Solace (18 page)

Tommy Burke’s farm up the lane had hardly been worthy of the name, just the cottage, with two or three rooms in it, and a few acres not much better than bog. Tommy was a bachelor, maybe
thirty years older than his father. Mark could remember him only faintly – a flat cap, a battered old suit and battered old boots, a lot of rotten teeth, and a smell that became so familiar
it was almost charming. Mark had never known what it was, that smell, until a few years ago when the smoking ban had come into effect and he had walked into a pub in the middle of the day and felt
his nostrils twitch at the bang of stale booze, of spilled pints, of Guinness soaked into the carpet; the smells that there was no longer any smoke to hide.

His father had believed, for a while, that he had been named after Tommy; that was how close he had felt to him when he was a boy. He had told Mark about it; how he had spent so many hours every
day with Tommy, helping him out on the farm. How he had annoyed his own father, the grandfather Mark had never known, by wanting to work with Tommy rather than with him. For Mark, Tommy was just
there, and then one day he was just not, and he could still remember the shock of seeing his father cry at Tommy’s funeral. It had been like watching a wall of the house fall away.

Frank and Irene Lynch had been at that funeral. Frank Lynch had laughed when, imitating his father, Mark had laid his hand out for a shake in the graveyard. Lynch had put his hand on
Mark’s head instead, had ruffled his hair, had told him that he had to be his father’s companion now. His father had said that he was more of a hindrance than a help. Lynch had laughed
again and said that he didn’t believe it for a minute, and then he had moved closer to Mark’s father and the two of them had got into a long conversation about the other people who were
standing around the grave.

It was probably the last civil conversation his father and Lynch had ever had, that one; afterwards, very soon afterwards, the trouble had begun. At the time, to Mark, it had seemed just a blur
of shouting and cursing. Of silences at the dinner table. Of slamming doors. It was only years later that he understood what had happened; understood just how deeply his father felt he had been
betrayed. Tommy had promised his father the farm. He had involved Tom in decisions about the future of the place. He had encouraged him to graze his own cattle on the land behind the cottage. He
had encouraged him to save hay from the meadows. And he had never bothered himself to make a will.

Tom had asked Frank Lynch to look into the matter of the will, and when it emerged that there was none, he asked Lynch to advise him on what would happen next. Lynch told him that, by law,
everything would go to Tommy’s nearest surviving relative, and that he would be happy to find out who that was. Shortly afterwards, he phoned Tom to say that the relative had been found: a
cousin in Chicago, whom Tommy had never met. Lynch wrote to the cousin, and the cousin wrote back to say that he was touched and honoured by the inheritance. He was proud of his Irish ancestry, he
said, and he was praying for the soul of his cousin Tom. And as soon as the ownership was legally transferred to him, he was putting the farm up for sale, and in this he wanted Lynch to act for
him, because he could tell by the tone of his letter, by the kind sympathies it had expressed, that Lynch was an honourable man. When Lynch phoned Tom the same evening, it was to tell him that the
auction would take place in Tommy’s yard. When Lynch’s secretary phoned Tom the next morning, it was to instruct him to remove his cattle from Tommy’s land. Bewildered, Tom
refused. Overnight, Lynch had the cattle taken from the land. Mark would never forget his father’s face that morning when he came in the back door. It was rage and it was incomprehension. But
most of all it was fear. His hands were shaking too much for him to be able to pick up the phone. Maura had to make the call. The cattle, it turned out, were being held in a pound near Cavan. There
would be a fee for their return, and if they were placed back on the estate of Tommy Burke, the further consequences would be much more serious.

At the auction, Tom tried to bid, but he could go nowhere near the price offered by the highest bidder. The highest bidder was eighteen years old. He was not yet out of secondary school. But he
won the place easily. And to Frankie Lynch’s credit, he had come over, after the bidding had ended – Mark had seen it – and tried to shake Tom’s hand. But Tom had turned.
The older boy had looked at Mark and shrugged before going back to where Frank Lynch stood, chequebook in hand.

She wouldn’t remember it. There would have been too many people who despised her father, too many people he had wronged, for her to make note of anyone in particular. And by the time she
had come to her own conclusions about the crooked fucker that her father was, the falling-out with Tom would have been far into the past.

The bell over the shop door rang as Mark pushed it open. He walked to a shelf of foil-topped bottles as though he knew what he was doing. When the guy behind the counter called over to offer his
assistance, Mark explained to him what he had in mind.

Elizabeth Lefroy turned out to look nothing like Joanne had imagined. There were no scarves and jewels and shawls. She wore a simple dark suit over a cream blouse, with a gold
pin on the lapel. She wore glasses, and her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun. She was tall and thin. She resembled, more than anyone, the nun who had been principal of Joanne’s
boarding school.

Joanne sat with Imelda, facing their barrister, Linda O’Halloran, and took notes as Glackin, the barrister for the plaintiff, made his closing arguments. He took his usual approach,
clearly trying to wring as much pity as possible from the judge. This woman was broken, he appealed in his final summation. This woman had been betrayed at a time of her life when she should have
been looked after, should have been thanked for all she had done. She was just another of the elderly Irish men and women, he said, who were now at risk of being abandoned and forgotten by her
state. He warned, too, against the temptation to scapegoat a woman like Mrs Lefroy, the widow of a British army officer, for her connection to a time that was now past, to punish her for things
that were long over, for having led a life with privileges and power that some would resent. He had shown beyond all doubt, he said, that Elizabeth Lefroy’s son had broken the law, had
changed and indeed destroyed a property without the consent of that property’s rightful owner. That was what the case came down to – a simple matter of permission and authority and of
trust.

‘Of trust,’ he said, eyeing Rupert Lefroy, and he thanked the judge.

‘Jesus Christ,’ breathed Imelda, as Glackin took his seat. ‘That’s a trip to the parish pump the judge isn’t likely to forget.’

Linda O’Halloran stood. She demolished Glackin’s arguments in minutes. She mocked their provincialism, exposed their presumption, and reminded the court that the case was a question
of property law; that her client had broken no law and transgressed no authority. Sympathy and sentiment, she warned, had no place in a court of law. It did no disrespect to a person to follow the
rule of law, regardless of the age or the stage of life of that person; on the contrary, one did disrespect to a person to assume that, just because that person happened to be an elderly woman, she
should be treated differently, should be afforded certain liberties.

‘There are loyalties, there are longings, and then there are laws,’ O’Halloran said, as she addressed the judge for a final time. ‘We all have mothers. Most of us love
our mothers, want the best for our mothers; many of us have lost our mothers, and would do anything to have them back with us. But, Judge, we must be wary of the dangers of sentiment. We must
listen to the facts. The facts are: my client was given this property to do with as he pleased. It was a useless property, nothing more than a shed, and he made of it a booming business, a
contribution to his city and to his community. We have heard his testimony, which has been honest, patient and full of reason. We have heard, too, the testimony of my client’s mother, which
has been – as have been the questions and statements of her counsel – emotive, unreasonable and contradictory. This testimony has made much of the matter of duties, of obligation, of
what is right and proper, of where our loyalties should finally lie. My loyalties lie, Judge, with the law, the law as it is set down in the statutes of this country – with laws that are
fair, and reasonable, and which have the best interests and the rights of the people of this country at their core.’

Throughout this speech, Joanne kept an eye on Elizabeth Lefroy, seated close to the back of the court. Elizabeth had been watching O’Halloran with an expression of intense focus. Her chin
was drawn high, her mouth was closed, her eyes were bright. As she listened, only the muscles of her face seemed to react, twitching and tightening. There was nothing, in that face, of the woman
ruled by her emotions, maddened by her jealousies and paranoias, who was being described by O’Halloran. Elizabeth’s testimony that morning had been the testimony of a woman who wanted
no sympathy from the court, who would dismiss such sympathy were it to come her way. Paddy Glackin was an idiot, a country barrister of the kind Joanne knew so well, appealing to the lowest
sentiment, pulling on heartstrings. And that rubbish about England – where did he think he was, the local clubhouse? Was he forgetting that the judge in front of him was as much of a West
Brit as he was likely to encounter in a house like Elizabeth Lefroy’s or anywhere else? It was the final proof that Elizabeth had no money. Even the pension that Rupert claimed to be giving
her would get her a barrister with more style and more clout.

O’Halloran sat down. She raised her eyebrows at Imelda. She did not look to Joanne or back to Rupert. Then, things moved quickly. The judge spoke briefly before granting judgment in favour
of Rupert. Elizabeth was instructed to pay his costs. At the verdict, Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to her son, who was frowning and nodding hard. Afterwards, he left with Mona and Imelda. Joanne
watched as his mother talked quietly to her solicitor. When Elizabeth was alone, Joanne stood and approached her.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, hearing her voice at an unnatural pitch. She cleared her throat. ‘Mrs Lefroy?’

Elizabeth glanced up sharply; she had not expected her thoughts to be disturbed. But her expression was not unfriendly. She looked interested. She looked intelligent.

‘Yes?’ she said lightly. ‘Was there something more you needed from me?’

‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened.’

The old woman seemed startled. ‘Aren’t you with my son?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You are one of the solicitors who represented my son?’

‘Yes,’ Joanne nodded, but halfway through the nod she shook her head. ‘Well, I’m training with them.’

‘I see,’ Mrs Lefroy said slowly. ‘Well, my dear, you know it won’t do you any good to be seen talking to me. I think it’s best if you go on.’

‘Of course,’ Joanne said, her cheeks burning.

‘My son gets what he wants,’ Mrs Lefroy said, standing. ‘It was foolish of me to imagine that that would not always be the way.’

‘Will you be . . .’ Joanne said, and she stopped. What was she going to ask the woman – whether she would be OK? What kind of answer did she expect to get? ‘I’m
sorry,’ she said, and took a step back from the table.

‘I’ll get on with things,’ Elizabeth said, and Joanne was struck by how much like her daughter she sounded. ‘And as I’ve said, my dear, I think you should do the
same.’

She nodded again, by way of goodbye, and then she stood and left the courtroom. Joanne packed her notes into her briefcase and followed the same way. By the time she reached the outer hall, she
could see that the press, television cameras and all, had descended on Elizabeth. At the main door, she squeezed past, and stood on the steps below to watch the jostling and the shouting. What she
had forced herself to push out of her mind since earlier that day was now crashing back in. It was demanding her attention. You don’t have anything to worry about, she told herself again. But
she did. She knew she did.

It was while she had been getting ready to leave the office that morning that she had thought of it. She had forgotten it; she had forgotten to watch for it, forgotten to
notice that it had not come. She had been too overwhelmed by too many other things. She had been searching for something in the bottom drawer of her desk. Whatever she was looking for was not in
the drawer, but the box of tampons was there, and when she saw it, she understood with a shock that almost forced her from her standing. It had been too long. It had been, she thought, her mind
reeling backwards over the weeks, almost a whole two months. She took it up, the half-empty box, and stuffed it into her handbag, telling herself that she would need it, that it had just been the
workload and the exhaustion. That, now the Lefroy case was ending, the cramps and the bleeding would come. But at the same time as Imelda called to her to hurry she was counting backwards again,
counting the times, counting the possibilities. They had always used condoms. She had not got around to going back on the pill; she had meant to go to her doctor about it, but she had been too
busy, there had never been the time. And she thought that they had always been careful, but she knew the truth of it was that she could not be sure. There could have been an accident. They might
have been too drunk to notice. There might have been a night when he had taken too much of a risk, staying too long in the luxury of her, not pulling out in time to put the condom on. You were not
supposed to do it – she had known that since she was a teenager – but surely everybody did.

‘You’re making us late, Joanne,’ Imelda snapped, and they were gone.

Rupert was treating them to celebratory drinks in the Shelbourne, and afterwards he was taking them to dinner in the restaurant where the mews house had been. He was in
exuberant humour, and so were Mona and Eoin and Imelda. Joanne watched, laughed when she had to, and drank three glasses of red wine. There was no reason not to, she told herself; there was no
reason why she could not have as much wine as she pleased. Still, after the third glass, she made her excuses; she was sorry, she said, but she had someone to meet, she had already made plans.
Rupert had his arm draped easily over the back of Mona’s chair as she left.