To Hear a Nightingale Read online

  She stared out of the window in front of her. There were cobwebs round the frames, thick and full of long dead insects. Beyond and outside there was a landscape which seemed all grass, and fields, and more grass and fields, with one hill distant, which seemed to be brown and green and mauve, all at the same time; and above that the sky, grey and dead, and full of rain.

  Cassie swung her feet out of the bed on to the uncarpeted boards and hurried over to open one of the larger suitcases, in the hope of quickly locating a pair of socks, her slippers, and her tweed coat which she needed to fling over her thin wrap in order to stop her teeth from chattering. She found all three things and quickly wriggled her way into them, then made her way to the door. A bath would soon warm her up.

  She found her way to the vast old-fashioned bathroom, and started to run the water into the tub. It ran brown at first, then turned a normal colour, and was stone cold. Cassie sighed and went off in search of Mrs Muldoon. Along the landing and down the stairs there were still the remains of candles on saucers, and empty whisky and beer bottles seemed to fill every nook and cranny. Over the whole place hung a pervasive stench of stale drink and cigarette smoke. That didn’t worry Cassie so much. A good airing and no doubt the place would be smelling as fresh as a daisy once again. What concerned her were the now visible patches of damp on the walls, and the peeling discoloured paintwork.

  She crossed the flagstone hall and on her way peered into the drawing room. Although it was at least pretty fully furnished, in the grey morning light it looked as cheerless as the bedroom she had just left. The fire was out, which didn’t help. Rooms with fireplaces always seemed to look miserable when nothing was burning in the hearth, but even so, Cassie thought, the furniture . . . It was all so old and worn, and the whole place was so dusty. The vases and jugs full of flowers left over from the party helped to cheer the room up a little, but not enough to help raise Cassie’s rapidly sinking spirits.

  She heard the clatter of feet and the clank of a bucket outside in the hall and hurried out to catch whoever it was.

  It was Mrs Muldoon, who was surprised to see her, not because she was up but because she wasn’t up and dressed. To her way of thinking, whatever hour they’d been a-bed, the lady of the house should be up and dressed by now, and about her business. But Cassie, now that she was a married woman and no longer had to rise every morning at a quarter to seven and fight her way to work across town on the subway, had decided that at Claremore she would sleep until she woke. She had told Tyrone, and Tyrone in his easy-going way had told her to please herself. She had no intention, however, of informing Mrs Muldoon of her planned daily schedule, because it was none of her concern. And they must start as they meant to go on – which, judging from Mrs Muldoon’s expression of disapproval, was not going to be very well.

  ‘The bathwater’s cold, Mrs Muldoon,’ Cassie informed her.

  ‘And so it would be, Mrs Rosse,’ came the answer. ‘The boiler’s only lit on Fridays for the weekend.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Cassie said. ‘How am I meant to bath in the morning?’

  ‘If it’s a bath you’re after in the morning, ma’am,’ sniffed Mrs Muldoon, ‘then you’ll have to be takin’ it cold. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s work to be done.’

  She disappeared through a pass door at the back of the hall. Cassie, pulling her tweed coat even more tightly round her, stepped round what looked like a puddle of rain water in the middle of the flagstones, and followed her through, down into the kitchens.

  If Cassie had thought the formal part of the house was in sad repair, the kitchens left her quite speechless. From the look of them, with the huge black iron stoves and hobs, the pots hanging above an open fire, the old black kettle sputtering constantly on a hob and the enormous stone sinks with their cracked wooden draining boards, Cassie reckoned they must have remained unchanged since the house had been built. As Mrs Muldoon had entered the kitchens, followed closely by Cassie, a cat had been sitting in the middle of the main kitchen table, helping itself to some liver. Mrs Muldoon had swiped at it with a broom, and protested to nobody in particular that the wretched cat had her annoyed.

  ‘I really would like a bath this morning, Mrs Muldoon,’ Cassie announced. ‘We had a very long and tiring journey, with the flight, the drive from Dublin, and the reception.’

  She tried a smile on her, but to no avail. Mrs Muldoon, standing there in a filthy dirty apron, with her sleeves rolled up over her elbows and her grey hair falling down from under her mob cap, was having none of it.

  ‘The boiler is only lit,’ she informed Cassie, ‘with himself’s own permission.’

  ‘Mrs Muldoon, I am cold. Very cold. I need a bath.’

  ‘The boiler is only lit with himself’s own permission.’

  ‘What about the fires?’

  ‘The fires will be seen to later, Mrs Rosse.’

  ‘The fires will be seen to now, Mrs Muldoon. I’m freezing.’

  ‘Then if I may suggest so, ma’am, it’d be best for you to get dressed and go for a good brisk walk.’

  ‘That won’t make any difference to the temperature of the house, Mrs Muldoon,’ Cassie argued.

  ‘Ah sure, this place is always cold,’ Mrs Muldoon replied, shaking out a filthy grey dishcloth. ‘Sometimes in the winter it gets that cold you’re better off standing outside.’

  Then she turned away from Cassie and busied herself preparing what looked to Cassie like a side of bacon and cabbage.

  But the new Mrs Rosse was not a woman to be defeated. She went through every cupboard in the kitchens until she found several large enamel jugs, which she somehow knew she’d find. Then she filled every pot she could lay her hands on with water, and set them all to boil on various hobs. Mrs Muldoon watched her all the time, never saying a word, and never lifting a hand to help her.

  Then while she waited for the water to boil, Cassie helped herself to a cup of strong tea from the pot on the hob. Tyrone had at least been right about that. There was always a cup of tea to be had at Claremore.

  He hadn’t been right about much else concerning the house though, Cassie thought, looking round at the spiders’ webs, and the cracked windowglass. A grand place, he’d described it as. Simply grand. Simple maybe; grand, most certainly not. But then Cassie wasn’t to know when Tyrone said it that in Ireland grand didn’t mean grand it meant lovely; and that lovely didn’t mean beautiful, it meant grand.

  Grand as in a grand cup of tea, which indeed it was, she thought gratefully, sipping at her mug and feeling the warmth flood back into her body.

  ‘If you only have hot water at the weekends, Mrs Muldoon,’ Cassie asked, ‘what do you wash the dirty dishes in?’

  ‘Cold,’ she replied. ‘We give them a good scrubbing in the cold. But if it’s real dirty they are, then we’ll boil up a jug or two. Then we hang them on the drainer, and polish ’em up with a rag after. That way you get a nice shiny look to everything.’

  ‘It can’t be very hygienic though.’

  ‘Listen, if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be standin’ here arguin’.’

  By now the water in the pots was beginning to boil, and Cassie leaped up to start pouring it into the enamel jugs, which she then carted singlehanded all the way back up to the bathroom. As Cassie went backwards and forwards, Mrs Muldoon kept an eye on her as she carefully chopped up cabbages, and skimmed the rind off the bacon. But she never offered to help, and Cassie was far too proud to even think of asking her.

  Cassie was just putting her toe into the still deliciously hot water when Tyrone wandered into the bathroom, with not so much as a knock. There was no lock on the door and Cassie was stark naked.

  ‘Who lit the boiler for you?’ he asked, simply curious.

  ‘No one lit the boiler for me,’ Cassie replied, tying her hair up with a ribbon. ‘I boiled up every inch of this water myself.’

  ‘Every inch of it, did you now?’ Tyrone laughed. ‘Every inch?’

  Then he came across
and kissed her.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, unbuttoning his shirt.

  ‘Tyrone,’ Cassie protested, ‘no, I’m just about to have my bath.’

  ‘Are you denying me my rights, woman?’

  ‘Tyrone, I am half dead from the cold.’

  ‘What I have in mind’ll soon warm you up,’ Tyrone replied, lifting her up and carrying her back to the bedroom.

  When Cassie finally made it back to the bathroom, the bath water she had boiled up so patiently had turned stone cold.

  But by the time Cassie came down to the drawing room, Tyrone had lit a huge fire and opened a bottle of champagne. He was also wearing instead of his old riding breeches and jacket an impeccably cut tweed suit. Cassie had chosen a high-collared red silk jersey dress which she knew Tyrone adored. He should do, having bought it for her at great cost in New York. They both stood in front of the roaring fire, toasting each other in champagne, which Tyrone had poured into the finest Waterford crystal flutes. And incongruous as it seemed, as they drank and looked into each other’s eyes, Cassie forgot entirely about the peeling wallpaper and sodden damp patches – and believed she was in heaven.

  ‘To your first day at Claremore,’ Tyrone said, raising his glass.’

  Cassie strolled over to the window while Tyrone threw some more logs on to the fire. The rain was easing, and a faint sun was beginning to break through, lightening the grey of the skies, and brightening the lush green of the grass.

  ‘So,’ he said, coming to her side, and kissing the nape of her neck, ‘what do you think of my ancestral home?’

  Cassie didn’t quite know what to say. From where she was standing, the rain was dripping steadily into the room, and she had just seen a mouse run under a sideboard and into the wainscoting.

  But Tyrone had such love in his eyes, she couldn’t bear to say what she really thought: that the whole place needed to be pulled down and rebuilt from scratch.

  ‘It’s wonderful, Tyrone,’ she said, putting her hand up to his cheek. ‘It’s the most wonderful place I’ve ever seen.’

  Which wasn’t even a half truth. It was the whole truth.

  Tyrone looked at her then smiled.

  ‘Cassie McGann, I love you,’ he said. ‘And for that I love you even more. Claremore is the most wonderful place on earth, but as a house it’s a disgrace.’

  Cassie caught her breath, startled by Tyrone’s admission.

  ‘It’s a midden,’ he continued, ‘and I should be ashamed of myself. I’ve been so busy with my horses, and there being no one in my life, no woman in my life – well just look at it. The whole place should be pulled down and rebuilt again from scratch.’

  Cassie laughed, her hand to her mouth, then put the top of her head against his chest. Tyrone lifted her face up to look at him, holding a finger under her chin.

  ‘What’s the great joke?’ he enquired.

  ‘That was exactly what I was thinking,’ Cassie admitted. ‘Although I still do swear it’s the most wonderful place I’ve ever seen. Because you’re here.’

  They lunched in front of the fire on smoked salmon and quails’ eggs which arrived up from the kitchen. Cassie had been half expecting bacon and cabbage, judging from the smell, and expressed her surprise when she saw the delicate servings of pink fish and fluffy eggs, and thin brown bread fingers.

  ‘Mrs Muldoon is full of surprises,’ Tyrone said, and then asked her without much hope of an enthusiastic response if she’d like to wander over and look at the horses.

  Cassie, still determined not to reveal the other true love in her life, lest she should encroach on her husband’s territory, shrugged and said sure, that sounded like fun. Tyrone fetched her coat, and a pair of boots, and they walked hand in hand through the soaking grasses and under a watery April sun over to the racing yard.

  The yard was in direct contrast to the house, and was quite obviously where Tyrone’s heart was. It was immaculate, down to the shiny black paint on the hinges of the smart white stable doors and the carefully cross-mown square of grass in the middle. Like Leonora’s yard, it was laid out in the traditional style, a square, but there the resemblance ended. The Von Wagner yard, albeit perfect, was an indulgence, but Tyrone Rosse’s yard was a passion. As soon as the horses heard his voice and his step they were at their doors, stamping their feet and calling to him. Cassie knew it wasn’t feed time. She knew from the noises the horses were making that they were calling to their master.

  Tyrone took her round the yard, box by box, while Tomas and the lads swept down a yard which already looked as though you could eat your dinner off it. Tyrone informed her that he wasn’t going to bore her with each and every horse’s breeding, although Cassie wished fervently but secretly that he would. Instead he pointed out the horses with form, which had won races of note, and the horses which were expected to win their races this season which was just starting up. He knew the details and names of all forty horses in his yard, where they had come from and how much they’d cost. He never mentioned any of their owners once. Cassie asked him why, and Tyrone muttered something darkly about them being a necessary evil.

  ‘Would I be a necessary evil, if I ever kept a horse with you, Tyrone?’ she asked.

  ‘You just stick to having babies, Cassie McGann,’ he answered her. ‘That way we’ll stay friends for life.’

  ‘Who are your best owners?’ Cassie persisted.

  ‘The ones who don’t come near me,’ Tyrone replied.

  One of the lads came up and asked if he’d come and check a horse called Walkover, who’d struck into himself on the gallops the week before on both his forelegs, high up, just below the elbow.

  ‘I’ve never seen it happen before,’ Tyrone told Cassie, pointing out where the vet had stitched the horse. ‘Not that I was here to see it, of course, because we were in New York. But I’ve never seen a horse strike into himself that high up. And on both elbows.’

  Cassie looked. At the back of both forelegs she saw the two deep cuts.

  ‘He can’t have done it with his hind legs,’ she said involuntarily. ‘Horses can’t strike themselves that high up from behind.’

  Tyrone looked at her underneath the horse, from the other side.

  ‘And what do you know about it, Mrs Rosse?’ he asked her. ‘What exactly do you know about where and how a horse can strike into itself?’

  Cassie straightened herself up, knowing she was small enough to hide her reddening face behind the horse.

  ‘Common sense, I guess,’ she countered, just in time.

  ‘Well you’re right, damn you,’ Tyrone said, also straightening up. ‘The blighter cut himself with his own front feet. Look.’

  He flexed the horse’s front leg, so that the toe of the horse’s shoe was practically touching the sutured wound.

  ‘You’d never believe the buggers’ bend ’em back so high, isn’t that right, Ted?’

  The lad nodded to his governor and quietly agreed.

  Tyrone and Cassie walked out of Walkover’s box, and Tyrone sighed.

  ‘That’s a good month off work, which is a pity. I was going to win the Wills Gold Flake with that fellah.’

  Cassie followed on behind, thoughtfully. From the little she’d seen of the horse just in his box, she reckoned that was no idle boast of Tyrone’s.

  One night, when they were dining, Cassie brought up the subject of the house. She felt it was a good time, because a two-year old colt Tyrone thought a lot of had run what he described as a nice race at Leopardstown to be second to a horse which had cost twenty times as much.

  ‘If we could just redecorate this room – the dining room – and the drawing room and hall it’d be a start, Tyrone,’ she said.

  ‘If if and ands,’ he grunted in reply.

  ‘I’m thinking of your owners, not of myself.’

  ‘The owners be blowed. All they want is to stand in front of the fire, with a large drink in their hands, telling you how damn clever it was of them to agree to buy the winning animal
in the first place. Bugger the owners.’

  Cassie grinned, getting well used to Tyrone’s colourful way with words.

  ‘OK, I’ll come clean,’ she confessed. ‘For me, then. I’d like to do the bedroom. And this room. And the drawing room. I’d like to do them up so that you’ll always have somewhere really warm and welcoming and comfortable to come back to, after a hard day.’

  Tyrone looked across the table at her, chewing his bit of toast thoughtfully.

  ‘And what’ll it cost?’

  Cassie shrugged.

  ‘Whatever you can afford.’

  ‘If Villa Maria wins her prep race tomorrow, you can do what you want.’

  Cassie got up from her seat and threw her arms round Tyrone’s neck from behind his chair. She kissed the top of his head.

  ‘I just want to make this lovely place of yours even lovelier.’

  Tyrone gave the palm of her hand a little bite and laughed. Then he got up himself, throwing his napkin down on to the table and addressed his next remark to his wolfhound, who’d been lying at his feet, but had now got up and was having a good stretch, in anticipation of his after-breakfast walk.

  ‘Dear God – she’s been here what a couple of weeks, Brian? And already she’s talking like a native!’

  He kissed Cassie, firmly, and squeezed her waist.

  ‘You’ve made this lovely old place lovelier already,’ he said, ‘just by marrying me.’

  Cassie walked the dog with Tyrone, as had become their habit. Or rather the dog ran, while they walked arm in arm. Brian chased in and out of the woods, putting up rabbits and startling the birds, while Cassie and Tyrone walked together through the long uncut grasses. The gardens and grounds of Claremore needed as much work as the house, but Cassie thought they could wait, because even in their wildly overgrown state, they were still charming. The daffodils, which had been allowed to run riot, were in full bloom, and on the edge of the first line of woods, there was a carpet of purple and yellow crocuses.