1965-1969 JustineSitting at his Bonn desk with an early-morning cup of coffee, Rainer learned of Cardinal de Bricassart's deathfrom his newspaper. The political storm of the past few weeks was diminishing at last, so he had settled to enjoyhis reading with the prospect of soon seeing Justine to color his mood, and unperturbed by her recent silence.
That he deemed typical; she was far from ready yet to admit the extent of her commitment to him. But the newsof the Cardinal's death drove all thought of Justine away. Ten minutes later he was behind the wheel of aMercedes 280 SL, heading for the autobahn. The poor old man Vittorio would be so alone, and his burden washeavy at the best of times. Quicker to drive; by the time he fiddled around waiting for a flight, got to and fromairports, he could be at the Vatican. And it was something positive to do, something he could control himself,always an important consideration to a man like him. From Cardinal Vittorio he learned the whole story, tooshocked at first to wonder why Justine hadn't thought to contact him. "He came to me and asked me, did I knowDane was his son?" the gentle voice said, while the gentle hands smoothed the blue-grey back of Natasha.
"And you said?""I said I had guessed. I could not tell him more. But oh, his face! His face! I wept.""It killed him, of course. The last time I saw him I thought he wasn't well, but he laughed at my suggestion thathe see a doctor.""It is as God wills. I think Ralph de Bricassart was one of the most tormented men I have ever known. In deathhe will find the peace he could not find here in this life.""The boy, Vittorio! A tragedy.""Do you think so? I like rather to think of it as beautiful. I cannot believe Dane found death anything butwelcome, and it is not surprising that Our Dear Lord could not wait a moment longer to gather Dane untoHimself. I mourn, yes, not for the boy. For his mother, who must suffer so much! And for his sister, his uncles,his grandmother. No, I do not mourn for him. Father O'neill lived in almost total purity of mind and spirit. Whatcould death be for him but the entrance into everlasting life? For the rest of us, the passage is not so easy."From his hotel Rainer dispatched a cable to London which he couldn't allow to convey his anger, hurt ordisappointment. It merely said: MUST RETURN BONN BUT WILL BE IN LONDON WEEKEND STOPWHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME QUERY ALL MY LOVE RAINOn his desk in the office at Bonn were an express delivery letter from Justine, and a registered packet which hissecretary informed him had come from Cardinal de Bricassart's lawyers in Rome. He opened this first, to learnthat under the terms of Ralph de Bricassart's will he was to add another company to his already formidable list ofdirectorships. Michar Limited. And Drogheda. Exasperated yet curiously touched, he understood that this wasthe Cardinal's way of telling him that in the final weighing he had not been found wanting, that the prayersduring the war years had borne fruit. Into Rainer's hands he had delivered the future welfare of Meggie O'neilland her people. Or so Rainer interpreted it, for the wording of the Cardinal's will was quite impersonal. It couldnot dare be otherwise. He threw the packet into the basket for general nonsecret correspondence, immediatereply, and opened the letter from Justine. It began badly, without any kind of salutation.
Thank you for the cable. You've no idea how glad I am that we haven't been in touch these last couple of weeks,because I would have hated to have you around. At the time all I could think when I thought of you was, thankGod you didn't know. You may find this hard to understand, but I don't want you anywhere near me. There isnothing pretty about grief, Rain, nor any way your witnessing mine could alleviate it. Indeed, you might say thishas proved to me how little I love you. If I did truly love you I'd turn to you instinctively, wouldn't I? But I findmyself turning away. Therefore I would much rather that we call it quits for good and all, Rain. I have nothing togive you, and I want nothing from you. This has taught me how much people mean if they're around for twenty-six years. I couldn't bear ever to go through this again, and you said it yourself, remember? Marriage or nothing.
Well, I elect nothing.
My mother tells me the old Cardinal died a few hours after I left Drogheda. Funny. Mum was quite cut up abouthis dying. Not that she said anything, but I know her. Beats me why she and Dane and you liked him so much. Inever could, I thought he was too smarmy for words. An opinion I'm not prepared to change just because he'sdead.
And that's it. All there is. I do mean what I say, Rain. Nothing is what I elect to have from you. Look afteryourself.
She had signed it with the usual bold, black "Justine," and it was written with the new felt-tipped pen she hadhailed so gleefully when he gave it to her, as an instrument thick and dark and positive enough to satisfy her. Hedidn't fold the note and put it in his wallet, or burn it; he did what he did with all mail not requiring an answer-ran it through the electric shredder fixed to his wastebasket the minute he had finished reading it. Thinking tohimself that Dane's death had effectively put an end to Justine's emotional awakening, and bitterly unhappy. Itwasn't fair. He had waited so long.
At the weekend he flew to London anyway but not to see her, though he did see her. On the stage, as the Moor'sbeloved wife, Desdemona. Formidable. There was nothing he could do for her the stage couldn't, not for a while.
That's my good girl! Pour it all out on the stage.
Only she couldn't pour it all out on the stage, for she was too young to play Hecuba. The stage was simply theone place offering peace and forgetfulness. She could only tell herself: Time heals all wounds while notbelieving it. Asking herself why it should go on hurting so. When Dane was alive she hadn't really thought verymuch about him except when she was with him, and after they were grown up their time together had beenlimited, their vocations almost opposed. But his going had created a gap so huge she despaired of ever filling it.
The shock of having to pull herself up in the midst of a spontaneous reaction-I must remember to tell Daneabout this, he'll get such a kick out of it-that was what hurt the most. And because it kept on occurring so often, itprolonged the grief. Had the circumstances surrounding his death been less horrifying she might have recoveredmore quickly, but the nightmare events of those few days remained vivid. She missed him unbearably; her mindwould return again and again to the incredible fact of Dane dead, Dane who would never come back.
Then there was the conviction that she hadn't helped him enough. Everyone save her seemed to think he wasperfect, didn't experience the troubles other men did, but Justine knew he had been plagued by doubts, hadtormented himself with his own unworthiness, had wondered what people could see in him beyond the face andthe body. Poor Dane, who never seemed to understand that people loved his goodness. Terrible to remember itwas too late to help him now.
She also grieved for her mother. If his dying could do this to her, what must it have done to Mum? The thoughtmade her want to run screaming and crying from memory, consciousness. The picture of the Unks in Rome forhis ordination, puffing out their proud chests like pouter pigeons. That was the worst of all, visualizing the emptydesolation of her mother and the other Drogheda people.
Be honest, Justine. Was this honestly the worst? Wasn't there something far more disturbing? She couldn't pushthe thought of Rain away, or what she felt as her betrayal of Dane. To gratify her own desires she had sent Daneto Greece alone, when to have gone with him might have meant life for him. There was no other way to see it.
Dane had died because of her selfish absorption in Rain. Too late now to bring her brother back, but if in neverseeing Rain again she could somehow atone, the hunger and the loneliness would be well worth it.
So the weeks went by, and then the months. A year, two years. Desdemona, Ophelia, Portia, Cleopatra. Fromthe very beginning she flattered herself she behaved outwardly as if nothing had happened to ruin her world; shetook exquisite care in speaking, laughing, relating to people quite normally. If there was a change, it was in thatshe was kinder than of yore, for people's griefs tended to affect her as if they were her own. But, all told, she wasthe same outward Justine flippant, exuberant, brash, detached, acerbic. Twice she tried to go home to Droghedaon a visit, the second time even going so far as to pay for her plane ticket. Each time an enormously importantlast minute reason why she couldn't go cropped up, but she knew the real reason to be a combination of guilt andcowardice. She just wasn't able to nerve herself to confront her mother; to do so meant the whole sorry talewould come out, probably in the midst of a noisy storm of grief she had so far managed to avoid. The Droghedapeople, especially her mother, must continue to go about secure in their conviction that Justine at any rate was allright, that Justine had survived it relatively unscathed. So, better to stay away from Drogheda. Much better.
Meggie caught herself on a sigh, suppressed it. If her bones didn't ache so much she might have saddled a horseand ridden, but today the mere thought of it was painful. Some other time, when her arthritis didn't make itspresence felt so cruelly.
She heard a car, the thump of the brass ram's head on the front door, heard voices murmuring, her mother'stones, footsteps. Not Justine, so what did it matter?
"Meggie," said Fee from the veranda entrance, "we have a visitor. Could you come inside, please?"The visitor was a distinguished-looking fellow in early middle age, though he might have been younger than heappeared. Very different from any man she had ever seen, except that he possessed the same sort of power andself-confidence Ralph used to have. Used to have. That most final of tenses, now truly final.
"Meggie, this is Mr. Rainer Hartheim," said Fee, standing beside her chair. "Oh!" exclaimed Meggieinvoluntarily, very surprised at the look of the Rain who had figured so largely in Justine's letters from the olddays. Then, remembering her manners, "Do sit down, Mr. Hartheim."He too was staring, startled. "You're not a bit like Justine!" he said rather blankly.
"No, I'm not." She sat down facing him.
"I'll leave you alone with Mr. Hartheim, Meggie, as he says he wants to see you privately. When you're readyfor tea you might ring," Fee commanded, and departed.
"You're Justine's German friend, of course," said Meggie, at a loss. He pulled out his cigarette case. "May I?""Please do.""Would you care for one, Mrs. O'neill?""Thank you, no. I don't smoke." She smoothed her dress. "You're a long way from home, Mr. Hartheim. Haveyou business in Australia?" He smiled, wondering what she would say if she knew that he was, in effect, themaster of Drogheda. But he had no intention of telling her, for he preferred all the Drogheda people to think theirwelfare lay in the completely impersonal hands of the gentleman he employed to act as his go-between.
"Please, Mrs. O'neill, my name is Rainer," he said, giving it the same pronunciation Justine did, while thinkingwryly that this woman wouldn't use it spontaneously for some time to come; she was not one to relax withstrangers. "No, I don't have any official business in Australia, but I do have a good reason for coming. I wantedto see you.""To see me?" she asked in surprise. As if to cover sudden confusion, she went immediately to a safer subject:
"My brothers speak of you often. You were very kind to them while they were in Rome for Dane's ordination."She said Dane's name without distress, as if she used it frequently. "I hope you can stay a few days, and seethem.""1 can, Mrs. O'neill;" he answered easily.
For Meggie the interview was proving unexpectedly awkward; he was a stranger, he had announced that he hadcome twelve thousand miles simply to see her, and apparently he was in no hurry to enlighten her as to why. Shethought she would end in liking him, but she found him slightly intimidating. Perhaps his kind of man had nevercome within her ken before, and this was why he threw her off-balance. A very novel conception of Justineentered her mind at that moment: her daughter could actually relate easily to men like Rainer MoerlingHartheim! She thought of Justine as a fellow woman at last. Though aging and white-haired she was still verybeautiful, he was thinking while she sat gazing at him politely; he was still surprised that she looked not at alllike Justine, as Dane had so strongly resembled the Cardinal. How terribly lonely she must be! Yet he couldn'tfeel sorry for her in the way he did for Justine; clearly, she had come to terms with herself. "How is Justine?" sheasked.
He shrugged. "I'm afraid I don't know. I haven't seen her since before Dane died."She didn't display astonishment. "I haven't seen her myself since Dane's funeral," she said, and sighed. "I'dhoped she would come home, but it begins to look as if she never will."He made a soothing noise which she didn't seem to hear, for she went on speaking, but in a different voice,more to herself than to him. "Drogheda is like a home for the aged these days," she said. "We need young blood,and Justine's is the only young blood left."Pity deserted him; he leaned forward quickly, eyes glittering. "You speak of her as if she is a chattel ofDrogheda," he said, his voice now harsh. "I serve you notice, Mrs. O'neill, she is not!""What right have you to judge what Justine is or isn't?" she asked angrily. "After all, you said yourself that youhaven't seen her since before Dane died, and that's two years ago!""Yes, you're right. It's all of two years ago." He spoke more gently, realizing afresh what her life must be like.
"You bear it very well, Mrs. O'neill.""Do I?" she asked, tightly trying to smile, her eyes never leaving his. Suddenly he began to understand what theCardinal must have seen in her to have loved her so much. It wasn't in Justine, but then he himself was noCardinal Ralph; he looked for different things. "Yes, you bear it very well," he repeated.
She caught the undertone at once, and flinched. "How do you know about Dane and Ralph?" she askedunsteadily.
"I guessed. Don't worry, Mrs. O'neill, nobody else did. I guessed because I knew the Cardinal long before I metDane. In Rome everyone thought the Cardinal was your brother, Dane's uncle, but Justine disillusioned me aboutthat the first time I ever met her.""Justine? Not Justine!" Meggie cried.
He reached out to take her hand, beating frantically against her knee. "No, no, no, Mrs. O'neill! Justine hasabsolutely no idea of it, and I pray she never will! Her slip was quite unintentional, believe me.""You're sure?""Yes, I swear it.""Then in God's Name why doesn't she come home? Why won't she come to see me? Why can't she bring herselfto look at my face?" Not only her words but the agony in her voice told him what had tormented Justine's motherabout her absence these last two years. His own mission's importance dwindled; now he had a new one, to allayMeggie's fears. "For that 1 am to blame," he said firmly.
"You?" asked Meggie, bewildered.
"Justine had planned to go to Greece with Dane, and she's convinced that had she, he'd still be alive.""Nonsense!" said Meggie.
"Q. But though we know it's nonsense, Justine doesn't. It's up to you to make her see it.""Up to me? You don't understand, Mr. Hartheim. Justine has never listened to me in all her life, and at this stageany influence I might once have had is completely gone. She doesn't even want to see my face."Her tone was defeated but not abject. "I fell into the same trap my mother did," she went on matter-of-factly.
"Drogheda is my life . . . the house, the books . . . . Here I'm needed, there's still some purpose in living. Here arepeople who rely on me. My children never did, you know. Never did." "That's not true, Mrs. O'neill. If it was,Justine could come home to you without a qualm. You underestimate the quality of the love she bears you. WhenI say I am to blame for what Justine is going through, I mean that she remained in London because of me, to bewith me. But it is for you she suffers, not for me."Meggie stiffened. "She has no right to suffer for me! Let her suffer for herself if she must, but not for me. Neverfor me!" "Then you believe me when I say she has no idea of Dane and the Cardinal?" Her manner changed, as ifhe had reminded her there were other things at stake, and she was losing sight of them. "Yes," she said, "I believeyou." "I came to see you because Justine needs your help and cannot ask for it," he announced. "You mustconvince her she needs to take up the threads of her life again-not a Drogheda life, but her own life, which hasnothing to do with Drogheda."He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and lit another cigarette. "Justine has donned some kind of hairshirt, but for all the wrong reasons. If anyone can make her see it, you can. Yet I warn you that if you choose todo so she will never come home, whereas if she goes on the way she is, she may well end up returning herepermanently.
"The stage isn't enough for someone like Justine," he went on, "and the day is coming when she's going torealize that. Then she's going to opt for people either her family and Drogheda, or me." He smiled at her withdeep understanding. "But people are not enough for Justine either, Mrs. O'neill. If Justine chooses me, she canhave the stage as well, and that bonus Drogheda cannot offer her." Now he was gazing at her sternly, as if at anadversary. "I came to ask you to make sure she chooses me. It may seem cruel to say this, but I need her morethan you possibly could."The starch was back in Meggie. "Drogheda isn't such a bad choice," she countered. "You speak as if it would bethe end of her life, but it doesn't mean that at all, you know. She could have the stage. This is a true community.
Even if she married Boy King, as his grandfather and I have hoped for years, her children would be as well caredfor in her absences as they would be were she married to you. This is her home! She knows and understands thiskind of life. If she chose it, she'd certainly be very well aware what was involved. Can you say the same for thesort of life you'd offer her?" "No," he said stolidly. "But Justine thrives on surprises. On Drogheda she'dstagnate.""What you mean is, she'd be unhappy here.""No, not exactly. I have no doubt that if she elected to return here, married this Boy King-who is this Boy King,by the way?" "The heir to a neighboring property, Bugela, and an old childhood friend who would like to bemore than a friend. His grandfather wants the marriage for dynastic reasons; I want it because I think it's whatJustine needs." . "I see. Well, if she returned here and married Boy King, she'd learn to be happy. But happinessis a relative state. I don't think she would ever know the kind of satisfaction she would find with me. Because,Mrs. O'neill, Justine loves me, not Boy King.""Then she's got a very strange way of showing it," said Meggie, pulling the bell rope for tea. "Besides, Mr.
Hartheim, as I said earlier, I think you overestimate my influence with her. Justine has never taken a scrap ofnotice of anything I say, let alone want.""You're nobody's fool," he answered. "You know you can do it if you want to. I can ask no more than that youthink about what I've said. Take your time, there's no hurry. I'm a patient man."Meggie smiled. "Then you're a rarity," she said. He didn't broach the subject again, nor did she. During theweek of his stay he behaved like any other guest, though Meggie had a feeling he was trying to show her whatkind of man he was. How much her brothers liked him was clear; from the moment word reached the paddocksof his arrival, they all came in and stayed in until he left for Germany. Fee liked him, too; her eyes haddeteriorated to the point where she could no longer keep the books, but she was far from senile. Mrs. Smith haddied in her sleep the previous winter, not before her due time, and rather than inflict a new housekeeper onMinnie and Cat, both old but still hale, Fee had passed the books completely to Meggie and more or less filledMrs. Smith's place herself. It was Fee who first realized Rainer was a direct link with that part of Dane's life noone on Drogheda had ever had opportunity to share, so she asked him to speak of it. He obliged gladly, havingquickly noticed that none of the Drogheda people were at all reluctant to talk of Dane, and derived great pleasurefrom listening to new tales about him.
Behind her mask of politeness Meggie couldn't get away from what Rain had told her, couldn't stop dwelling onthe choice he had offered her. She had long since given up hope of Justine's return, only to have him almostguarantee it, admit too that Justine would be happy if she did return. Also, for one other thing she had to beintensely grateful to him: he had laid the ghost of her fear that somehow Justine had discovered the link betweenDane and Ralph.
As for marriage to Rain, Meggie didn't see what she could do to push Justine where apparently she had nodesire to go. Or was it that she didn't want to see? She had ended in liking Rain very much, but his happinesscouldn't possibly matter as much to her as the welfare of her daughter, of the Drogheda people, and of Droghedaitself. The crucial question was, how vital to Justine's future happiness was Rain? In spite of his contention thatJustine loved him, Meggie couldn't remember her daughter ever saying anything which might indicate that Rainheld the same sort of importance for her as Ralph had done for Meggie.
"I presume you will see Justine sooner or later," Meggie said to Rain when she drove him to the airport. "Whenyou do, I'd rather you didn't mention this visit to Drogheda.""If you prefer," he said. "I would only ask you to think about what I've said, and take your time." But even as hemade his request, he couldn't help feeling that Meggie had reaped far more benefit from his visit than he had.
When the mid-April came that was two and a half years after Dane's death, Justine experienced anoverwhelming desire to see something that wasn't rows of houses. Suddenly on this beautiful day of soft springair and chilly sun, urban London was intolerable. So she took a District Line train to Kew Gardens, pleased thatit was a Tuesday and she would have the place almost to herself. Nor was she working that night, so it didn'tmatter if she exhausted herself tramping the byways.
She knew the park well, of course. London was a joy to any Drogheda person, with its masses of formal flowerbeds, but Kew was in a class all its own. In the old days she used to haunt it from April to the end of October, forevery month had a different floral display to offer.
Mid-April was her favorite time, the period of daffodils and azaleas and flowering trees. There was one spot shethought could lay some claim to being one of the world's loveliest sights on a small, intimate scale, so she satdown on the damp ground, an audience of one, to drink it in. As far as the eye could see stretched a sheet ofdaffodils; in mid-distance the nodding yellow horde of bells flowed around a great flowering almond, itsbranches so heavy with white blooms they dipped downward in arching falls as perfect and still as a Japanesepainting. Peace. It was so hard to come by. And then, her head far back to memorize the absolute beauty of theladen almond amid its rippling golden sea, something far less beautiful intruded. Rainer Moerling Hartheim, ofall people, threading his careful way through clumps of daffodils, his bulk shielded from the chilly breeze by theinevitable German leather coat, the sun glittering in his silvery hair.
"You'll get a cold in your kidneys," he said, taking off his coat and spreading it lining side up on the ground sothey could sit on it. "How did you find me here?" she asked, wriggling onto a brown satin corner. "Mrs. Kellytold me you had gone to Kew. The rest was easy. I just walked until I found you.""I suppose you think I ought to be falling all over you in gladness, tra-la?""Are you?""Same old Rain, answering a question with a question. No, I'm not glad to see you. I thought I'd managed tomake you crawl up a hollow log permanently.""It's hard to keep a good man up a hollow log permanently. How are you?" "I'm all right.""Have you licked your wounds enough?"No.
"Well, that's to be expected, I suppose. But I began to realize that once you had dismissed me you'd never againhumble your pride to make the first move toward reconciliation. Whereas I, Herzchen, am wise enough to knowthat pride makes a very lonely bedfellow.""Don't go getting any ideas about kicking it out to make room for yourself, Rain, because I'm warning you, I amnot taking you on in that capacity." "I don't want you in that capacity anymore."The promptness of his answer irritated her, but she adopted a relieved air and said, "Honestly?""If I did, do you think I could have borne to keep away from you so long? You were a passing fancy in thatway, but I still think of you as a dear friend, and miss you as a dear friend.""Oh, Rain, so do I!""That's good. Am I admitted as a friend, then?" "Of course."He lay back on the coat and put his arms behind his head, smiling at her lazily. "How old are you, thirty? Inthose disgraceful clothes you look more like a scrubby schoolgirl. If you don't need me in your life for any otherreason, Justine, you certainly do as your personal arbiter of elegance." She laughed. "I admit when I thought youmight pop up out of the woodwork I did take more interest in my appearance. If I'm thirty, though, you're nospring chook yourself. You must be forty at least. Doesn't seem like such a huge difference anymore, does it?
You've lost weight. Are you all right, Rain?""I was never fat, only big, so sitting at a desk all the time has shrunk me, not made me expand."Sliding down and turning onto her stomach, she put her face close to his, smiling. "Oh, Rain, it's so good to seeyou! No one else gives me a run for my money.""Poor Justine! And you have so much of it these days, don't you?" "Money?" She nodded. "Odd, that theCardinal should have left all of his to me. Well, half to me and half to Dane, but of course I was Dane's solelegatee." Her face twisted in spite of herself. She ducked her head away and pretended to look at one daffodil in asea of them until she could control her voice enough to say, "You know, Rain, I'd give my eyeteeth to learn justwhat the Cardinal was to my family. A friend, only that? More than that, in some mysterious way. But just what,I don't know. I wish I did." "No, you don't." He got to his feet and extended his hand. "Come, Herzchen, I'll buyyou dinner anywhere you think there will be eyes to see that the breach between the carrot-topped Australianactress and the certain member of the German cabinet is healed. My reputation as a playboy has deterioratedsince you threw me out.""You'll have to watch it, my friend. They don't call me a carrot-topped Australian actress any more-these daysI'm that lush, gorgeous, titian-haired British actress, thanks to my immortal interpretation of Cleopatra. Don't tellme you didn't know the critics are calling me the most exotic Cleo in years?" She cocked her arms and hands intothe pose of an Egyptian hieroglyph.
His eyes twinkled. "Exotic?" he asked doubtfully. "Yes, exotic," she said firmly.
Cardinal Vittorio was dead, so Rain didn't go to Rome very much anymore. He came to London instead. At firstJustine was so delighted she didn't look any further than the friendship he offered, but as the months passed andhe failed by word or look to mention their previous relationship, her mild indignation became something moredisturbing. Not that she wanted a resumption of that other relationship, she told herself constantly; she hadfinished completely with that sort of thing, didn't need or desire it anymore. Nor did she permit her mind to dwellon an image of Rain so successfully buried she remembered it only in traitorous dreams. Those first few monthsafter Dane died had been dreadful, resisting the longing to go to Rain, feel him with her in body and spirit,knowing full well he would be if she let him. But she could not allow this with his face overshadowed by Dane's.
It was right to dismiss him, right to battle to obliterate every last flicker of desire for him. And as time went onand it seemed he was going to stay out of her life permanently, her body settled into unaroused torpor, and hermind disciplined itself to forget. But now Rain was back it was growing much harder. She itched to ask himwhether he remembered that other relationship-how could he have forgotten it? Certainly for herself she hadquite finished with such things, but it would have been gratifying to learn he hadn't; that is, provided of coursesuch things for him spelled Justine,, and only Justine. Pipe dreams. Rain didn't have the mien of a man who waswasting away of unrequited love, mental or physical, and he never displayed the slightest wish to reopen thatphase of their lives. He wanted her for a friend, enjoyed her as a friend. Excellent! It was what she wanted, too.
Only . . . could he have forgotten? No, it wasn't possible-but God damn him if he had! The night Justine'sthought processes reached so far, her season's role of Lady Macbeth had an interesting savagery quite alien to herusual interpretation. She didn't sleep very well afterward, and the following morning brought a letter from hermother which filled her with vague unease. Mum didn't write often anymore, a symptom of the long separationwhich affected them both, and what letters there were were stilted, anemic. This was different, it contained adistant mutter of old age, an underlying weariness which poked up a word or two above the surface inanities likean iceberg. Justine didn't like it. Old. Mum, old! What was happening on Drogheda? Was Mum trying to concealsome serious trouble? Was Nanna ill? One of the Unks? God forbid, Mum herself? It was three years since shehad seen any of them, and a lot could happen in three years, even if it wasn't happening to Justine O'neill.
Because her own life was stagnant and dull, she ought not to assume everyone else's was, too. That night wasJustine's "off" night, with only one more performance of Macbeth to go. The daylight hours had draggedunbearably, and even the thought of dinner with Rain didn't carry its usual anticipatory pleasure. Their friendshipw............