by Tyler, Anne
“I was unlucky one night, that’s all.”
“Unlucky? Do you even know the odds?”
“It all depends, Father.”
“It does not depend. There are odds on filling a straight, there are odds, you fool, on getting a house if you have two pairs. Actual odds—you don’t know them and you expect to steal my silver to pay for your idiocy.”
“Yes, I can see that from where you stand, it’s hard.”
“No it’s not hard. It’s easy.”
“How do you mean?”
“You get taught, taught to play properly. If that’s what you want.”
“It’s not like that. You can’t enroll in night classes.”
“You can if you want to.”
“How on earth?”
“Brian Doyle’s brother is a card player, deals in a club somewhere out the Galway Road. One of the best, they tell me.”
“He can’t be great if he’s dealing cards in a club near Galway.”
“He liked the liquor as well. That’s what slowed him down. Go to him next time you’re home, bring him a bottle of Powers, say you’d like to learn a few fancy deals, waterfalls, that kind of thing. He’ll straighten you out.”
Kerry’s mouth was open.
“He doesn’t deal from the bottom, he doesn’t have marked cards. He’d be the first to tell you of people who have no fingers to play with if they do that sort of thing.”
“This is Ireland, Father, not Chicago in Prohibition.”
“This is card playing all over the world, Kerry.”
“Do you mean that I should go to this guy? You’ll set it up?”
“I won’t set it up, you set it up. You heard of him, turn up there. Meanwhile get your ass back to Dennis Hill. I suppose you told him some lie.”
“I had to. They were pushing me a bit for the money, these guys.”
“Are they in the hotel?”
“God no, the hotel’s as dead as a dodo. They’re over the border, in Derry.”
“That should be excitement enough for you.”
“They’re good people, it’s just that someone else was pushing them.”
Kerry got a feeling that his father wasn’t interested.
“How did you find out, Father? About Meagher’s?”
“My business.”
“And you don’t seem to have … well, too many hard feelings.”
“I don’t have any feelings. That’s what is so strange. I have no feelings at all. Maybe you always felt that toward me so you know what it’s like. But it’s new to me. When I got up this morning I suppose if anyone asked me how I felt about you, I’d have said I loved you. When I saw those salvers in Meagher’s and had to negotiate with that stupid woman, and saw you leaning against the tree there … I might have said I hated you. But now. Nothing. Nothing at all.” Patrick seemed mildly regretful.
Kerry knew that his father was speaking from the heart.
“What happens to me now, Father?”
“As I said, you go back to Dennis. After the opening you and I talk again, it could be you want to go to the Shannon school. You could go abroad to a hotel in France, Germany, Switzerland. We’ll have visitors from there too, and that seems to be the way of the future.
“Of course you might want to go to university. I don’t know, Kerry, let’s not look too far into the future.”
“And this … this business?”
“It’s over now, isn’t it? I mean there’s nothing else gone in the house, I won’t go into the church and see our candlesticks on the altar?”
“No, Father.”
“Well that’s it. Twice. Anyone’s allowed two mistakes. The third time is it.”
“How do you mean, it’s it?”
“It’s goodbye, it’s notice in the paper time, I am not responsible for the debts of … That sort of thing.”
Kerry was silent.
Patrick rattled his car keys. “I don’t expect you to stop playing cards—that would be childish of me—and anyway if you’re going to talk to Francis Doyle, you may get quite good and make a nice living. I don’t expect you to stay clear of debt. If you do get into debt again come to me, come back and we’ll discuss it. Within reason, and in return for work or whatever, I will try to help you, and you must come home here for the holidays and stand by my side at the opening and all of that. But if you steal from me or from anyone else, then it’s over, it’s as if you were never my son.”
No emotion in his voice. No pleas no hate. No wishing for love.
For the first time in his life Kerry felt a chill of fear.
Rachel and Patrick missed each other by minutes. She went to walk along the towpath in the evening light. He went into Ryan’s for a drink. There was always company there, he thought, always a welcome.
It was odd that the only people who should make him feel really welcome were the very people whose business would suffer most by his coming to Mountfern in the first place. He looked at John and Kate Ryan and how they seemed to sparkle so well at each other. As if they were still very much in love. After all these years. After that terrible accident.
He wished that Rachel were at home. He had seen that there were no lights, and there was no car outside Loretto’s.
He would have liked more than anything else to talk to her tonight and to have slept with her, to have laid his head on her breast while she stroked his hair and soothed away his worries. She knew him so well, and he had hurt her so badly.
Rachel walked alone on the towpath past bushes and brambles and briars. She couldn’t understand why they hadn’t been cut back to give the guests a better walk to the town. But there had been some story about a fairy ring which it would have been bad luck to cut down.
She met Maggie Daly walking along.
“All on your own?” she asked. A foolish question, she thought, just as she said it.
“Just like you, Mrs. Fine,” the child said with no hint of insolence. She was only stating a fact.
“Where’s everyone?” Rachel persisted.
“I think Grace went for a cycle ride with Michael, and Tommy’s been playing football with John Joe Conway and Liam White, and Jacinta’s gone to get a new coat, and Dara’s … I don’t know where Dara is. So I came for a walk on my own.”
“I don’t know whether it’s a great idea or not. I do that sometimes.”
“What else is there to do?” Maggie asked simply.
“What would you like to do? Now, this minute.”
“I think I’d like a gorgeous new dress in just the right color that would make everyone notice me and people say, ‘Would you look at Maggie Daly?’ That’s what I’d like.”
“Well come on home with me and we’ll look through some books and magazines and we’ll see what might suit you.”
Maggie hesitated for a moment. Her mother had been a bit disparaging about Mrs. Fine, something to do with her not being baptized, and leading an immoral life. But her mother didn’t know where she was, and wouldn’t it be lovely to have Mrs. Fine give her ideas like she had with that beautiful ribbon that everyone had admired?
“I’d love that,” she said, and they went across the footbridge, away from the sound of Ryan’s and up to Rachel’s rooms.
Mary Donnelly was glad the row had blown over. In fact it must have ended in some kind of reconciliation. They kept smiling at each other that evening in the bar. At one stage she even saw them holding hands.
It was probably about that business of John going to be reciting poetry in the bar. He had been dead against it at the time, but tonight he had books of old Irish poems out on the table and was busy marking some of them as if he were a boy back at school. And talking about boys back at school, Michael had recovered his good temper and even apologized to her for being short with her earlier. A misunderstanding, he had said humbly.
She saw John take his wife’s hand and bring it to his lips when he thought nobody was looking. The way they smiled at each other gave her a lump in her throat. Fo
r the first time for a long while she thought of the man who had let her down and wondered what it would have been like to have him take her hand like that. Then she put the thought out of her mind and concentrated on being charming, which frightened the farmers more than anything she had done so far.
Chapter XVIII
“Wasn’t it odd that the Meaghers left so quickly?” Loretto said.
“Oh I don’t know, they got a chance of a place in Dublin, a small lock-up shop, and Patrick paid them a good price for the shop in Bridge Street. It was all for the best to go quickly. She’s never been the same since poor Frank died.”
Kate had congratulated herself several times on the amazing foresight she had had in telling Mrs. Meagher to hang on for a bit, something was bound to happen. And hadn’t she been right! Imagine Patrick O’Neill wanting a small place in the center of town. It had solved the Meaghers’ problems at a stroke.
Loretto was still musing. “She’ll have the divil of trouble with that strap of Teresa in Dublin. If she was able to run wild in Mountfern, imagine what she’ll get up to in Dublin.”
Kate didn’t agree. “She may have done all her running wild, she could be about to settle down for a bit now, have a quiet period for a change.”
Loretto looked at her in wonder. “Isn’t that extraordinary, Kate. Her mother said almost the very same thing to me herself.”
“Would Dara be insulted if I offered her some material to have a dress made?” Rachel asked Kate.
“Insulted? She’d grab it out of your hands. But you can’t be giving them things. You’re too generous as it is.”
“No truly, I have lovely bits of material, really nice pieces of fabric. They’re samples, some of them are for drapes or wall hangings—furnishing fabrics. But they’re quite elegant enough for a skirt or a dress.”
“Well wouldn’t she love it!”
Kate was never without something in her hands these days—if it wasn’t the table napkins it was tray cloths. They were sitting companionably in the green room. The summer was almost with them, and the weather was warm enough for the two glass doors to be left wide open.
Carrie served tea on a trolley, another gift from Rachel; she said she had ordered some for the hotel. Kate hoped she was telling the truth; sometimes she thought that Rachel disguised her generosity by pretending it was some cast-off from the hotel.
“Am I imagining it or is Carrie thickening around the waist?” Kate whispered.
“You are imagining it.” Rachel pealed with laughter. “My goodness, what a suspicious mind you have. Perhaps Carrie and Jimbo just sit and talk when they’re out together.”
“Not very likely,” Kate said dismissively. “But you’re right, I mustn’t start fancying things.”
“Is anything worrying you? Anything apart from Carrie?”
“No.” It was not very convincing.
“I don’t mean to pry,” said Rachel.
“I’d tell you if it was sensible.” Kate sounded as if she were ashamed of herself.
“Worries are rarely sensible.” Rachel smiled.
“I’ll tell you. I worry a bit about Dara and Kerry. I get this feeling that Kerry is a bit … well, a bit dangerous.”
“I worry about Kerry too,” Rachel said unexpectedly. “And I think Kerry is very dangerous.”
The two women sat, heads close together, sewing forgotten, and sighed over the impossible situation. The more that Dara was warned against him the more attractive he would be to her. And if Kate were to put difficulties in his way about meeting her daughter, he would enjoy the challenge and come home more often still from his Donegal posting to move heaven and earth in pursuit of Dara.
Jacinta White told Dara that Mrs. Fine was the mistress of Mr. O’Neill. They had been lovers for years in America. Jacinta knew this on the highest authority. She said that Liam didn’t believe it because he didn’t really understand mistresses and lovers. But it was true.
Dara, who thought it was indeed true from the days when Grace had told her of their fears that Mrs. Fine might become their stepmother, denied it utterly.
“You’re full of drama, Jacinta,” she said, defending her own friend Grace from having a wicked father and defending her mother from having a wicked friend.
“And you’re full of airs, Dara, and you haven’t a hope with Kerry O’Neill.”
Jacinta flounced off in a bad humor.
“What’s wrong with Jacinta, why won’t she come with us anymore?” Grace’s eyes were big and innocent.
“Oh, Jacinta’s an eejit, she’s always taking notions over one thing or another.” Dara gave no explanations.
“She’s very jealous of you, of course,” Grace said.
“Of me?” Dara sounded like Maggie now.
“Yes, she likes Tommy and Tommy has time for nobody but you.”
“Oh that’s not true. Is it?” Dara was pleased.
“Michael tells me that Tommy writes your name all the time on his notebooks at school. Michael says he writes mine, but he says Dara is interleaved with all those celtic letters—you know, on the front of notebooks.”
“Heavens.” Dara wasn’t quite sure what to say. It was nice to be someone fêted on the cover of exercise books, as Grace herself was. But it was not Tommy Leonard that she wanted writing her name.
“I wish I was really really beautiful like you are, Grace,” Dara said suddenly.
Grace stared at her in amazement. “But you are much more beautiful than I am.” She seemed to be burningly sincere. “I’ve only got a round chocolate-box face, I look like that silly boy blowing bubbles in the picture up in the Grange. I have no looks, you are the one with the gorgeous face … Dara you must know that. Kerry was saying …”
“What was he saying?” Dara was eager.
“He was saying that,” Grace said.
“How did he say it, I mean what was it exactly …?”
“Just that.” Grace couldn’t see any need to dawdle on what Kerry, who was only her brother, said “And you look terrific when you have a suntan, Dara, you look great. I look as if I have a skin disease if I stay out in the sun.”
There was going to be no more about what Kerry had said and when he had said it. Dara hadn’t much pride, but she had too much pride to ask again.
He was home the next weekend.
“Fair and square. Permission and everything.” He grinned at his father, and to Grace’s pleasure Father smiled back.
Things were definitely better these days.
“How do we spend Saturday?” Kerry asked his sister when Father had gone off to the hotel. Patrick O’Neill didn’t work office hours, he worked a great deal too many hours for Brian Doyle’s taste.
“Oh good, are you going to be around?”
“Well yes. I think so.”
“Michael and I are going fishing. I’ve gotten rather good at it lately.” Grace giggled a bit. “We cycle off for miles and find really quiet places.” She looked down and up again and caught Kerry’s eye.
He wasn’t smiling.
“You are sensible aren’t you, Grace?”
She pretended not to understand.
“Oh very. Anyway the places we go, the river isn’t dangerous. It’s narrow and shallow, usually.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Oh.”
“Father’s not going to look after you, as long as he has his folly …”
“Why do you call it that? You used to love Fernscourt.”
“Someone has to. You’re very young, Grace, it would be terrible if you made a silly mistake.”
“No, Kerry, I wouldn’t.”
“But it’s different for boys. Does Michael respect you, or does he take advantage of you?”
“We just kiss a bit. That’s all.” Grace looked down again.
“That had better be all, and don’t go to far-away places to kiss. Listen to me, Grace, I know what I’m talking about. Michael’s only a kid but he could make you do something … somethin
g foolish.”
“No, it’s not like that …” She wished the conversation would end.
Just then there was a ring at the door. Miss Hayes didn’t go immediately so Grace seized the opportunity.
It was Rachel Fine.
Kerry looked annoyed.
“I’m sorry, but Father has gone up to Fernscourt,” he said, barely politely, when Grace had ushered Mrs. Fine into the room.
“I’m very sure he has.” Rachel smiled pleasantly. “He was always an early worker, and all days of the week. No, I didn’t come to see your father, Kerry. I came to visit with Miss Hayes.”
Kerry smiled at her as if this were the way things should be. Rachel Fine was welcome in the lodge if she had only come to talk to the help.
Olive Hayes had spoken once or twice before to Mrs. Fine—a very pleasant woman, she had always thought. A Jewess they said, and a lady friend of Mr. O’Neill, but there had never been any impropriety in this house and not in Loretto Quinn’s either. She was surprised to see her come into the kitchen.
“Patrick has told me how well you run this household for him, Miss Hayes, and perhaps I am speaking out of turn when I ask you if you have enough free time to make a few simple summer dresses.”
“For you, Mrs. Fine? I’d not be able to make anything good enough for you.”
Rachel smiled easily. “No, I won’t ask you to take on my complicated figure, Miss Hayes, you would have nightmares trying to get anything to hang straight on me. I meant for some of the girls, for Dara Ryan, Maggie Daly …”
“Make dresses for them …”
“Yes, I’ve been told that you’re the dressmaking genius of Mountfern …”
Rachel took out two lengths of silky material—one copper-colored, one in a clear aquamarine. They were beautiful fabrics.
Miss Hayes ran her hand lovingly under the folds. “Oh, these are too good altogether for children, Mrs. Fine.”
“Suppliers send me samples, Miss Hayes. There’s two and a half yards there in each of them, they’re no use to me and I was thinking that if you could make a dress each for the girls—”
