Page 76 of An Invitation to the Kennedys
‘He is more human, less golden.That’s all.’
‘And perhaps that will be enough.’
‘Enough for what?Don’t be cryptic, Kick.’When Kick didn’t answer, ‘He seemsquiteafraid, doesn’t he?’she continued.‘Poor chap.’
‘Sometimes that’s all it takes,’ Kick said wisely.
‘What is?’
‘Sympathy.Pity.A little seam of lead where there has been only gold.’
‘Honestly, you are absurd.Now come, we will be late.’
‘You go.I’m going to stay here a few minutes longer.I’m quicker to dress than you are anyway.’
Alone, Kick found a low stone wall and sat on it.The moss was wet and quickly soaked through the cotton of her dress so that, where she had been cold, now she was shivering.But she couldn’t make herself go in just yet.Not when there was so much to think about.
She yawned.More than anything, she would have liked to go to the kitchen, eat a bowl of soup with bread, and tumble into bed.Not to face the cross-currents of insult and inquiry that the dining room would bring.But there was no way to escape it.Even if she could have given her excuses to her host, her mother would never have allowed it.
She yawned again, and stretched her arms up high into the air.The sound of water was everywhere; dripping, trickling, rushing.It animated her.Made her feel as though she too could bend and swerve and flow the way it did, gathering itself, dispersing, gathering again, connected with everything around it, drawing strength and giving strength.
That, she thought, was how she would like to live her life.With or without Billy.And, after all, better to know now rather than later.Could Brigid be right?she wondered.Was it the very ways that she was different that made him like her, if he did like her?And if so, how far might that stretch?Far enough to cover her Americanism?Her father’s film and talk of failure?Her Catholicism?
It would want to be a very keen interest in her differences to take in all that, she thought.Very keen indeed.
Maybe he’ll ring tomorrow, she had thought when he’d left the night of the film.Ring up and say something casual about ‘that frightful row last night’ and then it would all be over.But he hadn’t.She knew from Debo, who wrote to her, that he was now staying at Blenheim, and that Irene was there.Please do not tell me anymore, she wrote back,for if it’s not to be then I want to forget about it as fast as I can…
But she didn’t forget.Couldn’t.
How strange it was, she thought then, when you considered how alike people were – same arms and legs and eyes that were blue or brown or green but really all the same sorts of sizes and shapes – how, amongst them all, there was one whose voice you heard more clearly, one whose eyes met yours and seemed to leave something inside you.And how that glance told you more than words could, in a way that you heard more clearly than words.
She squared her shoulders.The clean night air whispered of love but she would not allow herself to listen.She couldn’t because if she did, she would hear something, even though there might be nothing there for her to hear.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Maureen
Maureen was surprised that Duff came to her room.She hadn’t expected him.But as soon as she saw his face, she understood.He was there because his anger was such that he couldn’t not be.She dismissed the maid and, once the girl was gone, turned to Duff.She ran through the idea of disarming him, of trying to, by apologising, but nothing she saw in his face told her that he would allow that.And so she went the other way.
‘What brings you here?’she asked, almost idly, turning from him back to the dressing table.Leaning close to the looking-glass, she began to paint her mouth red with lipstick.
‘Damn you, Maureen,’ he said.His voice was low.
‘You’d better shut the window if you’re going to quarrel with me,’ she said.‘You don’t want the entire house to hear.’He crossed to the sash window and pulled it down violently.It landed with a snap and rattled in its frame.‘Or maybe you do,’ she added.‘Honestly, there is hardly time to have a proper row.The dinner bell is about to go.’
‘Stop,’ he demanded.
‘Stop what?’She looked up at the mirror, meeting his eyes in it with an expression of bland innocence.
‘Stop it, Maureen.’He almost shouted.His hands, she saw, shook.He pushed them into the pockets of his jacket, either to hide them, or keep them occupied.‘What did you mean by it?’he demanded.
‘Mean by what?’
‘By your vile interference?Your insults and jeers at the tennis.Your mocking of my mother.And leading me to tell that story about McMahon.’
‘Everyone knows your mother is odd.And as for the tennis, I was only saying what was obvious.Frankly, I was embarrassed for you.You could hardly hit the ball.You were slow to everything and missed even easy shots.I thought you would welcome someone saying aloud what everyone must be thinking.’
‘Did you?Did you really think that?’He stared at her through the mirror with such intensity that she wondered it didn’t shatter.Unable to meet his eyes more, she turned and got up.‘And McMahon?You encouraged me to tell that story.Prompted me.’
