Offshore Islands

by John Francis Kinsella

The country club was set in a magnificent park, the club house surrounded by finely trimmed lawns and huge old trees. It had been the residence of an Anglo-Irish titled family for two centuries until it had been sold off by their descendants for the comforts and amenities of Kensington, by a generation whose fortunes were slowly declining and who had sought an escape from the isolation of provincial Ireland. The estate had been transformed into a country club hotel for the upper class county people and wealthy visiting Americans searching for their roots.

  Kennedy parked his car near the ornamental fountain and they walked the last fifty yards or so to the reception, admiring the shrubs in full blossom.

  “Good morning Mr Kennedy, Sir,” said the doorman lifting his peaked hat, “and how are you today?”

  “Hello there Tom, fine and you?”

  They walked to the bar where three or four of the regulars nodded to him.

  “Fine day Pat,” one of them said through his tobacco stained teeth that clenched a briar pipe.

  “Meet Tony Arrowsmith, over from Paris for a few days.”

  “Nice to meet you Tony, welcome to Limerick.”

  Arrowsmith returned the greeting and they walked over to a table and settled themselves into a couple of heavy leather armchairs. The room had a high carved ceiling, the walls were hung with old oil paintings in heavy gilt frames of long gone country gentlemen, a clock chimed the quarter. There was an air of timelessness, of a life style that had barely moved in more than half a century.

  Arrowsmith admired the landscaped gardens from the window, above the sky was still very patchy, the clouds moved quickly as if to escape from the dark shadows of the showers that he could see slanting down a few miles away over the green hills.

  “I asked John Mulligan to join us for a drink,” said Kennedy.

  “Oh!”

  “Yes, he’s with the National Investment Board,” he replied innocently.

  “He’s a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, we went to the same school together in Limerick City, the Christian Brothers’ school.”

  “I suppose everybody knows everybody here.”

  “You could say that.”

  “What’ll you have Tony.”

  “I’ll stick with the whisky.”

  “Look here’s John,” said Kennedy rising from his armchair as he saw Mulligan enter with the doorman who pointed him in their direction.

  Mulligan looked about forty, perhaps a bit younger thought Arrowsmith remembering he had been at school together with Pat. His hair had a boyish cut and his face was open, maybe a little serious.

  “Hallo there John, let me introduce you to Tony Arrowsmith.”

  “Nice to met you Sir,” he replied with a friendly but somewhat stiff professional smile.

  He sat down and Kennedy made a sign to the barman and ordered the drinks.

  “So you’re over for a few days then,” said Mulligan with an inquiring smile.

  “That’s right, call me Tony. Pat told me a lot of nice things about Limerick and convinced me to come and taste the good life.”

  “It’s your first time in Limerick?”

  “Yes, my mother’s side of the family is from Dublin, well, further south, Kilkenny to be exact.” Arrowsmith informed him, not to knowledgeable on the details of Irish geography.

  “Nice part of the country.”

  The chatted exchanging background information sipping their drinks while Pat sat back in self satisfaction pleased to let them get to know each other.

  “What are your plans for the next few days then Tony?”

  “Well Pat’s looking after the organisation I’m just going to sit back and enjoy myself,” Arrowsmith replied with a smile.

  “Well if you’re free tomorrow evening we’re organising an evening at Bunratty Castle for some of our overseas visitors, it’s a mediaeval banquet, why don’t you come along?” he said looking inquiringly from Arrowsmith to Kennedy as if trying to seek his approval.

  “It’s up to you Tony,” said Kennedy.

  “Why not, it sounds different,” replied Arrowsmith.

  “That’s excellent,” said Mulligan, seemingly relieved. “I’ll add you both to the list...what about Susan Pat?”

  “She’s away for the weekend, the retreat you know, Sisters of Mercy.”

  Kennedy giving a sign, stood up and led them to the restaurant. It was furnished with dark traditional furniture, on the walls were hunting trophies, the heads of long dead deer and fox amongst crossed swords and shields.

  The lunch was served from a copper carver, a side of roast beef, by an elderly waiter as the maitre d’hôte fussed around whispering recommendations and advice in his soft Irish brogue. The beef was excellent perhaps a trifle well done to Arrowsmith’s taste. Kennedy chose the wine, to be certain he selected a Bordeaux Grande Cru, one of the most expensive on the list - at the price it could not be bad. Arrowsmith complemented him on his choice and his club, which was assuredly in the style of the well to do Irish gentry.

  Arrowsmith could not help comparing the comfort of the country club to the drab poverty that he had remarked passing through the down town areas of Limerick City and its main street. The town bore the hallmarks of poverty, the greasy chip cafes, the young people shivering in their cheap imitations of fashionable gear in the chilly damp wind that swept though the town, the miserable pubs and betting shops and the litter blown in the shabby side streets.

  Mulligan bid them good day after the lunch, returning to his office at the National Investment Board. They had agreed to meet him at Durty Nellies nearby Bunratty Castle the following evening at seven.

  Pat Kennedy then drove Arrowsmith into town for a visit to his offices that were located at the top end of O’Connell Street. It was the old upper class residential quarter of Limerick City; the houses were three story Georgian style town houses. From the brass nameplates on the doors Arrowsmith saw that most of the houses were the offices of either law or accounting practices. It was surprising he thought, as Kennedy looked for a parking spot, that such a small town could provide a living for so many professional people.

  Parking was in short supply and finally Kennedy dropped the car in a back street near the main shopping area in a dilapidated garage that rented parking spaces by the hour. They walked the three or four blocks back to the office.

  In spite of the much talked about economic growth of the country, Arrowsmith’s first impressions were confirmed by the shabbiness of the people they passed in the streets, young mothers with snotty young children, teenagers dressed only in jeans and thin tee shirts in spite of the cool sixteen degrees. The shop windows displayed cheap goods and were decorated without taste, it was a far cry from the better class high streets of England, not to speak of the smart prosperity of similar sized towns on the continent.

  He was surprised by the number of buildings abandoned or derelict, it was a contrast to the comfortable family homes he had passed on the outskirts of the city, as though Limerick was suffering from the same disease of inner cities of the UK such as Liverpool or Glasgow. Three years previously he had remarked the same phenomena during a short trip to Dublin.

  There was more than a fair share of get-rich-quick high street businesses. Mobile telephones agencies, Internet and micro-computer shops, satellite TV dish specialists, photocopy and reproduction equipment outlets, a strange contrast to the run down appearance of the surroundings, much more than the needy city could absorb, most of the businesses were certainly destined to an untimely end.

  They arrived at number 43, George Street, it had a prosperous appearance, the door was in a smooth ivy green lacquer with a polished period brass doorknob and letterbox. Kennedy rang the bell and a voice replied from the interphone.

  “Good afternoon can I help you?”

  “It’s Pat with Mr Arrowsmith,” he alerted them. There was an electric buzz and he pushed the door open. They entered into a well-lit hallway, the walls were lined with polished wood panel
ling and hung with framed engravings that showed scenes of nineteenth century Limerick.

  Kennedy opened a door to the right where a secretary-receptionist sat in a stylish office that blended the modern with the old.

  “Hello Mary, this is Mr Arrowsmith.”

  “Nice to met you Mr Arrowsmith,” Mary replied giving an immediate impression of efficiency and organisation, though Arrowsmith saw that she blushed very slightly.

  “Anything special?”

  “No, the post is on your desk and I’ve given the urgent business to Raymond,” she replied.

  He then showed Arrowsmith to the other side of the hallway to a comfortably furnished waiting room. He was getting a tour of the premises. Kennedy then pointed to the stairway.

  “My office is on the first floor,” he said leading the way.

  There was an antechamber that led to the double doors of Kennedy’s office; he opened them with a flourish.

  “The inner sanctum!” he laughed.

  The office was conceived to impress or intimidate Kennedy’s visitors. A hand tooled leather-covered bureau, Chesterfield armchairs and the walls lined with bookcases, filled with perfectly aligned volumes of legal and fiscal works. Arrowsmith suspected it had been designed on a model copied from a Perry Mason style television series.

  On his bureau there were the usual business souvenirs; an eagle in solid silver in a petrified swoop stood on one corner, a gold plated globe on the opposite corner. In the centre placed before a heavy rectangular onyx penholder lay a leather bound document file. It was obvious that Kennedy ran a tight office; everything was in its place, just right.

  “Sit down Tony,” he said smiling with self-satisfaction and in anticipation of the complement that he expected.

  “Very impressive office Pat,” Arrowsmith said not wishing to disappoint him.

  “Thank you, I’ll show you the rest later, upstairs, where the people do all the work,” he said with a slightly embarrassed smile.

  He flipped open the cover of the document file assuming an air of concentrated importance.

  “Excuse me a moment Tony, I’ll just take a glance at my correspondence.”

  Arrowsmith nodded and looked around as Kennedy went through his papers. It was evident that he had a good practice, he was making money, everything seemed to be new or very near it, the wall panels, the drapes, the wiring to his telephone and personal computer equipment, the carpets, not a detail was out of place.

  Kennedy closed the file and looked up smiling.

  “Paddy O’Brien has invited us to his place for drinks tonight.”

  Arrowsmith smiled, he did not know who O’Brien was, but Pat would unfortunately take care of that question.

  “He’s the regional director of the Anglo-Irish Union Bank,” he announced with a self-satisfied grin.

  “Is he!”

  “Yesh, the Irish Union is the second biggest bank in Ireland,” he explained dropping the sensitive Anglo that had been added after the merger with a British group. “Paddy’s an important man around these parts, and they’re the leaders in this region of the country.”

  Arrowsmith smiled wanefully, “That’s very interesting.”

  On the other two floors of the building there were offices with clerks and legal secretaries, the style simple but modern with the same impeccable attention to detail. Arrowsmith had counted eleven persons including Kennedy. He calculated at a guess that the practice generated a good few hundred thousand pounds a year in fees. He must have had some very decent accounts to justify such operating expenses.

  “Business must be looking up Pat?”

  “We can’t complain,” he said a little smugly

  “What kind of clientele do you have?”

  “Well there’s a lot of small and medium clients, you know farmers and small businesses.”

  Arrowsmith nodded.

  “Then there’s the bigger accounts, the foreign firms on the industrial estates, the existing companies and the new ones just setting up,” he paused, “there’s also those closing down and going home...not so many recently.”

  “It’s true then, business in general is looking good.”

  “Well I pleased to say it’s really looking up for the country at the moment compared to a few years back, it’s the Irish tiger, but as I said I can’t complain, whether they’re setting up or closing down I do all right,” he shrugged and then gave a loud laugh.

  There was then a silence, as the two seemed to reflect to themselves for a moment.

  “I’m also handling a number of litigations for the Aviation Leasing Group, nice business, complicated, but well paid. Look don’t let’s worry about business for the moment, we’ll take a walk and I’ll show you some of the town.”

  It was the river that Arrowsmith liked, it reminded him of Kilkenny where he had spent many childhood holidays with his grandparents. The waters were clear and fast flowing, he could see the green water plants that waved and swirled in the eddies and the dark forms of river trout weaving against the light coloured gravel of the river bed. There was no pollution in the West of Ireland, industry had never taken root, it was too far from the main stream of historical British industry, the green island had lacked the natural resources, no coal, no iron, just the almost mythical silver mines.

  As he stared into the waters his thoughts wandered, for him the Irish were an almost tragic race of people who had dreamed of greatness in the past, but had been destined to live their lives in the misery of the poor farms and villages, their hopes oppressed by history. The only other alternative had been to escape, across the water, whatever the direction. The ‘Pat Kennedy’s’ of Ireland still dreamed of a great nation in the traditions of Irish mythology, others like the Mulligans got on with the business at hand.

  “Let’s be getting along,” said Kennedy. Arrowsmith snapped out of his daydream and they walked back to the garage to pick up the car.

  As expected Kennedy filled him in on Paddy O’Brien and the bank as they set out in the direction of O’Brien’s place near Killaloe on Lough Derg. He explained the Irish Union Bank was participating in a banking pool, which was financing a tourist complex at Montego Bay in Jamaica.

  The bank’s Chairman was interested in investing in up-market hotel development in the Caribbean where he saw a very high growth potential. He was looking into the possibility of setting up a services company in Shannon as a vehicle.

  “His name’s David Castlemain, we think it might be interesting for you to meet him.”

  Arrowsmith listened patiently. It was obvious that Kennedy was not going to let him go without embarking him on one of his projects.

  “Don’t let on that I have said anything to you, we don’t want to upset the apple tart, just listen to Paddy.”

  Kennedy had a stock of proverbs and metaphors, which he regularly mixed with amusing variety.

  O’Brien’s place was a large modern single story house in an upper executive village fifteen miles from the city centre. It stood on a small rise and its panoramic windows faced to the south.

  It was just after six thirty when they arrived, the sun had finally made its appearance and the last of the clouds formed a silver grey band over the hills to the east.

  Kennedy parked the car in front of the double garage and as he stepped out a short fair-haired man of about forty-five opened the house door.

  “Hello there Pat, nice evening.”

  “To be sure it is Paddy.”

  “You must be John Arrowsmith, welcome to Limerick.”

  “Thank you, nice to meet you.”

  Paddy O’Brien was still in his office suit and tie, he looked pale as he took out a packet of Gold Flake pulling out a cigarette with his nicotine stained fingers and with an automatic gesture flicked out his lighter and lit up. Arrowsmith had observed that people still smoked untipped cigarettes, it was old fashioned as were the brands they smoked, the names of which had disappeared from the market in England many years be
fore.

  He led them into the house and showed them into the living room, the furniture was modern without a great deal of taste giving a rather cold appearance to the room, it was compensated by the fine view through the panoramic window across Lough Derg.

  “What can I offer you lads to drink then?” he said going to a glass bar in one corner of the living room.

  He poured their drinks and they stood facing the view that looked out towards the Lough, it waters glistening under the clear sunlight.

  “Nice place you’ve got here Paddy, splendid view,” said Arrowsmith complementing his host, as so many others had done before him in a ritual that had become part of the preamble of every new comer’s visit to the O’Brien’s.

  “I hear from Pat that you’re from Paris yourself, how do you like over there.”

  “Fine, I’m used to it after all these years.”

  “I understand you have a business over there?”

  "That’s right, small, but that’s the way I like it.”

  “Working with the Japs.”

  “Well, not exactly, but I suppose you can say that I do quite a bit with Asia, but I also work in other places like South America.”

  “Those are the places today, we’ve considered business opportunities in the Caribbean, but I suppose we’re basically a conservative lot so we’ve concentrated our efforts on Europe and the UK, now that we’ve merged with the British group, we’ve got a whole network of branches over there now.”

  "Is that so,” said Arrowsmith, listening politely.

  “Yes, in the past we were in traditional over the counter banking for our customers, mostly personal accounts and small businesses, and also home loans back here. But with the new policies developed by our Chairman we’ve now become a little more adventurous,” he winked and smiled to indicate an understatement.

  “We’ve decided to spread our wings and are going a little further afield, right now we’re looking at some opportunities in the West Indies, but I won’t go into detail on that,” he winked again, putting his finger on his lips in a sign of secrecy.

  “What I want to tell you is that we’ve done a lot financing for the setting up of new firms in the Shannon area for example.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, you know the NIB, that’s the National Investment Board, gives very substantial assistance to new firms investing here, especially if they fall in the priority categories, such as high tech manufacturing and business services.”

  “Do they!” he replied feigning interest.

  “Yes, there are grants of up to one hundred percent.”

  “One hundred percent!” Arrowsmith was listening to a replay of Kennedy’s story in Paris.

  “Sure and we advance the loans against Investment Board approved projects, that enables the investors to acquire buildings and equipment as well as pay salaries.”

  “Sounds really very interesting.” Arrowsmith sensed the first flicker of interest, though it sounded too Irish to be true.

  “Well we’re not here to talk shop, tell you what John, why don’t you drop by at the bank tomorrow, we can have lunch together if you’re free.”

  “It sounds fine with me.”

  They half-changed the subject chatting about the economy and then turned to farming and horses as O’Brien’s wife and their two teenage children joined them. O’Brien like many people in his position owned a small farm where the children kept ponies.

  It had been a full day and returning to the Kennedy’s they found his wife Susan in the kitchen helping Mrs Ryan with the dinner.

  “Well hello John, it’s so nice to met you, Pat’s talked so much about you, you must be tired and hungry after such a long day.” She scolded Pat giving him a wicked but only half playful look.

  “Why didn’t you call me and let me know you were on the way?”

  The table was laid out in style with cut glass and silver tableware under a sparkling crystal chandelier that hung from the high ceiling in the dinning room. Arrowsmith had difficulties in getting the enormous meal down and his genuine compliments on Susan’s splendid dinner only resulted in his plate being filled again. He turned into bed that evening having eaten and drunk more than he could remember in a very long time.

  The following morning he woke at nine and took a late breakfast with the Kennedy’s before the three left, first dropping Susan off at her parents stud farm to the west of Limerick City, where they raised yearlings for the Dublin horse show. After visiting the farm the two men left for the City and their appointment with O’Brien.

  They lunched at the George Hotel on O’Connell Street. It was an old hotel in need of renovation with an unremarkable restaurant frequented by a very mixed bag of customers, out of towners and local businessmen with the odd American tourist.

  “Well John, I said we’d leave business until today,” said O’Brien with a forced smile.

  “No problem.”

  “Perhaps you recall last night I mentioned we were considering looking at an investment further afield, well it’s more than just an idea,” he paused and joined his hands together on the table as if in prayer then leaning forward he continued in a lower tone, “our Chairman has visited Cuba, you know on his last trip to Jamaica, it’s just an hour’s flight or so away I’m told.”

  Arrowsmith nodded waiting for him to continue.

  “Now then, I believe this is a very nice place, not in my style mind you, I’m rather a stay at home type of fellow, a holiday on the Lough with the family is my cup of tea. Well our chairman David Castlemain, stayed at a place called Playa Esmeralda, near Holguin, if I’ve got the names right,” he said mashing the words, “one of his friends there is very big in tourist development, a friend of Castro’s, so I believe. This friend is looking at a new tourist complex. Now David Castlemain needs a consultant to advise him, somebody who speaks Spanish and who is familiar that part of the world. To cut a long story short, after speaking together with Pat, we thought that maybe you could help us.”

  Arrowsmith did not know how to react. It was certainly true that he knew the Caribbean fairly well, though not especially Cuba. His Spanish was passable and though it would not qualify him for a literary prize it was more than adequate for business. However, he was not really interested in that kind of line, he was familiar the hotel construction industry, but a tourist complex in Cuba with an Irish investor would be a strange kind of mix to get involved with.

  He had learnt the hard way to be cautious in business, he was financially well off and life was easy with very few problems, he had no need for unnecessary complications, on the other hand he had felt an itch, and he was not sure if it wasn’t from the need to do something more exciting in his easy going life.

  He was a long way from thinking of pulling out of his business activities, which were more a pleasurable way of keeping himself occupied than a necessity. The snag was that he was not the kind of person content to go plodding on, who would have been happy to let the next twenty years slip away watching life drift by in monotonous comfort. It was probably for that same reason he had agreed to visit Ireland, knowing deep down that Kennedy was cooking up ideas other than a nostalgic trip to the old country.

  “What do you have in mind then Paddy, I mean how could I help?”

  “That’s the boy Tony,” said O’Brien sensing he had won him over. “What we’ll do is this, let me see...when are you going back now, well I’ll try and fix up a meeting with David in Dublin, what about Thursday, how does that suit you?”

  “Suits me fine.”

  Bunratty Castle, built in 1425, overlooked the Shannon River in County Clare, just a few miles outside of Limerick City. It was authentically restored in 1954 and over the years the Irish Folk Park, a re-creation of 19th century Ireland, was added onto the twenty-six acre site. The park included a village street, a church, farmhouses, a watermill and a blacksmith’s forge.

  They met at Durty Nellies, a strange old pub that stood outsid
e of the Castle gates. Arrowsmith took the opportunity to knock back a couple of good Bushmill whiskies to shake off the damp cold that hung in the air.

  Kennedy gave Tony Arrowsmith the full tour, not missing out the least feature of the Castle, and apart for the fine rain there was no doubt that it was a first class tourist attraction, Arrowsmith thought in an effort to convince himself.

  Mulligan enthusiastically described the other attractions, in the great barn on the castle grounds Arrowsmith could see a show with an Irish Ceili band and step dancers, then he could visit 19th century Ireland completing the tour to the pubs, craft centres, souvenir shops and restaurants that surrounded the castle. In short it was the full mythical version of an Irish theme park designed to amuse tourists from Boston and beyond.

  Medieval banquets were held for visitors in the Castle every night where traditional dinner was served with honeyed mead. That evening it was reserved for the Investment Board guests who were installed at long tables and who noisily knocked back the mead to the music of the harp and fiddle that accompanied a group of pretty young singers dressed in traditional Irish costumes. The girls struggled through their folk songs trying to make themselves heard through the din and bawdy remarks.

  By the time they had finished the dinner the noise, the mead and tobacco smoke were starting to have their effects. A dull throbbing was developing in Arrowsmith’s head. He was worn out by the forced gaiety, the music, and not least the endless hard sell of Mulligan with Kennedy’s never ending dialogue on Irish folklore.

  Arrowsmith finally fell into his bed thoroughly greened off, believing he had seen enough of Ireland for a long time to come.

  Chapter 11

  David Castlemain