Shamrock Green (12 page)

‘Aye-aye, sir,' Maeve said and snapping off a military salute, marched out of the bedroom and galloped downstairs.

*   *   *

‘What is it, Gowry? What do you want with me?'

‘You know what I want with you.'

‘I don't feel like it. I'm not – not right.'

‘You weren't right a fortnight ago. Is something wrong with you?'

‘Nothing is wrong with me,' Sylvie said.

‘If something's wrong, you should see a doctor.'

‘I don't need a doctor. I drank too much port last night, that's all.'

‘Who with?'

‘Oh, they were all in,' Sylvie said, ‘having a sing-song.'

‘Who bought you the port?'

‘Mr Rice; you know what he's like.'

‘Who was singing?'

‘All of them.'

‘Including Trotter?'

She had drawn away from him under the sheets. The sheets still had a stiff, unfolded feel to them and the faint, sawdust smell of the cupboard. She felt closer to the sheets than she did to Gowry. She wanted only peace, silence, sleep, and would do nothing to encourage the routine signals that would end with him on top of her. She would only give him what he wanted if there was no other way to stop him asking awkward questions.

She sighed. ‘How could I keep him out?'

‘Charlie was with him, I suppose, and my father?'

‘Not your father, just Charlie.'

Gowry shifted from her and crossed his arms over his chest in a position that reminded her of the effigies of dead kings.

‘What did they want?'

‘Nothing,' Sylvie said. ‘A drink and a place to meet, that's all.'

‘Did anyone else turn up?'

‘No, just Turk and Charlie – and the commercials, of course.'

‘I don't want them drinking here. Let them drink elsewhere.'

‘They always pay the slate, Gowry. They're good customers.'

‘They are not good customers,' Gowry said. ‘They're not good anything. Was Hagarty with them?'

Fran's name on her husband's lips shocked her. It was all she could do not to sit bolt upright and cry out:
Who told you about Fran? What have they been saying about me?
Controlling herself as best she could, she lay like a stone in a river and let cold fear ripple over her. If Gowry had learned from one of the commercials or, say, from Mr Dolan that Fran had stayed overnight and she denied it then he would know she was hiding something, and even staid, unimaginative Gowry would surely deduce what it was.

‘Have you ever read any of the stupid articles he writes?'

‘Some folk don't think they're stupid,' Sylvie said.

‘Aye, Maeve thinks he's wonderful.'

‘Maeve?'

‘It's Whiteside, her teacher. He shouldn't be filling young heads with that republican nonsense. Damned propagandist. Pettu has been giving her newspapers too. Unsuitable material for a young girl,' Gowry said. ‘What chance does the child have of developing a mind of her own if this goes on?'

‘If what goes on?' Sylvie said.

‘This systematic corruption.'

‘Oh come, Gowry, it's hardly corruption.'

‘What is it then?'

‘Politics, just politics.'

‘Aye well, it's politics that's killing men in Flanders, is it not?'

‘Dearest, I'm tired,' Sylvie said. ‘Please don't rant on. It's not my fault the country's in the state it's in. If you still want to…' She touched his thigh.

‘No,' he said. ‘No, I don't.'

‘I thought you did?'

‘I was just being polite.'

‘Polite?'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘I don't know what you mean,' said Sylvie.

‘I don't think you even
want
another baby.'

‘Oh!' she exclaimed, surprised. ‘Babies, is that all?'

For once she had failed to follow the little jumps and rabbit hops of her husband's reasoning. Had he been thinking of babies when he put his hand upon her, or had it been a manoeuvre to catch her off guard? No, Gowry wasn't devious. It was the sort of thing she might expect from Fran, but not from her husband.

‘Soon,' Gowry said, ‘you'll be too old for babies.'

‘I will not. I've years left yet, years. I'm not trying
not
to have babies, you know,' Sylvie said. ‘It isn't my fault.'

And then it occurred to her that all the energy, all the passion that she'd put into coupling with Fran might jog nature into doing what it had been reluctant to do before. If she became pregnant what would she tell Fran? What would Fran do? How would he react? Cold fear rippled over her once more.

‘What is it, Gowry?' she said. ‘What's really troubling you?'

He gave a cough and a grunt. ‘Flanagan. I'm working at the weekend.'

‘Oh!'

‘Toadying to that bloody hypocrite is beginning to get me down.'

‘Will…' Sylvie said, ‘will you be away overnight?'

‘Saturday,' he said. ‘Back home Sunday, late.'

‘Is it soldiers again?'

‘No, a funeral.'

‘At least you'll get to drive the limousine,' said Sylvie.

‘That's some consolation I suppose,' Gowry said and, grunting again, butted the bolster with his fist and settled down to sleep while Sylvie, fretting and wide awake now, lay like a stone at his side.

*   *   *

Flanagan had ordered one of the latest Benz limousines during his last visit to Germany. There had been great excitement among John James's drivers when the car had arrived from the docks, for somehow they had got it into their heads that what was being delivered was a ‘Blitzen-Benz' racing car akin to the one that had set the world record at a hundred and twenty-five miles per hour. Disappointment ensued; the limousine, though handsome, was clearly built for passenger comfort rather than out-and-out speed. Gowry was less disappointed than most. The high, elegant vehicle reminded him a little of the Lanchester he'd driven for the Franklins, though the Benz was no bone-shaker and could do fifty even on poor roads.

On Friday evening he suggested to Roddeny that it might be sensible to come home on Saturday night, but Roddeny would have none of it. The log had been filled out, the route planned and, damn me, wasn't he being paid enough of a bonus? Gowry didn't argue. Once he dropped the clients he would be free until Sunday afternoon. Woodenbridge was forty-five miles from Dublin, Tipperary a hundred and ten. He could cover sixty-odd miles in a couple of hours in the Benz and be at Maggie's cottage in ample time for supper.

On Saturday afternoon he picked the clients up outside the Vincentian RC church at Phibsborough. He had brushed his uniform, sponged his cap, polished his boots, for even if the status of the men meant nothing to him and he was opposed to everything they stood for, he wanted no complaints leaking back to J. J. Flanagan.

The men were waiting on the pavement. He didn't have to ask if they were his hire. They wore heavy tweed overcoats and flat caps and had black crape armbands on their sleeves. They were youngish chaps, early thirties. One was bearded, the other clean-shaven. Both had the damp, sullen eyes of slaughter men, though, and Gowry didn't dare inspect them too closely for fear of giving offence.

He opened the door of the passenger compartment. They climbed in. They said nothing, not even good afternoon, gave him no instruction and spoke not a word throughout the length of the journey to Woodenbridge or, rather, to the gates of the Nugget Hotel between the Bridge and Avoca, where the beard, knocking on the glass partition, told Gowry to draw up.

The men climbed out of the Benz and stood by the roadside.

The gates of the Nugget were open. The driveway, about a quarter of a mile long and flanked by oak trees, was deserted.

The men loitered, hands in pockets.

They had no luggage.

Gowry waited in the cab.

‘What's wrong wit' you?' the beard asked.

‘What time will I collect you tomorrow, sir?' Gowry said.

The beard glanced at his companion. ‘Three o'clock?'

‘Three o'clock it is, sir,' said Gowry. ‘Where?'

‘Here on this very spot.'

‘I'll be here at three tomorrow, gentlemen,' Gowry said. ‘Good-day to you.'

He touched his cap, threw the big lever to put the Benz in gear and drove off along the road to Woodenbridge, heading out towards Arklow and hence by Waterford and Clonmel to Maggie Leonard's cottage in the hills.

*   *   *

The kitchen was filled with steam. She had decided to serve the guests a dish of creamed salt cod and had forgotten just how ‘niffy' cooking fish could be. She had only made enough for six. Being Saturday many of the commercials had gone out and would not be back for supper. She was stirring egg whites and parsley into the big saucepan when Fran came into the kitchen.

Maeve was in the dining-room setting out cutlery, Jansis lighting the little coal fire in the bar. Sylvie held the empty saucer over the pan and wafted at the steam with her free hand.

‘Fran?'

‘Here I am, in the flesh.'

He looked better than he had three days ago. He had some colour in his cheeks and seemed somehow fatter. She guessed that he had been at the bottle and when he kissed her she smelled whiskey on his breath. Though he was far from intoxicated, he had a liveliness on him that amounted almost to impudence. He even had the temerity to pinch her bottom.

She giggled and slapped away his hand.

‘Is there some of that for me?' Fran said.

‘Some of what?' she said.

‘Whatever's in your little pot.'

‘Not so much of the little pot.'

‘Big pot then,' he said.

‘Give me that spoon,' Sylvie said.

‘This one?' He held the spoon out, erect. ‘This one?'

‘Don't play the fool, Fran,' Sylvie said, laughing. ‘I need to stir.'

‘I'll stir. I'm a grand man for the stirring.'

‘I know you are.' She snatched the spoon from him. ‘But you'd be wasting your talents on a piece of salt cod. Are you staying for supper?'

‘I am,' he said. ‘For breakfast too if you'll have me.'

She stirred the sauce, beat it gently for a moment or two, then pulled a hot dish from the oven and poured the cod into it.

Hands on hips, Fran watched her work.

His shabby black coat had been replaced by a new Ascot with Italian lining and a velvet collar. He wore a roll-collar shirt with a neat little bow tie in spotted silk. He'd had his hair trimmed and looked, Sylvie thought, like a well-to-do poet or a successful playwright.

‘How did you know about Gowry?' Sylvie asked.

‘What about Gowry?'

‘That he'd be gone all night?'

Fran was not languid tonight. He looked ruddy and jovial and when Maeve bounded into the kitchen, he spread his arms and sang out,
‘Tra-la!'

‘I thought I heard the voices,' Maeve said.

‘Never admit to hearing the voices. Joan of Arc heard the voices,' Fran told the child, ‘and look what happened to her.'

‘She burned,' said Maeve. ‘See, I know about Joan of Arc.'

‘All little girls do,' said Fran. ‘She's a heroine to little girls.'

‘I'm not a little girl.'

‘Young ladies. I mean young ladies.'

‘Wonder what they sounded like, them voices,' said Maeve.

‘Like this, perhaps.' Cupping his hands to his mouth, Fran uttered a hollow stage whisper. ‘I'm huuun-gery, Joan. I waaa-nt my dinnn-ner.'

Maeve laughed.

Sylvie laughed too, her question concerning Gowry lost in the general merriment and the promise of the night to come.

*   *   *

It was one of those lovely autumn twilights with the moon not just big but huge. In the cool evening air the scents of farmlands and pinewoods were heady beyond belief. At the wheel of the German limousine, Gowry sang to himself as he drove past Mockler's Hill and through Cashel and came within sight of the graceful peaks.

He sang sweet songs, not war songs or the coarse songs that had been dinned into his head at the Tivoli music hall where Sylvie and Maeve dragged him whenever they could manufacture an excuse. He sang without words, lips pursed, shoulders bowed, hands light on the wheel and he spared no thought for the men he had dropped off at the Nugget.

He prowled the car up to the front of the cottage. He hoped that Maggie would come out and say, ‘Gowry, what's this?' as if the elegant motor-car belonged to him and he had brought it to her like a trophy.

There was no sign of Maggie but a man came around the gable lugging a hay-bag over his shoulder. He wore a khaki shirt, puttees and good leather boots: Maggie's son, the Connaught Ranger, Gowry guessed, and felt the excitement go out of him. He clambered from the cab and introduced himself.

Sergeant Maurice Leonard grinned broadly, slung the hay-bag against the wall and in a deep, hearty voice said, ‘McCulloch, I'll be bound. Gowry McCulloch. Is my mother expectin' you?'

‘No, ah – I thought I'd surprise her.'

‘Fine motor. Damned fine. Benz, isn't it?'

‘Aye.'

‘Give Jerry his due, he knows how to build motorcars.' The sergeant came forward and shook Gowry's hand. ‘You'll not be delivering rookies to the Tip in this, I'm thinking.'

‘No, mourners for a funeral party.'

‘Ah! Ah-hah! Well, come along inside. My mam
will
be pleased to see you. She speaks very highly of you, Mr McCulloch.' With a wave of the arm he ushered Gowry into the cottage where Maggie, all flour as usual, was putting the lid on a beefsteak pie. She looked up and beamed.

‘Gowry! I didn't hear the bus.'

‘No bus today, Mam,' Maurice said. ‘A German limousine, no less.'

Dusting her hands on her apron, she came forward and clasped him to her bosom. ‘Ah now!' she said. ‘Both of you together. Isn't it a grand thing to have both my boys together in the house at once?'