Conna in Crisis & The Marriage of Ulick

I
n his palatial office, on the top floor of the old Railway Hotel, now Teac Galway—the Parliament house of the state of Hi-Brazil—Taoiseach, (Premier) Moxy O’Shea, in sombre mood, poured himself another coffee and sat down at his desk. He occupied the finest office on the penthouse floor of the nineteenth century stone building that dominated Eyre Square on the city side, with panoramic views of Galway Bay and the Clare hills to the rear. The rest of this floor was occupied by ministerial offices; the Cabinet room and the country’s civil servants were located on the floor immediately below.

He studied the latest poll results yet again. They weren’t good. Despite having given the people five years of good government, his party, the Constitutional Party, was lagging ten points behind Frankie Carney’s National Party.

Moxy O’Shea, solicitor, a native of County Kerry, was the cleverest politician in Hi-Brazil: some thought, too clever. A pleasant looking portly little man in his forties, with twinkling blue eyes and florid features, he dressed well, but modestly. The people liked that and what the people liked, he liked.

To his enemies, he was a crafty, conniving, calculating, hypocritical son of a bitch; not a description that bothered him greatly. In his own county he was known to be a cute hoor; a term of endearment that he accepted. He did however object to being called a hypocrite.

He liked this office, with its deep blue Persian carpet, teak paneled walls with inbuilt book shelves, big antique desk and fine old mahogany chairs; it had an air of comfortable luxury. His secretary’s office was located across the hallway, which led to the Taoiseach’s well appointed apartment.

With a proper sense of his own importance, he personally supervised the refurbishment and ignored the snide remarks of his political opponents. The computer on his desk looked impressive; he had no idea how to use it. He didn’t trust these modern gadgets.

But it now looked as though his tenure here was coming to an end. A give away election budget with large social welfare increases, had failed to improve his ratings. If the polls were right, his party would be swept from power in the forthcoming general election and that bastard, Frankie Carney would become Taoiseach.

He sipped his coffee. It was two thirty; the deputies would assemble at three in the chamber on the ground floor. He would have to announce the calling of the election and dissolve the Teac; it would be packed today with media hacks, like vultures waiting to pick over the bones of his administration. But they didn’t know Moxy O’Shea; he still had one card left.

He smiled to himself as he finished his coffee. He didn’t see himself as leader of the opposition. 44, fit and active—he went to the gym three times a week—there was a lot of life left in Moxy O’Shea. Helen Moore, his secretary mistress, could vouch for that; not that she would be asked.

He blamed one man for the unpopularity of his government: Ulick Joyc, one time President. When, two years earlier, he announced large salary increases for the deputies (and himself) new Mercedes cars and extra staff for the ministers, and the refurbishment of the Taoiseach’s office: there was uproar in the house. He could have lived with that, but when that bastard Joyc got involved there was public outrage.

Joyc, who usually kept out of politics, made a very public statement condemning these essential improvements. The bastard had no right to intervene; without doubt, Carney put him up to it. Some of the changes were abandoned, but the damage was done. His popularity rating, based on his image as a man of the people, cultivated with great skill over many years, declined sharply.

Now, he would show the bastards. He extracted a top secret document from a locked drawer in his desk; an offer from Derek Walden-Smyth, current Director General of the USE (United States of Europe) to become Europe’s commissioner for Agriculture and Trade—the most prestigious job in Brussels—almost. With double his present salary and perks to die for, it would be much more attractive than sitting on his arse on the opposition benches listening to Carney’s caustic wit. He had more than enough of it during the past five years. And, this posting would give him the opportunity of dealing with his enemies here in Hi-Brazil.

One problem, before he went public with the news; Helen Moore, he couldn’t take her with him, not that he wanted to. He had already met an attractive young secretary in the commission. But he would have to be very diplomatic; he would tell her that the USE operated a very strict code of ethics, one that would not permit her to accompany him. Promotion to a senior position here would keep her happy.

He would keep his apartment in Moycullen and return to Hi-Brazil public life in triumph when his term in Brussels expired. By that time, the people would be sick and tired of Carney.

First, talk to Helen, then, address the House. He would recommend that the solid uninspiring Manny Higgins be elected Leader of the party. No point in being succeeded by a man with brains or charisma.

*

U
lick Joyc, Conna’s leading solicitor—one time president of the great western nation of Hi-Brazil—looked across his desk—again—at his beautiful client. She was like a ray of sunshine in his shabby office, overlooking the Main Street in Conna. Tall, blonde was she, with fair skin, sparkling blue eyes, and a seductive smile that would launch more ships than Helen. Adorned, rather than dressed, she wore a grey designer suit with a white silk blouse. She crossed her long slender legs in an unconscious gesture. So, he thought. And the aroma of her perfume!

Ulick knew little about this new client; it was her first visit to his office. He didn’t know who recommended him for this transaction and polite inquiries didn’t elicit any information. He was grateful to them anyway. It was a straight forward purchase, one that involved a considerable sum of money. A transaction like this would enable him to spend more time fishing on the lake.

His secretary, Maura Ryan entered the room with coffee and biscuits; normally it would be one of the juniors. An attractive brunette, she smiled at the lady while she poured the coffee, all the while carefully inspecting her designer wear and expensive jewellery. Ulick was amused; he was aware of the female art although he didn’t understand it. From this cursory inspection, Maura would be able to sum up the lady’s true worth to the nearest euro.

Clients like this one were a rarity in Conna but very welcome. There would be some comment in the town, not least because she arrived from Galway in a chauffeur driven limousine that was parked in the town’s only car park, nearby. There was silence until Maura departed.

All previous transactions were by phone; Contessa Cabaroni—early thirties, he thought—looked like eighteen—rang him six months earlier with her instructions. He was told to buy the old Hopkins Hotel and estate which fronted on to Roundstone Harbour below Screbe; large, modern and well appointed, it had been on the market for some time. Then, he was asked to employ a builder to erect a stone wall twenty feet high around the entire property, with high steel gates front and rear. Martin Sandys’ company carried out that work.

He asked for all the usual financial information and was put in touch with Matt Riley at the Lynch Bank in Galway. The estate was on offer at twenty seven million euro. It was clear from his discussions over the phone with her that money wasn’t an obstacle. He rang Matt; he hadn’t met the lady at that time either, but confirmed the account was in good standing. For Ulick’s edification he added, ‘She’s Italian, she’s from Italy actually.’ The sale completed, a firm from London moved in and entirely refurbished the premises.

Setanta, Ulick’s Irish grey haired wolfhound, 32 inches tall—as big as a small donkey—sat to one side. His illustrious breed carried, with pride, the name of their noble warrior who defended his people to the death. All that conflict over a bloody bull: now if it had been over one of his ancestors! That would be different.

He had been half dozing, waiting for his master to take him for a run in the woods. The aroma of the lady’s perfume brought him to life; what a looker! He knew now why Ulick was dressed in his Sunday suit, white shirt and grey tie; he had even combed his bushy black hair. A big improvement on his open necked shirt and cords!

She looked at him and asked Ulick where she could get a similar dog. He leapt up, his grey eyes opening wide. I’ll tell you where missus, there’s a lovely little bitch for sale over in Staunton’s in Cornamona; she’d be a lot nearer to me if she was living with you. But she couldn’t hear him. It’s not fair. I know what everyone is saying; sometimes even what they’re thinking.

He would have to talk to Dandaboy; for saving a child from drowning in the lake, he was granted the privilege of being able to converse with the little man. No one, not even Ulick, could hear what passed between them. Lying down again, he continued to follow the conversation closely.

She finished her coffee and put her cup back on the tray. Then she looked directly at Ulick and smiled.

‘I think I should explain,’ she began in a soft Italian accent that was music to his ears and Setanta’s too.

‘People will be wondering why an Italian family comes to live in such a beautiful secluded place as Connemara.’

He was wondering too, but merely smiled and nodded.

‘Mr Joyc,’ he loved the way she pronounced his name. ‘I believe I can trust you. You have purchased our new home efficiently and discretely.’

She paused and lowered her voice—Setanta sat up to hear better.

‘Mr. Joyc, I will tell you our full story in strictest confidence. I am sure I can rely on you.’

‘Of course,’ he smiled. ‘Call me Ulick, everyone does.’

‘That’s a nice name, U-lick.’

Setanta shook his head in disgust.

The Contessa continued.

‘We are a little known enclosed religious order of nuns, specialising in the care of people with psychiatric problems on a one to one basis. For some strange reason we never found favor with Rome, although we helped a number of senior clerics. Our convent, overlooking Lerno Bay, south of Naples is an enormous cut stone building in its own grounds. Damaged during the war, it was tastefully restored. We had this massive asset, but so little money we were going hungry.

Our late reverend mother, Sofia, a great old lady, decided she had to do something about this situation. Rome and our local bishop refused to help us. It took years to organise, secrecy was vital; she sold the convent premises and grounds for a large sum, moved the money out of Italy and sent our personal effects to a villa she’d hired near Zurich.

Then, one morning we left Lerno in a fleet of taxis, followed by an ambulance and disappeared. Rome found out eventually; they were livid, said it was their property and sued the new owners for its return. They lost, of course, and have been looking for us ever since.’

‘Why look for you if they can’t do anything about it?’

She smiled again. ‘Legally, they can’t, but we’re meant to be obedient to Rome; if they find us they’ll demand “their” money back. We’re not really concerned, but would prefer to avoid the publicity.’