by James Anson
"Pretty poor, I thought," said Michael. "Made my life sound extremely dull - always thought it was far too packed with incident myself. Missed you out, too."
"I'm delighted to hear it!" said Robert, bending to kiss him. "Wish they shaved you. Now, I'm off to see your doctor and get a full report. I'll send Oonagh in to keep you company. God, you do look a mess, Mike!"
Dr Cassidy recited his patient's list of injuries as Robert listened aghast. "He's been very lucky altogether," he said finally. "Few people survive a fall like that then having a ton of horse roll over on them. But with careful nursing you should have him home in a month or two. Now how long can you keep him off a horse? The longer the better. Mr Faulkner's bones have taken a lot of punishment over the years and could do with some respite."
Robert nodded gloomily. "I'll do my best," he said, "but you know how he is. Had him in here before, haven't you?"
"Either in person or supporting another," said the doctor cheerfully. "Every season we get two or more of that crowd in. Don't worry, Mr March, we get plenty of practice with horse-riding accidents round here."
"Oh, great," said Robert. "I'll keep in touch. Now I'd better go and see what he needs. That cousin of his didn't strike me as being reliable."
His accommodation was provided by Oonagh, who turned out to be 'squiggle' of the surprise plants and the owner of a large, lush garden; he had immediately turned down Declan's offer of room and board at the castle and him having Michael convalesce there.
"Damn idiot would have Mike on a horse ten minutes after getting him home,"
Robert had remarked to Oonagh.
They had got on famously after he took over the cooking - her enjoyment of the Mrs Beeton rôle was minimal - and in return he was given carte blanche to collect plants from her garden, the gardens of friends, and eventually was guided to several nurseries, a cousin in the Civil Service providing the necessary export licence.
"Well," said Robert happily as he visited his slowly mending companion, "my time here hasn't been wasted. I've got some terrific stuff to take home with me. I like your Oonagh even if she can't boil an egg. Is that why her husband spends all his time in the Gobi Desert?"
"No, he's looking for something," said Michael vaguely. "Can't remember what. Declan's had the hell of a fright, his wife's flying over today. He's cleaning up madly at the castle."
It appeared Mrs O'Brien, having been in receipt of an extremely large bill casually made out to 'estate expenses', was coming over to demand clarification on various points.
Michael later repeated with glee her remark that her grandparents had not fought their way off Ellis Island to have their substance wasted by an imbecile. Robert, therefore, was startled on his next visit to find Michael and a tall, commanding lady drinking whiskey together in perfect amiability. She immediately poured him a large double.
"Kentucky Bourbon, that will put hair on your chest, as Mike says," she remarked.
"You're Robert, then." She looked him over. "I'm Malva O'Brien. How do you stand him?"
Robert thought of several answers, none of them fitting, then choked over his whiskey. In the ensuing hiatus, as he was patted on the back, the question went unanswered.
"I have just been saying to Mike, before you arrived," Malva went on, "I cannot allow matters to continue as they are. By the time Christopher finishes university the estate will be worthless. Declan can run the stables and, of course, the Hunt, but I'm putting in a good agent to manage the rest on strictly business lines. And that means a lot more damned hard work from everyone!"
"Good luck," said Michael, draining his glass. "Well, if anyone can do it, you can."
She got up. "I'm off to Dublin now, see the bank, make arrangements. Happy to meet you at last, Rob. You must come to dinner. It will be edible - I've brought my own cook. Now, Mike, as soon as you're fit you must come over to Virginia. I know you want to see the horses and I could put some business your way."
"I almost feel sorry for Declan," said Robert as he watched her stride out.
"Don't be," said Michael. "Left to him, the estate would be sold up in a few years. Women like her have saved a lot of Anglo estates. You can bet that when Christopher takes over it will be flourishing. She runs one six times the size of Dec's back in Virginia."
"What's the heir like, then?" Robert inquired, trying to pretend he wasn't holding firmly on to Michael's hand. "Not one of those wild partying layabouts, is he?"
"Parties enthusiastically when he's over here," said Michael. "But he rides harder than I do and takes after his mother for sense. He'll probably take over Tipp as well as the estate."
"Just a thought," said Robert, "but should you be drinking?"
"I'm off the painkillers," said Michael indignantly. "Doc said it was fine as long as I didn't keep the bottle here. He likes Malva, she paid for their prem. baby unit."
"Good on her," said Robert. "I'll take that back with me. Oonagh enjoys a nip in the evenings - helps to keep the appalling damp out! As it's safe to leave you now, I can go home and get the house ready, end of the week. I'm going to enjoy myself before then."
"Welcome home, am I?" said Michael, grinning cheerfully.
"Sadly, yes," said Robert. "You drive me up the wall. I know we will spend the next forty years, God willing, fighting - but I miss the mental stimulation when you're not around. Much as it grieves me to say so. Now, how can I ask a respectable married lady to accompany me for a wild night out in Clonmel?"
"If it's Oonagh, she'll be delighted," said Michael. "Thomas doesn't believe in spoiling her that way when he's here."
"Of course it's Oonagh," said Robert. "Hardly Mrs O'Brien, she scares me rigid - could tell she thought I was a wimp just now."
"She thinks we're all wimps," said Michael darkly. "She's waiting for the Cossack of her dreams to throw her over his saddle and take her off to his yurt."
"I don't think they live in yurts," said Robert thoughtfully. "Now, I'm off. Don't do anything daft. I'll see you on Tuesday."
Chapter Eighteen
"What's the matter with you, fidgeting about all the time," asked Robert with irritation, a few days later.
"Haven't got a knitting-needle on you?" inquired Michael plaintively. "I'm going mad with the itching under this cast!"
"Good," said Robert. "Shows it's healing. Leave it alone! We had a grand time," he reminisced, "Oonagh and I. Thé dansant at the poshest hotel in Clonmel, then the theatre with dinner afterwards. Drove home at something a.m. singing all the choruses from the show - never thought I'd find another Gilbert and Sullivan fan. Got stopped by the Garda, as I was speeding, so we gave them a couple of verses of 'Poor Little Buttercup' and they agreed to overlook it. Then I had dinner at Mockbeggar Hall last night. My God! There are bits falling off everywhere. Makes Jack's place seem almost habitable. At least he hasn't got great damp dungeons. When did they last change the curtains - Mafeking Night?"
"It's had bits falling off," said Michael, "as long as I can remember."
"Meal was very good," said Robert reminiscently. "I went round to the kitchen and prised some recipes off the cook. Then Malva took me on a tour of the overgrown grounds - kept saying, 'And that's got to be seen to' and making notes in a little black book. She also informed me that if her family had been as feckless as Declan's, they'd still be weaving carpets in Tashkent. I told her she should get in touch with Agnes. Incidentally, how come there's a window missing in the drawing-room? We had a brief passage of arms about why it hadn't been mended since last Christmas. I didn't like to ask what happened, but the damage looked too recent for Cromwell."
"A guest fell through it," said Michael. "We were carrying him on a chair at the time but as none of us were exactly sober, the precise details escape me. All I remember is poor Guy ending up getting stitched in casualty at 4 a.m. and Dec and I landing up in the local nick. They said it was for our own protection. Gave us a very good breakfast in the morning ..."
"Don't," said Robert, "tell me an
y more. The less you see of that cousin of yours, the better!"
* * * * *
"That's it then now, is it?" asked Jess as she carefully packed the eggs on the top of Robert's order. "It must be nice having Mike home. Going on well, is he?"
"Holding court from the sofa like an oriental potentate," said Robert. "That reminds me, better give me a slab of that fruit cake to slice for his visitors. We are inundated with them -great horsey creatures bound through the door, shove a bottle in my hand, then settle by Mike and tell him about all the dreadful accidents for miles around; the men are as bad. Yesterday now, I thought: I'll get down to some weeding. Then this muddy horsebox draws up, equine looking out the back. Woman in a ratty green jersey and scarf round her head inquires if Mike’s having visitors. Look up from my crouching position and say, Why not - help yourself to tea - then realise that as well as a young fella, she has a copper with her. Oh bugger, I thought - shot into me kitchen just in time to hear her saying in cut glass tones, as Mike is struggling off the sofa to stand to attention: 'Don't be a bloody fool, man'.
"Anyway, I served 'em tea and cake all round, then took the young fella off to see my water-meadow where I'm going to have the pond. Turned out his mum had one dug and gave me the firm's address - said they did a good job. At least that afternoon wasn't wasted. Herself and Mike had a lovely chat on warbles and spavins, I gathered. I've left Jack looking after him this afternoon. I know it's like the blind leading the blind but he means well. God, listen to me, I'm going soft, that's what I am."
"You can have tea with Ashley and me then," said Jess. "It's a long time since we've had a good chat. Have you heard about those people who have moved into the Grange? Very funny lot, from what I've heard. He's foreign. And that's not all ..."
"No?" said Robert. "Go on, tell me - I'm all ears."
* * * * *
"There, that's all the stuff I could find," said Jack, dumping a pile of brochures, leaflets and other ephemera on Michael's sofa. "And you are going to have to think hard, Mike, unless you want to see Agnes and me out sweeping the streets."
Michael accepted this dramatic picture with some reservation and commenced looking through the pile, after requesting a drink.
"Should you be?" asked Jack cautiously. "I mean, I don't want Rob to start on me when he gets back, I heard him on the phone when I came in. Who was the poor wretch at the other end?"
"Halliwell," said Michael. "He's used to it - coming round tomorrow. As Rob isn't speaking, I'm entertaining him to tea. All these places seem to have some kind of gimmick -an attraction. Surely something must have happened you could use, like Henry II used to meet Fair Rosamund in your grove. We could find their letters ..."
"With original stamps and envelopes, I suppose," said Jack. "Come on, Mike!"
"Got it!" said Michael. "The Casket Letters."
"You mean like Portia?" asked Jack vaguely.
Michael, with a mental somersault, got the inference and then explained, fairly coherently, the current state of belief, i.e. Rob's, on the presumed letters of the Queen of Scots.
"Not doing a book on her, is he?" asked Jack.
"No," said Michael. "First, it's been done, secondly, he can't make up his mind about her. Being executed by the establishment made her a goodie, but then she was the establishment too, and a papist, so unacceptable to the Robert pantheon of heroes. I was glad when he decided against her - she was intruding far too much into mealtimes. He's trying to educate me ..."
"Doesn't he know you went to Trinity?" asked Jack, startled.
"Of course," said Michael, "but according to Rob, only the redbricks, where real people go, do a worthwhile job."
"Very Rob, that," said Jack pensively. "How do you keep your hands off his throat? No, don't tell me. Hope you can think of something - what did you mean about Casket Letters?"
"Just an idea," said Michael. "Let me work it out, then I'll get on to you. Touch of romance, that's what your place needs."
"Does it?" said Jack. "Oh well, as long as it pays some of the bills ... Now, what's all this about very illustrious visitors last week, and the story that Rob found you in the arms of an American millionairess when he got to Ballynonty - and he's going to sue her for alienation of affections?"
"Don't make me laugh, it hurts!" said Michael. "Here, get a pad, I want to make some notes. Then you can ring Halliwell for me, I can't get to that phone. Some books he can bring down for me - pretty sure he'll have copies to hand."
* * * * *
"I firmly believe," said Mr Halliwell, "that when I die the name Robert March will be found engraved on my heart - should anyone be ill-mannered enough to look."
Michael grinned and passed over a plate of hot muffins. "Help yourself," he said. "I often wonder how many feathers Rob ruffled in the police force."
"Considering his background," said Mr Halliwell, "his disregard for the law of libel is surprising. Have you read that last chapter? It's got to be revised, you know. He cannot make those sort of remarks about a living politician, more's the pity. True or not," he added hurriedly. "Mr March’s publisher does not wish the expense of a lengthy libel action which, while good for publicity, would mean withdrawing the book, which would not be good for sales. Besides, think of Mr March in the witness box. You know his views."
"By heart," said Michael. "I'll have a chat to him. I appreciate you bringing the books down. And persuade him to do a rewrite - put it more subtly. I'll say ..."
"Very subtly if he must," said Mr Halliwell. "I hope you enjoy those books - a pity the art of letter writing has declined so much. All you can say for our letters from Andrew is that they are legible - in parts, anyway. Now, here are some more books for you to review, and a couple of manuscripts we are considering. I'm afraid Edgar's latest is in there somewhere. The usual thing, sex and sadism in the South Seas. I wish he'd change the locale at least. It's enough to put you off foreign travel - not that Edgar has ever done any, apart from a day-trip to Boulogne once. He didn't take to the food. Just as a matter of interest, was that a JCB I saw going down your field?"
"It was," said Michael, "and that's where Rob is now, harassing the driver. He's having a large pond excavated in the water-meadow. It was going to be a small lily pond, then he saw this garden programme - some gardening guru has this fine horse-pond.
'That's what I want', said Robert. 'Yes,' I said, 'be fine for the gee-gees.' He went up the wall giving me to understand not a hoof was to go near it. Next thing I know, he's got it all organised - happy as a sandboy."
"All is explained," said Mr Halliwell. "Now, can you persuade him to attend a literary lunch this weekend? It would be really helpful if he were there."
"Leave it to me," said Michael, poring over a manuscript. He stopped. "Now what would you like me to say about this bugger?" he remarked.
Mr Halliwell winced from the page thrust before him. "I'll leave that to your impeccable taste, Mr Faulkner," he said. "Just remember, it is written by the publisher's nephew and we want to let him down lightly, but not so lightly that he submits another manuscript; of that quality anyway."
* * * * *
"No!" said Robert the next day. "Out of the question. I cannot leave Mike over the weekend. He needs constant attention."
"I do not!" said an indignant voice from the sofa.
"Shut up," hissed Robert. "Sorry, Halliwell, what were you saying? No, I can't find anyone - he is too old and awful for a babysitter."
"Oh, go on," said the voice happily. "Give Alec my love and tell him you'll catch the early train and have a great weekend."
"I'll do no such thing!" said Robert. "Sorry, Halliwell, it's Mike being frivolous. Look, I'll get back to you ..."
He walked over to the sofa. "Rotten sod," he said affectionately. "You know I'd just worry about you all the time I was down there."
"You could ask Amy over to mind me," said Michael, grinning.
"Well, I could," said Robert, "but I don't think you're up to her at the moment."
"Swine," said Michael. "Isn't it time to rug up the lads?"
"Damn - yes," said Robert, hurrying out.
Michael made his way carefully to the phone and dialled his brother-in-law. "Jack, listen, can you ...? Good ..."
Robert listened with some surprise and a little suspicion to Jack's offer to mind his charge over the weekend. Agnes, though delighted to have her brother alive and in one piece, still regarded him as a family disaster and prone to luring her husband into mischief.
"And you definitely won't let him get on a horse, or even go near the stables?"
Robert insisted again. "And no drinking. Well, maybe a small one at bedtime - and see he takes his pills. I'll leave you my address and phone number."
Jack assured him, again, that Michael would be treated like especially delicate china; that Agnes would be away in Shropshire all weekend staying with the young Mrs Coghill.
"Needs a woman round her at the moment, y'know. Bessie and cook will be delighted to look after Mike for you. Think the world of him."
"All right," said Robert. "He'll probably enjoy a change of sofa."
Next morning Michael was deposited at the Hall, Robert once again running through full instructions before he set off.
"And it's not even as though I want to go to bloody London ..." was his departing shot.
Jack steered his brother-in-law carefully to the library with its commodious sofa and threw another log on the fire, then poured them both a small whiskey.
"Right, what have you got then, Mike?" he said.
Michael carefully removed a sheaf of paper from his poacher's pocket. "Just brought a sample - see what you thought," he said. "Some verse at the back."
Jack read a few pages and then looked at him in awe. "Never thought you were a love-letters man, Mike," he said. "You'll have 'em crying their eyes out - or getting hot flushes reading this stuff. How did you do it?"
Michael shuffled and went slightly pink. "Oh, just thought of a few things," he said.
