Malarkey (2 page)

"Not far now," Dad murmured.

"A right turn?"

"Alex said west from the N11."

"All right." I was driving due south. "What the hell?"

An oncoming Mercedes had flashed its lights. It began to
pass the van ahead of it—in my lane. I swerved onto the shoulder,
which was wide and paved, and the Mercedes swept by unscathed. A
miracle.

Then the cars behind me began to pass in the face of on-
coming traffic. I clung to the shoulder. When the last car squeezed
between the Toyota and a coach load of tourists bound for Dublin, I
gave up. I hit the emergency blinker, rolled to a stop, and set the
handbrake. Two more cars surged past. Then it was quiet, the road
empty in both directions.

I laid my head on the steering wheel. "Wow."

Dad cleared his throat. He hadn't made a sound from the
moment the Mercedes flashed its lights until the rear window of the
coach receded northbound. When I looked at him, he gave me a
tentative smile. "All right?" He was rather pale.

I swallowed hard. "I may live."

"I think there's a pattern."

"A giant game of Chicken?" I sat up and fiddled with the
rearview mirror.

He said seriously, "The car that wants to pass flashes its
lights, and both the vehicle it's overtaking and the on-coming
vehicles move onto the shoulder."

"To make a passing lane in the middle?" I shuddered. "They
leave a lot to faith."

"An Irish habit."

I drew a long breath. "It's going to take some getting used to.
Thank God for the paved shoulder."

"The cars behind you didn't pass until there was one."

"So there are rules."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "A pity the car-hire people
don't hand out pamphlets with driving tips. It would save
unnecessary anxiety."

Anxiety? Terror was closer to the mark. When my pulse
slowed, I eased back onto the road and raised the speed to fifty-five.
"Now, about this turn-off."

He dug in his jacket pocket—quite a feat with the seatbelt
firmly in place—and found the printout his student had sent him
describing the cottage we were renting. He read it to me.

Ten minutes later he said, "We just missed it."

"Oh, no, I'm afraid to leave the N11." We were approaching
Arklow. I knew from my English experience I couldn't just drive
around the block to correct my error. There were no blocks.

The highway curved past a school and a stretch of shops
before it crossed the River Avoca on a narrow bridge. I glimpsed a
pretty boat harbor to my left, but had no time for rubber-necking. A
sign announced that an experimental traffic light lay ahead. I could
see where the road ended in a T. The light wasn't working. I
wondered if the experimenters had noticed.

At the T intersection, I did my head-twisting trick, checking
for traffic in the wrong direction and then turned right onto a
narrow street. Cars parked on both sides allowed one and a half
lanes for traffic. I inched up the long hill at the head of another
impromptu parade.

"It's the High Street," Dad observed.

"High but not Wide." I avoided knocking the mirror off a
parked car as a lorry boomed past me.

The street wound upward, full of shops. I spotted banks,
hotels, a scattering of restaurants and news agents, a bookie, and the
post office, if that was what An Post meant. A gray church loured on
the left. The dominant color of the stonework in Arklow was a
somber gray, but many of the buildings had been stuccoed in
cheerful pastels.

At the top of the High Street we came to a roundabout. I
negotiated it with grim concentration and retraced our path back to
the non-functioning traffic light. A left turn took us across the Avoca-
-swans drifted on the slack tide—and we escaped the town. It looked
well worth exploring, but not then.

"Turn left at that brown sign."

Obedient, I dodged onto a one-lane paved road. As I shifted
to third, a van careened toward me going flat out. I scraped onto the
non-existent shoulder. We didn't die. "I don't know if I can take much
more of this."

"You should see the view from the passenger seat."

I glanced at Dad. "I'd rather drive."

"I keep wincing at gateposts," he admitted. There was now
no margin for error. A stone wall six feet high and overgrown with
vine hung right on the edge of the asphalt. I breathed again as the
wall gave way to a white-railed fence and four inches of weedy
shoulder. A small car whipped past on its way to town. "How much
farther?"

"About half a kilometer. Alex said there was a church tower
on the right."

"I see it." I gripped the wheel and aimed for the tower. As we
approached, I saw that it rose above a roofless Protestant church and
a neat graveyard, walled, with tall marker slabs. "Next road
left?"

"Toward the river."

I turned onto a graveled lane, and we jounced and rattled
between bramble hedges. The trees that towered over the hedges
had not yet leafed out. Patches of blooming gorse brightened fields
full of incurious cows. A rook rose from the ground with an angry
flap of wings.

"Oh, my word," Dad murmured.

I braked and gaped. Below us lay an enchanted palace, a
fandango of turrets in a green, green field. Stanyon Hall.

"A remarkable structure," Dad said. "I can see why Alex
wants to save it."

I put the car in first gear and rolled on. It wasn't a palace, of
course, or even a castle. It was just the residence of an Anglo-Irish
landlord with more money than sense, a monument to foolish
display. Dad had told me the history. The Stanyons were long gone,
and the place had been used as a TB hospital and, briefly, a convent.
Then it had stood derelict until the Steins bought it two years before.
No longer dazzled, I could see scaffolding, patched stucco, a tarp
draped over one of the battlements. A mundane metal shed sat on
the far edge of the grass.

The road branched in a Y. One lane led down to Stanyon
Hall. The other curved past a clump of rhododendrons at least
twenty feet high. They were budding out. I nosed the Toyota around
the curve.

The graveled surface thinned. There were potholes. The car
jolted along. Conifers closed in, some overhanging the lane. After
perhaps five minutes, we emerged into a clearing. There on a fresh
patch of gravel stood our goal, the cottage my father had leased from
the Steins, a neat stone box with white trim and a slate roof. I had
been expecting thatch. Yellow and scarlet tulips glistened in the
weak sunlight.

I drew up by the varnished front door, set the brake, and
killed the engine. A ceramic plaque on the stone wall announced
"Bedrock Cottage." Cute. "I can't believe we made it."

Dad had already opened the door and released his seatbelt.
He swung his long legs out and pulled himself from the car slowly,
like an old man. By the time I extricated myself, though, he had found
the key to the cottage and was at the front door.

"Wait! The alarm..."

He glanced back in the act of opening the door. "Oh,
dear."

I dashed past him, found the alarm box, and punched in
what I hoped was the right code. If it wasn't, we were due for a visit
from the local Garda. However, no bells sounded. After a panting
moment, I decided I had disabled the security system.

Dad said, "Sorry. I need to use the loo." He was on diuretics,
blood-thinners and analgesics. He headed through the door to the
right.

The front door opened into the kitchen. I looked around. It
seemed larger than it was because of a high ceiling. A trestle table
took up most of the center of the room. Directly behind it lay the
Rayburn cooker, a heater fired by kerosene. It was supposed to
warm the house, heat water, and cook our meals, all in one. From the
chill in the room I deduced that the Rayburn was not working. Light
came from a high window to the left, above the sink, and another
slim window beside the door. I found the light switch and flipped it
on.

By the time Dad returned, I had my head in a broom closet
that concealed the thermostat and the switchbox as well as a backup
electric water heater with yet another set of switches.

"The plumbing works."

"Small blessings. I turned the Rayburn on and nothing
happened." Two buttons, obviously controls, lay just below eye-level.
I squinted. One was marked "Reset." I pressed it and the cooker
rumbled.

"It's coming on," Dad said.

"That's good. This place is colder inside than out. Shall we
unload the car?"

"Yes. Then I have to take my medication and lie down for a
while, I suppose. Nuisance."

I yawned. "I may nap, too. Is there any food?"

Dad opened the door of a small refrigerator that was tucked
into the corner next to a heroic sink. The sink had to have come from
a dairy. It was deep enough to hold a steel milk can. The drainboards
were varnished wood. "Bread, milk, eggs, cheese, ah, and some real
Irish bacon."

"You're not supposed to eat bacon."

"Nonsense. There's a microwave, too, coffee and tea in this
cupboard, and a cottage loaf in the bread box."

"Then we're in business." Except that I could have used a
beer.

"Smithwick's Ale in the fridge." Dad took a bottle from the
refrigerator and rummaged through a drawer below the sink.

"Lead me to it." Someone should do a study of the merits of
beer as a tranquilizer. I skirted the table, took the tall brown bottle
from Dad's hand, and pried the cap off with the opener he'd dug out.
"Cheers."

Dad smiled but didn't follow suit. He doesn't like beer. "This
is cozy. I can work here. There's a desk in the next room."

"Excellent. Is there a telephone?"

"In the desk, Alex said."

I took another swallow of beer and headed through the
door. I found the telephone and plugged it into the jack. When I lifted
the receiver, it emitted a noise I decided was a dial tone. I dug my
address book from my purse, found the code for international calls,
and dialed home. I got our answering machine. In a way, that was a
relief. I left a message to the effect that I was alive and well and
would call later. Then I hung up.

Dad poked his head through the door. "How's Jay?"

"I got the message tape." Jay was my husband. He was fine.
At least I hoped he was. Whether our marriage was fine was another
question. I handed Dad the phone, finished my beer, and went
exploring.

The layout of the cottage was rather odd. We had entered
the main floor at ground level. That whole floor was taken up with
two big rooms, the kitchen and a large living room, a corner of which
held the desk and telephone. It was a handsome space, high-
ceilinged, the stone walls offset by blonde woodwork and
comfortable-looking Danish furniture upholstered in warm shades. A
batik wall hanging of a stylized dragon hung against the fireplace
wall. A bucket full of little black cubes stood on the hearth. Turf. I
thought about starting a turf fire.

At the far side of the living room, a flight of stairs led
downward. I went over to the window above the sofa and looked out.
The land behind the cottage sloped steeply down to a terrace that
looked as if it had been planted in grass that day. Beyond lay stone
outbuildings and a pond surrounded by willows. The cottage was
going to be a splendid investment for the Steins when the
landscaping took hold. Right now it had a raw look. Below the
window, a small slate roof jutted out into the embryo lawn. A tool
shed?

I trotted downstairs. Two bedrooms and a bath. The
bedroom below the kitchen held twin beds, a tall wardrobe, and,
concealed in what had once been a closet, a tiny
en suite
bath-
-toilet, sink, and shower. The larger bath stood in the center of that
storey with a front-loading washing machine against its outer wall. A
narrow hall led to a door that had to open onto the lawn. I twisted
the lever-style handle, but the door was locked. Scuff marks on the
floor suggested that workmen had been in and out of the house
recently.

The other bedroom held a double-bed futon folded into
couch configuration on a blonde frame, a chest of drawers, and a
closet. The bedside reading table looked low enough to serve with
the futon laid flat. My relationship with futons is ambivalent. I sleep
well on them, but not long. After about six hours, a futon repels the
human body. This is a fact. Dad needed access to the
en suite
bathroom, however, so the futon was mine, like it or lump it.

I mused for a moment on the oddity of Japanese Danish Irish
style. Then I strolled back upstairs to find my father wrestling his
luggage—an old-fashioned leather portmanteau and a modern
wheeled suitcase full of books—through the open front door. I took
the portmanteau. "How's Ma?" He had called my mother.

"Mary's fine." He jerked the handle of the book bag up and
pulled the bag into the living room. "I wish she wouldn't fuss."

I didn't comment. Dad's stroke had frightened my mother.
Ordinarily she doesn't fuss, but she had been as fluttery as a hen
with one egg over the Irish trip. She was scheduled to run a major
poetry workshop that spring. And Dad had not allowed her to cancel
it when he decided to do his research. She would join him later.

It was Ma who had convinced me to leave my bookstore in
the hands of my very competent clerk and fly to Dad's rescue.
Watching him drag the heavy suitcase across the polished oak floor, I
could see Mother's point. He was not jet-lagged, but he was gray with
weariness.

I lugged the portmanteau downstairs after him and installed
him in the room with the bath. "Time for a nap?"

He didn't even argue.

I helped him stow his clothes and switched on the electric
space heater. "Do you have a key for the door that leads to the back
lawn?"

He fumbled in his jacket. "Where? Oh, yes." He handed me a
key ring with two keys, ordinary Yale locks. "Here, madam. I dub you
chatelaine." The words were jaunty but his pronunciation blurred. A
muscle on the side of his face had contracted—not obviously, but
enough so I noticed.