To Hear a Nightingale Read online

  Tyrone would then read to them both – Peter Rabbit usually, or some other Beatrix Potter story. He would read the story, turning to them both as he did so, even though Mattie was barely four months old. Erin would sniff, and say that she couldn’t imagine what he could be thinking of, reading a book out loud to a baby. And Tyrone would look up at her very seriously and say that she would be surprised how much babies understood, even when they were in the womb. Then he would continue to read, in that wonderful baritone voice which never failed to thrill Cassie, even though she heard it every day of her life.

  While he read, Cassie would sit and sew a button back on one of Josephine’s little cardigans, or put away a pile of Erin’s immaculately washed and ironed diapers, reluctant for the moment when Tyrone put the book away and kissed his children goodnight. Then they would both take a last look round the nursery, which was filled with the toys, clothes and children’s furniture which Tyrone had brought back for them whenever he was away for any length of time, be it a day in Dublin, or a week in America. He’d even had two little chairs handmade in London, engraved with the children’s names, which he’d brought back with him for Mattie’s first Christmas.

  Cassie knew that he was indulging himself and his children, but at this stage of their development it didn’t seem to matter, and Cassie had no wish to diminish the joy it gave him.

  ‘Money’s there to be spent, Cassie,’ he’d tell her. ‘There’s no damn point in working this hard and earning the stuff if you can’t spend it and enjoy it. We only pass this way once, remember.’

  Then he would scoop her up in his arms and dance her down the corridor and, if Erin wasn’t snooping, into their bedroom and straight into bed.

  At some times of the year it seemed to Cassie that they were never out of bed. Tyrone would come back to the house for lunch, and if he wasn’t going racing, they’d have a bottle of wine and then spend the afternoon making love. If he was racing, he’d be back at the house as quickly as he could after the horsebox was back and the animals unloaded and, after pouring himself a pipe-opener, he’d carry the laughing Cassie up the stairs as if she was swansdown and drop her on the bed. She’d lie there, silently, while Tyrone stood above her, smiling, and slowly getting undressed.

  When he was away abroad, Cassie would dream of these and other such moments. And sometimes when she did so, the phone beside her bed would ring, and Tyrone’s voice would whisper things in her ear from far away. Cassie would smile and weakly try to make him stop, in case anyone was listening, but this always only made Tyrone even more bold so that by the time Cassie was forced to hang the telephone up on him, in fits of laughter, she felt as if he’d been there in the bed, making love to her.

  She’d surprise him too. Sometimes, on their stroll back from the stables on a hot summer’s day, she’d take his arm and lead him into the woods, silently, through and under the branches of beech and oak and ash. She’d take him to an old folly deep in the woodland, a place they shared with no one. And there they would make love alone except for the wild life outside.

  At other times, on cold dark and damp winter evenings, they would lock the drawing-room door and make love in front of the fire. Sometimes someone would call, and while Erin was opening the front doors, there’d be a mad scramble to get back into whatever clothes they’d taken off and get the door unlocked before Erin had hung up the visitor’s coat and knocked on the door. But usually they were left undisturbed, and would end their evenings sitting on the floor in front of the dying fire, talking backwards and forwards through their lives.

  Cassie would make Tyrone tell her over and over again about his childhood, which to Cassie seemed totally idyllic, living as he did in this wonderful old house and being brought up in Wicklow’s magical country-side. And always surrounded by animals: dogs, ponies, horses, a tame hare – once even a pet fox which Tyrone had saved from a poacher’s snare. All Cassie had enjoyed in the way of animal company, until she had started staying at Mary-Jo’s, were the dogs so lovingly drawn in Mr O’Reilly’s book.

  But while Cassie could never hear enough about Tyrone’s childhood, he in turn was so appalled by Cassie’s that he could hardly bear her to speak about it. Yet he knew she had to try and talk it away, so he would sit and listen, and become even more shocked as new details of her childhood surfaced. And the more he heard, the less he understood. How could anyone do such things to a child? How could anyone beat up a little girl? Why should anyone want to lock their daughter up in a room for days on end? People were meant to love not hate their children. As Cassie told him these things he would watch her, frowning uncomprehendingly.

  Cassie felt envious of him. She compared their two upbringings and found herself wondering over and over again what it must have been like to reach up to a door handle and enter a room where someone waited for you with a smile, and with love in their hearts – someone who had delighted in your birth, and was glad you were alive.

  ‘No child of mine will ever have a hand raised against it,’ Tyrone had said one evening. ‘No child of mine shall ever be aware of anything except the love in this house. Even when they do something wrong, they shall know that we scold them from love.’

  Cassie had sighed, and looked up at him from where she lay, her head in his lap.

  ‘Dear Ty,’ she’d replied. ‘I do love you. Sometimes you’re so Irish.’

  It was then that the telephone rang out in the hall. At moments like these, Cassie was always all for letting it ring. But Tyrone kissed her on the forehead and rose to answer it.

  ‘Probably some damn owner,’ he said, leaving the room.

  He was back a moment later, telling Cassie that it was for her.

  ‘I think it’s the Principessa’s old man,’ he added. ‘At least it sounds like Franco.’

  Cassie went out to the hall, wondering what on earth Leonora’s husband could want with her. She soon found out.

  ‘’Allo, Cassie darling,’ Franco said down the phone. ‘I do ’ope this is not the bad moment.’

  ‘No, it’s OK, Franco,’ Cassie replied. ‘What can I do for you? Is everything all right?’

  ‘Ah. That depends what you mean by all right, Cassie.’

  ‘Is anything wrong? With Leonora?’

  ‘Well. I do not know ’ow to answer this. If you ask Leonora, I am sure she say everything it is all right.’

  ‘Would you mind coming to the point, Franco? I happen to have guests.’

  She said this as she was aware of Tyrone standing in the doorway, cranking her up as if she was an old wind-up gramophone. She stuck her tongue out at him, and he clasped his hand to his chest, and slithered down the doorway, as if he’d been shot.

  ‘Oh! Forgive me! Then perhaps I should ring back when you ’ave no guests,’ Franco apologised.

  ‘I’d rather you said what was on your mind now, actually,’ Cassie said. ‘I mean if it’s something social—’

  ‘Nope,’ Franco cut in. ‘It is nothing social, Cassie. I want to know if you know something.’

  ‘What do you want to know if I know?’

  ‘I want you to tell me if you know your lovely ’usband is being unfaithful.’

  Cassie’s blood ran cold. She had never fully understood that phrase until that very moment. Now she did, as everything in her seemed to die, turning to ice. She held on to the side of the telephone table and took a deep breath.

  ‘I don’t think I can have heard you right,’ she said very quietly.

  ‘I think you can. I can tell by the silence. The very shocked silence,’ Franco replied.

  Cassie could just see him smiling.

  ‘Even so,’ he continued, ‘I will repeat it. Your ’usband is being unfaithful. And you will not be surprised when you find out with who. With my wife. Leonora. With your friend.’

  ‘That isn’t possible,’ Cassie said. ‘That’s just not possible.’

  In the mirror in front of her she could see Tyrone standing up again and frowning at her, puzzled by the cha
nge in her tone perhaps.

  ‘I’m afraid, dear Cassie, it is very possible. First when he go racing in Milan. Remember? That’s when it started. They spent two days in the south of France together. Since then, who knows? Ask your ’usband about Paris. The Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe. Ask ’im why he no come home till one week later.’

  The last sentence was hissed almost venomously down the telephone, then Franco hung up, leaving Cassie to stare uselessly at the dead receiver. She put it back slowly on its cradle, then remained standing with her back to Tyrone.

  He came to her side at once, full of anxiety.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘That was Franco,’ Cassie replied.

  ‘I know who it was. But you look so upset,’ Tyrone said. ‘Has something happened to Leonora?’

  ‘Why don’t you ring her yourself and find out!’ Cassie suddenly shouted.

  Then she picked up the whole telephone and threw it at Tyrone. He was completely wrong-footed by her action and dropped half the instrument on the floor.

  Cassie ran across the hall and started to flee upstairs. When she got to the landing, she stopped and screamed down at Tyrone, who was picking up the body of the telephone from the floor.

  ‘And while you’re at it, ask her how was the goddam Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe!’

  And with that, she disappeared inside their bedroom and slammed the door shut behind her.

  Tyrone carefully replaced the receiver back on the telephone before putting it on the hall table. He waited a moment, then dialled Leonora’s number.

  She answered the call herself.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Tyrone asked her.

  ‘Oh nothing much,’ Leonora replied. ‘Except we’re getting divorced.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘You were in the south of France with her!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you weren’t in Milan!’

  ‘I was in Milan.’

  ‘You just said you were in the south of France with her!’

  ‘I was also in Milan. When I said I was.’

  ‘And what about Paris!’

  ‘What about Paris?’

  ‘What do you mean – what about Paris! What about Paris!’

  Cassie was screaming hysterically, the black from her eye make-up streaming down her face, a handkerchief held to her mouth. Tyrone stood at the end of the bed, his hands on the carved wooden footboard, trying to calm Cassie down, trying to reduce the level of hysteria, trying to keep the dialogue rational.

  ‘Rational! How the bloody hell can I be expected to be rational! You! You bastard!’

  ‘You must try and be rational, Cassie. On the strength of what Franco told you on the telephone—’

  ‘You’ve just admitted you were in the south of France with her! You’ve just admitted it, you pig!’

  ‘I haven’t admitted that I’ve slept with her.’

  ‘You don’t have to! Franco told me! You’ve been sleeping with her ever since you were meant to be in Milan—’

  ‘I was in Milan.’

  ‘So what’s the point in admitting it! You’ve been sleeping with her for three bloody years!’

  Cassie suddenly gasped and put her hands to her face. Tyrone, afraid for her, moved away from the end of the bed and came quickly to her side. But Cassie saw him make the move and, picking up a large book that was by her bedside, hurled it at him, catching Tyrone on the side of the head.

  ‘Get away from me!’ she screamed. ‘Don’t you dare come near me!’

  And she scrabbled panic-struck across the bed, still trying to make sense of the terrible truth that was just dawning.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter, Cassie?’

  ‘You bastard,’ she hissed. ‘You cruel, thoughtless bastard.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You were in Milan, you were in the south of France, while I was lying in this bed going mad! You were sleeping with that whore while I was lying here going out of my mind! When I was lying here mad! Mad from losing my baby!’

  ‘Cassie. I have never once—’

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ Cassie said, suddenly quite calmly. ‘I’ll kill you for that.’

  Tyrone came back round to the end of the bed, while, wild-eyed, Cassie crouched up against the corner of the headboard. They watched each other in silence.

  ‘When you’re ready to talk sensibly,’ Tyrone said.

  ‘I’ll kill you.’

  ‘When you’re ready to talk sensibly. And listen.’

  ‘I will. I’ll kill you.’

  Tyrone breathed in deeply, then turned his back and walked to the large window. He’d make one more effort to try and get her to see sense, and if he still failed he’d ring Dr Gilbert and they’d have to get some Valium into her. Once she was calm, he knew he could get her to see sense.

  By this time, Cassie had slid open her bedside drawer and silently pulled out her large pair of sewing scissors. Tyrone heard nothing until the very last moment, when he was suddenly aware of something or somebody hurtling through the air. He turned and saw Cassie practically on top of him and caught the glint of the silver scissors in her hand. He put up both his hands to protect himself and to grab Cassie as she flew at him. His right hand caught the hand with the scissors, but not before they were deeply embedded in the top of his left arm. Tyrone roared with the sudden pain as the instrument tore into his flesh, and before he could even think of how much it was going to hurt him, he wrenched the scissors out and clasped his right hand to the wound.

  Cassie stood in front of him, frozen with horror. Between Tyrone’s long, slender fingers, dark red blood was oozing out, staining his torn white shirt. Tyrone’s head was back and he was moaning with pain. Cassie sobbed once, and sank slowly to her knees, stuffing the knuckles of her fist into her mouth. Then, moaning and rocking backwards and forwards on her knees, she put both her arms around Tyrone’s legs, and hugged herself to them.

  Tyrone discharged himself from the hospital after he had been stitched up, having telephoned Tomas to come and collect him. Tomas drove him home, as fast as he dare, with Tyrone urging him on.

  ‘I daren’t now,’ Tomas said. ‘Not with the state you’re in. Not with your arm slung up like that.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake do as you’re told for once, Tomas!’ Tyrone roared. ‘I’m stuffed full of God knows what and I can’t feel a thing!’

  It wasn’t true. They’d given him a shot of morphine, but that was three hours ago, and the effects were beginning to wear off. But Tyrone was so anxious to get back to Cassie’s side that he couldn’t have cared if his whole arm had fallen off.

  ‘Faster, you silly ass!’ he exhorted Tomas. ‘And get over your own side of the road just for once!’

  When they got back to Claremore, Doctor Gilbert was in the drawing room and at the whisky. Tyrone poured himself a large one, in direct contradiction to the old doctor’s advice. He drained it in one and then made to go upstairs.

  ‘She’s asleep, Tyrone Rosse,’ Dr Gilbert informed him. ‘And she’d best be left sleeping.’

  ‘I have to get this straightened out, Doc,’ Tyrone told him.

  ‘You’ll get nothing straightened out until morning. The sedative I’ve given her’d lay out one of your horses.’

  Tyrone glared at him, but from frustration, not anger. He poured himself another whisky, then went to the door and bellowed for Tomas, who was down in the kitchens.

  ‘What’s all this about anyway?’ Doctor Gilbert enquired, hand-rolling himself a smoke.

  ‘My wife thinks I’m being unfaithful to her,’ Tyrone replied, finishing his second whisky.

  ‘Indeed,’ the old man nodded. ‘And are you?’

  ‘Christ, I’d cut out the heart from every one of my horses before I’d even look at another woman, Doc!’ Tyrone cried, then sank to the sofa.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Doctor Gilbert concluded, as he struck a match for his cigarett
e.

  Tomas appeared at the door and Tyrone pulled himself to his feet.

  ‘You’re to take me to Derry Na Loch, Tomas,’ he ordered, ‘this minute.’

  Behind him, safely out of sight, Dr Gilbert slowly shook his head. Tyrone drained his glass, and pulling his tweed jacket around him, made for the door. He was nearly as far as Tomas when he blacked out.

  ‘You were in the south of France with her though.’

  ‘I was in the south of France with her.’

  ‘Why were you in the south of France with her?’

  ‘I was in the south of France with her and several others. If you remember the horse won—’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Well it did, Cassie. Soyaze, Terry Colebourne’s good horse, yes? It won the big race, and as a result of the ensuing celebration, we missed our plane. Leonora and Franco were at the race, and she persuaded us all – that’s Kim Shaughnessy, Peter Willis, Michael Prior-Parker, and myself – to return via Nice where their yacht was moored.’

  ‘You were going to boat home?’

  ‘One of their millionaire friends had flown down in his private plane and she promised us all a free flight back to London. There was a party on the yacht that night, and the next night, and then we flew home.’

  ‘You stayed for two parties.’

  ‘I had no alternative. I had to wait for the millionaire to leave.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You were far too ill. Anyway, what was there to tell? That I was bored silly, and only wanted to get back to you?’

  ‘Why did you go in the first place? You could have got another flight home.’

  ‘I was legless. I got legless every chance I had. Ever since we lost the boy.’

  Cassie fell silent. She was sitting propped up in bed, pale but calm. Tyrone took her hand. This time Cassie let him keep holding it.