Dermot immediately wrote off to the auctioneers making them an offer of £128,000. The auctioneers’ reply when it came contained a revised asking price of £130,000 which Dermot had expected. This time in his reply the auctioneer went on to mention a Mr Brady. Mr Brady, the auctioneer explained, was a bachelor, and a gardener by trade. The auctioneer suggested that Mr Brady was ‘keen’ on purchasing the gate lodge only and that Dermot might consider an offer from Mr Brady of around £28,000. This, the auctioneer explained, meant that Mr Browne would then be paying only £102,000 for the big house and the grounds. Dermot’s next move was to accept the new asking price. However, in his reply he also suggested to the auctioneer that he approach Mr Brady with the following proposition: that Mr Brady was being offered by the new owner a lease of ninety-nine years on the gate lodge premises. For this lease Mr Browne would be seeking one hundred pounds per month plus the services of Mr Brady as the groundsman for the five and three-quarter acres that surrounded the big house. Dermot also insisted that in his dealings with Mr Brady the auctioneer should refer to Mr Browne only as ‘the client’. Any introductions beyond that, Dermot said, he would take care of when he took possession of the house.
The offer was accepted, although the auctioneer suggested to Dermot that there were other very fine gardeners in that area that would be only too glad to pay a little more than Mr Brady was being asked to pay for the use of the gate lodge. In Dermot’s last letter to the auctioneer he thanked him for his services and his advice, but said that he was happy to be doing business with Mr Brady. From then on the deal was left in the hands of solicitors and Dermot eagerly awaited Buster’s next letter. It came within two days of the deal being finalised.
Flat 2c
The Villas
Cabra
Dublin 7
25th April 1992
Dear Dermo,
Great news. Do you remember that gate lodge I was telling you about that I was chasing? Well I got it! And listen to this! The deal I got was a ninety-nine year lease on the gate lodge and all I have to pay is one hundred pounds a month, and do the gardens for the new owner. It was a tough deal, many hours of negotiating with the new owner, he was a tough nut to crack. But I stuck to me guns and came out on top. Great isnt it!
I move into the gate lodge in a weeks time, and the new owner moves in another two weeks after that. The gate lodge has two bedrooms so when you come over on a trip with Cormac youll be able to stay with me. I am so excited, every time I think about it I nearly piss in me pants. Ha Ha! So after next week my new address will be ‘Chestnut Hole’, The Lodge, Manor House, Kilbride, Co. Dublin.
Do you like the name? I got a name plate made down the garden centre and the first thing Ill be doing when I move in is to screw it up on the door. Ill send you some photographs as soon as I move in.
Dermot, I have lots of other stuff to tell you, but Id rather wait till you come home and visit so we could be face to face when were talking, do you know what I mean? Until then;
I hope this letter finds you as it leaves me, fit and well.
Your friend always,
Buster Brady.
(Gardener and Property Owner)
Dermot laughed until he cried when he read the bit about the ‘tough negotiations’. It just made the surprise he was about to spring on Buster all the sweeter.
By the end of that week Dermot’s furniture, Cormac’s toys, and most of their clothes were boxed, packed into a removals van and shipped off to the new house in Kilbride in Ireland. For the last week, while he tidied up the remainder of his business affairs, Dermot had moved out of his rented accommodation and in with Trevor and Maria. On the Wednesday of that week, Maria and Trevor threw a huge house party so that all of those people who had come to know Dermot would have an opportunity to say goodbye.
Dermot and Trevor looked remarkably alike. But as the two men circulated, one of their differences became very obvious. While Dermot was telling all of the guests how excited he was about going home to Ireland and how beautiful the new house was, and describing in detail the wondrous gardens that surrounded it, Trevor, on the other hand, was explaining to everybody the tax advantages of living on an island whose government regards its writers and artists as national treasures and treats them accordingly. Still, a great night was had by all and when all of the guests were gone and Cormac and Maria were at last asleep, the two brothers poured themselves a drink. In the bright kitchen of the now-silent house, Trevor lifted his glass and said, ‘To Mrs Browne’s Boys, God bless them all.’
For a couple of moments Dermot looked into Trevor’s face. When he was satisfied that this was not a cynical jab at him by Trevor, but a genuine celebration of the ups and downs of their family, Dermot smiled and the glasses went clink.
To leave your country as an ex-convict as Dermot had, and then to return as a successful writer, or indeed a success in any field, as Dermot was now doing, is a source of great satisfaction. Unless the capital city of that country happens to be Dublin. Beautiful Dublin city, with its ancient buildings and artistic heritage, just entering its second millennium, has a way of bringing you right back down to earth. Dermot drove off the ferry at the North Wall Quay and when he reached the security barrier at the exit, the security man did a double-take on him: ‘You’re, eh, Dermot Browne, aren’t you?’ Chuffed with the thought that his success as a writer had reached the man-in-the-street in Dublin, Dermot looked to his son full of pride and then back to the security man and answered, ‘Yes, actually, I am!’ and smiled.
The smile soon faded as the man replied, ‘I knew I recognised you, you’re one of Agnes Browne’s twins, aren’t you?’
Dermot drove away without reply. At the Brian Ború pub in Phibsboro, Dermot and Cormac stopped for a coffee and a sandwich. Here Dermot was recognised yet again, but this time as Mark Browne’s brother. And even on the drive out towards Kilbride, just beyond Finglas, when Dermot was stopped at a police road block, the Garda recognised Dermot as Buster Brady’s friend.
‘Welcome home, Dermot,’ Dermot muttered to himself as he drove away from the road block. In the village of Kilbride he wasn’t recognised at all, either as anybody’s brother, son or friend, or even as a writer. There, from some of the friendly locals, he received directions to his new home. Naturally, each offer of directions was preceeded with a little conversation, and it was mid-morning by the time they came to the gates of the house in Kilbride. Dermot drove across the cattle grid at the gates and stopped just beyond the gate lodge. There was smoke coming from the lodge chimney. Obviously somebody was home. Dermot was surprised to see a young child playing in the back garden of the gate lodge. He wondered if maybe the old tenants had not moved out yet, or whether Buster’s plans to move had been delayed. He decided to settle into his own house before finding out what the story was and he drove on up to the magnificent building.
In one of the letters Dermot had received from the auctioneer, the agent had described the part-time housekeeper who had been working at the house for some five years, a Mrs Annette Dolan, as a hard-working woman. The agent suggested Dermot might consider keeping her on. Accompanying this letter was a recommendation from Herr Schtoll, listing the virtues of Mrs Dolan, and ending in a suggestion identical to that of the agent. Dermot knew he would need help in the house anyway, so he decided that, certainly for the time being, Mrs Dolan should indeed remain in the house. It was a wise decision. No sooner were he and Cormac out of the car than the front door was opened by a plump, jolly-looking woman in a snow-white apron.
‘Hello, hello and welcome,’ the woman declared, with her arms wide open, and she tripped down the steps like a ballet dancer. She was very nimble for her age, which Dermot guessed to be about fifty-five.
‘Well, now, you must be Cormac! I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,’ she said, and with a beaming smile extended her hand. Cormac returned the smile and shook hands very formally with the woman. She then turned to Dermot.
‘Céad míle fáilte
, Mr Browne, and if you don’t mind me saying so, I can see where young Cormac gets his looks.’ The woman reddened a little and rocked with laughter.
Cormac giggled. Dermot could tell Mrs Dolan was going to be with them for a long time to come.
‘Go raibh maith agat, Mrs Dolan, and it is indeed a pleasure to meet you too. Herr Schtoll recommended you very highly and already I can see why.’
The woman brushed down her apron and fixed her hair, at the same time saying, ‘Why, thank you, Mr Browne. I can see with that charm of yours I’m going to have to watch myself around here.’ Then she roared laughing again, and this time Cormac didn’t confine himself to a giggle but laughed aloud.
Within an hour the car had been emptied of luggage and Dermot and Cormac, hand-in-hand, had examined every inch of the house. Cormac then ate a bowl of cereal and tore off into the fields to explore this new land of adventure. Dermot was standing at the large kitchen window looking down at the gate lodge and sipping a cup of hot tea while behind him at the solid fuel stove Mrs Dolan was cooking up a fry. The sizzle of the rashers and the beautiful smell of frying sausages was so familiar that it sent thoughts of his mother flitting through Dermot’s mind. He lit himself a cigarette and went back to watching the gate lodge. Once again he caught sight of the sandy-haired little girl bobbing across the small back garden of the gate lodge.
‘Mrs Dolan, whose child is that?’
Mrs Dolan hurried to the kitchen window, wiping her hands in a tea towel as she walked. ‘Which child would that be now, Mr Browne?’
‘That child, down there,’ Dermot said, pointing at the gate lodge.
‘Oh now, that would be Mr Brady’s child!’
‘Mr Brady’s child?’ Dermot’s question came out with a surprised tone.
‘Well, now, I’m not one for gossip, but -’ Mrs Dolan began with the gossip’s usual opening line, ‘- there’s a couple of local men in the village have had a pint with Mr Brady and the word is that it’s the child of his girlfriend. They’re not married.’ Mrs Dolan whispered this last part and looked as if she were going to bless herself as soon as she said it. Dermot couldn’t believe it. Buster with a girlfriend and a child? Why hadn’t he mentioned any of this in his letters? Just then Dermot saw a battered Ford Escort pull up at the gate lodge and out stepped Buster Brady. He was a lot trimmer than Dermot remembered him.
‘That’s Mr Brady now,’ exclaimed Mrs Dolan, and both she and Dermot took in the scene as the young child ran from the back garden into Buster’s arms. Mrs Dolan smiled, Dermot frowned. When Mrs Dolan’s sideways glance caught sight of Dermot’s frown she misinterpreted his look. ‘He’s not lazy at all, you know, oh no, I put him to work the very first day he moved in. Sure he’s done all those flower beds over on that side, look.’ Mrs Dolan pointed to the west side of the garden. Dermot’s gaze didn’t leave Buster and the child.
‘So you’ve met him then?’ Dermot asked.
‘Indeed I did. He was only in the door and he came up here to introduce himself. A nice man! Rough as a bear’s arse, but a nice man.’
‘You didn’t mention who the new owner of the house was, did you?’
‘Absolutely not! Herr Schtoll was adamant about that. He told me that you insisted on doing the introductions yourself, so I said nothing. Not a word.’ As she said this Mrs Dolan pulled an imaginary zip across her lips.
‘Good,’ Dermot answered. He turned back to the window while Mrs Dolan went back to the preparation of food. ‘How many rashers would you like, Mr Browne?’ she asked.
‘Better put on plenty, we’re about to have a visitor,’ Dermot answered. Buster was walking up the drive with the child in hand. Dermot stood back from the window, but followed Buster’s every step.
It was when Buster had pulled into the hardware store in Kilbride village to pick up some chicken-wire that Elsie McGrath, the wife of the store’s owner, was eager to tell him the news.
‘Your man has arrived,’ she announced, as if she were announcing the results of an election.
‘What?’ Buster was puzzled.
‘Your man - the new fella from the big house. He has arrived.’
‘He’s here? You’re kiddin’. I thought he wasn’t comin’ till tomorrow.’
‘Well, he’s here today. Probably trying to catch you on the hop, Mr Brady.’
Buster collected his goods, loaded them into the car and headed for home. Within minutes he pulled up outside ‘Chestnut Hole’. As he was climbing out of his car he got his first clue about the new owner. Parked right outside the big house was a shiny white Rover 3000. It had yellow number plates. English ones. Buster’s attention was diverted by the call of his name.
‘Buster! Buster, you’re home!’ the little girl called as she ran into his arms.
‘Yes love, I’m home,’ Buster chuckled as he scooped the little girl up.
‘Mammy is making dinner, are you coming in?’
‘We’ll go in now in a minute.’ He put the child down. ‘But first why don’t you and me go up and introduce ourselves to the new man?’ He took the little girl by the hand and they began to stroll up the driveway.
‘Is he a nice man, Buster?’ The child asked.
‘I don’t know, love, I hope so. I also hope he notices the bit of work I done on those flower beds!’ As they approached the house Buster was looking at every window, searching for any sign of life. There was none. When they reached the top of the gravel driveway, instead of going immediately to the front door Buster began to examine the car. He peered in through the windows for any tell-tale signs of what this man might be like. On the floor behind the driver’s seat was a half-full bottle of Coca-Cola and some sweet papers. On the front passenger seat was a pair of sunglasses. No help at all.
‘It’s a big car, Buster,’ the little girl remarked.
‘Yes, love, it certainly is. Right, let’s knock at the door and see who we meet.’
Dermot watched as Buster circled the car. He had lost weight. It suited him. He saw Buster look up at the house one more time and then disappear from view as he walked into the porch. The doorbell sounded.
‘I’ll get that, Mr Browne.’ Mrs Dolan began to wipe her hands yet again in the towel.
‘No, that’s all right, Mrs Dolan, you carry on with breakfast, I’ll get it meself.’ As Dermot walked to the door, he stopped and felt his chin. He hadn’t shaved. It wouldn’t be the first time Buster had seen him unshaven, he thought, smiling. He took a deep breath, turned the latch and opened the door wide. The sound of Buster Brady’s jawbone was nearly audible as his chin dropped. The two men stood in silence for a couple of seconds, but it seemed like an hour.
Dermot broke the deadlock. ‘So, you must be Mr Brady?’
With just one leap from Buster the two men were wrapped in each other’s arms. Mrs Dolan heard the commotion and emerged from the kitchen to see the two men embracing and crying.
‘I certainly hope you don’t intend to treat all the staff like this, Mr Browne,’ she exclaimed. The two men burst into laughter. The embrace stopped, although Dermot still held an arm around Buster’s shoulder.
‘Mrs Dolan, let me introduce you to Mr Buster Brady. This man, Mrs Dolan, has been my friend, and sometimes my only friend,’ he looked at Buster, ‘for as long as I can remember.’ The men smiled at each other.
‘You bastard!’ Buster cried as they hugged once again.
Now Cormac had arrived back to the house and was standing on the doorstep. The little girl stood at a distance, watching quietly. Cormac took in the scene. Dermot introduced him to Buster.
Buster got down on one knee and opened his arms wide for the boy, who was approaching with his hand outstretched for a handshake. ‘I knew you, Cormac, when you were only an egg.’ He laughed that warm Buster Brady laugh. The boy smiled and gave him a full embrace.
‘Cormac, son,’ said Dermot, ‘you take the little girl off for a walk, I’ll meet her later. Her Daddy and me have a little catching up to do. Come on into the
kitchen, Buster!’ Dermot put his arm around Buster again and the two men walked into the kitchen like little boys. In recounting the story of the buying of the house and the setting up of the surprise for Buster, which was interrupted with slaps on the back and howls of laughter, an hour soon passed. The doorbell sounded again.
‘That’s probably the kids back, Mrs Dolan, would you let them in?’ Dermot instructed.
‘I will indeed, Mr Browne,’ Mrs Dolan left the kitchen.
‘Jesus, Dermot, isn’t all this like a dream come true?’ Buster said.
‘Dreams docome true, Buster, if you work hard enough at them.’
‘Your mother used to always say that!’ Buster smiled, and then his smile vanished as he realised what he’d said. There was silence for a moment between the two men.
‘You two haven’t made up then?’ Buster asked.
‘No, Buster, and it’s got more difficult as the years moved on. You know sometimes I can’t even remember why we fell out? I think it was because I know she thinks of me as being like me Da, and I learned from a very early age that she hated me Da. Her thinking of me like that really hurt me then. It still hurts me.’
The Granny Page 13
