No Enemy but Time (22 page)

‘I was late getting here,' she explained. ‘My car wasn't behaving itself this morning.' She added that she lived in Dublin. Her name was Marie Dempster. ‘Do you live near?'

Frank explained, and gave the name of the house. She opened her blue eyes very wide.

‘Old Lady Blanche Arbuthnot lived there, didn't she?'

‘Mrs Arbuthnot,' he corrected. ‘She was my grandmother.'

‘Was she really?'

He smiled at her. She looked so surprised. ‘Yes, really. Do you know the house?'

She glanced down; she seemed shy suddenly. ‘Well, no. I know of it, because my father had a little farm not far away. We wouldn't exactly be on the visiting list.'

He thought, good God, she's blushing. ‘Then why don't you come over and see it?'

The girl glanced up at him. She had a beautiful smile, with very white teeth. ‘Only if you'll be there,' she said. ‘I'm not a great one for old buildings.'

‘It's not that old, or that important,' he said. ‘But I'd be delighted if you'd come some time. Come and have lunch next weekend. After that, I'm going to the States for a while.'

She looked disappointed. ‘I can't next weekend, I'm going to a concert and I've got friends coming round. Do you like music?'

‘Not a lot,' he admitted. ‘We're not a musical family. But I will be in Dublin next Thursday. If you're free, we could have dinner.'

‘I'd love that,' Marie Dempster said.

She didn't drive back to her flat in Dublin. She drove to the house on the estate on the airport road, and waited for Sean Filey. The first move had been made.

Kevin was at Kennedy Airport to meet him. It was bitterly cold, with snow playing whirlwind hide-and-seek round the rooftops as they drove out on the northern Route 73 to Boston.

‘It's great to see you,' his uncle said. ‘Just great. I've told Mary Rose and the children all about you. We've a big party arranged for you to meet some of our friends.' He wagged his head at Frank and added, ‘People who'll be useful to you, me boy. Good Irish-Americans with the money. We'll have a hullava a good time while you're here!'

Frank had never had a welcome like that from his father. The new sensation of warmth and belonging came over him, stronger than the first time they met. The Ryans lived in a big modern house in a smart suburb of Boston. The windows were all glowing with lights and the snow fell in a fragile curtain as they drew up to the door. The houses were in a high-security estate, with closed circuit TV and armed guards on the gates. It was an ugly reminder of the violence that clouded American life. The rich and the privileged were targets, but at least they knew how to protect themselves.

When the front door opened, a pretty, brightly dressed woman came to meet him, and said, ‘Frank? I'm Mary Rose. Welcome to our home,' and reaching up she kissed him. ‘I've heard so much about you,' she went on, beaming at him. ‘Kevin's just never stopped telling us all about his wonderful visit with you. Now come on in. The drinks are waiting!' And she trilled with laughter, as if his arrival was the best thing that had happened for years.

There were four children. Good-looking children in various stages of adolescence and one little red-haired girl who smiled and smiled at him and went on staring till her father took her on his knee.

‘This is Eileen,' he said. ‘Named for your mother. Same red hair, same bright eyes.'

‘Aw, Daddy,' the little maiden said, squirming with embarrassment.

Frank smiled at her and thought, ‘This is a real family. This is how I'd want to be with my children.'

When Mary Rose was in the kitchen and the children had gone back to the television set, Kevin poured a whiskey and raised his glass. ‘It's a great day for me,' he said quietly. ‘Having Eileen's son in my house.'

‘It's great to be here,' Frank responded.

They talked politics till dinner was ready. Broad politics, without probing too deeply. By the time Mary Rose came to the door to call them, Kevin had established that he and Frank had more than family ties in common. He might have a WASP name, but his sympathies were with his mother's people. All he needed was guidance in the right direction.

The party in his honour was lavish. There was a buffet laid out for fifty guests, drink flowed in the best Irish tradition. Outside help had been brought in who knew their job, and Mary Rose, gleaming in a black sequin dress and expensive diamond jewellery, greeted their guests. There were politicians, several priests, one with the purple of a Monsignor in his shirt front, well-dressed women who proclaimed their husbands' success with minks and more diamonds. Kevin moved among them, slapping backs and kissing cheeks, parading Frank from one group to the next.

‘My nephew from Ireland. My dear sister's son.'

There were lively and attractive girls who eyed him speculatively and brawny young men who talked about sport and business, vying with each other. Older men, with hard achievement behind them, took a quieter view of this nephew of Kev Ryan's, brought out like a rabbit from a hat. He was nice enough, but there was nothing of the Irishman about him. Then they recalled the old tragic story of Kevin's sister and her marriage, and the English accent and manners made sense. He had spent time in America, and the Harvard Business School impressed them.

After the supper Kevin gathered a few of the older men together in a room he called his den, and asked Frank to join them. They talked American politics and business, and the two men Kevin most wanted to impress drew his nephew into a discussion on banking and the world economic trends. Over his nephew's head, Kevin received a nod of approval, and allowed himself a proud smile. Frank was doing him credit in the closed community of the Boston Irish. These were the leading citizens, these two. Multi-millionaires, second generation, with intermarriage binding them. Not Kennedys, but coming upward after them. He'd been right to bring Frank over, right to introduce him. His own political ambitions would be strengthened; a fine home in the Old Country, as they called it, and a member of the establishment among his family. Kevin looked at his nephew and let his pride show. He shook hands with his guests with Frank by his side like a son. Watching it, Mary Rose felt just a little jealous, because he should have paid more attention to their own Patrick, who was turned seventeen and needed promoting. But it was an unkind thought, and she suppressed it. He was such a charming young man, with beautiful manners. Different, but so charming. It was touching to see Kevin and him together. He did make Kevin seem just a little rough sometimes, and that was another disloyal thought she had to put aside. She was so firm with herself that she went out of her way to spoil her new nephew and press him to come again real soon and stay much longer.

One night when his visit was coming to an end, she sat up in bed and said to her husband, ‘Honey, when are you going to tell him the truth?'

Kevin wanted to go to sleep and not talk, so he grunted. ‘What truth? It's late, Rose, I wanna get some sleep.'

‘When are you going to tell him he's a Catholic?' she asked. ‘Kevin, listen to me. It's your duty. You've got to tell him.'

Painfully, Kevin heaved himself upright. He was tired, and his liver had taken a lot of punishment, but Mary Rose had touched a nerve. He was a deeply religious man. Being a devout Catholic was as much a part of him as being Irish.

‘I'll tell him,' he said. ‘I'll tell him before he goes home. But I've got to pick the moment, Rose. It'll be a shock to him.'

At that moment his wife was as near to reproaching him as she had ever been. ‘God's grace can never be a shock,' she said. ‘It'll open his mind and heart to the truth. What would your sister Eileen say if she could hear you?'

‘Jesus, Rosie,' he muttered, lying down and turning on his side. ‘I'll tell Frank. I promise.'

Before, he had been ready to drop into a deep sleep. Now, long after Mary Rose was adrift beside him, Kevin pondered on his sister, and what indeed she would have thought. And in the darkness he faced a different truth from the truth of Mary Rose. His sister had married outside her Church. She'd abandoned her faith for the love of Philip Arbuthnot, and there was no mention of her asking that her child should be baptized. She'd died with the deathbed repentance he'd always found uncomfortable. He didn't know then what she would have thought about her son being baptized a Catholic in secret, and maybe it didn't matter. What really mattered was the effect it might have upon his nephew. If anything would draw him closer to his Irish ancestry, then this revelation might be the thing.

There was a telephone message from Marie Dempster among the many calls waiting for Frank when he arrived home. For a moment he couldn't place the name. But it was only a few seconds' lapse. Of course: the pretty girl he'd taken out to dinner before he went to the States. Marie Dempster. Mrs Mahoney had written everything down in her painstaking hand. Miss Dempster wanted Mr Frank to telephone as soon as he got back. There were two messages from Claire, asking him to ring a London number. He tried that first. The girl she was living with answered. Sorry, she was away for the weekend. Yes, she'd say her brother called. He felt so disappointed not to speak to her, he didn't bother to ring anyone else till the next morning.

Marie Dempster sounded pleased to hear from him. She had a nice voice, and she didn't waste time on the telephone.

‘I thought you'd be back by now,' she said. ‘I did enjoy our dinner and I'd love to hear about your trip. Why don't you come here and I'll make dinner for you? Are you busy this weekend?'

Frank hesitated. He wasn't busy. He had come back from America with so many impressions and a strange feeling of fundamental change in himself. And no one to talk to, because Claire was away. If she'd been at home, he'd have taken a plane to London.

‘No. I've no plans made,' he said. ‘I'd like to come.'

She gave him the address and said Sunday at seven, if that wasn't too early. ‘I'm looking forward to it,' she said, and then hung up.

It was a flat in a house off Baggot Street. There were five flights of stairs to climb. The address was a good one, but there was no money left over for luxuries. She'd created a pleasant room out of very little. When he said how nice it was, she was dismissive.

‘I made the curtains and covered the chairs myself,' she said. ‘And I like plants. I spend money on flowers and plants. It reminds me of the country. I've some wine, will that do?'

Frank said, ‘That'll be great,' and wished he'd thought of bringing her something. He wasn't used to girls living on their own, with no money to spare. There were so many things he didn't know about how other people lived. A life of comfortable privilege, cushioned against reality. That was the sum of his experience, he thought, half listening to her making small talk while she prepared supper in a walk-in kitchen too small to hold two people. He didn't notice the food; the wine was cheap and unpleasant, but she had taken so much trouble he praised everything. And he talked about America.

She asked him a few questions, the sort of questions he expected, and then said suddenly, ‘I'd love to go one day. I'd like to live there and get a really decent job. There's no future for me in the firm I'm in.' It was a well-known firm of Dublin solicitors, not too far from where she lived.

He said, ‘Why not? They're very good people.'

She leaned towards him. Her blue eyes were shining with anger. ‘Because my name is Dempster and I'm a Catholic,' she said. ‘I've been there four years, Frank, and the job of private secretary to the senior partner is coming vacant. I should get that job. I'm a very good secretary … the best they've got there. But they've brought in a girl from outside. She's from the right background. Church of Ireland and good Cromwellian name!' She turned away and rummaged in her bag for a handkerchief. She blew her nose and cleared her throat. ‘I shouldn't have said that to you,' she apologized. ‘I had a bit too much wine. But I've been boiling over it for days.'

‘I'm not surprised,' Frank said. ‘I've never heard of anything like it. It's what you'd expect in the North, but here …'

She looked at him. ‘In the North I wouldn't have got a job with them in the first place,' she pointed out. ‘They're honest about their discrimination. No Catholic need apply. That used to be in all the “Situations Vacant” in the papers. That's what the trouble is with us in the Republic. Just because we're not being kicked around by Britain any more, we think there's nothing left to do. No injustice right under our noses!' She seemed so agitated, twisting her handkerchief in her fingers, a bright flush on each cheek. She got up and went through into the cupboard that called itself a kitchen. ‘I suppose I've said all the wrong things to you,' she said from inside it. ‘Now I'll never see you again.'

He felt so sorry for her, and so indignant. He got up and met her as she turned to come back into the room. She looked miserable and anxious. As she said to Sean Filey afterwards, it was the best bit of acting she'd ever done in her life.

Frank put both hands on her shoulders. All his life he had comforted Claire. It was as natural to him as breathing to be gentle with a girl.

‘Don't be silly,' he said. ‘Of course you're angry. Give the bastard notice. I'll help you get another job.'

She smiled and blinked away tears. ‘You're not a solicitor,' she murmured.

‘No,' Frank said quietly, ‘but I'm about to open a merchant bank right here in Dublin. There'll be a job for you in a month or two's time, if you manage till then.'

‘You really mean it?' She had beautiful blue eyes, with the heavy dark lashes and eyebrows that were peculiar to the Irish. She glanced downward and looked shy. Then unexpectedly she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘You do mean it, don't you?' she said. ‘You're a very special sort of a man, Frank.' She kissed him again and opened her mouth to him. She was too experienced and subtle to go to bed with him the first time. She guided him to a pitch of sexual desire, and then buttoned her dress and drew back saying how sorry she was, and she shouldn't have got carried away.