The Kilternan Legacy

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Aunt Irene specifically said …” I can stick to the point too.

  He shook his head firmly. “This is not a day, either, for repeating what Irene said … though God bless the woman …” and he tilted his glass in a quick toast, as did Jim Kenny. Were these the “young” people she’d wanted to help? “We’ve all been Irened to the death of us. This is the day to meet your cousins over the waters, chat ‘em all up, and get stocious. Now, tell me how you like Ireland. How long do you plan to stay, and are those large young people really your children?”

  I jumped at the opportunity to answer innocuous questions. (Hide behind the Image!) On top of my relief at discovering that these male cousins of mine were singularly unconcerned about the eccentric will of our mutual relation, I found that they were delightful company. Shortly, however (and I’d noticed the pair keeping a surreptitious eye on Aunt Alice), they maneuvered me out of the kitchen, away from her notice, and into the living room.

  When I didn’t see my twins among the assorted younger people—there was an incredible number of children of all sizes and descriptions—I got apprehensive, until one of the women said the twins had gone to inspect young Tom’s new motorbike and wasn’t the racket frightful?

  It was all very pleasant but I seemed to be getting too many refills on that drink, so I was very glad when someone asked me if I wanted a bite to eat. Gerry guided me to the dining room, where there was a turkey and a ham, sandwiches, and bread and cake and cookies. A platoon of teacups stood ready on the sideboard. I was very much in need of something to sop up all that liquor.

  Snow and Simon descended on the buffet with six young people, chattering a hundred to the dozen. Snow heaped an indecent amount of food on her plate, but others had collected as much if not more. My conception of ladylike teas went through another upheaval.

  Snow sidled up to me in her best conspiratorial fashion. “Boy, have I got a lot of gossip for you, Mom.” Then she got snatched away by a grinning black-haired boy before she could elaborate.

  No sooner had the multitude been fed and tea-ed than the table was removed and chairs pushed back. A red-haired man started to fiddle a come-all-ye, and another man hauled out an accordion.

  Gerry was all for seizing me for a wild reel, but I firmly held him off and asked where the ladies room was.

  “I’ll take you, Mrs. Teasey,” said a soft voice beside me. It was the motorcycling receptionist. She’d been waiting for a chance to get me aside, I suspected.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Teasey,” she said as she threw the bolt in the bathroom door behind her, “but I’ve been trying all the evening to get to talk to you. I wanted to explain and to thank you.”

  “There’s nothing to explain, really,” I told her, wanting very very much to use the toilet.

  She turned to the mirror and began to fiddle with her hair, giving me a chance.

  “You see, my grandmother …”

  “Oh Lord, which one is your grandmother? I’m hopelessly lost with all these relations.”

  “My grandmother’s Alice Hegarty. I’m Maureen, Tom’s daughter. Brian Kelley’s my father’s boss. I had orders to let him know when you got here. I had to do that, you see. I didn’t want to, but my dad said I had to, and there’d be no harm done. You do understand?” She was so pathetically conscience-stricken. “And you should’ve heard them when she died! Parceling out her things, her money—if there was any.” Her tone mimicked the original speaker. “And they were so positively glad to turf Ann and Mary out, you wouldn’t believe!” Her eyes were sparkling with remembered outrage. She gave a sharply expelled breath, her expression both sad and cynical. “I know how people can behave, because I’ve been in a solicitor’s office long enough, but when they’re your own kin, and it was Auntie Irene …” Tears sparkled in her eyes, but she controlled them. “You’d better go out first, Mrs. Teasey.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Maureen, we are related, please call me Rene?”

  She gave me a soggy smile and nodded.

  “And come see us soon at the queendom. Please? I need your help, for Aunt Irene’s sake.”

  She agreed and I left the bathroom, much relieved on several counts. Such a sweet child. She must have been one of those my aunt had wanted to help and didn’t dare: The vultures would have descended instantly.

  Gerry was leaning against the hall arch, a drink in each hand. Beyond there was singing; the tune was familiar, but the words escaped me.

  “C’mon, you’ve to do your party piece,” he said, taking me by the arm and wheeling me toward the dining room. Protests availed me nothing.

  My Uncle Bob was in the middle of the floor, vigorously directing the singing, his face flushed and sweaty with effort. His tenor was strong, if not precisely true; he sang with enough vivacity and enthusiasm to overcome any faults. He beckoned Gerry to lead me forth. The last thing I wanted to do was sing in front of this audience.

  “No, no, I couldn’t sing,” I said urgently to Gerry, and held my glass up. “I’m too tight.”

  “Sure and what are the rest of us? What’ll you sing? My dad can play anything on that squeezebox of his.”

  Uncle Bob seconded Gerry’s insistence, and the man with the accordion obligingly came over, said he was my Uncle Tom, and told me to sing anything I wanted in any key and he’d do his best.

  Snow came running up to me. “Oh, do sing, Mommie,” she said sweetly (the traitor), but the message in her eyes amounted to a royal command.

  I don’t like to sing cold, without a chance to warm the voice up properly. And I hadn’t done any real singing, except the other night with George Boardman, in such a long time that I knew I’d sound stiff. Then I saw the faces of Imelda and Alice, politely composed to endure listening to the visiting Yankee relative whom they cordially wished to the devil. Well, I’d show them.

  “Would you object to a Yank singing an Irish song?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” the men assured me, and the accordionist ran a few encouraging chords as a guarantee.

  I told him the key, and when he looked slightly blank, I asked for a chord in B-flat, which he understood. And began to sing “Kathleen Mavourneen,” which, believe me, was the only Irish song I could think of at that particular moment.

  The babble courteously died. Then, as the quality of my voice became audible, I had an accurate count of which relatives had heard my aunt sing. A small gust of gasps occurred behind me, and, turning, I saw Gerry staring at me as if I’d erupted from the grave. His father gave a startled squeeze on his instrument.

  Bob’s jaw dropped a foot. Neither sister turned a hair, their faces still polite, exhibiting merely surprise that I could sing creditably, but Winnie Teasey began to cry.

  “By golly,” said Uncle Bob, his eyes moist, as he pumped my hand during the applause, “you sounded exactly like Irene.”

  Then everyone was clamoring for more, for me to sing this song or that ballad. I had—to myself—sung well, but I wouldn’t be able to sing long before lack of practice showed up in faulty breathing and projection. But I wasn’t allowed to leave the floor until they had coaxed, then threatened, half a dozen songs from me. Then I got away because I simply walked out of the dining room and out of the house.

  Gerry followed me. “Do you know how much you sound like Auntie Irene?”

  “Did you hear her, or just the recordings?”

  “Once as a small lad I heard her sing. But it’s incredible. Did she know?”

  “She knew I’d sung in G and S.”

  He gave a funny laugh. “Well, it’s no wonder—the name, the voice, and all.”

  “Oh God, not the will again.”

  “Now, not to worry, Rene,” and I didn’t hear hypocrisy. “They’ve precious little to do except gossip. I told them they hadn’t a chance in hell of inheriting.” “You knew … about me?”

  “Sure, most of Irene’s friends did.” Gerry had a rich laugh. Then he solemnly took my hand in his. “And look you, you don’t kno
w our ways here in Ireland, so ignore the half of what you hear and discount the other fifty percent.” “What on earth do you mean?”

  He jerked his head back at the house. “That lot has come up with some pretty silly notions, and they’ve hatched another tonight.” He stroked my hand and grinned down at me. “They’ve decided to try to marry you into the family.”

  “What?”

  “Not to worry, not to worry.”

  “Who?” I was appalled, furious, and somehow it was all hilariously funny.

  “Me,” he said in a squeaky voice. “That’s right, you’re the widower.”

  All humor left his face. “Irishmen make devilish bad husbands, Rene. Never marry an Irishman. We’re spoiled rotten self-centered, and hard on a woman. Sell up, rent out, do what you like with the queendom, but don’t marry here.”

  I felt awful suddenly, and awkward, too full of drink to cope with any more shocks, surprises, or contretemps.

  “Oh, Gerry …”

  “I’m warning you so’s you’ll know not to worry. I like being single again!” And he grinned in the most engaging fashion.

  All I could think of was my mother sending me off to Ireland because men were men here. They certainly were, and I began to wish that I could go off quietly somewhere and sleep, not have to be diplomatic with these incredible relatives.

  “Come, pet, I’ll drive you home. Can you come back in, just the minute, so’s my mother won’t take offense at the guest of honor’s leaving so?”

  “Oh, my children! I’ve got a pair about here somewhere …” The fresh air was not helping my wits at all, an effect which became even more noticeable when I got back into the close, hot atmosphere of the kitchen. Gerry’s masterful manner—or maybe the fact that the relatives were only too happy to have him escorting me someplace—got me through the leave-taking formalities. Surprisingly, considering their dread at coming to the tea, the twins begged to stay on a bit. I was informed that someone would see them home, and then everyone was kissing me, especially the men, only it wasn’t offensive, and I was saying over and over that I’d had a lovely time, and then Gerry had me out in the fresh air again and in a car and I suddenly realized that I had had a lovely time.

  Chapter 12

  THE NEXT MORNING was not a lovely time. I felt slightly ill, mouth tasted like last winter’s unaired snowboots, my feet felt bloated and too heavy, and I had the general sensation that I’d slept both too long and not enough. To compound the injuries to my person, it was raining.

  I groaned.

  Snow appeared in the doorway as if conjured, with a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other.

  “Alka-Seltzer, Mother,” she said in a neutral-nurse tone, and popped the things into the water, swirling the glass to make them dissolve faster.

  “Don’t! They’re noisy.”

  “Hmm … that bad, huh?”

  She sat on the bed, and I protested.

  “They didn’t slip you any poteen, did they?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. “Nevil said they might try it.”

  “Who’s Nevil?”

  “A cousin, what else?” She made a face and then giggled. “He’s cute. He drove me home pillion. It was tough, Mom.”

  “Pillion?” I roused myself, regretted it, sank into the pillow. “Oh, that’s dangerous.”

  “Naw! Simon warned Nevil, and they followed us to pick up any pieces.” Again the giggle.

  “How did Simon get home?”

  “He went pillion with Tommy.”

  “Tommy? Another cousin?”

  “Another cousin. Zzzhish, Mom, I thought we had cousins by the dozens in the States, but here it’s by the gross.” She let out a whistle, but I clutched her arm to stop that frightful noise. “Ooops. Sorry! Poor Mommy,” and she disappeared, returning a moment later on elephantine feet. With loving concern, she placed a cool cloth on my forehead.

  “Where’s Simon? It’s raining.”

  “He’s talking up a storm with Tommy and Jimmy Kerrigan and Mark Howard. Now you go back to sleep!”

  The seltzer made me burp, and my stomach was pacified. The rain was soporific, and I lay there, listening to the soft sound and feeling the cool on my head, and went to sleep again.

  When I awoke, I felt a lot better. I heard laughter below me in the kitchen, and the sounds of pots and pans being battered about. So naturally I felt guilty about lying in bed and got up.

  The kitchen was not very big, and looked much smaller with the thousand-and-five youngsters crowded in it, sitting on the cupboards, the woodbox, the chairs. One was perched on the fridge. They were all watching Snow make hamburgers and chips. They were all on their feet with a thud-thud when I entered.

  “Coffee, Mother?”

  “Yes, of course, darling. Did I meet all of you yesterday, or is my memory really going?”

  I was introduced to Jimmy and Mark Howard, and Simon (with a laugh) and Tommy, and the long dark-haired one was a girl cousin named Betty. I’d met all except Mark Howard, who was seeing Betty.

  Lunch was good fun, and by the time I’d had a hamburger and french fries I felt considerably “more better than,” as Snow used to say with ungrammatical expressiveness. Snow also tipped me the news that we’d very little left to eat in the house. Betty had to get home, as she was minding her small brothers and sisters; Tommy and Jimmy wanted to take Simon with them, and it appeared the whole group had a date that evening to listen to Tommy’s latest record buys. It was rather breathless, but I was relieved to think that the twins would have friends—relatives, even—with whom to enjoy their vacation.

  The kitchen was all tidied before the visitors left with Simon. That’s when Snow remembered the mail which had been forwarded to us from the hotel.

  One was a letter from Mother, the other from Hank van Vliet. Both held basically the same tidings: Teddie was having fits about my taking the children away. He’d phoned Mother and then visited her, demanding to be told where his children were and what sort of a low bitch did she have a for a daughter.

  “I took a great delight in telling my ex-son-in-law where to go, Rene,” my mother wrote, her sweeping pen strokes embellished by ballpoint smears, emphasizing her annoyance, “something I’ve wanted to do for some time, I assure you. I phoned Hank after Teddie got off my line. I’m having no more of that kind of nonsense, I assure you. Hank is writing you, but my advice is to stay on in Ireland no matter what else you intended—at least for the summer and/or until his rage has subsided. But don’t worry, you’ve done nothing wrong or illegal. If you have a phone number there, send it to me and Hank but give it out to none of your other friends. You know how Teddie can extract info if he wants it.”

  Apprehensively now, with hands shaking because the itch had (damn it) been accurate, I opened Hank’s letter, and learned why Mother had enjoined me not to worry. Teddie had had an injunction issued to prevent me from “surreptitiously and without his knowledge” removing his children from the continental U.S.A. I’d left before it could be served on me.

  Hank assured me that I was completely within my rights, and he was taking steps to have the injunction canceled, since both he and my mother could vouch for the fact that I had informed Teddie of my intentions. (I wished people would stop telling me not to worry, because it made me worry more.) Hank went on to tell me not to worry about any moves Teddie might make locally to try to coerce me to return to the States with the children. (Oh, good Lord, what on earth could Teddie do locally? Well, if he met up with Auntie Alice or Auntie Imelda … That made me laugh, because Teddie would have met his match and retired from the field with that pair.) Teddie had threatened all kinds of imprudent and impulsive actions—Hank couldn’t leave me ignorant on that score—but my legal position was secure. After all, Hank could easily prove that Teddie had many times chosen not to exert his legal rights of visitation (particularly when there was a golf tournament or a weekend wingding).

  I sighed as I finished this worrying don’t-worry letter. “Oh dear
!”

  “Daddy being a dastard again, Mother?” asked Snow, peering over my shoulder at Hank’s concluding paragraphs. “Hmmm. Thought as much.”

  “What do you mean, ‘thought as much’?”

  Snow shrugged. “Well, he put on such a heavy father routine that time on the phone …”

  “What time on the phone? I didn’t know your father had called you.”

  Again that insufferably diffident shrug. “Oh, we knew it would unnerve you, Mommy. Besides, you know how Dad can carry on, and it’s only talk.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, some drivel about your dragging us some place completely unsuitable for his children, and you’d probably make us go to Mass, and oh … you know how Daddy goes on!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She gave me that round-eyed innocent look. “Because you’d’ve worried and worried, and we wouldn’t have come to Ireland. And we wanted to come with you!”

  “Is that why you two organized me out of the country so fast?”

  “You said it!” Then she hugged me. “We told Hank about the call, and Gammy, and that’s why—”

  “Why I was on that plane before I had time to think what Ted might do.”

  “You got it, Mommy,” she said in that I-know-best tone of voice which reminds me so much of my own mother that I tend to overlook how impudent it is in my daughter. Besides, she was correct.

  “Why all of you think I’m not capable of managing my own life …” This protectiveness only underscored my private opinion that I was ineffectual.

  She threw her arms about me, her lovely eyes full of remorse and repentance. “Ah, Mommy, don’t look like that. You do just great as long as Daddy isn’t involved. But when he is, you go all to pieces.”

  She took me firmly by the arm, handed me my bag and raincoat, and propelled me toward the door. “We’ve more important things to do right now, like get the shopping done and buy paint. Because if we’re going to stay here until Dad cools off, we’re not going to flip our wigs looking at this revolting decor!”