Whitethorn Woods (43 page)

   He asked her, did she ever go to France on the Eurostar train? It was something he had always promised himself that he would do when he was next in London. He told her that he had hardly any family himself. He was an only child and his parents were dead. He did have cousins some miles out, in a small village called Doon—a nice place actually. He had been invited to the opening of a building out there called the Danny O'Neill Health Center, in memory of some Irishman who went to America, and his grandson who was half Polish was doing it in his honor. Maybe Judy might like to come with him as his guest.

   "Why do they call you Skunk?" she asked suddenly.

   "I don't know, Judy, to be honest. They did at school and it stuck. Maybe I smelled awful then. I don't smell awful now, do I?"

   "No, Sebastian, you do not, you smell fine to me," she said.

   At that moment Cathal Chambers, the bank manager, walked by.

   "Evening, Skunk, evening, Judy," he said affably.

   "Oh, Cathal, we were actually just discussing this. Sebastian is going to be called his real name from now on," Judy Flynn said as if she were addressing a class of unruly ten-year-olds.

   "Sure, I'm sorry, Skunk, I mean Sebastian, no offense ever meant."

   And Skunk Slattery, who had been called that for more than thirty years, graciously forgave him.

   Next day Judy got an extensive grilling from her sister-in-law, Kitty, as they made Mrs. Flynn's bed and settled her in a chair. They had got a good routine going now. Mrs. Flynn had eventually and grudgingly recognized her daughter, and equally grudgingly got over her unreasonable dislike of her daughter-in-law, which was a considerable advance.

   Of course she complained as usual that someone had stolen all her clothes and was not at all comforted when Judy briskly unpacked the clean items from the Fresh as a Daisy.

   "Well, come on then! Did Skunk lay his hands on you?" Kitty asked.

   "His name is Sebastian and he was quite delightful," Judy said primly.

   "Skunk? Delightful?" It was beyond Kitty's comprehension.

   "I told you, he's not answering to that silly schoolboy name anymore."

   "It'll take a while to get that message across, Judy."

   "Well, he's starting this morning, he's painting a new sign over his shop," Judy said.

   Mrs. Flynn looked from one to the other. "You could do worse than Skunk, you know, he has plenty put by," she said.

   "You don't choose a man just for what he has put by," Judy said reprovingly.

   "For what reason would you choose, then? Because he's a good tap dancer?" her mam asked, and for some reason that they couldn't quite understand they all found this very funny.

* * *

Cathal Chambers was concerned because Neddy Nolan had borrowed so much money. Of course he had put the farm up as collateral; still it was a heavy sum. And this from a man who would think twice before buying a pair of shoes in the charity shop.

   "Could you let me know what it's all for, Neddy?" Cathal asked.

   "It's for my advisers," Neddy explained.

   "But, God above, what kind of advice are you getting that could cost all this money?" Cathal was bewildered.

   "Experts in their field charge high fees," Neddy said as if that were any kind of explanation.

   "It's just that you wouldn't want cowboy advisers who might bleed you dry or anything." Cathal was sincere. He was as much out for Neddy Nolan's good as for the bank's.

   "No, indeed, Cathal, highly professional," Neddy said with a calm little smile.

Cathal w ent to see the lawyer, Myles Barry.

   "Myles, I don't want to get into the lawyer-client relationship, but who are all these advisers Neddy Nolan has?"

   "Advisers?" Myles Barry was confused.

   "Yes, people he's paying huge fees to, apparently."

   Myles scratched his head. "I don't know who the hell they are— I haven't even sent him one bill, he can hardly have retained another firm of lawyers without telling me. I don't know what you're talking about, Cathal, I really don't."

Lilly Ryan and her son Donal went to the prison on visiting day. This time they wanted to go without the priest.

   "I'll be there visiting someone else in case you need me," he said.

   Father Flynn had an entirely unsatisfactory conversation with poor Becca King, who seemed to be getting madder all the time. She had got a very long prison sentence for being involved in the murder of her rival in love. She showed no repentance at all, just kept repeating that it had had to be done. He hoped that she wouldn't ask him again to arrange a prison wedding with that young man she was obsessed with. A young man who wouldn't even come to visit her in jail, let alone marry her there. But no, today it was something different. She had a petition for St. Ann, a card that she wanted pinned onto the shrine for all to see.

   She showed it to the priest. It was a photograph of Gabrielle King, her mother, and underneath was written: "Please, St. Ann, punish this woman severely for having destroyed her daughter's life. And if any of your loyal followers should see her in the streets of Rossmore, they should spit at her in your name."

   Father Flynn felt very old and tired. He gravely said he would go there this afternoon and do it, he would give it priority.

   "It must be in a place where everyone can see it," Becca called as he was leaving.

   "Pride of place, that's what I'll get for it, Becca," he promised.

   As he left, Kate, one of the warders, laid her hand on his arm.

   "You are a kind man, Father, not to upset her."

   "You do know that I'm going to throw it away, don't you?" Father Flynn said.

   "Of course I do, but you'll wait until you get home and burn it rather than leaving it round here for anyone to pick up," Kate said.

   Brian Flynn put the card in his wallet beside a check that had come from London that morning. It was money left by a lady who had died, a Helen Harris. She wanted to thank the shrine of St. Ann for having answered her prayers for the safe delivery of a baby twenty-three long years ago. Perhaps the priest could spend it as he thought best to honor the saint.

   As he sat there on a wooden bench in case Lilly Ryan might need him later, Father Flynn speculated to himself about the role of a priest in today's society. He hadn't come to any satisfactory conclusion when Lilly and Donal came out.

   "All well?" he asked anxiously and felt annoyed with himself at the very question. How could all be well in a family where the father was in jail for domestic violence, a family that had lost a child nearly a quarter of a century ago?

   But surprisingly Lilly nodded as if it were a normal thing to ask. "Just fine, Father. I realize now he's a very weak man. I didn't know this, you see, what with him being so big and strong, and hurting me for being stupid. But he's actually weak and frightened, I see that now."

   "And my mam realizes that just because she is understanding and forgiving to him, the state will not be forgiving and allow him to go home. He will have to finish his sentence," her son said.

   "Yes, and Donal was very good, it's not really in his heart but to please me he shook hands with his dad and wished him courage." Lilly's tired face looked less strained than before.

   "So would you say we have a result then?" Father Flynn said.

   "Best result in the circumstances," Donal agreed.

   "That's all any of us can hope for," Father Flynn said.

Clare was taking her pupils to the Heartfelt Art Gallery to do a project. Emer, who was the director there, was a friend of hers. They would let the girls wander around the gallery and try to answer the questions on the form while the two women had a cup of coffee.

   Emer was getting married shortly to a Canadian named Ken, whom she had always fancied but thought she had lost. Then suddenly out of the blue he had come to her with bunches of flowers and everything had been perfect.

   Father Flynn was going to do a nice speedy job on the service. Emer supposed that the priest was so glad that anyone came into a church at all these days or married anyone of a different sex, he'd agree to anything.

   "He's his own man," Clare said.

   "He is indeed," Emer agreed. "Did he marry you and Neddy?"

   "No, the canon did, but he was there kind of rescuing the canon and bringing him back if he started to wander down too many byways . . ."

   "I see your Neddy often these days, he has some kind of business in an office near Ken's up here in the old flour mills they converted," Emer said.

   "Neddy? Business?"

   "Well, I assumed so, I saw him today when I was bringing Ken some lunch in his office. And yesterday . . ."

   Clare was silent. Neddy had mentioned nothing of any business. She felt a cold lump of dread in her heart. But not Neddy. No, never.

   Emer realized what was happening.

   "I could have been mistaken," she said lamely.

   Clare said nothing.

   "I mean, it's all offices here, little suites they rent out as offices, you know. It's not as if it was flats, apartments. No, Clare, not Neddy. He worships you, for heaven's sake."

   "I think these girls have had enough time, don't you?" Clare said in a very brittle voice quite unlike her own.

   "Please, don't jump to conclusions . . . you know men," Emer begged.

   Clare knew men better than anyone in Rossmore.

   "Come on, girls, don't take all day," she said in a voice that was not going to be disobeyed.

   She was getting into her car when she met Cathal Chambers from the bank. He greeted her warmly.

   "You and Neddy must be making great plans up in that farm of yours," he said.

   "Hardly, Cathal, it's still very uncertain whether there will be a road running through the middle of it or not."

   "So what are all these advisers then, the ones that cost all the money?"

   "I don't know about any advisers costing lots of money."

   "Maybe I got it wrong. But you do know you have huge borrowings, don't you?" Cathal's round face was anxious.

   "Huge borrowings? Oh yes, yes indeed, I know . . ." Clare said in a voice that would be obvious to anyone that she had absolutely no idea.

   There was a time she had thought that Neddy was just too good to be true. Maybe she had been right.

   When she got back home her father-in-law was having a siesta out on the porch they had built together. She remembered handing Neddy the nails one by one. Marty was asleep in a big wicker chair with a light warm blanket on his knees. This place had meant peace and refuge to Clare, and now it was all over.

   Neddy was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by papers.

   "I have something important to ask you, Neddy," she began.

   "And I have something very important to tell you, Clare," he said.

Judy Flynn stood back to get the full effect of the new sign over Slattery's shop. It looked very splendid.

   "It may take time for them to stop calling me Skunk," he said anxiously.

   "Well, we have time," Judy said.

   "You don't have to go back for a while yet, do you?" Sebastian Slattery asked from the top of his ladder.

   "No, I'm my own boss, but I'm not made of money, I can't go on staying in the Rossmore Hotel for much longer."

   "What about your mam's house?" the newly named Sebastian suggested.

   "No, she would be found killed dead with a bread knife in her if I stayed there." Judy knew herself fairly well.

   "Kitty's?"

   "Something similar. These are people I can meet just for very short periods of time."

   "Well, what about my place then? You could stay here over the shop for a while until . . . until . . ."

   "Until what, Sebastian?"

   "Until we get married and look for somewhere nicer for you and for me, for us, I mean . . ."

   "Are we going to get married? We barely know each other," Judy asked.

   "I do hope so," Sebastian said, coming down the ladder.

   "Right. I'll move in tonight," she said.

   "Um—I'll have to do up a room for you . . ."

   "You mean, we aren't going to sleep together? In your room?" she called across the street to him, to the entertainment of passersby.

   "I'll have your terrible Druid of a brother after me, saying I am the wages of sin and all that sort of thing."

   "Don't be ridiculous, Sebastian. Brian will just be delighted to see us happy. He won't go on with all that kind of stuff. You've been away from the Church too long . . ."

Brian Flynn was surprised to see Chester Kovac, the big American who had financed the Danny O'Neill Health Center in Doon.

   "I was wondering if I could prevail on you to marry Hannah Harty and myself quietly, you know, no big ceremony . . ."

   "Well, of course I will, and my warmest congratulations. But why won't you be getting married out in Doon, where you live? Father Murphy is in charge of the parish there."

   "No, we'd have to ask everyone if we had it in Doon, and we're a bit advanced in years to be making a big show of it. And anyway there's Dr. Dermot there—we don't want to be sort of showing off in front of him. It's complicated."

   Father Flynn knew Dr. Dermot—a mean, crabbed man. He could well believe that it was complicated.

   "I just didn't want you to miss out on a big day, that's all," he reassured Chester.

   "Oh, don't worry about that, Father, we'll miss out on nothing. There will be plenty of people at a big do when I go back to the States for a honeymoon. In fact we will be bringing my mom back here with me for a vacation. Her name is Ann too, so she is very anxious to visit the well here."