he had remained working for Mr Bayley.

  The time had come when he knew he could no longer only dream of returning to Ireland – he had to make it a reality. He had finally convinced Violet. Finding Eveline House had sealed the deal. He knew she loved it as much he did.

  When they first arrived, and Father Cummins had insulted them from the pulpit, he thought he had made a serious mistake dragging his family back to Ireland. Religion and tradition still ruled the state. But he could live with that. It was harder on Violet. She was such a free spirit. It was why he had fallen in love with her but being back in Ireland Violet was less content. Maybe announcing his big purchase in front of everyone was not the best idea. He hated fighting with her, but he was gutted at her reaction. This was what he had dreamed about. He wanted it to be her dream too. Somewhere in the depths of his heart, he was afraid that it was far away from Violet’s dream. He knew she was worried about Sylvia. He had really hoped that coming to Ireland would help. But he could see how their little girl was withdrawing.

  But running away was not the answer. He needed to persuade Violet to give it a proper chance. He had enough commissions for two years. He would train a young prodigy and have a proper jewellery and goldsmith shop. He would have a clerk on the front and a workshop at the back. He would put Draheen on the map.

  He just had to convince Violet. But that was not going to be easy. Her career was beginning to flourish in London. The theatres were very interested in her work. Here in Draheen she was so different to anyone else. But he was sure it would be good for Sylvia. They both worried about her. But maybe when the shop was up and established in years to come, Sylvia could come in with him. He could train her as a goldsmith. Father and daughter working alongside each other in one of the most prestigious jewellery shops in Ireland.

  It didn’t help that Violet’s own family in the midlands had refused to have anything to do with her. He wanted to drive there and face them. How could any parents turn their backs on their daughter?

  He would just have to make it his business to try to convince her that it was best for her and for Sylvia to remain in Draheen. He had to convince them because, no matter what she said, nothing was dragging him out of Ireland again.

  The frost was beginning to thaw, a light winter sun peeping through the sky sending rainbow colours out to dance. Violet would have loved if Sylvia was with her this morning but getting Sylvia to leave the house would now be a huge undertaking. She would barricade herself in Eveline House after that letter.

  Walking down the street and over the bridge, the woodsmoke filled her nostrils. As she walked up High Street, she could see Miss Doheny eyeing her from an upstairs window. The shop owner was apparently unaware that it was quite easy to see her peering out through the lace curtain of what was probably a bedroom. There was certainly not much that Miss Doheny missed. Her mind drifted back to her first visit to Doheny’s shop.

  That first week, she had visited the grocery shop with plans on buying something to make for tea. But, although there was no one else but her and Miss Doheny in the shop, Violet was left to stand at the big thick counter while Miss Doheny rearranged some tomatoes.

  Then another woman bustled in with two children in tow, her face as red as a beetroot. Miss Doheny ignored Violet and went to serve her.

  ‘Good afternoon, what can I get for you today, Mrs Hogan? I have some lovely tomatoes.’

  Mrs Hogan took a long look at Violet, openly examining her clothes.

  ‘Good afternoon to you,’ she offered to Violet.

  ‘Good afternoon. What lovely children!’

  ‘They are pure devils. I am going home to scrub them for Mass tomorrow.’

  ‘How are your new Rhode Island hens?’ Miss Doheny butted in.

  Mrs Hogan threw her eyes to heaven. ‘If they don’t lay soon, they will find themselves in the pot with an onion for the supper. Give me some of those tomatoes and a bag of flour, please, and a bit of that nice ham.’

  Miss Doheny carefully wrapped the ham and the tomatoes. Then she got a bag of flour. They chatted for another few minutes about the hens and what she could do to make them lay. Eventually Mrs Hogan bid good day to Miss Doheny and took a long last look at Violet before bidding her goodbye.

  Violet had decided not to make a fuss while they chatted but when Miss Doheny eventually turned to serve her, she felt the full force of her thin scowl.

  Violet smiled back at her. ‘I would like some tomatoes and a head of that lovely lettuce, please.’

  ‘Well, are you settling into Draheen?’ Miss Doheny asked through her scowl.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Violet smiled, not acknowledging Miss Doheny’s rudeness.

  But Miss Doheny ignored her pleasantness and began to sort the tomatoes again, then stopped to stare at her. ‘I saw your husband yesterday. A jeweller, I believe.’ She took some tomatoes and put them in a brown bag and then got the head of lettuce.

  ‘Yes, he is a jeweller and a goldsmith too,’ Violet replied.

  ‘Sure, there will be no need for you to write plays anymore now. I hear you have a daughter too. You will be busy keeping Eveline in the state it should be kept in. Your husband will be busy with his work and you will need to tend to him. Eveline is a fine house to call home.’

  There was something about the way Miss Doheny said home and eyed her with one eye half-shut that made Violet realise that she knew that neither Henry nor herself had come from as fine a house as Eveline.

  It was not that it was such a grand house, but it was full of charm. No, she had not come from a house as charming as Eveline. It had been a small old farmhouse handed down from generation to generation, beside the back of a hill – her father’s people’s homeplace, people who had kept it much the same for the past two hundred years. Thick walls and small windows with a little porch to enter and take off your mucky boots and old coat. There was a range in the kitchen and a round table with a faded oilcloth with little red roses painted on it. A sink overlooking a window with the wall as thick as two feet. There was an armchair for her father, an old bench for the children and a hardbacked chair for her mother, not that she sat very often there. A tea chest in the corner. There was the parlour that was papered in big blue flowers and dark furniture that Violet often thought a rat or mouse could jump out of. On the dresser was an old picture of her parents when they were courting, both looking tentative. Him a large man with deep eyes, her mother fair and graceful, unaware of the hardship that lay ahead. There was a pantry of sorts that held the slop bucket for the pig, potatoes and milk. In the kitchen was a stairs that led up to three small bedrooms. One for the boys, one for the girls and one for her parents. When she thought of her house, she could see her mother, knuckles sore from work, hair pinned up with a horseshoe nail. Steel-blue eyes looking at her, worried, disappointed. Blonde hair gone to grey.

  ‘So I suppose you can put all that stage-writing business behind you now that you are in Ireland?’ Miss Doheny said, bringing her out of her reverie.

  Violet looked at her. This was a question and one that was demanding an answer. Miss Doheny had her hands on each sid
e of her waist, looking at her accusingly.

  ‘My husband is well capable of minding himself and we are recruiting someone to help look after the house and keep an eye on Sylvia while I write,’ said Violet. ‘I am writing a new play, not that it will be performed here – I am sure the good people of Ireland will ban it. Good day to you, Miss Doheny. I think we will go to the hotel for our tea. Our little conversation has reminded me that I am much too busy writing to worry about preparing food.’

  With that she walked out, leaving Miss Doheny for once speechless.

  She walked past the shop now and had to resist waving at Miss Doheny to let her know that she could see her clearly peeping through her lace curtain.

  It was unusual to have a town built so close to a big wood. When they had first visited the town, it was Blythe Wood that had held the magic. Sylvia was fascinated by the little holy well with rosary beads and holy pictures hanging from a hawthorn tree over it, and loved running along the winding paths. It being the height of summer then, thistles, ragwort and cowslips were tangled amidst the hawthorns, birch and large oaks. There were ancient yew trees that seemed to haunt the wood, ancient trees holding secrets for decades.

  Today the woods would have a winter coat.

  Two other women she recognised from her walks were walking down the street and were eyeing her suspiciously. She could feel them staring at her clothes. The tapestry of clothes that morning was brown and grey except for hers. She held her head up high and walked on, never acknowledging the two women, who were openly standing and staring at her. Well, they didn’t own the street, as far as she remembered – at least you could still walk the street without permission. Unless the Catholic Church had made some rule that she was unaware of.

  She remembered her own mother following the rules set out for her religiously. Obeying the rules of the Church was a way of life.

  One morning her mother told her that she had to go to Father McBride to be ‘churched’. She had recently had her younger brother Mattie. But in the eyes of the Church her mother would be impure until she was churched by the priest, a blessing that took away the sin of childbirth. Virginity and celibacy were akin to holiness. She also remembered her having to be churched when her baby sister died. The night that baby died her mother had screamed and roared as the village midwife took the dead baby from her and her father buried the little corpse at Blackthorn Hill under an acorn tree. It was said there were other babies buried there too that had died at birth, never having the chance to be christened. Violet used to think she might see them dancing there on days like All Souls’ Day, or on a Christmas Eve. She was sure she saw a glimpse of what looked like a fairy there one day, a misty day, when the fog was shifting blue and white.

  As she drew level with the church, a couple emerged through the gates. Mr and Mrs O’Brien who ran the bakery. She was small and stout, and he was tall and thin, his neck bulging with large veins protruding as red as Miss Doheny’s tomatoes. Mr O’Brien tipped his hat to Violet and was about to pass a pleasantry, when Mrs O’Brien pushed him on – but not before giving Violet a look that left her in no doubt that she thought she should live on the sole of her big flat shoe.

  As she walked past the church more people began to emerge, eyeing her with wonder and suspicion. A couple of men tipped their hats and Liam Barrow, who delivered the milk every morning, wished her a pleasant day. Mrs Kennedy, who taught Sylvia in the afternoons, smiled encouragingly at her and waved good morning. Her son was with her, a thin, gangly-looking man, and he tipped his hat but not before he looked around as if making sure no one was watching.

  There was no sign of the ‘church ladies’. Presumably they were still inside, talking to the priest, tidying the church, engaging in vicious gossip.

  She walked on, a light breeze blowing.

  It was unfortunate that the church was so close to the entrance to the woods. But seeing the judgemental faces on the local parishioners was not going to stop her on her walk this morning. The woods were what made Draheen magical and this morning they did not fail her.

  The silvery light of the morning now faded and the dark trees allowed a half light through. She stepped on gnarled twigs and decomposing leaves that gathered around the thick trees, their roots sleeping. The frost crackled beneath her steps. Then she came to a clearing and a brook. She walked on. Shadows circled the yew trees, throwing shades of light and dark in her path. But the air was clear, the frost penetrated her nostrils and she breathed deeply.

  She knew what she had to do.

  Ireland had not changed. It was like the woods, full of dark and light, full of magic and myth, full of kindness and maliciousness. The holy and the unholy. Like the gnarled branches around the sleeping roots, she felt it smothering her. She would not allow Sylvia to be a victim of hatred. She would leave soon and hopefully she would leave with Henry. But one thing was certain: she would not leave without her daughter.

  CHAPTER 7

  When Violet arrived back, Betsy was taking a fresh loaf of soda bread out of the oven. The goose was stuffed and all prepared to be cooked for dinner later. Potatoes and vegetables were peeled and chopped and a trifle was setting in the pantry. Betsy amazed her, she was so capable.

  ‘My goodness, you have been so busy. What a feast you have prepared! I know you said you are off to see your cousin after Mass but are you sure you won’t come back for some dinner later with us?’

  ‘Thank you but no. I will leave you to eat in peace. I will go to eleven Mass and then head to see Patricia. I will eat with her before I leave. Get some good dinner into you all and hopefully all will come right. That goose needs about two hours in the oven.’

  ‘Thanks, Betsy. It all looks wonderful. You are so kind. I hope your cousin is better today.’

  Patricia suffered badly from arthritis.

  ‘Ah, she’s a great character despite all and normally has me in the fits of laughter.’

  ‘Wait – I have something for her.’

  Violet gave her a bottle of rum and a box of chocolates that she had bought in London on her last trip there to see her play being performed.

  ‘Oh, this is very grand,’ Betsy said, delighted.

  ‘You get yourself off – and thank you,’ Violet said.

  Betsy put her coat and hat on. She would cycle up and back.

  Violet wished her a great day and went upstairs in search of Sylvia.

  Sylvia was playing in her room. All her dolls were sitting in a circle and Sylvia was talking to them. Petite Suzanne was sitting right beside her.

  ‘So, what’s the story?’ Violet asked. ‘May I listen?’

  ‘Well, it’s not a story but of course you may listen. Sit beside Suzanne. I am just telling the girls not to go outside, because there are bad people who can hurt us. That it’s safe here, but never to venture outside of Eveline. There are people who do not want us to be here. Suzanne will be watching out for everyone and will report if there are any nasty letters.’

  Violet was alarmed at the seriousness on her daughter’s face.

  ‘Let’s go into the garden for a little while, it’s quite safe out there,’ she suggested. ‘I think Suzanne needs a little fresh air.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sylvia asked worriedly. ‘I don’t want to go into the garden.’

  ‘You love the garden. It’s very safe,’ Violet reassured her.

  Reluctantly she agreed.

  Violet helped Sylvia into a warm coat, hat and mittens.

  Grabbing Petite Suzanne, Sylvia followed Violet downstairs and out to the garden.

  ‘It’s just a letter, a very unkind letter, Sylvia,’ said Violet. ‘You are really not in any danger.’

  ‘Yes, we are, I know it. Sometimes I know things, Mummy, and I know this. I can feel things that are dangerous, and I know that danger is near us. Please do not go outside or into the street. You should not have gone out today.’

  ‘But we cannot live like that, Sylvia. Then we are prisoners in our own house.’


  ‘But we must, they are after us. They think you are some sort of witch and they want to hurt us. I know it, I know it, I know it!’ Her eyes were now filling with tears and her little body was beginning to tremble.

  Violet tried to calm her down.

  ‘It’s alright, Sylvia, there is no one going to hurt us, I promise. Whoever wrote that letter may be just a little unwell in the head but, whoever it is, they cannot hurt us by what they say.’

  There were tears streaming down her daughter’s face.

  ‘They are going to hurt us. I don’t know how I know, but I do,’ Sylvia whispered through her tears.

  Violet hugged her daughter who was now crying inconsolably. Then she wrapped an arm around her and led her back inside and up to the safety of her bedroom.

  Sylvia looked as weak as a kitten.

  Violet took off her coat and hat and led her to the bed where she took off her shoes.

  ‘Lie down for a little while,’ she said, pulling back the blankets.

  Sylvia climbed in and Violet tucked her in.

  She lay down beside her, speaking soothingly to her until she calmed. Eventually she lay peacefully, and Violet left her with Suzanne to keep her company.

  Violet went to look for Henry. This was not going to wait. He had to know.

  She found him in his study, going over the finances of the new building. He had papers everywhere.

  He pulled out his plans to show her, his enthusiasm overwhelming her, as if their difference of the night before had never occurred. He got up and began to talk about the plans as if he was talking to himself.

  ‘I am going to hire only people from Draheen, make it a really local business. There are some great craftsmen around. George Kelly is a fine carpenter. I will ask him to kit out the shop and he can get his brother Willy to help. I met them at one of the meetings in the town hall. It is shocking seeing the likes of such men getting their cardboard boxes and boarding the trains for London and anywhere else that they might get work. Gifted men with so much craftsmanship. I thought the forties were bad but everyone I meet now has most of their family in England. The women are going too. What is to become of the country if they can’t keep the young here? It will be on its knees. We need to do things to help this town. No one here needs jewellery, but buyers will come to the town. If they travel to Ward’s Jewellery, they will have to eat and stay here, so everyone will get something out of it. That is why I want to stay here – why give London even more reason to keep us all there? I will employ people. I will need to source the finest shop windows with the name inscribed. Ireland will not have a shop like it. I am telling you it will put Draheen on the map. People will come from as far as New York, to purchase a once-off piece of jewellery from Ireland’s finest Jeweller and Goldsmith. I will make you a piece to celebrate the opening. A bracelet of rose-gold set with the finest diamonds.’