Soul

‘Seamus won’t make a good soldier,’ he declared. ‘He’s barely five foot, and that’s in his shoes.’

‘Surely you agree that fighting for the end of slavery is a just cause?’ Lavinia interjected, surprised by the coachman’s reservations.

‘I’m not saying it’s not; it’s just that my brother and I—we’ve only survived this far by the grace of God himself, so I’m thinking it’s mighty foolish of Seamus to voluntarily put his life in danger, for anyone.’ He turned to Samuel. ‘Forgive me, Samuel.’

‘I understand, my friend. I’ve been told the Irish are little better than slaves themselves under their English masters.’

‘A working man has no time to think on ideals, madam, you must know that,’ Aloysius replied.

‘Which makes your brother’s choice even more admirable, surely?’

But the coachman stood there in silence, his heavy brow knotting and unknotting. Finally, a crooked smile spread slowly across his face.

‘Perhaps you’re right, madam. Besides, he could be the first general in the O’Malley clan yet. They say anything is possible in the New World.’

‘It is for the white man,’ Samuel muttered gloomily.

The three of them stood silent for a moment, contemplating their own providence and the immense differences between them.

Lavinia broke the silence. ‘Would you like to reply?’

Again, Aloysius found himself angry at her insensitivity. Could she not see that would be out of the question? Shrugging, he refilled his pipe and, using a small wax wick to catch a flame from the lantern, lit the bowl. He exhaled; a small white cloud hung in the air before dispersing.

‘I think not. No, my brother would not expect me to reply.’ His gruff words betrayed the frustration he felt at his own inadequacy.

‘We could compose them together. There is a return address—the postmaster…’

Suspicious, he stared at the soft whiteness of her hands. What did she want with a lowly coachman? Was she one of those rich Christian ladies who sought redemption through good works? Was that how she saw him—as a charity? An ignorant young man she intended to educate? An irksome thought indeed, and a position Aloysius had no intention of adopting.

‘What’s in it for you then?’ he blurted out.

‘Aloysius, the young mistress just wants to help!’ Samuel exclaimed, shocked at the Irishman’s irreverent tone of voice.

‘It would please me to be of some use to a fellow countryman. And, as a great admirer of Mr Lincoln, I would welcome the chance to assist his war effort in any way I can.’

‘Oh Lordy! Now I really have seen the elephant!’ Samuel interjected, grinning. ‘No one must ever know I visited this house. The ambassador will ride me out on a rail!’

‘Fear not, Samuel, the name Huntington will stand well with your master,’ Lavinia smiled back. ‘My husband and most of his associates are staunch supporters of the Confederacy.’

She turned back to the Irishman. ‘Your answer, Aloysius? Will you allow me to assist you?’

‘Perhaps when I drive you to church on Sunday, we could take a moment to compose a letter then, madam? Private from the rest of the household. I shouldn’t want Mr Poole thinking I was reaching above my station.’

The coachman’s tone was tentative, but secretly he felt a rush of eagerness at the thought of writing to Seamus, a brother he hadn’t seen for over five years. Or at least, that was the reason he gave himself, not daring to examine his excitement further.

‘Then Sunday it shall be,’ Lavinia concluded.

24

Los Angeles, 2002

JULIA PICKED UP THE COPIES of the Los Angeles Times lying on the doormat where they had fallen with depressing regularity. Staring at the top paper’s date in disbelief, she realised Klaus had been gone for over a month.

His absence had left a void. All that remained were aural signatures, which had seeped into the brickwork, settling around the couple’s movements as a tree might entwine a fencepost—ghost-trails of their lovemaking, their laughter, the cry of her name. Lying in bed, Julia had found herself expecting every passing vehicle to be Klaus’s car; imagining she could hear the squeal of his brakes, the click of the engine dying, the crunch of his footfall on the gravelled pathway.

The loss of her closest friend had been as painful as the loss of her husband. Julia swung wildly between deep anger at Carla’s betrayal and a desperate need to talk to her, when she would find herself dialling her phone number. And so she lay there, for nights on end, her loneliness circling above her in a numbing orbit, rocking herself, her arms clutched around her empty womb.

After a time, the anti-depressants gave her grief a tone. Its ululation became muffled, merged with the roar of the freeway, the ocean—the imagined sound of a storm pounding against the eardrum, pushing everything out towards the horizon, a frequency that took her out of the small moments. Hues were brighter. Life with the colour turned up—the psychiatrist had promised, as if centuries of philosophising about perception could be reduced to one banally cheerful metaphor. Naturally Julia hadn’t believed her, but on the tenth day, miraculously, the sky was bluer, the leaves greener, the roses bloodier.