Firefly Summer

  ‘Yes, I hope he’ll have the graciousness to say thank you, Fergus, I’d love to come, rather than deciding he’s going to think about it.’

  ‘I’d love to come, Mr Fergus, thank you very much,’ said Miss Purcell. ‘You see, I didn’t really believe it was true. I didn’t want to say yes too quickly.’

  Fergus found a strange stinging behind his eyes, and wondered was he going soft in the head, or had the whiskey in Ryan’s been drugged.

  Dara dreamed that Kerry could drive and that he had invited her to go to Dublin in his car, and it had broken down, and they had to stay in a wood. They build two beds out of bracken and moss and slept beside each other holding hands.

  None of them would ever forget the day that John Fitzgerald Kennedy came to Ireland. He was so boyish and young, they all said. Imagine him having that huge responsibility, and being in charge of half the earth, in a manner of speaking.

  Fergus met Jimbo Doyle, who said that a van had been arranged on loan from Jack Coyne for a few pals, and he was taking Carrie out of Ryan’s with him. He told Fergus that he had asked her only just in time, because there was a question of Mr O’Neill himself including her in his party as part of the household.

  ‘Would you believe that?’ Jimbo said wonderingly. ‘And Carrie just a maid in the house.’

  ‘She’s not just a maid, she’s your girlfriend. Hasn’t she as much right to go and see Kennedy as anyone?’ Fergus snapped.

  ‘I know she’s my girlfriend, Mr Slattery, but she is the maid in their house too. I mean, that’s her job.’ Jimbo spoke in some bewilderment.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m an ignorant bosthoon.’

  ‘You are not,’ Jimbo said. ‘You’re one of the most educated men for miles round these parts.’

  The solicitor who had invited Fergus to bring some friends with him may have been startled at the young priest and the elderly housekeeper. But then he was a city man to begin with, he probably expected country people to be eccentric. The crowds were shouting and cheering long before the cavalcade even came in view. Two newspaper photographers perched from nearby windows and they could even see a television camera team on the corner. Father Hogan and Miss Purcell waved the Irish and American flags they had been given, and as he saw their great excitement and pleasure, a lump came in Fergus’s throat, and he made himself a promise that he would try to be less selfish. All right, so he didn’t walk over people like that O’Neill did, but on the other hand he didn’t have the same genuine feeling for what would make people happy. Once or twice he had wondered how the Ryans were faring in the unfamiliar posh hotel. But soon the momentum had gathered and taken over, and like everyone else he was leaning out of the window waving, certain that there was a special wave and smile up at them.

  Marian talked a lot about the trip to Dublin. She told everyone in the Rosemarie hair salon that Patrick O’Neill was a simply superb host.

  ‘Has he done much entertaining in that cottage of yours?’ Judy Byrne asked as she waited, thumbing through Rita Walsh’s rather old magazines.

  ‘No, they keep very much to themselves in the lodge, just family, you know.’ Marian sounded much more knowing than she was. She could not believe it possible that a family could live in her grounds and she would know so little of their everyday life. They were perfectly pleasant, if mildly startled when she came to call; they refused all offers of hospitality that she and her father showered on them. Marian had heard that a woman was coming across from New York, a Mrs Fine. There had already been two phone calls to the Grange for her. It was a mystery. Patrick had made no booking; usually he was assiduous about booking well in advance and paying a full rate.

  Who was Mrs Fine?

  She longed to ask did anyone in the salon know, but she hated to reveal her hand.

  She would call at Ryan’s perhaps, and enquire there.

  Marian didn’t even need to do that. She met Grace and Dara as soon as she left Rita Walsh’s door.

  ‘Your hair looks lovely.’ Grace was always so enthusiastic, so willing to praise.

  ‘Thank you, dear. Grace, who is Mrs Fine?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean is she somebody who is a family friend?’

  ‘No, she’s not a family friend.’

  ‘Is she coming over here to Ireland?’

  ‘Not that I know of, Miss Johnson.’

  ‘It’s just that there have been two calls for her, and I hadn’t heard anything. Your father is usually so good about booking people in; I was wondering whether it had slipped his mind . . .’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t have slipped his mind. She can’t be intended to stay in the Grange. They must have got it wrong back in the States.’

  ‘So who is she then, dear?’

  ‘A sort of designer, I think; someone rather old who works with Father.’

  ‘And she and Mr Fine aren’t friends of yours back home?’

  ‘No, I think it’s all a work thing.’

  ‘I see.’ Marian was satisfied.

  Grace linked Dara on towards their raft on the bend of the river.

  ‘I’ll tell you something, because I tell you all my secrets.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’ Dara still felt guilty about the tunnel.

  ‘Well, I will. The woman that Marian’s rabbiting on about, she’s the woman I was telling you about. The one that was meant to be interested in Father. You know the things people said.’

  ‘Oh heavens.’ Dara was worried for her friend.

  ‘No, it couldn’t be anything. I know that now. Father isn’t interested in women and all that sort of thing. It’s too late, and he’s only interested in being part of things here.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right then.’ Dara was relieved that there were no more storm clouds on the horizon.

  ‘Kerry, Mrs Fine’s coming.’

  ‘She’s not. He wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘I thought I’d tell you now, so that you wouldn’t make a scene.’

  ‘He can’t mean to bring her here.’ Kerry looked round the lodge in dismay.

  ‘No, not here, I mean to Mountfern.’

  ‘Is she staying in the Grange?’

  ‘No, or Marian knows nothing about it, if she is.’

  ‘It’s revolting.’ Kerry was walking around, agitated.

  ‘Please don’t make a scene. We’ve been over this a hundred times. We’ve said it can’t be true. Not all this time, not at their age.’

  ‘Look at what we hear about the people going to the Rosemarie hair salon, they must be about a hundred.’

  ‘But not Father!’

  ‘Why ever not? He’s just the same.’

  ‘I’ll ask him if you like. Let me ask him.’ Grace was anxious to avoid what would happen if Kerry asked.

  ‘No, don’t ask him. Don’t sink to asking him. If she comes to this place then he’ll have to explain her, let him explain her himself without us asking.’ Kerry’s lip was curled in disapproval.

  Papers Flynn called to Dr White’s surgery, as if he were the most regular visitor there, coming for prescriptions and patent medicines. Mrs White was surprised to see him at the surgery door; his usual approach was to the kitchen door in search of cardboard, when he would not be averse to a cup of tea.

  Then she saw he had a gigantic bump on his forehead and a cut all round it.

  ‘Oh, Papers, have you been in the wars?’ she asked, concerned for the gentle old man whose wits were long gone.

  ‘I don’t know what happened, Mam, but I was sitting there minding my own business in the dump near the brothers’ school and I saw Miss Barry from the presbytery, who often gives me a cup of tea. Anyway she threw this bag of bottles in, and she didn’t look at all to see if there was anyone there, and it’s opened my head. I can’t imagine what came into her.’

  Mrs White sighed. It was about time for one of Miss Barry’s batters. But really and truly she was getting quite dangerous, if she had nearly laid out Papers. Still she could hardly
be faulted for thinking that a rubbish dump might be free of people sitting on the debris having their tea. Mountfern was a very mad place, Mrs White often told her husband, on the frequent occasions when she was trying to encourage him to find a practice somewhere with a bit more life in it.

  Jimbo Doyle put his head round the door of Leonard’s paper shop.

  ‘Tommy, do us a favour.’

  ‘What is it, Jimbo?’ Tommy looked round to see if his father was watching. His father had accused Jimbo of reading every paper in the shop and buying none of them; it had been highly embarrassing.

  ‘Look up the paper and tell me what’s on in the Slieve Sunset tonight.’

  ‘What’s on there? Is it turned into a cinema?’

  ‘No, smartie, they have different kinds of talent contests. I wanted to know about the Country and Western one. If it’s tonight I might have a go, get Carrie out there, have a real night.’

  ‘I’ll look it up for you.’ Tommy was good-natured. It wouldn’t cross his mind that Jimbo should be buying a paper.

  ‘Ah there you are, Jimbo,’ his father cried suddenly. ‘Come to mend your ways and buy a paper at last, have you?’

  Jimbo was very hard to insult.

  ‘Not a chance of it, Mr Leonard, just called in to say hallo to your fine son here. We were having a bit of a chat about matters musical.’

  Tommy loved this; his eye had been racing down the advertisements in the local paper and found the appropriate listing.

  ‘Yes, Dad, Jimbo and I were just talking about these talent contests. There’s a very interesting one on tonight out in the Slieve Sunset, tonight at eight o’clock sharp, it says, Jimbo, and it’s Special Nashville Nite, spelled N-I-T-E, with fun for one ’n’ all.’

  ‘Isn’t it terrible to think that it was for the likes of this the republic was born,’ sighed Mr Leonard. ‘For people who spell night, NITE. For halfwits who name their hotels half in one language and half in another and who encourage louts to get notions, togging themselves up in fancy dress as cowboys.’

  Jimbo thought Mr Leonard must be talking about some loutish element which he imagined patronised the Slieve Sunset.

  ‘No, it’s a very nice crowd you’d get out there,’ he explained. ‘They have all kinds of restrictions, and there’s no bad language of any kind allowed near the tables. The bar is different, but once you get near the tables where the ladies sit, it’s out you go if a curse word is heard. You’d be impressed by it, Mr Leonard, I tell you.’

  ‘I would,’ said Jack Leonard. ‘Oh I know I would.’

  ‘I’m taking Grace into town, she wants to get a couple of things to wear. Would you like to come for the trip?’ Marian asked Kerry.

  She loved this motherly role with Grace and thought she could extend it to the whole family.

  ‘No thank you, Miss Johnson, I’m off for a cycle.’

  ‘Will you be back for lunch, did you tell Miss Hayes?’ Grace asked him.

  ‘Oh, I’ve explained to her. I’ll be gone all day. I’m going to look at that ruined abbey down the river. She’s making me some sandwiches.’

  Grace knew that Kitty Daly was taking a picnic off on her bike too that day. She knew also that Kerry was keeping well out of Father’s way. He was very annoyed to hear that Mrs Fine might be coming to Mountfern.

  Rachel Fine looked at the Slieve Sunset Hotel in disbelief. It was quite bad enough of Patrick to say they couldn’t stay in the same hotel for discretion . . . but to put her up in this dump was inexcusable. The Grange was a country house, covered in Virginia creeper, the Grange had horses in stables. It had a decanter of sherry to which the guests helped themselves before dinner. It had a lady with a plummy voice called Marian Johnson who was the daughter of the house and who ran the place very well. So what was Rachel doing in this fleapit? It was such a low-grade motel, it was definitely an insult.

  She pulled off her long cream gloves and sat on the bed to inspect the room. There was no chair to sit on. Hideous drapes in huge sunbursts clashing with a carpet of equally hideous, but non-toning, shades. The light switch was not even beside the bed. There was no bathroom, you could share a tub or shower room with Lord knew how many people. A handbasin with a dripping faucet, a small uneven-looking wardrobe as an excuse for a closet. Four rattling wire coat hangers inside.

  Rachel’s head was aching. She had flown from New York to Shannon. She had rented a car on Patrick’s suggestion. He had been hard to pin down on the telephone, but it was something to do with wanting her to see a bit of the country. Big clown. She could still see the countryside if he had come to meet her.

  And what was all this need for discretion, here of all places? Here nobody knew them. It could be like that one week they had spent in Mexico where they could check into any hotel as man and wife, where they could hold hands at dinner. Who in Ireland would know or care that they stayed in the same hotel? Why, there was even his daughter as chaperone.

  Tired and angry, Rachel began to unpack. She smoothed out her best silk suit; she had expected to hang it over a tub of steaming, scented water when she arrived, but that was not on. She looked at her face in the mirror. She looked every day of forty-eight and a few more days as well. She could kill him. But she wouldn’t. She hadn’t waited this long, and put up with so much already, to blow the whole thing in a dump in a one-horse town in a second-rate country.

  Patrick was locked in a never-ending argument with architects and structural engineers all morning. He had said goodbye to Kerry the previous night, glad that the boy would be gone before Rachel arrived. He hadn’t even said anything about her coming. With Grace there was no problem; the child had no idea of any relationship, and anyway she was so taken up with the Ryan twins she had no time for anyone else.

  It was a warm day and the architects were being excessively stubborn; the whole planning could be negated even at this stage, they insisted, if he wouldn’t tell them where he had finally decided to place the entrance.

  ‘I’ll tell you any goddamn place to get the show on the road, but we can change it again later, that’s the deal,’ Patrick said.

  That was not the deal, apparently. It was very wearing. Brian Doyle had been no help either.

  ‘There’s only two places you can put the entrance, in the name of God, Mr O’Neill,’ he shouted, exasperated. ‘Where it is, where it was always meant to be. Or where the Yank architects say, which is along that sort of overgrown towpath, which will cost you another thousand pounds just to cut back the brambles. All you’ve got to say is one or the other.’

  None of them had seen what his son had seen, that the best and indeed the only place to have an imposing entrance, was from the small piece of ground where Ryan’s Licensed Premises stood at this very moment.

  Patrick decided to end the meeting. Kerry had left. Rachel was arriving. Marian was billing and cooing about dinner for the two of them that evening, when he most certainly would not be free. But most important of all, he realised, he had to talk to the Ryans. He had always despised other businessmen who pussyfooted about. He was going to ask those people straight away if there was any chance that they would consider selling. It was tempting to let other people do the dirty work, ask the questions that were almost impossible to ask. But Patrick O’Neill knew that in almost every aspect of life, if you want to do something it’s best to do it yourself. If he did it quickly he might even have the conversation finished one way or another before lunch. Then he’d hightail it up to the Slieve Sunset and pray that Rachel wasn’t spitting blood once she had seen the style he had relegated her to for her visit.

  Miss Purcell had been in a very good humour since the trip to Dublin. She had been treated as the highest in the land with a window seat at which the young president looked up and waved directly. There had been tea and sandwiches, and Father Hogan had been a delightful companion for the day. Mr Fergus was so odd of course, and put people off by his funny manner, but there was no doubt he had a heart of gold. She had ironed his shirts l
ovingly for him; she hoped he would look very well in this nice hotel he was going to, and people would admire him. She hoped he would meet a nice class of person, and have a good social life. He refused to play bridge, and he was on his own far too much. Miss Purcell didn’t really want to see a wife for Mr Fergus – that would mean too many changes – but she would like him to have more people of his own class and education to talk to in the evenings. He had taken to long walks, and heavy pints in Ryan’s Licensed Premises with farm labourers.

  She was glad of the thought of two weeks on her own. She could spring-clean the house properly. It would be very quiet, of couse, without Mr Fergus and Kate Ryan and the clients trooping in and out. But the Lord knew the man was entitled to his two weeks off, and she went out on the doorstep to examine the skies, hoping for good weather for the young master on his holidays.

  At that very moment a small car drew up and a very well-dressed woman jumped out.

  ‘Pardon me, but seeing that you live here, can I ask you where I should find Mr Patrick O’Neill who is doing major building works in these parts?’

  Miss Purcell was delighted, an American lady just arrived in town. What a chance to meet her at once, just because she had gone to look at the weather.

  ‘Of course I can tell you,’ she said. ‘You turn right at the big bridge you see here before you, then go along River Road. Park your car outside the public house called Ryan’s and cross a footbridge. It’s a bit of a walk but that’s the site.’

  ‘That’s where the old Fernscourt was . . .’ the American lady said.

  ‘The very place,’ Miss Purcell said. ‘Mr O’Neill’s building a fine new hotel there, they tell me.’

  ‘So I walk over the footbridge and it’s a fair way?’ The woman looked down at her very elegant high-heeled shoes. ‘Well, I guess I’m going to have to get used to different ways.’

  Miss Purcell was bursting with assistance.

  ‘Seeing you have the motor car with you, you could always go back the way you came up to the main road, along a bit and then you’d see a rough sort of entrance, and a boreen where there are lorries and JCBs and the like. They have all kinds of signs telling people to beware of this and beware of that, so you should blow your horn at them all the time to let them know you’re coming.’