Love and Summer

the last time. At night when there were parties he had never wanted to go to sleep, the music and the laughter always faintly reaching him in his bedroom. In the morning he crept about the house through silence that felt as if it would never cease.

Florian Kilderry - called Florian after a grandfather he hadn’t known - was the sole relic of an Italian mother and an Anglo-Irish father, a couple whose devotion to one another had illuminated a marriage in which their foibles were indulged and their creditors charmed as part of everyday life. His mother had been a Verdecchia of Genoa, his father born into an army family originally of County Galway but long established in Somerset. The well- to-do Verdecchias had not approved of their daughter’s romance with a wandering soldier who had become separated from his regiment as war was ending in 1918 and was certainly not aristocratic, as they themselves were. Soldato di ventura was the term that expressed their distaste; and too much, otherwise, was said, causing Natalia Verdecchia - several years younger than her suitor - to marry surreptitiously and flee with him to Ireland. ‘I was never more than penniless,’ Florian’s father used to say, and was particularly so at that time, having managed to live from hand to mouth since his right leg was severely injured during the Battle of the Lys. But in spite of the Verdecchias’ displeasure, in time there was a Genoese legacy - less than it might have been but enough to buy the house where the Kilderrys were to live for the remainder of their lives, where their only child was born and which on his father’s recent death he had inherited.

Shelhanagh it was called, a country house of little architectural distinction, looking down on its own wide lake, two miles from Greenane Crossroads, five from the town of Castledrummond. It was now in a state of some decay, for in the Kilderrys’ lifetime there had rarely been money to pay for its structural upkeep; and with the house itself, Florian had inherited a mass of debts and ongoing legal disputes. His father had been skilful to the end at procrastinating when the bills came in, good at knowing which to pay and which to leave. Florian was not. He had had no success at keeping things going, at growing vegetables to sell or coaxing plums from the trees before they fell and were lost in the long grass. The telephone had recently been cut off, cheques were referred back to him. Regularly a debt collector called.

Had the circumstances been less diffic ult, Florian would have remained for ever at Shelhanagh, but since there was no indication that anything would change and since he knew he did not possess the courage to suffer the indignities of poverty on his own, he had decided to take the advice he was offered, to sell the house and - child of exiles as he was - to become an exile himself. A fortnight ago the clergyman in Castledrummond had signed his application for a passport.

Born into the solitude of an only child, he had passed undemandingly through the years of early youth and those that followed it to become in manhood tempera-mentally hardly different from the boy he’d been: a polite, unpretending presence, given to reticence. ‘He’s shy a little of himself,’ Natalia Kilderry in her lifetime often commented, though with the affection that always accompanied a reference to her child. They were an affectionate family.

In his walk this morning Florian stood still for a moment, looking back at the tranquil orderliness of the lake. Then he made his way to the garden, high with artichokes that had become weeds among elder growth and convolvulus, and raspberry shoots that flourished only to be stifled, and last year’s apples rotting where they lay. Beyond this lush wasteland there was a small cobbled yard. He passed through it and entered his unlocked house by the back door.

In the kitchen he made coffee and toasted bread. He didn’t hurry. Reading The Beautiful and the Damned, he lingered over the last of the coffee and his first cigarette of the day. Then he washed some of the clothes that had accumulated and hung them out to dry among the plum trees. He tried to repair the water pump but again didn’t succeed, as he’d known he wouldn’t. From the kitchen, he heard what the postman had brought clattering through the letter-box and dropping on to the stone-paved floor. Passing through the hall a few minutes later, he found only brown-enveloped bills and threw them away unopened.

‘She’ll fetch a bit, I’d reckon,’ the man from the estate agents’ office had said when he’d finished with his tape-measure; and the Bank of Ireland thought so too. With the debts paid, there would be enough to live on, if not in splendour at least in comfort for a while. Enough to be a stranger somewhere else, although Florian didn’t yet know where. He had never been outside Ireland.

Upstairs, he went about the rooms, assessing what might be of interest to dealers. There was a lot less than once there’d been because during his last years his father had begun to sell the furniture, as already he had sold Shelhanagh’s gorse-laden rocky little fields. But even without much furniture, here and there the house’s better days held on. Pictures that had once cheered the walls were no more than a deeper shade of wallpaper now; yet each, for Florian, was perfectly a reminder. Ewers and the flowery bowls they’d stood in, wash-stands and dressing-tables, were gone, but he remembered where they had belonged and how they’d been arranged. Stale sunshine in the air had always been a summer smell and was again; the Schubert pieces his Italian cousin played when she came to Shelhanagh echoed; voices murmured. A ceiling had given way above the windows of a bedroom not slept in since the time of the parties, specks of plaster clinging to its threadbare carpet, the flies of some other summer darkening its windowsills. His father’s typewriter, an antique Remington, was on a rickety table in an alcove, where his diaries were also, stacked in a corner.

Walls bulged with damp. On the bare boards of the landing a disconnected telephone receiver lay in the dust, separated from its cradle. Sunlight on dingy window-panes cast shadows where the party people had danced, even in the afternoon. Music came from a big brash radiogram and they danced all over the house, in all the downstairs rooms, on the landing, in the hall. They had sat about on the stairs.

In the bedroom that had always been his he pulled the crumpled bedclothes up and covered the untidiness with a bedspread. It was a treachery, of course, his selling the house; he knew it was. A few days before his death, his father had reiterated what so often he had said before: that if desperate measures were called for a few of Shelhanagh’s eighteen rooms could be let, and something made of the attractions of the lake and the surrounding tranquillity; that no matter how Florian wished to live, Shelhanagh would always at least be a roof above his head. ‘Never betray your gift, beau,’ his mother, ignoring practicalities, had earlier advised. For being the child of gifted parents - both of them watercolourists of exceptional skill - it was assumed that he would inherit, in some manner, to some degree, their talent.

Art had been their passion. Their easels and their brushes, their repeated views of the lake, their birds and flowers and city streets, their still-life compositions, ruled their lives and were the heart of Shelhanagh while they lived, and of themselves, and somehow of their marriage. The parties they gave had all to do with this, their guests mostly painters also or in some other way involved in the world of art, the sale of a picture often the reason for celebration.

That Florian would one day have a place in this world was cherished as an expectation. Presumed with unquestioned certainty that its realization would come about, the prediction influenced his childhood, as his parents’ love of one another did, and their kindness. But while accepting good intentions’ generosity, he had his private doubts, his first experience of this occurring on the morning of his fifth birthday.

Receiving the flat, black tin box he’d been given, he had imagined it contained sweets until he folded back the hinged lid and saw the colours. His mother read out the names: chrome yellow and Prussian blue, madder and crimson lake, cobalt and emerald. He got them muddled; they said that didn’t matter. ‘Oh, you can, of course you can,’ they said when they dipped the brush in the water and gave it to him. They showed him how; he splashed and made a mess. ‘Of course you can,’ they said again. He knew he couldn’t.