‘Wicked-looking stuff, his art, collected when he lived in New York.’
‘Did you visit New York?’
They were driving up the hill in the Rover.
‘In my late thirties,’ said Liam. ‘I couldn’t wait to get home. Don’t like a lot of frizzing about, horns blaring, that sort of thing.’
‘A bumpkin like myself.’
‘And our father’s gardens have run riot, of course. Seamus is no hand with a spade, nor Paddy, either.’
‘Gardening is civil and social, Thoreau said, but it wants the rigor of the forest and the outlaw.’
‘This one’s all outlaw. I’d love to get my hands on ’t, but there’s no stoppin’ th’ force of a goin’ wheel-I’d be up to my eyeballs, an’ Broughadoon runnin’ wild.’
‘Any hope for the country house hotel to happen?’
‘No hope a’tall as I see it. Paddy can’t boil water, much less cook a decent fry; he’s rude to everybody and a bloody terror with the cheque book. So he’s after writing a novel to make his fortune. Says a lot of ad blokes have done th’ same-James Patterson, Salman Rushdie, Peter Mayle, Elmore Leonard…’
‘Dorothy Sayers,’ he said. ‘She was in the ad business. Mystery writer, Christian apologist. A great success.’
‘So there you have it,’ said Liam. ‘Paddy’s convinced he’s next in line.’
‘This bridge club-it’s been around a few years?’
‘Feeney and Father O’Reilly have paid a monthly call to Mother since Father passed. He was generous to Feeney when he was coming along in his medical practice, and openhanded to th’ parish altogether. They were with him when he died; one of the last things he said was, lads, keep an eye on Evelyn. God knows, they’ve been faithful, they’ve done their bit- but none can wean her of the drink or the stepstool. ’
‘The stepstool.’
‘Goes up it like a monkey-pops herself onto a counter or table or whatever’s at hand-an’ squirrels her jumble in cupboards. She’s after keepin’ her last bit of jewelry from Paddy, who’d be off to the pawnshop in th’ blink of an eye. When Seamus came, she hauled the family plate to the top shelves, forks, knives, spoons, and all. Up she’d go to get herself a fork, and after the washing-up, Seamus would leave it out for her to put away again. That lasted for a year or two.’
He might have laughed, but Liam wasn’t amused.
The misting rain of the morning had turned to a pelting; he reached to the backseat and grabbed his wet umbrella. ‘By the way, where’s Pud?’
‘Shut up in th’ family quarters.’
‘Why is that?’
‘To give you your peace!’
‘If you’re putting him up on our account, please turn him out. We like the little guy.’
‘You’re sure of it?’
‘Absolutely.’
Liam grinned. ‘Righto, then.’ The engine idled at the front portico; Liam stared ahead. ‘Perhaps one day we could… that is… ah, no, a foolish thought. Dinner this evening compliments of the travel club.’
‘Can’t seem to think of them as anything but the poker club. No eel, I trust.’
‘Trout, salmon, an’ plenty of it. There’ll be long eatin’ in that, as William says. After dessert, we move to th’ library for Anna’s surprise. ’t will be grand, I hope.’
Liam’s mobile buzzed; he squinted at the ID. ‘It’s Corrigan. Hallo, Conor here… Well, then… Did you check in with Jack Kennedy, he dropped a good bit of his wages there. Yes… No… Of course. Will do.’
Liam snapped the phone shut. ‘Nobody’s seen Slade in two weeks. Corrigan says there’s nothing more can be done, call him if anything turns up.’
Again, the weight on Liam, the stricken look. He remembered what Peggy often said when he was a boy and things were hard. ‘Ever’thing gon’ be all right.’ It had always consoled him, even when he didn’t believe it.
‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ he said.
Liam looked surprised. ‘That’s what my father used to say-just like that. ’t is a wonder to hear it again.’
He climbed out and shot up the umbrella.
‘You’re a lovely man, Rev’rend. Don’t take our mother’s ways too personally, an’ enjoy your visit.’
The Rover rattled down the drive.
‘Seamus! Is that you?’
Seamus hailed him from the portico. ‘’t is m’self in my butler’s equipage, fittin’ tight as a sausage casin’.’
The Catharmore dogs burst from the house, an eruption of Vesuvius. He bounded up the steps, lowered the umbrella, shook hands. ‘You’re looking very smart in that gear, my friend.’
‘You can see your face in th’ shine of it, but Mrs. Conor likes me to wear it for company. Can’t gain so much as half a stone without rip-pin’ th’ seat of it.’ Seamus pulled a small comb from his pocket and hurriedly assailed his mustache. ‘Haven’t had two minutes to rub together, but we’re ready for the bridge club and glad to have you join us, Rev’rend.’
‘Tim, Seamus. Try Tim.’ He dropped a few dog biscuits onto the porch decking.
‘Tim it is, then. I’ll just lean your brolly against the rail here. As you can see, we’re standing at the west portico, which Dr. O’Donnell adapted from that of Bellamont Forest in County Cavan. They say the design was derived from Palladio’s Villa Rotunda in Vicenza-the historians who visit make quite a bit of that. But come inside, I’ll tour you around; Dr. Feeney and Father O’Reilly are on their way-runnin’ a bit late, I’m afraid.’
The front door stood open as Irish doors might in a land presumably free of bugs. He stepped inside, adjusted his eyes to the shadowed space. He hadn’t expected such a vast entry hall, nor one so handsomely proportioned.
A high ceiling with elaborate cornices. Pilasters on either side of two double doorways. A low fire on the hearth at the right of the hall, and in the center, Doric columns flanking a broad stair that ascended to a landing and a bank of dim windows.
‘Very beautiful, Seamus. Very grand.’
As for the art, Liam was right. Odious stuff. Smears of black, red, white, ocher, on unframed canvases of immense size.
Seamus gave him a discreet look. ‘They keep th’ devil in his rightful place.’
‘To each his own.’
‘Aye. He tried to sell it off, but ’t wouldn’t sell. Now, then, you’re seeing Catharmore at a good time of year-in winter, the hall is perishin’ cold. Paddy and his mother like a fire here on Christmas Day, but in no time a’tall, they’re off to th’ kitchen for th’ heat of the Aga.
‘This is the room as completed in 1862 or thereabout, everything done by Irish workmen. Mr. Riley carried out a restoration of the place in the 1940s-nothing changed save the add-on of closets and loos. Then Paddy did grand work on the main floor when he came home from New York.’
‘And you came with him, Liam says.’
‘We met in a pub, Paddy and I, in lower Manhattan. I was there with my employer, Michael Kerr-an Irish gentleman of means who emigrated as a lad and lived to be ninety-eight years and a day. Mr. Kerr liked to visit this particular pub at the weekend, to have himself an Irish whiskey and a good cry about the oul’ country-a lovely man, he was, and like a father to me. Paddy would come in with his riotous crowd from the advertisin’ shop and all th’ Irish among us would end up singin’ the old songs of the Eire; ’t was a great highlight of Mr. Kerr’s last years. When Mr. Kerr passed, Paddy had sold his business and was comin’ home to Sligo a rich man. Come with me, Seamus, he says, I’ll buy you a suit of butler’s clothes and you’ll have a pint and three meals a day for the rest of your life.’
Seamus laughed, patted his midsection. ‘Three is one too many, but I took the offer and never looked back. I had longed for home, but had nothin’ saved to give myself a start-I confess th’ habit of sharin’ my earnings with Irish down on their luck.’
‘There are worse habits.’
‘Wouldn’t have minded bein’ poor if I hadn’t been so short of cash.’
They had a laugh.
‘But here I am, thanks to God and Paddy Conor. Now, that’s th’ Doric-style columns that’s holdin’ up the ceilin’ there-and a good thing it is, as th’ two floors above need all th’ holdin’ up they can get.’
‘Is that an engraving?’ On a pane of glass in a window near the front door, something chiseled-a date, very likely. He walked over and looked, stooped, adjusted his glasses.
My dearest love
Always and forever
Evelyn
He glanced at Seamus, who appeared abstracted.
‘Mrs. Conor scratched that in as a young bride, with the diamond Mr. Riley gave her. He was very pleased-they say. You’ll see the drawing room and dining room at drinks and lunch, so if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you the kitchen.’
They walked along the stair hall, lined with display cases of mounted fish, and turned left into what he reckoned may be Catharmore’s crown jewel.
‘Paddy put a bob or two in th’ kitchen, as you see. ’t was the oul’ kitchen and maids’ quarters they combined into one.’
A wall of windows looking out to the ruined garden; decorative tile work surrounding a blue Aga; limestone floors, a coved ceiling, an enormous iron rack hung with copperware. Impressive.
‘Paddy was after letting guests dine in th’ kitchen, he said, th’ way they do in th’ States. They would pay a deal more for th’ privilege, he said, an’ cover the cost of a roof altogether.’
The cooking smells could stand against any at Broughadoon. He realized he was ravenous.
‘I’m hoping to meet Paddy. Will he be with us?’
‘Paddy’s after doing some business or other, haven’t seen much of him in several days. Make yourself comfortable, now, I’ll just stir up the pot.’
Seamus took an apron from a hook, tied it on, lifted the pot lid, looked in, replaced the lid. ‘I hope you don’t mind being treated like family, Tim.’
‘I’m honored to be treated like family.’
Seamus opened the oven door. ‘I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds bringin’ you into the kitchen.’
‘Not in the least.’
Seamus used a long fork to poke whatever was in the oven; by the smell, roast lamb.
‘This will be the end of the tour, as the old scullery has been turned over to Mrs. Conor and the paneled library to Paddy, for there’s no livin’ a’tall on the upper floors. As for me, I’m in the laundry which I’ve fitted out quite snug, if you don’t mind th’ washer cyclin’ as you watch th’ telly.’
‘How about the basement? I believe O’Donnell’s surgery was located there.’
‘’t was, yes, but we never go below unless at gunpoint; ’t is a calamity with the risin’ damp. On occasion, Paddy’s forced to do something about th’ plumbing or such, and then we’re in for it, ’t is like openin’ a hole to China and pourin’ in euro by th’ washtub.’
‘I have one of those holes myself,’ he said. Their new heating and cooling system had cost twice a year’s salary in his first parish. ‘Have you read O’Donnell’s journal?’
‘I’ve made a stab at it, but my eyes are unfit for th’ faded ink and he goes on too long about th’ least thing. My da inherited a journal from his grandfather. Wind rising, it might say. Figs ripe. Annie bilious. Farrelly ploughing.’ Seamus laughed. ‘That would be my style of a journal.’
‘Is the doctor’s old cabin standing?’
‘A pile of rubble in the sheep meadow, they say.’ Seamus removed his apron, hung it on the hook, buttoned his jacket. ‘Well, then. Everything’s under control; the rolls will pop in after the other guests arrive. I hope you’ve an appetite.’
‘You can count on it.’
‘Drinks will go for a half hour or so, you could probably do with a nibble.’ Seamus cut a slice from a round of cheese on a platter. ‘Our own sheep. Very fine.’
The cheese was proffered on the blade of a knife, the way his father had done years ago.
He bit into the cheese-aged, mildly tart beneath a mellow sweetness. ‘Hits the spot. There’s a lot to be said for being treated like family.’
Seamus gave him a paper napkin. ‘A taste of Irish to wash it down?’
‘No, no, thanks.’
‘Liam says you’re light on th’ drink-a good thing. Thirst after the drink, m’ father said, sorrow after th’ money.’
‘I was never much for spirits. A glass of burgundy or Bordeaux, a sherry now and then.’
‘I seem to remember a bottle of sherry at the back of the cabinet; it may have aged a good deal.’
‘All the better.’
‘I feel the need of a pipe, m’self. Would you step out with me? We’ve a bit of time before I show you to the drawing room. You might have to stick it out with Herself-ah, sorry, Tim, please forgive that-with Mrs. Conor-’til the rest of the party show up.’
The rain-soaked terrace was bare, save for a huddle of plastic chairs stacked together and anchored with a rock. ‘Th’ wind carried off th’ good stuff long ago. Probably somewhere in Easkey, on the porch of a stout fisherman and his wife.’
They stood well back of the rain pouring in a sheet from the terrace roof. Ever the earnest home owner, he suspected leaking gutters or none at all.
Seamus lit his pipe, puffed, kept the match to it, puffed, flicked the match. The scent of tobacco curled into the damp air.
‘I should warn you, Tim, if Liam didn’t. She’ll be after trimmin’ your sails.’
Seamus drew on his pipe. ‘She came up grin-din’ poor in a mud cabin in Collooney with four brothers and two sisters, all dead now-two passing with their mother in a most tragic manner. And there were certain other… matters, as well. She’s been takin’ th’ hurt out on th’ rest of th’ world for many a year.’
A loud buzzing in the kitchen.
‘There she is.’ Seamus checked his watch. ‘Five ’til one.’
In the kitchen, Seamus pressed a button near the Aga. ‘Yes, mum.’
‘Show our guest into the drawing room, I’ll be along directly.’
‘Yes, mum.’
‘Well, then.’ Seamus took out his comb, looked at it a moment, doleful. ‘She likes it groomed,’ he said of his mustache.
At the drawing room door, Seamus shook his hand gravely, as if seeing him off on a coffin ship.