Devlin Edith

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-1-84351-842-6
Verlag: The Lilliput Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 280 Seiten

Martina Devlin, an award-winning columnist for the Irish Independent and podcaster for Dublin City of Literature #CityofBooks, has delivered a new novel based on the life of Edith Somerville of 'Somerville and Ross' fame - authors of The Irish R.M. In this work, set during the turbulent period of Irish Independence 1921-22, Somerville finds herself at a crossroads. Her position as a member of the Ascendancy is perilous as she struggles to keep her family home, Drishane House in West Cork, while others are burned out. After years in a successful writing partnership with Violet Martin, Edith continues to write after her partner's death, comforted in the belief they continue to connect through automatic writing and séances. Against a backdrop of Civil War politics and lawlessness erupting across the country via IRA flying columns, people across Ireland are forced to consider where their loyalties lie. In Edith, Devlin limns a vivid historical context in this story of proto-feminist Edith Somerville courageously trying to keep home and heart in one piece. The story of Somerville and Ross is unique in the history of Irish women writers. Academic Shawn R. Mooney described these best-selling authors as 'undeniably New Women: single, educated and economically independent writers whose lives and literary collaboration were unique manifestations of late-nineteenth century feminist strivings toward political and sexual equality'. Devlin depicts Edith in the round, suffering from loss, striving for safety, and keeping hold of hope in this captivating narrative set in the early years of a nascent state - a triumph of ventriloquism rooted in a society on the cusp of change.

Martina Devlin is a bestselling author and award-winningjournalist, having published ten books to date. Devlin has won numerous awards for both her writing and journalism, including the Hennessy Literary Award 1996, GALA columnist of the year 2010, National Newspapers of Ireland columnist of the year 2011 and Royal Society of Literature's V.S. Pritchett short story award 2012. She was also Writer-in-Residence at the Princess Grace Irish Library in Monaco in 2009. She has been shortlisted three times for the Irish Book of the Year awards, and her non-fiction account of the Irish financial collapse, Banksters, co-authored with David Murphy, topped the best-seller list for eight weeks. A former Fleet Street journalist, she writes weekly current affairs columns for the Irish Independent and has been named National Newspapers of Ireland columnist of the year. She frequently chairs literary and current affairs events and is a regular commentator on BBC and RTÉ. She was born in Omagh and lives in Dublin.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Devlin, Martina

Leseproben

one

Edith Somerville proceeds along Skibbereen’s North Street, past the town hall with its broken clock face, her mind buzzing with errands. Family silver left in the Bank of Ireland safety deposit box. A birthday gift chosen for a godchild, despite the shops being light on stock because of the Troubles. Letters and packages posted, although no guarantee when they’ll arrive with IRA interruptions to the postal service. She’s earned herself some luncheon in the West Cork Hotel before setting off homewards. In high good humour amid the late September sunshine, she makes her way towards the riverfront.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Somerville,’ comes a voice from behind her. Apologetic. But undeniably an interruption.

Shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, apron smeared, the butcher has darted out.

‘What is it, Mattie?’

His Adam’s apple works. ‘C-c-could you … could you spare me a minute, your honour-ma’am? Inside in the shop?’

‘Spit it out now, like a good fellow.’

He approaches, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘The Drishane account. Four months, it is, since ’twas settled.’

‘Gracious me, Mattie, you shouldn’t leave it so long. Have your boy drop in the bill the next time he’s doing a delivery.’

‘Won’t you oblige me and step inside where we can talk in private, ma’am? It won’t take up much of your time.’

She glances at the yellow premises with its black and white sign over the doorway.

Dwyer

Father & Son

MasterVictuallers

In the window, trays of interleafed chops and sausage spirals are arranged, flies congregating around their moist pinkness. Sawdust leads from his boots back to the door, like a fairy-tale trail of crumbs through the forest. A stray mongrel materializes to sniff at it.

As abruptly as a hunter refusing an easy jump, her serenity is ruffled. Perhaps it’s his persistence. Or it might be a flash of foreboding. ‘It’s not convenient today, Mattie. Now do as I say and send in your bill.’

His voice is somewhat louder and a shade less humble. ‘We’ve handed it in at the kitchen door over and over, Miss Somerville. Mrs O’Shea says she’s passed it on to Mr Somerville and what more can she do? Two weeks ago, I took the bull by the horns and went up meself. Waited about for a word with Mr Somerville. He wrote me out a cheque there and then, so he did, and I lodged it the self-same day. But the bank wouldn’t honour it. Said the cheque was …’

A mumble.

Colour floods Edith’s face.That word she couldn’t quite catch sounded like worthless. Lately, Cameron has become evasive.When the post does manage to get through, she has noticed a shiftiness in her brother. Any- thing resembling a bill is jammed, unopened, in his pocket.

A rag-and-bone cart jangles by, churning up mud. A customer exits the shop and dawdles past, not troubling to hide her curiosity. One of the Finnegan girls, if she’s not mistaken. How much has the chit overheard?

Edith hooks Mattie Dwyer with her gaze.‘There must be some mis- understanding. Never mind, I’ll settle the account on the spot. If I may, I’ll take you up on that offer of a few moments in private on your premises.

’ ‘I wouldn’t put you to the trouble if the bill hadn’t shot up so high, ma’am. It’s an honour to have the Somerville account, like me father before me.’

She makes a chopping gesture. Stop discussing our business in public, says her gloved hand.

Almost bowing, he stands back, and she precedes him into the shop. Flitches of bacon dangle by their fat outer sides from hooks on the ceiling.

‘Keep an eye on things, Pat,’ he tells a youth in a striped apron behind the counter. ‘Mrs Nagle’s cook will be in shortly to place her order. She’ll want three pounds of rashers and half a dozen rings of black pudding, at least. Make a start, parcel them up.’

Dwyer parts a curtain and ushers Edith into a nondescript room overlooking the back yard. Beneath the window is a table. Dwyer dusts off one of two chairs beside it and holds it back, inviting her to sit. He does not presume to occupy the remaining one. Edith stares through a grimy net curtain at the butcher boy’s delivery bicycle. If Cameron was caught short, why didn’t he borrow from her? She’s lent him cash before. Granted, he owes her a sizeable sum already. But she’d advance him every last farthing rather than discover he’d handed over a duff cheque with a Somerville’s signature on it.

Behind her, at a sideboard covered in brown paper and balls of string, overspill from the shop, Dwyer rustles his accounts book. She hears him breathing through his mouth. And no wonder with those blocked nasal passages. An even more alarming possibility occurs to her. There may be overdue bills with other tradesmen. At the fishmonger’s and grocer’s.

Dwyer clears his throat. ‘Here it is. Colonel Somerville, Drishane House, Castletownshend.’ He hands the account to Edith.

Her eyes skim over the figures and snag on the total. An intake of breath, rapidly suppressed. How on earth did Cameron allow it to mount to such a level? A tower of pork chops as tall as the Fastnet lighthouse wobbles before her eyes. Sausages laid in a line, reaching all the way into Cork city. Who is eating all this meat? It’s an age since they had a dinner party.The only house guest they entertained was her friend Ethel Smyth a year ago, and she insisted on paying a share of the household expenses.

Edith thought when the Great War ended, money worries would ease. But it’s quite the reverse – things keep getting tighter. Hospitality stuttering to a halt is one among many economies they’ve had to practise. Not least because Ireland’s been in a state of ferment for close on two years. Nobody wants to risk driving after dark for the sake of some duck à l’orange and a couple of glasses of Merlot. Rents are difficult to prise out of the tenants. Drishane’s paddocks have never held so few horses – horse-coping has been a lucrative sideline for her but it’s no longer generating much income. The estate’s farm produce is unsaleable, with craters in the roads and blown-up bridges preventing goods from going to market. The IRA is bent on making roads impassable for the forces of law and order, but getting about is a nuisance for everyone else, too. As for the book business, once her cash cow – sales are modest. Her latest hasn’t set the literary world on fire.

If times turn any harder they’ll be reduced to vegetarianism, like that crank George Bernard Shaw. How her cousin Charlotte puts up with his peculiar eating habits, she’ll never understand.An amusing man. But unsound.

All at once, Edith recalls giving Cameron her share of the butcher’s bill.Whatever he spent her cash on, it certainly wasn’t to pay the butcher. No wonder he refused to take a run into Skib this morning when she sug- gested it at breakfast. He must have known the bill wouldn’t disappear into thin air.

Mattie Dwyer clears his throat. ‘I trust everything is in order, your honour-ma’am?’

‘Perfectly in order, Mattie. But it’s somewhat steeper than I antici- pated.’ She knows to the last shilling how much her purse contains.‘I find I don’t have enough cash on me at present and I’ve left my chequebook in Drishane. Let me make some inroads into it, at least.’ She produces three banknotes and an assortment of crowns, half-crowns and florins from her bag. ‘Count this up, please, and deduct it from the total. I’ll make arrangements to pay the remainder in due course.’

Except she does not know when that will be. Meanwhile, they must trust to the butcher’s good nature to continue meeting their orders. An ugly word occurs to her. The Somervilles must rely on his charity.

‘And may I check what’s on order with you for the weekend, Mattie?’ ‘A mutton joint, ma’am, and some liver and kidney.’

‘Cancel them.’

‘Ah, now, there’s no need for that, Miss Somerville. I wouldn’t see you go without, above in Drishane. That wouldn’t be right at all. I dare say you’ll let me have what’s owing as soon as you find it convenient.’

‘There is no question of us going hungry, Mattie.The cook has fallen into wasteful habits, ordering meat we don’t need with just my brother and me echoing about in the house.’

‘Whatever you say, ma’am.’ He licks the pencil stub and enters the sum paid in his ledger.

It represents three-quarters of what’s due.And now she is stony broke.

—

Edith waits while the stable boy from the West Cork Hotel fetches her dogcart. Does she have a coin in her pocket to tip him? Her right leg throbs. She uses a walking stick at home but won’t carry one into Skibbereen, in case the townspeople say she’s ageing. Which is nonsense. She’s a youthful sixty-three – plenty of vim and vigour in her yet.

The boy, one of the Connors clan judging by those curls, has harnessed Tara and leads her back. The chestnut horse huffs out a breath in recognition, and she strokes the mare’s forehead along the white flash. Quick to spook, Tara is wearing blinkers for this trip to town.

‘Any packages, Miss Somerville?’

‘Just myself, if you’ll lend me your arm.’ She allows him to hand her up the steps, although once she’d have sprung into the dogcart under her own steam.‘Are you a Connors?’

He tucks the tartan blanket over her knees, attentive as a lady’s maid. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Roddy’s boy?’

‘No, ma’am. He’s me uncle. Philip was me da.’

She remembers Philip, he...