Chapter Thirty
Bram suggested to Henry that over the summer break they go to Scotland and take in the blasted heaths, the ruined castles, and immerse themselves in Scottish history and mythology, all in the name of research for the Lyceum’s forthcoming production of Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
Ellen and I were to join them. I’d always loved the play, the otherworldly elements, Lady Macbeth, Hecate, the witches, prophecies and the bloody consequences of unchecked power.
Here was an opportunity to see the landscape where it was set, and that appealed far more than crossing and recrossing the Atlantic with the entire Lyceum company which, as great an adventure as it was, I swore never to do again.
As I planned our Scottish trip, I decided Irving would return to his grandmother, aunts and uncles in Dublin.
Deep down, I knew he’d be happier with his relatives, and at his cousins’ school.
Over in Ireland, he was the boy who lived in another country; he was exotic, with his quaint accent and ways, and therefore paid a great deal of attention.
Far more than if he travelled with us, especially since Henry would be sure to monopolise Bram.
I’d Ellen for company, and while Fussie would no doubt be by Henry’s side, Irving needed other children.
He needed to be part of a family in a way he simply wasn’t as an only child in London.
When I told him, I half-expected, half-hoped, he’d object. He’d never been to Scotland and was, among many things, a curious boy. On reflection, it was when I said Henry would be there too that he accepted his lot with something akin to relief.
Then he said something unexpected.
‘Mother,’ he began, looking uncertain. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’
We were sitting in the drawing room. Bram was at the theatre, Mrs Simpson was embroidering. Irving had been playing with a wooden train, driving it over a rug road and cushion mountains.
A strange coldness swept over me. ‘You can tell me anything, dearling.’ What secrets could an eight-year-old have?
Irving ceased to play and, casting a wary glance at Mrs Simpson, came and stood beside my chair. ‘I don’t like Mr Irving.’ He stared at me with troubled eyes. ‘Not one bit.’
‘Oh,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level. Mrs Simpson’s needle hovered mid-air.
‘I wish I wasn’t called after him. I wish I had another name.’
‘Do you now.’ I ushered Irving back towards his toys, kneeling on the floor beside him, watching as he pushed his train.
I’d been so careful to ensure I didn’t complain about Henry when Irving was in earshot.
I also made a point of using endearments rather than my son’s christened name, one that had never been my choice and still, years later, jarred.
But I never knew it bothered him quite so much as well.
From the look on Mrs Simpson’s face, she wasn’t surprised.
‘What would you rather be called?’ I asked cautiously, tugging gently at an errant curl. I racked my brain for names. Some American ones came to mind. ‘Grover?’ Irving spluttered. ‘Talcott?’
‘They’re silly names.’ He chuckled.
I agreed. ‘Spot? Blacky? Rufus?’ I thought of the neighbours’ pets.
‘No!’ he laughed. Then became very serious. ‘I want to be called Noel.’
About to tickle him, I paused. He’d clearly given it some thought.
‘It’s my middle name,’ he said. ‘We could swap it to be my first. I could be called Noel instead of after him.’
I tilted his chin towards me. He really was an unassuming, placid child; clever too. He should be so easy to love. Everybody else did … Maybe if he wasn’t called Irving anymore …
‘Very well,’ I said, cupping his face in my palms. ‘I shall call you Noel. Mrs Simpson, too.’ She nodded agreeably. ‘And, once you’re in Ireland, Granny Moo, your aunts and uncles, and your teacher, will as well.’
Irving’s eyes, grey like his father’s, sparkled.
‘But,’ I cautioned, raising a finger, ‘for the time being, let’s keep this a secret between us. Mrs Simpson and I will call you Noel when we’re alone. And, when you go to your new school in Oxford, I’ll tell your father that from hereon in, Noel is to be your name. How does that sound?’
My son stared at me wide-eyed, then flung himself into my arms, pressing his little face against my cheek. ‘Thank you, Maman,’ he said, slipping back into the French his beloved Nounou Yvette had taught him.
I hugged him tightly, feelings of such warmth and pleasure making my breast swell. My heart felt lighter than it had in a long, long time. Mrs Simpson resumed her needlework, beaming.
If only it was so easy to rid ourselves of the other Irving.
Scotland. The beauty and fierceness of the countryside had me in its thrall.
Ellen and I sat by the window of various train compartments (we changed trains often), and between reading excerpts from the Scottish play to each other, we gazed with wonder upon the craggy mountain tops, the heather-covered slopes, the endless stony hills, glimmering lochs, and the occasional castle or village.
We decided to stay in Edinburgh a few days.
More a large town than a city, it nevertheless had a majesty about it, and not only because the royal family had a residence there.
In one direction the cobbled main street led to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, in the other was Edinburgh Castle, protected by sheer cliffs on one side and a riddle of streets, fortifications and baileys on the other.
From the castle, the views were splendid: tree-covered slopes to the south and west, and the vastness of the Firth of Forth to the north and east.
While Ellen and I wandered among the streets and snickets of the Old Town, and admired the elegant Georgian buildings of the New, Bram and Henry haunted less savoury areas, searching out authentic Scottish artefacts, sporrans, pipes, bonnets, plaids, horns, as well as many grisly tales, which they regaled us with over dinner.
I’d thought the Irish fond of their bloody stories of apparitions, hauntings, headless riders, selkies and banshees, but the Scots had just as many – some so blood-curdling, I’d lie awake long after we’d gone to bed, my heart thrumming in my ears.
My dreams would be a melding of drowned, grey-skinned and red-eyed men, and women with long, seaweed-green hair, all seeking to pull me down to a watery grave.
I continued to start at shadows, peer into the endless mists and dim corners.
I grew tired and fractious. I still hadn’t found a way to confide in Bram about my spectral companion.
Throughout the journey, Henry urged Bram to make notes – about the colours, the smells, the sounds, the garb.
It was only after we’d been travelling a few days and changed trains several times, that I noticed Bram had two notebooks.
One, to scribe all that he and Henry observed; the other, he most often filled at night when we were quite alone.
When Henry couldn’t see or obstruct him.
As our train headed north to Aberdeen, we passed through an area known as Port Errol, a delightful fishing village nestled within the rocky arms of a bay called Cruden. I gasped at its wild beauty and urged Bram to join me at the window.
‘Look,’ I said and pointed towards a picturesque castle atop a steep headland overlooking the churning North Sea. ‘Is that not magnificent?’ It reminded me of those you’d see in the Irish countryside, with long wide windows, turrets, towers, and sweeping stone staircases.
‘I believe that’s Slains Castle.’ Bram stared at it for a long time, a muttering Henry quite forgotten.
Caves riddled the headland upon which the castle sat; deep openings that yawned into the bay.
Enormous, strange-shaped rocks rose out of the crashing sea in an uneven row, an ugly mouth forming a barrier to anyone wishing to enter the harbour.
Sprays of foam dashed against their serrated peaks.
The whole place was so isolated, so windswept and resplendent.
‘I’ll return,’ said Bram quietly, as mesmerised by its violent beauty as I was.
‘We will,’ I said, and squeezed his arm.
With one last contemplative look, and a smile for me, he swivelled back to Henry, pen poised and notebook open – but which one?
Henry was his usual demanding self the entire trip, dominating Bram, separating us whenever he could. However, the time away brought me even closer to Ellen. She divulged I was her most cherished friend.
‘In my experience, pretty women don’t really have friends their own sex, do they, Lemon? You, however, are the exception.’
‘Which do I lack then? Beauty or friends?’
Ellen guffawed. ‘You have both in abundance, which is, I believe, a rarity.’
We were at our hotel in Inverness. It was almost midnight.
The men were still downstairs in the bar, enjoying their cigars and Highland whisky.
We’d retreated to the rooms we’d been allocated upstairs.
They were conjoined, with a cosy communal parlour between, perfect for conversations and planning.
We sat with half-drunk wines in our night attire.
Though it was summer, it was chilly enough to warrant a fire.
Outside, it was a clear night and the moon had risen, its argent beams spilling through the window and accenting the worn rug, nature’s limelight.
I was tempted to strike a pose in its glow.
We could just hear the fretting ocean discussing the tides with the wharves, and the deep voices of sailors loitering outside.
Several ships had come into port that day, one from Norway, others from England.
A shanty from a nearby tavern blew on the wind, as did the sing-song banter of the drinkers, broken by the odd shout.
I was touched by Ellen’s revelation. She was my closest friend as well.
But I also counted Lucy Gilbert, Bram’s sister Matilda, and George’s wife, the irrepressible Agnes, as beloved friends.
Genevieve Ward, too. I also had my sisters – especially Phil.
I regarded Ellen fondly. Though she had three sisters, including a Florence, they weren’t close.
She looked lovely in the firelight, her cheeks rosy, her hair spun gold. The Scottish air agreed with her.
Ellen repeated her earlier words, interrupting my train of thought. ‘Think about it, the more attractive a woman, the less likely she is to have friends.’
‘What does she have?’
‘Competition.’
I blinked. ‘But … I would never consider you in such a manner; nor any other woman.’
Ellen burst out laughing. ‘That’s because, Florence Lemon, no-one can compete with you.
You’re always the most beautiful woman in the room.
But, for the likes of me, who is considered comely, but works in a profession where aspersions are cast as fast as a Scotsman’s fishing line, I only have competition.
The older I get, the harder it is to win. ’
I raised a self-conscious hand to my face. I was thirty years of age. Old by some accounts. ‘Well, I consider you my dearest friend, Ellen,’ I said. ‘I have for a long while.’ I lifted my drink. Our glasses kissed.
‘Did I mention I tried to talk to Henry about Lady Macbeth?’
‘Oh?’
‘He has very set ideas about how I should play her and … well, I don’t agree. I thought being in Scotland was the perfect time to raise the matter.’
‘And?’
She gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘To him, Lady Macbeth is merely the wife: a foil to her husband; an accessory. She exists to highlight the tragedy of her man, nothing else.’
The wife. How that rankled. ‘But … that’s not right. She’s more than a prop. She’s the heart of the tale.’
Ellen sighed. ‘I should have known talking to him would be a waste of time. You see, for all his worldly ways, he lacks knowledge of womenfolk. If he can’t understand women, how can I expect him to understand Lady Macbeth?’
I hadn’t thought of Henry in those terms before.
The man had been married, dealt with women every day in his profession, played countless roles opposite Ellen, and other actresses, and counted her his lover for years.
He entertained many females in the Beefsteak Room, escorted them to functions.
I’d not thought him ignorant about the fairer sex. Only, it was more than that, wasn’t it?
Ellen was right. Henry didn’t understand women because he didn’t care a jot what we thought or felt.
If he did, he wouldn’t be so demanding of Bram, for a start.
If he couldn’t see how his actions made me feel, made my son feel, did that mean I should be more understanding about what he asked of my husband?
Hell no.
Ellen saw my expression and gave a defeated chuckle. ‘He has, I think, never given the subject of women his consideration.’
Our eyes met and we began to laugh.
‘I think the only subject Henry has ever considered seriously is —’ I began.
‘Himself!’ we said in unison and laughed harder.
A draught blew down the chimney, sparks exploding like miniature fireworks.
‘The play is said to be cursed, you know —’ she said grimly.
I did.
‘And I’m worried it will curse Henry.’
I recalled the reception of his Romeo; the American reception of Faust. While I didn’t care about Henry, I did care about Ellen and Bram. If Henry failed, so did they.
‘I gather Henry didn’t listen to you?’
‘When does he listen to anyone?’ replied Ellen.
‘So, Burnham wood will remove to Dunsinane.’
‘Aye. Along with Henry, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,’ said Ellen dolefully.