So Much Owed

by Jean Grainger

Genres: Historical Fiction; General Fiction

Synopsis

An Irish country doctor is sickened by all he saw in the First World War. His children are now determined to fight in World War 2. How far can you stretch the ties that bind a family? In the turbulent and uncertain times of Ireland in 1919, the birth of two children revitalise a small town. Dr. Richard Buckley returns home to his wife and beloved hometown of Dunderrig, weary and heart-sick over the horror and pointlessness of The Great War. Soon, trouble is coming from all sides—Richard’s unhappy wife leaves Dunderrig, and a Nazi occupied Europe marches steadily closer to home. In the blink of an eye, the peace he’d craved and enjoyed since his days on the battlefield are gone. Meantime, James and Juliet come of age in a world on the brink of chaos, where the remnants of rebellion at home have snowballed into the horrors of yet another world war. Their father doesn’t see the twins choosing different paths—dangerous paths—that will test everything, including their love for their country, their family, and each other. Historically rich and moving, the tale of two children from the Irish countryside caught in the throes of wartime Europe is a testament to the strength of the human spirit and its willingness to endure.

Release date: December 1, 2013

Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

Print pages: 376

Sample

Prologue 

 

12^th December 1918 

 

From the outside, it was barely recognisable. Gaping holes in the walls and piles of smoking rubble had irrevocably altered the once imposing facade of l’Hôpital Saint Germain. The Allied propaganda machine had claimed the Battle of Amiens as a great victory – a turning point, spelling an end to the horrific futility of trench warfare. It was here in Amiens, the victors crowed, that the Germans had stumbled their first steps towards surrender. Yet as Dr Richard Buckley picked his way through the decimated city, he saw nothing about Amiens to suggest a city basking in the glory of victory. Instead, he found himself thinking: So this is what winning looks like. 

He climbed what was left of the marble steps leading to the ornate entrance. Everything was so different from when he was last here four months ago. Gone was the officious Reverend Mother, who had vetted all entrants to the hospital with her suspicious eye. Gone too, the all-pervasive smell of beeswax and disinfectant that had permeated the quiet, ordered corridors of the past. Now the smell reminded him of Willy McCarthy’s butcher shop in Skibbereen, where he and his school friends had gone one day to see the farmyard animals being slaughtered. The sickly scent of their dying had haunted him for years. Now the same mingled odour of blood, flesh, bone and fear again assailed his nostrils. It no longer made him physically sick – one can get used to anything, it seemed – yet as he strode through the foyer and up the stairs, he found it a struggle to endure the anguished cries of the wounded all around him. Two years spent treating the casualties of war had done nothing to desensitise him to the suffering of others. 

‘Excusez-moi.’ He tried to seize the attention of a passing nun. Like everyone else here, she looked exhausted; her once-white uniform was spattered with bloodstains, some brown with age. ‘Vous connaissez Solange Allingham…’ 

‘Non, Monsieur.’ She shook off his arm and hurried on.  

He had been moved further up the line last August, to where his services were in even greater demand. It seemed the turnover of hospital staff in his absence had been so rapid that there was no one left here who knew him. Perhaps he should have worn his uniform, but he had taken it off the day the armistice was declared and had vowed never to put it on again. He wanted nothing to do with the sense of triumph expounded by the top brass. Not because he was Irish and, therefore, it was not his country’s glory, but because he was sickened by the whole bloody thing. He’d endured their congratulations at his decision to do the right thing, despite his nationality, with gritted teeth. It was pointless trying to explain his motivation had nothing to do with patriotism or a desire to defeat anyone, and everything to do with trying to alleviate suffering. Anyway, those men who aired such views were usually patients, and so he treated them as best he could and avoided any discussions on the subject.  

HE TRIED AGAIN, THIS time approaching a young nurse with red hair who just might be Irish.  

‘Excuse me – do you know Madame Solange Allingham?’ 

She stared at him as if amazed to see a fully intact man and answered him in a west of Ireland accent, ‘Yes, she’s in the theatre, but I think she’s due a break sometime soon. Whether or not she’ll get it is another thing. We’ve both been on duty,’ she glanced at the watch pinned to the front of her uniform, ‘twenty-nine hours now. If you want to wait, she’ll come out this way. If she comes out. Now, please excuse me. If I don’t lie down, I’ll fall down.’ 

Richard sat on a wooden bench and leaned his tall frame against the dark-brown wainscoting. He also was exhausted. He thought he should probably go to a ward, offer to help, but he simply couldn’t. He’d worked more or less constantly for two years, only going home on leave twice during that time, and apart from those brief visits, never taking a day off. He had treated the wounded day and night and only stopped when he felt his exhaustion was a danger to the patients. He would then sleep dreamlessly for a few hours and begin the whole bloody process again. The waves of battered and broken young men in front of him, many of them begging to die, never subsided. Some survived, a great many more didn’t, and thousands were left with injuries so horrific that perhaps death would have been preferable to life. 

His tiredness was playing tricks on his mind. Every time a doctor came round the corner, he found himself thinking it was Jeremy. Even though he had seen so many young men die, Richard still found it hard to accept that his best friend had joined the rest. He had been so vital, so much larger than life – smiling and joking and keeping everyone’s spirits up. Yet it had turned out he was mortal like everyone else; apparently, he’d been killed in a bomb blast on his way to the hospital after a much-needed sleep. Even the nurse who had written to him with the news, herself so used to sudden death, had sounded shocked. Such a beloved doctor gone and so close to the end too – another week and it would have been all over.  

Now Richard had nothing left to do but to collect Solange and bring her home with him. Jeremy should have been the one to take care of her after the war, but that was not to be. Solange Allingham had no one else to protect her now – her parents were dead, her brothers both killed at Verdun. Jeremy and Richard had talked about this – if either of them was killed. Somehow, Richard had assumed that if either of them died, it would be him. He was so dull and uninteresting, compared to his friend. Yet in the end, it had been the lively, ever-smiling Jeremy who had died. And now it was down to Richard to take care of his best friend’s sad, young widow. 

 

 

 

Chapter 1 

 

20^th January 1919 

Solange Allingham gazed out the window of the black Morris Oxford at the sodden fields. The endless journey through England by train and the choppy crossing to Ireland had barely registered with her. She could feel nothing except a dragging despair, deep within her. Even the rhythmic slosh of the car’s wipers seemed to beat out the mantra, ‘Jeremy is dead, Jeremy is dead.’ They had been planning to buy a vineyard in the Dordogne after the war; they were going to have a huge family – three boys, three girls. ‘Jeremy is dead, Jeremy is dead.’ 

Gradually, the green rolling hills of the southeastern counties of Wexford and Waterford gave way to rugged stone-filled fields. She kept on catching distant glimpses of a grey, cold ocean. Beside her, Richard drove in silence, his vivid green eyes focused on the wet road ahead, his sandy hair neatly cut and combed. How he and Jeremy had been such good friends amazed her. Her Jeremy had always been so bright and funny and full of life. This quiet, shy Irish doctor entirely lacked that sort of charm. When he spoke, it was always slow and deliberate. He was painstakingly methodical in his work, irrespective of any chaos that surrounded him. Yet she had seen injured soldiers stop screaming in agony when Dr Buckley spoke to them or touched them. ‘The gentle giant,’ Jeremy had dubbed him, and he was indeed big – well over six feet tall, with a deep voice she knew his patients found reassuring.  

‘Not long now. We’ll be in Skibbereen by six, I should think. I hope you aren’t too uncomfortable?’ His eyes never left the road. 

‘No, thank you.’ She hesitated, seeking the English words. Her mind felt like it was wrapped in wet cotton wool, and all she really wanted to do was sleep. ‘I am fine.’ In the weeks since Jeremy had died, she had barely spoken, in either her native French or her husband’s English. Not that she had learnt much English from Jeremy – he had always said he was too romantic and passionate to be Anglo-Saxon and so spoke in French to her most of the time.  

All the nurses had been in love with the young doctor with his thick, wavy hair and warm hazel eyes; he had flirted outrageously with all of them, but they knew there was nothing in it – he only had eyes for Solange Galliard. He had pursued her relentlessly from when he was first assigned to the hospital, ignoring her protests that she was engaged to Armand De La Croix, the son of a local banker. Jeremy saw this as no obstacle whatsoever: she simply had to break off the engagement and marry him instead. It was impossible to do anything else, he’d claimed – she had bewitched him with her deep azure eyes and her black corkscrew curls, forever threatening to liberate themselves from the starched white veil of her nurse’s uniform. He told her regularly that she occupied his every thought, waking and sleeping, and, despite herself, she had fallen in love with the incorrigible English doctor. When he talked, he made her laugh till tears flowed down her cheeks, and when he touched her, she tingled with desire. She had married him and was the happiest girl on earth. 

Back in 1914, the war had been seen as something to be over by Christmas. The girls had giggled with delight at the vast numbers of handsome soldiers arriving daily. It had all seemed so romantic, the men so gallant – a bit of a lark really, as Jeremy termed it. How wrong they all were. The fun and high spirits of those early days had quickly given way to scenes of unprecedented human misery. Those scenes would haunt all those who witnessed them for the rest of their lives. 

Solange wondered if Jeremy would even recognise her if he were to see her now. Grief had taken its toll on the curvaceous body he had loved; her once round cheeks were hollow, and dark shadows circled her blue eyes. At twenty-six, her jet-black hair had become suddenly threaded with silver hairs. The person she had been before the war seemed a distant stranger to her now. She suspected the carefree girl of her youth had died along with that whole generation of young men. All gone now, and Jeremy gone with them. 

‘There is a rug on the back seat if you’re cold.’ Richard’s voice interrupted her reverie. 

‘No, thank you. I am fine.’ She realised her answer was a repetition of her response to his earlier enquiry so she added, with an attempt at enthusiasm, ‘Ireland is a very pretty country. Quite like Brittany in places, I think.’ She knew her voice sounded flat and colourless. She couldn’t help it.  

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I’m glad you like it. Though, of course, when the sun shines, it’s much better. When we were students in England, Jeremy often came here on holidays. He complained that it never stopped raining. I tried to get him to consider moving here after the war, but he said he would rather get a suntan in France than rust in Ireland any day.’ 

They both smiled at the memory of him; his presence was almost tangible between them in the car. 

‘Thank you for doing this for me,’ Solange began again. ‘You have been so kind. I cannot imagine how it would have been if I would have stayed in France. I don’t know if I can survive now, but at least here has no memories. I will try to be of service to you and your family.’ 

Richard drove and sighed deeply as if weighing up how best to phrase what he was going to say next. 

‘Solange, I’m not bringing you to Dunderrig to be of service to us, I am bringing you to be a member of our family. Please understand that. It’s your home for as long as you want it to be. We, Edith and I, don’t expect anything from you, but I, we, both hope that coming here will help you. I can’t imagine how hard it must be, considering all you have lost. Not just Jeremy, but your parents, your brothers. It’s almost too much to bear. We just want to help, in any way that we can. Jeremy would have taken care of Edith had the situation been reversed. We talked about it, you know. What we would do if either one of us didn’t make it. I know if it had been me who was killed then you and Jeremy would have helped Edith. So please, you are family as far as we are concerned. You don’t owe us a thing.’ 

In the four years she had known Richard Buckley, this was the longest speech she had ever heard him make. His voice was cracking with emotion and it was clear his offer came from the heart. She hardly knew what to say – she sat in silent gratitude as he drove the narrow, twisty road. 

‘Down there is Skibbereen, but this is where we turn off,’ he said, taking a slow right at a signpost marked ‘Dunderrig’. ‘I wrote to Edith to let her know we were arriving this evening, so she will be expecting us. Though naturally, she has been very tired of late.’ 

‘Of course. She has only a few more weeks to go?’ Solange enquired politely. 

‘Two weeks, perhaps. No more than three. I would have given anything to have been here to help her. She has suffered badly with sickness throughout this pregnancy. And she had to cope with the loss of my mother and father too, within a few days of each other. Thank God the influenza spared my wife, if not my poor parents. She has had so much to cope with.’ 

‘It will feel strange for you to be home and not to see them. Even as an adult, you are never ready to lose your parents.’ She was conscious that her voice had grown heavy with her own pain and made an effort to be stronger for him. ‘But you must be very excited to see your wife after all this time.’  

‘Yes, I am.’ A brief smile but nothing more. 

She glanced at him, questioningly. Richard very rarely mentioned Edith; Solange had often speculated with Jeremy about what kind of marriage the Buckleys had – practical, passionate, romantic? When she wondered what Mrs Buckley was like, Jeremy told her that he had met Edith only briefly and explained how he had dragged his shy best friend to a dance while they were still at medical college in England. To his surprise, Richard spent his evening talking about Ireland with a cool but beautiful blonde from Dublin. Only weeks later they qualified, and Jeremy signed up for France and met Solange while Richard went to work as a doctor in Ireland and ended up marrying the Dublin girl. Solange’s only knowledge of Edith was based on the photo Richard had of her on his desk in the hospital; it showed a tall and elegant woman, beautifully dressed. She also knew that Richard had seen his wife very briefly eight months before, when in Dublin on leave – a leave that had been cut short before he’d been able to travel home to Cork to visit his parents, then still alive and well. Poor Richard. ‘And are you also excited to become a Papa?’ 

‘Yes. I am.’ The same answer, but this time the smile was warmer. 

THE HOUSE WAS SET back from the road and was impressive in its size and architecture. While not a château by any standard, it still seemed to be a very large house for a couple to inhabit alone. It was built of a buttery stone with limestone edging, and despite its grand size appeared welcoming, with lights blazing in each window, promising a warm and inviting end to her long, tiring journey. The tree-lined avenue passed through gardens that were beautifully kept, even during their winter sleep. Large sections of the housefront were covered with crimson-and-gold creeping ivy and as they drew level with the large, bottle-green front door – the car’s wheels crunching on the gravel – Solange admired the blood-red Poinsettia spilling from pots in wild profusion on either side of the door. Perhaps Edith was a keen gardener. She hoped so because she loved gardens too – it would give them something to talk about. 

Richard opened the car door and offered her his arm to assist her out. Standing, she found she was stiff and sore, and suddenly longed for a bath and a good night’s sleep. As he opened the front door, a plump, matronly woman with iron-grey hair and a currant-bun face came hurrying from the back section of the house. 

‘Dr Richard, you’re home! You’re as welcome as the flowers of May. Let me have a look at you! God in heaven, you’re skin and bone! We’ll have to feed you up. Oh, ’tis wonderful to have you home, so it is. I can’t believe ’tis two years since you set foot in Dunderrig. Wouldn’t your mother and father be just delighted to see you, God rest them home safe and sound. They never stopped worrying about you, God be good to them.’ Tears filled the woman’s eyes. 

Solange stood by as Richard put his arms around the grey-haired woman and held her tightly.  

‘You were so good to them, Mrs Canty. My mother’s last letter told how much ye did to ease my poor father’s passing, and how skilful ye were at nursing her. I can’t believe she won’t be in the kitchen or he in his surgery ever again.’  

He spoke quietly; their loss was shared. Mrs Canty was clearly much more than a housekeeper – more like one of the family. After a few minutes, he stepped back and indicated Solange.  

‘Mrs Canty, this is Madame Solange Allingham, Jeremy’s wife.’ 

The woman hurried towards Solange, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her apron. 

‘I beg your pardon, I didn’t see you there. What must you think of us at all? You are very welcome to Dunderrig, pet, and I’m sorry it’s only me here to greet ye. We didn’t know exactly when to expect you, you see. My Eddie is out and about somewhere, and Mrs Buckley is upstairs having a lie-down. She’s been very out of sorts all day.’  

She took Solange’s hand while sadly shaking her head.  

‘I remember your husband well – a lovely lad and no mistake. He was like a ray of sunshine around the place when he used to visit. Dr Richard’s mother, God rest her soul, used to knock a great kick out of him altogether – the antics and tricks acting out of him! I was so sorry to hear he had been killed, and ye only a young couple starting out in your lives. ’Twas a terrible thing that war. So many grand lads like Jeremy, gone forever.’  

The woman spoke so quickly that Solange struggled to understand her – but she could tell enough to be moved by the kind way this woman spoke about her dead husband and warmed to her at once.  

‘Thank you, Mrs Canty. Yes, my husband often spoke  about the happy times he enjoyed in Ireland.’ Solange hoped her English was clear enough.  

Whether Mrs Canty fully understood her or not, she seemed satisfied with Solange’s halting answer. ‘You’re very welcome here, especially now. God knows, with the new baby arriving any minute, we’ll be all up in the air soon. I’ll tell you, Dr Richard, she’s not great at all today. I’ve been trying to get her to eat a bit all day long, but she’s not having a bar of it. You’d think she’d be all excitement over having you home after all this time! Normally, women get a bit of a boost just before, you know, getting things ready for the baby and all that, but she just lies in bed, the only thing she’s interested in is writing letters…’ 

‘Thank you, Mrs Canty, that will be all.’ 

Both Richard and Mrs Canty turned with a start, and Solange followed their eyes to the top of the stairs from where the cold, sharp voice had come.  

‘It is perhaps not so inconceivable that I would not wish to eat, given the standard of cuisine in this house. Please attend to your duties.’  

The haughty tone brooked no argument. A tall, blonde woman was descending the staircase, which curved elegantly around the walls into the large square entrance hall. She was dressed in an ivory silk gown, over which she wore a contrasting coffee-coloured robe, and she moved remarkably gracefully, given the advanced stage of her pregnancy; despite the large bump, she was slender, almost thin. She looked pale and tired, but also something else. She seemed to exude disdain, not just for the verbose Mrs Canty but for her entire surroundings. She certainly seemed to show no delight at the safe return of her husband. 

‘Edith, you look wonderful, blooming. Mrs Canty was telling us you haven’t been well? It’s so good to see you.’ Richard crossed to the bottom of the stairs, offering his hand to assist her down the last few steps. She allowed him to take it and turned a powdered cheek for him to kiss, but Solange could see her actions lacked enthusiasm. Richard must have noticed it too – having pecked his wife lightly, he released her limp fingers and retreated a few steps, looking around him, clearly searching for something else to say. His eyes alighted on Solange. ‘Edith, this is Solange Allingham, Jeremy’s wife.’  

Edith Buckley heaved a huge, sarcastic sigh as she approached Solange. ‘Yes, Richard, I did gather who this was. You wrote to me several times to tell me she was coming, and it is not as if Dunderrig is such a hive of social activity that I would confuse the guests. Mrs Allingham, what on earth possessed you to leave France for this godforsaken place?’  

Uncertain how to respond, Solange silently extended her own hand, but Edith ignored it. 

‘Oh well, you’re here now, so you will have to make the best of it. Presumably, you will either expire from boredom or food poisoning, but if you are determined to take your chances… Oh, Mrs Canty, are you still here?’ 

Mrs Canty marched off furiously to the kitchen, saying loudly how someone had to prepare a ‘good, wholesome meal’ for the poor travellers. Richard seemed unsure what he should do next. He made to put his hand on his wife’s back but the look she gave him was so frosty, he changed his mind.  

Solange hurried to lighten the mood. ‘Madame Buckley, I must thank you for inviting me into your home. Please believe me, after the past few years in France, a quiet life is something I wholeheartedly desire, so do not be concerned I will be bored. Besides, when the new little one arrives, it will be a very busy household. I hope to be of some service.’ She tried to infuse her voice with gratitude and friendliness to bring some much-needed warmth into the situation. 

Edith shrugged. ‘I suppose so. But I warn you, it will all seem deathly dull. I am sorry about your husband. Still, if countries insist on colonising smaller nations then war must be an inevitable outcome.’  

Solange was nonplussed. Was Edith saying that Jeremy deserved to die because of the past decisions of English and French rulers? Surely she could not be so callous. She glanced at Richard, who had coloured with embarrassment.  

Nonchalantly changing the subject, Edith addressed her husband, ‘Richard, please contact Dr Bateman to come out. I’m not feeling well, and I need to consult him. I’m going back to bed. Welcome home. Please don’t disturb me until he arrives.’ She turned away.  

Richard followed his wife across the hall to the foot of the sweeping stairs. ‘Perhaps it’s something I can help you with? It is rather a long way for Bateman to come…’ 

‘Richard,’ Edith said wearily, without looking back at him. ‘While I accept you are a doctor, you are not my doctor. You have been conspicuous by your absence throughout my confinement so it would be wholly inappropriate for you to involve yourself in my care at this late stage. Please contact Dr Bateman as soon as possible.’ Moving wearily but not slowly, she climbed the stairs. 

‘Very well. If that’s what you want, then of course I’ll contact him – and then maybe we could have tea?’  

Richard was almost pleading. But Edith had already disappeared into a room on the second floor, and his request was met with the closing of the door behind her. He turned anxiously to Solange. 

‘She is very tired. And she is so devoted to the cause of Irish independence. She didn’t mean anything against poor Jeremy. Her opinions…she is not a supporter of the Allies. But of course, she doesn’t support the other side either. I’m afraid I have to leave you a moment to call Dr Bateman. Can you take a seat here, until Mrs Canty returns? She will see you to your room and feed you to within an inch of your life and hopefully you’ll start to feel normal again.’ Then he backtracked as if worrying that he had sounded as crass as his wife. ‘I mean obviously not normal, not after everything, but maybe you can feel just a little better. Welcome to Dunderrig.’  

While Solange waited for the housekeeper’s re-emergence, she studied her new surroundings. The entrance hall was warm and welcoming, in stark contrast to its mistress. It was as generously proportioned as any reception room and carpeted with a rich-red-and-gold rug. The furniture – a hall stand, a writing table and chair, a loudly ticking grandfather clock, and the upholstered chaise longue on which she had seated herself – were all highly polished. Oil paintings – landscapes and horses, mainly – adorned the silk-covered walls. The cantilevered staircase had a deep pile runner at its centre. A passageway led from the hall towards the back of the house. It was down this that Mrs Canty had disappeared and, based on the aromas of baking, it was connected to the kitchen. To her left and right were four large oak doors, also richly polished and all closed. Richard had gone through one of them into what was clearly a doctor’s surgery. Why had Edith insisted Richard call her a different doctor? If she, Solange, had been pregnant with Jeremy’s child, her husband would have been the only doctor she would have trusted to attend her. 

She glanced up to the second floor. The mahogany banister became a small but ornate balcony for the rooms above, all the doors of which opened out onto the landing. The effect meant the entranceway felt like a stage and the upper gallery the viewing point. Solange felt exposed and wished that Mrs Canty would reappear. She dreaded the possibility of Edith’s return.  

‘Ah Lord, did he leave you here all on your own? Where’s he gone to, in the name of God? I don’t know what’s happening to everyone in this house, honest to God, I don’t. God knows, in the mistress’s time, Mrs Buckley now, I mean old Mrs Buckley, Dr Richard’s mother, no visitor would have been left alone in the hall, but I don’t know, things are very different around here these days. Poor Dr Richard, home after that terrible war and you’d think his wife would be happy to see him anyway.’  

The housekeeper’s voice dropped to a whisper as she pointed theatrically upwards while ushering Solange down the passageway into the kitchen.  

‘She’s a bit of a handful, and she can be very cutting when she wants to be. Poor old Dr Buckley and the mistress, God be good to them, nearly drove themselves cracked trying to please her, but the day young Dr Richard left her here in Dunderrig while he went off to the war was a sad day for this house. At first, he’d taken work in Dublin to please her, but he couldn’t rest easy when he heard from your husband about all the terrible goings-on at the front, and in the end, nothing would satisfy him but to follow Jeremy to France. He thought his wife would understand how she would be better off waiting for him in Dunderrig, and maybe look after his parents for him. But she stayed above in her room with a face that’d turn milk sour. Sure, even when the poor doctor got the flu earlier this year and we lost him, and the mistress less than a week later, not a budge out of herself above! And there were never two kinder people, God rest them. They were lovely, lovely people. I know she’s from Dublin and not used to life in the country, but she’s stuck in something to do with the rising and all that nonsense. Her father was some kind of a bigwig professor in the college up there, and he knew them all, Pearse and Yeats and all of them. We’re not fancy enough at all for her, to my way of thinking. Sure, she just writes letters all day and gets letters back, too. I don’t know who they’re from, but ’tisn’t right for a married woman to be going on with that kind of thing. Though I keep my own counsel, because of course, Dr Richard won’t hear a word against her. He was forever writing to us to make sure she was all right and what have you, and Mrs Buckley decided he had enough to worry about over there so she told him ’twas all grand, but I’d say he got a bit of a land when he met her above in Dublin. Though she came back expecting, so I suppose they must have worked it out some kind of a way.’ She softened, and chuckled. 

Solange found herself standing in the middle of a warm, cosy kitchen that looked out onto a cobbled courtyard. The stones shone in the wet twilight of a winter’s day. 

‘Now, you poor misfortune, you must be perished alive after sitting in that car for so long. My husband Eddie – he does the gardens, you see, and a bit of fetching and carrying around the house – he drove it down to the boat yesterday and got the train and bus back so ’twould be there for ye when ye got off the boat, and he said it was cosier on the train by far. Sit down there, let you, and I’ll get you a bowl of soup to warm your bones. Were you ever here in Ireland before?’ 

Mrs Canty’s patter was so like a babbling brook – comforting and restful, whatever its content – it took Solange a second to realise she had been asked a question. 

‘In Ireland? Jamais… I mean, no, never. Jeremy always said he would bring me here when the war was over but… Well, that was not meant to be.’ Solange tried to recover, but Mrs Canty noticed the break in her voice. Turning from the large range, she crossed the floor and took Solange by surprise by enveloping her in a warm hug. 

‘Your husband was a grand lad entirely, and I’m sure you brought him great joy in his short life. ’Tis better you had him, even for a short time, and had the happiness of a good marriage than years stretching out without it.’ And she nodded knowingly again in the direction of upstairs.  

Anxious not to take sides, Solange said, ‘Perhaps things will be better after the arrival of the new baby. Madame Buckley is probably just tired. I do not know myself as I have no children, but I imagine the last weeks can be exhausting. So, perhaps, once the baby is born safe and well, Madame Buckley will feel better.’ 

‘Hmm. I don’t know about that. I was never blessed with children either, but I know plenty of mothers and none of them are like herself above, I can tell you that.’  

Mrs Canty placed a steaming hot bowl of creamy vegetable soup and a slice of brown soda bread thickly spread with butter on the table in front of Solange. After the deprivation in France, the richness of the food was glorious. Realising that she was very hungry, she ate greedily while Mrs Canty continued in the same vein. 

‘I don’t know what to make of her. She arrived here with all her grand notions, but then she didn’t change one thing about the place. I mean, even before she was expecting, you’d think a young bride coming into a place, especially a place like Dunderrig, would want to put her own stamp on the house. But ’twas as if she was a guest, and one that mightn’t be staying at that. Very vexed she was with Dr Richard, over him joining up, I suppose, but ’twasn’t as if she was heartbroken without him. Sure, she has no meas on him at all; she treats him no better than an auld stray dog. His parents now, the old doctor and Mrs Buckley, they idolised young Richard. He was their only one, you see. They nearly went out of their minds with worry when he went over there to France, and who could blame them? Sure, what has France to do with us here?’ 

Suddenly, remembering that Solange was French, Mrs Canty corrected herself hastily, ‘Not that we thought the other side should win or anything… But it’s just they were so worried, and him the only son of the house and all, but when they heard he was going to be with Jeremy, well that made them feel a bit easier in their minds. They were mad about Jeremy. We all were.’ 

‘My husband loved you all, too. And he never wanted Richard to leave his parents. In truth, he was angry when Richard followed him. He didn’t want his friend to be in danger, even though when Richard came, Jeremy was so happy to see him and so glad to have the help of such a good doctor.’  

Remembering her young husband’s concern for his friend, Solange felt very far from home, and from him. Jeremy had been the essential link between her and Richard; in Amiens, she had only ever met the Irish doctor in Jeremy’s company. Richard had never called on her separately or even chatted to her apart from a polite enquiry after her health. Yet here she was in Richard Buckley’s house, in this foreign country so far from anything she’d ever known, and without Jeremy. Perhaps this had been a terrible mistake. Yet there was nothing left to which to return. Maman and Papa both gone, Pierre and Jean-Paul too, and the city in ruins. You can’t ever go back, only forward. She had no choice. Richard had saved her from a life inhabited only by ghosts. At least, here in this strange place, she could be of use – help with the new baby, and begin again. Richard had thrown her a lifeline, and though at the moment drowning seemed like a more appealing option, she knew that she could and would survive. 

‘NOW PETEEN, WE BETTER get you to bed,’ announced Mrs Canty as she ushered Solange upstairs and into a pretty room overlooking the garden. The walls were covered with an exotic bird of paradise wallpaper, in royal blue and gold, and on the teak double bed lay a beautifully embroidered cream bedspread. There were a large matching armoire and chest of drawers and a full-length mirror stood on a stand. The room was pleasantly warm and scented by a bunch of snowdrops arranged in a cut-glass bowl on the dresser. Her bags had been delivered to the room, presumably by the reticent Eddie, whom she still hadn’t met.  

‘Les fleurs… The flowers. They are beautiful.’  

‘Oh that’s himself, my Eddie, he grows them. Winter and summer he has flowers growing. He has Latin names for everything; you’d be demented trying to remember them all. There’s nothing he can’t grow, that husband of mine.’ Her voice glowed with pride. ‘Now so, let you have a good sleep, and we’ll see you tomorrow sometime. Don’t be in any rush to get up now, do you hear me?’  

Solange slept fitfully, despite the comfortable bed. She tossed and turned and dreamed of France, and of her parents – though never of Jeremy. That often struck her as strange, how his loss was like a large gaping hole of pain in her every waking moment, yet once she slept, he never entered her dreams. The countryside was so quiet; only the crowing of a rooster in the early hours disturbed the peace. Lying awake, she decided to make the best of this situation. She would do her utmost to be a good friend to Richard’s wife. Though Mrs Canty seemed a kind person, there was probably not a woman on earth whom the housekeeper would have thought good enough for her precious young master. And although Edith had seemed very cold and even rude to her at first, Solange acknowledged that if Jeremy had brought a young widow into their home, she too would have been cautious at first, however much she trusted her husband.  

As dawn crept across the sky, she dozed off into a light sleep. She was disturbed by a piercing shriek from across the hall. Dashing out of bed, she threw on her dressing gown and ran in the direction of the sound. She found herself at the door of Edith’s bedroom and hesitated, unsure if Edith was in there alone or if Richard had already joined her. A second later, another loud scream rent the air. This time, tentatively, Solange opened the door. The room was in complete darkness; she moved in the direction of the bed. 

‘Madame Buckley? Are you well?’ The words sounded foolish to her ears, but she didn’t know what else to say. Moving towards the curtains, she pulled them half open, allowing in sufficient dawn light to see Richard’s wife alone in bed, a terrified expression on her face. 

‘Something… something is happening,’ Edith gasped. 

Solange ran to the bed and, gently moving back the covers, discovered Edith’s water had broken. Her nightgown was soaking, as was the sheet and presumably the mattress beneath. Despite the pain, Edith was clearly mortified by the mess and was trying to cover it with her hands. 

‘Please, do not worry, Madame,’ Solange said soothingly. ‘This is normal. Your baby is now coming. Please stay calm, and I will send for your husband…’ 

‘No!’ Edith screamed. 

Solange was unsure if the woman’s cry related to Richard or to the pain, but Edith was holding her hand so tightly, it would have been impossible for her to move away from the bed anyway. 

‘No,’ repeated Edith, this time as a hiss. ‘Not Richard. I don’t want him seeing me like this. Not Canty either. Get Dr Bateman back.’ 

‘But Madame, I think there may be no time to send for him. I’m sure your husband will be here any moment.’  

Where was he? No one could sleep through these screams. Solange took a deep breath; she must stay calm. 

‘If you will permit me to examine you, I think we will find that the baby is almost here. Please do not worry, everything is going to be fine.’ Solange was trying to measure the time in between the waves of pain that seemed to grip Edith with such savagery. She’d been present at many deliveries and could tell that this labour was very advanced. Had Edith been having contractions for hours and said nothing until she could bear the pain no longer? Was she that resistant to her husband’s presence?  

‘Please Madame, please try to relax. I know it is difficult but please trust me, it will hurt less if you –’ Frustratingly, the English would not come to her. ‘Breathe slow and deeply,’ she finished, relieved to have recalled the words. ‘If you can try to relax, you are doing so well, and then the baby will be here very soon, and all of this will be over, I promise.’ 

Edith’s response was another high-pitched scream. Mrs Canty appeared at the door, in her night-robe and bonnet. ‘Oh Lord above! It’s time, is it? Dr Richard’s gone out on a sick call, tonight of all nights, and he only in the door. I don’t even know where he is. What should we do?’ Mrs Canty’s voice was rising to a crescendo of panic. 

‘Please, don’t worry, everything is perfectly normal. I have delivered many babies before.’ A white lie – she’d only ever played a supporting role, and that was when she was still in training – but she had to calm the old housekeeper down. ‘So Mrs Canty, if you can just help me by… No, there is no point now trying to get towels under her. I think the baby is coming soon. Please, go and wash your hands and sterilise some scissors in boiling water and bring them back to me. Now, Madame, please just breathe, oui, yes, very good, you are doing everything beautifully and very soon you will hold your baby in your arms.’ 

Edith’s breathing became deeper and more even as she locked eyes with Solange. Then she screamed again.  

‘Now, Madame.’ Solange attempted to infuse her voice with both kindness and authority. ‘The next time you feel the pain, you must push down very hard. Your baby is almost here. Just a few more minutes and all this will be over, everything will be well. Just keep your energy for delivering your baby. You are doing very well.’ 

It seemed that Edith was beginning to trust her. As the next contraction came, she gripped Solange’s hand tightly and pushed with every ounce of strength she had.  

‘Now Madame, the next one will be the one to deliver your baby. Try to pant, like this…’ Solange demonstrated and Edith followed her instructions. The next contraction began to build. Solange moved to the foot of the bed. Between Edith’s legs, the head of the baby was crowning.  

‘Now, just push very hard, and the little one will be here.’ The infant came slipping from Edith’s body into Solange’s arms. ‘Oh, Madame, a little girl, a beautiful little girl!’  

She cut the umbilical cord with the scissors and handed the wailing child to a tearful Mrs Canty, who wrapped the tiny body in freshly warmed blankets. Minutes passed as Solange waited for the placenta to follow. Surprisingly, Edith’s contractions continued. The pain should have ceased with the delivery of the child, but she seemed to be still in full labour.  

‘What’s happening?’ Edith gasped, terror in her eyes. ‘Why is it not over? You said it would be over once it was born!’  

Solange fought the urge to panic; she looked again between Edith’s legs and was astonished to see another head crowning. ‘Madame, please do not worry, but there is… Yes, there is another baby. Please, you must push once more.’ 

With a loud cry from Edith, the second infant slipped out quickly and easily and was also deposited into the waiting arms of Mrs Canty.  

‘A little boy! Oh, Madame, how wonderful for you!’  

The two placentas followed, and finally, Edith lay back on the pillows, exhausted. Solange helped her into a more comfortable position, murmuring soft, soothing words in French. Then she changed the sodden sheets and replaced Edith’s nightgown with a fresh one. Throughout this process, the new mother avoided her eyes as if acutely embarrassed by what had just happened. She appeared self-conscious of her body, even in front of the woman who had just assisted her giving birth.  

Mrs Canty was busy wrapping up the babies and cooing over them. ‘Oh holy mother of God. Oh, missus, ye have a pair of beauties here and no mistake.’ She was wiping away tears as the lusty wails of the newborns filled the air. Solange took them from her, wrapped in their warm blankets, and brought them to the head of the bed, preparing to place them in their mother’s arms. 

‘Félicitations, congratulations, Madame, they are beautiful. I am sure you and your husband will be very proud of them.’ 

Edith looked down at her two babies and to Solange’s dismay, turned with difficulty onto her side, away from them. 

‘Please take them away, I need to sleep now.’  

‘Oui, Madame, of course, but perhaps you should feed them first? Then I can take them and bathe them?’ Solange suggested. 

‘No, I shan’t be feeding them. Please attend to them and do not disturb me.’  

‘But Madame, how will I…’  

‘Canty knows where everything is.’ Edith settled down to sleep. 

‘I wasn’t sure she’d go through with it,’ Mrs Canty whispered as she and Solange were wrapping up the infants once more, having put napkins on them. ‘But by God, it seems she is. She had some bottles and tins sent over from England a few weeks ago. Nestlé, it says on the labels. She told me that’s what the baby – well, I suppose it’s the babies now – anyway that’s what we’re to feed them. Not nursing her own babies, did you ever hear the like…’ 

‘Please, just leave.’ Edith’s voice had regained some of its lost strength. 

AN HOUR LATER, AS Solange sat dozing in the rocking chair with both babies asleep in the smart new bassinet beside her, Richard burst into the kitchen. ‘Oh Solange, thank God you were here. Eddie only just found me! I was up the mountain at Coakley’s farm. I should have left a note, but I thought there was still weeks to go… I’m so sorry you had to manage on your own but thank God you were here. So where is he? Or she?’ 

The news that there was not one baby but two filled Richard with joy. She had never seen this quiet man so animated and excited. She thought of Jeremy and how he would have loved the children they would never have. So often in bed they had discussed names for their children. She, favouring English names to match their surname, he arguing for French. He had loved France and everything about it. Most of all, he had loved her. 

‘Did you have no idea?’ she asked Richard as he stood gazing down in amazement at his sleeping twins. The babies were sharing the bassinet – there was only one of everything for the moment. 

‘No. Bateman never spotted it, I suppose. Sometimes it can be difficult, depending on what position the babies are lying in. Edith must have got a real surprise.’ He gently stroked their heads.  

‘Well, félicitations, Richard. They are beautiful. Do you know what they are to be called?’ 

‘Yes. We’d like to call the boy James, after Edith’s father; that’s what we’d decided if it was a boy. And Juliet, after my mother, if it was a girl. I suppose we will just use both.’  

He was beaming but seemed hesitant, almost nervous, to pick them up.  

‘Go on,’ she whispered.  

‘I’m afraid I’ll wake them,’ he replied.  

Solange reached in and gathered the tiny babies up, placing one in each of his arms. They stirred and instantly fell back to sleep. Richard Buckley looked at his children and Solange saw raw emotion on his face for the first time since she’d known him. He gazed at their tiny faces and fingers, amazed at the miracle of life despite all his experience of death. 

Eventually he spoke, ‘Thank you, Solange, from the bottom of my heart, for delivering them safely and for taking care of them until Edith has had her rest.’ He glanced at the bottle and tin of Nestlé powdered milk, still on the table. ‘Poor girl, it must have been exhausting for her.’ 

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘I’m glad I was able to help. They are healthy little ones. They are enjoying the milk from the tins. I have never seen that before, but they are drinking it happily, so all is well.’ 

He said, clearly a little embarrassed, ‘Well, to nurse twins would have been very difficult for her at first. I’m sure they will do wonderfully on the powdered milk for a day or two. I can’t tell you how grateful I… Edith and I… are for all your help. Now, if you don’t mind taking care of them for just a few more minutes, I’ve been in these clothes all night so I just need to clean up. I don’t want to asphyxiate my children. I won’t be long.’ 

‘Of course.’  

‘Was that Dr Richard I heard?’ Mrs Canty came bustling into the kitchen. Outside, the winter morning was brightening up at last. ‘He must have been over the moon with the little beauties, God bless them. Anything from herself above? Is she interested in looking at her children? Not a bit of it, I suppose, and you up all night. Here give them to me and let you go for a snooze.’  

Solange looked down at the two tiny babies, still in her arms from where Richard had handed them back to her. They slept soundly, their little fists bunched up tight. They were so pure, so innocent; they knew nothing of ugliness or brutality. For the first time since she had heard the news of Jeremy’s death, she felt something thaw deep inside her. 

All that morning, instead of sleeping as Richard and Mrs Canty insisted she must, she lay in bed thinking of the twins and hoping they were all right. When the quiet of the house was finally shattered by a newborn’s cry, she couldn’t stay in her room. She went downstairs to help Richard, who was attempting to feed one while the other bawled in the bassinet. 

‘Mrs Canty is just gone for a few messages; we need a few things from the shop. I told her I could manage but…’ Richard was all fingers and thumbs. 

As soon as Solange picked up and cuddled Juliet, she stopped crying. She started to suck on her bottle and began drifting off to sleep again. Then she did the same with James, and soon both babies were fast asleep. 

‘You have the magic touch with them, Solange,’ Richard whispered in awe as they slept cuddled up together.  

Gazing into the crib, she said, ‘I think they like to be near each other. They have been close for all this time and now to be separated – it must be a shock.’ 

‘MADAME?’ SOLANGE TENTATIVELY ENTERED the bedroom, having first knocked gently on the door. 

Edith was awake and propped up on pillows reading a letter that had arrived that morning. 

‘Yes, Solange? Did you want something?’ she asked, still reading. 

‘I was wondering if you would like to see the babies. I could bring them to you.’ She had contemplated simply walking into the room with the twins but had thought better of it.  

‘No, thank you, not just now. Are they well?’ Edith asked as if enquiring about a distant relative. 

‘Oui, I mean, yes, Madame, they are very well and so beautiful.’ 

‘Yes, I’m sure. I may come down to see them later. Although I’m sure they are better off not being disturbed from their routine.’ Edith paused in her reading and looked up. ‘Thank you for your assistance with the births. I am in your debt.’ Her tone conveyed dismissal.  

Still, Solange lingered. ‘Madame, I am always happy to help.’ 

‘Well, yes. It was good you were here.’ Edith returned to her letter. 

‘And when you are ready for me to bring the babies to you…’ 

Edith looked up again with a sigh. ‘Solange, not now, please. This is an important letter from an old friend of mine in Dublin. There are going to be changes in this country. Ireland may not remain the calm and peaceful place you imagine it to be. British imperialism will not be tolerated any longer. Now if you’ll excuse me…’ 

This time, the implication that Solange was outstaying her welcome was too obvious to ignore.  

 

Chapter 2 

 

The weeks that followed were cold but bright. Solange wrapped up the babies well and took them for walks around the garden in their pram. The crocuses that bloomed in profusion around the trees delighted her. Her life had altered so irreparably and so often in these last months that she had lost all sense of continuity and this garden gave her an anchor to cling to in an ever-changing world. It was a comfort to know that spring had come again as it had always done, irrespective of the turmoil in human lives.  

Yet the main distraction from her own sorrows came in caring for James and Juliet. She was deeply grateful that the endless demands of two such healthy infants gave her so little time to brood over all she had lost. The twins seemed never to sleep simultaneously and were always hungry. Richard insisted that it was not expected of her that she care for them, but given the continued lack of interest their mother showed in them, there seemed to be no other option. He was so busy with the practice, and Mrs Canty, although a great help, had the household to run. Besides, Solange wanted to look after them. She could sit for hours just holding them and kissing their downy heads.  

After Jeremy’s death, she had moved as if in a trance. Presumably, she had slept and ate, but if so, she had no recollection of it. Life had stretched out in front of her as an endless, colourless void of time without him in it until she herself died. Over and over, she thought how things should have been different. He was a doctor, not even on the front line, yet he was dead. She thought of her Maman and Papa, too – so full of life and fun. Her mother’s flashing eyes that could make her adoring husband agree to anything she wanted, and her father, who loved his sons and his only daughter with all his heart. But then Maman had got sick and died – a simple cut on her foot that had turned to blood poisoning. Papa was killed a short while later, shot by a German soldier in reprisal for some imagined slight. Her older brothers had fallen at Verdun, dying side by side as they had lived since early childhood. To be left entirely alone in the world was a terrifying prospect. Yet in those early weeks, all she had thought about was how she could manage to live without Jeremy.  

She was by no means over her loss – she doubted she ever would be, but the twins had become her new reality, and she adored them more with each passing day.  

Sometimes, she felt guilty for loving them as if she was their mother, yet Edith showed only the most cursory of interest in the babies. Once a day – or, on rare occasions, twice – she would descend into the kitchen to glance into their pram. She would enquire as to their health and whether they were eating or sleeping properly but without any sign of genuine concern. She never picked them up or even looked too closely at them. It really was as if Solange were their mother and Edith a gracious employer enquiring after her housemaid’s children – something to be done as a matter of form, rather than stemming from any real desire to know. 

Richard loved the twins and often gave them their bottles; occasionally he even changed a napkin – though not with much success. He asked daily if Edith had been down to see them, and if Solange thought that perhaps this was a question he should be putting to his wife, she gave no indication of it. 

Time and again, Solange wondered how the Buckleys’ marriage survived. Their union could not even be described as one of convenience; the entire household seemed to be a source of annoyance to Edith. Solange had long ceased to imagine that Edith’s initial coldness to her had sprung from a natural caution; it was clear to her now that Edith’s ennui extended to everyone in her life. Time and again, she witnessed Richard trying to get closer to his wife, but each time Edith rebuffed him – avoiding him whenever possible and engaging in brittle conversation with him only when it was necessary. The letters kept on coming – two, sometimes three, a week, from her friends in Dublin, all of whom were, it seemed, involved in the struggle for independence. It was the only subject on which Edith seemed close to animated and, perhaps because her husband showed no interest, she would often explain to Solange certain points regarding Irish politics. 

Last week, Edith had summoned Solange to her room. 

‘Ah Solange, thank you for coming up. I think we need to talk, to clarify some things. Tell me, are you happy here?’ 

Solange was nonplussed. ‘Oui… I mean, yes, of course, Madame. I am very happy and grateful to you and Richard for…’ 

‘No, I know that, but I think if you are happy to stay, we should formalise the arrangement. You are looking after the twins, no doubt admirably, and, therefore, we should be paying you. It is not reasonable of us to expect you to work for nothing. Now if you don’t wish to do it, then of course there is no obligation on you; we will simply hire a nurse to come in. Please don’t feel pressured due to some sense that you owe us something. That is simply not the case.’ 

Solange stood there wondering what to say. The thought of anyone else taking care of the babies was abhorrent to her; she loved them so much. Also, she had very little money. Jeremy was due a pension, but the process of claiming it was taking a very long time. She did need something to live on, but she wondered if Richard knew about this arrangement Edith was proposing. He was always so adamant that she was a member of the family. 

‘Well, Madame, I do love taking care of James and Juliet, so I am happy to do it. I don’t know what else I would do if I did not do that. So yes, if it is acceptable to you and your husband then I would be glad of the job.’ 

‘Good. That’s settled then. Shall we say two hundred pounds per annum? And one and a half days off per week? Mrs Canty can cover your holidays. Of course, should you require more time off, please just ask, and we will arrange it. I think that’s fair.’ 

Solange was impressed – she hadn’t expected this cool, indifferent woman to be so generous. A nurse generally earned only one hundred pounds a year, and one day off per month was typical. ‘That is most kind, Madame, but please deduct from that my board and lodging.’ 

‘No. That won’t be necessary. Ordinarily, that would be factored in, but these circumstances are far from typical. My husband promised your husband that we would be taking care of you and so we will. Now, there are some details we need to discuss.’  

As part of her new role, Solange was to list all the items necessary for the raising of two babies. She should not be thrifty, explained Edith – just simply write down whatever she thought they would require over the coming months, and Richard would see to it that everything was delivered. The babies were to be dressed exclusively from the Munster Arcade in Cork, or Arnott’s in Dublin. Under no circumstances were they to be dressed in anything hand-knitted or bought locally. Prams and other paraphernalia were to come from Dublin also.  

RICHARD SIGHED OVER HIS newspaper as he ate his breakfast in the kitchen with Solange and the twins. 

‘I never realised when I offered you a life of peace in Ireland, how things would turn out here. This struggle between the British and the IRA is, I fear, going to get worse. God knows how it will end.’ He looked pensive but then seemed to shake himself out of it. ‘Still, it’s a bright spring morning and hopefully someone will get a bit of sense and end this before it escalates. Now, will we take this pair for a stroll before I face the parish and their ailments?’ 

He pushed one pram and Solange the other around the path that encircled the house. The April sun warmed the old walls of Dunderrig and the garden had sprung to life. At nearly four months, the twins were thriving and loved to lie without blankets and furiously kick their chubby legs. 

‘They are so beautiful, n’est-ce pas?’ Solange smiled. ‘I don’t know much about this independence war, I don’t read the papers though I should I suppose, but it just all seems so…’ 

‘Pointless? Repetitive? Futile?’ Richard suggested. 

She nodded. ‘After France and everything that we saw, war seems to be just waste. Nothing else, just waste. People, property, land, villages. I hope this is not the same fate for your home, Richard.’  

Their relationship had become less formal in the past months. Richard would always be reticent, and she spoke as guardedly as he, but they enjoyed a good relationship. He was becoming more accustomed to fatherhood and was taking more and more of an active role in the care of his children. He’d even mastered changing their napkins. Nothing had improved with their mother though she did still visit the kitchen once a day to glance briefly at them. 

THE TWINS WERE BAPTISED in the local Catholic parish church and on the morning of the christening, Edith arrived downstairs looking so glamorous that she took Solange’s breath away. She had only seen the doctor’s wife in nightgowns up to then and was amazed to see how elegant Edith could be with her hair pinned in an elegant chignon and wearing a beautifully tailored dress, cut daringly low at both front and back, with panels of cream sat alongside panels of ivory and white. Solange had never seen anything like it on a real person before, but she had taken to looking over various fashion magazines when Edith had finished with them. So she knew that since the war, when women had learnt to drive cars and wear trousers, they were reluctant to incarcerate themselves once more in torturous corsets and restrictive dresses. The postwar generation was raising hemlines and dropping necklines and, despite living in West Cork, it seemed Edith Buckley was not going to be left behind. For the first time, Solange could see why Richard had married her. She was so beautiful.  

The twins were also dressed handsomely – Juliet in the simple christening robe that had been used to baptise at least four generations of Buckleys, and James in an identical robe made for the occasion by Mrs Canty. Both babies were wrapped in elaborately embroidered white blankets. 

Mrs Canty told Solange she had overheard Richard and Edith arguing about the christening robes. Edith had wanted to order new ones from some French couturier based in Dublin but for once Richard had put his foot down. Every Buckley baby was baptised in the family gown and the twins were not going to be an exception. Mrs Canty delighted in telling the tale of how ‘The One’ – as Edith was unflatteringly called by her – got her comeuppance. 

Richard made two trips in the car that day: the first, bringing Mrs Canty and her husband and a silent Edith to the church; the next, to collect Solange and the twins. As Solange entered the church with a baby in each arm, she felt the eyes of at least a hundred people upon her. Perhaps she imagined it, but it seemed as if they were more interested in her than in the babies. Edith and Richard sat side by side in the front pew, not touching, and next to them sat Dr Bateman and his wife, who were standing as the children’s godparents. Once again, Solange was struck by the peculiar ways of the Irish. These people were offering to be the babies’ guardians in the event of their parents’ death, yet here in the church on the morning of their christening was the first time they had ever even seen them.  

Dr Bateman had called late on the morning of the birth to ensure Edith was well and that she had delivered safely. He had complimented Solange on her professionalism and when she had asked if he’d like to examine the babies, he had stated that he was quite sure they were in excellent hands between her and their father, and promptly left. He had not appeared in Dunderrig since. 

The babies were duly baptised and afterwards Richard invited a select group of people – friends and family, Solange assumed – to the Eldon Hotel in Skibbereen for lunch. He’d pleaded with her the night before to come to the lunch, but she had refused. Edith wouldn’t want her there – she was staff now, whether Richard liked it or not, and it wouldn’t have been appropriate.