“Heavens above,” Tim cried, “what worse calamity than that could occur?”
“The one that did occur. They didn’t all die. Over a million of those starving Irish tinkers escaped to my adopted country, the United States.”
“Thank God,” Tim murmured devoutly.
“Yes, you can thank your God. They very nearly ruined America. They bred and multiplied and infested the whole continent, saturating it with crime, drunkenness, illegal corn liquor, bank robbery, murder, prostitution, syphilis, mob rule, crooked politics and Roman Catholic Popery.”
“Well, the Lord be praised,” gasped Tim, staggered by the violence and suddenness of this outburst.
“Adultery, salacious dancing, blackmail, drug peddling, pimping, organising brothels, consorting with niggers and getting absolution for all their crimes from Roman Catholic priests. . . .”
Tim frowned.
“Well, a lot of other foreigners emigrated to the States,” he said. “Germans, Italians, Jewmen . . . even those Dutchmen in baggy trousers.”
“People from the European mainland are princes compared with the dirty Irish.”
“Oh, I say,” Tim cried.
He was angry but his feeling of dismay and being at a loss for a devastating answer was greater. How could he deal with this tartar? Was she off her head?
She unexpectedly returned to the chair at the table and plopped down. She drained the remnant in her glass.
“However,” she said, “I don’t expect you to understand these matters or know how serious they are. You were never in the United States.”
Tim coloured deeply and struck his chair-arm.
“Madam, neither was Saint Patrick.”
She opened her bag, produced American cigarettes and lit one.
“I will give you an outline,” she said, “of the special business that brings me here. The plan will take considerable time to carry out, and I expect your co-operation and assistance. The object is to protect the United States from the Irish menace. The plan will be very costly but I have so much money from Texas oil at my disposal that I fear no difficulty on that score. My first step will be to buy and nominally take over all Irish agricultural land.”
Tim raised his eyebrows, looking sour.
“That would be the highroad to trouble in this country,” he said. “That famine was partly due to rackrenting and absentee landlordism. The people formed an organisation known as the Land League. One man they took action against was Captain Boycott. That’s where the word boycott comes from.”
But MacPherson, unenlightened, pulled at her cigarette thoughtfully.
“Don’t imagine for a moment, Hartigan,” she said in her hard voice, “that I intend to get myself embroiled in Irish politics. If I had any taste in that direction, I would not have to leave America to indulge it. I will buy the land and then let it back to the tenants at a nominal rent. A rent of perhaps a shilling a year.”
“A shilling a year an acre?”
“No. A shilling a year for every holding no matter what the size.”
“Well, holy Saint Paul,” Tim muttered in wonder, “that would make you out to be the soul of generosity altogether, an angel in disguise from the Garden of Eden.”
MacPherson gave a bleak smile.
“There will be one condition, a strict condition. They will not be allowed to grow potatoes.”
“But what are the unfortunate people to live on?”
“What they’ve always lived on. Starch.”
Tim puckered his cheeks in a swift inaudible intake of breath. What a strange spectre of a woman this was, to be sure! Where would her equal be found in the broad wideness of the world?
“There is one thing even more productive of starch than the potato,” she went on. “And that is sago.”
“What? Sago?”
“Yes—sago. Do you know what sago is, Hartigan?”
Tim frowned, ransacking his untidy mind.
“Well . . . sago . . . is a sort of pudding, full of small little balls . . . like tapioca. I suppose it’s a cereal, the same as rice. And maybe it is subject to its own diseases, like the spud . . . ?”
Again MacPherson’s wintry smile came.
“Sago,” she said with a minute sort of civility, “is not like tapioca, is not a grain, and will stay free of all disease if its growth is watched. Sago comes from a tree, and the sago tree takes between 15 and 20 years to mature before it can yield its copious, nourishing, lovely bounty.”
Tim stared at his boots. The proposition itself was extraordinary, the time complication incredible.
“I see,” he said untruthfully.
“The plan is big,” MacPherson conceded reasonably, “but in essence reasonable and simple.”
“All the same,” Tim ventured, “I think you would have to see the Government about it.”
“Well, you are smart,” MacPherson said, almost pleasantly. “That has already been largely taken care of. The American Ambassador in this country has had his instructions. He will shortly inform the Government here that the immigration of Irish nationals to the United States will be prohibited until the cultivation of potatoes in this country is totally banned.”
Tim suspected he could detect faint suffusion of perspiration about his brow. He was upset by the velocity of coming events, unless the lady was trying to be funny.
“Well now,” he said at last, “suppose you get all this land as you say, and have the sowing of potatoes declared a crime—”
“Then,” MacPherson interrupted, “there never again will be a potato famine, and never will there be another invasion of the United States by the superstitious thieving Irish.”
“Yes, I know. But you said it takes a sago tree up to twenty years to be any use. What in the name of God are the people to live on during that long time?”
Again came the smile, small but icy.
“Sago,” she said.
Tim Hartigan groaned.
“I know I’m stupid but I don’t understand.”
“Of course I foresaw the question of that gap and have, of course, taken the necessary steps. Beginning in about eight months, my fleet of new sago tankers will ply between Irish ports and Borneo. There are boundless sago reserves, all over the East Indies—in Sumatra, Java, Malacca, Siam and even in South America the cabbage palm is very valuable for sago. Soon you will see sago depots all over this country.”
Tim nodded, but frowning.
“Suppose the people just don’t like sago, like me?”
A very low, unmusical laugh escaped from MacPherson.
“If they prefer starvation they are welcome.”
“Well, how will you get this sago plantation going?”
“Sago trees will grow anywhere, and two freighters loaded with shoots will arrive shortly. A simple Bill in your Parliament expropriating the small farmers and peasants can be passed quickly, with a guarantee that there will be no evictions, or at least very few. You are a young man, Hartigan. You will probably live to see your native land covered with pathless sago forests, a glorious sight and itself a guarantee of American health, liberty, and social cleanliness.”
She stood up with some suggestion of conclusion.
“Well, I must get myself fixed up here,” she said. “Hartigan, will you bring in my horse?”
Tim turned pale. He had already seen from his narrow window that a narrow horsebox was fastened to the rear of the Packard car and had been wondering about it. Surely it must be a pony?
“To the stables, do you mean?” he asked.
“No, in here. I always like to have my horse near the fire.”
Tim got up silently and went out. There seemed to be no limit to this woman’s excesses. That night or the following day he would have to get a cable off to Ned Hoolihan for confirmation of these mouthfuls and occurrences, and the assertion that this woman was in fact his wife. He could not have himself made a fool of, or the house destroyed by a lunatic.
A sliding iron vertical b
ar with bolt at the back of the horsebox was quickly undone and, as the doors opened, Tim’s eyes encountered a number of tall, round, smooth, wooden poles, apparently in some way fastened together.
“A clothes-horse by the holy Peter,” he muttered.
He blessed himself, pulled out the apparatus, half-shouldered it and staggered towards the house. In the kitchen he pulled it apart so that it stood up.
“That’s a good man,” said MacPherson in genuine approval.
“I must tell you,” said Tim, collapsing to his chair, “that I had a letter from Mr. Hoolihan notifying me of your approaching visit and asking me to have his own quarters upstairs made ready for your occupation. I’ve done that. Your bed is ready and there’s a fire in your bedroom. Do you like sausages for your breakfast?”
“Certainly not. My usual breakfast is oaten porridge followed by sago and cream, and with brown bread and country butter.”
Tim managed to nod amiably.
“Well,” he smiled, “this place we are in is really the kitchen, and more or less where I live myself. Now, this horse. Shall I bring it up to your own fire?”
MacPherson’s eyes wandered about the floor in thought.
“Em, I’m not sure. Leave it here for tonight. Get my travelling bag from my car and then show me to my . . . my flat. I’ll give you a bag of sago.”
Tim Hartigan did as he was bid. His new charge made no comment at all on Ned Hoolihan’s opulent suite but made straight for the lavatory, suggesting to Tim that she had been told where it and everything else was. He scratched his head and stumbled down the stairs, clutching a bag of sago.
“Must get on to Sarsfield as soon as absolutely possible,” he whispered to himself. “Else I’m absolutely shagged.”
3
“Well, I’m sorry for your trouble, Tim.”
Sarsfield Slattery was standing with his backside outwardly poised towards a great log fire, his feet on a rug of thin brown ropes, knitted by himself. He was of smallish structure, thin, with moppy fair hair; sharp, perky features were lit up with narrow, navy-blue eyes, and his peculiar way of speaking with jerky accent and intonation was permanent evidence that he had been born in the northern part of Ireland and was to that extent a sort of disguise, for he had been born in Chicago. The air he carried with him, whether he liked it or not, was one of ineffable cuteness and circumspection. Strangers knew that they had to be very wary with Sarsfield.
It was noon on the rainy morrow. Tim Hartigan lolled sadly in a cane chair, having given Sarsfield a full account of Crawford MacPherson’s arrival the preceding day, and what she had said. The recital made things appear much worse even than they had been and, indeed, a lorry had arrived that morning with bags and parcels for the lady, contents undisclosed.
“Weemen,” Sarsfield added, “can be wee reptiles, do you know.”
Tim had just lit his pipe and looked thoughtful.
“I’m not a windy sort of fellow as you know, Sarsfield,” he said, “but I don’t like the idea of being by myself with her in that house. God knows what she’d turn around and do.”
“You can lock the kitchen at night, can’t you?”
“At night? Couldn’t she get funny ideas during the day?”
“What sort of funny ideas?”
“Couldn’t she walk down the stairs without a stitch on her?”
“Ah, I wouldn’t say she’s that sort.”
“Or write and tell Ned that I came up with her tray in the evening and me ballock-naked?”
“Ned wouldn’t swally that sort of story,” Sarsfield said, grimacing as he pulled at his ear. He paused.
“Tell you the truth, I think Ned must have been floothered when he married that one, and then shipped her out of the States as soon as he could to get shut of her. Too bad that you are left holding the baby.”
“I see,” Tim replied gloomily. “And what do you think of this sago business?”
“It’s all balls.”
“That’s just what I think, too. But listen here, Sarsfield, if she does get a bit cracked—a bit more cracked than she is—where am I? I have no witness. Now, if she agreed to live here . . . instead?”
Sarsfield’s answering look was piercing.
“Holy God, isn’t a married woman entitled to live in her husband’s home?”
Tim coloured a little.
“I suppose so. I’ve no proof that she’s his wife.”
“Hasn’t she got a ring? What takes me to the fair is your brave notion of unloading her on this house. Haven’t we enough trouble here? If you have no thought for me, you would be foolish to take anything for granted about my lord and master, Doctor the Honourable Eustace Baggeley.”
“Oh, I know I’d have to consult the Doctor. How is he, by the way?”
“He’s happier than ever, which means he’s worse. He’s taking his doses twice a day now. He is talking about converting this castle into a luxury hotel, and even having a casino here. The tourist trade, you know. He thinks the Americans are very attractive people because, like himself, they all seem to have a lot of money. Not that they spend it, if you ask me.”
Tim frowned a little, clutching at a wisp of hope.
“Is that so? Faith and he might take an interest in Mrs. MacPherson. Why not? She’s the wife of one of his best friends and she says she’s absolutely stinking and crawling with money.”
“Thank goodness they are very good friends,” Sarsfield said acidly. “That’s a very good reason why the Doctor should keep very far away from that lady.”
“Oh, I don’t know. The Doctor’s not a lady’s man, if that’s what you mean. What the hell is that hammering, Sarsfield?”
Sharp noises, somewhat muffled but loud enough, were heard from the upper intestines of the Castle.
“Ah, that? That’s Billy Colum, the handyman. The Doctor gave him orders to put up a framework of timber all around the walls of the big return-lounge, and cover it all over with teak panelling. He’s the job nearly finished, and the lounge ruined. I think that’s the first stage in the hotel-casino project.”
“Good Lord, Sarsfield.”
“Aye. The Doc will destroy himself pumping that stuff into his arm. And I think he gives Billy Colum an odd dart now and again.”
“Could I see the Doctor? I think I should tell him about Mrs. Ned. You can be sure she’s bound to know of him, Sarsfield. I’d better mark his card.”
“Whatever you say, Tim. As far as I know he’s above in the library. You know the way. Off you go.”
Tim did know the way but paused at the lounge to observe Billy at his extraordinary job. A void about four feet wide remained in a large long apartment without the pale shiny panelling already in place from floor to ceiling, built on a heavy timber framework about a foot from the original ornate walls.
“That’s a great feat of intricate construction, Billy,” Tim said.
Billy Colum, a wizened, wild-eyed little man, looked about him as if seeing his handiwork for the first time.
“Do you know, Tim,” he said in his low hoarse voice, “I think the poor Doc is going a bit batty at last. As well as this how-are-ya, he told me to keep an eye out for any jewels that might be knocking about the Castle. He says they can be picked up anywhere.”
“Jewels?”
“Jewels. Big ones.”
“Does he ever give yourself any medical treatment?”
“Certainly he does. My rheumatism. He gives me a little painkiller in the arm here. Mind you, he’s a good doctor behind it all. How could I lift my arm to use a hammer without him?”
Tim smiled as he moved on.
“A casino will be a great improvement in this part of the world,” he remarked.
4
The library at Sarawad Castle wore its name sombrely but correctly. A noble, elongated, high-ceilinged room, it had lofty windows which looked strangely narrow, along the right hand, with a single one at the far end corresponding with the door—all hung with dark red curtains, and on
those three sides the dark spines of books rose on shelf after shelf from the floor to the roof. In the middle of the fourth wall was a great mantelpiece of green-veined black marble, with brass fire-dogs at the hearth, and a conflagration of steam coal and logs blazing in the grate. Some chairs and other small furniture stood near the fire and, somewhat removed from it in the upper half of the room, was a wide, low distinguished desk. Between it and the fire was a leather armchair in which sprawled elegantly Doctor the Hon. Eustace Baggeley.
The Doctor was quite stout, with ample black hair plastered down, and a middle parting over his broad head. His clean-shaven fleshy features were rude and genial, and his general air was of that kind of youthfulness which warns the perceptive that the man wearing it cannot be as young as he appears. His dress was seen to be fastidious and expensive as he rose to greet Tim Hartigan.
“My dear boy,” his low cultured voice said as he stood up with his hand out, “do please come in and sit down. Well, well, Tim, and how are we?”
Tim smiled, shook hands and sat down.
“I’m very well indeed, Doctor. Nothing to complain about that I can think of.”
“That’s the stuff. All at cookhouse orders, as we used to say in my Army days. And how is Master Cornelius?”
“Oh, in grand form, Doctor. Still at all-out war with all the rats in the parish.”
“Excellent.”
“I was over seeing Sarsfield, Doctor, and I thought I’d come up here and have a little chat about a few things. . . .”
“I am delighted that you did, dear boy. Tell me this. Have you had any recurrence of that fibrositic visitation in the region of the groin?”
“No indeed. No sign of that for months.”
“I am glad. Let me know at once if there should be any more trouble. I have a new embrocation here, administered subcutaneously, a therapeutic truly miraculous straight from Germany.”
Tim spread his hand in polite disclaim.
“Thank God I have no need for anything, Doctor.”
“Too rash an asseveration,” said Doctor the Hon. Baggeley, rising and going to a sideboard in the dim recess of the far corner.
Short Fiction of Flann O'Brien (Irish Literature) Page 10
