CONNA
IN CRISIS
In 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.
*
Ulick 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 h
is 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.’
He sat back and smiled.
‘You don’t look like a nun?’
She smiled again—that captivating smile.
‘Correct, that’s part of our cover; we’re now the owners of this fine property that we’ll call “The Haven” and we will carry on our work as before.’
‘You will treat local people?’
‘No, no. We will continue to treat our existing patients who come from various parts of Europe.’
‘Won’t that be difficult?’
She smiled agreeably.
‘We have our own executive jet; we will fly in our patients—in rotation—for weekend retreats. Most of them are, shall we say, wealthy and can well afford our services. The rest of the week we will devote to prayer, meditation and perhaps, a little shopping.’ She paused and leaned forward; he was hit by successive waves of that perfume.
‘U-lick, we would like the people here to believe we are going to operate a very exclusive and expensive rest home.’
‘That might work.’
‘It will, U-lick, if you say so; the people here have great respect for you.’
He wondered how she knew that, but couldn’t disagree with it.
‘I think you and your order are entitled to your privacy.’
She smiled again.
‘Thanks U-lick. You must come and visit when we get settled in.’
‘I’d like to do that. In the meantime, I’ll introduce you to the man I’m recommending as your general manager.’ He paused. ‘When are you moving in?’
‘Tonight.’
Ulick opened his file and extracted some documents.
‘Here are your deeds with the list of local suppliers you asked for.’
She handed back the deeds. ‘You keep these for me.’
She stood up. ‘This is a small area, U-lick. If you should see any curious strangers please let me know.’ She smiled again. ‘It’s just a precaution.’
‘Certainly, Contessa.’
‘Please call me Gina.’
He smiled as he escorted her to the front door, where she shook his hand and walked across the road to her limousine. Setanta was looking expectantly at him when he returned to his office. With a bemused expression he put aside his file; if she’s a nun, I’m Finn Mac Cool.
Setanta agreed with that. The nuns in Conna are not like her; maybe Italian nuns are different.
Ulick smiled at him. ‘Let’s go.’
Together, they walked down the Main Street.
*
Ulick read the exciting press reports about the new pilot scheme in which Connemara would participate. Everything, these days, was preceded by a campaign of euphoric publicity: roll up, the good times are coming! He wasn’t unduly impressed; the farmers of Connemara would receive a handsome increase in income on cancellation of the CAP, (the Common Agricultural Policy) as it was called. Would Brussels bearing gifts be an improvement on the Greeks?
He wondered why Connemara was so honored to be chosen as one of ten areas in the USE, where this exciting pilot scheme would be initiated before being extended to the entire community. Frankie Carney didn’t know anything about it.
The ground floor of the new—and only—modern office block on the Main Street in Conna—a Martin Sandys development—was leased to the new tenants; fitted out with state of the art office furniture, phones and banks of computers with Internet access.
Situated two doors from Ulick’s dull looking offices, it was just across the street from Paulo’s well appointed pub. The area director and deputy would be assisted by six staff. A brass plate on the front of the building read: United States of Europe—Local Economic & Social Services.
The small farmers of Connemara—there weren’t any other—were delighted; the miserable dole and the CAP would now be replaced by a decent reliable income. The days of fighting with Brussels over subsidies and grants, which took years to deliver: were gone. The people could now relax: do a bit of hunting and fishing; grow potatoes and vegetables for their own use; keep a few tourists and students during the summer months, spend more time in the local pubs and elsewhere. It would be a whole new and very agreeable way of life.
*
Ulick Joyc sat down to breakfast with his beloved Ella, in the living room of their comfortably furnished modern bungalow. Built on a secluded site on the western side of Conna, high above the river, near the Maam Cross Road—with a small wood to the rear—it was surrounded by well manicured lawns. Ulick wasn’t much of a gardener although he loved to sit outside on the long summer evenings and watch the sun sink over Connemara.
A man of the people, in his late thirties now, he was tall and handsome in a rug
ged fashion, with deep blue eyes and premature tinges of grey hair. He usually dressed, as today, in a black tee shirt over grey slacks with a beige sports jacket. As he would say, he was built for comfort. If scheduled to appear in court, he would dress formally. He was pleased that he wasn’t a candidate for the best dressed man in Hi-Brazil—in this or any other year.
Setanta, sitting at his feet, chewed away on a meaty bone with an occasional glance at his master. He wanted a run in the woods, but Ulick was too busy watching the TV news. The election results were pouring in fast and it was obvious that Frankie Carney was heading for an overall majority. Moxy O’Shea, the cute hoor, had side stepped his defeat by taking a top job in Brussels. Manny Higgins, his successor, had already conceded defeat.
Ulick poured another cup of tea; Setanta looked on with an expression that said what’s keeping you. Ella looked at her watch. A very attractive brunette with deep brown eyes and a refreshing sense of humor, she provided him with tasty morsels from her restaurant. Dressed in a smart black business suit, she would be leaving for work shortly. He liked her too, but she didn’t take him walking and he wasn’t allowed into the restaurant. Why not? He was smarter and a more cultured than some of the yobs she catered for.
She was moody quite a lot lately and he believed he knew why. He liked a peaceful house, but, was conscious of the tension between them. Their love life was good; he knew that. They were perfectly happy, if there is such a thing. If only dogs could talk; he could but no one understood him. It was very simple; Ulick wanted children—Ella didn’t, at least not yet.
He hoped this wouldn’t lead to a split up, although he wanted children around the house too. He could mind them and play with them. It was clear to him that Ulick was smitten with the mysterious Contessa and she with him. But nuns don’t or do they? That’s if she is a nun. The Contessa didn’t look like someone who would take him for a walk either, or buy him an odd bone in the butchers.
Like most households, there was little talk at breakfast, but this morning Ulick sat back and smiled.
‘Frankie will make a great Taoiseach. I must ring and congratulate him.’
Conna in Crisis & The Marriage of Ulick Page 1
