Unravelling Oliver(45)
We had begun the restoration of the east wing, but my heart was not in it. For me, it was filled with ghosts and unhappy memories. I wondered if there was wisdom in rebuilding this part of the chateau. Who would live in the bedrooms, and who was there to read in the library? It had been destroyed once by Nazis and again by fire, and I could not be enthusiastic about this project. Once the debris had been cleared and the main staircase rebuilt, I decided to shut off the east wing indefinitely. It was not a question of money, though we certainly could not be extravagant, but Pierre convinced me that we were a team and that when the time was right, we would know what to do.
The Irish boy Michael and I kept up a sporadic correspondence after my initial response to the news of Laura’s death. He told me he had opened a restaurant, which surprised me – not that he wasn’t instinctively good at cooking, but I thought that he’d been interested in hairdressing. He credited me for introducing him to new tastes and culinary experiences, and insisted that he would never have taken such an interest in food were it not for having such an excellent teacher. He would write sometimes from exotic locations, describing the new recipes or ingredients he had discovered, and I would suggest ways to alter or improve upon them. He invited me and my new husband several times to come and stay in Dublin and visit his restaurant but I never did. The truth is that we would inevitably talk about Laura, and I was afraid that I would not be able to keep up the pretence that she had left Chateau d’Aigse in a happy and healthy state of mind. I allowed the correspondence to lapse eventually. It seemed there was little point in maintaining it.
Michael inspired my project, however. I knew about food, the sourcing, preparation, cooking and presenting of it, and I knew I had taught him well. I began to form a plan, and when I asked Pierre’s advice, he caught my excitement and together we consulted architects and drew up a business plan.
Instead of restoring the east wing, we would create a purpose-built residential cookery school with lodgings above. We were insistent that the new building would be architecturally sympathetic to the original house and that it could be built within the existing walls so as not to destroy the aesthetic. It made complete sense. With a little help, I was already entirely capable of feeding groups of thirty twice a day on a daily basis. How much easier would it be if the thirty were to do the cooking themselves? Actually, we soon realized that we could take groups of no more than fifteen at a time as it was not possible to house and instruct any more than this. Structurally, the interior would be very different from the original building and naturally fireproofed from top to bottom.
We have built the business since we opened our doors in 1978, and though I still supervise every aspect, we employ a full-time staff of at least seven, depending on the demand, and I can take a back seat when I want to. We now have an international reputation for excellence, several awards, and visitors from all over the world. I even re-established contact with Michael to spread the word of our venture to Ireland, and he has sent us many new students. Pierre and I have travelled and studied several languages. Fifteen years ago, Pierre sold the meat plant and joined me in Cuisine de Campagne. We use our ten acres to grow fruit, herbs and vegetables, and source our meat and cheeses locally. We have good years and bad years, but there is usually a waiting list for the school. It is only because we opened it that we have finally discovered something else that happened in the summer of 1973, a long-kept secret of theft, deceit and cruel betrayal. Oliver Ryan is a monster.
20. Oliver
About four months after my father’s death in 2001, I received a letter from Philip. My brother. His mother had told him of our fraternal relationship and he regretted not knowing of it earlier. He wanted to meet. I deliberated for days over whether to do so or not. What could he have to offer me? How could we possibly have anything to say to each other? Curiosity, however, got the better of me and we arranged to meet privately in a city-centre hotel.
He was extremely nervous. I was not. In appearance, he is not like my father at all. His blond hair is receding. He has not aged as well as I have. In fact, I look younger than he does.
When I arrived, he was seated in a winged armchair in a discreet corner of the lobby. He stood awkwardly and we shook hands. He had ordered sandwiches and a pot of tea. He proffered a cup and saucer. I declined and knew my refusal made him uncomfortable. To be obtuse, I asked the waiter to bring me a large Jameson before I sat to join Philip.
‘It’s good to finally meet you properly,’ he began. ‘I haven’t seen you since the funeral … I didn’t know then …’
I was direct. ‘What did you know?’
‘He told me you were a distant cousin. Mum told me the truth afterwards.’
A cousin. Interesting.
‘Did he ever mention my mother?’ I couldn’t help wanting to know.
‘He said …’ Philip hesitated, ‘he said she was a woman of ill repute.’
He said it apologetically and it sounded ridiculous, such an old-fashioned term; biblical, one might say.
‘Mum thought she might have been a nurse,’ he continued. ‘She never knew. He didn’t talk about it. Ever.’
A nurse? It was certainly more plausible than Father Daniel’s version of events.
‘An Irish nurse?’
‘I suppose so. I really don’t know. They were different times. I am so sorry. So sorry that he abandoned you like that.’