The Family on Paradise Pier

by Dermot Bolger

  The politician emerged and Freddie greeted him cordially. But Belton’s response was reminiscent of RC bishops who expected people to form a line and kiss their ring. He cast a dismissive eye over the house as Freddie led them up the steps where Mary waited to take their hats. The maid virtually genuflected before Belton. Only Freddie’s presence prevented her from giving the Blueshirt salute. Before being spotted, Eva hurried down to the kitchen, where Mrs McGrory was agitated about the number of diners, not to mention the presence of a political opponent.

  ‘I’ll do my best to stretch our provisions, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ she said. ‘But I’d advise you to set up two tables. It wouldn’t be like Mr Belton to wolf his way through an entire meal without causing a schism in whatever company he’s latched onto. Will the Yank be joining you? He skulked past a moment ago looking in no fit mood for company.’

  Gralton was deeply agitated when Eva knocked on his door. ‘I’ll not sit with Belton,’ he hissed. ‘I was better off on the bogs. Art was crazy to land me here.’

  ‘I had no idea he was coming.’

  ‘Aye, and no idea who he really is. That’s how you Protestants survive, by keeping your heads down and pretending the rest of us don’t exist.’

  ‘You’re not being fair.’

  ‘I don’t feel like being fair. I don’t feel like being bundled handcuffed onto an ocean liner. But that’s what will happen if Belton recognises me.’

  ‘Maybe he won’t.’

  ‘You could be right. Stupidity is his sole virtue. Ask Art to show you his stitches after being hit with a baton during a protest over scab labour on a Belton site. Belton pays his men worse than any other builder. He’s a vulture hopping between political parties, jumping ship when his new colleagues find him too stupid to trust with power. He has bayed for my blood in the Dail and for your brother to be shipped to Russia. If he knew you were Art’s sister he’d spit in your face.’

  Eva believed him. Her home felt violated. ‘We can’t risk him seeing you. I’ll say you have a stomach bug. I want no trouble for Freddie. He doesn’t deserve it.’

  In the kitchen Eva told Mary to serve Mr Fortune’s lunch in his room. The girl wrinkled up her nose in a gesture Eva didn’t understand.

  ‘It’s a peculiar class of a name, don’t you think, mam? Max Fortune.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, now.’ The girl made a face and resumed her work. Eva waited until the gentlemen had enjoyed a pre-lunch drink and were seated at their soup before conveying apologies from their American guest. But Gralton’s non-appearance only roused Mr Belton’s interest.

  ‘We can’t have that from a Yank good enough to spend his dollars here.’ The politician snapped his fingers at Mary. ‘You, girl, take our guest down a brandy and port for me. Tell him it would settle an elephant’s stomach and we’ll await the pleasure of his company after lunch.’

  Eva knew how the phrase ‘our guest’ hurt Freddie. Everything about Belton’s manner suggested that this luncheon was being held in his honour. Mary scurried off as Belton beamed at Freddie.

  ‘I’ve never known a Yank to refuse a drink. They’re still terrified Prohibition will return. He’s probably hung over, but the hair of the dog always cures the man. You agree, Mr Fitzgerald?’

  ‘Mr Fortune is somewhat a mystery,’ Freddie replied. ‘No one is quite sure where he came from.’

  ‘You can’t be too careful,’ Belton warned. ‘There are unsavoury types everywhere.’

  ‘The chap seems a good egg,’ the Commander interjected, politely but firmly.

  ‘Maybe so.’ Belton looked around, reluctant to yield the point. ‘But you can never tell with foreigners.’ He let the last word resonate before adding, ‘With the exception of all present, of course, as I’m sure Mr O’Sullivan and Mr Devlin will both agree.’

  ‘Of course,’ the Dublin Roman Catholic and the Castlebar grocer rejoined, uncomfortable at being singled out. Eva watched Freddie sit stony-faced, labelled a foreigner at his own table.

  ‘How exactly would you define a foreigner?’ Mr Clements’s mild tone betrayed a touch of steel on their behalf.

  Belton shrugged as if addressing an imbecile. ‘A foreigner is a foreigner and can never be anything else. Take de Valera, born a Yank and still a Yank. Only a foreigner would disgrace Ireland with his blather in the League of Nations, seeking sanctions against Signor Mussolini for liberating Abyssinia. Mussolini is Africa’s Abraham Lincoln, the only man with the courage to end the slave trade carried on there by Jewmen. De Valera wants Ireland to sit on the fence, but we won’t be silenced against Jewboys and Bolsheviks. Mussolini is a shining example to the world and if I were ten years younger I’d volunteer to stand with him in Abyssinia.’

  ‘Thankfully he did not require your help,’ Mr Clements murmured. The table had grown quiet. Mr Devlin caught Eva’s eye, then looked away.

  ‘Only a fool would think we may each not yet be called upon to fight,’ Belton retorted. ‘A festering plague is ready to sweep Europe if we allow it to take root.’

  ‘We see it in our newsreels,’ one of the Staffordshire guests said. ‘Never more so than when the Reichstag was burnt to the ground.’

  ‘And who makes your newsreels?’ Belton inquired. ‘Communists. If your writers were not communists we should not need to ban them. The plague I refer to broke out in Spain last month when the Bolsheviks seized power. It will spread unless stopped.’

  ‘“Seized power” seems an incorrect description for the results of a democratic election,’ Mr Clements commented. ‘Much as I disagree with their choice, you cannot deny that Spain’s new coalition was freely voted in by the people.’

  Belton snorted. ‘Maybe it’s time to stop paying lip service to the notion that an uneducated rabble will always get it right.’

  ‘So you propose to abolish elections, sir?’ Freddie asked.

  ‘I said no such thing.’ Mr Belton spread out his hands as Mary returned to serve lunch, starting, Eva noticed, with the politician. ‘What I’m saying – and I only reiterate the teaching of Pope Pius XI – is that Spain shows the folly of unchecked democracy allowed to run wild. I see it in Dáil Éireann – a piebald assembly, chosen by defective means, forced to grapple with the complicated task of governing a great nation. Am I right, Mr Devlin?’

  ‘What would you suggest?’ Mr Clements demanded, not allowing Devlin to convey his token acquiescence. ‘Dictatorship like in Italy?’

  ‘Italy is no dictatorship,’ Belton rejoined. ‘Or one that will last only as briefly as is necessary to bang heads together. Already it is evolving into a more subtly organised democracy which Ireland should adopt – the Corporate State.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the Commander muttered dismissively. Eva wanted to speak up, but knew that the type of society she desired would seem nonsensical to these men, except perhaps to Mr Clements.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Belton barked. ‘Don’t you agree, Devlin?’

  The shopkeeper lowered his fork. ‘Well, I can’t say I’ve rightly studied these matters.’ Devlin faltered under Belton’s gaze. ‘Still the Pope strongly favours vocationalism in his encyclical Quadragesimo Anno.’ He glanced hastily at Eva. ‘Not that our gracious hosts will have read it, of course.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ Mr Belton stated emphatically. ‘His Holiness says that the state’s primary aim must be to foster harmony between classes by the establishment of vocational groups. Nobody is suggesting a dictator for Ireland. Right, Devlin?’

  ‘Not among my old battalion anyway,’ the shopkeeper replied nervously.

  ‘Our Corporate State would be uniquely Irish, with every important trade granted a say based on its strength.’

  Belton looked at Devlin for support, but the shopkeeper stared at his untouched lunch. The Tyrone man left the table, not bothering to excuse himself. Only Belton seemed oblivious to the strained atmosphere.

  ‘Tonight I shall speak on how O’Duffy and I shall whittle away the dross and rebuild from scratch so
that our new Greenshirts will be as victorious as Germany’s Hitlershirts. No other option can save us from the Red Plague.’ He looked at Freddie. ‘You are a doubter, Mr Fitzgerald. I’ll send you James Hogan’s pamphlet, Could Ireland Become Communist, to show you how dark forces encircle this land.’

  ‘I’ll read it with interest,’ Freddie replied grimly.

  ‘Just as I read Quadragesimo Anno,’ the Commander interjected. ‘Indeed I have a copy in my room. Your Pope writes excellent Latin, far superior to my rusty grasp. But you appear so familiar with the text that perhaps if I fetch it after lunch you might translate some of the more salient passages.’

  Belton glowered at him before his eyes darted around the table. One Englishman gave a short chuckle and lowered his knife and fork to disdainfully stare back.

  ‘I came here to shoot,’ Belton said sourly.

  ‘And no better place.’ Mr Devlin was anxious to hijack the conversation. ‘I heard your lad enjoyed his first kill today, Mr Fitzgerald, with a gun especially sized for him. I wish I could find one for my boy.’

  Freddie spoke with enforced cheeriness, determined to regain control of his own table. ‘Only a bunny rabbit, Devlin, but a clean kill to the head. With a rabbit there is no point aiming for the body, as it will go clean through and allow the blither to crawl back into his burrow before you claim your supper.’

  Relieved laughter came from everyone except Mr Belton, who sulked at attention being switched away from him.

  ‘These woods are infested with rabbits,’ the Commander added. ‘Not that I hunt myself, but I’m always happy to eat them.’

  ‘The bunny is the sportsman’s standby when there’s no better shooting,’ Freddie said. ‘If it wasn’t for their penchant for diving into burrows they’d be welcome guests.’

  One of the Staffordshire man joined in with an anecdote about a wounded rabbit and Devlin ventured a story about a day’s shooting near Lough Mask. But the conversation spluttered and Eva could not recall a more awkward lunch at Glanmire House. They had safely reached pudding when Mr Devlin found the courage to risk using her husband’s first name: ‘Where do we shoot this afternoon, Freddie?’

  ‘There’s a flight line for plover over Toomore bog, Devlin. It’s wet terrain but good shooting if you’re patient.’

  ‘Plover over a bog?’ Belton snorted. ‘That’s too open. Any fool knows your best bet is to stalk them from behind a wall.’

  ‘And any fool can kill them from there!’ Gralton’s American accent was pitched to ooze money and disdain. He had surprised them by coming quietly to the doorway. ‘Plover are a sitting target in a field because they’re so slow taking off. It’s a sly man’s shot. If you’re any sort of sportsman you’ll take your chances as they skim overhead on their evening flight.’

  Despite her shock at Gralton’s appearance, Eva felt pleased for Freddie who did not hide his pleasure at seeing the politician dressed down.

  ‘I take it you’re the Yank with the weak stomach,’ Belton growled. ‘What would you know about it?’

  ‘He has a point.’ A touch of mutiny crept into Devlin’s voice.

  ‘Has he now?’ Belton’s icy eyes scrutinised Gralton. ‘You have recovered enough to join us, sir?’

  ‘I came to thank the gentleman who sent down a drink,’ Gralton replied. ‘And to apologise to my host. Sadly I have not been fully honest.’

  Eva held her breath, terrified that a revelation would shatter their tenuous hold on life here. She imagined the Civic Guards summoned, with Belton claiming credit for uncovering a nest of communist sympathisers. Every Mayo Protestant would be tarnished. Maybe Gralton had a gun behind his back, determined to take at least one enemy with him. Belton sensed her fear. He glanced at her, then back at Gralton.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘The fact is that I cannot shoot,’ Gralton said. ‘I’ve not had time to apply for a gun licence from your authorities yet.’

  ‘Gun licence be damned,’ Belton snorted. ‘Being with me is the only licence you’ll need.’

  ‘Still, I would not wish to compromise my host.’

  ‘Who the hell will compromise him?’ Belton retorted. ‘You’re a visitor in my state and it’s my duty to show you a good time. Now I’ll wager you the two pounds a licence would cost that I’ll have the heavier bag at nightfall.’

  The animosity between the men was obvious as Gralton turned to Freddie.

  ‘What do you say, Mr Fitzgerald?’

  ‘Ordinarily I’d say that a licence is a prerequisite. We try not to step outside the Irish law…’ He looked at Belton. ‘Still Mr Belton appears placed to know how things operate now. But I must warn you, the best shooting is over congested drains that are tricky to negotiate, often too wide to jump and too deep to wade through.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Gralton smiled. ‘Surely, Mr Belton, as an Irishman you will agree that the wetter the better.’

  ‘You do not strike me as dressed for the wet,’ Belton sneered.

  ‘Let’s just see who falls first.’ Gralton nodded curtly and withdrew.

  Leaving the men to their whiskey Eva followed Gralton downstairs. She saw him shiver and glance around uneasily when passing the wine cellar. He hurried into his room which Eva entered without knocking.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.

  ‘A spot of shooting as you people call it.’

  ‘Stop being condescending. We did not invite him.’

  ‘His like invite themselves. Into Abyssinia, into the Rhineland, wherever they choose to hoist their self-righteous swastika.’

  ‘You promised to cause no trouble.’

  ‘I couldn’t sit here like a fox in a hole awaiting the hounds. I decided to meet the devil head on. The murderous clouds over Europe won’t pass you Brits by as you sit buried away here, pretending that the world isn’t changing.’

  ‘I’m not British,’ Eva countered fiercely. ‘I’m as Irish as you.’

  ‘I’m British,’ Mr Clements interrupted from the doorway. ‘The clothes you wear are English or at least were made by an English exile in a tailor’s shop in the back streets of Valletta. And whatever else you are, sir, you’re no American. You may find this old hunting jacket, along with some plus fours, more suited to an Irish bog. I also have boots upstairs that might be pressed into service.’

  The two men eyed each other, before Gralton nodded.

  ‘I’m obliged.’

  ‘I’m aware of the dark clouds you mention, sir. But I had hoped they might avoid casting their shadow on this wood. Last week in London I saw Oswald Mosley address his Brownshirts. He looked impressive, articulate, quite chilling. No doubt he had decamped to his gentleman’s club by the time windows were broken in Jewish shops in the West End. I have always stayed outside clubs, and institutions. Likewise, I am only familiar with the institution of marriage as an outsider. What God has joined together let no man…’

  ‘Now, wait here…’ Gralton interrupted.

  ‘…force one partner to keep secrets, come between their trust.’

  Eva felt that the Commander was using this opportunity to speak indirectly about himself, setting out his stall as someone who – no matter what attraction he felt – would never stray from his own rules.

  ‘I’m not here of my own choosing,’ Gralton said.

  ‘I don’t wish to know the circumstances,’ Mr Clements replied, ‘or what hold you exercise over our hostess. I do know that she named you herself – Max Fortune being a character in an American thriller I once loaned her.’ The Commander bowed slightly in parting. ‘Mrs Fitzgerald is assured of my silence. Still I suggest you do not overstay your welcome.’

  As the Englishman walked down the corridor Eva recalled Mary’s disdain at the name Fortune. Could the maid have read the thriller while pretending to clean the Commander’s room?

  ‘Can you trust him?’ Gralton asked.

  ‘Can I trust you?’ Eva replied angrily. ‘What if Belton recognises you?’

/>   ‘He won’t, though we were born only twenty townlands apart.’ Gralton uncocked the gun Freddie had chosen. ‘For all his bluster the Longford peasant in him is so thrilled to lord it at the Ascendancy table that it would never occur to him he could be conned. I’m just an uppity Yank to be put in my place.’ He snapped the gun shut. ‘Trust me. Now I think your husband is calling you.’

  Freddie’s agitated voice came from upstairs. Eva didn’t want to be found. Something in Gralton’s manner made her unsure if she could trust him. It would be prudent to tell Freddie the truth before he unwittingly took this fugitive onto a bog with a target to aim at. But her deception since this morning would destroy Freddie’s trust.

  She felt unable to cope as she heard him descend the stairs. Darting out the back door, she skirted past the drawing room window with its babble of male voices and into the woods.

  Belton stood smoking on the front step. Mary hovered behind him, seeking the courage to approach. From behind a tree Eva watched the maid hesitantly touch his shoulder. Belton bent down to listen and Eva held her breath, terrified at what the maid might reveal. Belton straightened up and said something that caused Mary to step back as if slapped and retreat into the house. Eva skirted through the wood and emerged onto the avenue, spying Francis standing alone at the spot where he had shot the rabbit. She watched him stare at the blood-soaked moss.

  ‘Are you okay, Francis?’

  Surprised, the boy turned. ‘Yes, Mummy.’

  ‘Do you like your present?’

  ‘Daddy says I’ll be as good a shot as him one day.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  The child hesitated. ‘Do you think the rabbit was a mummy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Won’t the small rabbits be wondering where she is?’

  Eva resisted the urge to put her arms around him. It didn’t seem right to interfere. Francis was a Fitzgerald in name at least and Freddie kept insisting that he needed to toughen up.

  ‘Young rabbits can mind themselves,’ she lied. ‘They don’t have families like ours except in Beatrix Potter.’