The Family on Paradise Pier

by Dermot Bolger

  ‘Where was he coming from at that hour?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Eva replied helplessly. ‘People can arrive from nowhere. Remember the Commander.’

  ‘Clements was on a walking tour and appeared at a respectable hour. Do you know anything about him?’

  ‘I think he’s rich.’

  ‘With a name like that he should be. His clothes are vulgar enough.’

  ‘He saw that small ad we put in The Field months ago but couldn’t remember the address. He thought we were near Pontoon Bridge and had to walk from there. He’s a keen shooter paying two guineas for two nights.’

  ‘What does he hunt? Buffalo?’

  The extra money would make Freddie pause, even though Eva knew that she could not produce it. He took her hand, with that awkwardness which characterised his efforts to be tender. ‘I’m being mean, I’m sorry. He seems a decent chap. It’s just that I worry for you when I’m away.’

  ‘He won’t be our only visitor.’ She was keen to change the subject.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Mr Devlin has invited himself to lunch and the afternoon shoot. He appears to think he has a standing invitation.’

  ‘The grocer? I may have made a remark about going shooting some time. All men are equal on the bog, or at least I feel they should be. But I’m stumped if I ever mentioned lunch…?’

  ‘He’s bringing a guest…a politician called Belton.’

  ‘Patrick Belton? That loudmouth jumped-up publican? Whatever is Devlin playing at?’

  ‘We owe him money. You can’t trade on the Fitzgerald name for ever.’

  ‘I know, but still…’ Freddie tried to see the bright side. ‘I suppose our ads do say “all welcome”. I just never envisaged the local tradesmen turning us into a curiosity shop. We must make it clear we’re not running an eating house. Still we have nobody important coming to lunch, do we?’

  ‘Just the guests.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. Nobody local need know. Thank God the MacManuses are not coming until tonight. Devlin may be content with his moment of glory and keep quiet about it.’

  Eva spared Freddie the indignity of knowing how Mr Devlin had proclaimed his intentions aloud for all of Castlebar to hear. ‘How was Dublin?’

  ‘What?’ He looked at her, still distracted. ‘Fine. Met a man from Culpepers herbal shops in London. They’re looking for people…intelligent couples.’

  She saw him watch her reaction.

  ‘I know nothing about herbs, Freddie.’

  ‘That’s what I told the blither, though he kept saying we could both learn.’ Freddie gave a chuckle. ‘Still, no matter how bad things are I hardly see us packing up for the mainland, do you?’

  ‘This is our home, Freddie.’

  ‘Aye, and we’ve the makings of a damn good business, as I told him. Things are rough at present, because, let’s face it, all the Dublin crowd want to hightail it to Galway and learn that cursed Gaelic to get civil service promotions. All we have is word of mouth among our own sort and the odd ad in Shooting Times. But I could never sell this place.’

  ‘I know, Freddie.’

  ‘Tyrrell will start inviting himself to lunch next. But I’d sooner burn this house than see a non-Fitzgerald here. The man with no property to pass on is a nobody.’

  Eva suspected that Freddie was musing on unspoken memories of his dead father. She could imagine him, younger than Francis, weighed down by the enormity of inheriting this house, with the staff muted in mourning as he poked about in this pantry as if expecting to find some trace of his father here.

  ‘It’s time I visited the young lad,’ Freddie said heartily. ‘I’ve a present, though it wasn’t easy to find.’

  Freddie was too impatient to wait for breakfast. He sent Mary up with Mr Clements’s plate and fresh tea for the guests, then strode out to the car to retrieve a long package from the back seat. Eva watched him unwrap the brown paper. She stayed back, letting the moment belong to him as he entered the nursery, with the present concealed behind his back. Francis ran to embrace him with an openness that Freddie always found uncomfortable. Hazel was less demonstrative, yet there was a natural ease between them. Francis struggled not to mention the present, politely enquiring instead about the train journey. But his eyes kept trying to glance behind Freddie’s back.

  ‘Close your eyes and put out your hands,’ Freddie said at last. The boy did so, shaking with excitement. Eva had never seen a rifle so small. It gleamed in the light. Francis’s fingers closed around the cold steel. His eyes stayed closed. She knew he was afraid to betray his disappointment. Then he opened them to look up at Freddie who seemed incapable of decoding his son’s expression.

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘Well you might,’ Freddie laughed, pleased. ‘I hunted half of Dublin for the perfect size. Remember how I measured your arm? You probably thought I was going to lumber you with a suit of clothes. There won’t be a rabbit safe on the avenue from now on.’ Freddie clapped Francis on the back, then leaned down seriously. ‘Not that this is a toy. Care and discretion must be your watchwords. Never use it outside Glanmire Wood or the Civic Guards will come after your old father. Never aim in fun at another human because that is how accidents happen. Never shoot wildly or jealously. Never grouse about bad luck or boast about your prowess. Always praise the other chap’s skill. Never try to wipe his eye, but if you take good and bad luck cheerily then you’ll be counted as a good sport.’

  Francis raised the gun to his shoulder and aimed towards the window, anxious to please his father. Freddie fussed over showing him how to wedge it into his shoulder, then squeeze the trigger gently. Eva marvelled at the ease with which Freddie could touch his son when there was a context. Mrs Crossan smiled indulgently in her dressing gown, then looked down as Hazel pulled at her sleeve.

  ‘Can I go on my pony now?’

  ‘Heavens above, child, you’ll have that poor pony’s legs worn to stumps.’ Mrs Crossan smiled at Eva. ‘They give us no peace, do they, Mrs Fitzgerald? Just give me time, child, to put my old body to rights.’

  The governess disappeared towards her own room, from which she would not emerge for another half-hour. The front door was open, with guests smoking and stretching their legs outside. Eva left Freddie with the children and returned to the basement. The passageway flagstones glistened, with Maureen waiting to start washing the kitchen floor once Brigid finished the dishes. Eva saw her peer towards the wine cellar.

  ‘Do you want me to scrub in here, mam?’

  ‘You must be tired, Maureen. Take a break. We don’t use that cellar much.’

  ‘I know, mam. They say in Turlough that the devil haunts it. Mary was telling me that the last girl to wash it saw the imprint of cloven hooves on the wet flags and her hair turned white.’

  ‘Did you believe her?’

  Maureen lowered her voice. ‘I wouldn’t believe that one, mam, if she said that saints went to heaven. God forgive me, but a curate himself wouldn’t be safe from her clutches.’

  Her voice was so conspiratorial that Eva laughed. It reminded her of Dunkineely when serving girls had wandered into her bedroom to gossip freely.

  ‘Don’t bother with the cellar,’ she said. ‘Your hair is too nice to risk it.’

  ‘How about the Yank’s bedroom, mam, whenever Mary gets finished inside it?’

  ‘How long has Mary been in there?’

  ‘Long enough to re-stuff a horsehair mattress.’

  Nervously, Eva knocked on the door and entered without waiting for a response. Gralton sat on the bed, hands protectively around his knees as if anticipating an assault. Mary hastily snatched up her duster off the window ledge.

  ‘Lord,’ Mary said sourly to Gralton as she left, ‘but you’re a great one to keep a body talking.’

  Gralton looked after her in amusement. ‘If I opened my mouth once it’s news to me,’ he told Eva. ‘She was all over me at first, practising her Yankee-speak, talking about joining
her sisters. She imagines it will all be strolls on Coney Island every evening. Then when she heard my name was Max Fortune it was like she was confronted by the devil.’

  ‘Stay out of her way,’ Eva cautioned.

  ‘I’ll stay out of everyone’s way, including your husband’s.’

  ‘He’ll be suspicious if you don’t go shooting. I told him that’s why you came.’

  The clink of a bucket alerted them to Maureen’s presence in the doorway. Gralton left and Maureen glanced after him as she got down on her knees.

  ‘That fellow may be a posh Yank,’ she remarked, ‘but he has a face like a fish not long hauled out of the Shannon. He has a Roscommon man’s nose – on the mother’s side I bet.’ She paused, remembering her place. ‘Sorry, mam, I shouldn’t be so familiar.’

  ‘You’re all right, child.’

  ‘They didn’t think so in Westport House.’

  ‘You worked there?’

  ‘We got a list of what they expected a maid to provide for herself: blue cotton dresses, white caps, black stockings. But we couldn’t afford twelve white aprons with bibs, so my mother ripped up flour sacks, boiled them and made beautiful aprons.’

  ‘What was the problem?’

  ‘On my first day the lady admired my apron and I was so proud of how Mammy made it that I told her what it really was…thinking it would be all right as she liked it. But she let me go on the spot, saying they couldn’t employ people wearing sacks. I shouldn’t be saying this, mam, with you probably knowing her.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I was thinking of Birmingham. I’ve a class of an aunt there.’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘I won’t know till I go, mam, will I?’

  Maureen splashed water on the flags and began to scrub. Eva heard a shot outside, then a scream from Hazel and angry voices. She ran out the back door and up onto the lawn. Freddie was gesticulating angrily on the avenue, while Hazel tried to remount her pony.

  ‘Miss Crossan knew I was shooting with the boy. Why did the fool of a woman let you ride down the avenue alone?’

  Eva saw Hazel’s lip quiver as she reached them, but the girl was determined to stand her ground.

  ‘I got tired waiting for Miss Crossan. She’s too slow. I told her through her door I was going out myself.’

  ‘You could have been killed.’ Freddie paused to gesture for silence and steered Francis around to face the slope of trees. ‘Under the small bush against the mossy wall,’ he whispered. ‘Aim carefully, take your time.’

  A rabbit quivered there, too terrified by the first shot to bolt further. The wall meant that she had nowhere to run except straight towards them. Francis glanced at Eva, then up at his father who nodded encouragingly. The shivering creature reminded Eva of her pet rabbit as a child. She could almost feel the fur against her face again. It seemed to take an eternity for Francis to aim, though Eva suspected that he closed his eyes as he shot. The rabbit bounced back against the wall, then fell over, paws still twitching for a few seconds although dead. The pony bolted down the avenue with Hazel chasing after it. Freddie proudly pushed Francis forward.

  ‘Pick it up,’ he ordered. ‘Your first bag with only your second shot. You’re a Fitzgerald all right, my boy. We’ll have many’s the good day’s sport on the bogs when you’re older.’

  Francis picked up the rabbit by the ears and held it out awkwardly. Eva remembered how Art’s savagery shocked her in Donegal years ago when he partook in the mass slaughter of a shoal of mackerel. She wondered if this male instinct lurked within Francis. Freddie clapped him on the back, steering him towards the house.

  ‘Mrs Crossan is a poor enough governess, you know,’ Freddie remarked as they passed Eva. ‘You might check that Hazel gets her pony. I want to show the men what a fine shot we’re raising.’

  Eva didn’t worry about the pony fleeing too far. Her daughter had an instinctive way with animals and by the time Eva found them Hazel had softly called Molly and was stroking her head, calming her. ‘We’re fine, Mummy. Molly wasn’t really scared of such a baby gun.’ Hazel tried to sound disdainful. ‘I’d be a better shot than Francis if I got the chance. Why didn’t Daddy bring me a present?’

  ‘Maybe he did and hasn’t given it yet. I’ll ask him later.’

  ‘You mean you’ll find something for him to give. Girls don’t count for Daddy, do they?’

  ‘You know Daddy loves you. He bought you Molly.’

  ‘He really bought her for Francis who was too cowardy-custard to ride her.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Eva said, though it was. As a girl she had felt similar jealousy when Art was spoiled. But Mother had established such a close bond with her that she still seemed a presence in Eva’s life. Eva remembered Art’s remark about Mother’s dream. She wondered if Hazel and she would ever feel so close. She loved her daughter absolutely, but even at this young age Eva sensed Hazel’s impatience at her vagueness of thought when the child saw the world in stark colours. Hazel mounted the pony and Eva walked alongside, letting her daughter talk away, sharing jokes and childish secrets. Yet amidst this excited chatter there seemed an invisible barrier which the girl was unaware of but Eva felt incapable of breaking down.

  On the front steps Freddie had buttonholed Gralton and was insisting on helping him select a gun.

  ‘You came via London, I take it, sir.’

  ‘In a roundabout way,’ Gralton replied, non-committally.

  ‘At least you found us, even if only for a short stay. I wish more sportsmen could be persuaded across. You might tell your acquaintances about our small establishment. Many English sportsmen would be keen to share our sport if they knew of us. But they’re cautious because sadly the old political order is gone. Recent upheavals have left a sorrow in my heart. But English sportsmen will meet with nothing but courtesy hereabouts. Oh, the Irish like their politics well spiced and blame “John Bull” for every imagined evil, but that’s mainly hot air from pulpits and newspapers. In real life they enjoy the company of Englishmen and love seeing them at their sport. I differ in religion and politics from the majority of my neighbours, yet I receive nothing but kindliness and respect. I speak as I find them, you understand, sir.’

  ‘Of course,’ Gralton replied as Eva told Hazel to bring the pony around to the stable.

  ‘In fact you will meet a good cross-section on our shoot. There’s a local tradesman I’ve asked along, if you don’t object, and a political chap called Belton.’

  ‘Patrick Belton?’ Gralton almost dropped his American accent.

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’ Freddie was surprised.

  ‘I spotted his name in one of your newspapers,’ Gralton said quickly. ‘He’s a bedfellow of that General fellow.’

  ‘O’Duffy,’ Freddie said helpfully. ‘A rum braggart who’s none too bright. But his Blueshirts enjoyed a lot of support in the recent past from big farmers whose livelihoods are destroyed by de Valera. I saw proud men beg me to shoot starving calves they have no markets for. But the politicians who united behind O’Duffy soon regretted doing so and ditched him. Not Mr Belton, who fought tooth and nail to keep him, but decent Catholics of good breeding. I hope you won’t find our other visitors too bothersome.’

  Eva understood Gralton’s look of unease. She had begun to like her reluctant guest and knew that he hated the deception they had to foist on poor Freddie. She could not imagine Freddie keeping secrets from her, beyond the extent of his binges and scale of their debts, which he regarded as indelicate matters that a gentleman should hide from his wife. Gralton’s presence reinforced how much of her life she hid from him. The abstract yearnings he would never comprehend. Her sense that another world existed, parallel to this physical one, perpetually beyond reach yet resplendent with levels of awareness if she could think clearly enough to unlock it, her dreams of previous lives that made it difficult to stay fully immersed in this one. Gralton steered the conversation away from politics by suggesting that
Freddie recommend a good gun.

  ‘You have applied for a licence to shoot?’ Freddie enquired, stooping to examine the selection he had carried outside. Gralton glanced at Eva for guidance and she nodded.

  ‘Of course. How about that gun there?’

  ‘Too heavy, sir,’ Freddie said, ‘unless you are Samson’s second cousin. Braggarts may boast about heavy weapons stopping a duck at eighty yards, but in truth they are invariably under every bird due to the weight on their shoulder. No, a light gun will do all the work you require of it…’

  Eva went indoors, leaving Gralton to extract himself. She checked how lunch was progressing, then visited the nursery. This was meant to be Francis’s reading time, but he simply lolled on the floor with an unopened book while Miss Crossan read a copy of Secrets magazine. The Capuchin Annual was obviously for night-time display in the drawing room.

  ‘How is Francis’s reading?’ she asked pointedly.

  Miss Crossan beamed. ‘He understands every word in my magazine. I made him read two articles aloud for me.’

  Eva glanced at the unsuitable cover, emblazoned with Denise Robins Replies to Readers’ Problems. The nursery was untidy, with cushions allowed to lie where they fell. Hazel entered the room and seemed immediately lulled into the prevailing lethargy. She sprawled on a chair, barely acknowledging her governess. A hint of Eva’s disapproval permeated into the elderly woman’s consciousness.

  ‘Sorry if I seem hazy today,’ she confided, woman-to-woman. ‘But the men are inclined to sit up so late talking and, especially after you retired, it didn’t seem right to have no woman of the house present in attendance if they needed anything.’

  At least Freddie was not present to hear Mrs Crossan describe herself as a woman of the house. Excusing herself Eva went out into the hall, alerted by the noise of Mr Devlin’s motor. Gralton must have slipped off because Freddie came into view alone. The Castlebar grocer got out in his best Sunday suit, though he knew they intended to go shooting. Eva suspected that Devlin lacked the confidence to dress casually. Their debt allowed him to flaunt an impression of social position, yet he would find this luncheon torture. He would stand out by trying too hard to blend in, just like Mrs Crossan stood out as an object of pity among the guests at night.