by Tyler, Anne
Eventually Patrick spoke. “So we’ll talk about all that when I see you. Right?”
“What do we talk about?”
“About how great it will all be. So many people have something that they always want to do, all their lives they talk about it and so often it never happens. Your mother and I talked about this for so long …”
This time Kerry spoke. “Mother never talked about it to me,” he said.
“But you know it was what she wanted?”
“Maybe.”
With difficulty Patrick controlled himself. His hands were shaking when he put down the telephone. He had one more call to make, and he needed something stronger than tea to steady him for this one.
Sheila Whelan wouldn’t hear of his going to buy a brandy. She would slip into Conway’s for it. No point in his getting a reputation in the first couple of days. She was back in minutes and the half bottle of brandy, glass and jug of water were beside his elbow on a round tray advertising Craven A cigarettes. Patrick O’Neill took a long swallow and made a person to person call to Mrs. Rachel Fine.
Afterwards he walked out into Bridge Street; he looked down to the river as his grandfather must have done, and up the town. It would all have changed so much since those days. There would have been no calling the States. And no calling home once he had arrived on the other side of the world. Patrick crossed the street, nodding at Mr. Conway, the man who unbelievably ran twin trades of publican and mortician without anyone thinking it was slightly odd. He waved at the two young White children going into their house and he gave a glance to see what ancient movie the Classic was offering tonight.
His grandfather would have had no contact at all with the family. Going to America was like going to the next world. No wonder the Irish held American wakes for the man who was leaving for America and would be out of touch with his kith and kin from now on. Maybe it might have been sensible, Patrick thought gloomily. His sister, his son, his manager and Rachel Fine had hardly been overjoyed to hear from him.
“He’s only staying a few more days,” John said. “He was in here earlier with some plans, showing me an artist’s impression. You never saw the like of it.”
“No permission or no license granted yet,” Kate remarked coolly.
“A formality,” Fergus Slattery said. Fergus had called again. It was a restful place, Ryan’s. You could read your paper, or you could join in the chat. It made a nice stretch to his legs after his supper. And anyway he felt an overwhelming loyalty to the shabby little place.
“You shouldn’t have refused good money,” John Ryan said in a low voice so that the others wouldn’t hear. “Kate told me you won’t handle his business in case it might be in conflict with us … No, no … let me finish. Fergus, you’re a decent man as your father before you is, but there’s no conflict. There’s nothing but cooperation with that man. The best man you could meet; he’ll put new life in the place.”
“I did meet him,” Fergus said.
“Well. Didn’t you like him?”
“Of course I liked him,” Fergus growled. “You couldn’t not like him. I told him that I’d feel it more sensible not to get involved in his application just in case there was the unlikely event of one of my fellow parishioners wanting to get involved on the other side.”
“And what did he say?” John and Kate were both eager. This was new; this had happened this afternoon.
“Oh he was charm itself. Said he quite understood, said it was very ethical of me, showed I was a man with a community spirit, hoped he’d be able to prove that he felt the same community spirit himself.”
“That’s just it.”
“I know, John. I’m not disputing it. I’m just saying that he’s a mixture, we’re always one thing or the other here; he’s more than one thing.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well at the same time he was telling me how much he wanted to feel part of the place and a member of the local community, he also made sure I realized that he had extinguished a license. Ahearne’s pub, way beyond. Now that’s sharp legal talk for an innocent Yank who’s building his own place. He not only knows that you have to buy up and extinguish one pub license before you get another, but he’s done it. That’s a bit quick for me.”
John Ryan smiled as he polished the bar counter. “Well by God you’re a very impatient young fellow, Fergus, for all your great education and studies at the universities.”
“Stop making fun of me. Wouldn’t I need to be impatient with all that’s going on around here?”
“No,” said John slowly. “That’s the last thing you’d need to be. There’s all the time in the world. Look at all that could happen before any of this comes into being.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your father would understand better than you. He has a feeling for the river, and how things go on and on. That river was there just the way it is now when your man’s grandfather left Mountfern, and it will be here forever.”
“John, you sound like some old soothsayer, will you stop it?” Kate laughed at him good-naturedly.
“No, I mean it. Patrick O’Neill has great plans like fireworks but they may never materialize.”
“He’s hardly bought Ahearne’s license just for fun,” Fergus said.
“No, but look at what could happen. I remember that place that was going to be built about ten miles out on the Galway road. That never materialized, did it?”
“They ran out of money,” Fergus said.
“Exactly,” said John.
“But that fellow O’Neill has a fortune.”
“So had the other crowd. Or maybe he’d lose interest, or something else would distract him, or it wouldn’t turn out right for him.”
“But aren’t you only helping him to install himself instead of praying that it will turn out wrong for him?” Kate was mystified.
“None of us would pray that things would turn out wrong for people, Kate, that would be only asking for trouble to come on ourselves. All I mean is that there’s no point in getting hot and bothered until things do happen.”
“That’s not the American way,” Fergus said, doing a poor imitation of Patrick’s accent. “That’s not your up-and-attem-boy.”
“That’s not my way,” John said quietly.
“We’re two of a kind then, John. Give me another pint, if you will. I can’t see myself practicing law for ten minutes in New York without having a very bad nervous breakdown.”
Kate smiled at them affectionately as they toasted each other on the notion of savoring life, rather than racing through it. She would prefer to race a bit faster herself, but not as fast nor in the same direction as the smiling American, who had seemed to read her mistrust of him and smile yet more warmly on the two occasions in two days that she had met him. She was glad he was going back soon.
A few nights later Dara crept from her room to the window just at the very moment Michael left his bed. They were never surprised that their timing was so exact, they took it for granted that they would turn up at the same time. In Fernscourt they could see him walking, touching this wall and that.
“If he loves it so much why is he tearing it down?” Dara asked yet again.
“Well he keeps saying he tried to think of ways of keeping the old ruin like it was,” Michael said, always his defender.
“He didn’t try very hard. He’s so rich, all he has to do is to say let it stay and it stays,” Dara grumbled. “Look, he’s leaving now. I wonder where did he park his car?”
“He leaves it up a bit when he comes at night, so as not to wake people when he leaves. Look, look he’s coming over the bridge.”
They watched as Patrick O’Neill paused on the little footbridge opposite their pub and stared across at Fernscourt in the same way that they had done so often, a hand on each railing of the narrow bridge.
“He’s saying goodbye before he goes home,” Michael breathed.
“Will you ever realize that to him this is his home
?” said Dara.
The moonlight wasn’t bright enough for them to see the tears on Patrick’s face as he said goodbye to Fernscourt.
Chapter V
It took a little time to get things organized, but compared to the speed that most people would have moved at, Patrick was a human tornado. The finances had been organized already. The big white house in New Jersey, the symbol of his success, would be put on the market. Not at once, because that way he would have to take any price from any bidder. But it would be rented for a year first.
Bella and Andy, the couple who had looked after him, had to be paid off, thanked, found new positions. Aunts and cousins had to be placated and reassured that it wasn’t the act of a madman. He saw to passports, visas for the children, had endless discussions with numerous priests and nuns in the two schools, all of whom were sorry to see Mr. O’Neill, the number one benefactor, disappear off to Ireland with his two handsome children.
There were never quite enough hours in the day for all the form-filling, document-signing, telephoning, crating, packing, sorting, and deciding what had to be done.
But in a far swifter time than anyone would have believed possible, Patrick had everything done. He was ready to come home to Ireland.
Patrick was so proud of his children when they stepped from the plane at Shannon Airport that he wanted to cry aloud to anyone who would listen that these two shining golden people belonged to him. Even after the night flight when others were blinking sleepily into the dawn, Kerry and Grace O’Neill looked untouched and stared around them with interest at the land that was going to be their home.
Patrick had noticed the looks of admiration that the brother and sister had gotten from onlookers both in Idlewild Airport, New York, and here in Shannon. They had clean-cut looks and they both seemed in such high good humor. They had always gotten along well together, no rivalry, no resentment ever. They had spent long hours together during their mother’s illness, and since he had been away from home before, after and even during that time, they had been thrown together a lot. They always enjoyed each other’s company. In the plane they had chattered together happily. He had never been close with Philomena or Catherine or Maureen like that. Nor with his brothers. There had been too much hardship in their family. The fight to exist had taken all their time. Friendship was a luxury they didn’t have when they were growing up.
He had hired a car from one of the big companies that had a desk at Shannon Airport. Jack Coyne had had only one chance. One chance to be in car rental in a bigger way than he had ever dreamed, but he had lost it forever. To have cheated Patrick O’Neill was the most foolish act of his life.
“Come on, kids,” Patrick called as he held the door of the car open. “Come on, climb in, I’m going to take you home.” Their faces showed the excitement they felt.
Patrick looked at them with a lump in his throat. They were extraordinarily beautiful, he thought, both of them. It was not just the pride of a father who has worked his guts out so that his children would have everything he never had. Surely he was being objective as he looked at them standing close together in the early morning sun.
Grace had a head of hair that looked like an advertisement for a shampoo, her curls seemed to be shiny and bouncy and there was no way they could be kept down. Two minutes after she came from her shower, or even running out of the waves when they went to the ocean, it was the same. She had big blue eyes and a dimpled smile. Her father called her his little princess, and her brother had called her a baby doll. Her mother said she was like an angel in human form.
It was just as well for Grace O’Neill that she went to a school where the nuns did not believe in praising the girls and that she had an aunt who regarded all good looks as a personal calling from the devil leading to sin and possibly damnation.
Grace was a cheerful child, not nearly as spoiled as she could have been, the idolized baby in that big house. She had realized early in life that you got your way much more easily by smiling and thanking rather than sulking and crying. Nobody told her this; she had always known, or else she had seen it work with her brother and picked it up from him. It was unusually nice to be the center of attention, with people admiring and patting her on the head.
Kerry O’Neill was tall and blond; he looked like a Swede, not as if he came from Irish stock. His hair curled softly around his neck; on another boy it could have looked sissy, but not on Kerry. His skin was always lightly tanned, summer or winter. His eyes were a bright and unsettling blue. They were rarely still, but moved here and there almost as if they were looking for something. It didn’t matter, though, because they looked back at whoever he was talking to often enough to show he hadn’t lost interest. You got the notion that Kerry’s restless eyes moved even when he was asleep.
His smile was wide and all-embracing. Nobody could smile like Kerry; all those white teeth seemed to crack his face in half. The smile never got to his eyes but that’s because his eyes moved very fast. They hadn’t time to smile. Grace had once seen a picture of the Blue Grotto in Capri, and said that it reminded her of nothing as much as Kerry’s eyes.
Kerry never said much, but people didn’t realize this. They usually thought he was very interesting because he agreed with them or listened or seemed to be taking part in conversations all the time. It was only with Mother that Kerry had talked a lot. When he came back from school he would sit and talk for ages in Mother’s room. Mother had been in bed for so long it was hard to remember when she had been up and around.
They drove across the countryside in the early morning sunshine, pointing things out to each other. Patrick told them that this was a city, Limerick, and that Nenagh was a big town. City? Big town? They couldn’t believe it. It was like seeing one of those model villages he had taken them to once, where ordinary mortals seemed like giants.
“We don’t go on too much about how much bigger things are back in the States,” he began carefully.
“Of course not,” Kerry said. “They’d think we were boasting about home.”
“And it would be bad-mannered,” Grace agreed.
They couldn’t believe when they saw signs for Killarney. Please could they go there. It was in the wrong direction, their father said. People in Mountfern thought Killarney was the other end of the country nearly, but one day he’d take them there. And there were signs to Galway. Yes, he had seen Galway Bay on his last visit. Then the roads became narrower, they left the main routes and headed into the midlands. Soon the signs for the town came up. “Not far now,” Patrick said. His heart was beating faster at the thought of taking these golden children to the spot they had come from. Back to their home.
They wanted to know why were there no signs for Mountfern.
“It’s too small for a road sign. It’s only when you’re on the road going past it that there are directions. It’s only a little place.” He hoped he had explained this sufficiently to them.
“It’s only little now,” Kerry said “One day everyone will know it.”
Patrick flashed him a grateful look and then said no more. They came to the first of the two signs saying Mountfern half a mile.
“Hey, have you passed it?” Kerry called out.
Patrick explained that this was one way which brought you along River Road, he wanted to come in by Bridge Street so that they could get an impression of the place.
“Will they have a band on Main Street?” Grace giggled.
“Nothing would surprise me,” Patrick said as they came to the turn and approached the place that had always been a name on his father’s birth certificate.
Everyone knew they were coming. From their garden the vicar and Mrs. Williams waved at the car.
Judy Byrne was parking her small car outside her house; she peered out of the window to get a good look at the handsome American and his family.
Mrs. Sheehan was looking out of the top window of the barracks. There were two or three people standing outside Conway’s, who held their hands to their ey
es to shield them from the light and get a good view. It was too early even by Conway’s peculiar opening hours to have gathered drinkers; these must be people talking on their way back from mass.
Patrick explained that some people in the parish went to mass every day.
“Do we have to?” Grace asked anxiously.
“No way.” Her father patted her reassuringly.
Daly’s was opening for business, so was Leonard’s. Sheila Whelan’s blinds were up long ago, but normally it was a sleepy, slow-moving place.
On the bridge a group of children had gathered; they bent forward to glimpse the passengers in the car, then they hung back again, lacking in confidence. It annoyed Patrick to see the Irish children so uncertain when his own two were so sure, so easy.
Quickly he turned the wheel and maneuvered them into River Road. Loretto Quinn waved enthusiastically from the shop, young Father Hogan striding along in his soutane waved his breviary cheerfully. Then they were passing Ryan’s licensed premises.
“Is that a real place where they sell liquor?” Grace asked.
“Yes, why?” Her father was interested.
“It looks like a kind of toy shop, you know, in a board game. It just needs a thatched roof and it’s a typical Irish cottage.”
“Ah, we’ll be having the thatched cottage bit ourselves,” Patrick said.
“Why are we stopping?” Kerry asked.
“Let’s get out for a moment.” Patrick held the doors of the car open for them.
They scampered out, stretching their legs after the drive. With an arm around each shoulder he walked them to the footbridge and pointed out the ruins of Fernscourt.
“That will be our home,” he said. He was glad that they were looking at the old house which stood magical in the morning mists and sunshine, its ivy walls and odd shapes looking more picturesque than anything Hollywood could have dreamed up as a beautiful ruined castle. He was glad that they couldn’t see the tears in his eyes. The effect couldn’t have been more satisfying. His son and daughter looked in amazement at the sight in front of them.
