Michael Russell - The City of Strangers

And the hangman was still English. Despite the fact that two years earlier, in Éamon de Valera’s new constitution, the Irish Free State had officially been renamed Éire, Ireland, and that it considered itself now, for all practical purposes, a republic, there was still one job no Irishman would ever be asked to do in Ireland. So when that job did need doing it was the English hangman, Thomas Pierrepoint, who took the boat train from Euston, the mail boat from Holyhead, and a taxi from Dún Laoghaire to Mountjoy Prison.

Stefan was thinking about what his journey meant now, as his mother and father washed up. He folded up his son’s newspaper cuttings and put them away in the Cadbury’s chocolate box that had a picture of a flying boat pasted on it; he closed the box and put it aside to go back to Tom’s room.

As he returned to the kitchen the telephone rang. It was Valerie Lessingham, her voice bright as always, pushing away what was in his mind.

‘Stefan, I only got a bit of what you said. How long are you away?’

‘It’s not even a week.’

‘I have to be in Dublin tomorrow. So I’m going up there anyway. I thought I might drive you. You said you’d be staying the night. I could too.’

In a relationship that largely revolved around their children, the time Stefan and Valerie had actually spent alone together didn’t amount to much. When the chance did arise, Valerie dealt with it simply enough. Where Stefan approached it all with caution, she just got on with it.

He laughed. ‘Well, I suppose if you’re going anyway.’

It was unlikely she had been going anyway but, like the practical woman she was, there would, naturally, be things she had to do in Dublin.

As he walked back into the kitchen the last dishes were being dried and put away. His father and mother looked round. In a household where the telephone was still a novelty, an explanation was always expected. Stefan would rather it hadn’t been expected right now. It was an area of his life where the less said, especially as far as his mother was concerned, the better.

‘Valerie Lessingham’s got to be in Dublin tomorrow. She’s going to give me a lift up.’

David Gillespie nodded and turned to put a cup in the press. Helena’s pursed lips told another story. Open skies were forgotten.

‘Well, as usual, there’s nothing much happens here that Mrs Lessingham doesn’t want a part in. I suppose we should be used to it.’

David shot a warning glance at his wife, but she took no notice.

‘Normally it’s Tom of course.’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ said Stefan. His irritation was defensive; he wanted to tell her to mind her own business. His father shot him the same warning glance he had shot Helena, and it had the same effect. ‘Leave it alone, Ma. You know no one could be kinder to Tom.’

‘And what does he think about that?’

‘What?’

Helena turned to the range, taking off her apron and folding it very purposefully, several times, before she hung it over the rail to dry.

‘Think about what? You know what he thinks. He loves being at Whitehall Grove, and he loves it when Jane and Alex come here. They have a grand time, don’t they? Leave it at that!’ He knew perfectly well why she wouldn’t leave it at that, at least he thought he did. ‘Valerie gives him more time than anyone outside this house. He thinks the world of her! Why not?’

His mother still had her back to him.

‘Why not indeed? I’m sure she’s an angel come among us!’

Even David Gillespie thought this was unnecessary.

‘Helena, will you come on? That’s enough.’

She turned, smiling now, but it wasn’t a smile of agreement. It was a smile that said she had more to say, and obviously no one wanted to hear it.

‘Probably it is. Trust me to blow out the candle when it’s burning so bright.’ She walked across to Stefan and kissed his cheek. ‘You’ll need an early night, son. You’ve a lot to do. I’m sure there’s more to all that travelling than they say. It’s still a long way, however quickly you get there.’

She walked out and went upstairs.

Stefan sat down at the table. He looked down at the picture of the flying boat. There had been times, more times recently, even before the call to Dublin, when he had felt he needed to get away. It had nothing to do with Valerie Lessingham, or with his mother’s tight-lipped disapproval, or even the slow repetitiveness of his life; it had nothing to do with his family really. It was the feeling that sometimes the mountains around him closed in, watching him grow older, watching his son grow up as he did no more than mark time.

David Gillespie went to the press and brought out two bottles of beer. He stood pouring them, saying nothing for a while. He pushed a glass across to his son and then pulled out a chair on the other side of the table.

‘She’s thinking of Tom,’ he said finally, as he sat down.

‘I know what she’s thinking of, Pa.’

‘Well, that’s another thing altogether,’ David frowned. ‘There is that too. She’s another man’s wife. We’ve never talked about it before, whatever we think, but do you expect your mother to be easy with it? Or me, Stefan?’

‘Does it matter so much?’

‘It matters,’ said his father. ‘You know it does. I’m sure Mrs Lessingham knows it. It’s the children that matter most. You know that too.’

‘What do you think we are? I could count the number –’

‘You can give each other the explanations. Don’t waste them on me.’

Stefan felt the sting in his father’s quiet words.

‘That’s not what really worries your mother anyway. I’m not saying she hasn’t got an opinion about it that doesn’t reflect very well on you or Mrs Lessingham, but all that can’t go on. Sure, you know that yourself.’

For a moment Stefan drank; he did know, of course he knew.

‘It’ll stop,’ he said, gazing down at the glass. ‘These things do.’

‘These things?’ laughed David. ‘Is that all it amounts to? Maybe it’s when it stops that your mother’s worried about. Can’t you understand that?’

‘For God’s sake, I think I’m old enough to deal with it, Pa!’

‘I’m glad for you so. I’m glad for Valerie Lessingham too, if that’s how it is with her. It’s a good job your mother’s in bed. If she was here she’d tell you she couldn’t give a feck whether you two can deal with it or not.’

Stefan laughed, but he could see this wasn’t one of those familiar moments when David Gillespie had been despatched by his wife to say what she wouldn’t say herself.

‘And what sort of sense is that supposed to make? If she doesn’t care, then what the hell is she so angry about?’ He drained his glass and stood up.

‘Jesus, you’re thick sometimes, Stefan Gillespie. He thinks the world of her, that’s what you said. Not that it needs saying. You might be able to deal with it when it’s all over, do you think Tom’s going to find it so easy? She’s pulled him into her family, and I’ve no complaint about that, nor has your mother.’

Stefan gave a wry smile; he wasn’t so sure about that.

‘Maybe she’s a way with strays,’ continued David, with a kinder expression. ‘But you and Mrs Lessingham have taken a road you can’t stay on together. There’ll be a parting, and when there is things won’t be the same again. Perhaps there’ll be more for Tom to lose than you then.’

Stefan stood where he was, looking at his father, as two compartments in his mind opened up to one another, and he realised that not only were they sitting side by side, they looked into each other. He had become very good at keeping things in separate boxes in the years since Maeve had died; he was aware of that. But it was a trick his son had had no reason to learn.