"I will do my best, my Lord."
Eric nodded, smiling at Alfred. He patted him on the shoulder.
"You're a good man," he said, and with that he walked out of the room.
Frances took a bite of her second slice of toast. It was cold and she realized she wasn't that hungry anymore. She put it down and picked up her teacup. She sipped her tea and stared out of the window. After a time, she reached over for Eric's newspaper and opened it up to read about the ongoing problems the Irish were having. She eagerly hoped her feelings and intuition were wrong about the problems spilling over onto England.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Bishops Avenue
THE three men were sitting in Baron Marphallow's smoking room. Marphallow was smoking on a large cigar. It suited him. For he was a large and rotund man with a ruddy hue that was only outshone by the lit end of his cigar. Lord Paussage was there too. He was standing with a cigarette in one hand and a tumbler of whisky in the other. Lord Loughty was standing with his back to both men. His tumbler of whisky was on the table in front of him. The whisky told him everything he needed to know.
It was not Irish whisky. It was Scottish. And Marphallow had reminded him of that at least twice when it had been handed over. Paussage smirked at that. And Loughty's Irish eyes were no longer smiling.
He had been invited here, by Marphallow. Under what was now seen as a pretense. It had seemed that Marphallow had wanted to have an earnest and probing conversation with him over the Irish problem as everyone was calling it. Of course, no one had listened to him originally when he had voiced his concerns, and debate in the House had taken a decidedly acerbic tone towards the Irish. Loughty had thought Marphallow wanted to engage in reasoned conversation this evening. Away from the tempers and the outbursts. Only it wasn't to be.
Loughty picked up his tumbler and turned to face the other two men. Paussage was looking down at Marphallow who sat like a wet slug on a large couch. His face was damp with sweat. Marphallow brought the whisky to his lips and drank from it as if it were cooled tea. He made a scene of smacking his lips.
"Good Scottish whisky isn't it, Loughty?" he said, looking at the Irishman earnestly.
Loughty looked at Marphallow for a while trying to determine if the man was trying to stoke his Irish temper or if Marphallow was just ignorant. He chose to believe the latter.
"For a Scotsman's tea it's not bad," said Loughty with a straight face.
Marphallow laughed and slapped his thigh, ash falling on the couch like the dry leaves from a dead tree.
"You Irish sure do have a temper," said Marphallow.
"Aye, that's the truth," said Paussage with a Scottish accent. Though he was a Scotsmen his accent was not thick unless he liked it to be. Loughty raised his glass at Paussage.
"You make this tea then?" he asked.
The Scotsman had no retort, but his skin flushed hot and red as the lit end of his own cigarette. He puffed on it looking through the smoke at Loughty with eyes as hard and dead as grey marbles. Loughty met his stare over the rim of his own tumbler. If truth be told he'd be hard pressed to determine the origin of a whisky just by taste. Others might. But they'd be the ones with big red bulbous noses. Perhaps like Paussage, he thought.
"You Irish don't know how to make a proper whisky," said Paussage after some time. "It's the Scots that invented it."
"Not actually true," said Loughty, "the Irish invented whisky. But if it helps you to sleep at night, believe what you will."
"I'll wager you a hundred bob," said Paussage.
Loughty smiled at him.
"I thought you were a Lord," he said. "Let's talk real money. How about fifty pounds? One thousand bob."
"I'd make it ten thousand bob just to see the look on your face," said Paussage.
"The look on my face will be no different. I take no pleasure in taking money from fools."
Loughty smiled at Paussage and offered him his hand to shake. Paussage put his cigarette in his mouth and shook Loughty's hand. It was a hard squeeze, but not hard enough to be threatening.
"If you two gamblers have finished having your fun, I did actually bring you both here to discuss the Irish problem."
The two of them broke off their handshake and stood facing Marphallow.
"I told you last week that there'd be problems," said Loughty.
"Yes," answered Marphallow, "and nobody likes a braggart."
"Incidentally," he continued, "a week isn't much time to prepare based on your thoughts and feelings at the time."
Loughty didn't answer that.
"You know how I feel," said Paussage.
Marphallow nodded.
"You feel the same as most of us on the government's side. But we must listen to all voices. Must we not?"
It was a rhetorical question, but Paussage felt obliged to answer it.
"I don't see why we must."
Paussage was beginning to get under Loughty's skin. He didn't like the man. He hated his arrogance and his high opinion of himself. He didn't feel much differently towards Marphallow. The fat wet frog that sat squat in front of him.
"Yes, well, I think we should listen to Loughty. He does have good ideas sometimes," said Marphallow.
"He's just going to tell us the very same thing he told us last time," said Paussage.
"Can I speak for myself?" interjected Loughty.
Paussage went over to the whisky bottle which was on a table behind Marphallow. It was a light rusty brown color, not dissimilar to the whisky.
"Please go ahead," said Marphallow.
Loughty looked down at his tumbler which had less whisky in it than you'd need to drown a fly.
"Fact is, the IRM is using these tactics because they don't believe they're being heard. If they felt they were being heard, I rather doubt they'd be up to this sort of business."
Paussage returned with a half full tumbler of whisky. Marphallow was nursing his, likely because he'd had a couple before Loughty and Paussage had arrived.
"Do you speak for the IRM because you know them or because you're a part of them?" asked Paussage.
Paussage was getting courageous under the influence of the whisky. He was becoming more unlikeable with each passing minute and Loughty was worried what he might do if he overstayed his welcome, which was pretty much up.
"I am a watcher of human interactions. It is plain as day if you had any common sense that a reasonable man does not resort to violence if his grievances are being aired."
"You ask the government to put itself in a difficult position," said Marphallow, trying to break apart the two sparring partners. "If we start to negotiate with terrorists will it not just create an ugly precedent for others with grievances to start off violently rather than peacefully?"
"I don't think that will be much of a problem. Not if this issue is handled sensitively and quickly."
"I don't agree," said Paussage. "Treating violent men with pacifism is just asking for England to be treated as a door mat. We will have all sorts of disenfranchised banging down our doors in no time. We will be at war with all sorts of factions if we don't quell this Irish nonsense right away."
"It is not Irish nonsense," said Loughty, raising his voice. "The Irish have elected many members from Ceann Daoine to Parliament. They are requesting a voice in their own governance."
"Yes, indeed," shouted Paussage back, "the very same Ceann Daoine that is the puppet of the IRM. Ha!"
Paussage tossed his head back in contempt.
"Ceann Daoine has distanced themselves from the IRM," said Loughty, "everyone knows that."
"That may well be the case," said Marphallow, "but that is political talk. Nobody here can take them seriously at their word. Even you Loughty, can see through that if you're honest with yourself."
Loughty lowered his head and then drained the rest of his whisky. There was no drowned fly in it. Though he would have liked to have drowned Paussage.
"Very well," Loughty said at last. "I'll grant
you that. But that does not mean that more reasonable heads won't prevail if we meet them halfway."
"Now you're admitting that Ceann Daoine is indeed just a political front for the IRM and you want us to believe that sitting down with terrorists is the solution to our problems," said Paussage. "I will not grant you that. The way you deal with any terrorist is the way you deal with bullies generally. You hit them hard and you hit them where it hurts."
"And where exactly is that?" asked Loughty, "they live and work amongst the Irish people."
"I believe His Majesty's Government has means to ferret the rats from their hoary dens. And if not, I can't say I'd shed a tear if we just razed the whole island," said Paussage.
Loughty looked at him. He was hot. He squeezed his empty tumbler just a little too hard.
"What did you say?" he asked.
They were interrupted by a woman entering the smoking room. She was rather plain. A dusty blond with her hair put up in a bun. She wore light makeup and a long dress. What she lacked in natural beauty she made up in a curvy figure. Her name was Agnes and she was Marphallow's wife. She was in her late twenties. Much younger than Marphallow. She had married him for money. That was as plain as the rain in Spain.
Agnes came up to Marphallow and kissed him on the cheek.
"I'm off to bed, Chris," she said, trying to cajole a stingy warmth out of her voice.
She looked over at Paussage and smiled curtly, though her look lingered longer than it needed to. She broke eye contact from him and briefly looked at Loughty before returning her gaze to her husband.
"Alright, dear," said Marphallow. "Good night."
She smiled at him and looked over at Paussage who nodded at her. Then she looked at Loughty.
"Good night," he said, as he smiled.
Agnes turned around and walked out of the room. The men were silent until she had left. Paussage was the first to break the silence.
"You are a lucky man," he said to Marphallow, though he looked at the now closed door and sipped his whisky.
"Indeed," said Marphallow.
Silence strolled around the room like a cold breeze. Loughty turned and put his tumbler on the table opposite Marphallow. He'd had enough of the Scotsman's tea, and he didn't need to push his temper any further with what might come of another drink. He turned back around. He breathed deeply and tried his best to put his best face forward. There was no harm at this stage in pleading, if it would help salvage some peace from these difficult times.
"Creating a martyr of one, or of many for that matter, will only encourage greater unhappiness with England and the crown. You don't win friends by rubbing their noses in the dirt," said Loughty.
Paussage took a sip of his whisky.
"We're not trying to win friends," said Paussage, "we're just trying to keep peace in the country."
Loughty looked at him but didn't say anything.
"Listen, Larmer," said Marphallow, trying to comfort the tall man with his first name, "I don't see how we can allow such atrocities to go unpunished. Listen, I'm all for dialogue and negotiation, but the IRM and their foot soldiers need to put an end to the terrorism first. I just don't see another way."
Loughty shook his head.
"Look at it this way. Pretend that the IRM is a younger sibling. It's up to the older one to act more like the adult. England needs to make the first move to hearing them out. That's all they want. They just want to be heard."
"Yes, and to break free from our United Kingdom," said Paussage.
"And what's wrong with that?" asked Loughty.
"What's wrong with that is that we have English men and women living in Ireland who would not vote for it. And we have Irish men and women living in Ireland who would not vote for it, and we must protect them from the uninformed masses who would bring Ireland to her knees."
"And I suppose you know what's best for Ireland?" asked Loughty.
Paussage smirked at him.
"The Government knows what's better for Ireland," said Paussage.
"You pompous bastard," said Loughty, before collecting himself.
Marphallow raised his hand that held his cigar. The ash was growing long on it.
"Gentlemen," he said as if he were scolding schoolchildren, "this sort of language isn't going to get us anywhere. Your anger will get the better of you, Loughty, if you allow it. It is the one thing does not endear me to the Irish."
Loughty closed his eyes and clenched his jaw in frustration.
"Paussage here is just trying to goad me. And has it ever occurred to any of you that the Irish have a temper because they've been bullied by the English for so long."
"A savage, uncultured people do not understand anything that is not accompanied by the bite of the whip," said Paussage. "You thick micks don't want to help yourselves so we have to do it for you."
Loughty walked up to Paussage. It was a quick five steps. Before he knew what had hit him, Loughty's fist had smacked him right on the nose. Paussage stumbled backwards, his arms flailing and his tumbler tumbling through the air spilling whisky like an incontinent man's dribbles, before smashing to pieces on the floor.
"You ever call me a mick again and I'll smack you back into last year, you limey arse," spat Loughty.
He turned to leave but before he did, he looked at Marphallow.
"You brought me here under false pretenses. You have no desire to sit down with Ceann Daoine. It will be the death of you. I swear, this is just the beginning of what you think the Irish problem is."
Loughty spun around and stormed out of the house, grabbing his coat and slamming the door after himself before the butler had a chance to do it for him.
Marphallow sat, squat as ever, smoking his cigar and looking through the space that Loughty had just recently stood in. On his right, Paussage cursed the whole of Ireland and the Irish people. He clutched a white handkerchief to his bleeding nose.
"This is why we cannot sit down with those bastards," he said.
Marphallow nodded, still not looking at him.
"I quite agree," he said, blowing smoke from his mouth.
CHAPTER SIX
Kilburn London
THERE'S an old pub in Kilburn, London. It's called The Loyal Beagle. Some say it's the first Irish pub on English soil. What's not in disagreement is how long it's been there. It's been in the same location since 1579. It's a plain looking house with a red tiled roof. The roof used to be thatch. But thatch has a tendency to catch fire and it did in early September of 1666, but it had nothing to do with the Great Fire that engulfed London at the time. A disgruntled Englishman having had one too many and being kicked out tossed a lit rag soaked in oil onto the roof. And that is how The Loyal Beagle lost its first thatch roof.
More importantly related to our story is the fact that The Loyal Beagle is an Irish pub. An Irish pub on English soil during a time of tension. It had been built back in 1579 by the owner of Red Beagle Whisky which at the time was called Red Beagle Irish Whisky. Already during the sixteenth century, the Scots were trying to make a name for themselves as whisky producers and connoisseurs. And they were making good headway. The Irish had in fact rested on their laurels, comfortable in the knowledge that they were the first to have produced this heavenly elixir. But Jarlath Sheenan had a different idea. He wanted to expand his business. Give the Scots a run for their money with what was arguably the best whisky in the world at the time, Red Beagle Irish Whisky.
But all that history is of little relevance. On the evening of 22 November 1920 The Loyal Beagle pub was busy. And it wasn't just whisky that was on the menu. In a dark corner of the pub around a well worn and gnarled table that might have been as old as the building itself, sat four men. They were Irishmen. And it wasn't just the half empty bottle of Red Beagle Whisky that sat in the middle of the table. No, it was their accents and their conversation.
Lorcan Sheenan took a sip of the whisky in his tumbler and licked his lips. He was a fat man. Well fed with thick curly grey hair that
ended in mutton chops around his jowls. He was in his early fifties. He was dressed well. You could tell he had money. He was a direct descendant of Jarlath and the current proprietor of The Loyal Beagle. Though you wouldn't know it for he was seldom here. He had come down however, for a pressing matter. He spent most of his time in Dublin where the Red Beagle distillery was.
"You can't just walk on into Bishops Avenue," said Sheenan, "and not expect to be noticed."
A thin, gangly man looked at Sheenan and held his tumbler steady on the table.
"Well, we can't let Lord Marphallow squeeze us dry as we try to do business with Quinn and his lads," he said.
"That's not what I'm suggesting Niall," said Sheenan.
Niall Braden was Lorcan's right hand man and most trusted confident. He was in his seventies and had served with Lorcan's father. Nobody could be more trusted than Niall.
The other two men at the table looked at each other and sipped their whisky quietly. They hadn't said much. They were dressed a little rougher than the other two. Rumor had it that they served with the IRM. They had an intimate friendship with violence which was written in plain language across both their faces.
"Perhaps we can see what Oran and Padraig have to say on the matter," offered Niall.
Lorcan clenched his lips together and nodded slowly. He took another sip of his whisky and then looked over at the man to his left. This was Oran.
"You're familiar with these sorts of delicate matters. What do you suggest."
"My recommendation would be to get rid of the problem," he said plainly.
Lorcan squinted.
"What do you mean by get rid of the problem?"
"Exactly like I says. Make it permanent. This chap here doesn't listen to you, so you've got to get rid of him. Plain and simple."
"Oran, you're talking about a Baron here. There will be questions asked. You can't just make a man like that disappear."
Oran smiled at Lorcan.
"Sure you can. Done it before. And it makes no difference to me if he was the King of England. Just the same."
The Baron at Bishops Avenue Page 4
