The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson

delivered the big screen we ordered for Daphne, but forgot ours. Oops. That reminds me –I’d better run down and set up the channels before she arrives. And double oops – I forgot to turn her heating on.’

      ‘But it’s not cold.’

      ‘She’s a fragile little old lady, Río. She feels the cold, especially in the evenings.’

      ‘Be off with you, so. Call me tomorrow and let me know how the welcome committee went, won’t you?’

      ‘Will do. Bye, Río.’

      Dervla put the phone down, added a tail to the spotty dog sitting on the doorstep of her two-dimensional house, then scampered downstairs, the sound of her feet on the bare boards echoing around the empty space.

      In the hallway, she retrieved her shoes, and made for the back door. As she crossed the stable yard, the crunching of gravel startled a cat that had been snoozing in a patch of sun. As it skedaddled, Dervla wondered if she should try and encourage it by leaving food out, but then realized that the Old Rectory would be no place for a cat once Kitty the Dalmatian moved in.

      In Daphne’s cottage, Dervla’s feet made no sound. Footsteps here were muffled by the pure wool deep-pile carpet that had been laid just days ago. The colour matched the curtains, made to measure in a rose-coloured brocade, which was echoed in the loose covers on sofas and armchairs. Much of Daphne’s furniture had been shipped from her house in London, so that her new surroundings would have a reassuring familiarity to them. The furniture included a very elegant walnut escritoire, a Regency rosewood bookcase, and a nineteenth-century beech day bed; her exquisite collection of japonaiserie was displayed in a bevelled glass case that ran the length of an entire wall. Christian had told her that a pair of porcelain vases dating from the K’ang-hsi period (whenever that was) were worth in the region of 20,000 euros, and Dervla thanked Christ that she would not be responsible for dusting them.

      She flicked the main switch that controlled the heat, then wandered through Daphne’s new home to make final checks. The conversion of the old outbuildings had cost Christian a lot of money – more than had been spent so far on the refurbishment of the Old Rectory. But they had looked upon it as an investment. Once the old lady died or had to be moved into proper residential care, the cottage could still generate income as an up-market artist’s retreat. Dervla had already worded the ad that she’d place in such select publications as The Author magazine:

       Coolnamara, West of Ireland. Comfortable, well-equipped, single-storey house, sympathetically converted from period mews buildings adjoining eighteenth-century manor. Lissamore village 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