Agitatedly, Amiss grabbed the phone. ‘Seoirse, Seoirse. Are you there?’ He switched off. ‘He’s gone. That’s it then. We won’t have MOPE. And after all the trouble I went to persuade them to come.’
The baroness rolled her eyes upwards. ‘God save me from half-witted, credulous liberals. Of course MOPE will come. They never want to stay out of anything. It’s just that they seek every concession they can get by playing rough with appeasing simpletons like you. Smack of firm government, that’s what these sods need. Pity we abolished national service. That would have sorted them out.’
‘Is not the problem that the military wing of MOPEdom has gone in for a form of national service which has involved them murdering people like you?’
She waved her hand dismissively. ‘I’d like to see them try.’
‘Don’t tempt fate, Jack. They have friends who just might.’
Chapter Two
‘Step on it,’ barked the the baroness, as Amiss drove out of Dublin airport. ‘I want to be in the west by mid-afternoon. Things to show you.’
‘There isn’t much I can do, Jack. The bloke in front isn’t taking the hint.’
‘Hint? Hint? You don’t hint with wankers like that. Flash your lights, beep your horn and frighten him into the slow lane.’
‘Bugger off, Jack.’
She stuck out her lower lip. ‘I’ll drive.’
‘We’ve had that conversation,’ said Amiss wearily. ‘I think having you charged with drunk and reckless driving wouldn’t be a good start to our Irish sojourn.’
She looked mutinous. ‘The Irish have never bothered about that sort of stuff in my experience. But have it your own way. I’ll go to sleep. Wake me at Athlone and we’ll buy a picnic.’ And before Amiss could say ‘Picnic?’ she had begun to snore heartily.
***
She woke instantly when he nudged her and sat bolt upright. ‘Right. Let’s get going. There’s a lot to buy.’
‘Like what? Can’t this be simple?’
‘It will be simple. I don’t want a heavy lunch. Some soused herring, a knuckle of ham and good bread and cheese. And of course a decent claret.’
‘I don’t like soused herring.’
‘Nonsense. Of course you do. Now, come on, we can’t hang around all day.’
‘Okay, Jack. Get what you like. Just find me a substitute for soused herring. I’ve got to listen to messages and make some phone calls.’
‘Why didn’t you make them in the car?’
‘Because I’m a law-abiding Englishman and therefore switched off my mobile phone for the duration.’
‘How quaint. All right, come along and you can hang around outside the shop gabbling away to your heart’s content.’
By the time the baroness had stormed in and out of three shops—emerging each time to expostulate and shout ‘ridiculous’—Amiss was leaning against a window gazing ahead of him in dull despair. He cried in pain when she dug him in the ribs. ‘Why are you looking like a stuffed gannet?’
‘Because no fewer than twelve people have left crisis messages, I’ve rung only three and everything’s falling apart. Even your co-chairman’s dropped out pleading illness and Dublin claims it can’t replace him. I need to ring them all back and all I really want to do is throttle them. Except Simon Gibson, who sounds as furious as I do.’
‘You’ll have to wait till we’ve solved this much more serious crisis. This is utterly ludicrous. I don’t know what these people live off but they don’t appear to have the simplest everyday foodstuffs. No soused herrings, the cold meat is in plastic packages and the cheese is all factory-made. I pointed out that this country nowadays exports excellent cheese and was told they wouldn’t know about that and what’s wrong with processed cheese anyway? All this guff I’ve heard about Celtic Tigers and Ireland now being a haven for gourmets is obviously Hibernian codswollop. The only decent stuff they’ve got is brown bread.’
Amiss was beginning to feel peckish. ‘Can’t we settle for some sub-standard food of the kind that ordinary people survive on, Jack? I’d be happy with some ham and a piece of lettuce. Even some industrial cheese.’
‘Certainly not. Can’t have you ruining your digestive system by eating muck. I’ve got bread, some good radishes and a few tomatoes. That’ll have to do. Let’s go in here and get salt and butter.’
To Amiss’ relief, she grumblingly accepted that in the absence of a salt-grinder, there was no point in demanding sea salt. Butter, however, proved an unexpected problem. They stood in front of the large dairy cabinet for perhaps three minutes before Amiss said finally. ‘There just isn’t any butter here. Only pseudo-butter.’
‘That’s impossible.’ She charged over to the cashier. ‘Where’s the butter?’
‘In the cabinet,’ said the assistant, with the air and enunciation of one dealing with a foreign mental defective.
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Yes, it is.’
She stomped back to Amiss. Together they perused every label until she became incandescent with frustration, stormed back to the cash desk and bellowed in her most intimidating tone, ‘Young woman, my companion and I have read the labels of a dozen packages claiming to contain nearly-butter or almost-butter or fat-free butter or other abominations. The one substance missing is straightforward butter. You know what I mean. The kind the United Kingdom buys tons of from you every year.’
The young woman transferred her chewing gum from one cheek to another and stared at her contemptuously. ‘Is that so? Well, mam, the way it is is this. In Ireland, that’s butter.’
Defeated and routed, the baroness stormed from the shop. ‘Christ,’ she shouted at Amiss. ‘That one lives up to the bloody Celtic stereotype all right. Get the rhetoric right and bugger reality. Take me to the river.’
‘I don’t want to take you to the river. May I remind you that it’s October and cold. And what’s more I have to deal with all these messages about cancellations and substitutions and demands for this, that and the other and all the rest of the crap.’
‘The sun’s shining,’ she interrupted, ‘and I want to sit and ruminate by clear running water. Carpe diem and all that. Go on. You’ll like it. Stop behaving like a grumbling old granny.’
‘Twenty-four hours with you, and Job would turn into a moaning Minnie,’ he said, as he switched on the engine.
***
The spot that eventually took the baroness’ fancy was in a field with several dozen cattle. ‘Is any of those a bull, do you think?’ asked Amiss nervously.
‘Very likely,’ she said carelessly. ‘Pass over the bag.’
‘Are you good with bulls?’
‘Yup. Important thing to do is to show no fear and bop them on the nose if they’re troublesome.’
‘Has anyone ever accused you of bravado?’
‘Yes, oddly enough. Can’t think why.’
She began to remove packages from the bag.
‘I’m looking forward to the claret.’
‘Wasn’t any worth buying. Got bottled Guinness instead. Wish I’d some oysters to go with it.’
‘I don’t like Guinness,’ wailed Amiss. ‘It’s too bitter.’
‘It’s that or nothing.’
‘Shit. All right. Pass me a bottle.’
The baroness rummaged vigorously, disinterred two bottles and handed one over.
‘Did you buy an opener?’
‘No. I thought you’d be able to open them with your teeth. I would, except that one of my front ones is capped.’
‘I don’t open bottles with my teeth, Jack. Surely by now you’ve grasped that I’m too effete to do any of those manly deeds in which you specialise. Perhaps we should swap genders.’
‘You’re useless.’ She heaved herself up with some difficulty and marched with her bottle to the wall that sheltered the field from the road. Amiss followed and looked on with interest as she sought first to lever and then, with increasing impatience, to knock off the cap with the help of a sharp stone.
‘Why don’t you pretend you’re in the real Wild West and just break it off?’ he enquired genially.
She pretended not to hear and struggled on until a man appeared from behind a tree, leaned over the wall and observed, ‘You’ll do yourself harm if you don’t take care.’
‘Have you got an opener by any chance?’ asked the baroness.
‘Yerra, why would I be needing a yoke like that? Pass your bottle over here, missus.’ Expertly, he tapped the top of the bottle against a stone and the cap flew off, followed by a substantial quantity of foaming stout. ‘Grab that fast now and have a quick slug before you lose the whole works.’ Amiss smiled triumphantly at the baroness and passed his bottle over for the attention of their new friend.
‘I suppose ye’ll be admiring them fine heifers,’ he enquired, as he handed the opened bottle to Amiss.
‘Oh, yes indeed.’
‘Well, do you see that one kicking the sods over its back with its front feet?’ Amiss and the baroness looked in the direction in which he was pointing. ‘Now that lad happens to be a bull, and he’s as big and mad as the Brown Bull of Cooley himself. I’d say if you don’t get yeer bodies out of that field, ye’ll be dead to the heel. Give us yer hand, missus, and I’ll give ye a yank up.’
As several tons of bull detached himself from the herd, put his head down and began to run, the baroness and Amiss dropped their bottles and cleared the wall together.
***
After they had left the pub and the baroness had finished knocking out her pipe, with elaborate courtesy, their saviour assisted her into the car. ‘God bless you, mam, and may you never see a poor day.’
‘Long life to you, Mr Finnegan. May you never see your wife a widow.’
‘And may you be the mother of a bishop.’
‘That’s pushing it, Mr Finnegan. But I’ll look into it.’
‘Well, that was enjoyable, anyway,’ she said, exchanging enthusiastic waves with Finnegan as Amiss drove her away. ‘At least the Irish understand about pubs.’
‘I hadn’t come across a pub-cum-undertakers before.’
‘All the best Irish pubs are pubs-cum-something or other—grocers, hardware stores or whatever.’
‘It was kind of him to fetch us that ham and brown bread.’
‘I think after four pints and the whiskey chasers he probably feels he got the best of the bargain.’
‘Blimey, did he have that much?’
‘Indeed he did. While you were outside gabbling he was putting the black and the amber stuff away like billy-o. I think our modest sandwiches must have cost close on twenty quid in the end. But well worth it. He was most amusing on the subject of Irish politics, didn’t you think?’
‘Missed most of it. He doesn’t seem keen on politicians.’
‘No. Decidedly negative. I liked the bit where he said, “Celtic Tiger? Celtic Tiger my arse! Celtic Chancers the lot of them, that’s what them hoors are.”’
‘Did you pick his brains on cultural sensitivities?’
‘Well, as you might have noticed, I picked up a few cheery rural greetings from him. But on the wider issue of cultural sensitivities on this island, he takes a rather simple view. “Missus,” he said, as he reached for his third pint, “God forgive me but them northerners are all gobshites of the first order.” “Do I take it that you are less than keen on a United Ireland?” I asked. “I don’t give a shite if we have a United Ireland,” he confided. “As long as it has no effect whatsoever on the twenty-six counties.”’
‘I’m not sure that I follow that.’
‘I think he means that he’ll allow the island to be united on the understanding that this should have no deleterious effect on taxes, politics or jobs and that all the northern gobshites will stay confined to the six counties. I see his logic, though I foresee some technical difficulties.’
‘Did you put any of them to him?’
‘I made a small attempt. He responded by laughing uproariously, calling for another round and announcing “No one can tell what he’s able to do till he tries, as the duck said when she swallowed a dead kitten.”’
‘How droll,’ said Amiss. The Sailor’s Hornpipe sounded. ‘Oh, God.’ He braked. ‘Hello. Yes…I see…Nice to hear from you. Yes, got that. Spelled with a “y”…No…Yes…Yes…Indeed…Yes…How interesting…No, I don’t think so, Wyn…Oh, really?…Yes, I do understand…Well, yes, but…’
‘Hurry up or we’ll never get there,’ shouted the baroness.
‘Yes, Wyn…Yes, yes…Look, I’m really sorry, and I’d love to talk, but I’m in a meeting…Yes…Quite…Give me your number and I’ll ring you later…Yes…Yes…Got it…Yes, it is an unusual number…Yes, yes…Of course…So do I…Yes…Sorry, I’ve really got to go…Yes…Yes…Sorry, must dash. Speak to you soon…Bye.’
He slumped into his seat. ‘Christ. I thought she’d never shut up.’
‘Who?’
‘Our Welsh representative.’
‘What do you expect from Wales except windbags?’
They set off again and within a couple of hundred yards encountered a crossroads. ‘Do I go right or left here, Jack? Where are we off to anyway?’
She peered at the signpost. ‘Left. We’re going on a trip down memory lane to stay with my mother’s cousins. The Micks pretty well rubbed out the Anglo-Irish so I’d thought I’d take you to one of the last outposts.’
‘Which is?’
‘County Galway. Knocknasheen, where my cousins live.’
‘Oh good. What’s it like?’
‘Don’t be so inquisitive. You’ll see in due course.’ She paused. ‘There’s just one thing.’ She paused irresolutely and drummed her fingers on the dashboard.
‘What is it, Jack? If I didn’t know you better I’d think you were embarrassed.’
‘Am a bit.’ She cleared her throat. ‘There’s the business of my name.’
‘Yes?’
‘Bit of an altercation with Cousin Lavinia. Won’t stand for “Jack.” Never would. What was good enough for my parents was good enough for her, she’s always said.’
‘You’re afraid of your cousin Lavinia? My admiration for her knows no bounds.’
Coyly, the baroness scratched her left calf with her right foot. ‘Lavinia was a bit of a ring-leader when we were gels and anyway she’s several years older. Old habits require me to do a bit of kowtowing. I won’t be smoking either.’
Amiss beamed. ‘How wonderful! At last I get to call you “Ida.”’
‘You most certainly do not. If you think Lavinia would approve of a whippersnapper like you calling me by my Christian name you’ve another thing coming. If you want to call me anything you call me “Lady Troutbeck.” Be grateful I didn’t stipulate “ma’am.”’
‘Fine, fine. And what do I call them?’
‘You call Lavinia “Miss FitzHugh” and her younger sister “Miss Grace.” Now get going or we’ll be late for what passes for dinner. And tell me about your latest crises.’
The Sailor’s Hornpipe rang out. Amiss dithered for a moment and then said ‘The hell with the law’ and picked up the phone. ‘Hello…Oh, hello, Saoirse. Is Seoirse’s problem sorted out?…What?…You’re not serious…No, I’m not showing disrespect. I just can’t see the point…Oh, he did, did he?…Well if you say so…I’ll do my best…Yes, yes. My very best…I understand…Goodbye.’ He switched off the phone and put his foot on the accelerator. ‘That was MOPE again—Saoirse MacGabhain.’
‘What sort of a name is that?’
‘Simon tells me it means Freedom Smith.’
‘These Micks call themselves by impossible names on purpose just to be annoying.’
‘That may be, but what’s bothering me is what Saoirse has just demanded.’
‘What?’
‘Simultaneous interpretation from Irish.’
‘Tell him to fuck off.’
‘It’s a her. And I can’t. Apparently the Irish government have been on to our lot and it’s been agree
d that this should be done as a mark of cultural sensitivity.’
‘But there isn’t anyone left in Ireland who doesn’t understand English, is there?’
‘Of course not, but unless Saoirse is lying to me, officialdom has caved in and I’ve got to find an interpreter.’
‘Get me whatever pusillanimous dickhead in the Northern Ireland Office is responsible for this,’ bellowed the baroness.
Amiss stopped the car and made a call. ‘Damn. Simon isn’t there. Are you sure you want me to find the perpetrator? What about Knocknasheen?’
‘Knocknasheen can wait.’
Five phone calls later Amiss passed the phone across to her: ‘It’s Crispin Egglington. He confirms Saoirse’s account of their agreement.’
‘What sort of a pillock are you?’ was her opening gambit, followed a moment or two later by, ‘Has the elementary truth not sunk in that every time you give in to a lunatic MOPE demand they return to their Grievance Sub-committee to think up a few more…Certainly not…Damn sure it isn’t coming off my budget.’ Her voice rose. ‘You can bloody well provide the interpreter. If you want to waste money on half-witted cosmetic gestures which set precedents that will haunt our grandchildren, do so. But don’t expect me to help…No, I don’t care. If you want a bloody interpreter find a bloody interpreter.’
She handed the phone back to Amiss. ‘That should have sorted out the craven little cretin.’
Amiss winced. ‘Crispin? You still there…Yes, I know…Yes, she is. Very. But then she was your choice…No, sorry…I’d never hear the end of it. I’m sure you’ll be able to sort it with Dublin. Borrow one of theirs, perhaps?…Really? Well, well, life’s full of these little ironies isn’t it. Sorry, must rush. Bye.’
He grinned. ‘Crispin says he doubts if the Irish can provide an interpreter easily. Seeing they all speak English all the time they have hardly any on the payroll.’
He switched on the engine and put his foot on the accelerator. The baroness was quivering with rage. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘So what we’re actually doing is providing an interpreter to translate speeches into Irish for the benefit of a collection of people, most of whom can speak no Irish, at the behest of a gaggle of citizens of the United Kingdom who wish to join a state which never uses Irish anyway. Fine. Sets the tone for the whole weekend if you ask me.’
Anglo-Irish Murders Page 2
