Philip said no more until the door closed behind her.
‘A real old sourpuss, isn’t she? I’ve been told she lost her husband in the Great War, so I try to be forgiving,’ Philip added. ‘Sit down, Nuala.’ He indicated the sofa. ‘Have you had a pleasant morning?’
She suppressed a smile at the word ‘pleasant’, given she hadn’t stopped for a second, without time to even eat any lunch herself after she had served it to her family.
‘Nuala, you look quite pale. Can I ring for some tea? Sugar always perks one up, I find.’
‘Oh, I’ll be grand, Philip. My morning was pleasant enough, thank you.’
‘No, I insist,’ he said, grabbing the bell that hung by a string from his wheelchair. ‘I can see hunger and fatigue at twenty paces and we simply cannot start another game of chess until you’ve put some sustenance inside you.’
‘Really, Philip, I...’ Nuala could feel a blush rising up her cheeks.
‘It’s no problem; these days the parlour maid is hardly rushed off her feet. None of Father’s English friends – or Irish, for that matter – are particularly keen to travel down here, for fear of being taken hostage or shot at by the IRA along the way.’
To Nuala’s continued embarrassment, Maureen appeared at the door. ‘You rang, Philip?’
‘Yes. Nuala and I are about to embark on a game of chess, and I don’t wish to be disturbed. So I’d like you to bring up the tea and sandwiches before we begin. Nuala is hungry.’
‘Yes, though that might take ten minutes, as I always make them fresh for you, Philip.’ Maureen shot Nuala a look that could kill before she left the room.
‘May I ask you, Nuala, do you and your family go hungry often?’
‘Ah, no, Philip, not at all. We’d be lucky in that we have a field full of vegetables, and pigs for bacon. And the potato crop is looking well this year.’
‘Unlike the dreadful potato famine last century. My father was only a boy at the time, but he remembers his father doing what he could to support his local tenants. The kitchen made batches of soup and extra bread, but of course, it could never be enough.’
‘No.’
‘Did many of your family leave for America?’ he asked.
‘I know my grandparents lost a number of their own to the famine, and brothers and sisters to America. I’ve cousins over there now who send parcels sometimes for Christmas. Have you been there yourself? It looks like a mighty fine place.’
‘I have, as a matter of fact. We travelled on the poor doomedLusitaniaover to New York, then went up to Boston to visit some of my mother’s relatives. New York is indeed a sight to behold; Manhattan Island is filled with buildings that one has to crane one’s neck backwards to see the top of.’
‘Do you think anyone can make their fortune there?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, me and my fiancé have talked of it sometimes.’
‘I doubt there is an Irish family who hasn’t,’ said Philip. ‘Certainly for some, it has been a success, but perhaps that has to be put in context against the bleak choices available to your ancestors: starve in Ireland or make a better life for themselves in America. I do remember my father pointing out a place called Brooklyn, which he said was a vast Irish settlement, due to the fact that many of the men there who had come over during the potato famine had found work building the Brooklyn Bridge. We drove through the area and the conditions were... uncomfortable, to say the least. The buildings were in disrepair and the streets crowded with filthy children playing outside. In answer to your question, yes, there are a lucky few who have flourished, but given the choice between living in poverty in a tenement building in Brooklyn, or being able to grow your own food and having fresh country air, I’d opt for Ireland.’
‘Finn – my fiancé – is a teacher at Clogagh School and he was thinking that he’d like to give America a try. Me? I’ve told him fair and square that I’d not be setting foot on a ship after what happened to all those poor souls on theTitanic, and then theLusitaniaafter it.’
‘I certainly understand your point of view, Nuala, but you must remember that the grand oldLusitaniawas torpedoed by the Germans. I promise you it was a mighty ship that otherwise would have continued to carry its human cargo safely across the Atlantic for many more years to come.’
‘When Daddy heard of it sinking, he took his horse and rode down to the coast at Kinsale to help. I’ll never forget him coming back and telling his tales of all the bodies floating in the water.’ Nuala shuddered. ‘Even though he’s as fierce scared as me of the sea, he got in a boat and went out to help bring the bodies ashore.’
‘I was deployed over in France at the time, but my father was there too and said the same. Well, if the sinking of that ship did anything, it certainly brought the Americans into the war. Ah, here is the tea. Let’s have no more talk of darker times, eh? Leave the tray on the table in front of Nuala. She will pour,’ Philip ordered Maureen.
The woman gave another nod and a bob, then, casting a further dark look at Nuala, left the room.
‘She doesn’t look happy,’ Nuala sighed. ‘She was only saying downstairs she likes to bring tea up at four o’clock sharp.’
‘Goodness, don’t worry about her. She’s merely a parlour maid. Now then, get on with pouring the tea and eating as many sandwiches as you can, then we can begin our game.’
To her relief, Philip had pronounced himself fatigued and ready for bed at seven thirty, so having washed him, dressed him in his nightshirt, then put him in his bed and fed him his pills, she’d been away by eight thirty.
