Mondo Desperado (20 page)

But, as Eustace was soon to discover, to his deepening consternation, Mrs Tiernan knew almost as little about the situation as himself. Was practically beside herself with worry, in fact.

*

Perhaps one of the most curious and fascinating aspects of village life as it is lived in Ireland is its seemingly uncomplicated ‘code of behaviour’; the inhabitants
of any village are, at any time, assumed to live simple, dutiful, perhaps even predictable lives, with clearly defined social and moral parameters. Expectations are generally low, with people going
about their business much as their antecedents did hundreds of years before. So established are the rhythmic patterns of behaviour in such places that any radical departures from them are
considered to be quite unthinkable. But how close is this to the truth, or is it but a chimera – behind the innocent façade lurking a reality as shocking as any seething mass of
serpents uncovered by two arms sunk deep in a barrel of seemingly fragrant, beguiling pot-pourri? In Barntrosna’s case, as later events would soon reveal, this was indeed the sad and
challenging actuality.

*

At this stage in our narrative, it is important that we return to Noreen’s mother, who by now was at her wits’ end. Endless communications to her daughter had
produced nothing. Fevered night dreams in which Noreen was brutally assaulted, dumped over cliffs and leered at by Bill Sykes-featured assailants had by now become commonplace. For the first time
in her life, Mrs Tiernan found herself helpless. She would sit alone in the gloom of the stone-flagged kitchen, biting her nails and thinking over the many tribulations and small crises she had
overcome during the course of her life: the death of her dear husband; the time her sister (Ellie) had the sciatica; the eighteen hours she had spent in the labour ward with Noreen; all were as
nothing compared to this. Perhaps if Noreen had even been a tad unreliable in her habits, Mrs Tiernan might have understood. But this was not the case. The words of Mrs Donnelly came racing into
her mind, those very words she had uttered thirteen months before on being informed that Noreen had been offered a nursing position in London: ‘Don’t let her go, Mrs! If you let her go
near it, you’ll regret it until your dying day! Listen to me now for the love of God! Tramps, whoremasters, madmen, the whole lot of them! Every low form of life that God put on this earth is
to be found there – waiting for the likes of you and me! Waiting for her – Noreen! Your daughter!’

She wondered now, had Mrs Donnelly been right all along? No! She couldn’t be! There was some other rational explanation! All she had to do was wait a few more days and a reply would most
definitely arrive, explaining everything.

But no letter ever came. It was only after meeting Pobs, whom she encountered outside the butcher’s shop in tears, that she decided once and for all it was time to act. ‘What are we
going to do?’ cried Pobs as he pulled at her coat. Mrs Tiernan sighed and her eyes too moistened. She could not bear to look upon him suffering so. ‘There, there,’ she said and
handed him a rolled-up Kleenex tissue she had in her handbag. Perhaps if Eustace De Vere-Bingham had not been on his way home from the Bridge Bar at that moment events might never have acquired the
momentum that they did. For when he perceived the advanced state of Pobs’s despair, he was truly incensed. ‘Dear God,’ he cried, ‘nobody should have to endure such pain! It
is an obscenity!’

‘I’m at my wits’ end, Eustace,’ Mrs Tiernan blurted out, ‘and that’s the truth! In all the time that she’s been away, not so much as a card or a letter
or a phone call!’

*

Now, the idea of Mrs Tiernan becoming an ‘investigator’ leading a party of self-styled ‘fact-finders’ to the great city of London in order to ascertain
what has happened to a missing daughter is in itself inherently ridiculous. Of course it is! One can’t but be aware of that! For whatever about well-bred, tweed-skirted post-war English
ladies becoming world-renowned sleuths, Mrs Tiernan knew she was no Miss Marple! Had never – ever! – at any time in her life entertained such extravagant notions about herself! She knew
better, for heaven’s sake. She was a simple, God-fearing woman of humble origins and if she decided to take this burden upon herself, it was for one reason and one reason alone – to
locate the daughter she dearly loved. Selfish ambition had nothing to do with it!

No, Mrs Tiernan was not and most definitely did not see herself as an investigator in the Kojak or Columbo mould, or indeed any other representation of the profession as might be encountered
daily on the television or in the pages of cheap pulp thrillers.

No, she was just an ordinary woman doing a mother’s duty.

Something, as she often remarked many months later when it was all over, she could never have done – not in a million years – without the help of her friends and fellow villagers.
Chief among them being Pobs, Eustace De Vere-Bingham and, of course, Fr Luke.

*

It was only a matter of time, of course – such had been the level of murmurings and disquieted exchanges amongst his parishioners – before Fr Luke determined that
something was indeed seriously amiss in the locality and why, when he met Pobs on the road some days later, he had this to say to him: ‘Well, Pobs – are you going to let me in on the
little secret? Just what is going on around here, eh? It’s something to do with Noreen, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ replied Pobs, lowering his head for a brief moment as the toe of his hobnailed boot described a variety of random shapes on the gravel beneath it, then raising it once more to
say: ‘We think she may have been kidnapped.’

‘Kidnapped, you say?’ exclaimed the clergyman as a blue tit on the sycamore directly behind him suddenly took wing, as if in fright.

Pobs nodded gravely.

*

When the full story was revealed to him, Fr Luke was adamant. ‘No! I refuse to stand idly by, Pobs! She is my parishioner, after all!’

Pobs placed the nicotine-stained nail of one thumb under the other and flicked for a moment. ‘Do you understand, Pobs?’ his parish priest demanded, squeezing his shoulder with an
enormous weather-beaten hand.

‘Yes,’ Pobs replied softly.

‘Right so! Leave it with me, then, Pobs!’ he heard then and looked up to see Fr Luke already making his way up the hill to the presbytery with his shiny-patched soutane flapping
excitedly, expectantly behind him like the wings of a giant bat.

*

Eustace De Vere-Bingham loved butterflies. There wasn’t a butterfly in the world he hadn’t caught at some point. There was nothing surprising about the sight of the
only De Vere-Bingham left in the Big House (De Vere-Bingham Hall) chasing across the fields with a butterfly net, in pursuit of some powder-winged beauty wantonly disporting itself about the
firmament, with a dazzlingly teasing display of so many figure-eights. Some people disliked Eustace. ‘Him and that fucking bubble car of his,’ they would mumble, ‘he’d
sicken your effing arse!’ To see him roaring into the village in the cherry-red conveyance, seemingly under the impression that he was some sort of world-class rally driver, insensitively
calling out to garage mechanics and grocery assistants alike, ‘Fill her up like a good fellow!’ and ‘Have you my goodies ready, fine chap?’ had the effect of affronting them
as he spurted off in a cloud of foul-smelling smoke to entertain yet another group of ‘friends’ with a salacious selection of his so-called ‘nudie-cuties’. (His latest
acquisition being
Back Street Jane – The Ben Hur of Big Titty Movies!
) ‘Effing bollocks,’ it was often said of him, ‘a good kick in the hole would take care of him
and his dirty films!’

But that is not to say that Eustace De Vere-Bingham was entirely without friends. Fr Luke, for one, was his champion, and would not hear a word said against him. ‘What of it, if he
collects butterflies? Is that to be considered a crime? Not in the eyes of God, my friends – and you would do well to remember that! Let him who is without sin cast the first
stone!’

For, after all, the priest would continue, Eustace was an example, in many ways. To begin with, he was honest. Law-abiding too. When was the last time you heard of
him
breaking into the
Bridge Bar to avail himself of crates of ale and any number of cigarettes? Or threatening to break every window in Barntrosna, and suchlike? Not for him nonsensical late-night political debates
outside the Burger Hut, when over some farcical detail an innocent citizen could find him- or herself kicked up and down the length of the main street and every member of their family –
despite total lack of involvement – remorselessly insulted.

Which was why, at precisely eight o’clock on the night after Fr Luke had taken his leave of Pobs, a knock came to the once-magnificent oaken door of De Vere-Bingham Hall.

*

‘London, you say?’ repeated Eustace De Vere as he cradled his cut-glass tumbler of French brandy and stared grimly through the south-facing window that looked out
upon the row of silver birches his great-grandfather had planted years before. ‘Noreen – whom we adored all the years she spent coming to visit us here in this house!’

‘Yes,’ replied the priest, sipping his tea from a hand-painted china cup, discreetly averting his eyes from the podgy white limbs of the interlocking oriental figures who cavorted
beneath its rim with abandon.

Eustace De Vere-Bingham turned to face his visitor. It was clear that he could have been startlingly handsome but for two alarmingly prominent teeth and a recalcitrant corkscrew-shaped wave of
sandy-coloured hair. He stood six foot two in his Norfolk jacket and brown shoes.

‘I would not have come to you unless I considered it to be a matter of utmost importance,’ said Fr Luke.

‘I realize that,’ replied Eustace, emptying the contents of his glass with one swift gulp and almost immediately replenishing it.

There was a long pause. Outside a man went running by, pausing only to wave.

‘I see Turbie has escaped from Our Lady of Lourdes Mental Hospital again,’ said Fr Luke, not without a tinge of regret.

Eustace did not reply. He was deep in thought. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked like a gigantic watch, each second passing like a solid blow to the solar plexus. The priest stared at
the remainder of his tea. It made the shape of a small brown dog, with a tail and three little legs.

‘Well, Eustace,’ he said then, the sudden movement of his hand demolishing the tiny liquid canine as that of a malign deity might some degenerate city, ‘can I count you
in?’

The smile began at the corner of the Protestant landowner’s mouth and, within seconds, was stretched right across the lower half of his face. He raised his right arm and pointed with his
index finger, indicating the large flower bed in the southeastern corner of the garden.

‘Do you see those gladioli?’ he said.

The priest nodded.

‘It was Noreen’s father planted them,’ said Eustace, grimly but steadfastly.

‘I can count you in, then?’ cried the clergyman eagerly.

Eustace nodded, uttering only one word as he placed his fastidiously manicured hand on the smiling priest’s shoulder.

That word was: ‘Yes.’

*

The big day came, and Mrs Tiernan’s tummy was a-flutter, principally because she hadn’t been to London since that one and only time with her dear departed husband
Oweny James thirty years before. What would it be like, she wondered. Just then, her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden cry of: ‘Don’t think you’ll tell me what to do, De Vere!
You’ve been doing that for long enough! You and all belonging to you!’ Instinctively, Noreen’s mother climbed out of the minibus and pleaded with the two men – Eustace De
Vere-Bingham and Pobs – who despite never having, up until now, ever so much as exchanged a cross word – they were long-standing drinking partners, for Heaven’s sake! – were
already grappling vigorously with one another, a state of affairs perhaps occasioned by the heightened state of nervous tension and anticipation which their imminent journey to the English
metropolis engendered within them. Mrs Tiernan had never actually come between two grown men before but she knew that if she did not unequivocally display strength and firmness of purpose her
credibility would immediately be undermined and the entire expedition might well be doomed before it had begun. Consequently she drew on all the emotional reserves at her disposal, gritting her
teeth and closing her fists as she curtly snapped: ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Pobs! It’s not your bus! And I’m sure that Eustace will be only too delighted to let you drive at
some stage of the journey!’

‘I want no favours from the likes of him!’ growled Pobs, righting his hat, which had slipped slightly from his head in the course of the struggle. ‘He’s always had his
eyes on Noreen! Pervert!’

‘Rest assured you will receive none,’ retorted Eustace, acidly.

‘Well, all I can say is this is a terrific performance! You two should be proud of yourselves! My daughter over in London – God knows what’s happened to her and all you can
think of is having ridiculous rows about nothing! Really, Pobs! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!’

If there was a point at which Mrs Tiernan could be said to have made her first mistake, then this was it. For in favouring Eustace in her judgement of the dispute, Mrs Tiernan planted a seed of
dissent and resentment which was eventually to grow into an almost impenetrable thicket of raging rebellion and destined to jeopardize the entire operation, not to mention the once-flourishing and
mutually cherished relationship between the two men. Sadly, however, she was under the impression that she had dealt admirably with the crisis and was clapping her hands smartly and calling,
‘Everybody hurry up now!’ as Fr Luke reappeared in the doorway of Spud-U-Like, licking his lips. ‘There youse are!’ exclaimed the priest good-humouredly as he climbed aboard
the minibus. Within minutes they were all set to go, and as they turned out of the village, Fr Luke summed up everybody’s feelings as he stuck his upraised thumb out the window and cried:
‘Farewell, Barntrosna! Till we see you again – with Noreen Tiernan aboard, looking every bit as fresh and well as the day she left us!’