Julia in Ireland

by Ann Bridge

  “I don’t see, at once, how you can do that, if he won’t say” the man said.

  “Well, I have an idea about that.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, if you, or anyone, has any sort of hold on Josie, and could force him to tell you the truth, I think he’s quite likely to know. After all, he is in the hotel business himself.

  “Oh, have more sense, darling! One can’t really call Walshe’s here in Newport being ‘in the hotel business’ in the way that Billy’s developer associates must be.”

  “No, I know one can’t; that isn’t what I meant” Julia said calmly. “But I do call the Ailesbury Hotel in Dublin the hotel business, in anyone’s terms—and Josie has had a half-share in that for a long time.”

  “Good Heavens!” the man exclaimed, thoroughly startled. “Are you sure? Who on earth told you that?”

  “Josie himself; he volunteered it, quite casually, once when I was over here before—oh, a goodish time ago, now.” Gerald began to laugh.

  “Well, you’re the one for getting people’s secrets out of them, without really trying!” he said.

  “Yes, but getting other people’s secrets, not his own, out of Josie mightn’t be so easy, especially if he was hoping for a cut at the cake himself” Julia said. “That’s why I wondered if you had any sort of hold on him, or might know anyone who had.”

  “I don’t fancy that would work” Gerald said at once. “Josie’s much too sharp, and he could be nasty if anyone tried something of the sort on and failed. You’re far more likely to twiddle it out of him yourself, and find out by your normal sleuthing tactics.” He started the engine. “We’d better be getting on; Belinda and MacGarry should be there by now.”

  The small town of Oldport, when they drove into it, was an extraordinary sight. The wide main street was full of animals: mostly cattle, though a few horses were being led up and down. Gerald swung up a side-road towards the big church on the hill. “Oh, are we going to Confession or something?” Julia asked.

  “No, but we might conceivably be able to park.”

  Others had had the same idea; the large gravelled space in front of the church was fairly full of cars, but Gerald managed to tuck his Minx into a handy space, and they got out and walked down into the hurly-burly of the town again. The whole place was swimming in manure, through which men in tweeds and oil-skins walked about, prodding animals knowledgeably, occasionally asking the price of one, and on hearing it walking contemptuously away; only to return later, and after prolonged argument a deal was occasionally concluded—this was invariably sealed by a drink at one of the pubs. “ ‘Twould hardly be legal else!” Gerald told Julia, with his mocking grin. The noise was deafening: cows mooing, beasts lowing, pigs squealing; this was the permanent background to occasional stentorian shouts of “Come back here, now!” from a vendor to a recalcitrant buyer. Gerald carefully examined a couple of heifers but made no offers— “I’m not buying today” he said carelessly. Presently they spotted MacGarry and Belinda in the distance, on the far side of the street; they crossed it where they were, and then strolled casually down to where poor Belinda stood, when master and man discussed an offer that MacGarry had received in low tones.

  “Yes, well if he’ll give you another twenty shillings, close with him” O’Brien said. “Now I want you to come up here and look at these two heifers—leave her with Martin. He’ll be back in half-an-hour, tell anyone” O’Brien said to the boy, and they walked slowly up the dirty street again, till the two heifers could be pointed out to MacGarry. “You do the buying; you’ll get one cheaper than I shall” Gerald said, thrusting a thick wad of folded notes into his herd’s hand. “ ’Tis the little yellow-and-white one I want—you can go to thirty-three for her.”

  “Thirty-three? That’s a terrible price for one that didn’t calve yet” the man said, looking worried.

  “Ah, but she has a drop of Jersey blood in her; a little and not too much—did you notice the smoky look of her round the muzzle? And take another look at her, Mac. Do you remember that old yellow-and-white bull of McGrath’s, that threw such wonderful milkers? I bet she has some of his blood in her; the marks on her quarters, the yellow and the white, are exactly the same as his were.”

  MacGarry screwed up his eyes and peered at the animal across the crowded street.

  “So they are, begob! Well fancy Mr. O’Brien remembering that, after all this time! I’ll do the best I can, Sir.”

  “Right. We’ll come back presently and see how you got on. Don’t go after her till we’ve left you a minute or two; but then, don’t lose any time.”

  “Right you be, Sir.”

  Gerald and Julia walked on.

  “Tired?” the man asked.

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind taking the weight off my feet for a little while” Julia admitted. “Could we go and have a drink somewhere?”

  “The pubs will be fearfully crowded, and some of the clients a bit rough, if they’ve done several deals!” he said rather doubtfully. By now they were not far from Walshe’s, and suddenly Julie spied the fair woman she had met on the train endeavouring to make her way through the crowd to go in.

  “Oh, do let’s go in to Josie’s’—I don’t mind a few rough clients!” she exclaimed. “I do want to see her again.”

  “See who?”

  “That woman with the fair hair—oh, she’s gone in. She was on the train when I came down.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know—but Josie will! Do let’s, Gerald.”

  “Very well” he said, rather reluctantly, and they too made their way into Mr. Walshe’s establishment. The bar was so crowded that this was by no means an easy task; they had literally to push their way over the threshold between men with glasses of drink in their hands, all talking very loudly —in no time a glass of Guinness had been spilt down the front of Julia’s burberry. In a moment Josie appeared, making his way with the skill of an eel or a weasel between the crowd of bodies.

  “Come into the snug now, Miss Probyn; Mrs. Martin’s in it, but you’ll be better in there. Tst! Tst!” he exclaimed disapprovingly, seeing the brown fluid still trickling down her —“Mary Ellen, give me over a cloth.” His wife threw it to him, and he dabbed rather ineffectually at Julia’s garment, and then made a way for them to the door at the far end of the room, and led them through it, with a firm “No you don’t now, Peter John!—I have ladies in here,” to a youth who tried to push his way into the passage.

  In the snug the fair-haired woman was sitting at the table, looking rather gloomy, a glass of whisky in front of her; she rose at their entrance.

  “Oh hullo” she said, to Julia. “How nice to meet up again.” She held out her hand.

  Mr. Walshe was still trying to wipe Julia down; she took the offered hand over his head.

  “Hullo” she said. “Oh Josie, don’t bother with my burberry; I’ll take it off—it smells rather.” She did so, and the landlord hung it up on a hook on the wall.

  “Does Mistress Martin know Miss Probyn, then?” he asked.

  “Yes, we travelled down from Dublin together.”

  “And this is Mr. O’Brien, Mistress Martin. Miss Probyn, what will I bring you?—and you, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “Whiskey, please Josie,” and “I’ll have the same” Gerald said—Mr. Walshe bustled away. When he had gone—

  “Not really Miss Probyn” Julia said, also seating herself; “Josie never can remember that I was married. Mrs. Jamieson now. My husband is dead” she added, out of a vague wish to clarify the position, which seemed fraught with possibilities of confusion.

  “Well, a husband can do worse things than die on one,” Mrs. Martin said crisply, startling her two hearers—on seeing their astonished faces—“Sorry I said that—forget it” she said. “It’s just all that row outside, and the drinking, has upset me a little.”

  “Oldport pubs are always a bit of a rough-house on fair days” O’Brien said soothingly. “But you couldn’t know th
at.”

  “No. All the same, I don’t think Billy was being exactly a ball of fire to suggest this as a place for us to meet, and today” Mrs. Martin said, still a little crisply.

  “Oh, are you waiting for Mr. O’Rahilly?” Julia asked, with a polite show of interest that was by no means feigned. “Perhaps he forgot it was fair-day; poets are supposed to be vague! Anyhow, I’m glad it has let us meet again. How are the children?” she asked then, still politely.

  “Fine, thank you. They just love it on Achill; there’s such a lot for them to do. Ray goes out with the fishermen—after basking sharks, sometimes; that thrills him to pieces. And Annette picks mussels off the rocks with the girls—if the tide’s wrong for that, she goes and helps the old woman in the tweed and amethyst shop to sell her things to the tourists. It’s just perfect for them.”

  “It does sound very nice indeed” Julia said. “I’m so glad.”

  “Yes. I love Ireland—I fell for it the very first time I was brought here, and I wanted them to like it too. Besides, I think it’s right for children to get to know their own background, as early as possible—after all, they are partly Irish.”

  “As they’re Martins, isn’t the County Galway more their own background than Mayo?” Gerald observed.

  “I don’t think so—why should it be?” Mrs. Martin asked, looking puzzled.

  “Oh, the Martins were one of the Twelve Tribes of Galway—haven’t you heard about them?” He launched into an account of that curious piece of Irish history.

  “That’s very interesting,” the fair woman said. “Well, I’ll take them to see it all, some time. But I guess we’ll go on staying on Achill—I don’t think there’s anywhere in Galway that has so much for them. And it’s all Ireland, anyway.”

  Josie now appeared with the newcomers’ drinks—“Sorry I was so long, Miss Probyn.” Then he informed the fair woman that “her gentleman” was waiting for her in the bar.

  “Oh God, do I have to go back into that ghastly racket?” she asked, almost desperately.

  “Surely not” Gerald put in. “Can’t Mrs. Martin go out by the side door, Josie?”

  “The side door be’s usually kept locked and bolted on fair-days, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “Fair enough, Josie—I see that. But just today I think it would be best to bring Mr. O’Rahilly in here and let them both out that way.”

  Mr. Walshe’s obvious surprise that his new customers realised the identity of Mrs. Martin’s “gentleman” made it clear to both Gerald and Julia that he had been displaying a landlord’s tact in manoeuvring to keep O’Rahilly out of the snug; saying “I’ll do that thing, Mr. O’Brien” he bustled out.

  “O thank you” Mrs. Martin said to Gerald. She downed her whiskey and gathered up her bag and gloves. “I really am grateful” she said, shaking hands with him—and to Julia “Come and look me up on Achill, Mrs. Jamieson” she said. “I promise I’ll not be so silly next time.” She slipped out into the passage, and in a moment Julia and Gerald heard first a roar of voices as the door from the bar was opened, and then the sound of bolts being withdrawn and shot home again, as the other pair made their exit.

  “Well, what do you make of that performance?” Julia asked, lighting another cigarette. “She wasn’t a bit like that before.”

  “I deduce that the all-too-present and wholly unlamented Mr. Martin is a heavy drinker, and that she has suffered from this failing of his so much that the sight of Josie’s bar today brought on a sharp attack of hysteria,” Gerald said thoughtfully. “Poor soul. You must go and see her” he added after a moment.

  “Oh, I will. But it’s so extraordinary that anyone can be so utterly different at two different times,” Julia said.

  “People are different when they’re in a state of hysteria,” O’Brien said.

  “I wonder if Josie knows anything about the husband?” Julia speculated.

  “Well you won’t get anything out of him today, about that or anything else, he’s far too busy.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better be going ourselves—MacGarry will be wanting to start home.” He unhooked her burberry and held it out to her. “Better put this on to protect your suit— we’ve no excuse for not facing the bar.”

  “Goodness no.” She slid her arms in, buttoned the garment up to her chin, and put her bag inside it under her arm; then they made their way out through the thronged and noisy bar. In the street they walked down to where MacGarry was standing with the yellow-and-white heifer, this time with no concealment; there was no sign of the cow Belinda.

  “Yes, he gave me another thirty bob” the man said, in answer to O’Brien’s question. “That was a very decent price, Mr. O’Brien, Sir.”

  “It was indeed, Mac. And what did you have to give for this pretty little lady?”

  MacGarry put his face close to Gerald’s ear:

  “Thirty-wan, Sir!” he hissed.

  “Well done—you’ll see, she’ll be worth every penny of that! Well now, go in and get yourself a drink; Martin can start leading her home, and we’ll take you in the car till you catch up with them. Walk her gently, now, Martin.”

  “I will that, Sir.”

  “We’ll come with you across the bridge” O’Brien said. “You don’t mind walking that far?” he asked, turning to Julia.

  “Not a bit. She is a pretty thing, Gerald,” she said, as the boy led the creature down the street.

  “Yes. Now we must settle what to call her.”

  “Daffodil” said Julia promptly.

  “Excellent! She’ll soon turn into Daffy or Dilly, but what harm? They’re both pretty names.”

  They escorted the boy and the heifer till well beyond the town—“out of the way of temptation,” as Gerald said; when they became one unit in a stream of animals being led or driven along the road towards their new homes; they went back and collected the car and MacGarry, and drove him out till they overhauled his two immature charges. Then Gerald took Julia back to Rostrunk. On the way—

  “Well, now you’ve seen a Connaught Fair” he said, “what do you think of it?”

  “It’s given me a certain sympathy with Mrs. Martin” Julia said.

  Chapter 4

  In spite of her professed sympathy with Mrs. Martin, Julia decided to postpone her visit to that lady till she had seen Josie Walshe again, and perhaps picked up a little more information about her background, and also, with any luck, about Billy O’Rahilly and his activities. Two days later General O’Hara’s stout was pronounced to be running low, and Julia instantly volunteered to drive in and fetch it.

  “Oh darling, could you?” Lady Helen said. “Then I could finish pricking out those primula seedlings.” Helen O’Hara grudged every hour spent away from her beloved garden.

  So Julia took the small car, and paid a visit to Walshe’s Hotel; she was early enough to find the landlord alone in the bar, but not too early to have a drink with him—afterwards she went to the Post Office and rang up Gerald, and made an appointment to meet him in Martinstown the following day.

  “No, no need to come all the way out to fetch me; I’ll come in on the bus. Wait at the station; the bus goes there. No, I haven’t got a lot for you—just some odds and ends.”

  As Gerald held open the door of his car for her in the station yard next morning—“Now, where do we go to talk?” Julia asked.

  “The Mall, I thought.”

  “The Mall?” She looked surprised. “Where in the Mall?”

  “In the car, under the trees” he said, as he got in beside her.

  Martinstown shares with Perpignan in Southern France the curious and delightful feature of a river running straight through the town, spanned by several bridges, with a broad tree-shaded street on each side of it; in Martinstown these streets are of simple and modest, but rather elegant Georgian houses—the whole bears the title of The Mall. Sitting under the trees, looking down the broad vista of water, foliage and architecture, Julia exclaimed “How clever you are, Gerald! This is enchanting.�
�

  “Yes, I like The Mall myself. And no need to keep one’s voice down. Now tell me your odds and ends.”

  “Well, the husband is an American, but of course of Irish extraction, and of course from the County Galway—Josie knew all about that, naturally. “ ‘His Grand-da kept a small shebeen’ ” Julia quoted.

  “Does he drink?”

  “Well I couldn’t very well ask that, and Josie wasn’t very forthcoming. ‘Ah, he always does himself well, that one’ was as far as he went, for what it may be worth. What had really impressed Josie was that Mr. Martin has become enormously rich.”

  “What in? Oil?”

  “No, property. It seems he owns a whole string of hotels ‘in those islands near America—what’s this they call them?—some name like the Bananas.’ I suppose Josie meant the Bahamas” Julia said.

  “He certainly did!” Gerald said, startled. “Good gracious!”

  “What’s so exciting about that?” Julia asked.

  “Simply that he must be the Martin part of Sherwood Martin, that huge development company that’s running up hotels and starting casinos and plages all over the world; but especially in the Bahamas.” He thought for a moment or two. “It seems as though we don’t need to look much further for who is behind O’Rahilly and his pestilential schemes” he said at length. “I wonder if she’s in on the whole business.”

  “Oh, surely not! she apparently hates her husband” Julia objected.

  “So she may—but with husband and boy-friend in on the same racket, it’s stretching probability a bit to think that she can know nothing about it, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh dear” Julia said, on a big sigh. For some reason this possibility disconcerted her very much; it fitted so badly with her strong impression, formed on that long train journey, of the great nice-ness of the fair woman.

  “I don’t think I will go to see her in Achill, after all” she said.

  “Oh, I think you ought to. She can’t be in a very happy situation, on her own showing, and she obviously wants to make friends with you. She may be rather lonely.”