Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection

Katharine had been astonished by the watercolour. It was not merely good but outstanding, a landscape awash with tender spring greens and ashy pinks, faded chrome yellow and melting blues, and the misty colours and exquisite configurations gave it a dreamlike quality that was perfectly magical. It was the best painting he had ever done, and Katharine was awed, recognizing what an extraordinary talent he had. It did not seem possible that a boy of only ten years had painted this piece of art.

‘Did you copy it from a book?’ she asked, peering over his shoulder.

‘No, I didn’t!’ Ryan cried indignantly. His deep green eyes, so like their mother’s, flickered with hurt, and then he grinned. ‘Don’t you recognize it, Dopey?’

Katharine shook her head. Ryan searched around the table and produced a snapshot. ‘See. It’s Aunt Lucy’s garden at Barrington,’ he announced, pushing the photograph under her nose. ‘But you’ve made it look so much more beautiful,’ Katharine exclaimed, further impressed with his astonishing ability. ‘Why, Ryan, you’re a true artist. You’ll be famous one day, I bet, and I’ll be so proud of you.’

He grinned again, the freckles dancing around like a sprinkling of brown sugar across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. ‘Do you really think I’ll be a real artist one day, Katie? Tell me the truth and say honest injun.’

‘Honest injun, Ryan, and cross my heart and hope to die,’ she smiled.

At this moment the door flew open with such swiftness and force, both children jumped and stared at each other with startled eyes. Patrick O’Rourke was standing on the threshold. It was an unexpected and unprecedented appearance, especially at this hour of the day, and he entered the room like a hurricane. ‘So here you both are! What the hell are you doing up here, when I’ve built a perfectly good playroom downstairs? Have I wasted my money?’

Katharine felt Ryan’s thin shoulders tensing under her hand resting on them. She said slowly, ‘No, Father, you haven’t wasted your money.’ There was a slight pause. ‘We use the playroom most of the time,’ she lied quickly.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Patrick said, and seated himself in the rocking chair. He was a tall, well-built man, and the chair was a fraction too small for him, but he did not seem to notice, or care about this. He regarded them both thoughtfully for a moment, his blue eyes acute. Finally, he fixed his narrowed gaze on Ryan. ‘Have you had a nice day, son?’

‘Yes, Da,’ Ryan said softly, as always intimidated by his father’s presence.

‘Good. Good.’ Patrick settled back and began to rock gently, musing to himself. Suddenly he lifted his dark leonine head and said, ‘Were your ears burning today, Ryan?’

‘No, Da.’ Ryan appeared baffled by this question and he wrinkled his nose nervously, looking confused.

‘Well, they should have been, my boy. I was talking about you, and at great length, with some of my political friends at lunch today. Ward bosses. I was downtown to make my usual, and considerable, contribution to the Democratic Party. We have the best damn political machine in the country, you know. Magnificent.’ He beamed at Ryan. ‘And the Irish control it, I might add. Don’t you ever let that slip your mind, my boy. Anyway, I told my friends that my son is going to be the greatest politician Chicago has ever seen. Yes, I told them how you’re going to be a congressman and then a senator, and I was delighted by their reactions.’

Patrick was quite oblivious to the dismay washing across Ryan’s little face, and the look of astonishment quickening on Katharine’s, as he went on: ‘I also made them a promise, and it’s a promise I fully intend to keep. I –’ Patrick bit off the rest of his sentence abruptly, and he paused dramatically as if to give additional weight and importance to his next statement.

He took a deep breath, stared hard at his children, and said with immense conviction and pride, ‘I promised them that my son is going to be the first Irish Catholic President of the United States!’ Patrick folded his hands across his vast chest, well pleased with himself, and he leaned back in the rocking chair, scrutinizing both of them, waiting.

When neither spoke, Patrick said, ‘Well, Ryan, don’t gape at me like a ninny! Haven’t you anything to say for yourself? How do you like the idea of being a politician? And then the President of this great country of ours, the greatest country in the world?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ryan whispered at last, his voice quavering. His face was as white as death, and the freckles stood out like disfiguring stains.

Patrick chuckled. ‘I don’t blame you, my boy. It’s all a bit overwhelming to comprehend immediately, I’ll grant you that. But I have great ambitions for you, son. Great ambitions. And what’s wrong with having ambitions?’ He did not wait for a response but hurried on compulsively, ‘If I hadn’t had ambitions, I wouldn’t be the multi-millionaire I am today. With a son who is going to be the first Irish Catholic President of America. And there’s nothing for you to worry your head about, Ryan. Nothing at all. I’ll do your thinking for you at all times. I’ll mastermind your career, and my money and my clout and my friends will propel you right into the Oval Office of the White House, you wait and see. You’ll make my dreams come true, Ryan, I have no doubts. And I’m going to make you the most powerful politician this century has known and will ever know. Just you leave it all to me, son.’

Ryan gulped and opened his mouth but no words came. He glanced up at Katharine, his eyes filled with mute appeal.

Katharine was flabbergasted at her father’s words. If they had been uttered by anyone else she would have dismissed them as boastful idle talk, and to be taken with a grain of salt. But she knew her father meant every word, and she trembled inwardly for Ryan. Her brother was terrified, and with good reason; she tightened her embrace, drew the boy closer to her.

She said, ‘But Ryan doesn’t want to be a politician, Father.’ She could never bring herself to call him the more affectionate Da, as Ryan did.

Patrick glowered. ‘What?’ he demanded in a low tone that was ominous, even threatening. ‘What did you say?’

‘Ryan doesn’t want to be a politician. He wants to be a painter,’ Katharine replied in a quiet but resolute voice. Her father might strike terror in Ryan’s heart, but not in hers: She was not one bit afraid of him.

‘How dare you tell me what my son wants, Katie Mary O’Rourke!’ Patrick shouted, leaping to his feet. His face was brimming with dark colour and there was a dangerous glint in his steely blue eyes.

‘But Ryan is so gifted. Look at this watercolour,’ she cried, undeterred by his displeasure.

‘I don’t want to look at it! I’ll have no more of this sissy stuff in my house. You and his mother! Filling his head with artistic nonsense. It’s going to stop, and right now.’ He strode to the table, struggling with his anger, and snatched up the watercolour. Without glancing at it, he tore it in half, and threw it to the floor.

Ryan stifled a tiny cry, like a small animal in pain, and brought his fist up to his trembling lips. Katharine flinched, and gazed at their father in fascinated horror. With one furious gesture of his large hand, Patrick swept the paint box, the brushes, the jar of water and the sketching pad off the table. He stamped on them, crushing them under his heavy feet. Katharine’s face reflected her disgust, and she thought: He’s a dreadful man. Vulgar and uncouth. He thinks he’s a gentleman with his custom-tailored gabardine suits and hand-made shoes and soft silk shirts, but he’s not. He’ll never be anything but an ignorant peasant. Shanty Irish.

Patrick pointed a long bony finger at Ryan and exclaimed excitedly, ‘Now listen to me, son. There’s going to be no more of this painting. I forbid it, do you hear me. It’s not for a great lad like you. It’s not masculine enough. You’re going to be a politician, Ryan O’Rourke, even if it kills me in the process. And the President of these United States one day. Furthermore, you’re going to start training for it immediately, with dedication and discipline and single-mindedness of purpose. Just like a boxer trains. Do you understand me, son? Have I made myself clear?’

‘Yes, Da,’ said Ryan meekly, still quivering with a mixture of fear and shock, and swamped with unhappiness.

Patrick turned to face Katharine, glaring at her. ‘As for you, young lady, I want no more interference. I’ve had quite enough of you lately. You’re a real troublemaker, not to mention a little liar, Katie Mary O’Rourke. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the unspeakable things you said about your Uncle George. Scurrilous. Disgusting. I never thought a daughter of mine would have such filth in her mind!’

Katharine felt as if the blood was draining out of her, and her legs wobbled. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick, and her large eyes became larger in her face. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead, and she had to clench her fists to control herself. How could her father be so cruel and mean, embarrassing her by saying such frightful things in front of little Ryan. She took a deep breath to control herself and said, in a voice that was surprisingly steady, ‘George Gregson is not my uncle. He’s only your business partner. And I didn’t tell you any lies!’

‘Go to your room immediately!’ Patrick thundered, harshness and fury bringing a rasp to his voice. ‘How dare you answer me back. You’re impertinent as well as a liar, it seems. And don’t venture downstairs for dinner, my girl. I don’t want to look at your face tonight. Annie will bring a tray to your room later.’

Katharine was rooted to the spot, and automatically, with a sense of protectiveness, she tightened her hand on Ryan’s shoulders. Her father observed this gesture, and commanded imperiously, ‘Stand away from your brother! Stand away! You’re always slobbering over him. It strikes me as you’re turning him into a girl like yourself. Now, go to your room.’

‘I will,’ Katharine retorted with some spirit, walking rapidly across the floor. ‘But not before I’ve looked in on Mother, to see if she wants anything.’

Patrick seemed about to explode, but he said nothing. When she reached the door of the nursery, Katharine stopped and turned her head. She looked directly at her father, and said with cold deliberation,’ I took a message for you earlier. It’s on the desk in the library. It’s from a Miss McGready. She said you can call her at the usual restaurant. In the Loop.’

Patrick’s jaw went slack and he stared at her, momentarily stupefied. His mouth tightened into a slit and his eyes hardened, and it was then that she saw the naked hatred on his face. Katharine recoiled, aghast. But she recovered herself at once and stared back at him defiantly, her eyes challenging, and she knew that he knew that she knew exactly what kind of man he was. Something rose up in Katharine like bile, gagging her, and with the child’s wisdom that springs from instinct and blind perception she understood that she was confronting evil. Her blood ran cold, and it was then that the first seeds of bitter purpose were sown in her. She vowed to herself that she would fight her father for Ryan, and for Ryan’s soul, if it took all the days of her life. She did not know that her own hatred blazed out from her young face with such intensity and force that Patrick was staggered by it.

That night Katharine lay in her bed, listening to Ryan’s sobs through the wall. They had started almost immediately, when he had returned from dinner, and they had continued unabated. Her heart ached for him and she longed to go and comfort him. The only thing which prevented her from doing so was the thought of her father’s wrath if he caught her. It was not that she was afraid for herself, for, in all truth, she was not afraid of anything. Her concern was for Ryan. Instinctively, she knew that if she attempted to protect her little brother, her father would take drastic measures, would remove him from her care. With a prescience rare in a girl of her age she understood that things would never be the same in this house ever again. She would have to watch her step, for Ryan’s sake.

But in the end she could not bear to listen to the racking sobs any longer, and she got out of bed and crept to the door, opening it quietly. She peered out. The corridor was dark and silent, and no light filtered out from her father’s room, to her enormous relief. He was either downstairs or he had gone out. To meet Miss McGready perhaps. Holding her breath, she ventured forth into Ryan’s room and tiptoed over to the bed. ‘It’s me,’ she whispered, sitting down on the edge. She took him in her arms, and stroked his hair and made gentle hushing sounds. Eventually he calmed a little, and nestled against her, his small arms clamped tightly around her neck.

‘I’m scared, Katie,’ he whispered in the darkness, his body still heaving with dry sobs. ‘I don’t want to be a politician. I want to be an artist. What will I do? I’m so scared of Da.’

‘Hush, honey, don’t get upset again. We’ll think of something.’

‘Why did Da tear up my beautiful painting? I was going to give it to Momma.’

‘I don’t know. Well, perhaps he was angry with me. But you’ll do another for Momma, Ryan, real soon.’

‘No, I won’t,’ he wailed. ‘Da has forbidden it. I’ll never be able to paint again, Katie.’

‘Please, honey, don’t talk so loud,’ Katharine cautioned, and went on with some assurance, ‘And you will paint, we’ll find a way, I promise. Everything is going to be all right.’

‘Are you sure, Katie?’

‘Yes, trust me, honey. Now try to sleep.’ She loosened his arms gently, and made him nestle down in the bed, tucking him in. She sat stroking his hair for a while, murmuring softly to him, until he began to doze. As she stood up, he suddenly roused himself, and clutched her arm, ‘Katie, what did Da mean when he said you’d told him lies about Uncle George?’

‘Shush, honey,’ Katharine whispered, ‘it’s nothing. Now go to sleep.’

‘Yes, Katie,’ he said with his usual obedience. He closed his eyes and curled up into a small ball, and Katharine slipped out.

Long after she had returned to her own room, Katharine was still wide awake, her mind filled with the hateful memory of that day when George Gregson had come to the house. It had been a Sunday. All the servants were off, except for Annie, the housekeeper, who was taking her afternoon nap. Ryan was out with Aunt Lucy, her father was playing golf, and her mother was in the hospital. She had been alone in the house, except for the sleeping woman upstairs. Katharine tried to block out the disgusting details, but they came flooding back, were relentless and distressing, and she lay, mute and shaking, covered in a cold sweat. She saw his ugly congested face. It was drawing closer to hers. She felt his hand on her small breast and the other one sliding up her dress, probing and pinching between her legs.

Katharine now experienced the same revulsion which engulfed her when George Gregson had unbuttoned his trousers and pushed her face down into his lap. She leapt out of bed and flew to the bathroom, staggering to the washbasin, filled with nausea. She leaned over it retching, and she threw up again and again, just as she had vomited on that terrible Sunday, all over George Gregson’s trousers.