Conna in Crisis & The Marriage of Ulick

by James Kilcullen

  ‘There will be some party tonight; I have nothing to wear and I’ll have to get my hair done,’ she complained.

  He’d heard that before.

  ‘Paulo will be coming.’ he paused. ‘I wonder if I can persuade Ozzy to come. He doesn’t like these big functions; he’ll probably join us in Paulo’s later.’

  She grinned. ‘Frankie will need your help in forming a cabinet.’

  ‘He’s disappointed that Moxy is gone; he was looking forward to rubbing his nose in it.’

  ‘Moxy was smart enough to leave Helen Moore behind him.’

  ‘I thought that was her decision.’

  She smiled. ‘That’s what you were meant to think.’ She paused. ‘Is Toby Moore going to take the job at the Haven?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She rose. ‘I’d best be off; Jane isn’t in today.’ She paused and looked at Setanta. ‘I know what you’re looking for.’

  She kissed Ulick lightly on the cheek, patted Setanta’s head and departed for her thriving restaurant and bakery in the centre of town. Setanta fixed his gaze firmly on his master who finally got the message.

  He rose from the table and smiled. ‘I’ll take you for a run in the woods before I go to the office.’

  Setanta bared his teeth in what—to him—was a smile.

  *

  Ella was conscious of the euphoric atmosphere in the town this morning as she walked up the main street; the sun was shining; people stepped lightly, smiled broadly at the news of the forthcoming change of government. Frankie Carney, a widower, the senior TG for Mayo, lived in Louisburg with his younger blonde partner, Lisa Hyland, a local solicitor and a widow; his two sons emigrated to Australia after qualifying as doctors at Galway University.

  70 now, Frankie was a stocky, strongly built, follicly challenged (whatever that means) farmer with broad features and steel grey eyes. A founder member of the new state, with Ulick, he was a rarity for a politician; quick witted, he belied his years, and although he had mellowed a little, it would be a mistake to take him for granted. I’m a farmer, he always said and I dress like a farmer; I don’t wear hobnailed boots to the Teac and you can guess why.

  The head office of the National Party was in Conna, going back to the days when it was the head quarters of the new provisional government. There would be a great open air victory parade, addressed by Frankie; afterwards Ella and her staff would have the honor of serving dinner to the new Taoiseach, his guests and his newly elected TG’s. Then, Frankie would announce the names of his new cabinet; a big departure from accepted parliamentary procedure, but perfectly normal in the state of Hi-Brazil.

  *

  Connemara’s curiosity had reached a new high since the Contessa and her friends moved into the former hotel now renamed “The Haven.” She came into town twice a week, driving her top of the range Mercedes, dressed in a style normally only seen on catwalks. Her messages collected, she usually made a courtesy call on Ulick and, occasionally, joined him for a drink in Paulo’s. Nan didn’t like this; Ella was her niece.

  Paulo made a weekly delivery of drinks—including some very exotic ones—to the Haven, but resolutely refused to disclose any information about these visits. He didn’t tell anyone, except Nan, that all of the people there were young attractive looking ladies; he didn’t see any men. They were very friendly, even offered him coffee. The other members of the household didn’t visit the town; they sometimes flew out from Clifden on the executive jet.

  Clifden airport is located a short distance from the bog where on 15 June 1919, after a flight of 16 hours and 27 minutes, John Alcock and Arthur Whitten-Brown, completed the first Trans Atlantic flight. John Alcock died in an air crash six months later; his colleague in 1948.

  A routine was established right from the start; every Friday evening at eight o’clock the executive jet landed and parked at the end of the runway; a passenger, with head covered by a light rug, alighted and was led to the waiting Mercedes. There were those around Clifden and other points east of it, getting neck massage from trying to identify these passengers; to no avail, the car windows were blacked out. On Sunday evening, the visitors were returned to the jet, which departed without delay.

  *

  Toby Moore arrived at Ulick’s office at eleven. A former sports star, he was a giant of a man. He usually dressed in navy overalls and an old red shirt; today, as instructed, he sported his best black suit, white shirt and green tie. Having visited his barber for the first time in six months, he looked younger than his 32 odd years. Lean and fit, with humorous grey eyes, he was one big ludramon.

  Toby was famous for being the Folklore Commissioner for County Galway and, according to himself, was in regular contact with the Little People of Rath Pallas. He used also have a successful bunny rabbit breeding business; as he said himself—he made shag all out of either of them.

  A happy and contented Connemara man none the less, he married the beautiful Sally Martin, the ladies hairdresser in Meagerly, two years back. A year later, Sally died in a road accident. Toby was inconsolable; he still hadn’t recovered fully. Ulick felt he needed to get him involved doing something useful instead of sitting moping in that big old house up the road from Meagerly.

  He put the big man sitting down and inspected him while Maura served the coffee; she looked him over carefully. Could this be the Toby Moore they all knew and loved? She wasn’t the only young woman—there were several older ones as well—to pine for Toby Mor, as they called him. Ulick smiled, satisfied that Toby would pass.

  In strict confidence, Ulick outlined the requirements of the job at the Haven; Toby had to know the truth—or at least the official version of it—if he was going to work there. He put down his coffee cup and sat back.

  ‘So, I’m going to be nanny to a house full of virgins.’ He didn’t sound very excited at the prospect.

  Ulick smiled to himself as he got up. ‘Come on, let’s go and introduce you to your future employer.’

  *

  Ulick knew he was going to enjoy this. He drove his old Mercedes out through Screbe and took the long road for Roundstone. He stopped the car at the entrance to the Haven. In the distance they could see the tall three storey complex through a gap in the trees. In the foreground the lawns were tastefully laid out with beds of Chrysanthemums at intervals along the drive. Ulick left the car and pushed the electronic button; when he identified himself the big gates swung open. He resumed his seat and drove up to the front entrance.

  They alighted and approached the ornate glass panelled mahogany front door where a darkish very attractive looking young lady was standing, waiting to greet them. She was sporting a low cut yellow dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Toby’s eyes opened wide—Ulick smiled.

  ‘Welcome, Mr. Joyc,’ her big brown eyes sparked.

  He smiled. ‘Hi Alisa, we’re here to see the Contessa.’

  He nodded to Toby. ‘This is Toby Moore.’

  ‘Welcome, Mr. Toby.’ She looked up at Toby and her eyes sparkled even more.

  She grinned up at Ulick. ‘You must call me Ali.’

  ‘Certainly,’ he agreed smiling.

  She led the way down a long mahogany panelled hallway decorated with marble statues—mostly Italian—and some of the world’s most famous paintings. Ulick, who was no expert, recognised “The Mona Lisa” and “Guernico.” Could they be originals? The stained teak floors were covered with deep Persian beige rugs; the atmosphere one of peace and tranquility. Some haven, Ulick thought. Some Ali, Toby thought.

  Ali led them into an ornate lounge where glass panelled doors provided an excellent view of the harbor. The Contessa, who was sitting behind an antique desk, rose and came forward.

  ‘U-lick,’ she greeted him like a long lost friend. ‘How good of you to visit.’

  She turned to Ali. ‘Will you fetch the coffee?’

  She smiled and departed.

  The Contessa looked lovely in a mauve flowing silk dress.

  Ul
ick almost bowed. ‘Gina, I would like to introduce Toby Moore; I’m happy to recommend him for the position of general manager of your estate.’

  She smiled at Toby and shook his hand.

  ‘Please sit down gentlemen.’

  She resumed her seat behind the desk and consulted her notes.

  ‘Mr. Moore, your principal duty will be to supervise our gardeners; they are not to enter the house under any circumstances. They have their own service shed inside the rear gate. You will have access to the entire estate and I will provide you with a car; you will need it to drive the ladies when necessary and collect messages in Conna or Galway.’

  She stopped and looked at him.

  ‘Is that satisfactory?’

  ‘It is Contessa, but please call me Toby.’

  ‘Very well, To-by,’ she continued, ‘Your monthly salary will be 4,000 euro; your working week Monday to Friday. You will cease work at 12 noon on Fridays and be entitled to one month’s vacation per year.’

  Toby smiled. ‘That will be most acceptable, Contessa.’

  ‘To-by, you must call me Gina; we’re very informal here.’

  The coffee was served. Toby’s bewildered expression was that of one who wondered if this might be heaven!

  ‘Gina,’ Ulick asked smiling, ‘Will you need Toby to do your airport runs?’

  She smiled—that smile again.

  ‘No, U-lick, we do those ourselves. To-by is entitled to his weekends off.’ She paused and handed Toby a set of keys. ‘Take the Mercedes in the garage beside the swimming pool and be sure to charge up all expenses to the house.’

  ‘Thank you, Gina,’ he grinned broadly.

  She rose.

  ‘Now, my friends, I’ll introduce you to my assistant, Olga Bartok; she’s French, her parents were Russian emigrants. I’m going away for the next few weeks; she’ll be in charge.’

  She picked up the phone, spoke briefly and smiled at Ulick. She fancies him, Toby thought. He took a deep breath when Olga entered the room; a tall shapely brunette with beautiful fair skin and big grey eyes. She was dressed casually in a tight fitting white blouse and tailored grey slacks. She shook hands and smiled seductively at them; Oh, Ulick thought, that silky accent is like a purring cat.

  Gina saw them to the door. Before Toby left to collect his car, he turned to Ulick and grinned. ‘I could get to like this job.’

  *

  The great day finally dawned, when the Hi-Brazil national band led the parade in the Galway road, followed by a cavalcade of cars—led by Moxy O’Shea’s Mercedes, supplied by Brussels, complete with driver and he wearing a peaked cap—to be greeted by the humble people of Connemara. The TV cameras rolled. This was Moxy’s day; the Taoiseach, Frankie Carney, wasn’t even invited to attend this momentous event.

  Standing, with Ozzy, at the back of the crowd, Ulick watched Moxy leave his official car, smiling graciously at the assembled multitude. Accompanied by the management and staff of the new agency, he walked to the entrance of the new offices where he was handed a megaphone. A very happy man was Moxy: this new agency would fit in well with his plans. He’d show these bastards; how dare they throw his party out of office.

  He addressed the crowd. ‘Good people of Connemara, you have no idea how much pleasure it gives me, as Commissioner for Trade and Agriculture, to officially open the USE local Economic and Social Services office for this area. It will bring about a wonderful transformation in your lives, securing, as it will, your financial and social future.’

  The people applauded this wonderful news.

  Moxy paused and turned to the low sized man standing beside him.

  ‘Before officially launching this innovative initiative, let me introduce to you its Director, Mr. Everard Bur O’Crat.’

  The crowd cheered again while the squat, bald, middle aged, serious looking man took the megaphone. Immaculately dressed in a grey suit with a white shirt and black tie, he showed no signs of humour and spoke through tight lips.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, we will endeavour to fulfil our duties fairly and efficiently as laid down by the Council in Brussels.’

  He paused and deferred to a frumpish, blonde lady, whose appearance was not improved by a somewhat dour expression; she was dressed in a dark blue business suit at least two sizes too small for her.

  ‘This is my deputy, Madame Anna Assnholfden. We will commence business at nine o’clock tomorrow.’

  Moxy took back the megaphone, and inserted the key in the lock of the glass panelled door.

  ‘I now formally inaugurate this new exciting service.’

  The crowd cheered yet again.

  Ulick turned to Ozzy. ‘Bur O’Crat: he doesn’t look like Santa Claus and he doesn’t sound like Santa Claus. Let’s go have a pint.’

  *

  Paulo, who was standing at his front door nearby, greeted them affably and led the way into his pub. Paulo Kelly—a friendly, rotund little man in his fifties, thin on top, with expressive deep blue eyes, had travelled the world before coming home to Conna to fulfil his life’s ambition; own one of the finest pubs in the town.

  He shared his living accommodation over the pub with the widow Nan Casey; they worked together in his saloon in Philadelphia. There were those who wanted to know if they were married. Nan wasn’t telling. Keep them guessing she always said. A pleasant little woman in her early forties; her grown son and daughter were still in America.

  Paulo stopped to talk to Ulick.

  ‘How are your friends in the Haven getting on?’

  He was looking for news; everyone in Connemara was looking for news about the Contessa and her friends.

  Ulick smiled. ‘You know as much as I do. Don’t you deliver a consignment of booze there every Thursday?’

  ‘I do and I’m delighted to have the business, but that doesn’t satisfy my curiosity.’

  *

  They were joined by Martin Sandys who looked—unusually for him—extremely depressed. One of the country’s wealthiest and most successful business men, born and reared in Maam Valley, he never lost the run of himself. He went to London as a young man, worked on the building sites, eventually set up his own contracting business and made a fortune buying and renovating old houses.

  A big heavily built man, with black hair and sharp blue eyes, he was regarded by his competitors as a thick, abrasive, ignorant, uneducated Connemara yob; a description he didn’t fault. But he was the one getting the big contracts.

  Ulick knew him from way back; they were in national school together, not that Martin was academically minded.

  ‘What are you having, Martin?’ he inquired.

  ‘A large brandy,’ he replied.

  Paulo didn’t need any prompting.

  ‘How is your mother, Martin?’ Ulick asked.

  He shook his head sadly. ‘She’s back in the clinic. It’s only a matter of time now; I told the lads in London to come home immediately.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?’

  Paulo added quietly. ‘We’re here for you when you need us, Martin.’

  ‘I know that and thank you,’ he paused. ‘Paulo, will you send out a good supply of drink to the house; we’ll need it for the wake.’

  ‘I’ll look after everything,’ Paulo assured him.

  Ozzy shook Martin’s hand in silence.

  They were joined by Toby Moore, who, on hearing about Martin’s mother, took him by the hand.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Martin, it’s hard to lose the mother.’

  ‘Thanks, Toby,’ he responded preparing to leave.

  Toby handed a list to Paulo.

  ‘Will you have that lot ready by four?’

  Paulo scanned the list.

  ‘I will, but I’ll have to go into Galway to get the Champagne.’ He paused.

  ‘How are you getting on with the ladies?’

  Toby grinned. ‘It’s the nearest I’ve been to heaven so far. Mind you, it’s a bit of a pain having to dress up like this
every day.’

  ‘You’re executive class, now,’ Paulo grinned.

  ‘The people of Conna raise their caps and shake their heads in wonder every time you drive by in your new Mercedes,’ Ulick added.

  Paulo put down the glass he was polishing.

  ‘We have to do something about the tourist season; every hotel and guest house in Connemara is empty.’

  ‘What have you in mind?’ Ulick asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Galway has its Art festival, the races, the theatre, the oyster festival; we need something different, something spectacular—something that will bring the crowds.’

  *

  Bidding farewell to them, Ozzy headed out the road towards the lake. He passed Ned’s Line as the sun climbed higher in the sky; he was so entitled because he was a resident. It was believed by the good people of Connemara that Ozzy owned a small farm out by the lake; no one had ever seen it, or would dream of asking where it was.

  Approaching the tall circular grass covered Rath, he blinked twice. No longer Ozzy, there stood Dannonimus, known to his people as ‘Dandaboy.’ A youthful figure with tightly cropped blonde hair, he stood all of thirty inches tall. Dressed in a green suit, sporting a red peaked cap, his innocent, impish features were dominated by big friendly brown eyes.

  He skipped through the side of the Rath as if it didn’t exist; this was his home, the home of the Little People, an extraordinary world where the sun always seemed to shine. He was enthralled, standing, yet again, by the great water fall; millions of tons of water crashed into the chasm far below with earth shattering, deafening, awe inspiring vibrations.

  Saluting his neighbors going about their daily tasks, he walked down the little street to the square in front of the King’s Palace; crossing it, he entered the Palace and made his way to the great hall. Kingpa, the high king of Rath Pallas, a little white haired old man with a long grey beard and bright blue eyes, was, as always, calm, relaxed and at peace with the world. Wearing his formal green frock coat, his crown tilted sideways, he was presiding over a meeting of the great western council.

  His guests today included the high kings of the Raths of Aran, Achill, Erris, Ben Bulben, and Tory Island. It would be followed by a feast and the Rath orchestra would perform some of the wonderful classics. A visit from Orpheus was scheduled for later in the year; he wouldn’t miss that. Smiling, he slipped away quietly; he would report later.