The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson

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СКАЧАТЬ with shops, pubs and seafood restaurant just 10 mins; fabulous beach and mountain walks nearby. Perfectly lovely, undisturbed surroundings: ideal for writer/artist.

      Dervla didn’t much like herself for contemplating the death of Christian’s mother, but she was a pragmatist, and – like all estate agents – was unsentimental when property was involved. Naturally, it behoved Christian to take care of Daphne in her declining years, and Dervla respected his decision to bring her home to Coolnamara. While her mother-in-law lived here, Dervla would do all she could to make her welcome and comfortable. She’d spent all weekend getting the place ready, with the help of a local girl, Bronagh. Between them, they had arranged Daphne’s furniture and displayed her paintings and photographs to advantage; they’d filled vases with flowers (Christian had specified that yellow lilies were her favourite on account of the vibrancy of the colour and the headiness of their scent) and made beds and stocked fridge and freezer. Dervla had even unpacked her mother-in-law’s clothes, marvelling at the vintage labels on many of the garments as she’d hung them in the wardrobe: Balenciaga, Givenchy, Lanvin. Daphne Vaughan had been a classy dame. A model, Christian had told her, whose career could have taken her to Paris if she hadn’t decided to get married.

      The wedding of Daphne to the honourable Jeremy Vaughan had been recorded in all the society pages as the event of the year 1945. Christian had showed her the cuttings in the scrapbooks that had arrived, along with all his mother’s other effects. They showed the couple on their wedding day, on honeymoon, and at the christening of their first child, Josephine. There were articles on what Daphne had worn to Cheltenham; to the Proms and to Henley, and a picture of them smiling lovingly at each other at the Queen’s garden party. Daphne was described as a model wife and hostess, and doting mother. When Jeremy died – leaving her very comfortably off with a trust fund and investment portfolio – the widow had been inconsolable. The photograph of the funeral – cut from the Daily Telegraph – showed her standing at the graveside swathed in Blackglama fur, holding the hands of her two young children. Christian had been just twelve.

      Moving back into the sitting room, Dervla activated the digital box. While waiting for it to boot up, she wandered over to the glass-fronted bookcase. Since Bronagh had unpacked the books, she was curious to inspect Daphne’s library. What might her taste in literature be? Eclectic, by the look of it. On the shelves, volumes of poetry sat next to obscurely-titled novels, many of them French. There were books on gardening, books on history, and books on art and artists. As well as being sophisticated, Christian’s mother was clearly cultured. There were lots of complete works, too, many of which were beautifully bound in leather, and Dervla was delighted to see that a set of Dickens was displayed. Nice! She could realize her dream of sitting by the fire, turning the pages of Little Dorrit or Great Expectations! Reaching for a volume, Dervla realized too late that the ‘book’ was actually a box with a hinged lid. The lid fell open as she slid it off the shelf, and a second volume, bound in vellum, fell to the floor. Dervla stooped to pick it up. It was a diary, and on the cover, in black italics, were the words Daphne Beaufoy Vaughan, 1968.

      She wouldn’t open it. She shouldn’t open it. But of course, Dervla couldn’t help herself.

      The pages of the journal were covered in sprawling, energetic writing – as if the hand of the author could not keep up with the torrent of thoughts splashed over the creamy paper. Dervla’s eyes scanned the script, lighting randomly on a paragraph here, a sentence there. ‘The most far-fetched vow I ever made,’ she read, ‘was when, as a child, I swore that if I ever had children I would love them unreservedly: a promise I have been utterly powerless to keep.’ ‘As well as being non-conformist, I happen to be very proud, and that, of course, makes one aloof.’ ‘We have been married for over two decades now, and still have nothing to say to one another.’ ‘Spent the weekend with L. in the Royal Albion in Brighton. We fought like tigers, as usual.’ ‘Have decided to send C. & J. to boarding school. Children are not conducive to conducting an amour.’ ‘R. presented me with a diamond so paltry I promptly hurled it into the lavatory. Much to my amusement, he retrieved it.’

      Dervla sank to her knees on Daphne’s thick-pile carpet. It took her a scant ten minutes of riffling through the journal to learn that Daphne had had a string of lovers; that she despised the wives of those lovers, and that she especially despised her husband. On the last page, she declared that she was going to relate the story of her life so far in the form of a novel.

      Oh. Oh God! Was there more? Again, Dervla couldn’t stop herself from reaching for another of the faux volumes. Inside was an identical vellum-bound journal with the owner’s name writ large in her distinctive script. The date was 1969. Systematically, Dervla worked her way through the hollow Collected Works of Charles Dickens. There were thirteen volumes, and each contained a journal. By Dervla’s calculations, the diaries spanned the years 1960 to 1973. The final volume contained a splenetic attack on the literary agents who had repeatedly declined to represent Mrs Vaughan on the basis that her novel appeared, in fact, to be a work of thinly disguised autobiography too slanderous ever to find a publishing house.

      Dervla sat motionless on the floor, gazing at script so jagged it looked as if it had been penned by a razor dipped in ink. Did Christian know about these diaries? Did his sister, Josephine? Dervla knew that Christian had attended boarding school from a young age, but he had told her it was the Vaughan family policy: his father had attended Eton, and his grandfather before him. Dervla privately thought it shocking that children be shunted off to boarding school on account of some antediluvian tradition: now that she knew that the real reason was to facilitate his mother’s amours, she found it infinitely more shocking. Her quandary now was: should she tell Christian about the diaries? She thought not. Sleeping dogs were best left to lie, and Dervla knew what power past secrets had to inflict damage.

      The sound of wheels on gravel made her turn. Through the window, she could see Christian’s car rounding the corner of the big house into the courtyard. Quickly, Dervla shoved the last journal into its leather-bound casing, noticing ruefully that the title of the volume in question was – ironically – Hard Times. How hard would it be to defer to her mother-in-law, knowing what she now knew?

      She watched as the Saab pulled up outside the front door of the cottage. Christian got out, rounded the bonnet and opened the passenger door, leaning in to offer his mother support as she struggled to her feet. Meanwhile, a pretty, almond-eyed girl emerged from the rear and started hefting bags out of the boot.

      ‘We’re here now, Mum!’ Dervla heard Christian say.

      ‘Where, exactly, are we?’

      ‘We’re at your new home.’

      ‘I’ve never been here before in my life,’ came the autocratic reply.

      ‘I know that, Mum. It’s your new home.’

      Daphne was wearing a navy blue trouser suit with a turquoise silk blouse. A string of pearls was looped around her neck, a Kelly bag dangled from the crook of her right arm, and on her feet were blue canvas pixie boots. She looked around, and as she did, her gaze travelled to the open window in which Dervla stood framed. Mother and daughter-in-law locked eyes, and then: ‘There’s someone in there,’ pronounced Daphne. ‘You said this was my house.’

      Dervla moved out into the hall, took a deep breath and shook back her hair. Then she counted to three and opened the door, estate agent’s smile perfectly in place. ‘Hello, all!’ she called brightly. ‘Welcome!’

      ‘Hello, love,’ said Christian. ‘Come and say hello to Mum, and Nemia!’

      Dervla stepped onto the gravel and advanced, willing her smile not to falter as she reached out and took Daphne’s free hand in both her of own. ‘Did you have a good journey, Daphne?’

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