Shamrock green, p.9
Shamrock Green, page 9
‘I came back,’ Fran said. ‘Are you not pleased to see me?’
‘Of course I am.’
He pulled back the covers and put one bare leg out of the bed.
‘I’ll be going if you wish; just say the word.’
She shook her head vigorously. The sight of him naked in her husband’s place in bed had fired her blood. She turned the key in the lock of the door, the door that was never locked when Gowry was at home, then walked forward to the bed. He was ready for her. Had he been lying here thinking of her, excited to be in Gowry’s bed, her bed, under her roof, waiting for her as if she were a bride and he the groom?
She bent forward and kissed him on the mouth. He scooped at her skirts, bundling them about her hips, reaching up until his hands were above her stockings. He clasped her, cupped her and, in a rasping whisper, said, ‘Sylvie, Sylvie! God help me, I can’t get enough of you.’
She moved closer, let him untie her drawers. Closer still, tilting her hips.
He let out a groan when he slipped into her.
‘Ah, God! Ah, God, Sylvie!’ he said. ‘You’ll be the death of me yet,’ then gasped as she smothered the words within him once and for all.
Chapter Six
He had made the round trip of almost two hundred and fifty miles three times in the week and he was weary, bone weary, on the last homeward run. Behind him the empty bus jolted over ruts and potholes, the headlamps so feeble that he steered more by instinct than sight. His shoulders ached and his eyes itched and he felt as if the road between Tipperary and Dublin would never end.
The depot was deserted when he reversed the bus into the last slot. He climbed down from the driver’s seat, stretched his arms wide, rolled his neck, heard the crick-crick of little bones adjusting and felt the muscles in the small of his back ease. He tossed his cap on to the seat and went round to unhook the lid of the compartment where the brush and shovel were kept.
It was a murky night with an autumnal fog seeping in from the sea. He had been smelling clean wet earth and fresh-fallen leaves all day and the Dublin air tasted rancid. He dug out the brush and, unbuttoning his tunic, returned to the front of the charabanc only to find John James Flanagan leaning on the bonnet.
Flanagan never looked anything less than prosperous with his swallow-tail moustache and black eyebrows and the best-tailored clothes that money could buy but it was his smugness that really stuck in Gowry’s throat.
‘Well now, if it isn’t my favourite driver come back from far-flung places.’ John James rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘Leave the brush, McCulloch. I’ll take your logbook, though.’
‘You, sir? Where’s Mr Roddeny?’
‘Gone home. It’s late, you know.’
‘Oh, I know that, Mr Flanagan,’ Gowry said.
There must be a catch to it; John James Flanagan didn’t drag himself away from the dinner table just to greet a driver. Gowry put the brush aside and reached for the logbook that was tucked under the driver’s seat. He had been scrupulously careful about log entries and had purchased three gallons of petrol out of his own pocket to cover the extra miles he’d driven that day.
John James took the log and slipped it into the pocket of his overcoat.
‘If that’s all, Mr Flanagan…’
‘Not quite,’ John James said.
‘Something wrong, sir?’
‘Are you game for the weekend?’
‘Game, Mr Flanagan?’
‘Saturday night, through Sunday.’
‘I’ve had a hard week, Mr Flanagan. Can’t someone else do it?’
‘They’ll all be on parade. It’s a big day for parades, you know.’
Ah, Gowry thought, so it’s a punishment for not being one of them. God knows he’d done enough Sunday work, standing in for men who had some religious duty to perform or some obligation to the nationalists.
‘Is it more soldiers?’ Gowry said. ‘More recruits?’
‘No, a funeral party.’
‘On a Sunday?’
‘We’re not providing the hearse. The deceased is elsewhere. You’ll be running a small party down in the limousine on Saturday afternoon and collecting them for return to Dublin late on Sunday.’
‘The limousine?’ Gowry said.
‘Two passengers, sons of the dear departed, I believe.’ Flanagan smiled, more smug and unctuous than ever. ‘There’ll be a little something extra in your wage packet, Gowry, if you do me this favour. Shall we say five shillings?’
The bribe explained everything. Obviously he would be ferrying some great and glorious chieftain to a secret meeting and Flanagan preferred not to use one of the regular drivers in case it aroused suspicion. There was no funeral, of course, no corpse. In the foggy half-dark at the back of the garages the conspiracy seemed so ill conceived as to be almost laughable.
‘I’ll do it,’ Gowry said. ‘Where is the – ah, deceased?’
‘Woodenbridge,’ Flanagan told him.
* * *
She was not so much sore as tender and the weariness that clung to her all day long eliminated any longing for Fran. In any event she was reconciled to not seeing him over the weekend. He had told her he had much writing to do and must apply himself to catch up on his deadlines.
If the other guests thought it odd that Fran Hagarty had spent the night in the Shamrock they kept their observations to themselves. Some of them were in no fit state to observe anything, of course, for an excess of black stout had taken its toll.
Sylvie got through the routine chores with Jansis’s help, went to bed in the quiet of the afternoon and slept like something dead.
It was almost dark when she wakened.
She lay motionless in the bed where she and Fran had made love and thought how deceptive appearances could be, how she had misjudged him. For a man who had the reputation of being rather burned out, Mr Francis Hagarty had acquitted himself exceptionally well.
‘Mam?’
Maeve was leaning over the bed-end.
Sylvie sat up quickly, her head swimming.
‘Are you all right, Mam?’
‘What time is it?’
‘After six. Dinner time.’
‘Is your father home?’
‘Nuh.’ Maeve gave her the wisp of a smile. ‘Not yet.’
‘When do we expect him?’
‘Tipperary?’ Maeve calculated. ‘Half past nine.’ She leaned closer. ‘Is Mr Hagarty stayin’ again tonight?’
‘Mr Hagarty’s gone home.’
‘Why’d he stay last night?’
‘He was dr— He took a drop more than was good for him.’
‘I thought he went before Turk.’
‘Well, he didn’t.’ Sylvie was puzzled by her daughter’s complicity, if indeed it was complicity. ‘Tell Jansis I’ll be down soon. I’ll need to change the sheets.’
‘I’ll change the sheets.’
She was too soggy for guilt to take hold. She threw back the bed covers, adjusted the throat of her nightgown to cover her breasts and, with effort, swung both feet to the floor.
‘No,’ she said, firmly. ‘Go and help Jansis lay out the supper things.’
‘Done,’ Maeve said. ‘All done.’
‘Has Mr Dolan come downstairs yet?’
‘Nuh.’
‘Knock on his door. Tell him supper in twenty minutes.’ She was still woolly-headed, leaden limbed. ‘How many casuals do we have in?’
‘Four.’
‘Who booked them?’
‘Jansis. I helped.’
‘Suppers?’
‘Five – and Mr Pettu if he’s back in time.’
‘I’ll be downstairs directly,’ Sylvie said.
She waited for her daughter to leave but Maeve remained, elbows on the bed-end, chin resting on her knuckles. She seemed fascinated by the sight of her mother in her nightgown at six in the evening and smiled the enigmatic little smile that she, Sylvie, had once had down to perfection.
‘Stop staring at me,’ Sylvie said, testily. ‘Go away.’
‘Aye-aye, sir,’ Maeve said and snapping off a military salute, marched out of the bedroom and galloped downstairs.
* * *
‘What is it, Gowry? What do you want with me?’
‘You know what I want with you.’
‘I don’t feel like it. I’m not – not right.’
‘You weren’t right a fortnight ago. Is something wrong with you?’
‘Nothing is wrong with me,’ Sylvie said.
‘If something’s wrong, you should see a doctor.’
‘I don’t need a doctor. I drank too much port last night, that’s all.’
‘Who with?’
‘Oh, they were all in,’ Sylvie said, ‘having a sing-song.’
‘Who bought you the port?’
‘Mr Rice; you know what he’s like.’
‘Who was singing?’
‘All of them.’
‘Including Trotter?’
She had drawn away from him under the sheets. The sheets still had a stiff, unfolded feel to them and the faint, sawdust smell of the cupboard. She felt closer to the sheets than she did to Gowry. She wanted only peace, silence, sleep, and would do nothing to encourage the routine signals that would end with him on top of her. She would only give him what he wanted if there was no other way to stop him asking awkward questions.
She sighed. ‘How could I keep him out?’
‘Charlie was with him, I suppose, and my father?’
‘Not your father, just Charlie.’
Gowry shifted from her and crossed his arms over his chest in a position that reminded her of the effigies of dead kings.
‘What did they want?’
‘Nothing,’ Sylvie said. ‘A drink and a place to meet, that’s all.’
‘Did anyone else turn up?’
‘No, just Turk and Charlie – and the commercials, of course.’
‘I don’t want them drinking here. Let them drink elsewhere.’
‘They always pay the slate, Gowry. They’re good customers.’
‘They are not good customers,’ Gowry said. ‘They’re not good anything. Was Hagarty with them?’
Fran’s name on her husband’s lips shocked her. It was all she could do not to sit bolt upright and cry out: Who told you about Fran? What have they been saying about me? Controlling herself as best she could, she lay like a stone in a river and let cold fear ripple over her. If Gowry had learned from one of the commercials or, say, from Mr Dolan that Fran had stayed overnight and she denied it then he would know she was hiding something, and even staid, unimaginative Gowry would surely deduce what it was.
‘Have you ever read any of the stupid articles he writes?’
‘Some folk don’t think they’re stupid,’ Sylvie said.
‘Aye, Maeve thinks he’s wonderful.’
‘Maeve?’
‘It’s Whiteside, her teacher. He shouldn’t be filling young heads with that republican nonsense. Damned propagandist. Pettu has been giving her newspapers too. Unsuitable material for a young girl,’ Gowry said. ‘What chance does the child have of developing a mind of her own if this goes on?’
‘If what goes on?’ Sylvie said.
‘This systematic corruption.’
‘Oh come, Gowry, it’s hardly corruption.’
‘What is it then?’
‘Politics, just politics.’
‘Aye well, it’s politics that’s killing men in Flanders, is it not?’
‘Dearest, I’m tired,’ Sylvie said. ‘Please don’t rant on. It’s not my fault the country’s in the state it’s in. If you still want to…’ She touched his thigh.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘I thought you did?’
‘I was just being polite.’
‘Polite?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Sylvie.
‘I don’t think you even want another baby.’
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, surprised. ‘Babies, is that all?’
For once she had failed to follow the little jumps and rabbit hops of her husband’s reasoning. Had he been thinking of babies when he put his hand upon her, or had it been a manoeuvre to catch her off guard? No, Gowry wasn’t devious. It was the sort of thing she might expect from Fran, but not from her husband.
‘Soon,’ Gowry said, ‘you’ll be too old for babies.’
‘I will not. I’ve years left yet, years. I’m not trying not to have babies, you know,’ Sylvie said. ‘It isn’t my fault.’
And then it occurred to her that all the energy, all the passion that she’d put into coupling with Fran might jog nature into doing what it had been reluctant to do before. If she became pregnant what would she tell Fran? What would Fran do? How would he react? Cold fear rippled over her once more.
‘What is it, Gowry?’ she said. ‘What’s really troubling you?’
He gave a cough and a grunt. ‘Flanagan. I’m working at the weekend.’
‘Oh!’
‘Toadying to that bloody hypocrite is beginning to get me down.’
‘Will…’ Sylvie said, ‘will you be away overnight?’
‘Saturday,’ he said. ‘Back home Sunday, late.’
‘Is it soldiers again?’
‘No, a funeral.’
‘At least you’ll get to drive the limousine,’ said Sylvie.
‘That’s some consolation I suppose,’ Gowry said and, grunting again, butted the bolster with his fist and settled down to sleep while Sylvie, fretting and wide awake now, lay like a stone at his side.
* * *
Flanagan had ordered one of the latest Benz limousines during his last visit to Germany. There had been great excitement among John James’s drivers when the car had arrived from the docks, for somehow they had got it into their heads that what was being delivered was a ‘Blitzen-Benz’ racing car akin to the one that had set the world record at a hundred and twenty-five miles per hour. Disappointment ensued; the limousine, though handsome, was clearly built for passenger comfort rather than out-and-out speed. Gowry was less disappointed than most. The high, elegant vehicle reminded him a little of the Lanchester he’d driven for the Franklins, though the Benz was no bone-shaker and could do fifty even on poor roads.
On Friday evening he suggested to Roddeny that it might be sensible to come home on Saturday night, but Roddeny would have none of it. The log had been filled out, the route planned and, damn me, wasn’t he being paid enough of a bonus? Gowry didn’t argue. Once he dropped the clients he would be free until Sunday afternoon. Woodenbridge was forty-five miles from Dublin, Tipperary a hundred and ten. He could cover sixty-odd miles in a couple of hours in the Benz and be at Maggie’s cottage in ample time for supper.
On Saturday afternoon he picked the clients up outside the Vincentian RC church at Phibsborough. He had brushed his uniform, sponged his cap, polished his boots, for even if the status of the men meant nothing to him and he was opposed to everything they stood for, he wanted no complaints leaking back to J. J. Flanagan.
The men were waiting on the pavement. He didn’t have to ask if they were his hire. They wore heavy tweed overcoats and flat caps and had black crape armbands on their sleeves. They were youngish chaps, early thirties. One was bearded, the other clean-shaven. Both had the damp, sullen eyes of slaughter men, though, and Gowry didn’t dare inspect them too closely for fear of giving offence.
He opened the door of the passenger compartment. They climbed in. They said nothing, not even good afternoon, gave him no instruction and spoke not a word throughout the length of the journey to Woodenbridge or, rather, to the gates of the Nugget Hotel between the Bridge and Avoca, where the beard, knocking on the glass partition, told Gowry to draw up.
The men climbed out of the Benz and stood by the roadside.
The gates of the Nugget were open. The driveway, about a quarter of a mile long and flanked by oak trees, was deserted.
The men loitered, hands in pockets.
They had no luggage.
Gowry waited in the cab.
‘What’s wrong wit’ you?’ the beard asked.
‘What time will I collect you tomorrow, sir?’ Gowry said.
The beard glanced at his companion. ‘Three o’clock?’
‘Three o’clock it is, sir,’ said Gowry. ‘Where?’
‘Here on this very spot.’
‘I’ll be here at three tomorrow, gentlemen,’ Gowry said. ‘Good-day to you.’
He touched his cap, threw the big lever to put the Benz in gear and drove off along the road to Woodenbridge, heading out towards Arklow and hence by Waterford and Clonmel to Maggie Leonard’s cottage in the hills.
* * *
The kitchen was filled with steam. She had decided to serve the guests a dish of creamed salt cod and had forgotten just how ‘niffy’ cooking fish could be. She had only made enough for six. Being Saturday many of the commercials had gone out and would not be back for supper. She was stirring egg whites and parsley into the big saucepan when Fran came into the kitchen.
Maeve was in the dining-room setting out cutlery, Jansis lighting the little coal fire in the bar. Sylvie held the empty saucer over the pan and wafted at the steam with her free hand.
‘Fran?’
‘Here I am, in the flesh.’
He looked better than he had three days ago. He had some colour in his cheeks and seemed somehow fatter. She guessed that he had been at the bottle and when he kissed her she smelled whiskey on his breath. Though he was far from intoxicated, he had a liveliness on him that amounted almost to impudence. He even had the temerity to pinch her bottom.
She giggled and slapped away his hand.
‘Is there some of that for me?’ Fran said.
‘Some of what?’ she said.
‘Whatever’s in your little pot.’
‘Not so much of the little pot.’
‘Big pot then,’ he said.
‘Give me that spoon,’ Sylvie said.
‘This one?’ He held the spoon out, erect. ‘This one?’
‘Don’t play the fool, Fran,’ Sylvie said, laughing. ‘I need to stir.’
‘I’ll stir. I’m a grand man for the stirring.’
‘I know you are.’ She snatched the spoon from him. ‘But you’d be wasting your talents on a piece of salt cod. Are you staying for supper?’
